О чем говорят каналы

Hearing that he was "still asleep" but "everything was fine," Pulcheria Alexandrovna said this was just as well, "because she very, very, very much needed to talk to him beforehand." She then asked about tea and invited everyone to drink together; they themselves had not yet had tea, waiting for Razumikhin. Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell, and a dirty, ragged servant appeared, who was ordered to bring tea. It was finally served, but so dirty and so unseemly that the ladies felt embarrassed. Razumikhin was about to energetically scold the landlord, but remembering Luzhin, he fell silent, felt awkward, and was extremely relieved when Pulcheria Alexandrovna finally began asking her questions one after another without pause.

At exactly nine o'clock, Razumikhin arrived at Bakaleev's lodging. Both ladies had been waiting for him for a long time with nervous impatience. They had risen around seven o'clock, or even earlier. He entered gloomy as night, awkwardly made his bow, and at once became angry—angry with himself, of course. He hadn't expected such warmth from the host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna rushed at him, seized both his hands, and nearly kissed them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna; but even on that proud face there was now such an expression of gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unexpected respect (instead of the mocking looks and involuntary, poorly concealed disdain earlier!), that he would have found it easier had they greeted him with insults—this was truly too embarrassing. Luckily, there was a ready topic for conversation, and he quickly seized upon it.

– Who told him, anyway? You and me? – And Porfiry. – So what if it was Porfiry? – By the way, do you have any influence over them—the mother and sister? Tell them to be careful with him today... – They’ll gang up together! – muttered Razumikhin reluctantly. – Why does he have such a grudge against Luzhin? The man’s got money, doesn’t seem unpleasant to her... and they’ve got nothing, after all. Eh? – Why are you prying so much? – snapped Razumikhin irritably. – How would I know whether they’ve got something or nothing? Ask them yourself, maybe you’ll find out... – Ugh, how stupid you can be sometimes! Still hungover from yesterday... Goodbye. Tell your Praskovya Pavlovna I thank her for letting me stay. She locked herself in, didn’t even answer my "bonjour" through the door, but got up at seven herself—had the samovar carried from the kitchen down the corridor... I wasn’t honoured with a glimpse...

And here—ragged clothes, an insolent police clerk, a developing illness, and such a suspicion! Aimed at a frenzied hypochondriac! With insane, extraordinary vanity! Why, that very suspicion might well be the starting point of the illness! Damn it!... By the way, Zametov really is a decent fellow, but still... hm... it was pointless of him to tell all that yesterday. Terrible gossip, really!

– Nonsense, I'm telling you; what do you mean by a firm idea! You yourself described him as a monomaniac when you brought me to him... And then yesterday, you went and stirred things up even more with your stories—about that painter fellow; what a thing to talk about when he may have actually gone mad over it himself! If only I knew for sure what happened in that office, and how some scoundrel insulted him with that suspicion! Hm... I shouldn't have allowed such a conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs can turn a drop into an ocean, they see fictional scenes as real life. I remember, from that story of Zametov's yesterday, half the matter became clear to me. But still! I recall one case—about a hypochondriac, forty years old, who couldn't bear the daily taunts from an eight-year-old boy at the dining table, and ended up stabbing him!

– I know it's foolish! Go ahead, hit me! But tell me, did you really have any firm idea?

– Those, I suppose – replied Razumikhin, understanding the purpose of the question – will naturally talk about their family matters. I'll leave. You, as a doctor, naturally have more right than I do. – I'm not his confessor either; I'll come and go; I've plenty to do even without them. – One thing worries me – Razumikhin interrupted, frowning – yesterday, while drunk, I let slip on the way here some foolishness… various nonsense… among other things, that you're afraid he might… be inclined towards madness… – You let slip the same thing to the ladies yesterday.

And... and most of all, he’s so coarse, filthy, with the manners of a tavern-keeper; and... and even if he knows—himself, even a little—that he's somewhat of a decent man... well, so what's there to be proud of in being a decent man? Everyone ought to be decent, and even better than that! And... and still (he remembered it well), there had been shady little affairs linked to him—nothing outright dishonourable, of course, but still!... And the thoughts he'd had! Hm... and to set all that beside Avdotya Romanovna! Well, damn it! But let it be! Deliberately, I'll be even filthier, greasier, more like a tavern-keeper, and just spit on it all! Even more so! Zosimov found him in the midst of such a monologue. Zosimov had been spending the night in the parlour at Praskovya Pavlovna's. He was on his way home and, while leaving, had hurried in to check on the patient. Razumikhin had told him the sick man was sleeping like a log. Zosimov instructed that he not be woken until he awoke naturally. He promised to drop by again around eleven. —That is, if he’s even at home, — he added. — Ugh, damn it! Can’t even control your own patient—go ahead and treat him! Never know whether he’ll go off to those people or if they’ll come here.

He washed himself thoroughly that morning—he had found soap with Afanasya—and scrubbed his hair, neck and especially his hands. When it came to the question of whether or not to shave off his beard (Praskovya Pavlovna had excellent razors left over from the late Mr. Zarnitsyn), the matter was fiercely settled in the negative: "Let it stay as it is! Suppose they begin thinking I shaved for... they'd certainly think that! No, not for anything in the world!"

"Of course," he muttered to himself a minute later, with a sense of humiliation, "of course, all these unpleasantnesses can never be covered up or undone now... so there's no use even thinking about it. Just go quietly, and... carry out my duties... quietly too, and... not ask for forgiveness, say nothing at all, and... and, of course, everything is utterly ruined now!" Yet, while dressing, he examined his clothes more carefully than usual. He had no other suit, and even if he had, he might not have worn it—"just on purpose, I wouldn't wear it." But in any case, he could not remain a cynic or a sloven; he had no right to offend others' sensibilities, especially since those others needed him and had themselves invited him. He brushed his suit thoroughly. His underclothes were always decent—on this point, he was especially particular about cleanliness.

In wine there is truth, and the truth had all come out—"that is, all the filth of his envious, coarse heart had spilled out"! And was it even remotely acceptable for someone like Razumikhin to entertain such a thought? Who was he compared to such a woman—him, a drunken ruffian and yesterday's loudmouth braggart? "Could such a crude and ridiculous comparison even be imagined?" Razumikhin turned desperately red at this thought, and then, as if on purpose, at that very instant, he clearly recalled telling them yesterday, standing on the staircase, that his landlady would be jealous of him with Avdotya Romanovna… this was unbearable. In a furious fit, he punched the kitchen stove with full force, injured his hand, and knocked out a brick.

The most terrible memory for him was how yesterday he had been "so low and vile"—not merely because he was drunk, but because, taking advantage of the girl's vulnerable position, he had insulted her fiancé out of foolish, hasty jealousy, without knowing anything about their mutual relationship or commitments, and without even properly knowing the man himself. What right did he have to judge him so hastily and rashly? And who had made him a judge? Could a woman like Avdotya Romanovna possibly give herself to an unworthy man for money? Clearly, the man must have some worth. Numbers? But then again, how could he really have known they were just "numbers"? After all, the man was arranging a house… ugh, how utterly base all this was! And what sort of excuse was drunkenness? A stupid excuse, one that only degraded him further!

II Anxious and serious, Razumikhin woke up the next day at eight o'clock. That morning, he suddenly found himself facing numerous new and unexpected puzzles. He had never imagined he would ever wake up feeling this way. He remembered every detail of the previous day and understood clearly that something extraordinary had happened to him—that he had absorbed an impression entirely new and unlike anything he had ever known before. At the same time, he clearly realized that the dream which had flared up in his mind was utterly unattainable—so completely unrealistic that he even felt ashamed of it, and quickly turned instead to other, more pressing worries and uncertainties left over from the cursed day before.

