PART THREE
I
Raskolnikov raised himself and sat up on the couch.
He gestured feebly to Razumikhin to put an end to the torrent of muddled, fervent reassurances he was directing at the two women, took them both by the hand and spent about two minutes silently studying one, then the other. His mother was frightened by his gaze. It betrayed the most intense emotion, even suffering, but there was also something fixed, almost insane about it. Pulkheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother's.
'Go home now . . . with him,' he said in a faltering voice, pointing towards Razumikhin. 'Till tomorrow. Tomorrow, everything . . . When did you arrive?'
'This evening, Rodya,' Pulkheria Alexandrovna replied. 'The train was terribly late. But Rodya, nothing will drag me away from you! I'll spend the night here beside you . . .'
'Don't torment me!' he said with an irritable wave of his hand.
'I'll stay with him!' cried Razumikhin. 'I won't leave him for even a minute, and all the people at my place can go to hell. They can climb the walls for all I care! I've left my uncle in charge.'
'How, how will I ever thank you?' Pulkheria Alexandrovna began, squeezing Razumikhin's hands once more, but again Raskolnikov interrupted her:
'I can't bear this, I just can't,' he repeated irritably. 'Stop tormenting me! That's enough, just leave . . . I can't bear it!'
'Let's go, Mama, let's wait outside, at least for a moment,' whispered Dunya in fright. 'This is killing him, it's obvious.'
'But can't I even look at him, after three whole years?' wept Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
'Wait!' he stopped them once more. 'You keep interrupting me and I can't think straight . . . Have you seen Luzhin?'
'No, Rodya, but he already knows we've arrived. We heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovich was so kind as to pay you a visit today,' added Pulkheria Alexandrovna with a certain timidity.
'Yes . . . so kind . . . Dunya, I told Luzhin I'd throw him down the stairs, then I sent him packing . . .'
'Rodya, how could you? You must have . . . You don't mean to say . . . ?' began Pulkheria Alexandrovna in alarm, but stopped after taking one look at Dunya.
Avdotya Romanovna was staring intently at her brother and waiting for him to go on. Both had been forewarned about the row by Nastasya, insofar as she could understand and explain it, and both had gone through agony waiting and wondering.
'Dunya,' Raskolnikov went on with an effort, 'I'm against this marriage, which is why the first thing you should say to Luzhin, tomorrow at the latest, is to reject him and let that be the last we see of him.'
'Good grief!' cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
'Brother, think what you're saying!' Avdotya Romanovna flared up, before instantly checking herself. 'Perhaps you're not up to this now. You're tired,' she continued meekly.
'I'm raving, am I? No . . . You're marrying Luzhin for me. But I don't accept your sacrifice. So write a letter tonight . . . turning him down . . . Give it to me to read in the morning and that'll be the end of it!'
'I can't do that!' cried the offended girl. 'What right . . . ?'
'Dunechka, you've got a quick temper, too. That's enough . . . Tomorrow . . . Can't you see?' her mother panicked, rushing towards Dunya. 'Come, we're better off leaving!'
'He's raving!' shouted Razumikhin drunkenly. 'He wouldn't dare otherwise! By tomorrow he'll be making sense again . . . But today he really did send him packing. That's true enough. And that chap lost his rag . . . There he was holding forth, showing off his learning, and left with his tail between his legs . . .'
'So it's true?' cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
'Until tomorrow, brother,' said Dunya, compassionately. 'Let's go, Mama . . . Goodbye, Rodya!'
'Listen, sister,' he repeated as she was leaving, summoning the last of his strength, 'I'm not raving. This is a scoundrel's marriage. I may be a scoundrel, but you shouldn't . . . One or the other . . . And even if I am a scoundrel, a sister like that is no sister of mine. It's me or Luzhin! Now go . . .'
'You're out of your mind! You're a tyrant!' roared Razumikhin, but Raskolnikov said nothing more; perhaps he had no strength left to do so. He lay down on the couch and turned to the wall in complete exhaustion. Avdotya Romanovna glanced with interest at Razumikhin. Her black eyes flashed: it was enough to make Razumikhin flinch. Pulkheria Alexandrovna just stood there in shock.
'Nothing will drag me away!' she whispered to Razumikhin, in near despair. 'I'll stay here, somewhere . . . you accompany Dunya.'
