Dowd Siobhan - The London Eye Mystery 11 page

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 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.

"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, twitching

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 into the pillow, wrapped more

closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old,

ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing

sleep.

He woke up, hearing someone 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 heavens! 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 off 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 boastful 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

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 513