Raskolnikov's Origin Story

J. Galton

8/16/24

2103 words

RASKOLNIKOV'S ORIGIN STORY

Raskolnikov lay in bed facing the wall, sweating. His door creaked. He shivered. “Who's there?” His voice, hoarse from long silence.

“Stand and unfold yourself.” Porfiry grinned from the threshold. “Isn't that my next line?” He shrugged. It'd be a while before anyone looking like Raskolnikov would stand. Porfiry gentled his tone. “You infinitely clever young man, always on guard.”

Raskolnikov grunted. He'd known from the clomping of the investigator's boots mounting the stairs who was there. Stealth was not his method; feints, misdirections and disguises were. Raskolnikov rolled over, eyed the bulk blocking his doorway.

With one hand, Porfiry fanned the air. “You don't mind do you? I was just passing by. It's almost supper time.” He surveyed the narrow, shabby room. Raskolnikov's bed was jammed under the sharply sloping roof. He wore a soiled, torn nightshirt. The room reeked of poverty. “I couldn't resist stopping up to see how you're getting along.” He scraped dirty clothing and newspapers from the chair near the door. “Oh, no. Don't disturb yourself. I'll only be a moment, the briefest of interludes.” He eased himself down. “Your stairs are breath snatching. I had to pause on the landing.” He tried to catch Raskolnikov's eye. “Does Praskovya really make it all the way up with your morning tea? Is it still hot? Phew.” He fanned the air again. “Not that on days like this it needs to be.” Porfiry settled himself, took his hat off, laid it on top of the newspapers. “Ach I see, even after poor, confused Nikolay's confession, they're featuring the pawnbroker's murder.” He cracked his knuckles. Raskolnikov winced. “Shame on them. And how ever did that poor, abused, hunchbacked sister get mixed up in the tragic business?” Porfiry, let his question hang, peered at Raskolnikov. The sound of horses clopping, followed by a peddler's indistinct cry rose from the street. Porfiry patted his hair, nodded, “Ahh, I remember. Yes, I do. I remember last time you told me all about your grand theory, which I must say I think is remarkable. When you fully recover you really should come and work for us, a clever, observant young man like yourself.” He cracked his knuckles, again. “No, no, please don't disturb yourself. I only meant it as a compliment not a challenge. Sometimes you do take things sideways. How's Pulcheria Alexandrovna? I was impressed, honored really I should say, to be introduced to your mother. How is she finding St. Petersburgh?”

Despite himself, Raskolnikov flushed. How's my mother? What did the fat ferret have in mind now? He's fishing. He's hoping to catch me out. How's my mother? What has she to do with all of the fishes in the sea? And how dare he ask? His mother was so far superior. He shook himself. Time to fish or cut bait. It was his move. Ok, Ok. He'd play, winner take all. “My mother's fine.” He wanted to bight his tongue for involving her in this sordid business. Of course, she was fine and finer than she'd ever been. Petersburg agreed with her. How could it not? She'd sacrificed everything, everything even Dunya her daughter, his sister, to come and fulfill her starring role, the role she was born to, nursing her son. Raskolnikov propped himself up on one elbow, glared at Porfiry. Enough. He'd played his turn, made his move. He was done. “How kind of you, so very kind of you to climb all those stairs to ask after my mother.” He tried to smile, realized from Porfiry's reaction that he'd managed only to twist his face into a death mask. He cleared his throat. “I'll bid you good day. Close the door after”

“Oh, dear boy, dear boy, come now,” Porfiry put his hands on his knees and leaned forward, careful not to strain the chair. “No need to be churlish or defensive. I told you. I came out of genuine concern for your well being. You are the last person in the world.”

“Last person.” Raskolnikov voice boiled out. He could not restrain himself. “If I were, would I be lying here talking to you. How presumptuous you are. What do you know of me? How dare you assume, assume anything. You wish to play me as if I were a recorder and you could govern all my stops. Shame on you.” Sweat trickled behind his ears. He'd worked himself up into a frenzy. Had he gone too far? A long time ago, Razumikin had told him that to win at chess a slashing offense was better than a solid defense. And of course that had been Napoleon's credo, what Luzhin had not just preached but practiced. Raskolnikov coughed, collapsed back on his bed. His thin nose, white against his fevered face. He folded his hands on his chest, rasped, “I've answered your most courteous question. My mother is fine. I am fine, just tired.” He yawned, wiped his face with the sleeve of his nightshirt. He no longer cared if Porfiry found him contemptible. He was beyond pretense. Below on the cobbles a cart rattled by. Church bells rang out seven. He heard the flutter of birds, rallied, sat up, his voice rose, “My mother is a saint.” His eyes glittered. “A saint. You would not be permitted to touch the hem of her skirt. Verily even if that skirt is.” He shuddered, suppressed the word filthy, cried, “worn.”

Porfiry leaned back. The poor boy was still feverish. It was unwise to have stopped in. It was too soon. He'd come again.

Bolt upright in a monotone now as if in a dream Raskolnikov went on, “After that drunken carriage driver ran over and crushed my father's life out. You know the drunken wretch wanted to pay for the funeral. He begged my mother to let him pay. She, of course, refused him.” Chin lifted high, Raskolnikov rushed on “And properly so. She told him she would not report him.” He looked down at the long aristocratic fingers curled in his lap. He smiled faintly as if indulging a private joke. “After that. After that I became her whole life. All of her whole life. Even now, as I lie here useless, she is willing, eager,” He shivered, “busy sacrificing Dunya.” He balled his hand into a fist, thumped the bed. His voice rose, “For me. For my good. I will not allow it. I will not.”

