Part 2 · Chapter 5

This guy was definitely past his prime - kind of stiff, built like a barrel, and had a grumpy look on his face. He started by just stopping dead in the doorway, staring around like it was the weirdest place he’s ever seen, totally confused.

He looked around with a suspicious and annoyed expression, like he was asking himself what kind of dump he’d stumbled into. He scanned Raskolnikov’s small, cramped room with distrust, acting like he was scared and offended.

He was just as surprised to see Raskolnikov, who was lying on his beat-up, gross sofa, half-dressed, a mess, and not even bothering to wash up, staring right back at him.

Then, with the same slow, deliberate way, he checked out Razumihin - a rough, unkempt dude with an unshaven face who just stared back boldly.

There was an awkward silence for a couple of minutes, and then, you know, things started to shift. Probably realizing he wasn’t going to intimidate them, the guy softened up a bit and, in a really formal way, emphasizing every word, asked Zossimov:

"Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov? A student... or used to be?"

Zossimov started to answer, but Razumihin jumped in first.

"He’s right here, lying on the sofa! What do you want?"

That casual "what do you want?" totally threw the pompous visitor. He started to turn to Razumihin, but caught himself and turned back to Zossimov.

"This is Raskolnikov," Zossimov mumbled, nodding.

Then he let out a huge yawn, opening his mouth super wide. He lazily stuck his hand into his vest pocket, pulled out a massive gold watch with a fancy cover, opened it, checked the time, and then just as slowly put it back.

Raskolnikov himself just lay there, silent, on his back, staring intently, but not really understanding, at the stranger. Now that his face wasn’t hidden by the weird flower on the paper, it looked really pale and full of pain, like he’s just gone through a brutal surgery or been tortured.

But the visitor slowly started to grab his attention, then his curiosity, then suspicion, and even fear. When Zossimov said, "This is Raskolnikov," he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa, and in a shaky, almost defiant voice, said:

"Yeah, I’m Raskolnikov! What do you want?"

The visitor gave him a long look and announced importantly:

"Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I’d like to think my name rings a bell for you?"

But Raskolnikov, who was expecting something totally different, just stared blankly and dreamily, not saying a word, like he was hearing the name Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time.

"Seriously? You haven’t heard anything about me?" Pyotr Petrovitch asked, looking a little thrown.

In reply, Raskolnikov just sank back onto the pillow, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. A look of disappointment crossed Luzhin’s face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him even more curiously, and finally, he showed he was really embarrassed.

"I assumed and figured," he stammered, "that a letter sent more than ten days ago... maybe even a couple of weeks..."

"Hey, why are you blocking the doorway?" Razumihin interrupted suddenly.

"If you’ve got something to say, sit down! You and Nastasya are crowding everything. Nastasya, make some space. Here’s a chair, squeeze in!"

He scooted his chair back from the table, creating a little space between the table and his knees, and waited for the visitor to squeeze through. The moment was timed perfectly, and the visitor had no choice but to push his way through, hurrying and stumbling.

Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at Razumihin.

"Don’t sweat it," the other guy blurted out.

"Rodya’s been sick for the last five days, totally out of it for three, but he’s getting better now and has an appetite. This is his doctor, just checked him out. I’m Rodya’s friend, used to be a student like him, now I’m looking after him. So, just ignore us and do your thing."

"Thanks. But won’t I bother him with my presence and chatting?" Pyotr Petrovitch asked Zossimov.

"N-no," Zossimov mumbled.

"You can entertain him."

He yawned again.

"He’s been awake a long time, since this morning," Razumihin went on, his friendliness seeming so genuine that Pyotr Petrovitch started to feel a little better, partly because this scruffy, bold guy had introduced himself as a student.

"Your mom," Luzhin started.

"Hm!" Razumihin cleared his throat loudly.

Luzhin looked at him quizzically.

"It’s fine, go ahead."

Luzhin shrugged.

"Your mom had started a letter to you while I was hanging around her neighborhood. When I got here, I waited a few days before coming to see you, so I could be sure you’d heard the news. But now, to my surprise..."

"I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly, annoyed. "So you’re the fiancé? I got it, and that’s enough!"

There was no doubt Pyotr Petrovitch was offended, but he didn't say anything. He tried hard to figure out what it all meant. There was a moment of silence.

Meanwhile, Raskolnikov, who had turned slightly towards him when he answered, suddenly started staring at him again with obvious curiosity, like he hadn't really looked at him yet, or like something new had just clicked. He even sat up in bed to get a better look.

There was definitely something strange about Pyotr Petrovitch’s whole appearance, something that seemed to justify calling him "fiancé" so casually.

