О чем говорят каналы

"You should file a report with the police," replied Porfiry in a thoroughly businesslike manner, "stating that, having learned of a certain incident—namely, this murder—you kindly request the investigating officer in charge of the case to be informed that certain items belong to you, and that you wish to redeem them... or something along those lines. Anyway, they'll write to you."

As soon as Porfiry Petrovich heard that the visitor had "some business" with him, he immediately asked him to sit on the sofa and himself sat at the other end, fixing his eyes on the guest with such intense and overly serious attention that it became almost oppressive and awkward, especially at first meeting, particularly when what one has to say seems, in one's own opinion, hardly worthy of such extraordinary gravity. But Raskolnikov explained his matter in brief, coherent terms, clearly and precisely, and was satisfied with himself, even managing to observe Porfiry quite well. Porfiry Petrovich, for his part, did not take his eyes off him for a moment throughout. Razumikhin, seated opposite them at the same table, followed the conversation eagerly and impatiently, constantly shifting his gaze from one to the other and back again—something that was already a bit too much. "Fool!" Raskolnikov thought to himself.

Porfiry Petrovich was at home, wearing a robe, clean underclothes, and worn-out slippers. He was about thirty-five years old, slightly below average height, stout, even with a little belly, clean-shaven, without moustache or sideburns, his hair closely cropped on a large round head, oddly prominent at the back. His plump, round face, with a slightly snub nose, had a sickly dark-yellow complexion, yet looked fairly lively and even mocking. It would have seemed quite pleasant, were it not for his eyes, with their watery, slippery gleam, hidden beneath almost white, fluttering eyelashes that kept blinking, as if covertly winking at someone. That gaze strangely clashed with his overall appearance, which had something almost effeminate, yet lent him an air far more serious than one might have expected at first glance.

– Oh, you! The investigating officer! Well, damn all of you! – snapped Razumihin, but suddenly bursting into laughter, he approached Porfiry Petrovich with a cheerful face, as if nothing had happened. – Enough nonsense! We’re all fools; let’s get down to business. Here’s my friend, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov. First, he’s heard a lot about you and wanted to meet, and second, he has a small matter to discuss with you. Hey! Zamyotov! What are you doing here? Do you two already know each other? How long have you been acquainted? "This is strange!" Raskolnikov thought uneasily. Zamyotov seemed slightly embarrassed, but not much. – We met yesterday at your place, – he replied casually. – So God saved me from loss! Last week he was begging me to somehow get introduced to you, Porfiry, and you’ve already hooked up without me… Where’s your tobacco?

– Oh, please, very pleased indeed—and it’s nice how you came in… What, doesn’t he even want to greet me? – Porfiry Petrovich nodded toward Razumikhin. – Honestly, I don’t know why he got so upset with me. I just told him on the way here that he looks like Romeo, and… and proved it—nothing more, as far as I recall. – Pig! – Razumikhin responded without turning around. – So, he must have very serious reasons to get so angry over just one little word, – Porfiry chuckled.

The scene unfolded like this: Raskolnikov was still laughing, inadvertently leaving his hand in the host's grip, yet knowing full well the measure of the situation, he waited for the right moment to end it as quickly and naturally as possible. Razumikhin, thoroughly embarrassed by the overturned table and the broken glass, glared gloomily at the shards, spat, and abruptly turned toward the window, where he stood with his back to the room, his face terribly frowning as he stared out without seeing anything. Porfiry Petrovich kept laughing and wanted to keep laughing, but it was clear he needed an explanation. In the corner, on a chair, sat Zamiotov, who had risen when the guests entered and now stood waiting, his mouth stretched wide in a grin, yet looking at the entire scene with bewilderment, even a kind of disbelief—and at Raskolnikov himself with something like confusion. Raskolnikov was unpleasantly struck by Zamiotov’s unexpected presence. “I’ve got to think this through!” he thought. “Excuse me, please,” he began, visibly flustered, “Raskolnikov…”

– Uff, blast it! – he roared, waving his hand and striking it against the small round table, on which stood a half-finished glass of tea. Everything went flying and clattered. – But why break chairs, gentlemen? The government will have to bear the loss! – Porfiry Petrovich shouted cheerfully.

He was already entering the rooms. He came in with an air as if he were straining every muscle to keep from bursting into laughter. Behind him, with a face completely upturned and ferociously grim, flushed like a peony, tall and awkward, entered the embarrassed Razumikhin. His face and entire figure at that moment were indeed comical and justified Raskolnikov’s laughter. Raskolnikov, still not introduced, bowed to the host standing in the middle of the room and looking at them inquisitively, shook his hand—all while visibly struggling to suppress his mirth and manage at least two or three words to introduce himself. No sooner had he managed to assume a serious expression and mumble something than—almost involuntarily—he glanced again at Razumikhin and simply could not hold back: the suppressed laughter broke out all the more uncontrollably the harder he had restrained it until then. The extraordinary ferocity with which this “dear friend” took the laughter lent the whole scene an air of utmost sincerity and, above all, naturalness. Razumikhin, as if on purpose, only added to the effect.

