Глава 32 из 41

I

A strange time began for Raskolnikov: it was as if a fog had suddenly descended before him and enclosed him in a hopeless and oppressive solitude. Recalling this time later, long afterward, he surmised that his consciousness had sometimes grown dim, as it were, and that this had continued, with certain intervals, right up to the final catastrophe. He was positively convinced that he had been mistaken about many things at that time, for example about the dates and timing of certain events. At least, remembering later and trying to clarify what he remembered, he learned much about himself, guided by information obtained from others. He confused one event, for instance, with another; he considered another to be the consequence of an incident that had existed only in his imagination. At times he was seized by a painfully tormenting anxiety that degenerated even into panic fear. But he also remembered that there were minutes, hours, and perhaps even days full of apathy that came over him as if in contrast to his former fear—an apathy resembling the morbidly indifferent state of certain dying people. Generally, during these last days, he himself seemed to try to escape from a clear and complete understanding of his position; certain pressing facts that demanded immediate clarification particularly weighed on him; but how glad he would have been to free himself and escape from certain cares, the neglect of which threatened, however, complete and inevitable ruin in his position.

Svidrigailov particularly troubled him: one could even say that he seemed to have stopped at Svidrigailov. Since the words of Svidrigailov, too menacing for him and too clearly expressed, in Sonya's apartment at the moment of Katerina Ivanovna's death, the ordinary flow of his thoughts had been disrupted, as it were. But despite the fact that this new circumstance disturbed him exceedingly, Raskolnikov somehow was in no hurry to clarify the matter. At times, suddenly finding himself somewhere in a remote and solitary part of the city, in some wretched tavern, alone at a table, deep in thought, and barely remembering how he had gotten there, he would suddenly remember Svidrigailov: it would suddenly become too clear and troubling to him that he ought to come to an agreement with this man as soon as possible and settle things definitively, if possible. Once, wandering somewhere beyond the city gate, he even imagined that he was waiting here for Svidrigailov and that they had arranged to meet here. Another time he woke before dawn somewhere on the ground, in some bushes, and almost did not understand how he had wandered there. However, in these two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna's death, he had already met Svidrigailov about twice, almost always in Sonya's apartment, where he would drop in somehow without purpose, but almost always for just a minute. They always exchanged brief words and never once spoke about the cardinal point, as if it had been agreed between them to remain silent about it for the time being. Katerina Ivanovna's body still lay in the coffin. Svidrigailov was managing the funeral and bustling about. Sonya was also very busy. At their last meeting, Svidrigailov explained to Raskolnikov that he had somehow settled matters with Katerina Ivanovna's children, and settled them successfully; that thanks to certain connections, he had found certain persons with whose help it would be possible to place all three orphans immediately in institutions quite suitable for them; that the money set aside for them had also helped considerably, since it was much easier to place orphans with capital than penniless orphans. He said something about Sonya as well, promised to come himself to see Raskolnikov one of these days, and mentioned that "he would like to consult; that it was very necessary to talk, that there were such matters..." This conversation took place in the entryway, by the stairs. Svidrigailov looked intently into Raskolnikov's eyes and suddenly, after a pause and lowering his voice, asked:

"But what's wrong with you, Rodion Romanovich, you're so unlike yourself? Really! You listen and look, but it's as if you don't understand. Pull yourself together. Let's have a talk: it's just a pity there's so much business, other people's and one's own... Eh, Rodion Romanovich," he added suddenly, "all people need air, air, air, sir... Above all!"

He suddenly stepped aside to let the priest and deacon entering the stairway pass. They had come to serve a requiem. By Svidrigailov's arrangement, requiems were served twice a day, punctually. Svidrigailov went his way. Raskolnikov stood, thought, and followed the priest into Sonya's apartment.

