Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoevsky (mini ebook reader .TXT) 📗

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 213 of 967

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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 of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at 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 oblivion….

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.

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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 recognised 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 215 of 967

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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 216 of 967

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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 eyes.

‘Nastasya, why don’t you speak?’ he said timidly at last in a weak voice.

‘It’s the blood,’ she answered at last softly, as though speaking to herself.

‘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.

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‘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…. Everyone 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.

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Chapter III

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 219 of 967

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have run away, but someone 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.

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‘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 221 of 967

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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.

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‘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