Raskolnikov laughed so hard that he seemed unable to contain himself, and they entered Porfiry Petrovich’s apartment still laughing. That was exactly what Raskolnikov wanted: from the rooms, one could hear that they had come in laughing and were still chuckling in the hallway. “Not a word here, or I’ll… smash you!” Razumikhin hissed furiously, grabbing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

– No, brother, really, it’s obvious. The other day you sat on the chair in a way you never do—perched right on the edge, and your whole body kept twitching. You’d jump up for no reason at all. One moment angry, the next your face turns all sweet, like some sugary candy, for no reason. You even blushed—especially when they invited you for lunch, you turned bright red. – I didn’t, you’re lying!... What are you even talking about? – Come on, you’re squirming like a schoolboy! Ugh, damn it, he’s blushing again! – What a bloody pig you are! – Why are you getting so flustered? Romeo! Wait, I’ll tell someone about this today, ha-ha-ha! I’ll have Mother in stitches… and a few others too… – Listen, listen, listen—this is serious, this is… What in the world happens now, damn it! – Razumikhin finally stammered, freezing in horror. – What will you tell them? I swear, brother… Bloody hell, what a pig you are! – Just a spring rose, that’s all! And how well it suits you, if you only knew! Romeo, ten inches tall! And look how you’ve washed up today—actually cleaned your nails! When did that ever happen? Honestly, you’ve even pomaded your hair! Come closer! – He bent down. – Pig!!!

Most important — does Porfiry know or doesn’t he that I was in the old hag’s flat yesterday and asked about the blood? I must find it out in a flash, the moment I step in, read it from his face; otherwise… I’m done, but I will find out! – Hey, you know what? – he suddenly turned to Razumikhin with a sly smile – I noticed today, brother, you’ve been in some kind of unusual excitement since morning? Am I right? – What excitement? I’m not excited at all, – Razumikhin twitched.

– What's this? Do they take me for a madman? Well, perhaps I really am. He grimaced tensely. – Yes… yes… no, I mean, damn it, no! Well, never mind – all I said (and everything else just now) was nonsense, blabber from a hangover. – Why are you apologizing? How utterly sick I am of all this! – cried Raskolnikov with exaggerated irritation. Though partly, he was pretending. – I know, I know, I understand. Rest assured, I do understand. It's even embarrassing to talk about it… – Well, if it's embarrassing, then don't talk! They both fell silent. Razumikhin was more than delighted, and Raskolnikov felt it with disgust. What also troubled him was that Razumikhin was now speaking about Porfiry. "This one too must sing Lazarus," he thought, growing pale, his heart pounding. "And sing it naturally. Most natural would be not to sing at all. Forcefully not singing anything! No, that would seem unnatural again… Well, we'll see how it turns out… we'll see… is it good or bad that I'm going? The moth flies straight into the flame. It's bad that my heart's pounding like this…" – In that grey house – said Razumikhin.

– But why particularly? – Well, not exactly... you see, recently, especially when you fell ill, I mentioned you quite often. He was listening... and when he found out you're studying law but can't finish the course due to circumstances, he said, "What a pity!" That's how I came to conclude... I mean, it's everything taken together, not just that one thing; yesterday, Zamyetov... You see, Rodya, I was babbling something to you yesterday while we were walking home, when I was drunk... and I'm afraid, brother, that you might be making too much of it, you know...

– Oh yes, yes, yes – hurriedly chiming in without knowing quite why, Razumikhin exclaimed – that's why you were partly shocked back then... You know, even in your delirium you kept muttering about rings and chains!... Well, yes, yes... Now it's all clear, everything is so clear now. 'Just look at how widely this idea has spread among them! This man here would go to the cross for me, yet he's so pleased to think I was babbling about rings in my fever! How deeply rooted it is in all of them!' – But will we find him in? – he asked aloud. – We will, we will – Razumikhin hastened to say. – He's a good fellow, you'll see! A bit awkward, I mean, he's a man of society, but I'm saying he's awkward in another sense. Bright lad, intelligent, really quite sharp, only his way of thinking is rather peculiar... Suspicious, sceptical, cynical... Likes to fool around, I mean not deceive exactly, but just tease... Well, and that old materialist approach... But he knows his job, knows it well... He once solved a murder case last year where almost all the clues had been lost! He's extremely, extremely eager to meet you!

– When? – Raskolnikov paused, trying to recall. – I was with her, I think, about three days before her death. But anyway, I’m not here to redeem my things now, – he added with sudden haste and peculiar emphasis on the items, – I’ve only got a single silver rouble on me... all because of that cursed delirium yesterday! He pronounced the word 'delirium' with particular solemnity.

