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Sunday, March 10, 2013

(21) C. P. (Part 2 chapter VI)

THOUGHTS  Damn what kind of a doctor is Zossimov? Allowing such talk and heated conversation to go on in front of poor Raskolnikov!

Razumihin and Luzhin did not seem to hit it off did they?

Raskolnikov is a momma's boy. "Nobody talks about his momma!"

Also he wants everybody to "leave him the hell alone!" (They leave him alone there's no telling what he'll be up too!)

And now another chapter in the life of Raskolnikov and mind of Dostoevsky. Page 136, it's a long chapter, I may have to make it several posts, we'll see!

   As soon as Nastaysa left he locked the door and put on the new clothes Razumihin bought him. He was perfectly calm, not a trace of delirium nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident in them. "To-day, to-day," he muttered to himself. He understood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him strength and self-confidence. He hoped however that he would not fall down in the street. After dressing he took the twenty-five roubles and the copper change left from Razumihin buying clothes. He quietly slipped downstairs. Who would of dreamed of his going out?

   The sun was setting, the heat was stifling as before, but he eagerly drunk in the stinking, dusty air. His head was dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going, he had one thought only; "that all of THIS must be ended today, once for all, immediately; that he would not return home without it, because he WOULD NOT GO ON LIVING LIKE THAT." How with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed "one way or another." he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination.

   He walked from habit in the direction of the Hay Market. A young man playing a barrel organ and a young girl was singing in front of a shop. Their clothes were old and shabby. Hopefully, they would earn a copper, Raskolnikov handed the girl five copeck.

   "Do you like street music?" Raskolnikov asked a middle-aged man standing by him. The man looked at him startled and wondering.

   "I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--"I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind--you know what I mean?--and the street lamps shine through it. . . . "

   "I don't know. . . . Excuse me . . ." muttered the stranger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street.

   Raskolnikov walked to the corner of the Hay Market where the huckster (peddler) and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; (the old pawnbroker's sister, remember) He stopped and addressed a young fellow who was standing in font of a shop.

   "Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?"

   "All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man, glancing superciliously (full of pride) at Raskolnikov.

   "What's the name?"

   "What he was christened."

   "Aren't you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?"

   The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.

   "It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me, your excellency!"

   Of late he was drawn to this district about the Hay Market mingling with the peasants when he felt depressed so that he might feel more so. He walked along thinking of nothing, among the eating-houses; women wandered about in their indoor clothes. They gathered in groups in front of the festive establishments,they were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses, and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes. He was strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar from the saloons. Someone could be heard dancing frantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and a thin falsetto voice.

   "Shall I go in?" he thought. "They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get drunk?"

   He is invited in by a woman, less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive--the only one of the group.

   "Why she's pretty." he said, drawing himself close and looking at her.

   "She smiled much pleased at the compliment.

   "You're very nice-looking yourself," she said.

   "Isn't he thin though!" observed another woman in a deep bass voice. "Have you come out of a hospital?"

   "They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses," interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. "See how jolly they are."

   " Get along with you!"

   "I'll go sweetie!" said the peasant and he darted into the saloon. Raskolnikov moved on.

   "I say sir,"the girl shouted after him.

   "What is it?"

   She hesitated.

   "I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, nice young man!"

   Raskolnikov gave her what came first---fifteen copecks.

   "Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!"

   "What's your name?" ask Raskolnikov.

   "Ask for Duclida."

   "Well that's too much," one of the women observed, shaking her head at Duclida. "I don't know how you can act like that. I would drop with shame. . . ."

   Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. "Where is it ?" Thought Raskolnikov. "Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be! . . . How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is such a vile creature! . . . And vile is he who calls him vile for that." he added a moment later.


   He went into another street. "Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted. Yes, the newspapers. . . . Zossimov said he'd read it in the papers. Have you the papers?" he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room farther away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at the distance. "What if it is?" he thought.

   Raskolnikov ordered tea and asked for the last five days of newspapers. He found what he was looking for and began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly seeking later editions. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up it was the head clerk from the police station Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly black hair, parted and perfumed, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily. His dark face was rather flushed from champagne.

   "What, you here?" he began in surprise, speaking as though he'd known him all his life. "Why Razumihin told me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange! And do you know I've been to see you?"

   Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in that smile.


   "I know you have," he answered, "I have heard it. You looked for my sock. . . .  And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says you've been with him to Luise Ivanova's, (She run's a brothel) you know, the woman you tried to befriend, for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant (Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent of the police station.) and he would not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to understand--it was quite clear, wasn't it?"

   "What a hot head he is!"

   "The explosive one?"

   "No your friend Razumihin."

   "You must have a jolly life. Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most agreeable places. Who's been pouring champagne into you just now?"

   "We've just been . . . having a drink together. . . . You talk about pouring it into me!"

   "By way of a fee! You pocket from everything!" Raskolnikov laughed, "it's all right, my dear boy," he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. "I'm not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of the old woman. . . . "

   "How do you know about it?"

   "Perhaps I know more about it than you do."

   "How strange you are. . . . I am sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn't to come out."

   "Oh, do I seem strange to you?"

   "Yes. What are you doing reading the newspapers?"


   "There's a lot about the fires."

   ""No, I'm not reading about the fires." Here he looked mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. "No I am not reading about the fires," he went on, winking at Zametov. 'But confess now, my dear fellow, you're awfully anxious to know what I am reading about?"

   "I am not in the least. Maybe I ask a question? Why do you keep on . . ."

   "Listen, you are a man of culture and education?"

   "I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium," said Zametov with some dignity.

   "Sixth class! Ah, my cock sparrow! (A cocky little man.) With your parting (hair part) and your rings--you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!" Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov's face. The latter drew back, more amazed than offended.

   'Foo! how strange you are!" Zametov repeated very seriously."I think you are still delirious."

   "I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?"

   "Yes curious."

   "Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?"

   "Well what is it?"

   "You prick up your ears?"

   "How do you mean--'prick up my ears'?"

   "I declare to you . . . no, better, 'I confess' . . .No that's not right either; ' I make a deposition and you take it,' I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and searching. . . . " he screwed up his eyes and paused. "I came here on purpose for news of the murder of the old pawnbroker," he articulated almost at a whisper, bringing his face close to Zametov. They gaze at each other for a moment.

  "You are either mad or . . ." Zametov broke off, as though stunned by the idea that suddenly flashed in his mind.


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