Dowd Siobhan - The London Eye Mystery 18 page

came in that that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair

curled at the barber's, not because he was in such a hurry to show his

wit, but because he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a skin-flint

and a buffoon. That's evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a

fool, a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see,

ladies?" he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to their rooms, "though

all my friends there are drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we

do talk a lot of trash, and I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the

truth at last, for we are on the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch...

is not on the right path. Though I've been calling them all sorts of

names just now, I do respect them all... though I don't respect Zametov,

I like him, for he is a puppy, and that bullock Zossimov, because he

is an honest man and knows his work. But enough, it's all said and

forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let's go on. I know this corridor,

I've been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3.... Where are you

here? Which number? eight? Well, lock yourselves in for the night, then.

Don't let anybody in. In a quarter of an hour I'll come back with news,

and half an hour later I'll bring Zossimov, you'll see! Good-bye, I'll

run."

"Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?" said Pulcheria

Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay.

"Don't worry yourself, mother," said Dounia, taking off her hat and

cape. "God has sent this gentleman to our aid, though he has come from a

drinking party. We can depend on him, I assure you. And all that he has

done for Rodya...."

"Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring

myself to leave Rodya?... And how different, how different I had fancied

our meeting! How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us...."

Tears came into her eyes.

"No, it's not that, mother. You didn't see, you were crying all the

time. He is quite unhinged by 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 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 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 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, 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 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--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 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...!"

"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 _maitre_, 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?"

"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 that! There's an attraction

here--here you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven,

the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the

world, the essence of pancakes, of savoury fish-pies, of the evening

samovar, of soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on--as

snug as though you were dead, and yet you're alive--the advantages

of both at once! Well, hang it, brother, what stuff I'm talking, it's

bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up at night; so I'll go in and look at

him. But there's no need, it's all right. Don't you worry yourself,

yet if you like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice

anything--delirium or fever--wake me at once. But there can't be...."

CHAPTER II

Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o'clock, troubled and serious.

He found himself confronted with many new and unlooked-for perplexities.

He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He

remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly

novel experience had befallen him, that he had received an impression

unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognised

clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly

unattainable--so unattainable that he felt positively ashamed of it, and

he hastened to pass to the other more practical cares and difficulties

bequeathed him by that "thrice accursed yesterday."

The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had shown

himself "base and mean," not only because he had been drunk, but

because he had taken advantage of the young girl's position to abuse

her _fiance_ in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual

relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And

what right had he to criticise him in that hasty and unguarded manner?

Who had asked for his opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as

Avdotya Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there

must be something in him. The lodgings? But after all how could he know

the character of the lodgings? He was furnishing a flat... Foo! how

despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he was drunk?

Such a stupid excuse was even more degrading! In wine is truth, and the

truth had all come out, "that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse

and envious heart"! And would such a dream ever be permissible to

him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl--he, the drunken noisy

braggart of last night? Was it possible to imagine so absurd and cynical

a juxtaposition? Razumihin blushed desperately at the very idea and

suddenly the recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had

said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be jealous of

Avdotya Romanovna... that was simply intolerable. He brought his fist

down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the

bricks flying.

"Of course," he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of

self-abasement, "of course, all these infamies can never be wiped out or

smoothed over... and so it's useless even to think of it, and I must

go to them in silence and do my duty... in silence, too... and not ask

forgiveness, and say nothing... for all is lost now!"

And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more carefully than usual.

He hadn't another suit--if he had had, perhaps he wouldn't have put it

on. "I would have made a point of not putting it on." But in any case he

could not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no right to offend

the feelings of others, especially when they were in need of his

assistance and asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully.

His linen was always decent; in that respect he was especially clean.

He washed that morning scrupulously--he got some soap from Nastasya--he

washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to the

question whether to shave his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya Pavlovna

had capital razors that had been left by her late husband), the question

was angrily answered in the negative. "Let it stay as it is! What if

they think that I shaved on purpose to...? They certainly would think

so! Not on any account!"