"You're staying at Kaper-naumov's!" he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. "He altered my waistcoat yesterday. I'm staying just next door, with Madame Resslich, Gertruda Karlovna. What a coincidence!" Sonia looked at him closely. "Neighbours," he went on, unusually cheerful. "I've only been in town three days. Well then, see you later." Sonia didn't answer. The door opened, and she slipped into her room. For some reason, she felt ashamed, as if something had frightened her... On the way to Porfiry, Razumikhin was in an unusually excited state. "Brother, this is excellent," he repeated several times. "I'm glad! So glad!" "What exactly are you so glad about?" Raskolnikov wondered to himself. "I had no idea you were also pawning things with the old woman. And... and... when was it? I mean, how long ago did you see her?" "What a simpleton!" Raskolnikov thought.

When Sonia stepped out onto the canal embankment, they found themselves alone on the pavement. Watching her, he noticed her deep thoughtfulness and distraction. Upon reaching her house, Sonia turned in through the gate—he followed, somewhat surprised. Once inside the courtyard, she went to the right, towards the corner where the staircase led up to her apartment. "Well, well!" muttered the stranger, beginning to climb the steps behind her. Only then did Sonia notice him. She went up to the third floor, turned into the gallery, and rang the bell at number nine, where chalk letters on the door read: 'Kapernaumov, Tailor'. "Well, well!" repeated the stranger again, astonished at the strange coincidence, and rang next door at number eight. The two doors were barely six paces apart.

He was a man of about fifty, taller than average, stout, with broad and high shoulders, which gave him a slightly stooping appearance. He was smartly and comfortably dressed, and looked every inch a distinguished gentleman. In his hand he carried a handsome cane, which he tapped lightly on the pavement with each step, and his hands were covered with fresh gloves. His broad, high-cheekboned face was quite pleasant, with a fresh complexion—unlike the usual Petersburg pallor. His hair, still thick, was a light fair colour, just touched with grey, while his broad, heavy beard, spreading out like a spade, was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue, cold, penetrating, and thoughtful; his lips were rosy. Overall, he was a remarkably well-preserved man who appeared much younger than his years.

Reaching the turning, he crossed to the opposite side of the street, turned around and saw that Sonia was already following him along the same path, unaware of her surroundings. When she reached the corner, she too turned into the same street. He followed, keeping his eyes on her from the opposite pavement; after walking about fifty paces, he crossed again to Sonia's side, caught up with her and walked behind, keeping a distance of about five steps.

And of course, she couldn't have noticed at that moment an unfamiliar gentleman who was carefully watching her and following closely behind. He had been tailing her since she left the gate. Just as the three of them—Razumikhin, Raskolnikov, and she—had paused for a brief exchange on the pavement, this passerby, while moving around them, suddenly seemed to start, accidentally catching Sonya's words: "and she asked: where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?" He quickly but attentively scanned all three, especially Raskolnikov, to whom Sonya had spoken. Then he looked at the building and took note of it. All this happened in an instant, as he walked past, and without even appearing to do so, the man moved ahead, slowing his pace as if waiting. He was waiting for Sonya; he had seen they were saying goodbye and that she would soon head off somewhere to her place. "So, where to? I've definitely seen that face somewhere," he thought, trying to recall Sonya's features. "Must find out."

– Please, not today, not today! – she muttered, her heart sinking, as if pleading with someone, like a frightened child. – Lord! Coming to me… into this room… he'll see… oh Lord!

– Poly? Oh, yes... Polechka! She's... little... she's your sister? Did I give her the address? – How could you forget? – No... I remember... – I'd heard about you back then from the late one himself... Only I didn't know your surname then, and he himself didn't know it either... Now I've come... and when I found out your surname yesterday... I asked today: where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?... I didn't know you were living with the tenants too... Good day, sir... I'm going to Katerina Ivanovna... She was terribly relieved to finally leave; she walked with downcast eyes, hurrying to get out of their sight as quickly as possible, to cover the twenty paces to the right turn onto the street and at last be alone—so she could walk fast, without looking at anyone, noticing nothing, thinking, remembering, piecing together every word spoken, every detail. Never, never had she felt anything like this before. An entirely new, unknown and hazy world had entered her soul. Suddenly she remembered that Raskolnikov himself had intended to visit her today—perhaps this morning, perhaps right now!

– Never!... Though come to think of it, I've been meaning to buy a lock for two years now, – he added carelessly. – Lucky people, aren't they, who've got nothing to lock up? – he said, laughing, turning to Sonia. They had stopped at the gate. – You go right, Sofya Semyonovna? By the way, how did you manage to find me? – he asked, as if wanting to say something quite different. He kept wanting to look into her quiet, clear eyes, but somehow it didn't quite work out... – Why, you gave the address to Polenka yesterday.