He stopped in the doorway. The service was beginning, quietly, decorously, sadly. There had always been something heavy and mystically horrible for him in the awareness of death and the sense of death's presence, since childhood; and it had been a long time since he had heard a requiem. And there was something else here too, too horrible and disturbing. He looked at the children: they were all standing by the coffin, on their knees; Polechka was crying. Behind them, quietly and as if timidly weeping, Sonya was praying. "But she hasn't once looked at me or said a word to me these past days," Raskolnikov suddenly thought. The sun brightly illuminated the room; the incense smoke rose in clouds; the priest was reading "Give rest, O Lord." Raskolnikov stood through the entire service. As he blessed them and took his leave, the priest looked around somehow strangely. After the service, Raskolnikov went up to Sonya. She suddenly took him by both hands and inclined her head to his shoulder. This brief gesture even struck Raskolnikov with bewilderment; it was even strange: what? not the slightest revulsion, not the slightest disgust toward him, not the slightest trembling in her hand! This was already some infinity of self-abasement. So, at least, he understood it. Sonya said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt terribly heavy. If it had been possible to go away somewhere at that moment and remain completely alone, even for his whole life, he would have considered himself happy. But the fact was that lately, although he was almost always alone, he could not feel that he was alone. It happened that he would go out of the city, go out onto the main road; once he even went into some grove; but the more solitary the place, the more strongly he sensed someone's close and disturbing presence, not exactly frightening, but somehow very vexing, so that he would return to the city as quickly as possible, mingle with the crowd, go into taverns, into drinking establishments, go to the Flea Market, to the Haymarket. Here it seemed easier and even more solitary. In one eating-house, toward evening, they were singing songs: he sat for a whole hour listening, and remembered that it was even very pleasant for him. But toward the end he suddenly became anxious again; it was as if remorse of conscience had suddenly begun to torment him: "Here I sit, listening to songs, but is this what I need to be doing!" as if he thought. However, he immediately realized that this was not the only thing troubling him; there was something demanding immediate resolution, but which could neither be comprehended nor expressed in words. Everything was tangling into a knot. "No, some kind of struggle would be better! Better Porfiry again... or Svidrigailov... Let there be another challenge soon, someone's attack... Yes! Yes!" he thought. He left the eating-house and almost broke into a run. The thought of Dunya and his mother suddenly brought on something like panic fear for some reason. During that night, before morning, he woke up in the bushes on Krestovsky Island, shivering all over, in a fever; he went home and arrived already in the early morning. After several hours of sleep the fever passed, but he woke up late: it was two o'clock in the afternoon.

He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna's funeral was scheduled for this day, and was glad that he had not been present at it. Nastasya brought him food; he ate and drank with great appetite, almost greedily. His head was fresher, and he himself was calmer than during these last three days. He even marveled, fleetingly, at his former fits of panic fear. The door opened and Razumikhin entered.

"Ah! He's eating, which means he's not ill!" said Razumikhin, took a chair and sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov. He was agitated and did not try to hide it. He spoke with evident vexation, but without hurrying and without particularly raising his voice. One might think that some special and even exceptional intention had lodged in him. "Listen," he began decisively, "as far as I'm concerned, the devil take all of you, but from what I see now, I see clearly that I can't understand anything; please don't think I've come to interrogate you. I don't give a damn! I don't want to myself! Even if you reveal everything now, all your secrets, I may not even listen, I'll spit and leave. I came only to find out personally and definitively: is it true, first of all, that you're insane? You see, there exists a conviction (well, somewhere) that you may be insane or very inclined to it. I confess to you, I myself was strongly inclined to support this opinion, firstly, judging by your stupid and partly vile actions (inexplicable by anything), and secondly, by your recent behavior toward your mother and sister. Only a monster and a scoundrel, if not a madman, could have treated them as you did; consequently, you're insane..."

"When did you last see them?"

"Just now. But haven't you seen them since? Where have you been wandering, tell me please, I've already come to see you three times. Your mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She was going to come to you; Avdotya Romanovna tried to restrain her; she won't listen to anything: 'If he,' she says, 'is ill, if his mind is disturbed, who will help him if not his mother?' We all came here, because we couldn't leave her alone. Right up to your door we begged her to calm down. We came in, you weren't here; she sat right here. She sat for ten minutes, we stood over her, silently. She got up and said: 'If he goes out, which means he's well and has forgotten his mother, it's unseemly and shameful for a mother to stand at the threshold and beg for affection like alms.' She returned home and took to her bed; now she has a fever: 'I see,' she says, 'that he has time for his lady.' She supposes that your lady is Sofya Semyonovna, your fiancée or mistress, I don't know. I went immediately to Sofya Semyonovna, because, brother, I wanted to find out everything—I arrive, I look: a coffin stands there, children are crying. Sofya Semyonovna is trying mourning dresses on them. You're not there. I looked, excused myself and left, and reported thus to Avdotya Romanovna. So all that is nonsense, and there's no lady here, most likely, therefore, it's madness. But here you sit and devour boiled beef as if you haven't eaten for three days. Granted, madmen eat too, but though you haven't said a word to me, you're... not mad! I'll swear to that. Above all, you're not mad. So to hell with all of you, because there's some mystery here, some secret; and I don't intend to rack my brains over your secrets. So I just came to vent," he concluded, standing up, "to get it off my chest, and I know what I need to do now!"