But if you notice anything—delirium, fever, anything—wake me up straight away. Though, of course, nothing will happen…

– Oh, I can’t explain it to you properly! Look: both of you are perfectly suited for each other! I’ve thought about you before… You’ll end up here anyway! So what difference does it make—sooner or later? There’s a kind of feather-bed beginning here, brother—ah, and not just a feather bed! It draws you in; it’s the end of the world, an anchor, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three-fish foundation of creation, the essence of pancakes, rich pirozhki, the evening samovar, soft sighs, warm kangris, heated sleeping platforms—well, exactly as if you’re dead, yet still alive, getting the best of both worlds! Ah, brother, I’ve rambled on like a devil—time to sleep! Listen: sometimes at night I wake up and go check on him. But nothing, nonsense, everything’s fine. Don’t worry too much yourself, but if you want, drop by once too.

– I’m not luring her at all—maybe I’m the one being lured, out of my own foolishness. To her, it makes absolutely no difference whether it’s you or me, as long as someone’s sitting nearby and sighing. There’s something about it, brother… I can’t quite put it into words. You see, you know mathematics well, and I know you’re still studying it… Well, just start teaching her integral calculus—I swear I’m not joking, I’m dead serious—she won’t care at all. She’ll just keep looking at you and sighing, for a whole year straight. I once talked to her for two whole days, nonstop, about the Prussian House of Lords (what else can you talk about with her?), and she just sighed and melted! Don’t even mention love—she gets embarrassingly shy, to the point of cramps—but make it clear you can’t stay away from her. That’s enough. It’s incredibly comfortable—just like home. You can read, sit, lie down, write… You can even kiss her, if you’re careful... – What do I need her for?

– But why not? – Well, you just can't, that's all! There's something addictive about it, brother! – Then why did you lure her in?

– "I'm not even thinking about it at all." – "Oh come on, brother! It's that shy, quiet, bashful, fiercely modest type—yet sighing and melting like wax, just melting away! Save me from her, for the love of all things holy! Miss High-and-Mighty! I'll earn it, I swear I'll earn it!" Zosimov burst out laughing even more. – "Look at you getting worked up! Why would I even want her?" – "I'm telling you, just a bit of effort—talk whatever nonsense you like, just sit close and talk. And besides, you're a doctor, start treating her for something. I swear you won't regret it. She has a piano; you know I can tinkle the keys a little. I've got a Russian song there, a real one: 'I'll pour out scalding tears...' She loves the real stuff—well, that's where it all began. And you, my friend, are a virtuoso, a maestro, a Rubinstein! I swear you won't regret it!" – "Did you make some promises to her then? Some written agreement? Promised to marry her maybe?" – "Nothing, absolutely nothing like that! Anyway, she already had Chebarov..." – "Then drop her!" – "You can't just drop her like that!"

– Listen, – he said to Zosimov, – you're a decent fellow, but I know you, despite all your bad qualities, are also a womanizer, and from a dirty lot. You're a nervous, weak good-for-nothing, eccentric and soft, who can't deny himself anything – and this I call filth, because it literally leads to filth. You've pampered yourself so much that, frankly, I can't understand at all how you can still be a good and even self-sacrificing doctor. He sleeps on a feather bed (a doctor, mind you!), yet goes to the patient at night! In three years you won't even stir for a patient... Well, devil take it, that's not the point, but here's the thing: you're staying tonight at the landlady's flat (you barely convinced her!) and I'm in the kitchen: here's a chance for you two to get better acquainted! Not what you think! There's not even a shadow of that, brother...

“Now, go to sleep — immediately!” Razumikhin firmly declared, leaving with Zosimov. “Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll report to you.” “Such a charming girl, that Avdotya Romanovna!” remarked Zosimov, almost licking his lips, once they stepped outside. “Charming? You said charming!” roared Razumikhin, suddenly lunging at Zosimov and grabbing him by the throat. “If you ever dare… Understand? Understand?” he shouted, shaking him by the collar and pinning him against the wall. “Heard that?” “Let go, you drunken devil!” Zosimov struggled, and later, once released, stared at him sharply before bursting into laughter. Razumikhin stood before him, arms dropped, in gloomy thought. “Of course, I’m an idiot,” he muttered, gloomy as a cloud, “but… you’re no better.” “Nonsense, brother, I don’t dream of nonsense.” They walked silently, and only near Raskolnikov’s flat, as they approached, did Razumikhin finally break the silence, clearly disturbed.

He added that the patient did display a fixed idea, something bordering a monomania—"as he, Zosimov, was closely studying this fascinating branch of medicine now"—but reminded her to recall the patient had been delirious almost until today, and... certainly, the arrival of family would strengthen and soothe him, acting beneficially, "provided fresh shocks can be avoided," he added meaningfully. He then rose, bowed solemnly yet warmly, accompanied by blessings, heartfelt thanks, pleas, and even Avdotya's hand, offered without his asking, and left extremely pleased with his visit and even more so with himself.

Noticing Avdotya Romanovna's striking beauty upon entering, he made a point to ignore her completely throughout his visit, addressing himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, which brought him immense inner satisfaction. Regarding the patient, he stated he found him in a very satisfactory condition. In his observations, the patient's illness, aside from the poor material circumstances of the past months, also stemmed from certain moral causes—"a product of complex moral and physical influences, anxieties, fears, worries, certain ideas... and so forth." Observing Avdotya attentively listening, Zosimov elaborated slightly more on this theme. Responding to Pulcheria's anxious question about "rumours of possible insanity" with a calm, open smile, he said the claims were exaggerated.

Almost an hour later, footsteps were heard in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women waited, now fully trusting Razumikhin's promise. Sure enough, he had managed to drag Zosimov along. Zosimov immediately agreed to leave the feast and visit Raskolnikov, though he approached the ladies reluctantly, sceptical of the drunken Razumikhin. However, his pride was soon calmed and even flattered when he realized they were truly awaiting him like an oracle. He stayed exactly ten minutes and thoroughly reassured Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with extraordinary concern but remained reserved and deliberately serious, fully embodying a twenty-seven-year-old doctor at an important consultation, never straying from the topic or showing the slightest interest in engaging more personally with the ladies.

Exactly twenty minutes after Razumikhin left, two quiet but hurried knocks sounded on the door; he had returned. "I won't come in, no time!" he hurriedly said when the door opened. "He's sleeping like a log—splendidly, peacefully, and let's hope he sleeps for ten hours. Nastasya is with him; I told her not to leave until I return. Now I'll fetch Zosimov—he'll brief you, and then you should rest. You're exhausted, I can see." And he dashed off down the corridor. "What a diligent and devoted young man!" exclaimed a delighted Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "He seems like a noble sort!" replied Avdotya Romanovna with some warmth, resuming her restless pacing across the room.

It was a portrait of Dunya's face, only twenty years later, save for the slight expression of the lower lip, which did not protrude as much. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was sensitive, though not overly sentimental, timid and yielding, but up to a point: she could give way on many things, even conflicting with her beliefs, yet there was always a line of honesty, principles, and firm convictions she absolutely would not cross under any circumstances.

