Part 2 · Chapter 3

He wasn't totally out of it, though, the whole time he was sick. He was running a fever, sometimes delirious, sometimes only half-aware. He remembered a lot afterward.

Sometimes it felt like a bunch of people were around him; they wanted to take him somewhere, and there was a lot of arguing and debating about him. Then he’s be alone in the room; they’d all gone away, scared of him, and only peeked in now and then through the crack in the door to check on him.

They’d threaten him, plot something together, laugh, and make fun of him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside. He recognized another person, too, someone he felt like he knew really well, but he couldn't remember who it was, and that really bothered him, even made him cry.

Sometimes he thought he’s been lying there for a month; other times it all felt like it happened in the same day. But about that - about that, he couldn't recall anything, but every minute he felt like he’s forgotten something he should remember.

He'd worry and beat himself up trying to remember, moan, freak out, or sink into awful, unbearable terror. Then he’d try to get up, would’ve bolted, but someone always stopped him, and he’d sink back into weakness and forgetfulness. Finally, he came back to full consciousness.

It happened around ten in the morning. On sunny days, the sun streamed into the room at that hour, making a bright line on the right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him with another person, a total stranger, who was staring at him really closely.

He was a young guy with a beard, wearing a tight, short-waisted jacket, and looked like a delivery guy. The landlady was peeking in through the slightly open door. Raskolnikov sat up.

"Who’s this, Nastasya?" he asked, pointing to the young man.

"I think he’s back to himself!" she said.

"He’s himself," echoed the man.

Thinking he’s regained his senses, the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and hated having conversations or discussions.

She was a woman in her forties, not unattractive, a little overweight and curvy, with dark eyes and eyebrows, good-natured because she was comfortable and lazy, and ridiculously bashful.

"Who... are you?" he went on, addressing the man.

But just then, the door was thrown open, and, bending a little, since he was so tall, Razumihin came in.

"What a dump!" he cried. "I keep bumping my head. You call this a place to live! So you’re awake, brother? I just heard from Pashenka."

"He’s just come to," said Nastasya.

"He’s just come to," echoed the man again, with a smile.

"And who are you?" Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. "I’m Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I’m always called, but Vrazumihin, a student and a dude; and he’s my friend. And who are you?"

"I’m the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I’ve come on business."

"Please, have a seat."

Razumihin sat down on the other side of the table.

"It’s a good thing you’re back," he said to Raskolnikov. "For the last four days you’d barely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you tea a spoonful at a time. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov?"

He checked you out and said right away it wasn’t a big deal - something seemed to have gone to your head. Just some nervous nonsense, the result of not eating well, he says you haven’t had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing serious, it’ll pass, and you’ll be alright.

Zossimov is a really great guy! He’s making a name for himself. Come on, I won’t keep you," he said, addressing the man again. "Can you explain what you need? You know, Rodya, this is the second time they’ve sent from the office; but it was another guy last time, and I talked to him.

Oh yeah? Who came before?

"That was the day before yesterday, I guess, if you please, sir."

"He’s smarter than you, right?"

"Yeah, definitely. He’s got more going on upstairs than I do."

"Exactly. Go on."

"At your mom’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin - you’d have heard of him, I’m sure - our office sent you a little something," the man began, addressing Raskolnikov.

"If you’re feeling okay, I’ve got thirty-five rubles to send you, like Semyon Semyonovitch told me to, following instructions from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mom’s request. You know him, right?"

"Yeah, I remember... Vahrushin," Raskolnikov said dreamily.

"He knows Vahrushin!" cried Razumihin. "He’s ‘feeling okay’! And I can tell you’re smart too. It’s always good to hear some wisdom."

"That’s the guy, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And your mom asked him to send you a little something again, just like he did before, so he told Semyon Semyonovitch a few days ago to give you thirty-five rubles, hoping things would get better."

"‘Hoping things will get better’ - that’s the best line you’ve said so far, though ‘your mom’ isn’t bad either. So, what do you say? Is he all there?"

"He’s fine. If he can just sign this little paper."

"He can scribble his name. Got the book?"

"Yeah, here’s the book."

"Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take the pen and scribble ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. Right now, brother, money is better than candy."

"I don’t want it," said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.

"Don’t want it?"

"I won’t sign it."

"Seriously? How can you not sign it?"

"I don’t want... the money."

"Don’t want the money! Come on, brother, that’s crazy, I swear. Don’t worry about it, it’s just that he’s off on another trip. But he does that a lot. You’re a smart guy, and we’ll help him out, you know, just hold his hand and he’ll sign it. Here."

