Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский
He walked towards the Neva along V___ Prospect, but on the way
another idea struck him. "Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to
go somewhere far off, to the Islands again, and there hide the
things in some solitary place, in a wood or under a bush, and mark the
spot perhaps?" And though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the
idea seemed to him a sound one. But he was not destined to go there.
For coming out of V___ Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left
a passage leading between two blank walls to a courtyard. On the right
hand, the blank unwhitewashed wall of a four-storied house stretched
far into the court; on the left, a wooden hoarding ran parallel with
it for twenty paces into the court, and then turned sharply to the
left. Here was a deserted fenced-off place where rubbish of
different sorts was lying. At the end of the court, the corner of a
low, smutty, stone shed, apparently part of some workshop, peeped from
behind the hoarding. It was probably a carriage builder's or
carpenter's shed; the whole place from the entrance was black with
coal dust. Here would be the place to throw it, he thought. Not seeing
any one in the yard, he slipped in, and at once saw near the gate a
sink, such as is often put in yards where there are many workmen or
cabdrivers; and on the hoarding above had been scribbled in chalk
the time-honoured witticism, "Standing here strictly forbidden."
This was all the better, for there would be nothing suspicious about
his going in. "Here I could throw it all in a heap and get away!"
Looking round once more, with his hand already in his pocket, he
noticed against the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink, a
big unhewn stone, weighing perhaps sixty pounds. The other side of the
wall was a street. He could hear passers-by, always numerous in that
part, but he could not be seen from the entrance, unless some one came
in from the street, which might well happen indeed, so there was
need of haste.
He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in both
hands, and using all his strength turned it over. Under the stone
was a small hollow in the ground, and he immediately emptied his
pocket into it. The purse lay at the top, and yet the hollow was not
filled up. Then he seized the stone again and with one twist turned it
back, so that it was in the same position again, though it stood a
very little higher. But he scraped the earth about it and pressed it
at the edges with his foot. Nothing could be noticed.
Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense,
almost unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had in the
police office. "I have buried my tracks! And who, who can think of
looking under that stone? It has been lying there most likely ever
since the house was built, and will lie as many years more. And if
it were found, who would think of me? It is all over! No clue!" And he
laughed. Yes, he remembered that he began laughing a thin, nervous
noiseless laugh, and went on laughing all the time he was crossing the
square. But when he reached the K___ Boulevard where two days before
he had come upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other
ideas crept into his mind. He felt all at once that it would be
loathsome to pass that seat on which after the girl was gone, he had
sat and pondered, and that it would be hateful, too, to meet that
whiskered policeman to whom he had given the twenty copecks: "Damn
He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas
now seemed to be circling round some single point, and he felt that
there really was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing
that point- and for the first time, indeed, during the last two
"Damn it all!" he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury.
"If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how
stupid it is!... And what lies I told to-day! How despicably I
fawned upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What
do I care for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at
all! It is not that at all!"
Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple
question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.
"If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if
I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even
glance into the purse and don't know what I had there, for which I
have undergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this
base, filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw
into the water the purse together with all the things which I had
not seen either... how's that?"
Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before,
and it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the
night without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be,
as though it could not possibly be otherwise.... Yes, he had known
it all, and understood it all; it surely had all been settled even
yesterday at the moment when he was bending over the box and pulling
the jewel-cases out of it.... Yes, so it was.
"It is because I am very ill," he decided grimly at last, "I have
been worrying and fretting myself, and I don't know what I am
doing.... Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I
have been worrying myself.... I shall get well and I shall not
worry.... But what if I don't get well at all? Good God, how sick I am
of it all!"
He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some
distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new
overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him
every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for
everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred.
All who met him were loathsome to him- he loathed their faces, their
movements, their gestures. If any one had addressed him, he felt
that he might have spat at him or bitten him....
He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva,
near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. "Why, he lives here, in that
house," he thought, "why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own
accord! Here it's the same thing over again.... Very interesting to
know, though; have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by
chance? Never mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go
and see him the day after; well, and so I will! Besides I really
cannot go further now."
He went up to Razumihin's room on the fifth floor.
The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the
moment, and he opened the door himself. It was four months since
they had seen each other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged
dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and
unwashed. His face showed surprise.
"Is it you?" he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after
a brief pause, he whistled. "As hard up as all that! Why, brother,
you've cut me out!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov's rags. "Come sit
down, you are tired, I'll be bound."
