Existentialism
Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821 - 1881)
Crime and Punishment
translated by Constance Garnett |
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Chapter Three
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HE WAS tely 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
there.
"With potatoes and
rice in it?"
"Yes."
"I know it by heart.
Bring soup and give us some tea."
"Very well."
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?"
"Yes."
"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."
"My name!"
"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
twinge.
"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
Ivanovna?
"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
bottle, cold!"
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
account directly."
"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."
"No, before."
"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
purchases.
"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
said nothing.
"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.
Ce
qu'on fait n'est jamais compris mais seulement loué ou blâmé.
Nietzsche, Gay Science |
