half a bottle, cold!’
He grabbed the bottle in which there was still enough to fill a glass and drank it in one pleasurable gulp, as though quenching a fire in his chest. But less than a minute later the beer had gone to his head and a light, even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and drew the blanket over himself. His thoughts, sick and random enough already, became more and more muddled, and a light, pleasant sleepiness soon enveloped him. Voluptuously seeking out a place on the pillow with his head, he wrapped himself up tight in the soft quilt, which had now taken the place of his old shredded greatcoat, gave a soft sigh and sank into deep, sound, restorative sleep.
He woke on hearing someone come in, opened his eyes and saw Razumikhin, who had flung the door wide open and was standing on the threshold, wondering whether or not to go in. Raskolnikov quickly sat up on the couch and looked at him, as though striving to remember something.
‘So you’re awake – well, here I am! Nastasya, bring in the bundle!’ Razumikhin shouted down the stairs. ‘Prepare to receive my full report . . .’
‘What time is it?’ asked Raskolnikov, anxiously looking around.
‘You slept like a king: it’s evening, must be about six. So you’ve been asleep a good six hours . . .’
‘God! How could I?’
‘Nonsense, it’ll do you good! What’s the hurry? No one’s expecting you, are they? Our time’s our own now. Three hours I’ve been waiting; dropped in a couple of times, but you were sleeping. I called on Zosimov twice: not in – that’s all they tell me! Don’t worry, he’ll come! . . . Must be out and about on his own little errands. I moved today, you know, moved for good, with my uncle. I’ve an uncle now, you see . . . Well, no time to waste, damn it! . . . Pass me that bundle, Nastyenka. And now we’ll . . . But tell me, brother, how are you feeling?’
‘I’m fine. I’m not sick . . . Razumikhin, how long have you been here?’
‘I told you – I’ve been waiting three hours.’
‘I mean before?’
‘Before what?’
‘When did you start coming here?’
‘But I explained all that earlier, or don’t you remember?’
Raskolnikov became pensive. The recent past felt like a dream to him. He couldn’t recall it on his own and fixed Razumikhin with a questioning look.
‘H’m!’ said the latter. ‘He’s forgotten! I thought before that perhaps you still weren’t quite in your . . . But the sleep’s done you good . . . Really, you look a new man. Good on you! Well, no time to waste! It’ll all come back to you now. Have a look at this, dear chap.’
He started untying the bundle, whose contents clearly fascinated him.
‘I can hardly tell you, brother, how much I’ve been wanting to do this. It’s about time you looked the part. Right, we’ll start at the top. See this little casquette?’ he began, taking from the bundle a fairly decent, if perfectly ordinary, cheap cap. ‘Shall we see if it fits?’
‘Later, later,’ said Raskolnikov, peevishly waving it away.
‘No chance, Rodya, don’t resist: later will be too late; and anyway I’ll be awake all night worrying – I bought it without measuring, by guess and by God. Perfect!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Fits perfectly! Headgear, brother, is the alpha and omega of a man’s attire, his calling card, if you like. Tolstyakov, a mate of mine, has to remove his lid every time he enters a public place, while everyone else is standing around in hats and caps. Everybody thinks it’s the slave in him, but he’s just ashamed of the basket on his head: he’s far too bashful, that man! So, Nastyenka, I present to you two types of headgear: this old Palmerston’16 (he reached into the corner for Raskolnikov’s mangled round hat, which for some reason he called a Palmerston) ‘or this intricate piece of work? How much do you think I paid, Rodya? Nastasyushka?’ he turned to her, getting no response from Raskolnikov.
‘Maybe twenty copecks,’ Nastasya