In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind
his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhin's face. Zossimov
and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he showed
unmistakable signs of embarrassment.
"I had presumed and calculated," he faltered, "that a letter posted more than
ten days, if not a fortnight ago…"
"I say, why are you standing in the doorway?" Razumihin interrupted suddenly.
"If you've something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya,
make room. Here's a chair, thread your way in!"
He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the table
and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the visitor to "thread
his way in." The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse, and the
visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he
sat down, looking suspiciously at Razumihin.
"No need to be nervous," the latter blurted out. "Rodya has been ill for the
last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and has got an
appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a comrade of
Rodya's, like him, formerly a student, and now I am nursing him; so don't you take
any notice of us, but go on with your business."
"Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and conversation?"
Pyotr Petrovitch asked of Zossimov.
"N-no," mumbled Zossimov; "you may amuse him." He yawned again.
"He has been conscious a long time, since the morning," went on Razumihin, whose
familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good-nature that Pyotr Petrovitch began
to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby and impudent person had
introduced himself as a student.
"Your mamma," began Luzhin.
"Hm!" Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly.
"That's all right, go on."
Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.
"Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in her neighbourhood.
On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see
you, in order that I might be fully assured that you were in full possession of
the tidings; but now, to my astonishment…"
"I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. "So you
are the fiance? I know, and that's enough!"
There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch's being offended this time, but he
said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant. There was
a moment's silence.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered,
began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not
had a good look at him yet, or as though something new had struck him; he rose from
his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in
Pyotr Petrovitch's whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the title
of "fiance" so unceremoniously applied to him. In the first place, it was evident,
far too much so indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few days
in the capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation of his betrothed–
a perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding, indeed. Even his own, perhaps too
complacent, consciousness of the agreeable improvement in his appearance might have
been forgiven in such circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the
role of fiance. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor's and were all right,
except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even the stylish new round
hat had the same significance. Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too respectfully and
held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real
Louvain, told the same tale, if only from the fact of his not wearing them, but
carrying them in his hand for show. Light and youthful colours predominated in Pyotr
Petrovitch's attire. He wore a charming summer jacket of a fawn shade, light thin
trousers, a waistcoat of the same, new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest
cambric with pink stripes on it, and the best of it was, this all suited Pyotr Petrovitch.
His very fresh and even handsome face looked younger than his forty-five years at
all times. His dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting on both sides,
growing thickly about his shining, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, touched here
and there with grey, though it had been combed and curled at a hairdresser's, did
not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting
a German on his wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive
in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other causes.
After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank
back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as before.
But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no notice of
"I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation," he began, again
breaking the silence with an effort. "If I had been aware of your illness I should
have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have, too, a very important
legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other preoccupations which you may well
conjecture. I am expecting your mamma and sister any minute."
Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed some excitement.
Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but as nothing followed, he went on:
"…Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival."
"Where?" asked Raskolnikov weakly.
"Very near here, in Bakaleyev's house."
"That's in Voskresensky," put in Razumihin. "There are two storeys of rooms,
let by a merchant called Yushin; I've been there."
"A disgusting place– filthy, stinking and, what's more, of doubtful character.
Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer people living there.
And I went there about a scandalous business. It's cheap, though…"
"I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in Petersburg
myself," Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. "However, the two rooms are exceedingly
clean, and as it is for so short a time… I have already taken a permanent, that
is, our future flat," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "and I am having it done
up. And meanwhile I am myself cramped for room in a lodging with my friend Andrey
Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lippevechsel; it was he who told
me of Bakaleyev's house, too…."
"Lebeziatnikov?" said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something.
"Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you know
"Yes… no," Raskolnikov answered.
"Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian…. A very
nice young man and advanced. I like to meet young people: one learns new things
from them." Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all.
"How do you mean?" asked Razumihin.
"In the most serious and essential matters," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as though
delighted at the question. "You see, it's ten years since I visited Petersburg.
All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces, but to see it
all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And it's my notion that you observe
and learn most by watching the younger generation. And I confess I am delighted…"
"Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find clearer views,
more, so to say, criticism, more practicality…"
"That's true," Zossimov let drop.
"Nonsense! There's no practicality." Razumihin flew at him. "Practicality is
a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. And for the last two
hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you like,
are fermenting," he said to Pyotr Petrovitch, "and desire for good exists, though
it's in a childish form, and honesty you may find, although there are crowds of
brigands. Anyway, there's no practicality. Practicality goes well shod."
"I don't agree with you," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident enjoyment. "Of
course, people do get carried away and make mistakes, but one must have indulgence;
those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause and of abnormal external
environment. If little has been done, the time has been but short; of means I will
not speak. It's my personal view, if you care to know, that something has been accomplished
already. New valuable ideas, new valuable works are circulating in the place of
our old dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a maturer form, many injurious
prejudice have been rooted up and turned into ridicule…. In a word, we have cut
ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing…"
"He's learnt it by heart to show off Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly.
"What?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; but he received no reply.
"That's all true," Zossimov hastened to interpose.
"Isn't it so?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov. "You must
admit," he went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousness–
he almost added "young man"– "that there is an advance, or, as they say now, progress
in the name of science and economic truth…"
"No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance, if I were told, 'love thy neighbour,'
what came of it?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps with excessive haste. "It came
to my tearing my coat in half to share with my neighbour and we both were left half
naked. As a Russian proverb has it, 'catch several hares and you won't catch one.'
Science now tells us, love yourself before all men, for everything in the world
rests on self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly and
your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private affairs are
organised in society– the more whole coats, so to say– the firmer are its foundations
and the better is the common welfare organised too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth
solely and exclusively for myself, I am acquiring so to speak, for all, and helping
to bring to pass my neighbour's getting a little more than a torn coat; and that
not from private, personal liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance.
The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us, being hindered
by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it would seem to want very little wit to
"Excuse me, I've very little wit myself," Razumihin cut in sharply, "and so let
us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I've grown so sick during
the last three years of this chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow
of commonplaces, always the same, that, by Jove, I blush even when other people
talk like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and
I don't blame you, that's quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort
of man you are, for so many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive
cause of late and have so distorted in their own interests everything they touched,
that the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That's enough!"
"Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive dignity.
"Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I too…"
"Oh, my dear sir… how could I?… Come, that's enough," Razumihin concluded, and
he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous conversation.
Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up his mind
to take leave in another minute or two.
"I trust our acquaintance," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "may, upon your
recovery and in view of the circumstances of which you are aware, become closer….
Above all, I hope for your return to health…"
Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began getting up from
"One of her customers must have killed her," Zossimov declared positively.
"Not a doubt of it," replied Razumihin. "Porfiry doesn't give his opinion, but
is examining all who have left pledges with her there."
"Examining them?" Raskolnikov asked aloud.
"Yes. What then?"
"How does he get hold of them?" asked Zossimov.
"Koch has given the names of some of them, other names are on the wrappers of
the pledges and some have come forward of themselves."
"It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it! The coolness!"
"That's just what it wasn't!" interposed Razumihin. "That's what throws you all
off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, nor practised, and probably
this was his first crime! The supposition that it was a calculated crime and a cunning
criminal doesn't work. Suppose him to have been inexperienced, and it's clear that
it was only a chance that saved him– and chance may do anything. Why, he did not
foresee obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten
or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman's trunk,
her rags– and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides notes, in a box in the
top drawer of the chest! He did not know how to rob; he could only murder. It was
his first crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off
more by luck than good counsel!"