'And you'll ruin everything!' Razumikhin whispered back, almost beside himself. 'Let's go out onto the landing, at least. Nastasya, give us some light! I swear to you,' he continued on the stairs in a half-whisper, 'that he very nearly started hitting us before, the doctor and me!! Understand? The doctor, no less! He didn't retaliate, for fear of irritating him even more, and left, while I stayed behind downstairs to keep an eye on him, but he got dressed and slipped out. He'll slip out now, too, if you irritate him, out into the night, and who knows what he might do to himself . . . ?'
'What are you saying?'
'And Avdotya Romanovna simply can't be left on her own in those rooms without you! What a place to be staying! As if that scoundrel, Pyotr Petrovich, couldn't have found you anywhere better . . . But I'm a bit drunk, you know, and that's why I was so . . . rude. Don't pay any . . .'
'But I'll go and see the landlady here,' insisted Pulkheria Alexandrovna. 'I'll beg her to find Dunya and me a corner somewhere, just for tonight. I can't leave him in this state. I just can't!'
They were standing on the stairs, on the landing, right in front of the landlady's door. Nastasya was shining a light from the bottom step. Razumikhin was extraordinarily excited. Only half an hour before, walking Raskolnikov home, he may have been talking too much, as he himself was aware, but he felt bright and almost fresh, despite the appalling amount he'd drunk that evening. But now his state of mind verged on ecstasy and it was as though everything he'd drunk had gone to his head all over again, all at once and with redoubled force. Having grabbed both ladies by the hand, he was trying to talk them round and was making his case with astonishing frankness; and as if to press his point home more vigorously, he would give both hands a very hard, painful, vice-like squeeze with almost every word, while almost devouring Avdotya Romanovna with his eyes and without the slightest hint of embarrassment. Sometimes they tried to wrest their aching hands from his enormous, bony great fists, but far from noticing that there was anything the matter, he drew them even harder towards him. Had they ordered him there and then, as a favour, to hurl himself from the stairs head first, he'd have done so immediately, without a moment's hesitation. Pulkheria Alexandrovna, worried sick about her dear Rodya, may have sensed how very eccentric the young man was and how very hard he was squeezing her hand, but for her he was Providence itself, so she had little inclination to notice all these eccentric details. While sharing the same anxiety, Avdotya Romanovna met the blazing, wild gaze of her brother's friend with astonishment and almost with fear, though she was by no means timid, and only the limitless confidence inspired by Nastasya's stories about this strange man stopped her from attempting to run away from him with her mother in tow. She also realized that it was probably too late for that now. In any case, ten minutes or so later she felt considerably calmer: Razumikhin had the habit of getting everything off his chest all at once, with the result that everyone soon learned what kind of man they were dealing with.
'Going to the landlady's out of the question - the very idea's absurd!' he cried, prevailing upon Pulkheria Alexandrovna. 'I know you're his mother, but by staying you'll only whip him up into a frenzy, and the devil knows what will happen then! Listen, here's what we'll do: Nastasya can sit with him for a bit, while I walk you home, because you mustn't be out on your own; in Petersburg that would be . . . Well, never mind! . . . Then I'll run straight back here from yours and within a quarter of
an hour, word of honour, I'll bring you my report: how he's feeling, how he's sleeping, etcetera. Then (listen!) I'll dash from your place to mine (I've got guests there, all drunk) and grab Zosimov - that's the doctor who's treating him, he's at my place now, sober. He's always sober, that man, always! And I'll drag him over to Rodya and then straight on to you, so in the space of an hour you'll get two bulletins, one from the doctor - that's right, the doctor himself, so you can forget about me! If it's bad news I'll bring you here myself, I swear, and if it's good news you can just go to bed. And I'll spend the whole night here, near the door, he won't even hear, and I'll tell Zosimov to sleep at the landlady's, so as to have him on hand. Well, what's the best thing for him now, you or a doctor? A doctor and no two ways about it. So you're best going home! The landlady's out of the question; for you, I mean, not for me: she won't have you, because . . . because she's a fool. She's fond of me and jealous of Avdotya Romanovna, if you must know, and of you, too, come to that . . . But definitely Avdotya Romanovna. A quite astonishing individual! But then I'm a fool, too . . . Never mind! Let's go! Do you believe me? Well, do you believe me or don't you?'
'Let's go, Mama,' said Avdotya Romanovna. 'I'm sure he'll do as he says. He's already brought my brother back to life, and if it's true that the doctor will agree to spend the night here, then what could be better?'
'See, you . . . you . . . you understand me . . . You're an angel!' cried Razumikhin in ecstasy. 'Let's go! Nastasya! Go up, quick as you can, and sit with him, with a candle; I'll be back in a quarter of an hour . . .'