Raskolnikov took a deep breath, closed his eyes. “My mother.” He nodded. “After my father was murdered, my mother, cradling Dunya in her arms, would walk me to school. Walked me balancing Dunya and came back and walked me home again. Head high a regal procession to protect me from the peasant boys, ragamuffins and ruffians. In her heart of hearts she knew I was a gentleman. Later, she welcomed my budding friendship with Luzhin, slim, fair haired Vlad Luzhin, two years ahead of me always in the same patched shirt but with a collar. She trusted him. A mother's instincts.” Raskolnikov's bitter laugh sounded more like a cough. “My poor, deluded mother. Luzhin was trying to make me into a modern man, a worshipper at the tomb of Napoleon. He idealized the great man. He thought he had found the secret to life. He felt divinely inspired. Relentlessly he poured his credo into my eager, innocent ears. I revered him, still do and not just for his intelligence. The law was for common folks in need of bridling. You were only free when you lived above the law.”

“Luzhin?” Porfiry broke in, peered carefully at Raskolnikov. “Where do I know that name from?”

Raskolnikov opened his eyes, measured Porfiry, sighed. It was a game. Porfiry could not speak straight even if he tried and he didn't. It was always inference, innuendo, feint and hint and jab and probe. The badger on the hunt. One false move and you'd be belly up. “Yes, yes, of course.” Raskolnikov grimaced, “You know the name and you know you know the name from that gross suitor of my beautiful sister, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin a distant cousin of Vlad, my boyhood friend.” Raskolnikov held his hand up three fingers pressed together. “Permit me master investigator, indulge me for another moment. I know you don't believe this but you should know what people think. That is, the few who do think, the very, very few who slip from the noose, out of the grasp of the received gospel.” He fixed his eyes on Porfiry. “What is life? The enforcement of society's laws, just and good as they may be, will not answer that question. Those laws are a mere travesty. Chains held by the Czar and the priest for those willing to submit.” Raskolnikov, lowered his eyes, smiled to himself. “Of course all this has been studied. All of it examined, picked apart, pulverized, sifted, shredded and, you know what, and I firmly believe you, you of all people do know what, how else could you be an investigator?” He shot Porifry a poisonous look. “It turns out that life is competition. That is the answer to what is life. Success in life is predicated on struggle, everywhere for everyone, all living things.” As if he were giving an oration from a raised platform rather than from bed in his disheveled nightdress, he thrust one thin arm at the ceiling. “Struggle!” His voice broke in a screech. “Struggle, with brute force when necessary as we are all animals or and this is what beleaguered Luzhin revealed to me, struggle with the mind as do the few, the very, very few. I'll go so far as to say the elect, the one's able to triumph through their minds or will or should I say spirit.” Raskolnikov exhaled. It had all been said in a single breath. He slumped back, rambled on in a lower voice, “They triumph.” He shook his head. “Well not necessarily immediately. It never works out exactly like that but in the long run, if you are patient and smart enough and patient, there is a path forward.”

Porfiry drew in a sharp breath. His hunch to stop by was validated. The steep climb, worth while. He leaned forward to retrieve his hat. “Yes, dear boy, patience, it is.”

Raskolnikov wiped his face, his voice now, a cry from the heart, “He died.” Suppressing tears, “You know, Vlad died or I should say they killed him. He was an orphan, only a stepmother, no father, not even a drunk. With no one to defend him he caught hell at school in and out of the classroom. Inside, teachers were eager to repudiate his ideas, break his spirit. They could not bear that he stood up to them, thought he was their equal and he was more than their equal. He was superior. Daily he got beaten. The thwacks sufficient to silence the rest of us. In response, with bloody welts on his back, Vlad sneered, told them his ideas were better than theirs. Encouraged by their teachers the boys were merciless. Every day, Vlad went home bloodied. He told me he'd never grovel.” Raskolnikov rubbed his eyes. His voice trembled. “The last time.” He paused, composed himself. “The last time, blood leaking out of a corner of his mouth, he said forget theory. Act.” Raskolnikov wiped his eyes. “They broke his body, not his spirit.” He gritted his teeth. “His grave pit was already dug, Zossimov had arranged that. The priest, the coward, never showed. Three of us took turns, throwing a clod of earth.” He shook his head. “You know, they make a dreadful hollow sound, a little like the fall of an ax.” Raskolnikov shuddered. “I vowed.” He slumped down, his voice a whisper, “Vowed.” He turned back toward the wall.

Porfiry bent, picked up his hat. He shook his head. Pride and poverty a deadly mix. The spawn of Bazarov, he'd encountered it before. “Ach, dear boy, you have exhausted yourself. Rest now. You have been most edifying, most. You are correct. Patience is key. I am so glad I diverted myself to check up on how you are healing. I think soon you will be well again. The fever will pass. Unworthy as I may be, please present my humblest greetings to your mother and sister.” He rose. At the door, he turned, made a little bow. “You know the last line do you not? Go bid the soldiers shoot.” Softly he closed the door behind him.