Razumikhin arrived at Bakaleyev's house at nine o'clock sharp. The two ladies had been waiting for him for a good long time in a state of hysterical impatience. They'd been up since seven, if not earlier. He walked in, dark as the night, and bowed awkwardly, which immediately made him angry - with himself, needless to say. His fears were ill-founded: Pulkheria Alexandrovna fairly threw herself at him, seized him by both hands and all but kissed them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but at that moment even this haughty face expressed so much gratitude and friendship, such total and unexpected respect (no mocking glances, no involuntary, ill-concealed contempt!) that he would have found it easier, in all seriousness, to have been greeted with abuse - for this was all far too embarrassing. Luckily, a topic of conversation lay ready and waiting, and he grasped it eagerly.
Hearing that Raskolnikov hadn't woken up yet, though everything was 'absolutely fine', Pulkheria Alexandrovna announced that this was a good thing, too, because she 'desperately, desperately' needed to talk everything over in advance. Razumikhin was invited to take tea with them, as they'd been waiting for him before having theirs. Avdotya Romanovna rang, a filthy ragamuffin appeared, and tea was ordered and eventually served, but in so filthy and disgraceful a manner that the ladies felt positively ashamed. Razumikhin was on the verge of laying into Bakaleyev's rooms but, remembering about Luzhin, fell into an embarrassed silence and was terribly relieved when at last Pulkheria Alexandrovna's questions began flowing thick and fast.
Responding to them, he spoke for three quarters of an hour, through continual interruption and interrogation, and managed to impart all the most crucial and essential facts known to him from the last year of Rodion Romanovich's life, concluding with a detailed account of his illness. All the same, he left out whatever needed to be left out, including the scene in the police bureau, with all its consequences. His listeners hung on his every word; but just when he thought he'd reached the end and satisfied their demands, it turned out that for them he had barely begun.
'Now tell me, tell me, what is your opinion . . . ? Oh, forgive me, I still don't know your name,' rushed Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
'Dmitry Prokofich.'
'Well then, Dmitry Prokofich, I am desperately, desperately keen to learn about how he . . . in general . . . sees things now. I mean - how should I put it, put it best? - I mean, well, what does he like and what doesn't he like? Is he always so very irritable? What does he wish for, as it were, and, as it were, dream about? What influences is he subject to right now? In a word, I would like . . .'
'Oh, Mama, how could anyone reply to all that in one go?' remarked Dunya.
'But heavens, I could never, ever have expected to find him like this, Dmitry Prokofich.'
'That's very understandable, ma'am,' replied Dmitry Prokofich. 'My mother's dead, but my uncle comes here once a year and he nearly always fails to recognize me, even physically, though he's clever enough; so just think how much must have changed in the three years that you've been apart. What can I say? I've known Rodion for a year and a half: he's sullen, gloomy, haughty, proud; recently (and perhaps much earlier, too) he's paranoid and hypochondriac. Generous and kind. Doesn't like to express his feelings and would sooner do something cruel than say what's in his heart. Sometimes, though, he's not hypochondriac at all, just cold and unfeeling to an almost inhuman degree, as if two contrasting characters were taking turns inside him. And he can be terribly untalkative! Never has time for anyone, finds everyone a nuisance, yet lounges around doing nothing. Not given to mockery, but not through lack of wit - rather, it's as if his time is too precious to waste on such trifles. Never listens to the end. Never interested in what everyone else is interested in. Terribly conceited and not, perhaps, without cause. What else? . . . If you ask me, your arrival will have a very salutary effect on him.'
'Pray God!' cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna, worried to death by Razumikhin's report about her Rodya.
Now, at long last, Razumikhin looked up at Avdotya Romanovna with a touch more confidence. He'd glanced at her often in the course of the conversation, but fleetingly, for a mere instant, before immediately looking away. One moment Avdotya Romanovna would sit down at the table and listen closely, the next she would get up again and start pacing the room, as was her habit, from one corner to the other, folding her arms, pressing her lips together and occasionally posing a question of her own, while still walking, deep in thought. She, too, had the habit of not listening to the end. She was wearing a darkish dress of thin material, with a white transparent scarf tied around her neck. It was impossible for Razumikhin not to notice at once the desperate poverty in which both women lived. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he would not, it seems, have been remotely afraid of her; but now, precisely because her clothes were so poor, perhaps, and because he could no longer ignore the meanness of her surroundings, terror took root in his heart and he began to fear his every word, his every gesture, and this, of course, was rather inhibiting for a man already lacking in confidence.