Pulkheria Alexandrovna, though not entirely convinced, offered no further resistance. Razumikhin took them both by the arm and dragged them down the stairs. Still, he worried her: 'Yes, he's competent and he's kind, but is he in any condition to do what he promises? Just look at the state of him!'
'Ah, I see what you're thinking: I mean, look at the state of me!' Razumikhin broke in, guessing her thoughts and striding with great big steps along the pavement, with both ladies struggling to keep up - not that he noticed. 'Poppycock! I mean . . . I'm as drunk as an oaf, but that's not the point. I'm not drunk from drink. It was seeing you that went to my head . . . But never mind me! Take no notice: I'm talking rubbish. I'm unworthy of you . . . I'm exceedingly unworthy of you! . . . But just as soon as I've walked you home I'll pour two tubs of water over my head right here by the Ditch and I'll be ready . . . If you only knew how much I love you both! . . . Don't laugh! Don't get angry! Get angry with everyone else, but don't get angry with me! I'm his friend, so I'm your friend too . . . I had a feeling this would happen . . . last year there was this moment . . . Actually, that's not true at all: you fell out of a clear blue sky. And now, I expect I won't sleep a wink all night . . . That Zosimov was afraid he might go mad . . . That's why he mustn't be irritated . . .'
'What are you saying?' cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
'Did the doctor really say that?' asked Avdotya Romanovna, frightened.
'He did, but he's completely off the mark. He even gave him some medicine, a powder, I saw him, and then you arrived . . . Dear me! You're better off coming back tomorrow! A good job we left. And in an hour's time Zosimov himself will give you a full report. Now there's a man who's not drunk! And I won't be drunk either . . . But why did I have to get so tanked? Because they picked an argument, damn them! Just when I'd vowed not to argue! . . . The rubbish they talk! I nearly got into a fight! I left my uncle in charge . . . I mean, can you believe it? A complete lack of personality,1 that's what they're after, that's what excites them! Anything so as not to be themselves, not to resemble themselves! For them, that's the very height of progress. I mean, if only their lies were their own, at least . . .'
'Listen,' Pulkheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but this merely added fuel to the flames.
'Now what are you thinking?' cried Razumikhin, raising even more. 'That it's their lies I can't stand? Nonsense! I like it when people lie. Telling lies is humanity's sole privilege over every other organism. Keep fibbing and you'll end up with the truth! I'm only human because I lie. No truth's ever been discovered without fourteen fibs along the way, if not one hundred and fourteen, and there's honour in that. But our lies aren't even our own! Lie to me by all means, but make sure it's your own, and then I'll kiss you. After all, lies of your own are almost better than someone else's truth: in the first case you're human; in the second you're just a bird! The truth won't run away, but life just might - wouldn't be the first time. I mean, just look at us now! Name anything you like: science, development, thought, inventions, ideals, desires, liberalism, rationalism, experience, anything at all, anything, anything, anything - and we are all, without exception, still stuck in the first years of preparatory school! We just love making do with other people's thoughts - we can't get enough of them! I'm right, aren't I?' shouted Razumikhin, squeezing and shaking the hands of both women. 'Aren't I?'
'Good grief, how should I know?' said poor Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
'Yes, yes . . . although I can't agree with you on every point,' Avdotya Romanovna added seriously, before immediately letting out a shriek, so hard was he gripping her hand.
'Yes? Yes, you say? Well, after this you're . . . you're . . . ,' he cried in ecstasy, 'you're the fount of goodness, purity, reason and . . . perfection! Give me your hand, your hand . . . and you give me yours as well. I want to kiss your hands, here, now, on my knees!'
With that, he fell to his knees in the middle of the pavement, which, thank goodness, was deserted.
'Stop, I beg you! What are you doing?' cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna, deeply alarmed.
'Up you get!' laughed Dunya, also somewhat concerned.
'Not on your life. Not until you give me your hands! There, that'll do. Now I'm up and we can go! I'm a miserable oaf, I'm unworthy of you, and drunk, and ashamed . . . I'm unworthy of loving you, but bowing down before you is the duty of any man unless he is an utter brute! So now I have bowed down before you . . . And here are the rooms, and they alone justify Rodion for throwing out that Pyotr Petrovich of yours! How dare he put you up in such a place? What a scandal! Do you know what kind of people they allow in here? And you, a bride! You are a bride, aren't you? Well then, let me tell you - your groom is a scoundrel!'
'Mr Razumikhin, you've quite forgotten yourself,' Pulkheria Alexandrovna began.
