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.
In the middle of the street stood a stylish, aristocratic carriage drawn by a pair of spirited grey horses; there were no passengers, and the coachman himself had climbed down and stood beside it, holding the horses by the reins. A large crowd had gathered around, with policemen at the front. One of them held a lit lantern, bending down to illuminate something on the pavement near the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming in shock. The coachman looked bewildered and muttered from time to time:
– What a tragedy! Good Lord, what a terrible thing this is!
“No point getting involved,” decided the big watchman. “He’s clearly a rogue! He’s asking for trouble, that’s obvious—get involved and you’ll never get out of it… We know how it goes!”
“Should I go ahead or not?” thought Raskolnikov, stopping in the middle of the road at a crossroads and looking around as if waiting for a final word from someone. But no sound came from anywhere; everything was silent and lifeless, as hard and cold as the stones beneath his feet—lifeless, utterly lifeless, for him alone… Suddenly, far off, about two hundred paces away, at the end of the street, in the thickening darkness, he noticed a crowd, heard voices, shouts… In the midst of the crowd stood some kind of carriage… A tiny light flickered in the middle of the street. “What’s happening?” Raskolnikov turned right and walked towards the crowd. He seemed to be clutching at anything now, and coldly smiled at the thought, because he had already made up his mind about the office and firmly knew that everything would end right now.
– What’s the use of talking to him? – shouted the other watchman, a huge fellow in an open Armenian coat with keys dangling from his belt. – Be off!... He’s a real rogue... Be off! And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder, he flung him out into the street. Raskolnikov staggered, almost fell, but recovered himself, silently looked around at the onlookers, and walked on. – A strange man, that, – said the labourer. – People have become strange these days, – remarked a woman. – Should’ve taken him straight to the office, – added a townsman.
– I’m Rodyon Romanovich Raskolnikov, a former student. I live in Mr. Shil’s house, just down the lane from here – not far at all, in flat number fourteen. Ask the caretaker, he knows me. – Raskolnikov spoke these words slowly and absent-mindedly, without turning around, his eyes fixed intently on the darkening street. – Then why did you come here wearing that coat? – Just to look. – What’s there to see? – Why not just take him to the station? – suddenly chimed in the townsman, then fell silent. Raskolnikov glanced sideways over his shoulder, studied him closely, and said just as quietly and lazily:
– Let’s go. – Yes, let’s! – the emboldened townsman eagerly agreed. – What was he after, anyway? What’s going on in his mind? – Drunk or sober, who can tell? – muttered the labourer. – What do you want? – the caretaker shouted again, now growing seriously annoyed. – Why are you bothering me? – Scared to go to the station? – Raskolnikov mocked him. – Scared? What are you bothering me for? – Rogue! – a woman screamed.
– Was here a while ago. What do you want? Raskolnikov didn’t answer and stood beside them, lost in thought. – Came to see the flat, the senior workman said, approaching. – What flat? – The one where we’re working. “Why’ve you washed the blood away?” he says. “A murder happened here,” says he, “and I’ve come to rent it.” Then starts ringing the bell, nearly tore it off. “Come,” says he, “let’s go to the office, I’ll prove everything there.” Just won’t leave us alone. The watchman stared at Raskolnikov, puzzled and frowning. – And who exactly are you? he shouted, more sternly this time.
– I want to rent a room, – he said. – Just having a look around. – Rooms aren't rented out at night; besides, you should come with the caretaker. – The floor's been washed; are they going to paint? – continued Raskolnikov. – There's no blood left? – What blood? – The old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a whole pool of blood. – What kind of man are you? – the workman cried, alarmed. – Me? – Yes, you. – You want to know, do you?... Come to the office, I'll tell you there. The workers stared at him in bewilderment. – We ought to be going, we're late. Come on, Alyosha. Need to lock up, – said the older workman. – All right, let's go! – Raskolnikov replied indifferently, and walked ahead, slowly descending the stairs. – Hey, caretaker! – he shouted as he passed through the gateway. A small group of people stood near the entrance from the street, watching passers-by: both caretakers, a woman, a townsman in a dressing gown, and a few others. Raskolnikov walked straight up to them. – What do you want? – one of the caretakers responded. – Did you go to the office? – Was there just now. What's it to you? – Are they sitting there? – They are. – Is the assistant there too?