"But I can come back later."

"Nah, don’t bother. You’re a smart guy... Now, Rodya, don’t keep your visitor, he’s waiting," and he started to hold Raskolnikov’s hand seriously.

"Hold on, I’ll do it myself," said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name.

The messenger took out the money and left.

"Awesome! And now, brother, are you hungry?"

"Yeah," answered Raskolnikov.

"Is there any soup left?"

"Some from yesterday," answered Nastasya, who was still standing there.

"With potatoes and rice in it?"

"Yep, With potatoes and rice in it"

"I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea."

"Okay. Sure, just give me a sec"

Raskolnikov looked at all this with a weird feeling and a kind of blank terror. He decided to stay quiet and see what happened.

"I think I’m not dreaming. I think this is real," he thought.

In a few minutes, Nastasya returned with the soup and said the tea would be ready soon. She also brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and everything else. The table was set up like it hadn't been in a long time. The tablecloth was clean.

"It’s not a bad idea, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna could send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could finish them off."

"You’re something else," muttered Nastasya, and she left to do what he asked.

Raskolnikov was still staring, totally zoned out. Meanwhile, Razumihin flopped down on the sofa next to him, practically bear-hugging Raskolnikov’s head - even though he could sit up fine - and spoon-feeding him soup, blowing gently on each spoonful so it wouldn't burn.

The soup was barely warm, though. Raskolnikov gulped down one spoonful, then another, then a third. After a few more spoonfuls, Razumihin suddenly stopped and said he needed to check with Zossimov about having more.

Nastasya walked in with two bottles of beer.

"Would you prefer some tea?"

"Yeah. That'd be great"

"Go grab some tea, we're good to go without a doctor’s orders. But chuck out the beer!"

He scooted back to his chair, grabbed his soup and meat, and started eating like he hadn’t eaten in days.

"Seriously, Rodya, I’m living like this every day now," he mumbled, his mouth full of beef, "and it’s all thanks to Pashenka, your sweet landlady; she loves to help me out. I don’t even ask for it, but I’m not complaining, either. And here’s Nastasya with the tea. She’s quick, that one."

"Nastasya, honey, you want some beer?"

"Are you serious now?"

"You prefer some tea then?"

"Maybe."

"Pour it. Hold up, I’ll pour it. Sit down."

He poured two cups, left his dinner, and settled back on the sofa. Like before, he put his arm around the sick guy’s head, propped him up, and spoon-fed him tea, blowing gently and seriously on each spoonful, like it was the most important thing to help his friend get better.

Raskolnikov said nothing and didn't resist, even though he felt strong enough to sit up on the sofa without any help. He could’ve held a cup or spoon, or even walked around.

But, for some weird, almost animalistic reason, he decided to hide his strength and lay low for a while, pretending he wasn’t fully with it, and listening to see what was going on. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being grossed out.

After a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly let go of his head, pushed the spoon away, and sank back onto the pillow. He noticed they even had real pillows now - fluffy down pillows in clean cases.

"Pashenka has to get us some raspberry jam today so she can make us raspberry tea," said Razumihin, heading back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again.

"And where’s she gonna get raspberries for you?" asked Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outstretched fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.

"She’s gonna grab it at the store, honey. You see, Rodya, a lot has been happening while you’ve been out of commission. When you bailed like that without leaving an address, I was so ticked off, I vowed to find you and give you a piece of my mind. I got to work that very day."

How I ran around asking about you! I totally forgot about this place, but I never knew it anyway, because I didn’t know it. And about your old place, all I could remember was it was at Five Corners, Harlamov’s house.

"I kept trying to find Harlamov’s house, and then it turned out it wasn’t Harlamov’s, but Buch’s. How you mess up sounds sometimes! So I lost it, and I went to the address bureau the next day, and you won’t believe it, they looked you up in two minutes! Your name is right there."

"My name?"

"Seriously? And they couldn't find a General Kobelev while I was there? It’s a long story, okay? But as soon as I got here, I knew everything that was going on - everything, seriously, brother, I’m in the know; Nastasya here will tell you."

"I met Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the doorman, and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head of the police station, and, last but not least, Pashenka; Nastasya knows."

"He’s totally wrapped around her finger," Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.

"Why don’t you just put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?"

"You’re such a goofball!" Nastasya cried suddenly, bursting into laughter. "I’m not Nikiforovna, I’m Petrovna," she added, catching herself.