'You've said many interesting things about my brother's character and . . . you've spoken without prejudice. That's good. I thought that perhaps you revered him,' Avdotya Romanovna observed with a smile. 'It's also true, it seems, that he needs a woman at his side,' she added pensively.
'I didn't say that, though you may be right there too, only . . .'
'Only what?'
'Well, he doesn't love anyone, and perhaps he never will,' Razumikhin snapped.
'He's not capable of loving, you mean?'
'You know, Avdotya Romanovna, you're just like your brother, in every possible way!' he suddenly blurted out, surprising even himself, then immediately recalled everything he'd just told her about her brother and turned red as a lobster in his embarrassment. Avdotya Romanovna couldn't help laughing aloud at the sight of him.
'You might both be mistaken about Rodya,' Pulkheria Alexandrovna intervened, a little piqued. 'I don't mean now, Dunechka. Pyotr Petrovich may be wrong in what he writes in his letter . . . and you and I may have been wrong in our suppositions, but you can't imagine, Dmitry Prokofich, how fanciful and - how should I put it? - capricious he is. I never had much confidence in his character, even when he was only fifteen. I'm quite sure that even now he is capable of suddenly doing something to himself the like of which no one else would ever even think of . . . To take just one example, did you hear about how, a year and a half ago, he astonished and shocked me with the bright idea of marrying that girl - what's her name again? - the daughter of Zarnitsyna, his landlady? It almost finished me off.'
'Do you know about that story?' asked Avdotya Romanovna.
'Do you imagine,' Pulkheria Alexandrovna went on heatedly, 'that anything would have stopped him then - my tears, my pleas, my illness, my death, perhaps, from grief, our beggary? He'd have stepped right over every obstacle without a second thought. But does he really not love us?'
'He never said anything to me himself about this story,' replied Razumikhin warily, 'but I did hear something about it from Mrs Zarnitsyna, who's not exactly a chatterbox herself, and what I heard was, you might say, a little strange . . .'
'But what, what did you hear?' both women asked at once.
'Nothing so very extraordinary. I merely learned that this marriage, which was all set up and fell through only because of the death of the bride, was not to Mrs Zarnitsyna's liking at all . . . Besides, apparently the bride wasn't even pretty; in fact they say she was ugly . . . and very sickly and . . . and strange . . . though not, it seems, without certain qualities. There must have been some qualities or else one can't make head or tail of it . . . No dowry, either, though he wouldn't have been counting on one anyway . . . Well, it's hard to know what to make of a case like that.'
'I'm sure she was a worthy girl,' remarked Avdotya Romanovna tersely.
'Forgive me God, but I was glad when she died, though I couldn't say who would have ruined whom,' concluded Pulkheria Alexandrovna; then, hesitating and glanci
ng again and again in the direction of Dunya, to the latter's obvious displeasure, she warily launched into another interrogation about yesterday's scene between Rodya and Luzhin. This event evidently worried her more than anything, even terrified her. Razumikhin went over it all again, in detail, but this time he added his own conclusion: he directly accused Raskolnikov of having set out to insult Pyotr Petrovich in advance, making very few allowances this time round for his sickness.
'He thought this up while he was still well,' he added.
'That's what I think, too,' said Pulkheria Alexandrovna, looking devastated. But she was very struck by the fact that Razumikhin had spoken so cautiously on this occasion about Pyotr Petrovich, almost respectfully. Avdotya Romanovna was struck by it, too.
'So that's what you think of Pyotr Petrovich?' Pulkheria Alexandrovna asked, unable to restrain herself.
'I can hold no other opinion about your daughter's husband-to-be,' Razumikhin answered firmly and with feeling, 'and it's not just vulgar courtesy that makes me say so, but because . . . because . . . well, if only because Avdotya Romanovna has herself, of her own free will, seen fit to choose him. And if I was so rude about him yesterday, then only because I was filthy drunk and . . . crazy. Yes, completely crazy, out of my mind . . . and today I'm ashamed of myself!' He reddened and said no more. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence. She hadn't said a word from the moment the conversation turned to the topic of Luzhin.