He was telling the truth, though, when, drunk earlier on the staircase, he let slip that Raskolnikov's eccentric landlady, Madam Praskovya Pavlovna, would be jealous of him not only with Avdotya Romanovna but perhaps even with Pulcheria Alexandrovna herself. Despite Pulcheria Alexandrovna being forty-three, her face still retained traces of past beauty and indeed appeared much younger than her years, something that usually happens with women who preserve clarity of mind, freshness of impressions, and an honest, warm heart into old age. Let us note in passing that preserving all this is the only way not to lose one's beauty even in later years. Her hair had already begun greying and thinning, delicate radiating wrinkles had appeared around her eyes, and her cheeks were sunken and dried by cares and sorrow—but still, her face was beautiful.

Of course, Razumikhin seemed ridiculous with his sudden, drunken passion for Avdotya Romanovna; but upon seeing her—especially now, as she paced the room with arms folded, sad and pensive—many might well have forgiven him, to say nothing of his eccentric state. Avdotya Romanovna was strikingly beautiful—tall, remarkably slender yet strong, self-assured, a confidence evident in every gesture, though without detracting from the grace and softness of her movements. Her face resembled her brother’s, but she could even be called a beauty. Her hair was dark blonde, slightly lighter than her brother’s; her eyes nearly black, sparkling, proud, yet at times, for brief moments, extraordinarily kind. She was pale, but not unhealthily so—the freshness and vigour of good health shone through her complexion. Her mouth was rather small, while the lower lip, fresh and crimson, protruded ever so slightly along with her chin—the only irregularity in an otherwise perfect face, yet one that gave it a distinctive character, almost haughty. Her expression was usually more serious than cheerful, thoughtful; yet how becoming was a smile on that face, how delightful her laughter—joyful, youthful, unrestrained! It was no wonder that hot-blooded, open-hearted, simple, honest, strong as a warrior, and drunk Razumikhin, who had never seen anything like her before, lost his head at first sight. Besides, by chance, he saw Dunya for the first time at a moment of tender affection and joyful reunion with her brother. Later, he witnessed how her lower lip trembled indignantly in response to her brother’s rude and ungrateful harshness—and he could not resist.

“I’m certain he’ll say the same thing tomorrow… about this,” Avdotya Romanovna snapped, and indeed, this was the crux, for it was a subject Pulcheria Alexandrovna now dreaded to broach. Dunya approached and kissed her mother; the latter silently embraced her tightly. Then she sat down, anxiously awaiting Razumikhin’s return, and cautiously observed her daughter who, arms crossed, also in anticipation, began pacing back and forth across the room, lost in thought. Such pacing from corner to corner, deep in contemplation, was a familiar habit of Avdotya Romanovna, and her mother always hesitated to disturb her reflections at such moments.

"O God, Dunya, what will happen?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna anxiously, turning to her daughter fearfully. "Calm down, mother," replied Dunya, removing her hat and shawl. "This man is sent to us by God himself, even if he seems to have come straight from a party. You can trust him, I assure you. And all he has already done for Rodya—" "Ah, Dunya, who knows if he’ll come! And how could I dare to leave Rodya alone like that!… I imagined finding him so differently! He was so cold, as if he wasn’t even pleased to see us…" Tears welled up in her eyes. "No, mother, that’s not it. You didn’t look closely—you were crying all the time. He’s deeply upset because of his long illness—that’s the reason for everything." "Ah, this illness! What will become of him, what will become of him! And how he spoke to you, Dunya!" said her mother, timidly searching her daughter’s eyes for the full meaning, already halfway comforted by the fact that Dunya herself defended Rodya, which meant she had forgiven him. "I’m sure he’ll come to his senses tomorrow," she added, trying to extract more.

And though we lie—yes, even I lie—we’ll eventually reach the truth, because we walk the noble path, while Pyotr Petrovich… stands far from it. Though I cursed them just now, I truly respect all of them; even Zametov, whom I don’t respect, I love because he’s a pup! Even that brute Zosimov, because he’s honest and knows his craft… But enough, all’s said and forgiven. Forgiven? Right? Then let’s go. I know this corridor, I’ve been here before. Right here, in room three, there was a scandal… So, where are you? Which room? Eighth? Lock yourselves in for the night, don’t let anyone in. I’ll return in a quarter-hour with news, then again in half an hour with Zosimov—you’ll see! Goodbye, I’m off!

– Yes, yes, you're right, I lost my head, I am ashamed! – Razumikhin stammered, pulling himself together. – But… but… you can’t blame me for speaking this way! I’m being honest, not because… hmm! That would be low; in short, not because I… hmm! Well, never mind, I won’t say why—I dare not! Earlier, we all immediately sensed when he walked in that this man isn’t one of us. Not because his hair was curled at the barber’s, not because he rushed to show off his cleverness, but because he’s a spy and a black-market trader; because he’s a shady outsider and a clown, and it’s obvious. You think he’s smart? No, he’s a fool, a total fool! So, is he any match for you? Good heavens! See, ladies, – he suddenly turned, already climbing the stairs to the rooms, – even though they’re all drunkards back there, they’re honest folk.

“Listen, Mr. Razumikhin, you’ve forgotten yourself…” began Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Never, not until you shake my hand! There, that’s enough! I’ve stood up—I’m ready to go! I’m a wretched fool, unworthy of you, drunk and ashamed… I’m not worthy to love you, but to bow before you is the duty of every man, unless he’s a total brute! And here are your wretched rooms! Rodion was right to throw your Pyotr Petrovich out earlier! How dare he put you in such rooms? It’s a scandal! Do you even know who stays here? And you’re a bride! You *are* a bride, aren’t you? Well, let me tell you—your fiancé’s a cad after this!”

– Oh my God, I don't know, said the poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – So, so… although I don't entirely agree with you, added Avdotya Romanovna seriously, and immediately cried out, for this time he had squeezed her hand painfully. – So? You say so? Well then after this you… you… he shouted in delight, you are the fount of kindness, purity, wisdom and… perfection! Give me your hand, give it here… you too, I want to kiss your hands here, now, on my knees! And he knelt in the middle of the pavement, fortunately empty at that moment. – Stop, I beg you, what are you doing? cried an extremely alarmed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – Get up, get up! exclaimed Dunya, both laughing and distressed.

All of us, without exception, when it comes to science, progress, intellect, inventions, ideals, ambitions, liberalism, reason, experience, and everything, everything, everything—we’re still sitting in the very first preparatory class in school! We’ve gotten used to feeding on foreign minds—we’ve grown addicted! Right? Am I right?” Razumikhin cried, shaking and squeezing both ladies’ hands. “Am I right?”

“Do you think,” Razumikhin exclaimed, raising his voice further, “that I’m saying they’re lying? Nonsense! I love lies! Lying is the sole human privilege over all living creatures. Lie, and you’ll eventually reach the truth! That’s why I’m human—I lie. No one ever reached a single truth without lying fourteen times beforehand, maybe even a hundred and fourteen times, and that’s something noble in its own way; but we can’t even lie using our own minds! Lie to me, but lie your own way, and then I’ll kiss you. To lie in your own way—why, that’s almost better than telling someone else’s truth; in the first case, you’re a human, but in the second, you’re just a bird! The truth won’t run away, but life can be ruined—there are examples. So what are we now?

"Goodness gracious!" cried the mother. "Did the doctor himself really say that?" Avdotya Romanovna asked, alarmed. "He did say it, but it's not the same, not at all! He even gave a medicine, some powder—I saw it—but now that you’ve arrived… Oh! You should’ve come tomorrow! It's good we left. In an hour you'll hear everything directly from Zosimov. Now there’s a man who isn’t drunk! And I too shall be sober… But why did I get so drunk? Because those cursed fools dragged me into an argument! I swore not to argue! Such nonsense they spout—almost came to blows! I left my uncle there, the chairman… Honestly, you won’t believe: they demand complete impersonality and find the greatest pleasure in it! As if not being oneself, looking as little as possible like oneself—that’s their highest progress! And if only they’d lie in their own way, but…" "Please," timidly interrupted Pulcheria Alexandrovna, but this only heated him further.