"I’m gonna make a note of that. Okay, so, to make a long story short, I was planning a major intervention here, like a total reset to get rid of all the bad vibes in the area, but Pashenka totally won me over. I wasn't expecting, seriously, brother, to find her so... stunning. What do you think?"

Raskolnikov didn’t say anything, but he kept staring at him, looking totally freaked out.

"And she’s got it all going for her, seriously, in every way," Razumihin continued, not even noticing his silence.

"Oh, the sly dog!" Nastasya shrieked again.

She was loving this conversation.

"It’s a shame you didn’t start things the right way at first. You should have approached her differently. She’s, like, a total enigma. But we’ll talk about her character later... How could you let things get so bad that she stopped sending you dinner? And that I O U?"

You must have been crazy to sign an I O U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was still alive? ... I know everything about it! But I see that’s a sensitive topic and I’m being an idiot; forgive me.

"But, speaking of being clueless, did you know Praskovya Pavlovna isn’t nearly as ditzy as you might think at first?"

"No," mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but wanting to keep the conversation going.

"She’s not, is she?" cried Razumihin, super excited to get a response. "But she’s not super bright either, right? She’s totally unpredictable! I’ll tell you, I’m often completely baffled..."

I swear, I judge her intellectually, just from a philosophical perspective; there’s this weird connection between us, like a secret code or something! I don't get it! Well, that’s all just random thoughts.

Only, seeing that you're not a student anymore and you’ve lost your style and your clothes, and since the young lady died, she doesn’t need to treat you like family anymore, she suddenly got scared; and since you were hiding out in your room and dropped all your connections with her, she planned to ditch you.

"And she’s been plotting this for a long time, but she was bummed to lose the I O U, because you told her your mom would pay it."

"It was messed up of me to say that... My mom is practically broke... and I lied to keep a roof over my head... and get fed," Raskolnikov said, speaking clearly and loudly.

"Yeah, you totally did the right thing. But the really bad part is that Mr. Tchebarov shows up then - a businessman. Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her own; she’s just too shy."

But this businessman isn’t shy at all, and he immediately asks, ‘Is there any chance I can get my money back?’

Answer: yeah, because she has a mom who would save Rodya with her small pension of a hundred and twenty-five rubles, even if it meant going hungry, and a sister too, who would do anything for him. That’s what he was banking on... Why are you getting all weird?

I know everything about your situation now, my dear boy - it’s not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were basically her fiancé, and I’m telling you all this as a friend...

But here’s the deal: an honest and sensitive person is open; and a businessman just ‘listens and picks you apart.’ So, she gave him the IOU as payment to this Tchebarov, and he immediately demanded payment.

When I heard about all this, I wanted to explode too, just to clear my conscience, but by then things were cool between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole thing, making sure you’d pay. I co- signed for you, brother. Get it?

"We called Tchebarov, tossed him ten rubles, got the IOU back from him, and here I have the honor of handing it over to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, see, I’ve torn it."

Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without saying a word. Even Razumihin felt a pang of guilt.

"I see, brother," he said a moment later, "that I’ve been acting like a total goof again. I thought I’d cheer you up with my rambling, and I guess I just made you mad."

"Was it you I didn’t recognize when I was out of it?" Raskolnikov asked, after a moment’s pause without turning his head.

"Yeah, and you totally lost it about it, especially when I brought Zametov over one day."

"Zametov? The head clerk? Why?" Raskolnikov turned around quickly and stared at Razumihin.

"What’s the big deal?... Why are you so upset? He wanted to meet you because I’m always talking about you... How else would I have found out so much except from him? He’s a great guy, brother, seriously - first-rate... in his own way, of course."

"Now we’re friends - we see each other almost every day. I’ve moved into this neighborhood, you know. I just moved. I’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna a couple of times... Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?"

"Did I say anything when I was delirious?"

"You were out of your mind!"

"What did I babble about?"

"What next? What did you rant about? What do people rave about when they're losing it... Well, brother, I gotta run. Time to get to work."

He got up from the table and grabbed his cap.

"What did I babble about?"

"Seriously, how is he still going on? Are you worried you spilled some secret? Don't stress about it; you didn’t mention a countess."

But you definitely went on about a bulldog, and about earrings and chains, and Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent. And you were really fixated on your own sock. You were whining, ‘Give me my sock.’

Zametov was searching everywhere for your socks, and with his own fancy, ring-covered hands, he gave you the rag. And only then were you calmed down, and for the next twenty-four hours you clutched that awful thing in your hand; we couldn’t get it from you. It's probably under your blanket right now.

