Текст книги "Crime and Punishment"

Автор книги: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Соавторы: Fyodor Dostoevsky
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

Exhausted, Raskolnikov fell back on the sofa, but could no longer close his eyes; he lay for about half an hour in such suffering, such an unbearable feeling of boundless horror, as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light shone in his room: Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him closely and seeing that he was not asleep, she put the candle on the table and began setting out what she had brought: bread, salt, plate, spoon.

“I bet you haven't eaten since yesterday. You spent the whole day loafing about, and you shaking all over with fever.”

“Nastasya...why were they beating the landlady?”

She looked at him intently.

“Who was beating the landlady?”

“Just now...half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovich, the police chief's assistant, on the stairs...Why was he beating her so? And...why was he here?”

Nastasya studied him silently, frowning, and went on looking at him like that for a long time. He began feeling very unpleasant, even frightened, under this scrutiny.

“Nastasya, why are you silent?” he finally said timidly, in a weak voice.

“It's the blood,” she finally answered softly, as if speaking to herself.

“Blood! ... What blood? . . .” he murmured, turning pale and drawing back towards the wall. Nastasya went on looking at him silently.

“No one was beating the landlady,” she said, again in a stern and resolute voice. He looked at her, scarcely breathing.

“I heard it myself... I wasn't asleep, I was sitting up,” he said even more timidly. “I listened for a long time...The police chief's assistant was here...Everyone came running out to the stairs, from all the apartments...”

“No one was here. It's the blood clamoring in you. When it can't get out and starts clotting up into these little clots, that's when you start imagining things...Are you going to eat, or what?”

He did not reply. Nastasya went on standing over him, looking at him steadily, and would not go away.

“Give me water...Nastasyushka.”

She went downstairs and came back about two minutes later with water in a white earthenware mug; but he no longer remembered what happened next. He only remembered taking one sip of cold water and spilling some from the mug onto his chest. Then came unconsciousness.

III

However, it was not that he was totally unconscious during the whole time of his illness: it was a feverish condition, with moments of delirium and semi-awareness. Afterwards he remembered a good deal. Once it seemed to him that many people were gathered around him and wanted to take him and carry him away somewhere, and there was much arguing and quarreling about him. Then suddenly he was alone in the room, everyone was gone, they were afraid of him, and only opened the door a crack from time to time to look at him, threaten him, arrange something among themselves, laugh and tease him. He remembered Nastasya being often with him; he also made out another person, who seemed very familiar, but precisely who it was he simply could not figure out, and he grieved over it, and even wept. At times it seemed to him that he had been lying there for at least a month, at other times that it was still the same day. But about that—about thathe forgot completely; instead, he remembered every minute having forgotten something that must not be forgotten—he agonized, suffered, trying to remember, moaned, fell into a rage, or into terrible, unbearable fear. Then he tried to tear himself away, wanted to run, but there was always someone who stopped him by force, and he would fall into weakness and unconsciousness again. At last he fully recovered his senses.

This occurred in the morning, at ten o'clock. At that hour of the morning, on clear days, sunlight always came in a long stripe across the right wall of his room and lit up the corner by the door. Nastasya was standing at his bedside with another person, a man completely unknown to him, who was studying him with great curiosity. He was a young fellow in a caftan, with a little beard, and had the look of a company agent. The landlady was peeking through the half-opened door. Raskolnikov raised himself slightly.

“Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the fellow.

“Look, he's come to!” she said.

“He's come to!” echoed the agent. Realizing that he had come to, the landlady, who was peeking through the door, immediately closed it and hid herself. She had always been shy, and it was burdensome for her to endure conversations and explanations; she was about forty, round and fat, dark-browed, dark-eyed, kind out of fatness and laziness, and even quite comely. But unnecessarily bashful.

“Who...are you?” he continued to ask, addressing the agent himself. But at that moment the door was flung open again and Razumikhin came in, stooping a little because of his height.

