Still, he was telling the truth earlier on the stairs, when he let slip that drunken comment about Raskolnikov's eccentric landlady, Praskovya Pavlovna, being jealous not only of Avdotya Romanovna but, as likely as not, of Pulkheria Alexandrovna as well. Pulkheria Alexandrovna was already forty-three, but her face still retained traces of her former beauty, and, what was more, she looked far younger than her years, as is almost always the case with women who retain their lucidity of spirit, freshness of impressions and pure, honest ardour of heart into old age. Let us add in parenthesis that retaining all this is, in fact, the only way of keeping one's beauty, at whatever age. Her hair had already begun to turn grey and thin out; small wrinkles had long ago spread out around her eyes; her cheeks were sunken and dry from worry and grief; yet still this face was beautiful. It was the image of Dunechka's face, only twenty years on and without the expression given to Dunya's by her protruding lower lip. Pulkheria Alexandrovna was sensitive but not mawkish, timid and accommodating, but only up to a point: she could concede a lot, agree to a lot, even to things that went against her beliefs, but there was always a limit set by her honesty, her principles and her deepest beliefs, which no circumstances could ever force her to cross.
Precisely twenty minutes after Razumikhin's departure there were two restrained but hurried knocks at the door: he was back.
'Can't stay, must dash!' he rattled off when they opened the door. 'He's snoring away like a trooper, and God willing he'll sleep another ten hours. Nastasya's with him; I told her to stay put till I get back. Now I'll bring Zosimov over. He'll give you his full report and then you should turn in, too. You're dead on your feet, I can see.'
With that, he set off down the corridor.
'What a competent and . . . devoted young man!' exclaimed Pulkheria Alexandrovna, having completely recovered her spirits.
'Seems a very nice chap!' replied Avdotya Romanovna with feeling, beginning to pace the room once more.
Almost an hour later there were footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. This time both women had waited with complete confidence in Razumikhin; and, indeed, here he was already with Zosimov. Zosimov had agreed without a moment's hesitation to leave the party and take a look at Raskolnikov, but he'd come to see the ladies with great reluctance and suspicion, mistrusting Razumikhin in his drunken state. His vanity, though, was instantly assuaged and even tickled: he saw that they really had been waiting for him, as if for an oracle. He stayed for precisely ten minutes, and wholly succeeded in persuading and reassuring Pulkheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with unusual sympathy, but also with a degree of restraint and with a pronounced seriousness, just as a twenty-seven-year-old doctor ought to speak during an important consultation, and not once did he digress from the subject in hand or show the slightest desire to put his relations with both ladies on a more personal and private footing. Having noted Avdotya Romanovna's dazzling beauty the moment he walked in, he immediately set his mind to ignoring her entirely for the duration of his visit, and addressed himself solely to Pulkheria Alexandrovna. All this afforded him the profoundest inner satisfaction. Regarding the patient, he declared that he found his current condition wholly satisfactory. His own observations, meanwhile, suggested that the patient's sickness, quite apart from the wretched material circumstances of his life in recent months, also had certain moral causes, 'being the product, so to speak, of many complex moral and material influences, of anxieties, fears, cares, of certain ideas . . . and so on'. Noting in passing that Avdotya Romanovna had become especially attentive, Zosimov decided to elaborate a little on this subject. To Pulkheria Alexandrovna's anxious and timid query regarding 'certain suspicions, as it were, of insanity', he replied with a calm and candid smile that his words had been greatly exaggerated; that yes, of course, one could observe in the patient some sort of obsession, something betraying monomania2 - after all, he, Zosimov, was following this exceptionally interesting branch of medicine particularly closely at present - but one had to bear in mind that the patient had been delirious almost until today and . . . and, of course, the arrival of his family would make him stronger, distract him and have a salutary effect, 'so long as fresh shocks to the system can be avoided' - he added meaningfully. Then he got up, took his leave in an impressive, cordial manner, accompanied by blessings, fervent gratitude, entreaties and even, without his prompting, the outstretched hand of Avdotya Romanovna, and walked out, exceptionally pleased with his visit and, even more so, with himself.
'We'll talk tomorrow. Now off to bed and no dawdling!' Razumikhin said through gritted teeth as he and Zosimov were leaving. 'Tomorrow I'll be back as early as I can with the latest.'
'Now there's a delicious creature, that Avdotya Romanovna!' Zosimov observed, almost licking his lips, once the two of them were outside.
'Delicious? Delicious, you said?' Razumikhin roared, before suddenly hurling himself at Zosimov and seizing him by the throat. 'Just you try . . . Got it?' he shouted, shaking him by the collar and pressing him to the wall. 'Got it?'
'Let me go, you mad drunk!' said Zosimov, fighting him off; then, once Razumikhin had released him, he stared at him and suddenly burst out laughing. Razumikhin stood drooped before him, lost in gloomy, grave deliberation.
'All right, I'm an idiot,' he said, dark as a thunder cloud, 'but then . . . so are you.'
'No, brother, just you. I'm not the one dreaming.'
They walked on without speaking, and only as they were approaching Raskolnikov's house did Razumikhin, deep in worry, break the silence.