Instead of answering, Raskolnikov got up, went into the passage, reached for the doorbell, and pulled. The same bell, the same tinny sound! He pulled a second, then a third time, listening intently, trying to remember. The old, agonising, terrifying, hideous sensation began to return to him more vividly and clearly; he shuddered with each ring, yet felt increasingly elated. – What d'you want? Who are you? – shouted the porter, coming out to him. Raskolnikov stepped back through the doorway.
– A magazine, my dear fellow, is something with coloured pictures, and these come here every Saturday by post from abroad, for our local tailors, showing how people should dress – men and women alike. It's all in pictures, you see. Men are mostly drawn in long coats, but the women's section, brother, has such fancy gowns – give me everything you've got, and it still wouldn't be enough! – And there's nothing, absolutely nothing missing in this Petersburg! – cried the younger one enthusiastically – except one's mother and father, everything else is here! – Except that, my dear fellow, everything else can be found, – concluded the elder one with authority. Raskolnikov stood up and went into the other room, where the bed, trunk and chest of drawers had stood earlier. Without furniture, the room seemed terribly small to him. The wallpaper was the same; in the corner, the spot on the wall was clearly visible where the icon case used to stand. He looked at it and returned to his window. The older workman was watching him sideways. – What do you want, sir? – he suddenly asked, turning to him.
– She comes to me, this one, in the morning, – the elder was telling the younger, – so early, dressed up to the nines. 'And what's all this, I says, parading yourself before me like a lemon? What's this orange-business you're pulling, I says?' – 'I want, she says, Tit Vasilyevich, from now on, henceforth, to be entirely at your service.' That's how it was! And the way she was dressed: a magazine, simply a magazine! – But what's this "magazine", uncle? – asked the youth. He was clearly learning from his "uncle".
The room was being redecorated too; there were workers inside—it seemed to strike him. He had somehow imagined that everything would be exactly as he had left it, perhaps even the bodies lying in the same places on the floor. But now: bare walls, no furniture. It felt strange! He walked over to the window and sat on the sill. There were only two workers, both young men—one older, the other much younger. They were pasting new wallpaper over the old, tattered yellow one: white with lilac flowers. For some reason, this displeased Raskolnikov intensely; he looked at the new wallpaper with hostility, as though it pained him to see everything so changed. The workers, clearly delayed, were hurriedly rolling up their paper and preparing to leave. Raskolnikov’s arrival hardly caught their attention. They were talking to each other. He folded his arms and began to listen.
An irresistible and inexplicable urge drew him in. He entered the building, passed through the courtyard, turned right into the first entrance, and began climbing the familiar staircase to the fourth floor. The narrow, steep stairs were very dark. He stopped at each landing, looking around with curiosity. On the first-floor landing, the window frame was fully opened: "That wasn't there before," he thought. Here was the second-floor apartment where Nikolas and Mitya had worked: "Locked up, and the door's freshly painted—so it's up for rent, then." The third floor... and now the fourth... "Here it is!" He was struck by confusion—the apartment door stood wide open, people were inside, voices could be heard. This was the last thing he had expected. Hesitating a moment, he climbed the final steps and walked into the apartment.
"Well, this is the end!" he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the embankment of the canal. "Still, I'll finish it, because I want to... But is it really the end? Never mind! Just a yard of space—that's all, heh! What a ridiculous ending! Can it really be the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah, damn it! I'm so tired—better lie down somewhere, or sit quickly! The worst is how utterly stupid it all is. But who cares anymore? Ugh, what nonsense keeps coming into my head..."
People were dispersing, the police were still dealing with the drowned woman, someone shouted about the office… Raskolnikov watched it all with a strange sense of indifference and detachment. He felt disgusted. "No, it's filthy… the water… not worth it," he muttered to himself. "Nothing will happen—I've nothing to expect. What was that about an office? And why isn't Zametov at the office? The office opens at ten…" He turned his back to the railing and looked around. "Well then, so be it! Perhaps I will!" he said firmly; he left the bridge and headed towards the office. His heart felt empty and numb. He didn't want to think. Even the anguish had faded, leaving no trace of the energy he'd had when he left home with the intention of "ending everything!" Complete apathy had taken its place.