“What a ship's cabin,” he shouted, coming in. “I always bump my head; and they call it an apartment! So you've come to, brother? Pashenka just told me.”

“He just came to,” said Nastasya.

“He just came to,” the agent agreed again, with a little smile.

“And who are you, sir, if you please?” Razumikhin asked, suddenly turning to him. “I, you may be pleased to know, am Vrazumikhin; <sup>[50]50
  Apparently his real name is Vrazumikhin, derived from the Russian verb meaning "to bring to reason," but is habitually simplified to Razumikhin, from the verb "to reason." Or else he is simply joking.


[Закрыть]</sup> not Razumikhin, as everyone calls me, but Vrazumikhin, a student and a gentleman's son, and this is my friend. Well, sir, and who are you?”

“And I am the merchant Shelopaev's office agent, sir, here on business, sir.”

“Take this chair, if you please.” Razumikhin himself took the other, on the opposite side of the table. “So you've come to, brother, and it's a good thing you have,” he went on, addressing Raskolnikov. “You hardly ate or drank anything for four days. Really, we gave you tea from a spoon. I brought Zossimov to you twice. Remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and immediately said it was all trifles– something went to your head, or whatever. Some nervous nonsense, he says, or poor rations—they didn't dish you up enough beer and horseradish, hence the illness—but it's nothing, it'll go away, it'll all get through the hopper. Good old Zossimov! He's become quite a doctor! Well, sir, I don't want to keep you,” he again turned to the agent, “will you kindly explain your errand? Note, Rodya, it's the second time they've sent someone from that office; only it wasn't this one before, it was someone else, and I talked with him. Who was it that came before?”

“Presuming it was two days ago, sir, that's right, sir, it would have been Alexei Semyonovich; he's also employed by our office, sir.”

“And he seems to have a bit more sense than you do, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes, sir, he surely is a solider man, sir.”

“Admirable. Well, sir, go on.”

“Now then, sir, there's an order come through our office, by your mother's request, through Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, of whom I judge you've heard more than once, if you please, sir,” the agent began, addressing Raskolnikov directly, “in the case that you're now in your right understanding, sir, to hand you over thirty-five rubles, sir, since Semyon Semyonovich, by your mother's request, received a notice to that effect from Afanasy Ivanovich, in the same way as before. You do know him, if you please, sir?”

“Yes...I remember...Vakhrushin . . .” Raskolnikov said pensively.

“You hear? He knows the merchant Vakhrushin!” Razumikhin exclaimed. “Of course he's in his right understanding! As a matter of fact, I see now that you, too, are a man of sense. Well, sir! It's always pleasant to hear intelligent talk.”

“That same man, sir, Vakhrushin, Afanasy Ivanovich, by the request of your mama, who already did it once in the same way, through him, and he did not refuse this time either, sir, so the other day he sent notice from his parts to Semyon Semyonovich to give you thirty-five rubles, sir, in expectation of better things to come, sir.”

“That 'in expectation of better things to come' came off better than anything else, though the part about 'your mama' wasn't too bad either. Well, what do you think, is he of completely sound mind, or not so completely? Eh?”

“I don't care, as for me, sir. Just so long as there's a little signature, sir.”

“That he'll scribble for you. Have you got a book with you or something?”

“A book, sir, right here.”

“Hand it to me. Now, Rodya, sit up. I'll support you. Scrawl your Raskolnikov for him, take the pen, brother, because we want money now more than a bear wants molasses.”

“No need,” Raskolnikov said, pushing the pen away.

“No need for what?”

“I won't sign.”

“Pah, the devil, but we can't do without the signature!”

“I don't need...money . . .”

“You don't need money! Well, brother, that is a lie, and I'll be your witness! Don't worry, please, he's just...wandering again. By the way, the same thing happens to him when he's awake...You're a reasonable man, and we can guide him, I mean, simply guide his hand and he'll sign. Here we go . . .”

“By the way, I can come back some other time, sir.”

