He washed zealously that morning—Nastasya found him some soap—washed his hair, his neck, and especially his hands. But when it came to the question of whether or not to shave his stubble (Praskovya Pavlovna had excellent razors, still preserved from the late Mr. Zarnitsyn), the question was resolved, even with a vengeance, in the negative: “Let it stay as it is! What if they should think I shaved in order to...and that's certainly what they would think! No, not for anything in the world!”
And...and, above all, he was so coarse, so dirty, with his tavern manners; and...and suppose he knew that he was still, let us say, a decent man at least...well, what was there to be proud of in being a decent man? Everyone ought to be a decent man, and even better than that, and...and still (now he remembered) there were some little turns laid to his account. . . not really dishonest, but all the same! ... And what thoughts he sometimes had! Hm...and to set all that next to Avdotya Romanovna! “Well, so, the devil! Who cares! I'll be dirty, salacious, tavern-mannered on purpose, and to hell with it! I'll be even more so! . . .”
In these monologues he was found by Zossimov, who had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna's drawing room.
He was about to go home, and was hurrying to have a look at the sick man before he left. Razumikhin reported to him that he was sleeping like a log. Zossimov gave orders not to rouse him before he woke up on his own. And he promised to stop by some time after ten.
“I only hope he'll be here,” he added. “Pah, the devil! No control over my own patient; just try treating him! Do you know if he will go to them or they will come here?”
“They'll come, I think,” Razumikhin replied, understanding the intent of the question, “and, of course, they'll talk over their family affairs. I'll leave. As a doctor, naturally, you have more rights than I do.”
“But I'm also not their father confessor. I'll come and go. I have enough to do without them.”
“One thing troubles me,” Razumikhin interrupted, frowning. “Yesterday, being drunk, I blurted out various foolish things to him as we walked along...various things...among them that you're afraid he...is inclined to madness.”
“You blurted out the same thing to the ladies as well.”
“I know it was stupid! Beat me if you like! And did you really have some firm idea?”
“But it's nonsense, I tell you; what firm idea! You yourself described him as a monomaniac when you brought me to him...Well, and then yesterday we added more fuel—that is, you did—with those stories...about the house-painter; a nice conversation that was, when it may have been just what made him lose his mind! If only I'd known exactly what happened in the office that time, and that some boor had...offended him with that suspicion! Hm...I wouldn't have allowed such a conversation yesterday. Because these monomaniacs turn a drop into an ocean, they think any sort of claptrap is a reality...As far as I remember, I understood half of this business from Zamyotov's story yesterday. But that's nothing! I know a case of a hypochondriac, a forty-year-old man, who couldn't stand an eight-year-old boy's daily mockery at the table, and put a knife in him! And there he was, all in rags, an insolent policeman, the start of an illness, and such a suspicion! For a wild hypochondriac! With such rabid, exceptional vanity! The whole starting point of the illness may well have been sitting right there! Well, so, the devil! ... Incidentally, this Zamyotov really is a nice boy, only...hm...he shouldn't have told all that yesterday. An awful babbler!”
“But who did he tell? Me and you?”
“And Porfiry.”
“So, why not Porfiry?”
“Incidentally, do you have any influence over those two, the mother and the sister? They should be more careful with him today . . .”
“They'll manage!” Razumikhin answered reluctantly.
“And why is he so much against this Luzhin? The man has money, she doesn't seem averse to him...and they don't have a bean, do they?”
“What are you trying to worm out of me?” Razumikhin cried irritably. “Bean or no bean, how do I know? Ask them yourself, maybe you'll find out...”
“Pah, how stupid you are sometimes! Yesterday's drunkenness is still sitting in you...Good-bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna for the night's lodging. She locked herself in, wouldn't answer my bonjour through the door, but she got up at seven o'clock, a samovar was brought to her through the corridor from the kitchen...I wasn't deemed worthy of beholding...”
At nine o'clock sharp Razumikhin arrived at Bakaleev's rooming house. The two ladies had been awaiting him for a long, long time, with hysterical impatience. They had risen at about seven, or even earlier. He came in looking dark as night, and bowed awkwardly, for which he immediately became angry—at himself, of course. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna simply rushed to him, seized both his hands, and almost kissed them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but that arrogant face had at the moment an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and, for him, unexpected esteem (instead of mocking looks and involuntary, poorly disguised contempt!) that it would truly have been easier for him if he had been met with abuse; otherwise it was too embarrassing. Fortunately, there was a ready topic of conversation, and he hastened to seize upon it.
Having heard that “he was not awake yet” but that “everything was excellent,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that it was all for the better, “because she needed very, very, very much to discuss things first.” The question of tea followed, with an invitation to have it together; they had not had anything yet, since they were expecting Razumikhin. Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell, a dirty ragamuffin answered the summons, tea was ordered and eventually served, but in so dirty and improper a fashion that the ladies were ashamed. Razumikhin vehemently denounced the rooming house but, remembering about Luzhin, fell silent, became embarrassed, and was terribly glad when Pulcheria Alexandrovna's questions finally came pouring out one after another, without a break.
He spent three-quarters of an hour answering them, constantly interrupted and questioned again, and managed to convey the most important and necessary facts as he knew them from the last year of Rodion Romanovich's life, concluding with a detailed account of his illness. However, he omitted much of what was better omitted, including the scene in the office with all its consequences. His account was greedily listened to; but when he thought he had already finished and satisfied his listeners, it turned out that for them it was as if he had not yet begun.
“Tell me, tell me, what do you think...ah, forgive me, I still do not know your name!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurried.
“Dmitri Prokofych.”
“Now then, Dmitri Prokofych, I should like very, very much to know...generally...how he looks at things now—that is, please understand me, how shall I put it—that is, better to say: what are his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? What are his wishes and, so to speak, his dreams, if you can say? What precisely has a special influence on him now? In short, I should like . . .”
“Ah, mama, how can anyone answer so much all at once?” Dunya remarked.
“Ah, my God, but this is not at all, not at all how I expected to see him, Dmitri Prokofych.”
“That's only natural,” Dmitri Prokofych replied. “I have no mother, but my uncle comes here every year, and almost every time fails to recognize me, even externally, and he is an intelligent man; well, and in the three years of your separation a lot of water has flowed under the bridge. What can I tell you? I've known Rodion for a year and a half: sullen, gloomy, arrogant, proud; recently (and maybe much earlier) insecure and hypochondriac. Magnanimous and kind. Doesn't like voicing his feelings, and would rather do something cruel than speak his heart out in words. At times, however, he's not hypochondriac at all, but just inhumanly cold and callous, as if there really were two opposite characters in him, changing places with each other. At times he's terribly taciturn! He's always in a hurry, always too busy, yet he lies there doing nothing. Not given to mockery, and not because he lacks sharpness but as if he had no time for such trifles. Never hears people out to the end. Is never interested in what interests everyone else at a given moment. Sets a terribly high value on himself and, it seems, not without a certain justification. Well, what else?... It seems to me that your arrival will have a salutary effect on him.”