Actually, I didn't really sense anything, because you both dropped like manna from heaven. And now I might not sleep the whole night... Zosimov earlier was afraid he might lose his mind... That's why we mustn't upset him..."

"Oh, I understand—you think I'm in this state!" Razumikhin interrupted her thoughts, guessing them correctly, and took his enormous strides along the pavement, making both ladies almost run to keep up with him, though he didn't notice this at all. "Nonsense! That is... I'm as drunk as a fool, but that's not it; I'm not drunk from wine. It's seeing you—it just hit my head... Pay no attention to me! Don't mind me: I'm just babbling nonsense; I'm not worthy of you... I'm completely unworthy of you!... As soon as I see you safely home, I'll dash off and pour two buckets of water over my head, and I'll be fine... If you only knew how I adore both of you!... Don't laugh or get angry!... Get angry with everyone else, but not with me! I'm his friend, so I'm your friend too. I want it to be this way... I had a feeling... last year, for a moment...

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not entirely convinced but did not resist anymore. Razumikhin took both of them by the arm and guided them down the stairs. Still, he troubled her: "he seems energetic and kind, but can he really do what he promises? Given how he is right now..."

– Come, mother dear, – said Avdotya Romanovna. – He will surely do as he promises. He has already brought back her brother, and if the doctor truly agrees to stay the night here, what could be better? – You... you understand me, for you are an angel! – Razumikhin cried joyfully. – Come! Nastasya! Run up at once and stay there with him, keep the lamp burning; I shall return in a quarter of an hour...

"It's impossible to go to the landlady's—it's sheer nonsense!" he exclaimed, trying to convince Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Even though you're his mother, if you stay, you'll drive him to madness, and then God knows what will happen! Listen, here's what I'll do: now Nastasya will sit with him, and I'll escort both of you home because you can't walk the streets alone; here in Petersburg there's a saying... Oh, never mind! Then I'll rush back here immediately and, I swear on my honor, within fifteen minutes I'll bring you a full update: whether he's sleeping or not, and everything else. Then, listen carefully! From there I'll dash back to my place—there are guests there, all drunk—and fetch Zosimov, the doctor treating him, who is currently sober. This one isn't drunk, he's never drunk! I'll drag him to Rodya and then straight to you, so within an hour you'll have two reports—direct from the doctor himself, understand? That's not like hearing from me! If things are bad, I swear I'll bring you here myself, but if all is well, then go to sleep. I'll spend the whole night here in the hallway, he won't even hear me, and I'll make Zosimov stay at the landlady's so he's close by. Now, who's better for him at this moment—you or the doctor? Clearly, the doctor is more useful. So go home! It's impossible for you to go to the landlady's. I can go, but you can't: she won't let you in because... because she's a fool. She'll get jealous of Avdotya Romanovna—want to know why? And even jealous of you too... But definitely of Avdotya Romanovna. She's got the most unpredictable, utterly unexpected character! Admittedly, I'm a fool too... Never mind! Let's go! Do you trust me? Well, do you trust me or not?"

However, ten minutes later, she had calmed down considerably: Razumikhin had a habit of instantly expressing everything on his mind, no matter his mood, so people quickly learned who they were dealing with.

From the pain, they occasionally tried to pull their hands free from his massive, bony grasp, but he not only failed to notice the problem, he only held them tighter. If they had ordered him to jump downstairs headfirst at that very moment, he would have obeyed without hesitation. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, deeply anxious about her Rodya, still felt that the young man was overly eccentric and painfully squeezing her hand, but as he appeared to her as a savior, she chose to overlook these odd details. Despite her own worry, Avdotya Romanovna, although not timid by nature, met her brother's friend's fiery, wild glances with surprise and even fear. Only the boundless trust inspired by Nastasya's stories about this strange man stopped her from attempting to flee from him and dragging her mother along. She also realized they might not even be able to escape him now.

As they spoke, they stood on the landing of the staircase, just outside the landlady's door. Nastasya was lighting them from the lower step. Razumikhin was in a state of extraordinary excitement. Just half an hour earlier, when seeing Raskolnikov home, he had been talkative, though still lively and fresh despite the large amount of wine he had consumed that evening. Now, however, his condition bordered on ecstatic, and as though the entire wine he had drunk suddenly hit him again with doubled force. He stood with both ladies, holding their hands firmly, passionately urging them and presenting his arguments with remarkable candor. For added effect, he seemed to tighten his grip on their hands painfully with each word, his eyes fixed intently on Avdotya Romanovna without any restraint.

"Avdotya Romanovna simply can't stay in rooms alone without you! Think where you are! That villain, Pyotr Petrovich, couldn't even get you a better apartment... But then, I'm slightly drunk, and that's why I... cursed him; don't take it to heart..." "But I'll go to the landlady here," insisted Pulcheriya Aleksandrovna. "I'll beg her to give me and Dunya a corner for this night. I can't leave him in this state, I just can't!"

"– You’ll ruin everything!" Razumikhin hissed furiously, "Let’s at least go out on the stairs. Nastasya, bring a light!" "I swear to you," he continued in a hushed tone once they were on the staircase, "earlier today he nearly killed us—me and the doctor! Do you grasp that? The doctor himself! Even the doctor gave in to avoid agitating him and left, while I stayed downstairs to watch. But he dressed here and sneaked off. And now he’ll vanish again if you provoke him at night, and may even harm himself…" "Oh, what are you saying!"

– Goodbye till tomorrow, brother, – said Dunya compassionately. – Come, mother... Farewell, Rodya! – Listen, sister, – he repeated, summoning his last strength, – I am not raving; this marriage is despicable. Let me be a scoundrel, but you mustn’t... one decent person... though I am a rogue, I won’t consider such a sister mine. Either me or Luzhin! Go... – Have you gone mad! Tyrant! – Razumikhin roared, but Raskolnikov did not answer, or perhaps could not. He lay on the sofa, turned to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked at Razumikhin curiously; her black eyes blazed: Razumikhin even shuddered under her gaze. Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood rooted, stunned. – I simply cannot go! – she whispered to Razumikhin, almost in despair. – I will stay here somewhere... escort Dunya.

– Dunya, you’re hot-headed too, stop it! Tomorrow… Can’t you see… – Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried in fear, rushing to Dunya. – Oh, let’s just leave! – He’s delirious! – shouted the tipsy Razumikhin. – Does he dare! Tomorrow all this madness will come out… Today, he truly threw him out. It happened exactly like that. Well, then Luzhin got angry… He was orating here, showing off his knowledge, and left with his tail between his legs… – So it’s true? – Pulcheria Alexandrovna exclaimed.