Meanwhile her mother, without her support, was evidently in two minds about something. Finally, stammering and glancing again and again at her daughter, Pulkheria Alexandrovna announced that she was extremely concerned about one particular circumstance.
'You see, Dmitry Prokofich . . . ,' she began. 'I'll be completely frank with Dmitry Prokofich, shall I, Dunechka?'
'Yes, of course, Mama,' Avdotya Romanovna encouraged her.
'This is how it is,' she hurried, as if suddenly liberated by this permission to share her grief. 'Today, very early this morning, we received a note from Pyotr Petrovich in reply to our notification yesterday of our arrival. Yesterday, you see, he was supposed to meet us, as he'd promised, at the station. Instead, some servant or other was dispatched there to meet us and show us the way to this address, and a message was conveyed from Pyotr Petrovich informing us that he would visit us here this morning. Instead, this morning we received this note from him . . . It would be better if you read it yourself. There is one point that worries me greatly . . . You'll see for yourself which point I mean, and . . . please be completely frank, Dmitry Prokofich! You know Rodya's character better than anyone and are best placed to advise us. I should warn you that Dunechka has already decided everything, straight away, but I, well, I'm still not sure what to do and . . . and was waiting for you.'
Razumikhin unfolded the note, which bore the previous day's date, and read the following:
Dear Madam, Pulkheria Alexandrovna,
I have the honour of informing you that owing to the occurrence of unforeseen delays I was unable to greet you off the train, having dispatched to that end a highly competent person. Equally I must forgo the honour of meeting you tomorrow morning, owing to pressing business in the Senate and so as not to disturb your family reunion with your son and Avdotya Romanovna's with her brother. I shall have the honour of visiting you and paying you my respects in your apartment on the morrow, at 8 p.m. sharp, moreover I take the liberty of adducing an earnest and, let me add, very firm request that Rodion Romanovich not be present at our general meeting, in light of the unprecedented and discourteous offence which he caused me yesterday during my visit to his sickbed, and, aside from that, having an urgent need to discuss a certain point with you personally in depth, regarding which I desire to know your personal interpretation. I have the honour of giving prior notification that if, contrary to my request, I should meet Rodion Romanovich, I shall be obliged to take my leave without delay - and then you'll have no one to blame but yourselves. For I write in the supposition that Rodion Romanovich, having appeared so very sick during my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later, and therefore, on leaving his premises, may present himself at yours. I have received confirmation of this with my own eyes, in the apartment of a drunk who was run over by horses and died as a result, to whose daughter, a girl of notorious conduct, he gave as much as twenty-five roubles yesterday, on the pretext of a funeral, which fact greatly astonished me, knowing how much of a struggle it was for you to assemble this sum. By these presents, with an expression of my especial respect to the esteemed Avdotya Romanovna, I ask you to accept the respectful devotion of
your humble servant
P. Luzhin
'So what should I do, Dmitry Prokofich?' began Pulkheria Alexandrovna, on the verge of tears. 'How on earth can I suggest to Rodya not to come? He was so insistent yesterday that we reject Pyotr Petrovich, and here he is under instructions not to be accepted himself! He'll come on purpose when he finds out . . . and then what?'
'Do as Avdotya Romanovna has decided,' Razumikhin answered calmly and without hesitation.
'Good grief! She says . . . she says God knows what and she doesn't explain the point of it! She says it is better, or rather not better but for some reason absolutely essential for Rodya also to come specially today at eight o'clock and for them to meet without fail . . . But I didn't even want to show him the letter - I wanted to find some cunning way, through you, of stopping him coming . . . because he's so very irritable . . . And I don't understand any of this anyway - what drunkard, what daughter, and how did he manage to give away to this daughter all the remaining money . . . which . . . ?'
'Which was obtained at such cost to yourself, Mama,' added Avdotya Romanovna.
'He wasn't himself yesterday,' said Razumikhin pensively. 'If you'd heard some of the things he was saying in the tavern yesterday, clever as they were . . . h'm! He did say something to me when we were walking home about some chap who'd died and some girl or other, but I didn't understand a word of it . . . But then I wasn't up to much yesterday, either . . .'