"What do you want to do now?"

"What business is it of yours what I want to do now?"

"Watch out, you'll take to drink!"

"How... how did you know that?"

"Oh come on!"

Razumikhin was silent for a minute.

"You've always been a very reasonable man and you've never, never been mad," he remarked suddenly with heat. "That's right: I will take to drink! Goodbye!" And he moved to go.

"I was talking about you with my sister, I think it was three days ago, Razumikhin."

"About me! But... where could you have seen her three days ago?" Razumikhin suddenly stopped, even paled a little. One could guess that his heart began to beat slowly and tensely in his chest.

"She came here, alone, sat here, talked with me."

"She!"

"Yes, her."

"What did you say... I mean, about me?"

"I told her that you're a very good, honest, and hardworking man. That you love her, I didn't tell her, because she knows that herself."

"Knows herself?"

"Oh come on! Wherever I might go, whatever might happen to me—you would remain their providence. I, so to speak, entrust them to you, Razumikhin. I say this because I know perfectly well how you love her, and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I also know that she too can love you, and perhaps even already does. Now decide for yourself, as you know best—whether you need to take to drink or not."

"Rodka... You see... Well... Ah, damn it! And where do you want to go? You see: if all this is a secret, then let it be! But I... I'll learn the secret... And I'm sure it's certainly some nonsense and terrible trifles and that you alone contrived it all. However, you're an excellent man! An excellent man!.."

"And I precisely wanted to add to you, but you interrupted, that you reasoned very well just now, not to try to learn these mysteries and secrets. Leave it for the time being, don't worry. You'll learn everything in due time, precisely when it's necessary. Yesterday a man told me that a person needs air, air, air! I want to go to him right now and find out what he means by that."

Razumikhin stood in thought and agitation, considering something.

"He's a political conspirator! Certainly! And he's on the eve of some decisive step—that's certain! It can't be otherwise and... and Dunya knows..." he suddenly thought to himself.

"So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you," he said, pronouncing the words distinctly, "and you yourself want to meet with a man who says that one needs more air, air... and, consequently, this letter too... that's also something from the same thing," he concluded as if to himself.

"What letter?"

"She received a letter, today, it disturbed her very much. Very much. Too much even. I started talking about you—she asked me to be silent. Then... then she said that perhaps we'll soon part, then she began to thank me warmly for something; then she went to her room and locked herself in."

"She received a letter?" Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully.

"Yes, a letter; and you didn't know? Hm."

They were both silent.

"Goodbye, Rodion. I, brother... there was a time... but anyway, goodbye, you see, there was a time... Well, goodbye! I must go too. I won't drink. There's no need now... You're lying!"

He hurried; but having already gone out and almost closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again and said, looking somewhere to the side:

"By the way! Do you remember that murder, well, that one with Porfiry: the old woman? Well, know that the murderer has been found, he confessed himself and presented all the evidence. It's one of those same workmen, the painters, imagine, remember, I defended them here. Would you believe that he deliberately staged that whole scene of fighting and laughter on the stairs with his companion, when those two were climbing up, the caretaker and two witnesses, precisely as a diversion. What cunning, what presence of mind in such a pup! Hard to believe; but he himself explained it, confessed to everything! And how I fell for it! Well, in my opinion, he's simply a genius of pretense and resourcefulness, a genius of legal diversion—so there's nothing particularly surprising! Surely such people can exist? And the fact that he couldn't keep up the character and confessed, I believe him all the more for that. It's more plausible... But how I, how I fell for it then! I was climbing the walls for them!"

"Tell me, please, where did you learn this and why does it interest you so much?" Raskolnikov asked with visible agitation.

"What do you mean! Why does it interest me! He asks!.. And I learned it from Porfiry, among others. However, I learned almost everything from him."

"From Porfiry?"

"From Porfiry."

"What... what did he say?" Raskolnikov asked fearfully.

"He explained it to me excellently. Explained it psychologically, in his own way."

"He explained? He himself explained it to you?"

"Himself, himself; goodbye! I'll tell you something else later, but now I have business. There... there was a time when I thought... Well, never mind; later!.. Why should I get drunk now? You've intoxicated me without wine. I'm drunk, Rodka! I'm drunk without wine now, well, goodbye; I'll come by; very soon."

He went out.

