began, addressing Raskolnikov. ‘If you are in an intelli-gible condition, I’ve thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivano-vitch at your mamma’s request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?’
‘Yes, I remember … Vahrushin,’ Raskolnikov said dream-ily.
‘You hear, he knows Vahrushin,’ cried Razumihin. ‘He is in ‘an intelligible condition’! And I see you are an intel-ligent 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, broth-er, 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 astonish-ment 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 Pavlov-na 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 swal-lowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumi-hin 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 spoon-fuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effec-tive 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 actu-ally 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 Nas-tasya, 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 for-gotten, 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 af-fairs—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. Zame-tov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police ofice, 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 Ni-
kiforovna?’
‘You are a one!’ Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. ‘I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,’ she added sud-denly, 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 … pre-possessing. 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 conversa-tion 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 differ-ently. 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 send-ing 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 Pras-kovya 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