'We're best off going to see him ourselves, Mama. I'm sure we'll know what to do as soon as we get there. And just look at the time - goodness me! Gone ten already!' she cried, after glancing at her splendid gold, enamelled timepiece, which hung from her neck on a fine Venetian chain and was utterly out of keeping with the rest of her outfit. 'Present from the fiance,' thought Razumikhin.
'Oh, we must go! . . . Time to go, Dunechka, time to go!' fussed Pulkheria Alexandrovna. 'He'll think we're still angry from yesterday, if it's taken us so long. Good grief!'
Saying this, she hurriedly threw on a cape and put on her hat. Dunechka also got herself ready. Her gloves were not only worn, they were in shreds, as Razumikhin noticed, yet the patent poverty of their attire gave both women an air of particular dignity, as is always the way with those who know how to dress in pauper's clothes. Razumikhin looked with reverence at Dunechka and felt proud to be accompanying her. 'The queen,' he thought to himself, 'who darned her own stockings6 in prison must have looked every inch the part at that moment, even more so than during her most lavish public ceremonies.'
'Good grief!' exclaimed Pulkheria Alexandrovna. 'Could I ever have imagined fearing a meeting with my son, my sweet Rodya, as I fear it now? . . . I'm scared, Dmitry Prokofich!' she added, with a timid glance.
'Don't be scared, dear Mama,' said Dunya, kissing her, 'you should have faith in him. I do.'
'Good grief! I do have faith in him, but I didn't sleep a wink last night!' cried the poor woman.
They went outside.
'You know, Dunechka, just as soon as I snatched a little sleep this morning, I suddenly dreamt of Marfa Petrovna, God rest her soul . . . dressed all in white . . . She came up to me and took my hand while shaking her head at me, so very seriously, as if in disapproval . . . What am I to make of it? Good grief, Dmitry Prokofich, you still don't know: Marfa Petrovna has died!'
'No, I didn't know. Which Marfa Petrovna
?'
'Quite suddenly! And just imagine . . .'
'Later, Mama,' Dunya broke in. 'After all, the gentleman still doesn't know who Marfa Petrovna is.'
'Oh, you don't? There was I thinking you already knew everything. Please forgive me, Dmitry Prokofich, I'm at my wits' end. Truly, I think of you as our Providence, and that's why I was so sure you already knew everything. I think of you as one of the family . . . Don't be angry with me for speaking like this. Good grief, what's happened to your right hand? Have you hurt it?'
'Yes, I hurt it,' muttered Razumikhin, suddenly happy.
'Sometimes I speak rather too openly and Dunya has to prod me . . . But how on earth can he live in such a tiny cell? Has he woken up, though? And that woman, his landlady, calls that a room? Listen, you say he doesn't like to display his feelings, so perhaps I'll only annoy him with my . . . foibles? . . . Can't you teach me, Dmitry Prokofich? How should I act with him? I'm all at sea.'
'Don't keep asking him about anything if you see him frowning, and in particular don't ask him too much about his health. He doesn't like it.'
'Oh, Dmitry Prokofich, how hard it is to be a mother! But here's that stairwell . . . Such a horrid stairwell!'
'Mama, you've even gone pale. Calm yourself, my dearest,' said Dunya, stroking her. 'He ought to be happy to see you, and here you are tormenting yourself,' she added, with a flash of her eyes.
'Wait, I'll go ahead to see if he's woken up yet.'
The ladies set off slowly up the stairs after Razumikhin, and when they drew level with the landlady's door on the fourth floor they noticed that it was just slightly ajar and that two quick black eyes were examining them both from the dark. When their eyes met, the door suddenly slammed shut with such a bang that Pulkheria Alexandrovna nearly screamed with fright.
III
'Better, better!' Zosimov shouted to them cheerfully as they entered. He'd arrived some ten minutes earlier and was sitting at the same end of the couch as the day before. Raskolnikov was sitting at the opposite end, all dressed up and even thoroughly scrubbed and combed, for the first time in a very long while. The room filled up at once, but Nastasya still managed to follow the visitors in and started listening.