And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in
even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his
visitor was ill.
"Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?" He began feeling his
pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
"Never mind," he said, "I have come for this; I have no
lessons.... I wanted... but I don't want lessons...."
"But I say! You are delirious, you know!" Razumihin observed,
watching him carefully.
"No, I am not."
Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to
Razumihin's, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend
face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of
all disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with any one in
the wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage
at himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin's threshold.
"Good-bye," he said abruptly, and walked to the door.
"Stop, stop! You queer fish."
"I don't want to," said the other, again pulling away his hand.
"Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this
is... almost insulting! I won't let you go like that."
"Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could
help... to begin... because you are kinder than any one- clever, I
mean, and can judge... and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear?
Nothing at all... no one's services... no one's sympathy. I am by
myself... alone. Come, that's enough. Leave me alone."
"Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for
all I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don't care about
that, but there's a bookseller, Heruvimov- and he takes the place of a
lesson. I would not exchange him for five lessons. He's doing
publishing of a kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a
circulation they have! The very titles are worth the money! You always
maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater
fools than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that
he has an inkling of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here
are two signatures of the German text- in my opinion, the crudest
charlatanism; it discusses the question, 'Is woman a human being?'
And, of course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to
bring out this work as a contribution to the woman question; I am
translating it; he will expand these two and a half signatures into
six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page long and bring it
out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six roubles the
signature, it works out to fifteen roubles for the job, and I've had
six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to
begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest
scandals out of the second part of Les Confessions we have marked
for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind
of Radishchev. You may be sure I don't contradict him, hang him! Well,
would you like to do the second signature of 'Is woman a human being?'
If you would, take the German and pens and paper- all those are
provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in
advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your
share. And when you have finished the signature there will be
another three roubles for you. And please don't think I am doing you a
service; quite the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you
could help me; to begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I
am sometimes utterly adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go
along for the most part. The only comfort is, that it's bound to be
a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it's sometimes for
the worse. Will you take it?"
Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three
roubles and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in
astonishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned
back, mounted the stairs to Razumihin's again and laying on the
table the German article and the three roubles, went out again,
still without uttering a word.
"Are you raving, or what?" Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at
last. "What farce is this? You'll drive me crazy too... what did you
come to see me for, damn you?"
"I don't want... translation," muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
"Then what the devil do you want?" shouted Razumihin from above.
Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.
"Hey, there! Where are you living?"
"Well, confound you then!"
But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the
Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an
unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three
times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having
almost fallen under his horses' hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that
he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been
walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily
clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course.
"Serves him right!"
"A pickpocket I dare say."
"Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on
purpose; and you have to answer for him."
"It's a regular profession, that's what it is."
But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and
bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he
suddenly felt some one thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was
an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl,
probably her daughter, wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
"Take it, my good man, in Christ's name."
He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks.
From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a
beggar asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty
copecks he doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry
He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces,
and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was
without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare
in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best
from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the
sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly
distinguished. The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot
about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now
completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the
distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was
attending the university, he had hundreds of times- generally on his
way home- stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent
spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious
emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this gorgeous
picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at
his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put
off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old
doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere
chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and
grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before,
as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be
interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested
him... so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it
wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that
seemed to him now- all his old past, his old thoughts, his old
problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and
himself and all, all.... He felt as though he were flying upwards, and
everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious
movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money
in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a
sweep his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home.
It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from every one and from
everything that moment.
Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have
been walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not
remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay
down on the sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into
It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what
a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding,
tears, blows and curses he had never heard.
He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In
terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting,
wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense
amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling,
shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he
could not make out what she was talking about; she was beseeching,
no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on
the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite
and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying
something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and
spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognized the
voice- it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and
beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against
the steps- that's clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the
cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy-turvy? He could
hear people running in crowds from all the storeys and all the
staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors banging.
"But why, why, and how could it be?" he repeated, thinking seriously
that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And they
would come to him then next, "for no doubt... it's all about that...
about yesterday.... Good God!" He would have fastened his door with
the latch, but he could not lift his hand... besides, it would be
useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed
him.... But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten
minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and
groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses....