– Rodia, what are you saying! Surely… you don’t mean it – began Pulkheriya Alexandrovna in alarm but stopped short, staring at Dunya. Avdotya Romanovna kept her eyes fixed on her brother, waiting for him to continue. Both had already been partly informed by Nastasya, as far as she could understand and relay, and were worn out with confusion and suspense. – Dunya, – Raskolnikov resumed with an effort, – I don’t want this marriage, so you must refuse Luzhin tomorrow at the first opportunity, so that not even a trace of him remains. – Good heavens! – cried Pulkheriya Alexandrovna. – Brother, think about what you’re saying! – Avdotya Romanovna began heatedly but stopped herself instantly. – Perhaps you’re not yourself now, you’re tired – she said gently. – Delirious? No… You’re marrying Luzhin for my sake. But I won’t accept this sacrifice. Therefore, by tomorrow, write a letter… rejecting him… Let me read it in the morning, and that’s the end! – I can’t do that! – cried the hurt girl. – On what grounds…

– Wait! – he stopped them again, – you keep interrupting, and my thoughts are all confused… Did you meet Luzhin? – No, Rodion, but he already knows about our arrival. We heard, Rodion, that Peter Petrovich was so kind to visit you today, – added Pulcheria Alexandrovna timidly. – Yes… He was so kind… Dunya, I just told Luzhin I’d throw him down the stairs and chased him to the devil…

“Go home… with him,” he muttered in a broken voice, gesturing towards Razumikhin. “Till tomorrow; tomorrow everything… How long ago did you arrive?” “In the evening, Rodia,” replied Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “The train was terribly delayed. But, Rodia, I won’t leave you now! I’ll stay the night here beside you…” “Don’t torment me!” he snapped, irritably waving his hand. “I’ll remain with him!” Razumikhin declared. “I won’t leave him for a moment. Let my people all go to hell—they can climb the walls for all I care! My uncle’s the president there.” “How can I ever thank you!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, squeezing Razumikhin’s hands again, but Raskolnikov cut her short: “I can’t! I can’t! Stop it, please!” he repeated in irritation. “Don’t torture me! Enough, leave… I can’t!” “Come, mother, let’s step out for a minute,” whispered Dunya nervously, pulling her mother’s sleeve. “We’re killing him, it’s obvious.” “So, after three years, I’m not even to look at him!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, bursting into tears.

He weakly gestured to Razumikhin to stop the stream of his incoherent and fervent reassurances to his mother and sister, took both their hands, and gazed silently from one to the other for about two minutes. His mother grew frightened by his gaze. In it glimmered a deep, anguished feeling, yet something motionless, almost mad. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry. Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother's hand.

– Nothing, nothing! – he shouted to his mother and sister. – It's just a faint, nonsense! The doctor just said he's much better, perfectly healthy! Water! Look, he's already coming around, look, he's regained consciousness!... And grabbing Dunya by the hand so hard he nearly tore her arm off, he pulled her down to look at the one who "had already come around." Both mother and sister gazed at Razumikhin as at a guardian angel, with tenderness and gratitude. They had already heard from Nastasya what this "resourceful young man," as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov had called him that very evening in a private conversation with Dunya, had done for their Rodya during his entire illness. Part Three I Raskolnikov raised himself and sat up on the sofa.

A joyful, ecstatic cry greeted Raskolnikov's appearance. Both rushed towards him. But he stood like a corpse; a thunderclap of unbearable sudden awareness struck him. His arms refused to rise to embrace them: he couldn't. Mother and sister clung to him, kissed him, laughed, wept... He took a step, staggered, and collapsed to the floor unconscious. Panic, cries of horror, groans... Razumikhin, who had been standing in the doorway, rushed into the room, seized the patient with his strong arms, and in a moment he was on the sofa.

Raskolnikov was the first to grab the door and fling it wide open, then stood frozen on the threshold. His mother and sister had been sitting on his sofa for an hour and a half, waiting. Why had he expected them the least, thought of them the least, even though he’d heard yet again today that they were arriving? For an hour and a half, they had been bombarding Nastasya with questions, interrupting each other, while she stood before them and had already told them everything in detail. They were beside themselves with fear when they learned he had “run away today,” ill and clearly delirious as her story suggested! “Heaven help us, what’s become of him?” Both women wept, both had suffered greatly during that hour and a half of waiting.

– What's wrong? I'll walk you in, we'll go in together! – I know we'll go in together, but I want to shake your hand here and say goodbye. Come on, give me your hand, goodbye! – What's the matter with you, Rodya? – Nothing; let's go; you'll be a witness... They began climbing the stairs, and Razumikhin suddenly thought that maybe Zosimov was right. "Ah! My chattering upset him!" he muttered to himself. Suddenly, as they approached the door, they heard voices from the room. "What's going on here?" cried Razumikhin.

– Listen, Razumikhin, – Raskolnikov began, – I want to tell you straight: I just came from a dead man’s place, an official passed away… I gave all my money there… and, someone embraced me today – a soul that, even if I’d killed someone, would still… in short, I saw another being there… with a fiery feather… but forget it, I’m chattering nonsense; I’m very weak, hold me up… the stairs now… – What’s wrong? What’s happening? – Razumikhin asked, worried. – Just a bit dizzy, but not from that – it’s just, I feel so wretched, so terribly wretched! Like a woman in despair! See, look at this! See! See! – What? – Can’t you see? There’s light in my room, see? Through the crack… They were already at the final staircase near the landlady’s door, and indeed, from below they could see the light in Raskolnikov’s little room. Strange! Maybe Nastasya’s there? – Razumikhin remarked. – She never comes at this hour, besides she’s asleep long ago, but… I don’t care! Goodbye!

– Not that he thinks you're mad. Brother, I've probably told you too much... It struck him earlier that this one point alone interested you; now it's clear why it interests you; knowing all the circumstances... and how it irritated you then, all tangled up with your illness... I'm a bit drunk, brother, but he's got some idea in his head... I tell you, he's obsessed with mental illnesses. But just forget it... Both were silent for half a minute.

Raskolnikov listened intently. Razumikhin was blabbering under the influence of drink. "I fainted back then because the room was stuffy and smelled of oil paint," said Raskolnikov. "Still explaining! And not just the paint either—this inflammation had been brewing for a whole month; Zosimov saw it coming! But now this boy is completely crushed, you have no idea! 'I’m not even worth this man’s little finger!' Yours, that is. He has good feelings sometimes, the brother. But today’s lesson at the Crystal Palace—that’s perfection! Why, at first you scared him into convulsions! You practically made him believe again in all that disgusting nonsense, and then suddenly—you stuck your tongue out at him: 'Here, take it!' Perfection! He’s flattened, annihilated now! You’re a master, by God, that’s exactly how they should be handled. Ah, if only I had been there! He's been waiting for you terribly, Porfiry also wants to meet you..." "And... this other one too... Why did they label me mad?"

– All of it, and I did it right. I’ve now understood the whole truth, and Zamyotov too… Well, in short, Rodya… the thing is… I’m a bit drunk now… but it doesn’t matter… the point is, this idea… you understand? it was actually forming in their minds… you see? That is, none of them dared to voice it aloud because it was absurd nonsense, especially when that painter was caught, everything burst and died forever. But why are they fools? I even beat up Zamyotov a little back then – this is between us, brother; please don’t hint that you know; I noticed he’s sensitive; it happened at Lavya’s place… but today, today everything became clear. Mainly, this Ilya Petrovich! He took advantage of your fainting spell at the office, and later even felt ashamed himself; I know that…

– It's very good that you're taking him yourself, – said Zosimov to Razumikhin; – what tomorrow brings, we'll see, but today things seem quite good: a significant change from earlier. Live and learn… – Did you know what Zosimov whispered to me as we were leaving? – blurted Razumikhin, as soon as they stepped outside. – Brother, I'll tell you straight because they're fools. Zosimov told me to chat with you on the way, make you talk, and then report back to him because he has this notion… that you're… mad or close to it. Can you imagine! First off, you're three times smarter than him. Secondly, if you're not insane, who cares what nonsense he thinks? And thirdly, this chunk of meat, a surgeon by trade, has gone bonkers over mental illnesses, and today's conversation of yours with Zamyatov completely sealed his opinion. – Did Zamyatov tell you everything?