And then you were begging for fringe for your pants. We tried to figure out what kind of fringe, but we couldn’t tell. Okay, business time! Here’s thirty-five rubles; I’m taking ten, and I’ll give you an explanation in a couple of hours.

"I’ll let Zossimov know too, though he should’ve been here ages ago, it’s almost noon. And you, Nastasya, pop in every so often while I’m gone, to see if he wants a drink or anything else. I’ll tell Pashenka what’s needed myself. Later!"

"He calls her Pashenka! Seriously, he’s deep," said Nastasya as he left; then she opened the door and stood listening, but couldn’t resist running downstairs after him.

She was super eager to hear what he’s going to say to the landlady. She was totally fascinated by Razumihin.

No sooner had she left the room than the sick guy threw off the covers and jumped out of bed like a maniac. He’d been waiting with burning, twitchy impatience for them to leave so he could get to work. But what work? Now, like he was messing with him, it escaped him.

"Oh my god, just tell me one thing: do they know about it yet? What if they’re pretending, mocking me while I’m laid up, and then they’ll come in and tell me it’s been discovered a long time ago and that they’ve just... What am I supposed to do now?"

"I totally forgot, like on purpose; I forgot it all at once, I remembered a minute ago."

He stood in the middle of the room and stared around in miserable confusion; he walked to the door, opened it, listened - but that wasn’t what he needed.

Suddenly, like he was remembering something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the paper, started examining it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled - but that wasn’t it.

He went to the stove, opened it and started digging in the ashes; the ripped edges of his pants and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he’s thrown them. Nobody’s looked, then! Then he remembered the sock that Razumihin had just been talking about.

Yeah, there it lay on the sofa under the blanket, but it was so covered in dust and grime that Zametov couldn’t have seen anything on it.

"Ugh, Zametov! The police station! And why am I even being sent there? Where’s the notice? Seriously! I'm mixing things up; that was then. I checked my sock back then, too, but now... now I’m feeling off. But what did Zametov want?"

Why did Razumihin bring him?" he muttered, sinking back onto the sofa, totally lost."

"What’s going on? Am I still tripping, or is this real? I think it’s real... Ah, I remember; I gotta get out of here! Hurry up and escape. Yes, I gotta, I gotta escape! Yes... but where? And where are my clothes? I don’t even have boots. They took them! They hid them! I get it!"

Ah, here’s my coat - they let that one through! And there’s money on the table, thank goodness! And here’s the IOU... I’ll grab the cash and find another place. They won’t find me!... Yeah, but the address bureau? Razumihin will find me, they’ll find me.

Better to bail altogether... far away... to America, and let them do what they want! And take the IOU... it’s good for something there... What else should I take? They think I’m sick! They don’t know I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could tell by their eyes that they know everything!

"If only I could get downstairs! And what if they’re watching - cops! What’s this tea? Ah, and here’s beer left, half a bottle, cold!"

He snatched up the bottle, which still had a glassful of beer, and gulped it down, like he was putting out a fire in his chest. But in another minute, the beer went to his head, and a weird, kinda nice shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him.

His messed-up, confusing thoughts got even more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came over him.

Feeling cozy, he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped himself tighter in the soft, puffy quilt that had replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed softly, and drifted into a deep, restful sleep.

He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw Razumihin standing in the doorway, unsure whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and looked at him, like he was trying to remember something.

"Ah, you’re not asleep! I’m here! Nastasya, bring in the package!" Razumihin shouted down the stairs. "You’re getting the statement right away."

"What time is it?" asked Raskolnikov, looking around nervously.

"Yeah, you had a good sleep, bro, it’s almost evening, it’s gonna be six o’clock soon. You slept for more than six hours."

"Are you serious now?"

"And why not? It’s doing you good. What’s the rush? Got a date? We’re good, we’ve got time. I’ve been waiting for you for the last three hours; I found you asleep twice. I’ve called on Zossimov twice; not at home, can you believe it! But it’s fine, he’ll show up."

"And I’ve been out taking care of my own stuff, too. You know I’m moving today, moving in with my uncle. I’m living with my uncle now. But that’s not the point, let’s get down to business. Give me the package, Nastasya. We’ll open it soon. And how are you feeling now, bro?"

"I’m good, I’m not sick. Razumihin, have you been here long?"

"I told you I’ve been waiting for you for the last three hours."

"No, before."

"What do you mean?"

"How long have you been coming here?"

"Why, I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you remember?"

Raskolnikov was thinking hard. The morning felt like a dream to him. He couldn’t remember, and looked at Razumihin, trying to figure it out.

