Essential Novelists - Fyodor Dostoevsky. Fyodor Dostoevsky

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