Zosimov pounced on Raskolnikov with almost greedy interest; there was a particular curiosity evident in him; soon his face brightened. – He must sleep immediately, – he decided, examining the patient as best as possible, – and at night, take a little something. Will you take it? I prepared a powder earlier... – Even two, if needed, – replied Raskolnikov. The powder was taken right away.

"Listen," Raskolnikov said hurriedly, "I've only come to tell you that you've won the bet and truly, no one knows what might happen to anyone. But I can't come in—I'm so weak I’ll collapse right now. So goodbye for now! Do come to me tomorrow…" "You know what, I’ll walk you home! If you’re admitting yourself that you’re weak…" "What about the guests? Who’s that curly-haired fellow who just popped in?" "This one? God knows! Probably my uncle’s acquaintance, or maybe he came on his own… I’ll leave my uncle with them; he’s a most valuable man. A pity you can’t meet him now." "But anyway, the devil with all of them! They’re not bothering with me now, and I need to freshen up, brother—you came at just the right time: another couple of minutes and I’d have started a fight, honestly! They were spewing such nonsense…" "You can’t imagine how much a man can twist himself in the end! But how can’t you imagine it? Aren’t we ourselves liars? Let them lie—then at least later they won’t have to…" "Sit tight for a moment, I’ll bring Zosimov."

He easily found Razumikhin; the new tenant at Pochinkov's house was already known, and the watchman promptly directed him. From halfway up the stairs, one could hear noise and lively chatter from a large gathering. The door to the staircase stood wide open; shouts and arguments echoed. Razumikhin's room was fairly large, and there were about fifteen people assembled. Raskolnikov stopped in the hallway. Here, behind a partition, two servant girls bustled around two large tea kettles, bottles, plates, and trays of savoury snacks brought from the landlady's kitchen. Raskolnikov sent for Razumikhin. He came running in high spirits. At a glance, it was clear he had drunk quite a lot, and although Razumikhin could rarely ever get thoroughly drunk, something about him now was noticeable.

"But Raskolnikov's servant had indeed asked to be remembered in prayers," suddenly flashed through his mind. "Well, that's just... a precaution!" he added, immediately laughing at his own childish prank. He was in excellent spirits.

"I will pray for you all my life," the girl said fervently and suddenly laughed again, rushed to him and hugged him tightly. Raskolnikov told her his name, gave his address and promised to definitely visit her tomorrow. The girl left completely enchanted with him. It was eleven o'clock when he stepped outside. Five minutes later, he stood on the bridge, exactly at the spot where the woman had jumped earlier. "Enough!" he declared decisively and solemnly, "away with illusions, away with false fears, away with ghosts! Life exists! Can't I feel alive now? Has my life died along with that old woman? Rest in peace to her, and enough—dear mother, it's time to retire! Now begins the reign of reason and light—and freedom, and strength... and now let's see! Let's test ourselves!" he added proudly, as though addressing some dark force and challenging it. "I had already agreed to live within an inch of space!"

– Oh yes, we know how to pray! For quite a while now; when I'm grown up, I pray silently to myself, but Kolya and Lidochka pray aloud with Mama; first they say the 'Mother of God', and then another prayer: 'O Lord, forgive and bless our sister Sonya', and then another one: 'O Lord, forgive and bless our other father', because our first father has passed away already, and this one is our other father, and we also pray for that too. – Polly, my name is Rodyon; pray for me sometime too: 'and servant Rodyon' – that's all.

– Poor Papa! – she said after a minute, lifting her tear-streaked face and wiping her tears with her hands – such misfortunes keep happening now, – she suddenly added with that solemn air children so keenly adopt when they suddenly wish to speak like 'grown-ups'. – Did Papa love you? – He loved little Lidia the most of all of us, – she continued very seriously without smiling, speaking now quite like a grown-up – because she's the youngest and also because she's ill, and he always brought her treats, but he taught us to read, and me grammar and the Bible, – she added proudly – and Mama said nothing, but we knew she liked it, and Papa knew too, and Mama wants me to learn French now, because it's time I got an education. – Do you know how to pray?

— Will you love me? Instead of an answer, he saw her face approaching and her plump little lips innocently reaching out to kiss him. Suddenly, her thin, matchstick-like arms wrapped tightly around him, her head nestled against his shoulder, and she softly began to cry, pressing her face to his more and more closely.

He turned to face her. She had dashed down the last flight of stairs and stopped close in front of him, one step above. A faint light filtered in from the courtyard. Raskolnikov made out the thin but pretty face of the girl, smiling at him and looking at him cheerfully, like a child. She had run over with an errand that clearly pleased her. “Excuse me, what’s your name?… and also, where do you live?” she asked hurriedly, her voice slightly out of breath. He placed both hands on her shoulders and gazed at her with a strange sense of joy. It felt so pleasant just to look at her—he couldn’t understand why himself. “Who sent you?” “I was sent by sister Sonya,” replied the girl, smiling even more brightly. “I knew it! I knew it was sister Sonya who sent you.” “And Mama sent me too. When sister Sonya was sending me off, Mama also came up and said, ‘Run quickly, Polenka!’” “Do you love sister Sonya?” “I love her more than anyone!” Polenka declared firmly, her smile suddenly turning serious.

He descended slowly and quietly, feverish and unaware of the new, vast sensation of a suddenly renewed, powerful life within him. It was like the feeling of a condemned man unexpectedly told he has been pardoned. Halfway down the stairs, he was overtaken by the priest returning home; Raskolnikov silently let him pass, exchanging a silent bow. But as he was stepping onto the last few stairs, he suddenly heard hurried footsteps behind him. Someone was running after him. It was Polenka, calling out, "Wait! Wait!"

But with unnatural effort, he managed to prop himself up on his arm. He stared wildly and motionlessly at his daughter for a while, as though not recognizing her. He had never seen her in such attire before. Suddenly, he recognized her—humbled, crushed, overdressed in cheap finery, and ashamedly waiting her turn to bid farewell to her dying father. Infinite anguish appeared on his face. "Sonya! Daughter! Forgive me!" he cried and tried to stretch his hand toward her, but losing support, he slipped and fell face-down off the cot. People rushed to lift him up, laid him down, but he was already dying. Sonya gave a faint cry, rushed over, embraced him, and remained frozen in that embrace. He died in her arms. "He’s got his way!" cried Katerina Ivanovna upon seeing her husband’s corpse. "Now what am I to do! How will I afford his funeral! And how will I feed them—feed them tomorrow!" Raskolnikov approached Katerina Ivanovna.

"Hush-hush! Don’t, don’t! I know what you’ll say!" The ailing man fell silent, but the very next moment his wandering gaze fell upon the door, and he saw Sonya... He hadn’t noticed her until now; she stood in a corner, in the shadows. "Who is this? Who is this?" he suddenly rasped in a hoarse, breathless voice, his eyes widening in terror as he stared towards the door where his daughter stood, struggling to push himself up. "Rest! Rest-rest!" cried Katya Ivanovna.

