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

serious illness—that’s the reason.’

‘Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen?

And how he talked to you, Dounia!’ said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia’s standing up for her brother, which meant that she had already 367 of 967

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forgiven him. ‘I am sure he will think better of it to-morrow,’ she added, probing her further.

‘And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow …

about that,’ Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going beyond that, for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss.

Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumihin’s return, timidly watching her daughter who walked up and down the room with her arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was thinking was a habit of Avdotya

Romanovna’s and the mother was always afraid to break in on her daughter’s mood at such moments.

Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken infatuation for Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric condition, many people would have thought it justified if they had seen Avdotya Romanovna, especially at that moment when she was walking to and fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably good looking; she was tall, strikingly well-proportioned, strong and self-reliant—the latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the least detract from the grace and softness of her 368 of 967

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movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother’s; there was a proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and vigour. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected a little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and almost haughty expression. Her face was always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles, how well youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible, laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a warm, open, simple-hearted, honest giant like Razumihin, who had never seen anyone like her and was not quite sober at the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Dounia for the first time transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with indignation at her brother’s insolent, cruel and ungrateful words—and his fate was sealed.

He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna, Raskolnikov’s eccentric landlady, would be 369 of 967

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jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotya Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria

Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retained traces of her former beauty; she looked much younger than her age, indeed, which is almost always the case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to old age. Her hair had begun to grow grey and thin, there had long been little crow’s foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a great deal even of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which nothing would induce her to cross.

Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin’s departure, there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door: he had come back.

‘I won’t come in, I haven’t time,’ he hastened to say when the door was opened. ‘He sleeps like a top, soundly, 370 of 967

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quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasya’s with him; I told her not to leave till I came. Now I am fetching Zossimov, he will report to you and then you’d better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do anything….’

And he ran off down the corridor.

‘What a very competent and … devoted young man!’

cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted.

‘He seems a splendid person!’ Avdotya Romanovna replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down the room.

It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women waited this time completely relying on Razumihin’s promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov.

Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to Raskolnikov’s, but he came reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting Razumihin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme 371 of 967

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seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation.

He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not display the slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going on very satisfactorily. According to his observations the patient’s illness was due partly to his unfortunate material surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly also a moral origin, ‘was, so to speak, the product of several material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas … and so on.’

Noticing stealthily that Avdotya Romanovna was following his words with close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. On Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s anxiously and timidly inquiring as to

‘some suspicion of insanity,’ he replied with a composed and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated; that certainly the patient had some fixed idea, something approaching a monomania—he, Zossimov, was now

particularly studying this interesting branch of medicine—

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but that it must be recollected that until to-day the patient had been in delirium and … and that no doubt the presence of his family would have a favourable effect on his recovery and distract his mind, ‘if only all fresh shocks can be avoided,’ he added significantly. Then he got up, took leave with an impressive and affable bow, while blessings, warm gratitude, and entreaties were showered upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously

offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit and still more so with himself.

‘We’ll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!’ Razumihin said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. ‘I’ll be with you to-morrow morning as early as possible with my report.’

‘That’s a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna,’

remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street.

‘Fetching? You said fetching?’ roared Razumihin and he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. ‘If you ever dare…. Do you understand? Do you understand?’ he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him against the wall. ‘Do you hear?’

‘Let me go, you drunken devil,’ said Zossimov, struggling and when he had let him go, he stared at him 373 of 967

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and went off into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection.

‘Of course, I am an ass,’ he observed, sombre as a storm cloud, ‘but still … you are another.’

‘No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming of any folly.’

They walked along in silence and only when they were close to Raskolnikov’s lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence in considerable anxiety.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you’re a first-rate fellow, but among your other failings, you’re a loose fish, that I know, and a dirty one, too. You are a feeble, nervous wretch, and a mass of whims, you’re getting fat and lazy and can’t deny yourself anything—and I call that dirty because it leads one straight into the dirt. You’ve let yourself get so slack that I don’t know how it is you are still a good, even a devoted doctor. You—a doctor—sleep on a feather bed and get up at night to your patients! In another three or four years you won’t get up for your patients … But hang it all, that’s not the point! … You are going to spend to-night in the landlady’s flat here. (Hard work I’ve had to persuade her!) And I’ll be in the kitchen. So here’s a chance for you to get to know her better…. It’s not as you think! There’s not a trace of anything of the sort, brother …!’

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‘But I don’t think!’

‘Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue … and yet she’s sighing and melting like wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that’s unholy! She’s most prepossessing … I’ll repay you, I’ll do anything….’

Zossimov laughed more violently than ever.

‘Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?’

‘It won’t be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You’re a doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you won’t regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: ‘I shed hot tears.’ She likes the genuine article—and well, it all began with that song; Now you’re a regular performer, a maître a Rubinstein…. I assure you, you won’t regret it!’

‘But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?’

‘Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind!

Besides she is not that sort at all…. Tchebarov tried that….’

‘Well then, drop her!’

‘But I can’t drop her like that!’

‘Why can’t you?’

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‘Well, I can’t, that’s all about it! There’s an element of attraction here, brother.’

‘Then why have you fascinated her?’

‘I haven’t fascinated her; perhaps I was fascinated myself in my folly. But she won’t care a straw whether it’s you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing…. I can’t explain the position, brother … look here, you are good at mathematics, and working at it now … begin teaching her the integral calculus; upon my soul, I’m not joking, I’m in earnest, it’ll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh for a whole year together. I talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prussian House of Lords (for one must talk of something)—she just sighed and perspired! And you mustn’t talk of love—she’s bashful to hysterics—but just let her see you can’t tear yourself away—that’s enough. It’s fearfully comfortable; you’re quite at home, you can read, sit, lie about, write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you’re careful.’

‘But what do I want with her?’

‘Ach, I can’t make you understand! You see, you are made for each other! I have often been reminded of you!

… You’ll come to it in the end! So does it matter whether it’s sooner or later? There’s the feather-bed element here, brother—ach! and not only