– She's drunk herself to the devil, good people, drunk herself to the devil, – wailed the same woman's voice, now close to Afrosinushka, – and then tried to hang herself too, we had to cut her down. So I went off to the shop, left the little girl watching over her, – and look what happened! She's a townsfolk, sir, our own neighbour, lives right nearby, the second house from the corner, just here…
– Drowned! She’s drowned! – dozens of voices shouted. People came rushing in; both embankments were crowded with onlookers. A crowd gathered on the bridge, all around Raskolnikov, pressing in and pushing him from behind. – Oh my God, it’s our little Afrosinya! – a woman’s wailing cry rang out nearby. – Oh dear, save her! Kind souls, pull her out! – A boat! Get a boat! – the crowd cried. But a boat was no longer needed. A constable had already dashed down the steps to the canal, flung off his coat and boots, and jumped into the water. It didn’t take long: the drowned woman was drifting just two steps from the landing. He grabbed her by her clothes with his right hand, managed to seize a pole extended by his comrade with his left, and in an instant the woman was pulled out. They laid her on the granite slabs of the steps. She quickly regained consciousness, sat up, and began sneezing and snorting, senselessly wiping her soaked clothes with her hands. She said nothing.
He felt someone standing beside him, on his right, close by. He looked—and saw a woman, tall, with a kerchief on her head, her face long, yellow, worn, with sunken reddish eyes. She stared straight ahead, but clearly saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly, she leaned her right hand on the railing, lifted her right leg over the railing and swung it across, then followed with her left, and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water splashed apart, swallowed the victim momentarily, but after a minute the drowned woman surfaced and floated slowly downstream, her head and feet submerged, her back uppermost, her skirt bunched up and ballooning above the water like a pillow.
Raskolnikov walked straight to the –sky Bridge, stopped in the middle, leaned both elbows on the railing, and began gazing into the distance. After parting with Razumikhin, he had grown so weak that he could barely make it here. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere, right on the street. Bending over the water, he mechanically watched the last pink glow of sunset, the row of houses darkening in the thickening twilight, a single distant window high up in an attic on the left bank, flashing brightly like fire as the final ray of sunlight struck it for an instant, and the darkening waters of the canal—seeming to peer into the water with intent attention. Finally, red circles began spinning in his eyes; the houses swayed, passers-by, embankments, carriages—everything whirled and danced around. Suddenly he shuddered, perhaps saved again from fainting by a wild and hideous vision.
"Damn it!" he muttered, almost aloud, "he speaks sense, yet somehow... But then, I'm a fool! Don't madmen speak sense too? And it seemed to me that Zosimov was actually afraid of that very thing!" He tapped his forehead with his finger. "What if... How can I leave him alone now? He might drown himself! Ah, I've messed up! No way!" And he rushed back, chasing after Raskolnikov, but the trail had already gone cold. He spat, then turned briskly and hurried back to the Crystal Palace to question Zametov as quickly as possible.
Raskolnikov reached Sadovaya and turned the corner. Razumikhin watched him go, deep in thought. Finally, he shrugged and went back into the house, but stopped halfway up the stairs.
– No. – You're lying! – Razumikhin cried impatiently. – How would you know? You can't even take care of yourself! You don't understand anything about this... I've quarrelled with people exactly like this a thousand times, and then run back to them again. You feel ashamed – and go back to the man! So remember, Pochinkov House, third floor... – You know, sir, at this rate you might actually let someone beat you, just for the pleasure of being kind, Mr. Razumikhin. – Who? Me? They'd twist my nose off for just one fantasy! Pochinkov House, number forty-seven, apartment of the official Babushkin... – I won't come, Razumikhin! – Raskolnikov turned and walked away. – I'll bet you will! – Razumikhin shouted after him. – Otherwise... otherwise I don't want to know you! Wait, hey! Is Zametov there? – He is. – Seen him? – Seen him. – Talked? – Talked. – About what? Well, never mind, devil take it, don't tell me. Pochinkov, forty-seven, Babushkin's place – remember!
He began calmly, already savouring the venom he was about to unleash, but ended in a frenzy, gasping for breath, just as he had earlier with Luzhin. Razumikhin stood still, pondered for a moment, and let go of his hand.
How, how—tell me, teach me—can I possibly beg you at last to stop pestering me and doing me favours? Let me be ungrateful, let me be base—but leave me, for God's sake, all of you, just leave me alone! Leave me! Leave me!
