بخش 03 - فصل 02

CHAPTER TWO

RAZUMIKHIN WOKE UP NEXT morning at eight o’clock, troubled and serious. He found himself confronted with many new and unforeseen difficulties. He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly novel experience had happened to him, that he had received an impression unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognized clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly unattainable—so unattainable that he felt ashamed of it, and he moved on quickly to the other more practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that “thrice accursed yesterday.” The most awful memory of the previous day was the way he had shown how “base and mean” he was, not only because he had been drunk, but because he had taken advantage of the young girl’s position to abuse her fiancé in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And what right did he have to criticize him in that hasty and unguarded way? Who had asked for his opinion! Was it thinkable that a girl like Avdotia Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there must be something else to him. The lodgings? But after all how could he know anything about the character of the lodgings? He was furnishing an apartment . . . Pah, how despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he was drunk? A stupid excuse like that was even more degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out, “that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious heart!” And would such a dream ever be permissible to him, Razumikhin? What was he compared to a girl like that—he, the drunken noisy braggart of last night? “Was it possible to imagine such an absurd and cynical juxtaposition?” Razumikhin blushed desperately at the very idea and suddenly the recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be jealous of Avdotia Romanovna . . . that was simply intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the bricks flying.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of self-abasement, “of course, all these bad deeds can never be wiped out or smoothed over . . . and so it’s useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in silence and do my duty . . . in silence, too . . . and not ask forgiveness, and say nothing . . . now all is lost!” And yet as he dressed he examined his clothing more carefully than usual. He hadn’t got another suit—if he had, perhaps he wouldn’t have put it on. “I would have made a point of not putting it on.” But in any case he could not remain a dirty cynic; he had no right to offend the feelings of others, especially when they needed his help and kept asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully. His dress was always decent; in that respect he was especially clean.

He washed carefully that morning—he got some soap from Nastasia—he washed his hair, his neck, and especially his hands. When it came to the question of whether or not to shave his stubby chin (Praskovia Pavlovna had excellent razors that had been left by her late husband), the question was angrily answered in the negative. “Let it stay as it is! What if they think that I shaved on purpose to . . . ? They would definitely think so! Not on any account!” “And . . . the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, his manners came straight from the drinking-house; and . . . and even admitting that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman . . . what was there to be proud of about that? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that . . . and all the same” (he remembered) “he, too, had done little things . . . not exactly dishonest, and yet . . . and what thoughts he sometimes had; hm . . . and to set all that beside Avdotia Romanovna! Damn it! So be it! Well, he’d make a point then of having dirty, greasy, drinking-house manners and he wouldn’t care! He’d be worse!” He was engaged in these monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night in Praskovia Pavlovna’s parlor, came in.

He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first. Razumikhin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders for them not to wake him and promised to see him again at about eleven.

“If he’s still at home,” he added. “Damn it! If you can’t control your patients, how can you cure them! Do you know whether he will go to them, or whether they are coming here?”

“They’re coming, I think,” said Razumikhin, understanding the point of the question, “and no doubt they’ll discuss their family affairs. I’ll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I do.”

“But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I’ve plenty to do besides looking after them.”

“One thing worries me,” interposed Razumikhin, frowning. “On the way home I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him . . . all sorts of things . . . including that you were afraid that he . . . might go mad.”

“You told the ladies so, too.”

“I know it was stupid! You can beat me if you like! Did you seriously think so?”

“Nonsense, how could I! You described him yourself as a monomaniac when you fetched me to take a look at him . . . and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, given that it was a point he might have been particularly crazy about! If only I’d known what happened at the police station and that some wretch . . . had insulted him with his suspiciousness! Hm . . . I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a molehill . . . and see their fantasies as solid realities . . . As far as I remember, it was Zametov’s story that in my opinion cleared up half the mystery. I know one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn’t endure the jokes he made every day at table! And in this case his rags, the insolent police officer, the fever and this suspicion! All that working on a man half frantic with hypochondria, and with his morbidly exceptional vanity! That may well have been the starting-point of illness. Anyway, it can all go to hell! . . . And, by the way, that Zametov is certainly pleasant, but hm . . . he shouldn’t have told us that last night. He is a real chatterbox!” “But who did he tell it to? You and me?”

