own, taking odd jobs to get by. He knew any number of sources from which he could draw (by working, of course). Once, he survived a whole winter without heating his room and claimed that he even preferred it that way, because you sleep better in the cold. Now he, too, had been forced to leave university, but not for long, and he was straining every sinew to put things right and continue his studies. Raskolnikov hadn’t been to see him for a good four months, while Razumikhin didn’t even know where his old friend lived. There was one occasion, some two months previously, when they had almost met in the street, but Raskolnikov turned away, even crossing to the other side to avoid being noticed. Razumikhin noticed him, but walked past, not wishing to trouble his friend.
V
‘Yes, it wasn’t so long ago that I was about to ask Razumikhin about work, see if he could find me some teaching or something . . . ,’ Raskolnikov went on to himself. ‘But what can he do for me now? Suppose he does find me some lessons; suppose he even shares his last copeck with me, assuming he has one, so that I might even be able to buy myself a pair of boots and patch up my clothes for teaching in . . . H’m . . . Well, what then? What use is small change to me? Is that really what I need now? How ridiculous this is – going off to Razumikhin . . .’
The question of why he’d set off to see Razumikhin troubled him more than even he was aware; he was racking his brain to find in this seemingly ordinary decision some sinister meaning.
‘What, did I really expect to patch everything up through Razumikhin alone? Was Razumikhin really my answer to everything?’ he asked himself in astonishment.
He was thinking and rubbing his forehead when a peculiar thing happened: suddenly, as if by chance and almost by itself, after very lengthy hesitation, an exceedingly strange thought entered his head.
‘H’m . . . Razumikhin,’ he suddenly said with perfect equanimity, as if reaching a final decision. ‘I’ll go to see Razumikhin, that’s for sure . . . but – not now . . . I’ll go to him . . . the day after, the day after that, when that will be over and done with and everything will begin afresh . . .’
He suddenly came to his senses.
‘After that,’ he cried out, fairly leaping from the bench. ‘But will that really happen? Surely it can’t, can it?’
He left the bench and walked off, almost running; he was about to turn back home, but the thought of doing so suddenly appalled him: it was there at home, in that horrid cupboard, that all this had been brewing for over a month now; and he walked on, wherever his legs should take him.
His nervous tremors had become almost feverish; he even felt shivery; in the stifling heat he was turning cold. As if by some almost unconscious effort, by some inner necessity, he began scrutinizing every object he passed, as though trying hard to distract himself, but he was having little success and kept sinking into thought. When, with a start, he raised his head again and looked about him, he would instantly forget whatever he had just been thinking about, even the route he had taken. He walked like so from one end of Vasilyevsky Island to the other, emerged on the banks of the Little Neva, crossed the bridge and turned towards the Islands.48 His tired eyes, accustomed to the dust of the city, to the mortar and to the massive, cramping, crushing buildings, delighted at first in the greenery and the freshness. The closeness, the stench, the drinking dens – all had been left behind. But soon even these new and pleasant sensations began to sicken and irritate him. He stopped occasionally in front of dachas bedecked with greenery, peered through the fences, and saw extravagantly dressed women on distant balconies and terraces, and children running about in the gardens. He was particularly interested in the flowers and looked at them longest of all. Magnificent carriages also crossed his path, as well as men and women on horseback; he followed them with a curious gaze and forgot about