— Listen, Razumikhin — began Raskolnikov quietly and seemingly quite calmly — can't you see that I don't want your kindness? And why bother doing good to those who... spit on it? To those, finally, for whom it's genuinely painful to endure it? What need had you to track me down at the start of my illness? Maybe I would've been glad to die? Haven't I made it clear enough to you today that you're tormenting me, that you're... sickening me? Really, is it so amusing to torture people? I assure you, all this seriously hinders my recovery, because it constantly irritates me. Even Zosimov left earlier so as not to irritate me! So please, for God's sake, leave me alone too! And what right, finally, do you have to keep me here by force? Can't you see that I'm speaking now with a perfectly sound mind?
– So there you are! – he shouted at the top of his voice. – You've bolted from bed! I even looked for you under the sofa! We went up to the attic! Nearly killed Nastasya over you... And here you are! Rodya! What does this mean? Speak the truth! Confess at once! Do you hear? – It simply means I'm sick to death of all of you and I want to be alone, – answered Raskolnikov calmly. – Alone? When you can't even walk properly, when your face is as pale as a sheet and you're gasping for breath! Fool!... What were you doing at the Crystal Palace? Confess right now! – Let go! – said Raskolnikov, trying to pass by. That was too much for Razumikhin; he firmly grabbed him by the shoulder. – Let go? How dare you say 'let go'? Do you know what I'll do to you now? I'll scoop you up, tie you in a knot, and carry you home under my arm – straight to bed and lock you in!
Just as Raskolnikov opened the door to the street, he suddenly bumped into Razumikhin, who was coming in. Neither had seen the other even a step away, so they nearly collided head-on. For a moment, they stood frozen, staring at each other. Razumikhin was utterly astonished, but suddenly anger—real, fierce anger—flashed threateningly in his eyes.
He went out, trembling all over with a wild, hysterical sensation, which yet contained a tinge of unbearable pleasure—though he was gloomy and terribly exhausted. His face was distorted, as if after some kind of fit. His fatigue was rapidly increasing. His strength had surged up suddenly, triggered by the first shock, the first irritating sensation, and now faded just as quickly as the sensation itself diminished. Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, deep in thought. Raskolnikov had casually overturned all his views on a certain matter and finally settled his opinion. "Ilya Petrovich is a fool!" he concluded decisively.
– Here, take another twenty kopecks for vodka. Look at all this money! – he handed Zametov his trembling hand holding the banknotes – red ones, blue ones, twenty-five roubles. Where'd it come from? And where'd the new clothes come from? You know very well he didn't have a single kopeck! Surely you've questioned the landlady by now... Well, enough! Assez causé! Goodbye... most delightful...
– What if I were the one who killed the old woman and Lizaveta? – he suddenly blurted out – and then came to his senses. Zametov stared at him wildly and turned as pale as a sheet. His face twisted into a nervous smile. – Could that really be possible? – he whispered faintly. Raskolnikov glared at him bitterly. – Admit it, you believed me, didn't you? Yes? You did? – Not at all! Now, more than ever, I don't believe it! – Zametov said quickly. – Got you at last! Caught the little bird! So you did believe it before, since now you "don't believe it more than ever"? – Not at all! – cried Zametov, clearly flustered. – Were you frightening me on purpose just to trap me like this? – So you don't believe? Then why were you talking about it among yourselves when I left the office earlier? And why did Lieutenant Porokh question me after my fainting fit? Hey you," he shouted to the waiter, standing up and taking his cap, "how much do I owe?"
– Just thirty kopecks, sir," the waiter replied, rushing over.
“You’re mad,” said Zametov, for some reason almost in a whisper, and suddenly moved away from Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov’s eyes flashed; he turned terribly pale; his upper lip twitched and quivered. He leaned as close to Zametov as possible and began moving his lips without uttering a sound—this went on for about half a minute. He knew what he was doing, but could not control himself. That dreadful word, like a bolt snapping open a door, trembled on his lips—any moment it might burst out; any moment he might let it go, speak it aloud!
– Ugh, you’re saying such frightening things! – laughed Zamyotov. – But all this is just talk; in reality, I’m sure you’d trip up at the first step. Honestly, I’d say neither you nor I, nor even some hardened, reckless fellow, could ever be sure of himself. No need to go far – take the example right here: that old woman murdered in our district. Seems like a bold, desperate man, risking everything in broad daylight, saved only by a miracle – yet his hands still trembled in the end: couldn’t even rob properly, couldn’t hold his nerve; it’s clear from the investigation…
Raskolnikov seemed offended. – Clear? Well, just you try catching him now! – he cried, provoking Zamyotov with malicious glee. – Well, they will catch him. – Who? You? You catch him? You’ll wear yourselves out trying! That’s your main clue, isn’t it: whether a man spends money or not? Had no money before, now suddenly starts spending – so it must be him, right? Any child could fool you with that, if he wanted to!