“No, no, why trouble yourself. You're a reasonable man...Come on, Rodya, don't keep your visitor...look, he's waiting,” and he seriously prepared to guide Raskolnikov's hand.

“No, don't, I'll do it myself . . .” he said, and he took the pen and signed the book. The agent laid out the money and departed.

“Bravo! And now, brother, do you want something to eat?”

“Yes,” Raskolnikov answered.

“Have you got soup?”

“From yesterday,” answered Nastasya, who had been standing right there all the while.

“With potatoes and rice?”

“With potatoes and rice.”

“I know it by heart. Fetch your soup, and some tea as well.”

“So I will.”

Raskolnikov looked at everything with deep astonishment and dull, senseless fear. He decided to say nothing and wait for what would happen next. “I don't seem delirious,” he was thinking, “this all seems real enough . . .”

In two minutes Nastasya came back with the soup and announced that tea would follow shortly. The soup arrived with two spoons, two plates, and a whole setting: salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so forth, which had not happened in such proper order for a long time. The tablecloth was clean.

“It wouldn't be a bad idea, Nastasyushka, if Praskovya Pavlovna dispatched us a couple of bottles of beer. We could do with a drink.”

“Well, isn't he a fast one!” Nastasya muttered, and went to carry out the order.

Raskolnikov kept looking wildly and tensely about him. Meanwhile Razumikhin sat down next to him on the sofa, clumsy as a bear, put his left hand behind his head, though he was able to sit up by himself, and with his right hand brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth, having blown on it first so that he would not scald his tongue. But the soup was just barely warm. Raskolnikov greedily swallowed one spoonful, then a second, a third. After giving him several spoonfuls, however, Razumikhin suddenly stopped and declared that concerning any more he would have to consult Zossimov.

Nastasya came in carrying two bottles of beer.

“And will you have tea?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Fetch us up some tea, too, Nastasya, because as far as tea is concerned, I think we can do without the medical faculty. Meanwhile, here's our beer!” He went back to his chair, pulled the soup and beef towards him, and started eating with as much appetite as though he had not eaten for three days.

“I, brother Rodya, now have dinner here like this every day,” he mumbled as well as his beef-stuffed mouth would allow, “and it's all due to Pashenka, your little landlady, who honors me from the bottom of her soul. Naturally, I don't insist, but I don't protest either. And here's Nastasya with the tea. What a quick one! Want some beer, Nastenka?”

“Eh, deuce take you!”

“Some tea, then?”

“I wouldn't refuse.”

“Pour some. Wait, I'll pour you some myself; sit down at the table.”

He set things out at once, poured her tea, poured another cup, abandoned his breakfast, and went and sat on the sofa again. He put his left hand behind the sick man's head as before, raised him up, and began giving him tea from a spoon, again blowing on each spoonful repeatedly and with a special zeal, as though it were this process of blowing that constituted the main and saving point for recovery. Raskolnikov was silent and did not resist, though he felt strong enough to raise himself and sit on the sofa without any external help, strong enough not only to hold the spoon or the cup, but perhaps even to walk. But from some strange, almost animal cunning, it suddenly occurred to him to conceal his strength for the time being, to lie low, to pretend, if necessary, that he had even not quite recovered his wits, and meanwhile to listen and learn what was going on there. However, he was unable to control his loathing: having swallowed about ten spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly freed his head, pushed the spoon away testily, and fell back on the pillow. Under his head there now indeed lay real pillows—down pillows, in clean pillowcases; this, too, he noticed and took into consideration.

“Pashenka must send us up some raspberry preserve today, to make a drink for him,” Razumikhin said, taking his chair again and going back to his soup and beer.

“And where is she going to get raspberries for you?” Nastasya asked, holding the saucer on her five outspread fingertips and sucking tea from it “through the sugar.” <sup>[51]51
  A low-class or poor people's way of sipping tea through a lump of sugar held in the teeth. The aim was to save sugar, it being considered a luxury to dissolve sugar in one's tea.