But at last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be
heard. "Can he have gone away? Good Lord!" Yes, and now the landlady
is going too, still weeping and moaning... and then her door
slammed.... Now the crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms,
exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, raising their voices to
a shout, dropping them to a whisper. There must have been numbers of
them- almost all the inmates of the block. "But, good God, how could
it be! And why, why had he come here!"
Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes.
He lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation
of infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a
bright light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and
a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was
not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out
what she had brought- bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.
"You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You've been
trudging about all day, and you're shaking with fever."
"Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?"
She looked intently at him.
"Who beat the landlady?"
"Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the
assistant-superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he ill-treating
her like that, and... why was he here?"
Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny
lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching
"Nastasya, why don't you speak?" he said timidly at last in a weak
"It's the blood," she answered at last softly, as though speaking to
"Blood? What blood?" he muttered, growing white and turning
towards the wall.
Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
"Nobody has been beating the landlady," she declared at last in a
firm, resolute voice.
He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
"I heard it myself.... I was not asleep... I was sitting up," he
said still more timidly. "I listened a long while. The
assistant-superintendent came.... Every one ran out on to the stairs
from all the flats."
"No one has been here. That's the blood crying in your ears. When
there's no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying
things.... Will you eat something?"
He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.
"Give me something to drink... Nastasya."
She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of
water. He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and
spilling some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.
HE WAS not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill;
he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half
conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it
seemed as though there were a number of people round him; they
wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of
squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the
room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only now and then
opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him, plotted
something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya
often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom he
seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, and
this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had
been lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the
same day. But of that- of that he had no recollection, and yet every
minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember.
He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into
a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to
get up, would have run away, but some one always prevented him by
force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he
returned to complete consciousness.
It happened at ten o'clock in the morning. On fine days the sun
shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the
right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing
beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking
at him very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing
a full, short-waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The
landlady was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.
"Who is this, Nastasya?" he asked, pointing to the young man.
"I say, he's himself again!" she said.
"He is himself," echoed the man.
Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed
the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations
or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking,
fat and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness
and laziness, and absurdly bashful.
"Who... are you?" he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment
the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall,
Razumihin came in.
"What a cabin it is!" he cried. "I am always knocking my head. You
call this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I've just heard
the news from Pashenka."
"He has just come to," said Nastasya.
"Just come to," echoed the man again, with a smile.
"And who are you?" Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. "My
name is Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always
called, but Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my
friend. And who are you?"
"I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev,
and I've come on business."
"Please sit down." Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the
table. "It's a good thing you've come to, brother," he went on to
Raskolnikov. "For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or
drunk anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought
Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you
carefully and said at once it was nothing serious- something seemed to
have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad
feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and radish, but it's
nothing much, it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is a
first-rate fellow! He is making quite a name. Come, I won't keep you,"
he said, addressing the man again. "Will you explain what you want?
You must know, Rodya, this is the second time they have sent from
the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who
was it came before?"
"That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please,
sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too."
"He was more intelligent than you, don't you think so?"
"Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am."
"Quite so; go on."
"At your mamma's request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of
whom I presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent
to you from our office," the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. "If
you are in an intelligible condition, I've thirty-five roubles to
remit to you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy
Ivanovitch at your mamma's request instructions to that effect, as
on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?"
"Yes, I remember... Vahrushin," Raskolnikov said dreamily.
"You hear, he knows Vahrushin," cried Razumihin. "He is in 'an
intelligible condition'! And I see you are an intelligent man too.
Well, it's always pleasant to hear words of wisdom."
"That's the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the
request of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in
the same manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and
sent instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you
thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come."
"That 'hoping for better to come' is the best thing you've said,
though 'your mamma' is not bad either. Come then, what do you say?
Is he fully conscious, eh?"
"That's all right. If only he can sign this little paper."
"He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?"
"Yes, here's the book."
"Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I'll hold you. Take the pen and
scribble 'Raskolnikov' for him. For just now, brother, money is
sweeter to us than treacle."
"I don't want it," said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.
"Not want it?"
"I won't sign it."
"How the devil can you do without signing it?"
"I don't want... the money."
"Don't want the money! Come, brother, that's nonsense, I bear
witness. Don't trouble, please, it's only that he is on his travels
again. But that's pretty common with him at all times though.... You
are a man of judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more
simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here."
"But I can come another time."