“And Porfiry.”

“What does that matter?”

“And, by the way, do you have any influence over them, his mother and sister? Tell them to be more careful with him today . . . ”

“They’ll get on all right!” Razumikhin answered reluctantly.

“Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn’t seem to dislike him . . . and they haven’t got a penny, I suppose?”

“But what business is it of yours?” Razumikhin cried with annoyance. “How can I tell whether they’ve got any money? Ask them yourself and perhaps you’ll find out . . . ”

“God, what an idiot you are sometimes! Last night’s wine hasn’t worn off yet . . . Goodbye; thank your Praskovia Pavlovna from me for my night’s lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my greeting through the door; she was up at seven o’clock, the samovar was taken in to her from the kitchen. I was not granted a personal interview . . . ” At nine o’clock precisely Razumikhin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev’s house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They had got up at seven o’clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night, bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna rushed at him, seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced timidly at Avdotia Romanovna, but at that moment her proud face bore an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unexpected respect (instead of sneering looks and badly-disguised contempt), that it threw him into greater confusion than if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a subject for conversation, and he was quick to snatch at it.

When she heard that everything was going well and that Rodia had not yet woken up, Pulcheria Alexandrovna announced that she was glad, because “there was something which she absolutely had to discuss beforehand.” Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with them; they had waited for him before they started. Avdotia Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and they asked him to bring tea which was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way that the ladies were ashamed. Razumikhin vigorously attacked the lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him.

He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted by their questions, and succeeded in describing to them all the most important facts he knew of the last year of Raskolnikov’s life, concluding with a circumstantial account of his illness. However, he omitted many things which were better omitted, including the scene at the police station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to his story; but when he thought he had finished and satisfied his listeners, he realized that they reckoned he had hardly begun.

“Tell me, tell me! What do you think . . . ? Excuse me, I still don’t know your name!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in quickly.

“Dmitri Prokofich.”

“I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofich . . . how he looks . . . on things in general now, that is, how can I explain, what are his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can, what hopes and, so to speak, dreams do you think he has? What influences him now? In other words, I would like . . . ” “Mother, how can he answer all that at once?” observed Dunia.

“Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this, Dmitri Prokofich!”

“Naturally,” answered Razumikhin. “I have no mother, but my uncle comes every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognize me, even in appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years’ separation means a great deal. What can I tell you? I have known Rodion for a year and a half; he is gloomy, proud and disdainful, and recently—although perhaps he’s been like this for a while—he has become suspicious and almost absorbed in his fantasies. He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely. Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, just cold and in-humanly callous; it’s as though he were alternating between two characters. Sometimes he is extremely reserved! He says he is so busy that everything gets in his way, and yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn’t jeer at things, not because he hasn’t got the intelligence, but as though he hasn’t got the time to waste on such unimportant issues. He never listens to what people say to him. He is never interested in what interests other people at any given moment. He thinks very highly of himself and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I think your arrival will have a very beneficial influence on him.” “God grant it may,” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, upset by Razumikhin’s account of her Rodia.

And Razumikhin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotia Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a moment and looked away again at once. Avdotia Romanovna sat at the table, listening attentively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with her arms folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting in a question, without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not listening to what was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white transparent scarf round her neck. Razumikhin soon detected signs of extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotia Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he felt that he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps just because she was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her surroundings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be afraid of every word he uttered, every gesture he made, which was very trying for a man who already felt diffident.

“You’ve told us many interesting things about my brother’s character . . . and have told it impartially. I am glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to him,” observed Avdotia Romanovna with a smile. “I think you are right that he needs a woman’s care,” she added thoughtfully.

“I didn’t say so; but I suppose you are probably right, only . . . ”

“What?”

“He loves no-one and perhaps he never will,” Razumikhin declared decisively.

“You mean he is not capable of love?”

“Do you know, Avdotia Romanovna, you are awfully like your brother, in every way, in fact!” he blurted out suddenly to his own surprise, but remembering at once what he had just said about her brother, he turned as red as a crab and was overcome with confusion. Avdotia Romanovna couldn’t help laughing when she looked at him.