[Закрыть]</sup>

“In the shop, my friend, that's where she'll get raspberries. You see, Rodya, a whole story has gone on here in your absence. When you ran out on me in such a rascally fashion, without even telling me your address, I suddenly got so mad that I resolved to find you and punish you. I started out that same day. I walked and walked, asked and asked! This apartment, the present one, I forgot about; I'd never have remembered it anyway, because I never knew about it. Well, and the previous one—I only remembered that it was near the Five Corners, <sup>[52]52
  Five Corners, still so called, is an intersection in Petersburg where five streets meet.


[Закрыть]</sup> in Kharlamov's house. I searched and searched for this Kharlamov's house– and it turned out finally that it wasn't Kharlamov's house at all, but Buch's—that's how sounds can confuse you! So I got angry. I got angry and went the next day to try my luck at the address bureau, and what do you think: in two minutes they found you for me. They've got you registered.”

“Registered!”

“Sure enough; but General Kobelev just refused to be found while I was there! Well, sir, it's a long story. Anyway, when I landed here, I immediately got to know about all your affairs; all of them, brother, all of them, I know everything, the girl here saw it—Ilya Petrovich was pointed out to me, Nikodim Fomich is my acquaintance now, and so is the caretaker, and Mr. Zamyotov, Alexander Grigorievich, the clerk in the local office, and finally Pashenka—to crown it all. The girl here knows . . .”

“He sweet-talked her,” Nastasya muttered, grinning mischievously.

“Put that into your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna.”

“Go on, you dog!” Nastasya suddenly cried, and burst out laughing. “And I'm Petrovna, not Nikiforovna,” she added suddenly, once she stopped laughing.

“We shall cherish that fact, ma'am. And so, brother, to avoid being superfluous, I first wanted to blast this whole place with electricity and wipe out all the prejudice in the local neighborhood at once; but Pashenka prevailed. I'd never have suspected she could be such a...winsome little thing...Eh, brother? What do you think?”

Raskolnikov remained silent, though he never for a moment tore his anxious eyes from him, and now went on stubbornly staring at him.

“Very much so, in fact,” Razumikhin continued, not in the least embarrassed by the silence, and as if agreeing with the answer he had received, “and even quite all right, in all respects.”

“Ah, the beast!” Nastasya cried out again, the conversation apparently affording her some inexplicable delight.

“Too bad you didn't know how to go about it from the very beginning, brother. That wasn't the right way with her. She is, so to speak, a most unexpected character! Well, her character can wait...Only how did it come about, for instance, that she dared to stop sending you your dinner? Or that promissory note, for example? You must be crazy to go signing any promissory notes! Or that proposed marriage, for example, when the daughter, Natalia Yegorovna, was still alive...I know everything! However, I see I'm touching a sensitive chord, and I am an ass; forgive me. Speaking of stupidity, incidentally, Praskovya Pavlovna is not at all as stupid as one might take her to be at first sight—eh, brother? Wouldn't you agree?”

“Yes . . .” Raskolnikov said through his teeth, looking away, but realizing that it was to his advantage to keep up the conversation.

“Isn't it the truth?” Razumikhin cried out, obviously happy to have received an answer. “But not very intelligent either, eh? A totally, totally unexpected character! I'm somewhat at a loss, brother, I assure you...She's got to be at least forty. She says thirty-six—and she has every right to. By the way, I swear to you that I'm judging her only mentally, by metaphysics alone; she and I have got such an emblem started here, you can forget about your algebra! I don't understand a thing! Well, it's all nonsense; only seeing that you were no longer a student, that you'd lost your lessons, and your outfit, and that after the girl's death there was no point in keeping you on a family footing, she suddenly got scared; and since you, for your part, hid yourself in a corner and wouldn't maintain things as before, she got a notion to chase you out of the apartment. And she'd been nursing that intention for a long time, but then she would have been sorry to lose the promissory note. Besides, you yourself kept assuring her that your mother would pay...”