"Oh, Father! Nothing but words, words! Forgiveness! If he came home drunk today, I wouldn’t even crush him, though his shirt is worn and in rags. He’d collapse and sleep, while I’d be rinsing clothes in the water all night, washing his old things and the children's, then hang them to dry outside the window. At dawn, I’d start mending them—that’s my night! What’s there to speak of forgiveness? I’ve already forgiven!" A deep, violent cough interrupted her words. She spat blood into her handkerchief, showed it to the priest, and with the other hand clutched her chest in pain. The handkerchief was covered in blood... The priest bowed his head and remained silent. Marmeladov was in his final agony; he didn’t look away from Katerina Ivanovna, who had leaned over him again. He longed to say something to her. He began, struggling to move his tongue and speaking unclearly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding he wanted to ask her forgiveness, immediately shouted at him forcefully:

"You should forgive in your hour of death, madam, but such feelings are a great sin, a serious sin indeed!" Katerina Ivanovna was bustling around the sick man, offering him drinks, wiping sweat and blood from his head, adjusting the pillows, and speaking with the priest, occasionally turning to him between tasks. Now, however, she suddenly threw herself at him almost in a frenzy.

Confession and communion were over. Catherine Ivanovna approached her husband's bed again. The priest stepped back and, as he was leaving, turned to say a few words of farewell and comfort to Catherine Ivanovna. "And where am I to put these children?" she snapped irritably, pointing at the little ones. "God is merciful; trust in the Almighty's help," began the priest. "Oh dear! Merciful, yes, but not for us!" "That is a sin, a sin, madam," remarked the priest, shaking his head. "And is this not a sin?" Catherine Ivanovna cried, pointing at the dying man. "Perhaps those who were inadvertently the cause might agree to compensate you, even for the loss of income..." "You don't understand me!" Catherine Ivanovna cried irritably, waving her hand. "And what compensation? He himself, drunk, went under the horses! What income? From him, there was no income, only torment! This drunkard squandered everything. He robbed us and dragged it all to the tavern, ruined their lives and mine! Thank God he's dying! Less loss!"

She lowered her eyes, stepped over the threshold, and stood inside the room, but again, just inside the door.

Sonya stopped at the very doorstep in the entryway but did not step over it, looking lost, seemingly unaware of anything—forgetting even her secondhand silk, inappropriate colorful dress with an extremely long and ridiculous train, and the enormous crinoline that blocked the doorway, her bright shoes, the unnecessary umbrella she'd brought along at night, and her silly straw bonnet with a bright fiery-colored feather. Underneath this cap, worn boyishly askew, a thin, pale, frightened face peeked out with an open mouth and wide, horrified eyes. Sonya was of small build, around eighteen, slender, yet fairly pretty, a blonde with remarkable blue eyes. She stared intently at the bed, at the priest; she, too, was out of breath from walking quickly. Finally, the whispers, some words from the crowd, probably reached her ears.

At this moment, Polenka, who had been running after her sister, swiftly pushed through the crowd from the entryway. She came in, barely catching her breath from running quickly, removed her shawl, located her mother with her eyes, approached her, and said: "He's coming! I met him on the street!" Her mother pulled her onto her lap and sat her down beside her. A girl silently and timidly pushed through the crowd from the entryway, her sudden appearance in this room strange amidst the poverty, rags, death, and despair. She was also in tatters; her outfit was cheap but ornamented according to street fashion, following the taste and rules established in her own unique world, with a brightly and shamefully prominent purpose.

All stepped back. The confession did not last long. The dying man could hardly understand anything; he could only utter broken, incoherent sounds. Katya Ivanovna took Lidochka, lifted the boy off the chair, and moving to the corner near the stove, knelt down, placing the children on their knees before her. The girl only trembled; the boy, standing on his bare knees, steadily raised his tiny hand, made the full sign of the cross, and bowed to the ground, knocking his forehead, which seemed to give him particular pleasure. Katya Ivanovna bit her lip and held back tears; she too prayed, occasionally adjusting the child's shirt and managing to throw a kerchief from the chest over the girl's bare shoulders, all while remaining on her knees. Meanwhile, the doors from the inner rooms creaked open again, pushed by the curious. In the hallway, the crowd grew denser; tenants from all floors gathered, though none dared step across the room's threshold. Only a stub of candle lit the entire scene.

– Well… However, I warn you, it will be absolutely pointless. At that moment, more footsteps were heard, the crowd in the hallway parted, and on the threshold appeared a priest with the sacrament, a grey-haired old man. Behind him followed a policeman, still from outside. The doctor immediately stepped aside and exchanged a meaningful glance with him. Raskolnikov pleaded with the doctor to wait a little. The doctor shrugged his shoulders and stayed.

The doctor entered—a neat, elderly German gentleman, casting suspicious glances around. He approached the patient, checked his pulse, carefully examined his head, and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna, unfastened his blood-soaked shirt to expose his chest. The entire chest was mangled, crushed, and battered; several ribs were broken on the right side. On the left, directly over the heart, lay a grim, large, yellowish-black bruise from a cruel blow by a horse's hoof. The doctor frowned. The police officer quietly explained to him that the man had been caught under a cartwheel and dragged, spinning, about thirty paces along the pavement. "It's astonishing he even regained consciousness," the doctor murmured softly to Raskolnikov. "What do you think?" he asked. "He'll die now." "Surely there's no hope at all?" "Not the slightest! He's in his final moments... Besides, the head injury is very serious... Hmm. Perhaps bloodletting could be tried... but it would be useless. He'll surely die within five or ten minutes." "Well, you might as well bleed him then!"

“No chappals! No chappals!” he muttered, casting a crazed glance at the girl’s bare feet. “Shut uuuup!” Catherine Ivanovna snapped irritably. “You know why she’s without chappals!” “Thank God, the doctor!” Raskolnikov exclaimed joyfully.

All this was spoken in a most rapid stammer, getting faster and faster, but a cough abruptly cut short Katerina Ivanovna’s eloquence. At that moment, the dying man stirred and groaned, and she rushed to him. The sick man opened his eyes and, not yet recognizing or understanding, began to look around at Raskolnikov standing over him. He breathed heavily, deeply, and slowly; blood had oozed at the corners of his lips; sweat appeared on his forehead. Not recognizing Raskolnikov, he anxiously began glancing around with his eyes. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sorrowful, yet strict gaze, and tears streamed from her eyes.

"You are not Amal Ivan, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and since I do not belong to your despicable flatterers like Mr. Lebezyatnikov, who is laughing behind the door right now (laughter and a shout of 'They’ve quarrelled!' indeed came from behind the door), I will always address you as Amalia Ludwigovna, though I cannot fathom why you dislike that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zakharovich; he is dying. Please lock this door immediately and let no one in. Let him die in peace! Otherwise, I assure you, tomorrow your actions will be reported to the Governor-General himself. The Prince knew me when I was a young girl and remembers Semyon Zakharovich very well, to whom he was a benefactor many times. It is well known that Semyon Zakharovich had many friends and patrons, whom he himself left due to noble pride, sensing his unfortunate weakness, but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) we are being assisted by a generous young man who has means and connections and whom Semyon Zakharovich knew since childhood, and be assured, Amalia Ludwigovna…"

– Amalia Ludwigovna! Kindly remember what you're saying – began Kateryna Ivanovna haughtily (she always spoke to the landlady in a condescending tone, ensuring she "knew her place," and even now couldn't deny herself this pleasure) - Amalia Ludwigovna... – I told you once and for all, never you dare call me Amal Ludwigovna; I am Amalia Ivanovna!