For one thing, it was clear, way too clear, that Pyotr Petrovitch had spent his few days in the city making sure he looked his best, getting dressed up to meet his future bride - a totally normal and acceptable thing to do.

Even his own, maybe a little smug, feeling about how much better he looked could be excused under the circumstances, seeing as Pyotr Petrovitch was taking on the role of fiancé.

All his clothes were fresh from the tailor and were all right, except for being a little too new and a little too obviously appropriate. Even the trendy new round hat had the same vibe. He treated it with too much respect and held it too carefully.

The fancy lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same story, if only because he wasn't wearing them, but showing them off in his hand. Light and youthful colors dominated Pyotr Petrovitch’s outfit.

He wore a nice summer jacket in a light tan, thin light pants, a matching vest, new and fine linen, a cravat with light cambric and pink stripes - and honestly, it all looked good on Pyotr Petrovitch. His face, fresh and even handsome, looked younger than his forty-five years.

His dark mutton-chop whiskers framed his shining, clean-shaven chin nicely. Even his hair, touched with grey here and there, though it had been styled at a barber, didn't make him look goofy, like curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding day.

If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive about his otherwise good-looking and impressive face, it was due to something else entirely. After giving Mr. Luzhin a quick, informal look, Raskolnikov smirked wickedly, sank back onto the pillow, and stared at the ceiling like before.

But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed determined to ignore their weirdness.

"I seriously regret finding you like this," he began, breaking the silence with a visible effort.

"If I’d known you were sick, I would’ve come sooner. But you know how business is. I’ve got a major legal thing going on in the Senate, not to mention other stuff you can probably guess. Your mom and sister are arriving any minute."

Raskolnikov moved, like he was about to speak; his face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but since nothing happened, he continued:

"... Any minute. I’ve found a place for them when they get here."

"Where?" Raskolnikov asked weakly.

"Pretty close, at Bakaleyev’s place."

"That’s in Voskresensky," Razumihin chimed in.

"There are two floors of rooms rented out by a merchant named Yushin; I’ve been there."

"Yeah, you say two floors of rooms, now go on"

"A total dump - filthy, stinking, and, on top of that, a shady place. Things have happened there, and all sorts of strange people live there. I was even there about a messy situation. But it’s cheap, though..."

"I couldn’t really find out much more about it, since I’m new to Petersburg myself," Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. "However, the two rooms are really clean, and since it’s just for a little while..."

I’ve already booked a permanent place, that is, our future apartment," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "and I’m getting it fixed up.

"And right now I’m crammed into a tiny room with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in Madame Lippevechsel’s place; he’s the one who told me about Bakaleyev’s place..."

"Lebeziatnikov?" Raskolnikov said slowly, like he was trying to remember something.

"Yeah, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk at the Ministry. Do you know him?"

"Yeah... no," Raskolnikov answered.

"Sorry, I thought so from your question. I used to be his guardian... A really nice guy and forward-thinking. I like meeting young people - you learn new things from them."

Luzhin looked around hopefully at them all.

"What do you mean?" Razumihin asked.

"About really important, essential things," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as if thrilled by the question. "You see, it’s been ten years since I visited Petersburg."

"All the new stuff, the reforms, the ideas - they’re all filtered down to us in the countryside, but to really get a clear picture, you gotta be here. And I think you learn and observe the most by watching the younger generation."

"And I have to say, I’m delighted..." "delighted About what?"

"That’s a broad question. I might be wrong, but I think I’m seeing clearer views, more, so to speak, criticism, more practicality..."

"That’s true," Zossimov said casually.

"Come on! There’s no practicality."

Razumihin shot back.

"Practicality is hard to find; it doesn’t just fall out of the sky. And for the last two hundred years we’ve been disconnected from real life."

"Ideas are brewing, if you like, and the desire for good exists, even if it’s in a childish form, and honesty you can find, even though there are tons of shady characters. Anyway, there’s no practicality. Practicality takes effort."

"I don’t see eye to eye with you," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, clearly enjoying himself. "Of course, people mess up and make mistakes, but you gotta cut them some slack. Those mistakes just show they’re passionate about what they’re doing and dealing with tough situations."

If not much has been done, it hasn’t been that long; I won’t even get into resources. Honestly, I think something has been accomplished already. New, awesome ideas and works are popping up, replacing our old, dreamy, romantic authors.

"Literature is getting more mature, a lot of bad attitudes have been laughed out of existence... Basically, we’ve completely cut ties with the past, and that’s a huge win, if you ask me..."