“It was my own baseness that made me say that...My mother is nearly a beggar herself...and I was lying, so as to be kept on in this apartment and...be fed,” Raskolnikov uttered loudly and distinctly.

“Well, that was only reasonable. But the whole catch was that Mr. Chebarov, court councillor and a man of business, turned up just at that moment. Pashenka would never have thought of anything without him; she's too bashful; well, but a man of business is not bashful, and he naturally asked her straight off: Is there any hope that this little note can be realized? Answer: There is, because there's this mama, who will help Rodya out with her hundred and twenty-five rouble pension even if she must go without eating herself, and there's this dear sister, who would sell herself into slavery for her dear brother. And he started from there...Why are you fidgeting? I've found out all your innermost secrets now, brother; it was not for nothing that you opened your heart to Pashenka while you were still on a family footing with her, and I'm saying it out of love now...That's just the point: an honest and sensitive man opens his heart, and the man of business listens and goes on eating—and then he eats you up. So she let Chebarov have this little note, supposedly as payment, and he, feeling no shame, went and made a formal claim on it. When I found all that out, I wanted to give him a blast, too, just for conscience's sake, but around that time Pashenka and I got our harmony going, so I called a halt to the whole business, I mean at its very source, by vouching that you would pay. I vouched for you, brother, do you hear? We sent for Chebarov, stuck ten bills in his teeth, got the paper back, and here, I have the honor of presenting it to you—your word is good now—so, here, take it, I've even torn it a little, the way it's officially done.”

Razumikhin laid the promissory note out on the table; Raskolnikov glanced at it and, without saying a word, turned his face to the wall. Even Razumikhin winced.

“I see, brother,” he said after a moment, “that I have made a fool of myself again. I hoped to distract you and amuse you with my babbling, but it seems I've just stirred your bile.”

“Was it you I didn't recognize in my delirium?” Raskolnikov asked, also after a moment's pause and without turning back again.

“It was me, and you even got into a frenzy then, especially the time I brought Zamyotov.”

“Zamyotov?...The clerk?...What for?” Raskolnikov quickly turned and fixed his eyes on Razumikhin.

“But what's wrong with...Why be so worried? He wanted to make your acquaintance; he wanted it himself, because I talked about you a lot with him...Otherwise, who would have told me so much about you? He's a nice fellow, brother, quite a wonderful one...in his own way, naturally. We're friends now; we see each other almost every day. Because I've moved into this neighborhood. You didn't know yet? I've just moved. We've called on Laviza twice. Remember Laviza, Laviza Ivanovna?”

“Was I raving about something?”

“Sure enough! You were out of your mind, sir.”

“What did I rave about?”

“Come now! What did he rave about? You know what people rave about. . . Well, brother, let's not waste any more time. To business!”

He got up from his chair and grabbed his cap.

“What did I rave about?”

“You just won't let go! Afraid about some secret, are you? Don't worry, you didn't say anything about the countess. But about some bulldog, and about some earrings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and about some caretaker or other, and about Nikodim Fomich, and about Ilya Petrovich, the police chief's assistant—there was quite a bit of talk about them. And, what's more, you were extremely interested in your own sock, extremely! You kept begging: 'Please, just give it to me.' Zamyotov himself went looking in all the corners for your socks, and handed you that trash with his own perfumed and be-ringed little hands. Only then did you calm down, and you went on clutching that trash in your hands day and night; you wouldn't part with it. It's probably still lying somewhere under your blanket. And then you also begged for some fringe for your trousers, and so tearfully! We tried to get you to say what sort of fringe it was, but we couldn't make anything out... Well, sir, and so to business! Here we have thirty-five roubles. I'm taking ten of them, and in about two hours I'll present you with an accounting for them. Meanwhile, I'll let Zossimov know, though he should have been here long ago, because it's already past eleven. And you, Nastenka, stop and see him as often as you can while I'm gone, find out if he needs anything to drink, or whatever...And I'll tell Pashenka what's needed myself. Good-bye!”