– Not just anyone, straight to Porfiry! – cried Razumikhin with extraordinary excitement. – How glad I am! Come on, let’s go now, it’s just two steps, we’ll surely catch him! – All right… let’s go… – He’ll be very, very, very, very pleased to meet you! I’ve spoken to him a lot about you, at different times… Even yesterday. Come on!… So you knew the old woman? That’s it!… Splendid, how wonderfully everything has turned out!… Oh yes… Sofya Ivanovna… – Sofya Semyonovna, – corrected Raskolnikov. – Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumikhin, a good man… – If you need to go now… – began Sonya, not even looking at Razumikhin, and becoming all the more flustered because of it. – Let’s go then! – decided Raskolnikov. – I’ll come see you today, Sofya Semyonovna. Just tell me where you live? He wasn’t exactly stammering, but as though hurrying and avoiding her gaze. Sonya gave her address, blushing. All of them went out together. – Don’t you lock up? – asked Razumikhin, following them down the stairs.

– He asked about the pawned items, and I’ve got some things pledged there too—just junk, really, but my sister’s little ring, which she gave me as a keepsake when I left for here, and my father’s silver watch. They’re worth maybe five or six rupees, but they’re precious to me—sentimental value. So what should I do now? I don’t want the things lost, especially the watch. I was quite anxious earlier when Mother asked to see it, after we began talking about Dunya’s watch. It’s the only thing left from Father. She’ll fall ill if it goes missing! Women, you know! So what should I do—advise me! I know I ought to report it to the station. But wouldn’t it be better to go straight to Porfiry? What do you think? The matter needs settling quickly. You’ll see, Mother will ask again before lunch!

– Never mind what’s written! They’ve talked and written about us too—have we forgotten? I’m sure she’s… a wonderful person, and all this is nonsense! – God grant it! – And Pyotr Petrovich is a despicable gossip, – Dunyasha suddenly snapped. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken aback. The conversation broke off. – Look here, this is what I wanted to discuss with you… – said Raskolnikov, drawing Razumikhin aside to the window… – Then I shall tell Katerina Ivanovna that you’ll come… – Sonya quickly began taking her leave. – Just a moment, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets here, you’re not in the way at all… I’d like to say a couple more words… Listen, – he suddenly turned, breaking off mid-sentence, directly to Razumikhin – you know that man… what’s his name? Porfiry Petrovich? – Of course! He’s a relative. What about him? – Razumikhin added with sudden curiosity. – Isn’t he handling this case… you know, the murder… the one you were talking about yesterday? – Yes… well? – Razumikhin’s eyes suddenly widened.

– She doesn't suit at all! – Dunya exclaimed irritably. – And what are we to make of your presentiments, Mama! He's only known her since yesterday, and now, when she walked in, he didn't even recognise her. – Well, just wait and see!... She makes me uneasy, I'm telling you, you'll see, you'll see! I was so frightened: she kept staring at me, staring, with such eyes—I could hardly sit still on the chair, remember how he started introducing her? And it struck me as odd: Pyotr Petrovich writes about her in such glowing terms, yet here he is recommending her to us, especially to you! Clearly, she means something to him!

— Dunyasha! Just think, what a position we’re in now! What if Pyotr Petrovich refuses? — poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out thoughtlessly. — Then what’s he worth after that! — Dunyasha retorted sharply and contemptuously. — We did well to leave just now, — Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interjected, cutting her off. — He was rushing off somewhere on business; let him walk around, breathe some fresh air… it’s suffocating in there… but where’s the fresh air to be had here? On the streets too, it’s like rooms without windows. Oh Lord, what a city this is!... Wait, step aside, they’ll crush us—they’re carrying something! That was a piano, truly… how they shove… I’m terribly afraid of that girl too… — Which girl, Mama? — Why, that one, Sofya Semyonovna, who was here just now… — And why? — I have a feeling, Dunya. Whether you believe me or not, the moment she walked in, I thought right then—that’s exactly where the crux of the matter lies…

– You weren't considerate at all! – Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted passionately and anxiously. – You know, Dunya, watching the two of you, you're his exact image—not so much in looks, but in spirit: both of you melancholic, both moody and quick-tempered, both proud, yet both noble-hearted. Dunyechka, how could he possibly be selfish? Could he? – And when I think of what's going to happen tonight, my heart just sinks! – Don't worry, Mother, whatever must happen, will happen.

Sonya gazed in surprise at the sudden brightness that lit up his face; for several moments he stared silently and intently at her—the whole account of her dead father's tale about her suddenly flashed through his memory... "Good Lord, Dunya!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna exclaimed the moment they stepped out into the street. "Now I actually feel glad we left—it feels somehow easier. Who would've thought yesterday on the train that I'd be happy even about that!" "I keep telling you, Mother," Dounia said at once, "he's still very ill. Can't you see? Perhaps his suffering over us has only worsened his condition. We must be patient and forgiving—so much, so very much can be forgiven."