"He’s just memorizing it to show off!" Raskolnikov blurted out suddenly.

"Huh?" Pyotr Petrovitch asked, not catching what he said.

But he didn't get a response.

"That’s totally true," Zossimov quickly chimed in.

"Isn’t it?" Pyotr Petrovitch continued, glancing friendly at Zossimov.

"You gotta admit," he went on, looking at Razumihin with a hint of pride and condescension - he almost added "young man" - "that there’s progress, or, as they say now, advancement in the name of science and honest economics..."

"A total cliché."

"No, it’s not! For example," Pyotr Petrovitch went on, maybe a little too fast, "if I were told, ‘love your neighbor,’ what happened? I’m left tearing my coat in half to share with my neighbor, and we’re both left half-naked."

As a Russian saying goes, ‘Chase too many rabbits, and you won’t catch any. Science now says, ‘Love yourself first, because everything in the world runs on self-interest. You love yourself and handle your own affairs well, and your coat stays whole.

Economics adds that the better your personal life is organized - the more whole coats, so to speak - the stronger society is and the better everyone’s welfare is.

So, when I’m getting rich for myself, I’m, in a way, getting richer for everyone, and helping my neighbor get more than just a torn coat - and not from being generous, but because things are generally improving.

"It’s a simple idea, but it took a long time to reach us, held back by idealism and sentimentality. And honestly, it doesn't take much smarts to see it..."

Excuse me, I’m not exactly a genius myself, Razumihin cut in sharply, so let’s drop it.

I started this conversation with a goal, but I’m so sick of listening to people just chatting to be clever, of this endless stream of the same old stuff, that, seriously, I cringe even when other people talk like that.

You’re probably just rushing to show off what you know, and I don’t blame you, that’s totally understandable.

"I just wanted to see what kind of person you are, because so many shady people have jumped on the progressive bandwagon lately and twisted everything to their own advantage, that the whole cause has been dragged through the mud. That's enough!"

"Excuse me, sir," Luzhin said, clearly offended, and speaking with exaggerated dignity. "Are you suggesting that I too...?"

"Oh, my dear sir... how could I?... Come on, that’s enough," Razumihin concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous conversation.

Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to back down. He decided to leave in a minute or two.

"I hope our friendship," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "can become closer after you recover, considering the situation we’re aware of. Above all, I hope for your return to health..."

Raskolnikov didn't even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch started getting up from his chair.

"One of her customers probably killed her," Zossimov declared confidently.

"No doubt about it," replied Razumihin. "Porfiry isn’t giving his opinion, but he’s checking out everyone who left stuff with her."

"Checking them out?" Raskolnikov asked aloud.

"Yeah. So what about it?"

"Nothing. I am just thinking aloud"

"How’s he finding them?" asked Zossimov.

"Koch gave some names, other names are on the receipts for the stuff, and some have come forward themselves."

"It had to be a smart, experienced criminal! The nerve of it! The coolness!"

"That’s just what it wasn’t!" interrupted Razumihin.

"That’s what’s throwing you off. I’m telling you, he’s not cunning, not experienced, and probably this was his first crime! The idea that it was a planned, calculated crime by a criminal doesn’t work. Suppose he was just a newbie - then it’s clear he got lucky and escaped - and luck can do anything."

He didn’t even see the obstacles coming, probably! And how did he go about it?

He grabbed some jewelry worth ten or twenty bucks, stuffed his pockets with it, ripped through the old woman’s trunks, her old clothes - and they found fifteen hundred rubles, plus notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He didn’t know how to rob; he could only murder.

"It was his first crime, I swear, his first crime; he lost it. And he got off more by chance than by being smart!"

"You’re talking about the old pawnbroker’s murder, I guess?" Pyotr Petrovitch chimed in, addressing Zossimov.

He was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before leaving he felt like throwing out a few more intellectual lines. He was clearly trying to make a good impression, and his ego got the better of him.

"Yeah. You’d heard about it?"

"Oh, yeah, being around here."

"Do you know the details?"

"I wouldn’t say that; but another thing interests me in the case - the whole thing, you know. Not to mention that crime’s been way up among the lower classes for the last five years, not to mention all the robberies and fires everywhere."

What really strikes me is that crime’s increasing proportionally among the higher classes, too. You hear of a student robbing the mail on the highway. Then people of good standing forge fake money.

In Moscow, recently, a whole gang got busted forging lottery tickets, and one of the leaders was a lecturer in world history. Then our secretary abroad was murdered for some shady reason involving money...

"And if some higher-up killed the old pawnbroker - peasants don’t pawn gold jewelry - how do we explain this breakdown of civilized society?"