“Calls her Pashenka! Ah, you slyboots!” Nastasya said to his back; then she opened the door and began eavesdropping, but she could not restrain herself and ran downstairs. She was too eager to know what he was saying to the landlady; and generally it was clear that she was completely charmed by Razumikhin.

No sooner had the door closed behind her than the sick man threw off his blanket and jumped from his bed as if half crazed. With burning, convulsive impatience he had been waiting for them to leave, so that he could immediately get down to business in their absence. But get down to what? What business? That, of all things, he now seemed to have forgotten. “Lord! only tell me one thing: do they know all about it, or do they not know yet? And what if they already know and are just pretending, taunting me while I'm lying here, and are suddenly going to come in and say that everything has long been known and that they were just...What must I do now, then? I've forgotten, of all things; I remembered a moment ago, and suddenly forgot! . . .”

He stood in the middle of the room, looking around in painful bewilderment; he went over to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not it. Suddenly, as if recollecting, he rushed to the corner where the hole in the wallpaper was, began examining everything, thrust his hand into the hole, felt around in it, but that was not it either. He went to the stove, opened it, and began feeling around in the ashes: the bits of frayed cuff from his trousers and the torn pieces of his pocket were still lying there as he had thrown them in, so no one had looked there! Then he remembered the sock that Razumikhin had just been telling him about. Sure enough, there it was lying on the sofa under the blanket, but it had gotten so rubbed and dirty in the meantime that Zamyotov certainly could not have noticed anything.

“Bah, Zamyotov! ... the office! ... And why are they calling me to the office? Where is the summons? Bah! ... I've mixed it all up: they summoned me before! I examined the sock that time, too, and now...now I've been sick. And why did Zamyotov come here? Why did Razumikhin bring him?” he was muttering weakly, sitting down on the sofa again. “What is it? Am I still delirious, or is this real? It seems real. . . Ah, I remember: I must flee, flee quickly! I must, I must flee! Yes...but where? And where are my clothes? No boots! They took them away! Hid them! I understand! Ah, here's my coat—they missed it! Here's the money on the table, thank God! Here's the promissory note...I'll take the money and leave, and rent another apartment, and they won't find me! But what about the address bureau? They will find me! Razumikhin will. Better to flee altogether...far away...to America, and spit on all of them! And take the promissory note with me...it will be useful there. What else shall I take? They think I'm sick! They don't know I can walk, heh, heh, heh! ... I could tell by their eyes that they know everything! If only I can manage to get downstairs! But what if they have guards standing there—policemen! What's this, tea? Ah, there's some beer left, half a bottle, cold!”

He grabbed the bottle, which still held enough for a full glass, and delightedly emptied it at one gulp, as if extinguishing a fire in his chest. But in less than a minute the beer went to his head, and a light and even pleasant chill ran down his spine. He lay back and pulled the blanket over him. His thoughts, ill and incoherent to begin with, were becoming more and more confused, and sleep, light and pleasant, soon enveloped him. He settled his head delightedly on the pillow, wrapped himself tightly in the soft, quilted blanket that covered him now in place of the former tattered greatcoat, and fell into a deep, sound, healing sleep.

He woke up on hearing someone come into his room, opened his eyes, and saw Razumikhin, who had flung the door wide open and was standing on the threshold, uncertain whether he should enter or not. Raskolnikov quickly raised himself on the sofa and looked at him as if he were trying hard to recall something.

“Ah, since you're not asleep, here I am! Nastasya, drag that bundle up here!” Razumikhin called down to her. “You'll have the accounting presently...”

“What time is it?” Raskolnikov asked, looking around in alarm.

“You had yourself a good sleep, brother; it's evening outside, must be around six o'clock. You've slept more than six hours . . .”

“Lord! What's the matter with me! . . .”