– Why, didn’t I already give? You forgot? – Dounia replied, turning to him with a gentle yet uneasy smile. – Well then, give again! And he tightly squeezed her slender fingers. Dounya smiled at him, blushed, quickly pulled her hand away, and ran off after her mother, looking strangely happy too. – Well, that’s good! – he said to Sonia, returning to his place and gazing at her clearly, – May God grant rest to the departed, but the living must go on living! Isn’t that right? Isn’t it? Tell me, isn’t that so?

– Yes, yes, I’ll come, of course, certainly… But you stay a moment. He’s not needed by you just now, is he, dear mother? Or am I perhaps taking him away? – Oh no, no! And you, Dmitri Prokofyich, will you join us for lunch? You’d be so kind? – Please do come, – Dunya pleaded. Razumikhin bowed and beamed all over. For a moment, everyone seemed strangely flustered. – Goodbye, Rodya — that is, till we meet again; I don’t like saying “goodbye.” Goodbye, Nastasya… Oh, I said “goodbye” again! Pulcheria Alexandrovna had meant to bow to Sonya too, but somehow couldn’t manage it, and hurried out of the room. But Avdotya Romanovna, as if waiting for her turn, passed by Sonya on her way out behind her mother and gave her a careful, polite, and deep bow. Sonya was flustered, returned the bow hastily and nervously, and a painful expression appeared on her face—as though Avdotya Romanovna’s politeness and attention were burdensome and agonizing to her. – Dunya, goodbye then! – Raskolnikov called out already in the entryway, – Give me your hand!

– Rodya, we’ll be having lunch together, of course, – she said, getting up. – Dunya, come along… But you, Rodya, go out for a little walk, then rest and lie down a bit, and afterwards come over quickly… I’m afraid we’ve worn you out already… – Yes, yes, I’ll come, – he replied, rising hurriedly… – Though I do have something to attend to… – What, you’re not seriously thinking of having lunch separately? – cried Razumikhin, looking at Raskolnikov in astonishment. – What’s going on with you?

– But how can Katerina Ivanovna manage with such little means, if she even plans to have a meal afterwards? – asked Raskolnikov, persistently continuing the conversation. – The coffin will be a simple one, sir… and everything will be simple, so it won't cost much… just this morning Katerina Ivanovna and I calculated everything, so there'll still be something left for the memorial feast… and Katerina Ivanovna is very keen on it. Well, one can't help it, sir… it's her comfort… she's like that, as you know… – I understand, I understand… of course… Why are you looking around my room like that? Even my mother said it resembles a coffin. – You gave us everything yesterday! – suddenly whispered Sonya in a strong, quick tone, immediately lowering her eyes again. Her lips and chin began trembling once more. She had long been struck by the poverty of Raskolnikov's room, and now the words had burst out involuntarily. Silence followed. Dunechka's eyes suddenly brightened, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna even gave Sonya a kindly look.

During the conversation, Raskolnikov studied her closely. She was a tiny, painfully thin girl with a pale, rather irregular, pointed little face—small sharp nose, pointed chin. One could not even call her pretty, yet her blue eyes were so clear, and when they came alive, her face took on such kindness and innocence that one couldn't help being drawn to her. Moreover, both in her face and her whole figure there was one special, distinctive trait: despite being eighteen, she looked almost like a little girl, much younger than her age—almost a child—and this sometimes showed in a rather amusing way in certain of her movements.

“I wanted to ask you,” Raskolnikov quickly turned to her, “how things went today? Were you disturbed… say, by the police?” “No, everything passed smoothly. It was too obvious what caused the death; they didn’t bother us. Only the tenants are upset.” “Why?” “Because the body’s been lying here too long… it’s hot now, the smell… so they’ll move it to the cemetery this evening, till tomorrow, into the chapel. Katerina Ivanovna didn’t want to at first, but now she herself sees it can’t be helped…” “So today?” “She requests your presence at the funeral service in church tomorrow, and then please come to her for the memorial meal.” “She’s arranging a memorial meal?” “Yes, some refreshments. She asked me to thank you very much for helping us yesterday… without you, we’d have had nothing to bury him with.” Her lips and chin suddenly trembled, but she pulled herself together, held back, and swiftly lowered her eyes to the ground.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonya and narrowed her eyes slightly. Despite her own confusion in the face of Rodya's persistent and defiant gaze, she could not resist the temptation to do so. Dunya looked seriously and intently straight into the poor girl's face, studying her with surprise. Sonya, hearing the introduction, had briefly raised her eyes again, but became even more flustered than before.