"No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment....
Now, Rodya, don't keep your visitor, you see he is waiting," and he
made ready to hold Raskolnikov's hand in earnest.
"Stop, I'll do it alone," said the latter, taking the pen and
signing his name.
The messenger took out the money and went away.
"Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?"
"Yes," answered Raskolnikov.
"Is there any soup?"
"Some of yesterday's," answered Nastasya, who was still standing
"With potatoes and rice in it?"
"I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea."
Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a
dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see
what would happen. "I believe I am not wandering. I believe it's
reality," he thought.
In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and
announced that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she
brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef,
and so on. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. The
cloth was clean.
"It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send
us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them."
"Well, you are a cool hand," muttered Nastasya, and she departed
to carry out his orders.
Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile
Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put
his left arm round Raskolnikov's head, although he was able to sit up,
and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it
that it might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm.
Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a
third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin
suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he
ought to have more.
Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
"And will you have tea?"
"Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture
on without the faculty. But here is the beer!" He moved back to his
chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as
though he had not touched food for three days.
"I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now," he
mumbled with his mouth full of beef, "and it's all Pashenka, your dear
little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me.
I don't ask for it, but, of course, I don't object. And here's
Nastasya with the tea. She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won't
you have some beer?"
"Get along with your nonsense!"
"A cup of tea, then?"
"A cup of tea, maybe."
"Pour it out. Stay, I'll pour it out myself. Sit down."
He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa
again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick man's head,
raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each
spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this process was the
principal and most effective means towards his friend's recovery.
Raskolnikov said nothing and made no resistance, though he felt
quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and could
not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have
walked about. But from some queer, almost animal, cunning he conceived
the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a time, pretending
if necessary not to be yet in full possession of his faculties, and
meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he could not
overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of
tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away
capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real
pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed
that, too, and took note of it.
"Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some
raspberry tea," said Razumihin, going back to his chair and
attacking his soup and beer again.
"And where is she to get raspberries for you?" asked Nastasya,
balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea
through a lump of sugar.
"She'll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of
things have been happening while you have been laid up. When you
decamped in that rascally way without leaving your address, I felt
so angry that I resolved to find you out and punish you. I set to work
that very day. How I ran about making inquiries for you! This
lodging of yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it,
indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I
could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov's house. I
kept trying to find that Harlamov's house, and afterwards it turned
out that it was not Harlamov's, but Buch's. How one muddles up sound
sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the
address bureau next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked
you up! Your name is down there."
"I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find
while I was there. Well, it's a long story. But as soon as I did
land on this place, I soon got to know all your affairs- all, all,
brother, I know everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the
acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the
house-porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk
in the police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka;
Nastasya here knows...."
"He's got round her," Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.
"Why don't you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?"
"You are a one!" Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle.
"I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna," she added suddenly, recovering
from her mirth.
"I'll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story
short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all
malignant influences in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I
had not expected, brother, to find her so... prepossessing. Eh, what
do you think?"
Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon
him, full of alarm.
"And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,"
Razumihin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.
"Ah, the sly dog!" Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation
afforded her unspeakable delight.
"It's a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way
at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so
to speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her
character later.... How could you let things come to such a pass
that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I.O.U.? You must
have been mad to sign an I.O.U. And that promise of marriage when
her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was alive?... I know all about it!
But I see that's a delicate matter and I am an ass; forgive me. But,
talking of foolishness, do you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly
so foolish as you would think at first sight?"
"No," mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was
better to keep up the conversation.
"She isn't, is she?" cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out
of him. "But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially,
essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a
loss, I assure you.... She must be forty; she says she is
thirty-six, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I
judge her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of
view; there is a sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of
algebra or what not! I don't understand it! Well, that's all nonsense.
Only, seeing that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons
and your clothes, and that through the young lady's death she has no
need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as
you hid in your den and dropped all your old relations with her, she
planned to get rid of you. And she's been cherishing that design a
long time, but was sorry to lose the I.O.U. for you assured her
yourself that your mother would pay."
"It was base of me to say that.... My mother herself is almost a
beggar... and I told a lie to keep my lodging... and be fed,"
Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.
"Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that
point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never
have thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too
retiring; but the business man is by no means retiring, and first
thing he puts the question, 'Is there any hope of realising the
I.O.U.?' Answer: there is, because he has a mother who would save
her Rodya with her hundred and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has
to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into bondage for
his sake. That's what he was building upon.... Why do you start? I
know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear boy- it's not
for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her
prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend.... But I
tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a
business man 'listens and goes on eating' you up. Well, then she
gave the I.O.U. by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and without
hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all
this I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that
time harmony reigned between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on
stopping the whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went
security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called Tchebarov,
flung him ten roubles and got the I.O.U. back from him, and here I
have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now.
Here, take it, you see I have torn it."
Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and
turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a
"I see, brother," he said a moment later, "that I have been
playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my
chatter, and I believe I have only made you cross."
"Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?" Raskolnikov
asked, after a moment's pause without turning his head.
"Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought
Zametov one day."
"Zametov? The head clerk? What for?" Raskolnikov turned round
quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
"What's the matter with you?... What are you upset about? He
wanted to make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about
you.... How could I have found out so much except from him? He is a
capital fellow, brother, first-rate... in his own way, of course.
Now we are friends- see each other almost every day. I have moved into
this part, you know. I have only just moved. I've been with him to
Luise Ivanovna once or twice.... Do you remember Luise, Luise
"Did I say anything in delirium?"
"I should think so! You were beside yourself."
"What did I rave about?"
"What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about....
Well, brother, now I must not lose time. To work." He got up from
the table and took up his cap.
"What did I rave about?"
"How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret?
Don't worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you
said a lot about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and
about Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya
Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent. And another thing that was
of special interest to you was your own sock. You whined, 'Give me
my sock.' Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and
with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And
only then were you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you
held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It
is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you
asked so piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find
out what sort of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to
business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and
shall give you an account of them in an hour or two. I will let
Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been here long
ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty
often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything
else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!"
"He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he's a deep one!" said Nastasya as he
went out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could
not resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear
what he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite
fascinated by Razumihin.
No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the
bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, switching
impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to
work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.
"Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not?
What if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am
laid up, and then they will come in and tell me that it's been
discovered long ago and that they have only... What am I to do now?
That's what I've forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all
at once, I remembered a minute ago."
He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable
bewilderment about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened;
but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling
something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the
paper, began examining it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled- but
that was not it. He went to the stove, opened it and began rummaging
in the ashes; the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut off
his pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No one had
looked, then! Then he remembered, the sock about which Razumihin had
just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on the sofa under the
quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov could
not have seen anything on it.
"Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the
police office? Where's the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was
then. I looked at my sock then, too, but now... now I have been ill.
But what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?" he
muttered, helplessly sitting on the sofa again. "What does it mean? Am
I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real.... Ah, I
remember, I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must
escape! Yes... but where? And where are my clothes? I've no boots.
They've taken them away! They've hidden them! I understand! Ah, here
is my coat- they passed that over! And here is money on the table,
thank God! And here's the I.O.U.... I'll take the money and go and
take another lodging. They won't find me!... Yes, but the address
bureau? They'll find me, Razumihin will find me. Better escape
altogether... far away... to America, and let them do their worst! And
take the I.O.U.... it would be of use there.... What else shall I
take? They think I am ill! They don't know that I can walk,
ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If
only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch
there- policemen! What's this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a
He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer,
and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his
breast. But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a
faint and even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and
pulled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew
more and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came
upon him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head in the pillow,
wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had
replaced the old, ragged great-coat, sighed softly and sank into a
deep, sound, refreshing sleep.
He woke up, hearing some one come in. He opened his eyes and saw
Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or
not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as
though trying to recall something.
"Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the
parcel!" Razumihin shouted down the stairs. "You shall have the
"What time is it?" asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.
"Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it's almost evening, it will be
six o'clock directly. You have slept more than six hours."
"Good heaven! Have I?"
"And why not? It will do you good. What's the hurry? A tryst, is it?
We've all time before us. I've been waiting for the last three hours
for you; I've been up twice and found you asleep. I've called on
Zossimov twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn
up. And I've been out on my own business, too. You know I've been
moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me
now. But that's no matter, to business. Give me the parcel,
Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how do you feel now, brother?"
"I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?"
"I tell you I've been waiting for the last three hours."
"How do you mean?"
"How long have you been coming here?"
"Why I told you all about it this morning. Don't you remember?"
Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He
could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.