Once done, I’d pull out a five-rupee note each from the second and fifth stacks, hold them up to the light again, pretend to be unsure, say, “Could you please change these?” – I’d work the clerk up to the seventh sweat, till he wouldn’t know how to get rid of me! Finally, I’d finish, start to leave, open the door – but then, oh, excuse me, turn back again, ask some question, seek some clarification – that’s how I’d do it!
– I wouldn’t have done it that way – he began slowly. – Here’s how I’d go about it: I’d count the first thousand, say, four times over from every side, examining each note closely. Then I’d start on the second thousand, count up to the middle, pull out a fifty-rupee note, hold it up to the light, turn it over, check it again – just to make sure it’s not fake. Say, “You see, I’m a bit worried – a relative of mine lost twenty-five rupees recently in just this way,” and then tell some little story. And when I start on the third thousand – no, sorry – I’d suddenly think, “Wait, in that second thousand, I think I miscounted the seventh hundred,” get doubtful, drop the third thousand, go back to the second – and keep doing that with all five stacks.
– Why did your hands tremble then? – Zamyetov picked up. – No, I tell you, it's quite possible. Yes, I'm absolutely certain it can happen. Sometimes a man just can't bear it. – You mean, you'd do it? – Oh, you think you could bear it? No, I couldn't! Not even for a hundred-rupee reward would I go through such horror! To walk in with a forged note—where? To a banker's office, where they've seen it all a hundred times over—no, I'd be too ashamed. But wouldn't you be ashamed? Suddenly, Raskolnikov had an overwhelming urge to stick his tongue out. A shiver ran down his spine, now and then.
Of course, that raises suspicion. And the whole thing collapses because of one fool! Is something like that even possible?
– This? These are just kids, greenhorns, not fraudsters! A whole fifty people gathering for such a purpose! Is that even possible? Even three would be too many, and each would have to trust the others more than himself! One drunk man lets it slip, and everything goes up in smoke! Greenhorns! Hiring unreliable people to cash cheques at offices: can you really trust the first stranger off the street with something like this? Suppose it somehow works with these greenhorns, suppose each walks away with a million—then what? For the rest of their lives? Each one dependent on the other for life! Better to hang oneself! And they couldn’t even cash the cheques properly: one goes to the office, starts exchanging, gets five thousand, and his hands begin to tremble. He counts four bundles, but takes the fifth without counting, on trust, just wanting to stuff it in his pocket and run.
– There’s been so much fraud going around these days, – said Zametov. – Just recently I read in the Moscow Vedomosti that a whole gang of counterfeiters was caught in Moscow. It was an entire ring. They were forging banknotes. – Oh, that’s old news! I read about it a full month ago, – replied Raskolnikov calmly. – So, in your opinion, are these the real fraudsters? – he added with a smile. – What, if not fraudsters?
– Why aren't you drinking your tea? It'll get cold, – said Zametov. – Huh? What? Tea?... All right, perhaps... – Raskolnikov took a sip from his glass, put a piece of bread in his mouth, and suddenly, glancing at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and gave himself a little shake; his face at once resumed its former mocking expression. He went on drinking tea.
Raskolnikov’s still and serious face changed in an instant, and suddenly he burst into the same nervous laughter as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. In a flash, with extraordinary clarity, he recalled a recent moment—when he had stood behind the door, axe in hand, the bolt jumping, the people inside quarrelling and pounding, and suddenly he had felt an urge to shout at them, curse them, stick out his tongue, tease them, laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh! “You’re either mad,” said Zametov, “or—” and stopped abruptly, as if suddenly struck by a thought that flashed through his mind. “Or what? What ‘or’? Come on, speak!”
“Nothing!” Zametov snapped irritably. “All nonsense!”
Both fell silent. After the sudden, spasmodic burst of laughter, Raskolnikov suddenly became pensive and gloomy. He leaned on the table and propped his head in his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The silence lasted quite a while.
– This is the very old woman, – Rascolnikov went on in the same whisper, not moving a muscle at Zametov's exclamation, – the one about whom, remember, when they started telling the story at the office, I fainted. Now do you understand? – What... what do you mean? "Understand"? – Zametov said, almost anxiously.