“You may both be mistaken about Rodia,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked, slightly offended. “I am not talking about our current difficulties, Dunia. What Peter Petrovich writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may be mistaken, but you can’t imagine, Dmitri Prokofich, how moody and, so to speak, capricious he is. I could never depend on what he would do when he was only fifteen. And I am sure that he might do something now that nobody else would think of doing . Well, for instance, do you know how a year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl—what was her name—his landlady’s daughter?” “Did you hear about that affair?” asked Avdotia Romanovna.

“Do you suppose—” Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly. “Do you suppose that my tears, my pleas, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty would have made him pause? No, he would calmly have disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn’t that he doesn’t love us!” “He has never spoken a word about that to me,” Razumikhin answered cautiously. “But I did hear something from Praskovia Pavlovna herself, though she is by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather strange.”

“And what did you hear?” both the ladies asked at once.

“Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, which only failed to take place through the girl’s death, was not at all to Praskovia Pavlovna’s liking. They say, too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact I am told positively ugly . . . and such an invalid . . . and also strange. But she seems to have had some good qualities. She must have had some good qualities or it’s quite inexplicable . . . She had no money either and he wouldn’t have taken her money into account . . . But it’s always difficult to judge with these things.” “I am sure she was a good girl,” Avdotia Romanovna observed briefly.

“God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I don’t know which of them would have caused more misery to the other—he to her or she to him,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began questioning him tentatively about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin, hesitating and continually glancing at Dunia, obviously to the latter’s annoyance. This incident evidently made her more uneasy, perhaps even more disturbed, than all the rest. Razumikhin described it in detail again, but this time he added his own conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Peter Petrovich and did not attempt to excuse him because of his illness.

“He had planned it before his illness,” he added.

“I think so, too,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air. But she was very surprised to hear Razumikhin express himself so carefully and even respectfully when he was discussing Peter Petrovich. Avdotia Romanovna, too, was struck by it.

“So this is your opinion of Peter Petrovich?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not resist asking.

“I can have no other opinion of your daughter’s future husband,” Razumikhin answered firmly and with warmth, “and I don’t say it simply from vulgar politeness, but because . . . simply because Avdotia Romanovna has of her own free will decided to accept this man. If I spoke so rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and . . . mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head completely . . . and this morning I am ashamed of it.” He crimsoned and stopped speaking. Avdotia Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment they started talking about Luzhin.

Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did not know what to do. At last, faltering and continually glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was extremely worried by one thing in particular.

“You see, Dmitri Prokofich,” she began. “Can I be open with Dmitri Prokofich, Dunia?”

“Of course, Mother,” said Avdotia Romanovna emphatically.

“This is what it is,” she began quickly, as though a weight had been lifted from her mind because she was finally allowed to talk about her troubles. “Very early this morning we got a note from Peter Petrovich in reply to our letter announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station; instead, he sent a servant to bring us the address of these lodgings and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would be here himself this morning. But this morning this note came from him. You’d better read it yourself; there is one point in it which worries me very much . . . you will soon see what that is, and . . . tell me frankly what you think, Dmitri Prokofich! You know Rodia’s character better than anyone and no-one can advise us better than you can. Dunia, I should tell you, made her decision at once, but I still don’t feel sure how to act and I . . . I’ve been waiting for your opinion.” Razumikhin opened the note, which was dated the previous evening, and read as follows:—

”DEAR MADAM, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honor to inform you that owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered unable to meet you at the railway station; I sent a very competent person with the same object in view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honor of an interview with you tomorrow morning by business in the Senate that does not admit of delay, and also that I may not intrude on your family circle while you are meeting your son, and Avdotia Romanovna her brother. I shall have the honor of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings not later than tomorrow evening at eight o’clock precisely, and herewith I venture to present my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that Rodion Romanovich may not be present at our interview—as he offered me a gross and unprecedented assault on the occasion of my visit to him in his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally an indispensable explanation of a certain point, about which I wish to have your own opinion. I have the honor to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet Rodion Romanovich, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately and then you have only yourself to blame. I write on the assumption that Rodion Romanovich, who appeared so ill when I visited, suddenly recovered two hours later and may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief by witnessing him with my own eyes in the residence of a drunken man who was run over and has since died; he gave twenty-five rubles to his daughter, a young woman of notorious behavior, under the pretext of contributing to the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what pains you took to raise that sum. I hereby give my special regards to your estimable daughter, Avdotia Romanovna, and I beg you to accept the respectful homage of ”Your humble servant,