“And why not? You're welcome to it! Are you in a hurry? Seeing a girl, or something? We've got all the time in the world. I've been waiting for you three hours already; I looked in twice, but you were asleep. I stopped twice at Zossimov's—no one home, and that's that! Never mind, he'll come! ... I also did some little errands of my own. I got moved in today, completely moved in, with my uncle. I have an uncle now...So, well, devil take it, now to business! ... Give me the bundle, Nastenka. Here we go...And how are you feeling, brother?”

“I'm well. I'm not sick...Listen, Razumikhin, were you here long?”

“Three hours, I told you.”

“No, but before?”

“Before when?”

“How long have you been coming here?”

“But I told you all that earlier; don't you remember?”

Raskolnikov fell to thinking. The morning appeared to him as in a dream. He could not recall it by himself, and looked questioningly at Razumikhin.

“Hm!” said the latter, “he forgot! I rather fancied this morning that you still weren't in your right... Now that you've slept, you're better...Really, you look all better. Good boy! Well, to business! You'll remember now. Look here, my dear man.”

He began untying the bundle, which appeared to interest him greatly.

“Believe me, brother, I've taken this especially to heart. Because we have to make a human being out of you, after all. Let's get started: we'll begin from the top. Take a look at this little chapeau,” he began, pulling a rather nice but at the same time very ordinary and cheap cap from the bundle. “Allow me to try it on you.”

“Later, after,” Raskolnikov spoke, peevishly waving it away.

“No, no, brother Rodya, don't resist, later will be too late; besides, I won't be able to sleep all night, because I bought it without any measurements, at a guess. Just right!” he exclaimed triumphantly, having tried it on him. “Just the right size! Headgear, brother, is the foremost thing in an outfit, a recommendation in its way. Every time my friend Tolstyakov goes into some public place where everyone else is standing around in hats and caps, he's forced to remove his lid. Everyone thinks he does it out of slavish feelings, but it's simply because he's ashamed of that bird's nest of his—such a bashful man! Well, Nastenka, here's two examples of headgear for you: this Palmerston” (he took from the corner Raskolnikov's battered top hat, which for some unknown reason he called a Palmerston), “and this piece of jewelrywork. Give us an estimate, Rodya; how much do you think I paid for it? Nastasyushka?” he turned to her, seeing that the other said nothing.

“Offhand I'd say twenty kopecks,” Nastasya replied.

“Twenty kopecks? Fool!” he cried, getting offended. “Even you would cost more than twenty kopecks these days—eighty kopecks! And that's only because it's second-hand. True, there's one condition: if you wear this one out, next year they'll give you another for nothing, by God! Well, sir, now let's start on the United Pants of America, as we used to call them in school. I warn you, I'm proud of them,” and he displayed before Raskolnikov a pair of gray trousers, made of lightweight summer wool. “Not a hole, not a spot, and though they've seen some wear, they're quite acceptable—and there's a matching waistcoat, the same color, as fashion dictates. And the truth is they're even better second-hand: softer, tenderer...You see, Rodya, to make a career in the world, it's enough, in my opinion, if you always observe the season; don't ask for asparagus in January, and you'll have a few more bills in your purse; the same goes for this purchase. The season now is summer, so I made a summer purchase, because by fall the season will call for warmer material anyway, and you'll have to throw these out...more particularly because by then they'll have had time to fall apart anyway, if not from increased luxury, then from inner disarray. So, give me your estimate! How much do you think? Two roubles twenty-five kopecks! And, remember, again with the same condition: you wear these out, next year you get another pair free! At Fedyaev's shop they don't do business any other way: you pay once, and it's enough for your whole life, because in any case you'd never go back there again. Now, sir, let's look at the boots—how do you like them? You can see they've been worn, but they'll do for about two months, because they're foreign goods and foreign workmanship: a secretary from the British Embassy dumped them on the flea market last week; he'd worn them for only six days, but he was badly in need of money. Price—one rouble fifty kopecks. Lucky?”