"He's a political conspirator, that's certain, certain!" Razumikhin finally decided to himself, slowly descending the stairs. "And he's drawn his sister in; that's very, very possible with Avdotya Romanovna's character. They're having meetings... She hinted at it to me too. From many of her words... and phrases... and hints, it all comes out precisely so! And how else to explain all this confusion? Hm! And I was thinking... Oh Lord, what was I thinking! Yes, that was an eclipse, and I'm guilty before him! It was he then by the lamp, in the corridor, who brought the eclipse upon me. Ugh! What a vile, crude, base thought on my part! Good fellow, Mikolka, for confessing... And how everything from before is explained now! That illness of his then, all his strange actions, even before, before, back in the university, how gloomy and sullen he always was... But what does this letter mean now? Perhaps there's something in that too. Who's the letter from? I suspect... Hm. No, I'll find out everything."

He remembered and considered everything about Dunechka, and his heart froze. He tore away and ran.

Raskolnikov, as soon as Razumikhin left, got up, turned to the window, stumbled into one corner, then another, as if forgetting the cramped space of his kennel, and... sat down again on the sofa. He seemed completely renewed; again struggle—which meant a way out had been found!

"Yes, it means a way out has been found! Because everything had become too compressed and bottled up, it had become painfully oppressive, some kind of stupor had descended. From the very scene with Mikolka at Porfiry's he had begun to suffocate with no way out, in confinement. After Mikolka, that same day, there was the scene at Sonya's; he had conducted and finished it completely, completely differently from how he might have imagined beforehand... he had weakened, then, instantly and radically! All at once! And he had agreed then with Sonya, he himself had agreed, agreed in his heart, that he couldn't go on living alone with such a deed on his soul! And Svidrigailov? Svidrigailov is an enigma... Svidrigailov troubles him, true, but somehow not from that side. With Svidrigailov perhaps there's still a struggle ahead too. Svidrigailov may also be a complete way out; but Porfiry is another matter.

So Porfiry himself even explained it to Razumikhin, explained it to him psychologically! He's started bringing in his damned psychology again! Porfiry? But could Porfiry believe even for one minute that Mikolka is guilty, after what had passed between them then, after that scene, face to face, before Mikolka, for which no correct interpretation can be found except one? (During these days the whole scene with Porfiry had flashed through Raskolnikov's mind several times in fragments; he couldn't have borne to remember it as a whole.) Such words had been spoken between them at that time, such movements and gestures had occurred, they had exchanged such looks, things had been said in such a voice, it had reached such limits, that after this not Mikolka (whom Porfiry had guessed through and through from the first word and gesture), not Mikolka could shake the very foundation of his convictions.

And what's this! Even Razumikhin had begun to suspect! The scene in the corridor, by the lamp, hadn't passed without effect then. He had rushed to Porfiry... But why did that one deceive him so? What's his purpose in diverting Razumikhin's eyes to Mikolka? He's certainly thought up something; there's an intention here, but what? True, much time had passed since that morning—too much, too much, and there had been neither sound nor spirit from Porfiry. Well, that's worse, of course..." Raskolnikov took his cap and, deep in thought, went out of the room. This was the first day, in all this time, when he felt himself, at least, in sound consciousness. "Need to finish with Svidrigailov," he thought, "and as soon as possible, no matter what; he too seems to be waiting for me to come to him myself." And at this moment such hatred rose suddenly from his weary heart that perhaps he could have killed one of these two: Svidrigailov or Porfiry. At least he felt that if not now, then later he would be capable of doing it. "We'll see, we'll see," he repeated to himself.

But as soon as he opened the door to the entryway, he suddenly collided with Porfiry himself. He was coming to see him. Raskolnikov was stupefied for a moment. Strangely, he wasn't very surprised by Porfiry and almost wasn't frightened of him. He only started, but quickly, instantly prepared himself. "Perhaps the denouement! But how did he approach so quietly, like a cat, and I didn't hear anything? Could he have been eavesdropping?"

"You weren't expecting a visitor, Rodion Romanovich," cried Porfiry Petrovich, laughing. "I've been meaning to drop by for a long time; I'm passing by, I think—why not stop in for five minutes to check on you. Are you going somewhere? I won't keep you. Just one little cigarette, if you'll permit."

"Do sit down, Porfiry Petrovich, sit down," Raskolnikov seated his guest with such an apparently pleased and friendly air that he would have marveled at himself, if he could have looked at himself. The dregs, the sediment were being scraped out! Sometimes a man will endure half an hour of mortal fear with a robber, but when they finally put the knife to his throat, even the fear passes. He sat down directly before Porfiry and, without blinking, looked at him. Porfiry squinted and began lighting a cigarette.

"Well, speak then, speak," as if it wanted to leap out of Raskolnikov's heart. "Well, what, what, why aren't you speaking?"