“I’ll try, certainly… certainly,” replied Raskolnikov, rising as well, stammering and trailing off. “Please, do sit down,” he suddenly said. “I need to speak with you. Please… you may be in a hurry, but kindly spare me just two minutes…” He pulled a chair toward her. Sonya sat down again, glanced nervously and anxiously first at both ladies, then quickly lowered her eyes. Raskolnikov’s pale face flushed; his whole body seemed to tremble, his eyes blazed. “Mother,” he said firmly and insistently, “this is Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladova, the daughter of that unfortunate gentleman, Mr. Marmeladov, who was crushed by a horse right before my eyes yesterday, and of whom I’ve already told you…”

– I… I… just came in for a minute, sorry to have disturbed you – she stammered. – I'm from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one else to send… Katerina Ivanovna sent me to kindly request your presence tomorrow at the funeral service, in the morning, after Mass, at Mitrofaniyevskoye, and then at our place… at hers… to partake of a meal… to do her honour… She asked me to convey this. Sonya faltered and fell silent.

“I wasn’t expecting you at all,” he said hurriedly, stopping her with his gaze. “Please, do sit down. You must be from Katerina Ivanovna. Forgive me—don’t sit there, here, right here…” As Sonia entered, Razumikhin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnikov’s three chairs near the door, stood up to let her pass. At first, Raskolnikov had pointed to a spot in the corner of the sofa where Zossimov was seated, but suddenly remembering that the sofa was his own bed and rather messy, quickly gestured instead to Razumikhin’s chair. “You sit here,” he told Razumikhin, motioning him to the corner where Zossimov had been sitting. Sonia sat down, trembling almost with fear, and glanced timidly at the two gentlemen. It was clear she hardly understood how she, of all people, had come to sit beside them. Realising this, she became so frightened that she suddenly stood up again, utterly flustered, and turned helplessly to Raskolnikov.

It immediately occurred to him that his mother and sister had already heard vaguely, from Luzhin's letter, about a certain girl of "notorious" behaviour. Just now, he had protested against Luzhin’s slander and mentioned that he had seen the girl for the first time, and suddenly, here she was entering in person. He also recalled that he had not protested at all against the phrase "notorious behaviour." All this passed unclearly and swiftly through his mind. But, when he looked more closely, he suddenly saw that this humiliated creature was so utterly crushed that he felt a pang of pity for her. And when she made a sudden movement to flee in fear, something within him seemed to turn over completely.

At that moment the door quietly opened, and a young girl entered the room, timidly looking around. Everyone turned to her in surprise and curiosity. Raskolnikov did not recognize her at first glance. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladova. He had seen her only the day before, and then, at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such attire, that the image imprinted in his memory was of an entirely different sort of person. Now she was a modestly, even poorly dressed girl, still very young, almost childlike, with a demure and proper manner, her face clear but somehow a little frightened. She wore a simple house dress, an old-fashioned hat of earlier style on her head, and carried only the same umbrella she had had the day before. Seeing unexpectedly a room full of people, she did not merely feel embarrassed—she was utterly flustered, frightened like a little child, and even began to turn back as if to retreat. – Oh… it's you? – said Raskolnikov, greatly surprised, and suddenly grew embarrassed himself.

– Very well, Dunya. Whatever you have decided, Mamma, let it be so, added Pulcheria Alexandrovna. It’s easier for me too; I don’t like pretending or lying. Let’s just speak the truth from now on… Be angry or not, Pyotr Petrovich, it makes no difference now!

Dunya did not answer; her decision had long been made—she was only waiting for the evening. “So, how do you decide, Rodya?” asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, even more disturbed by his sudden, unusual tone of voice. “What do you mean—‘decide’?” “Well, Pyotr Petrovich writes that you mustn’t be at our meeting this evening, and he’ll leave if you come. So how will you… behave?” “That, of course, isn’t for me to decide. First, it’s up to you—if such a demand from Pyotr Petrovich doesn’t offend you. Second, it’s up to Dunya, if she isn’t offended either. I’ll do as suits you best,” he added coldly. “Dunyashka has already decided, and I fully agree with her,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna was quick to add. “I’ve decided to ask you, Rodya—earnestly request you—to be present at this meeting. Will you come?” “I will come.” “I also invite you to be with us at eight o’clock,” she said, turning to Razumikhin. “Mother, I’m inviting him too.”

He’s an intelligent man, but intelligence alone isn’t enough to act wisely. All this reveals the man’s character—and I hardly think he holds you in high regard. I’m telling you this solely by way of caution, because I sincerely wish you well.

– It’s expressed in a judicial manner, and when you write judicially, you can’t help sounding harsher than perhaps intended. However, I must disappoint you somewhat: in this letter there’s yet another statement—actually, a slander against me—and rather petty at that. I gave the money yesterday to the widow, the consumptive and utterly broken woman, not “under the pretext of a funeral,” but precisely for the funeral expenses, and not into the hands of the daughter—the girl, as he writes, of “notoriously loose conduct” (whom I saw for the very first time in my life yesterday)—but directly to the widow herself. In all this, I see a hasty desire to blacken my name and create a rift between us. And again, it’s expressed in that judicial style—meaning, the intent is too openly displayed and the haste is quite naïve.