"And... the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the

manners of a pothouse; and... and even admitting that he knew he had

some of the essentials of a gentleman... what was there in that to be

proud of? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that... and all

the same (he remembered) he, too, had done little things... not exactly

dishonest, and yet.... And what thoughts he sometimes had; hm... and to

set all that beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he'd

make a point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and he

wouldn't care! He'd be worse!"

He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night

in Praskovya Pavlovna's parlour, came in.

He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first.

Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse.

Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn't wake him and promised to see

him again about eleven.

"If he is still at home," he added. "Damn it all! If one can't control

one's patients, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether _he_ will

go to them, or whether _they_ are coming here?"

"They are coming, I think," said Razumihin, understanding the object

of the question, "and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt.

I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I."

"But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I've plenty

to do besides looking after them."

"One thing worries me," interposed Razumihin, frowning. "On the way home

I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him... all sorts of things... and

amongst them that you were afraid that he... might become insane."

"You told the ladies so, too."

"I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so

seriously?"

"That's nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously? You,

yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to

him... and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with

your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was,

perhaps, mad on that very point! If only I'd known what happened then

at the police station and that some wretch... had insulted him with this

suspicion! Hm... I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday.

These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a mole-hill... and

see their fancies as solid realities.... As far as I remember, it was

Zametov's story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I

know one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat

of a little boy of eight, because he couldn't endure the jokes he made

every day at table! And in this case his rags, the insolent police

officer, the fever and this suspicion! All that working upon a man half

frantic with hypochondria, and with his morbid exceptional vanity! That

may well have been the starting-point of illness. Well, bother it

all!... And, by the way, that Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but

hm... he shouldn't have told all that last night. He is an awful

chatterbox!"

"But whom did he tell it to? You and me?"

"And Porfiry."

"What does that matter?"

"And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his mother and sister?

Tell them to be more careful with him to-day...."

"They'll get on all right!" Razumihin answered reluctantly.

"Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn't

seem to dislike him... and they haven't a farthing, I suppose? eh?"

"But what business is it of yours?" Razumihin cried with annoyance. "How

can I tell whether they've a farthing? Ask them yourself and perhaps

you'll find out...."

"Foo! what an ass you are sometimes! Last night's wine has not gone off

yet.... Good-bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna from me for my night's

lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my _bonjour_ through

the door; she was up at seven o'clock, the samovar was taken into her

from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal interview...."

At nine o'clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev's

house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They

had risen at seven o'clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as

night, bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He

had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna fairly rushed at

him, seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced

timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore at that

moment an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such

complete and unlooked-for respect (in place of the sneering looks and

ill-disguised contempt he had expected), that it threw him into greater

confusion than if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a

subject for conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it.

Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet waked,

Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it, because

"she had something which it was very, very necessary to talk over

beforehand." Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation

to have it with them; they had waited to have it with him. Avdotya

Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and

they asked him to bring tea which was served at last, but in such

a dirty and disorderly way that the ladies were ashamed. Razumihin

vigorously attacked the lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped

in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna's

questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him.

He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted

by their questions, and succeeded in describing to them all the

most important facts he knew of the last year of Raskolnikov's life,

concluding with a circumstantial account of his illness. He omitted,

however, many things, which were better omitted, including the scene at

the police station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly

to his story, and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied his

listeners, he found that they considered he had hardly begun.

"Tell me, tell me! What do you think...? Excuse me, I still don't know

your name!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in hastily.

"Dmitri Prokofitch."

"I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch... how he

looks... on things in general now, that is, how can I explain, what are

his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can,

what are his hopes and, so to say, his dreams? Under what influences is

he now? In a word, I should like..."

"Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?" observed Dounia.

"Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this,

Dmitri Prokofitch!"

"Naturally," answered Razumihin. "I have no mother, but my uncle comes

every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise me, even in

appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years' separation

means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion for

a year and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and haughty, and of

late--and perhaps for a long time before--he has been suspicious and

fanciful. He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like

showing his feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his

heart freely. Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 525