“P. LUZHIN.”—

“What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofich?” began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. “How can I ask Rodia not to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly that we should refuse Peter Petrovich and now we are ordered not to invite Rodia! He will come on purpose if he knows, and . . . what will happen then?” “Act on Avdotia Romanovna’s decision,” Razumikhin answered calmly at once.

“Oh, dear! She says . . . goodness knows what she says, she hasn’t explained it! She says that it would be best, at least, not that it would be best, but that it’s absolutely necessary that Rodia should make a point of being here at eight o’clock and that they must meet . . . I didn’t even want to show him the letter, I wanted to prevent him from coming somehow, with your help . . . because he is so irritable . . . Besides I don’t understand about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he could have given that daughter all the money . . . which . . . ” “For which you sacrificed so much,” put in Avdotia Romanovna.

“He was not himself yesterday,” Razumikhin said thoughtfully, “if you only knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there was sense in it too . . . Hm! He did say something, as we were going home yesterday evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I didn’t understand a word . . . But last night, I myself . . . ” “The best thing, Mother, would be for us to go to see him ourselves and there we will definitely understand at once what we should do. Besides, it’s getting late—my goodness, it’s past ten,” she cried, looking at a splendid gold enameled watch which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress. “A present from her fiancé,” Razumikhin thought.

“We must be off, Dunia, we must be off,” her mother cried in a flutter. “He will think we are still angry after yesterday if we get there so late. Lord have mercy!”

While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle; Dunia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, Razumikhin noticed, were not only shabby but had holes in them, and yet this evident poverty gave the two ladies an air of special dignity which is always found in people who know how to wear poor clothes. Razumikhin looked reverently at Dunia and felt proud of escorting her. “The queen who mended her stockings in prison,”28 he thought, “must have looked every inch a queen and even more of a queen than at sumptuous banquets and celebrations.” “My God,” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “little did I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodia! I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofich,” she added, glancing at him timidly.

“Don’t be afraid, Mother,” said Dunia, kissing her, “it’s better to trust him.”

“Oh, dear, I trust him, but I haven’t slept all night,” exclaimed the poor woman.

They came out into the street.

“Do you know, Dunia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna . . . she was all in white . . . she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly, as though she were blaming me . . . Is that a good omen? Oh, dear! Didn’t you know, Dmitri Prokofich, that Marfa Petrovna died?” “No, I didn’t know; who is Marfa Petrovna?”

“She died suddenly; just think . . . ”

“Afterwards, mamma,” put in Dunia. “He doesn’t know who Marfa Petrovna is.”

“Ah, you don’t know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofich, I don’t know what I’ve been thinking about for these past few days. I’m treating you as our providence, so I took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a relation . . . Don’t be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what’s the matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?” “Yes, I bruised it,” muttered Razumikhin, overjoyed.

“I sometimes speak too much from the heart, and Dunia finds fault with me . . . But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does this woman, his landlady, think it’s a proper room? Listen, you say he doesn’t like to show his feelings, so perhaps I’ll annoy him with my . . . weaknesses? Please advise me, Dmitri Prokofich, how should I treat him? I feel so distracted.” “Don’t question him too much about anything if you see him frown! Don’t ask him too much about his health; he doesn’t like that.”

“Ah, Dmitri Prokofich, how hard it is to be a mother! Ah, here are the stairs . What an awful staircase!”

“Mother, you’re so pale, don’t make yourself upset,” said Dunia, caressing her. Then with flashing eyes she added, “He ought to be happy to see you, and you’re tormenting yourself so badly.”

“Wait, I’ll look in and see whether he has woken up.”

The ladies slowly followed Razumikhin, who went on in front of them, and when they reached the landlady’s door on the fourth floor, they noticed that her door was open a tiny crack and that two keen black eyes were watching them from the darkness inside. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out.