– No, no – replied Dunya, becoming animated – I quite understood that it was expressed too naively, and that he may simply not be good at writing… You judged well, brother. I didn't even expect that…

“Well, if she’s boasting, at least she has something to boast about,” I don’t object. You, sister, seem offended that I’ve picked out such a frivolous remark from the whole letter, and probably think I’ve deliberately brought up these trifles just to irritate you. On the contrary, it occurred to me, in view of the style, a remark that’s quite relevant in the present case. There’s an expression there: ‘Blame yourselves,’ placed very pointedly and clearly. Besides, there’s a threat that he’ll leave at once if I come. This threat to leave is the same as threatening to abandon both of you if you don’t obey, and to do so now, when he’s already summoned you to Petersburg. Now, what do you think—can one be equally offended by such words from Luzhin as one would be if, say, he (pointing to Razumikhin) or Zosimov, or any one of us, had written them?”

Everyone stirred; this was not at all what they had expected. —"Well, that's just how they all write," snapped Razumikhin. —"Have you read it?" —"Yes." —"We showed it to you, Rodya, we... we even consulted you about it recently," began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, flustered. —"It's really a judicial style," Razumikhin interrupted, "judicial documents are still written like that." —"Judicial? Yes, precisely judicial—official, businesslike... Not exactly illiterate, but not exactly literary either—just bureaucratic!" —"Pyotr Petrovich doesn't hide that he studied on borrowed money, and even boasts of having made his own way," observed Avdotya Romanovna, slightly offended by her brother's new tone.

He finally unfolded the letter, still wearing a look of strange bewilderment; then slowly and carefully began to read, going over it twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was particularly anxious; indeed, everyone was expecting something extraordinary. – This surprises me, – he said after a pause, handing the letter to his mother without addressing anyone in particular. – He's a man of business, a lawyer, speaks so formally, even has a certain air about him – and yet writes so poorly.

– Oh, Lord! You've driven me to fainting! – cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – No, no... nonsense... nothing at all! Just a little dizzy spell. Not fainting by any means... Why do you keep harping on fainting? Hm! Yes... what was I going to say? Ah, yes: how will you be convinced today itself that you can respect him, and that he... values you, as you put it? You said today, didn't you? Or did I misunderstand? – Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovich's letter, – said Dunya. With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna handed over the letter. He took it eagerly, with great curiosity. But before unfolding it, he suddenly looked at Dunya in a strange, bewildered manner. – How odd, – he said slowly, as if struck by a sudden thought, – why am I making such a fuss? What's all this commotion about? Marry whomever you please! He seemed to be speaking to himself, yet said it aloud, and stood gazing at his sister for some moments, puzzled.

– It's not true, I'm not lying! – cried Dunyacha, losing all composure. – I won't marry him unless I'm fully convinced that he values and respects me; I won't marry him unless I'm absolutely certain that I can respect him myself. Fortunately, I can get definite proof of this—today itself. And such a marriage isn't a dishonourable act, as you say! Even if you were right, even if I really decided to do something dishonourable, wouldn't it be cruel of you to speak to me like this? Why do you demand heroism from me, when perhaps you yourself don't possess it? This is tyranny, this is oppression! If I ruin anyone, it will only be myself... I haven't killed anyone yet!... Why are you staring at me like that? Why have you turned so pale? Rodya, what's wrong with you? Rodya, darling!...

– Up to a point. The way and manner in which Pyotr Petrovich proposed to me at once showed me exactly what he wants. He certainly values himself, perhaps too highly, but I hope he values me as well… Why are you laughing again? – Why are you blushing again? You're lying, sister—you're deliberately lying out of sheer female stubbornness, just to have your way in front of me… You can't respect Luzhin; I've seen him and spoken to him. So you're selling yourself for money, and therefore, in any case, acting in a base way. And I'm glad, at least, that you're still capable of blushing!

"I'm marrying Pyotr Pyetrovich," continued Dunya, "because I'm choosing the lesser of two evils. I intend to honestly fulfil everything he expects of me, so I'm not deceiving him... Why are you smiling like that?" She flushed as well, and anger flashed in her eyes. "Everything?" he asked, smiling bitterly.

– Rodya, Rodya! It’s the same thing all over again, just like yesterday! – Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried sorrowfully – I can’t bear it, why do you keep calling yourself a scoundrel like this? It was the same yesterday too… – Brother, – Dunya replied firmly and just as coolly – there’s a mistake on your part here. I’ve thought it over through the night and found the error. It’s only that you seem to assume I am sacrificing myself for someone, or for someone’s sake. But that’s not the case at all. I’m marrying for my own sake, because life as it is now is hard for me. And of course, I’ll be glad if I can help our family, but that’s not the main reason behind my decision… “She’s lying!” he thought to himself, biting his nails in anger. “Proud one! Doesn’t want to admit she wants to play the benefactor! Oh, such base characters! Even their love feels like hatred… Oh, how I… how I hate them all!”