'Yes, yes, you're right, I've forgotten myself, and I'm ashamed of myself!' said Razumikhin, catching himself. 'But . . . but . . . you can't be angry with me for speaking like this! It's because I'm speaking my mind, and not because . . . H'm! That would be vile. In a word, not because I'm in love with . . . H'm! . . . Well, let's leave it there. I'd better not. I won't say why, I don't dare! . . . Well, we all understood the moment he walked in that he wasn't our sort of chap. Not because he walked in straight from the barber shop, not because he was in such a hurry to flaunt his intelligence, but because he's a snitch and an operator, a niggard and a charlatan - anyone can see it. You think he's clever? No, he's an idiot! An idiot! I mean, is he really any match for you? Good Lord! You see, ladies,' he suddenly stopped, when they were already climbing the stairs to the rooms, 'they may all be drunk at mine, but at least they're honest, and we may all lie, me as much as the next man, but we'll end up with the truth sooner or later, because our path is noble, while Pyotr Petrovich's path . . . is not. I may have cursed them just now with every name in the book, but actually I respect them all, even Zametov - all right, I don't respect him, but I love him because he's such a puppy! Even that beast Zosimov, because he's honest and knows his job . . . But enough: all is said and all is forgiven. Forgiven? Yes? So let's go. I know this corridor. I've been here before. There was a scandal right here, room Number 3 . . . Which is yours? Which number? Eight? Well, lock up for the night and don't let anyone in. I'll be back in a quarter of an hour bearing news, and then half an hour later with Zosimov. You'll see! Goodbye! Must dash!'
'Good grief, Dunechka, where will this end?' said Pulkheria A
lexandrovna, turning to her daughter in alarm.
'Calm yourself, Mama,' replied Dunya, taking off her hat and cape. 'God Himself sent us this gentleman, even if he is fresh from some party or other. He can be relied upon, I'm sure of it. Just think of everything he's already done for Rodya . . .'
'Oh, Dunechka, God knows whether he'll come or not! And what on earth made me decide to leave Rodya? . . . And how very different he was from how I'd imagined! How severe! As if he wasn't even happy to see us . . .'
Tears appeared in her eyes.
'No, that's not true, dear Mama. You didn't look closely enough; you were always crying. He's very disturbed by his serious illness - that's the reason behind it all.'
'Oh, this illness! There's trouble ahead! The way he talked to you, Dunya!' she said, looking timidly into her daughter's eyes so as to read all her thoughts, and already half-consoled by the fact that Dunya was actually defending Rodya, so she must have forgiven him. 'I'm convinced he'll have a change of heart tomorrow,' she added, as a final test.
'And I'm equally convinced that tomorrow he'll say exactly the same . . . about that,' snapped Avdotya Romanovna, which, of course, killed the conversation dead, for this was a subject that Pulkheria Alexandrovna was now too frightened to touch. Dunya went up to her mother and kissed her. Pulkheria Alexandrovna hugged her tight, without a word. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumikhin's return and began timidly observing her daughter, who, also waiting, began pensively pacing the room, arms folded. Walking like this from corner to corner, lost in thought, was a common habit of hers, and at such moments her mother was always scared to disturb her.
Razumikhin was ridiculous, of course, in his sudden, drunken infatuation with Avdotya Romanovna; but one look at Avdotya Romanovna - especially now as she was pacing the room with her arms folded, sad and pensive - and many might have forgiven him, to say nothing of his eccentric state of mind. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably good-looking: tall, astonishingly elegant, strong, with a confidence expressed in her every gesture, while taking nothing away from the softness and gracefulness of her movements. Her face resembled her brother's, but it would have been no exaggeration to call her a beauty. Her hair was brown and slightly lighter than her brother's; her eyes almost black, flashing, proud, yet occasionally, for minutes at a time, uncommonly kind. She was pale, but not sickly pale; her face shone with freshness and health. Her mouth was a little small, and her lower lip, fresh and crimson, protruded ever so slightly, together with her chin - the only imperfection on this beautiful face, but one which gave it its particular character and, incidentally, a kind of haughtiness. Her expression was always more serious than cheerful, always thoughtful; but how well her face was set off by a smile, by laughter, by cheerful, young, carefree laughter! Was it any wonder that ardent, candid, foolish, honest, mighty, drunken Razumikhin, having never seen anything of the kind, lost his head at first sight? What was more, chance - as if on purpose - had given him his first sight of Dunya at this sublime moment of love and joy on seeing her brother. Later, he saw her lower lip quiver indignantly in response to her brother's impudent and ungratefully cruel orders - and could resist no longer.