'Listen,' he began, 'you're a good chap, but, aside from all your other lousy qualities, you're a letch, I know you are, and a filthy one to boot. You're highly strung and weak-kneed and half-crazy; you've run to fat and can't deny yourself anything, which is what I call filth, because only filth can come of it. You've cosseted yourself so much that I simply fail to comprehend how you also manage to be a good, even selfless physician. A doctor who sleeps on a bed of feathers and gets up at night to tend the sick! Give it three years and you'll stop getting up at night . . . But that's not the point, dammit. The point is this: you sleep in the landlady's apartment tonight (I had a job convincing her!) and I'll sleep in the kitchen: it's your chance to get to know each other better! It's not what you think! There's not even a hint of that here, brother . . .'
'I wasn't thinking anything.'
'What we have here, brother, is prudery, taciturnity, bashfulness, chastity of the fiercest kind, and yet - she sighs and she melts, she melts like wax! Save me from her, for the love of every devil on earth! She's simply too avenante! . . . I'll be forever in your debt!'
Zosimov guffawed even louder than before.
'What on earth's got into you? And what do I want with her?'
'She's not much trouble, I assure you. Just say whatever comes into your head. Just sit with her and talk. Besides, you're a doctor: find something and start curing it. I swear you won't regret it. She's got a clavichord; I like a little tinkle, as you know. I've got a piece there, a real, Russian song: "Burning tears will I shed . . ." She loves the real ones - actually, it was the song that started it all; and you're a virtuoso on the piano, a maestro, a Rubinstein3 . . . You won't regret it, I assure you!'
'You didn't promise her anything, did you? Or sign something? Maybe you promised to marry her . . .'
'Nothing of the kind! Absolutely not! Anyway, she's not that type at all. Chebarov had a go . . .'
'So just drop her, then!'
'I can't just drop her!'
'Why on earth not?'
'Well, I can't, simple as that! Call it magnetism.'
'So why've you been leading her on?'
'I haven't led her on in the slightest. Maybe I'm the one being led on, in my stupidity, but it won't make a blind bit of difference to her whether it's you or me, just so long as there's someone sitting beside her and sighing. What we have here, brother . . . I just can't put it into words . . . I know you're good at maths and you still keep y
our hand in . . . Well, start by teaching her integral calculus. I'm not joking, dammit, I'm perfectly serious - it won't make a blind bit of difference to her: she'll look at you and she'll sigh and a year will pass before you know it. You should have heard me telling her about the Prussian House of Lords4 for two days running (what else should I talk to her about?) - she just sighed and perspired! Just don't touch the subject of love (she's hysterically bashful about that) and make it look like you'll never leave - and that'll do. It's terribly cosy, just like home - you can read, sit, lounge about, write . . . You can even steal a kiss, if you're careful . . .'
'But what good is she to me?'
'If only I could make you understand! Can't you see? You're ideally suited to one another! This isn't the first time I've thought of it . . . After all, this is where you'll end up! So what does it matter whether it's now or later? Think of it, brother, as the bed-of-feathers principle - ha! And not just feathers! It's a magnetic force, the end of the world, an anchor, a quiet haven, the earth's navel, the three fish on which the world still stands, the essence of pancakes, greasy coulibiac pies, the evening samovar, soft sighs and warm knitted jackets, heated benches by the stove - as if you've died, but you're still alive: the best of both worlds! Well, brother, enough of my fibs and nonsense, it's time for bed! You know, I sometimes wake up at night and go and take a look at him. But never mind that, everything's fine. So don't you worry, either, but if you feel like it, you take a look too. And if you notice anything at all - delirium for instance, or a temperature, or whatever - wake me up at once. Though I can't see it happening . . .'
II
It was a worried, serious Razumikhin who woke some time before eight the next morning. He found himself suddenly plagued by a multitude of new and unexpected uncertainties. Never before had he imagined waking in such a state. He remembered yesterday's events down to the very last detail and realized that something out of the ordinary had happened to him, that he had absorbed an impression the like of which he had never known or knew existed. At the same time he was all too aware that the dream that had taken fire in his mind was utterly unrealistic - so unrealistic he even felt ashamed of it and hurriedly turned his attention to the other, more pressing concerns and uncertainties bestowed on him by the previous day, 'may it be forever cursed'.
Most appalling of all was the memory of how 'loathsome and vile' he'd proved himself to be, not just because he'd been drunk but because, jealous fool that he was, he'd rushed to abuse the girl's fiance to her face, taking advantage of her plight while knowing little not only of their mutual relations and obligations, but even about the man himself. And anyway, what right did he have to judge him so hastily and recklessly? Who'd asked him to act as judge and jury? And could such a creature as Avdotya Romanovna really give herself to an unworthy man for money? So he, too, must have his virtues. Those rooms? How could he have known what they were like? He was preparing an apartment for them, after all . . . ugh, how loathsome! And being drunk was no justification! A stupid excuse that only degraded him all the more! There's truth in wine, and now that truth had all spilled out, i.e., 'all the filth of my coarse and jealous heart'! And how could he, Razumikhin, have even permitted himself such a dream? Who was he next to a girl like that - he, a rowdy drunk, yesterday's show-off? 'Even mentioning us in the same breath is laughable, outrageous!' Thinking this, Razumikhin turned a desperate shade of red, when suddenly, right on cue, at that very same second, yesterday's words on the stairs came back to him loud and clear: that stuff about the landlady being jealous of Avdotya Romanovna . . . This really was the final straw. He struck his fist with full force against the kitchen stove, injuring his hand and dislodging a brick.