"Hm!" said the latter, "he has forgotten. I fancied then that you
were not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep.... You
really look much better. First rate! Well, to business. Look here,
my dear boy."
He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.
"Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For
we must make a man of you. Let's begin from the top. Do you see this
cap?" he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good, though cheap,
and ordinary cap. "Let me try it on."
"Presently, afterwards," said Raskolnikov, waving it of pettishly.
"Come, Rodya, my boy, don't oppose it, afterwards will be too
late; and I shan't sleep all night, for I bought it by guess,
without measure. Just right!" he cried triumphantly, fitting it on,
"just your size! A proper head-covering is the first thing in dress
and a recommendation in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine,
is always obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into
any public place where other people wear their hats or caps. People
think he does it from slavish politeness, but it's simply because he
is ashamed of his bird's nest; he is such a bashful fellow! Look,
Nastasya, here are two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston"- he
took from the corner Raskolnikov's old, battered hat, which for some
unknown reason, he called a Palmerston- "or this jewel! Guess the
price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it, Nastasya!" he said,
turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.
"Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say," answered Nastasya.
"Twenty copecks, silly!" he cried, offended. "Why, nowadays you
would cost more than that- eighty copecks! And that only because it
has been worn. And it's bought on condition that when's it's worn out,
they will give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let
us pass to the United States of America, as they called them at
school. I assure you I am proud of these breeches," and he exhibited
to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen
material. "No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a
little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in the fashion. And its
being worn really is an improvement, it's softer, smoother.... You
see, Rodya, to my thinking, the great thing for getting on in the
world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don't insist on
having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse! and
it's the same with this purchase. It's summer now, so I've been buying
summer things- warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will
have to throw these away in any case... especially as they will be
done for by then from their own lack of coherence if not your higher
standard of luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles
twenty-five copecks! And remember the conditions: if you wear these
out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only do business
on that system at Fedyaev's; if you've bought a thing once, you are
satisfied for life, for you will never go there again of your own free
will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You see that they are a
bit worn, but they'll last a couple of months, for it's foreign work
and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them
last week- he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of
cash. Price- a rouble and a half. A bargain?"
"But perhaps they won't fit," observed Nastasya.
"Not fit? Just look!" and he pulled out of his pocket
Raskolnikov's old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. "I did
not go empty-handed- they took the size from this monster. We all
did our best. And as to your linen, your landlady has seen to that.
Here, to begin with are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable
front.... Well now then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles
twenty-five copecks the suit- together three roubles five copecks- a
rouble and a half for the boots- for, you see, they are very good- and
that makes four roubles fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the
underclothes- they were bought in the lot- which makes exactly nine
roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will
you take it? And so, Rodya, you are set up with a complete new
rig-out, for your overcoat will serve, and even has a style of its
own. That comes from getting one's clothes from Sharmer's! As for your
socks and other things, I leave them to you; we've twenty-five roubles
left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don't you
worry. I tell you she'll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let
me change your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness
with your shirt."
"Let me be! I don't want to!" Raskolnikov waved him off. He had
listened with disgust to Razumihin's efforts to be playful about his
"Come, brother, don't tell me I've been trudging around for
nothing," Razumihin insisted. "Nastasya, don't be bashful, but help
me- that's it," and in spite of Raskolnikov's resistance he changed
his linen. The latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two
"It will be long before I get rid of them," he thought. "What
money was all that bought with?" he asked at last, gazing at the wall.
"Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin,
your mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?"
"I remember now," said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence.
Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.
The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed
familiar to Raskolnikov came in.
"Zossimov! At last!" cried Razumihin, delighted.
ZOSSIMOV WAS a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless,
clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and
a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a
light grey fashionable loose coat, light summer trousers, and
everything about him loose, fashionable and spick and able, his
linen was irreproachable, his watch-chain was massive. In manner he
was slow and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time
studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his
self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant. All his
acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.
"I've been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he's come to
himself," cried Razumihin.
"I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?" said Zossimov to
Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of
the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could.
"He is still depressed," Razumihin went on. "We've just changed
his linen and he almost cried."
"That's very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish
it.... His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?"
"I am well, I am perfectly well!" Raskolnikov declared positively
and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with
glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned
to the wall. Zossimov watched him intently.
"Very good.... Going on all right," he said lazily. "Has he eaten