"There are a lot of economic changes," added Zossimov.

"How do we explain it?" Razumihin jumped in.

"Maybe it’s because we’re totally impractical."

"What do you mean?"

"What answer did the Moscow lecturer give when asked why he was forging notes? ‘Everyone’s getting rich one way or another, so I want to get rich too. I don’t remember the exact words, but basically he wants money for nothing, without waiting or working!"

"We’ve gotten used to having everything handed to us, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the big moment struck,[] and everyone showed their true colors."

[] The emancipation of the serfs in eighteen sixty-one is meant. - TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.

"But what about morals? And, you know, principles..."

"But why are you worried about it?" Raskolnikov interrupted suddenly.

"It’s just in line with your theory!"

"In line with my theory?"

"Yeah, carry out logically the theory you were pushing just now, and it follows that people can be killed..."

"You’re kidding!" cried Luzhin.

"Nah, that’s not right," said Zossimov.

Raskolnikov lay there, face white and lip twitching, breathing hard.

"Everything’s gotta be balanced," Luzhin said, sounding super condescending. "Economic ideas aren’t a reason to kill someone, and you just have to think..."

"So, is it true," Raskolnikov cut in, his voice shaky with anger and a weird satisfaction at messing with him, "did you tell your fiancée... like, within an hour of her saying yes, that what you liked best... was that she was broke?"

"Because it was better to build a wife up from nothing, so you could totally control her and remind her you were her savior?"

"Seriously," Luzhin yelled, his face red and irritated, "to twist my words like that! Excuse me, let me assure you that whatever you heard, or rather, whoever told you, is totally false, and I... suspect who... basically, this arrow... your mom..."

"She’s great and all, with all her good qualities, but she’s kinda dramatic and romantic. I never thought she’s misunderstand and make things up so wildly... And honestly..."

"I’m telling you what," Raskolnikov said, propping himself up on his pillow and locking eyes with Luzhin, his gaze intense, "I’m telling you what."

"What?" Luzhin stood still, looking defiant and offended.

Silence hung in the air for a few seconds.

"If you ever mention my mom again... I’m sending you tumbling down the stairs!"

"What’s wrong with you?" Razumihin asked.

"So that’s the deal?"

Luzhin went pale and bit his lip.

"Listen, from the moment I saw you, you were giving me the cold shoulder, but I stayed here on purpose to figure you out. I could forgive a lot from a sick person and a friend, but you... not after this..."

"I’m not sick," Raskolnikov snapped.

"Even worse..."

"Just Go away! leave me alone"

But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair. Razumihin got up to let him pass.

Without even glancing at anyone, not even nodding to Zossimov, who had been signaling him to leave the sick guy alone, he stormed out, lifting his hat high on his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he ducked to get out the door. Even his back showed how insulted he was.

"How could you - how could you !" Razumihin said, shaking his head in confusion.

"Leave me alone - all of you!"

Raskolnikov screamed, totally losing it.

"Will you guys ever stop bothering me? I’m not scared of you! I’m not scared of anyone, anyone now! Get out of here! I want to be alone, alone, alone!"

"Come on," Zossimov said, nodding at Razumihin.

"But we can’t just leave him like that!"

"Come on," Zossimov repeated firmly, and he headed for the door.

Razumihin thought for a second and ran to catch up.

"It might be worse to disobey him," Zossimov said on the stairs. "He can’t get more worked up."

"What’s wrong with him?"

"If only he’d get a positive shock, that would help! He was doing better before... You know he’s got something on his mind! Some obsession weighing on him... I’m really worried about it, he has to!"

"Maybe it’s that guy, Pyotr Petrovitch. From what I’ve heard, he’s getting married to his sister, and he got a letter about it right before he got sick..."

"Yeah, that dude’s a mess! But have you noticed, he doesn’t care about anything, he doesn’t react to anything except one thing - that whole murder thing?"

"Totally," Razumihin agreed.

"I saw that too. He’s hooked, like, totally freaked out. It was a major scare when he was sick at the police station; he passed out."

"Tell me the whole story later, and I’ll spill something about myself. He’s got me super intrigued! I’m gonna go check on him again in like, half an hour... No fever, though."

"Sweet! And I’ll hang with Pashenka for now and keep an eye on him through Nastasya..."

Raskolnikov, all alone, stared at Nastasya with impatience and a serious case of the feels, but she just wouldn't leave.

"You gonna grab some tea now?" she asked.

"Nah, later! I’m exhausted! Just go."

He spun around to face the wall; Nastasya headed out.