'Of course,' he muttered to himself a minute later, filled with a kind of self-abasement, 'nothing will ever be able to paper over so much filth . . . which means there's no use even thinking about it, and I should present myself in silence, and . . . discharge my duties . . . in silence and . . . and not beg for forgiveness, and not say a word and . . . and, of course, all is now lost!'
And yet, getting dressed, he inspected his attire more thoroughly than usual. He had no other clothes, and even if he had, he might not have worn them - 'just because'. Be that as it may, he couldn't carry on being so outrageous, so slovenly: he'd no right to offend other people's feelings, especially when those same people needed him and were themselves inviting him round. He gave his clothes a thorough clean with a brush. His linen was always presentable: he was very particular on that score.
His ablutions that morning were vigorous - he got some soap from Nastasya and washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to deciding whether or not to shave (Praskovya Pavlovna had some first-rate razors left over after the death of her late husband, Mr Zarnitsyn), the question was answered fiercely in the negative: 'I'll go as I am! What if they thought I'd shaved for . . . ? They'd be bound to think that! Not on my life!
'And . . . and the main thing is I'm so coarse, so filthy, with manners fit for the tavern; and . . . and so what if I know that I'm actually half-decent, despite all this . . . well, is that anything to be so proud of? Every man should be decent. It's the least you can expect and . . . but still, I've not forgotten that I have the odd skeleton in my closet, too . . . Nothing too disgraceful, but still! . . . And as for some of the ideas I've had! H'm . . . and to set all this alongside Avdotya Romanovna! That's a good one! Well, so what? Now I'll go out of my way to be filthy, lewd, a man of the tavern! Now more than ever!'
He was interrupted in full flow by Zosimov, who'd spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna's drawing room.
Zosimov was hurrying home and wanted to look in on the patient on his way out. Razumikhin informed him that he was sleeping like a log. Zosimov gave instructions not to wake him. He promised to call round after ten.
'That's assuming he's home,' he added. 'A devil of a business! Try being a doctor when you can't tell your patient what to do! Perhaps you can tell me: will he go over to them or will they come over to him?'
'The second, I think,' answered Razumikhin, grasping the purpose of the question, 'and they'll be talking about family matters, of course. I'll make myself scarce. Naturally, you have more right to be there than me, being a doctor.'
'I'm hardly his confessor, either. I'll arrive and I'll be gone. I've plenty else to be getting on with.'
'There's one thing bothering me,' interrupted Razumikhin, frowning. 'Yesterday, when I was drunk, I blurted out some stupid things to him on the way home . . . about this and that . . . including your fear that he might be . . . prone to insanity . . .'
'You blurted that out to the ladies, too, yesterday.'
'I know - completely idiotic! Don't mind if you punch me for it! But were you serious about that?'
'Serious? Please! You described him yourself as a monomaniac when you brought me to see him . . . And then yesterday we added more fuel to the flames, or rather you did, with those stories . . . about that painter. A fine topic of conversation when that might have been just the thing that drove him out of his mind! If I'd known the details of what happened in the bureau that time, if I'd known what that suspicious rascal had said to offend him . . . H'm . . . Then I'd never have allowed such a conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs make mountains out of molehills; in their minds, the wildest inventions take on flesh and blood . . . From what I can remember of Zametov's story yesterday, at least half of this business has now become clear to me. And so what? I know a case of one hypochondriac, forty years old, who couldn't put up with being mocked every day, over dinner, by an eight-year-old boy, and killed him! And what do we have here? A man in rags, an insolent lieutenant, incipient sickness, and a suspicion like that! Addressed to a crazed hypochondriac!5 Who happens to be madly, exceptionally vain! Perhaps this is where it all began - the sickness, I mean! Too bloody right! . . . That Zametov, by the way, really is a sweet little boy, only, h'm . . . shame he went and said all that yesterday. He can never keep his mout
h shut!'
'But who did he tell? Me, you, and?'
'Porfiry.'
'So he told Porfiry. So what?'
'By the way, do you have any influence with them, the mother and sister? We'd better be careful with him today . . .'
'They'll get over it!' Razumikhin reluctantly replied.
'And what's he got against this Luzhin? He's a man of means and she doesn't seem to mind him . . . and they haven't a copeck between them, eh?'
'Why all these questions?' shouted Razumikhin irritably. 'How should I know how many copecks they have? Ask them and maybe they'll tell you . . .'
'Ugh, what an idiot you are sometimes! That's the drink still talking . . . Goodbye then; and thank Praskovya Pavlovna on my behalf for the bed. She's locked herself in and didn't respond to my Bonjour, though she got up at seven and had the samovar brought in to her straight from the kitchen . . . I wasn't granted the honour of beholding her.'