"Hm!" said the latter, "he’s forgotten. I thought then that you weren’t quite yourself. You look better now that you’re rested... You really look much better. Looking good! Well, let’s get down to business. Check this out."

He started untying the bundle, which clearly interested him.

"Seriously, bro, this is something close to my heart. We gotta make a man out of you. Let’s start with the basics. Do you see this cap?" he said, pulling a pretty good, though cheap and ordinary, cap out of the bundle. "Try it on."

"So, like, later," said Raskolnikov, waving it off dismissively.

"Come on, Rodya, my dude, don’t fight it, it's gonna be too late, and I won’t sleep a wink tonight! I grabbed it randomly, no measurements. Just right!" he exclaimed triumphantly, trying it on, "perfect fit! A good hat is the first thing you notice about someone, it’s a vibe."

Tolstyakov, a buddy of mine, always has to ditch his old bucket hat when he goes out. People think he’s just being polite, but really, he’s embarrassed by his messy hair - he’s such a showoff!

Check it out, Nastasya, two hats: this old, beat-up Palmerston - he grabbed Raskolnikov’s worn hat, which he oddly called a Palmerston - or this gem! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you think I paid for it, Nastasya? he asked, looking at her, seeing that Raskolnikov wasn’t saying anything.

"Like, twenty kopecks, tops, I bet," replied Nastasya.

"Twenty kopecks, seriously?" he scoffed, offended.

"Nowadays, you’re worth more than that - eighty kopecks! And that’s just because it’s been worn. And I got it with a deal: when it’s done, they’ll give you another one next year. Seriously! Okay, let’s talk about America, like they called it in school. I’m super proud of these pants,"

and he showed Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers made of grey wool.

"No holes, no stains, and totally respectable, even though they’re a little worn; and a matching vest, totally on-trend. The wear actually makes them better - softer, smoother..."

You see, Rodya, I think the key to getting ahead is always to go with the season; if you’re demanding asparagus in January, you’re losing money. Same with this purchase.

It’s summer, so I’m buying summer clothes - warmer stuff will be needed for fall, so you’ll have to ditch these anyway... especially since they'll be falling apart by then from their own lack of quality if not your higher standards. Okay, price them! What do you say?

Two rubles and twenty-five kopecks! And remember the deal: if you wear these out, you get another suit for free! They only do business like that at Fedyaev’s; once you’ve bought something there, you’ll never go back on your own - it’s that good. Now for the boots. What do you think?

"Yeah, they’re a little worn, but they’ll last a couple of months - it’s foreign-made with good leather. The secretary at the English Embassy sold them - he’d only worn them for six days, but he was short on cash. A rouble and a half. A steal?"

"But what if they don’t fit?" pointed out Nastasya.

"We'll only know if you try, now Just look!"

and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov’s old, busted boot, stiff with dried mud.

"I didn’t come empty-handed - they sized it from this monster. We all did our best. And your clothes? Your landlady’s got that covered. Here, to start - three shirts, rough but with a cool front..."

Okay, so eighty copecks for the cap, two roubles twenty-five for the suit - that’s three roubles five copecks total - a rouble and a half for the boots - they’re actually really good - and that’s four roubles fifty-five copecks.

Five roubles for the underwear - got it all in a bulk deal - so exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks in change. You want it? So, Rodya, you’re all set with a brand new outfit - your overcoat will be fine, and it even has its own vibe.

That's because you got your clothes from Sharmer’s! Your socks and other stuff? That’s up to you - we’ve twenty-five roubles left. And don’t even worry about Pashenka or paying for your place - she’ll trust you for anything.

"And now, bro, let me change your linen, ‘cause I bet you’ll shake off this sickness with a fresh shirt."

"Leave me alone! I don’t want it!"

Raskolnikov brushed him off. He’d listened with a cringe to Razumihin trying to joke around about his shopping.

"Come on, bro, don’t tell me I hauled around for nothing," Razumihin insisted.

"Nastasya, don’t be shy, give me a hand - that’s it," and despite Raskolnikov’s pushback, he changed his linen.

Raskolnikov sank back onto the pillows and didn’t say anything for a minute or two.

"It’s gonna take forever to get rid of this feeling," he thought.

"What did that money even buy?" he asked, staring at the wall.

"Money? Your own money, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your mom sent it. Have you forgotten that too?"

"I remember now," Raskolnikov said after a long, grumpy silence.

Razumihin looked at him, frowning and looking worried.

The door opened and a tall, built guy whose face seemed familiar to Raskolnikov walked in.