The cough choked her, but the warning had worked. Clearly, people were even afraid of Katerina Ivanovna; the tenants, one after another, shuffled back towards the door with that strange inner sense of satisfaction which is always noticeable—even among the closest of people—on witnessing sudden misfortune befalling someone else, and from which not a single person, without exception, is free, despite the most sincere feelings of pity and sympathy. Voices could be heard outside the door, however, mentioning the hospital and saying there was no need to cause unnecessary disturbance. —It's not right to die like this!—shouted Katerina Ivanovna, and rushed to fling open the door to unleash a full thunderbolt upon them, but collided at the threshold with the landlady herself, Mrs. Lippewechsel, who had just caught wind of the incident and had run over to take charge. She was an extremely fussy and disorderly German woman. —Ach, mein Gott!—she clapped her hands—your husband drunk, horse trampled him! Take him to hospital! I am the landlady!

– Just let me die in peace! – she screamed at the crowd. – What kind of show do you think this is? Smoking cigarettes! Khe-khe-khe! Why don't you all walk in wearing hats too... One of you is already wearing a hat... Get out! At least show some respect for the dead!

"I have sent for a doctor," he kept saying to Katerina Ivanovna. "Don’t worry, I will pay. Is there any water? And give me a cloth, a towel, anything, quickly; we don’t know how badly he is injured… He is injured, not dead, be sure… What will the doctor say!"

Raskolnikov soon noticed that this woman was not one of those who faint easily. Within moments, a pillow appeared under the head of the distressed man—something no one had thought of yet. Catherine Ivanovna started undressing and examining him, bustling about without panicking, forgetting herself entirely, biting her trembling lips and holding back cries rising from her chest. Meanwhile, Raskolnikov managed to send someone to fetch the doctor, who lived just across the road.

– "Where should we place him?" asked the policeman, looking around the room after they had already dragged the bloodied and unconscious Marmeladov inside. – "On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, head over here," Raskolnikov directed. – "Run over in the street! While drunk!" someone shouted from the hallway. Katerina Ivanovna stood pale and struggling to breathe. The children were terrified. Little Lida shrieked, darted to Polechka, clung to her, and trembled violently. After laying Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov rushed to Katerina Ivanovna: "For God's sake, calm down, don't panic!" he blurted out. "He was crossing the road when a carriage hit him. Don't worry, he'll come to, I ordered them to bring him here… I was here before, remember… He'll come to, I'll pay!" "You've done it!" Katerina Ivanovna cried desperately and rushed to her husband.

What are they carrying? Lord Almighty!"

tomorrow… khm-khm-khm… it'll rip worse!" she shrieked, gasping. "Back then, the Petersburg chamber junker, Prince Schezhevsky, had just arrived… He danced the mazurka with me and wanted to propose the very next day; but I myself politely thanked him and said my heart belonged to another. That other was your father, Polly; Papa was furious… Is the water ready? Bring the shirt then; and the stockings?… Lida," she addressed her little daughter, "you'll just sleep without a shirt tonight; somehow manage… but lay the stockings out nearby… Wash them together… Why hasn't that drunken ragamuffin come yet! He dragged in the shirt like some rag, tore it all… Might as well do both at once so we don't suffer two nights! Lord! Khm-khm-khm-khm! Again! What is this?" she cried, looking at the crowd in the hallway and the people pushing in with some burden into her room. "What is this?

"You won't believe it, you can't even imagine, Polly dear," she said, pacing the room, "how joyfully and grandly we lived in Papa's house, and how this drunkard ruined me and will ruin you all! Papa was a civilian colonel and nearly a governor; he just needed one final step, and everyone came to him saying, 'We already consider you our governor, Ivan Mikhailovich.' When I… khm! When I… khm-khm-khm… oh, cursed life!" she cried, coughing up phlegm and clutching her chest. "When I… oh, at that last ball… at the district chief's… the Princess Bezsemyanaya saw me – who later blessed me when I married your father, Polly – she immediately asked, 'Is that the sweet young girl who danced with the shawl at the graduation?' (The tear needs mending; I should take the needle now and stitch it, as I taught you, otherwise tomorrow… khm!

Katya Ivanovna, as always, the moment she had a spare minute, began pacing back and forth across her small room—from the window to the stove and back again—her arms tightly crossed over her chest, muttering to herself and coughing. Lately, she had started talking more and more with her elder daughter, ten-year-old Polya, who, though still too young to understand much, clearly sensed that her mother needed her. So she constantly watched her with large, thoughtful eyes, doing her best to pretend she understood everything. This time, Polya was undressing her younger brother, who had been unwell all day, preparing him for bed. Waiting for his shirt to be changed—a shirt that would have to be washed that very night—the boy sat silently on a chair, stiff and serious, his legs stretched straight out, pressed tightly together, heels facing outward and toes turned apart. He listened to what his mother was saying to his sister, lips puffed out, eyes wide and unblinking, perfectly still—just as any well-behaved boy ought to sit when being undressed for bed. A younger child, even smaller, stood behind the screen in tattered rags, waiting for her turn. The door to the staircase was left open, in a futile attempt to escape the waves of tobacco smoke pouring in from other rooms, which kept triggering long, painful coughing fits in the poor consumptive woman. Katya Ivanovna seemed even thinner this week, and the red spots on her cheeks burned brighter than ever before.

He had even managed to slip something discreetly into someone's hand; the matter, after all, was clear and proper, and help was close at hand anyway. The injured man was lifted and carried away; helpers had appeared. Kozel’s house was just about thirty paces away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully supporting the man’s head and guiding the way. “This way, this way! Up the stairs, carry him head first—turn him around… that’s right! I’ll pay, I’ll make it worth your while,” he muttered.

“I know him, I know him!” he cried, pushing his way right to the front. “He’s a government clerk, retired—Titular Councillor Marmeladov. He lives right here, nearby, in Kozel’s house. Quick, get a doctor! I’ll pay, see?” He pulled out money from his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in a state of intense agitation. The policemen were relieved to find out who the injured man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and with all his might, as if it were his own father, urged them to carry the unconscious Marmeladov at once to his apartment. “Just three houses from here,” he hurried, “Kozel’s house—German, wealthy. He must’ve been drunk, on his way home. I know him—he’s a drunkard. His family’s there—wife, children, one daughter. If we drag him to hospital now, he’ll die on the way—there’s surely a doctor in the building anyway! I’ll pay, I’ll pay! At least at home they’ll care for him properly, help him right away—otherwise he won’t make it to the hospital.”

– Exactly three times, everyone heard it! – shouted the third man. However, the coachman was neither particularly gloomy nor frightened. Clearly, the carriage belonged to some wealthy and important master who was waiting for its arrival somewhere; naturally, the police were quite concerned about how best to handle this matter. The injured man would have to be taken first to the station, then to the hospital. No one knew his name. Meanwhile, Raskolnikov pushed through and bent closer. Suddenly, the lantern brightly illuminated the face of the injured man; he recognised him.

Raskolnikov pushed through as best he could and finally saw the cause of all the commotion and curiosity. On the ground lay a man, apparently unconscious, recently crushed by horses. He was poorly dressed, though in what looked like "respectable" clothes, and was covered in blood. Blood streamed from his face and head; his features were bruised, scraped, and horribly disfigured. Clearly, he had been seriously injured. "Good heavens!" wailed the coachman. "How could anyone have avoided it? Had I been speeding or not shouted, that might be another matter—but I was going slow, steady-like. Everyone saw: people lie, but this is the truth! I saw him crossing the road, staggering, nearly falling. I shouted once, then again, then a third time, and I reined in my horses. But straight into their hooves he dropped—flat! Was it on purpose, or was he just too drunk to stand?" "That's exactly how it happened!" someone in the crowd called out. "He did shout—yes, shouted three times, that's true," another voice confirmed.