– Look here, Dunya – he began seriously and curtly – I do apologise to you for yesterday, of course, but I feel it my duty to remind you once again that I won't budge an inch from my main point. Either me or Luzhin. Let me be the villain, but you must not. One way or the other. If you marry Luzhin, I shall immediately cease to regard you as my sister.

"What a dreadful room you have, Rodya—it's like a coffin," suddenly said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, breaking the painful silence. "I'm sure you've become half-melancholy just because of this room." "Room?" he replied absently. "Yes, the room did contribute a great deal... I've thought about that too. But if only you knew, Mother, what a strange thought you've just expressed," he added suddenly, with a strange smile. Another moment, and this gathering, these relatives, after a three-year separation, this tone of family talk in the face of utter impossibility to discuss anything meaningful—would have become absolutely unbearable for him. Yet there was one urgent matter that had to be settled today, one way or another—he had decided that early that morning upon waking. Now he welcomed it as an escape.

– Her? Now? Oh yes… you mean her! No. All that’s long gone, beyond this world… and for so long already. Everything around seems to be happening somewhere else entirely… He looked at them intently. – Even you… it’s as if I’m seeing you from a thousand miles away… Honestly, what’s the point of talking about this! Why keep asking? – he added irritably, then fell silent, biting his nails and sinking into thought again.

– Hmm! Yes! What can I tell you? I hardly remember anything. She was an ailing girl, you see – he continued, as if suddenly lost in thought again, looking down – quite unwell. Loved giving to the poor, always dreaming about a monastery. Once she burst into tears when she spoke to me about it, yes, yes… I remember… I remember very well. She wasn't good-looking at all. Honestly, I don’t know why I became so attached to her back then – perhaps just because she was always ill. Had she been lame or hunchbacked, I think I might have loved her even more… (He smiled thoughtfully.) Yes… it was some kind of springtime delirium… – No, it wasn't just springtime delirium, – Dunechka said with emotion. He looked at his sister intently and tensely, but either didn't hear or failed to understand her words. Then, deep in thought, he stood up, went over to his mother, kissed her, returned to his seat and sat down. – You still love her! – said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, deeply moved.

“I like these,” said Dounia. “So it’s not a gift from her fiancé,” thought Razumikhin, and for some reason felt pleased. “I thought it was a gift from Luzhin,” remarked Raskolnikov. “No, he hasn’t given Dounia anything yet.” “Aha! And do you remember, Mother, I was once in love and wanted to get married?” he suddenly said, looking at his mother, who was startled by the sudden turn and the tone in which he spoke. “Oh, my dear, yes!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia and Razumikhin.

– Yes, perfect, excellent, educated, intelligent… – suddenly burst out Raskolnikov in an unexpected rapid speech, with an unusual liveliness he hadn't shown before – I can't recall where I met him earlier, before my illness… Seems I've met him somewhere… And this one's good too! – he nodded at Razumikhin – do you like him, Duna? – he asked her, and suddenly laughed for no apparent reason. – Very much, – answered Duna. – Ugh, you… brute! – muttered Razumikhin, terribly flustered and blushing, and stood up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled faintly, while Raskolnikov burst into loud laughter. – Where are you off to? – I… I've got to go too. – You don't need to go at all! Stay! Zosimov left, so now you must too? Don't go… What time is it? Past twelve? What lovely little watch you have, Duna! Why have you all gone quiet again? I'm the only one talking… – It was a gift from Marfa Petrovna, – answered Duna. – And very expensive, – added Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – Ah! So big, almost not a lady's watch!

– Just remembered one little thing – he replied, suddenly laughing. – Well, if it's just one thing, then all's well! For a moment I thought... – muttered Zosimov, getting up from the sofa. – Anyway, I must be off now; I might drop by again later... if I find you at home... He took his leave and left. – What a wonderful man! – observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Having said this, he suddenly grew flustered and turned pale: once again, that recent, dreadful sensation passed through his soul like a deathly chill; once again it became terribly clear and obvious to him that he had just told a horrifying lie—that it would never be possible for him to speak his fill, and that now, from this moment on, he could never again speak openly about anything, with anyone. The impact of this agonising thought was so intense that for a moment he completely lost awareness, rose from his seat, and, without looking at anyone, started walking out of the room. “What’s wrong with you?” cried Razumikhin, grabbing his arm. He sat down again and silently looked around; everyone was staring at him in bewilderment. “Why are you all so dull?” he suddenly burst out, quite unexpectedly. “Say something! Why sit like this in silence? Speak up! Let’s talk! You’ve all gathered here and yet not a word! Say anything at all!” “Thank God! I was afraid his old trouble was starting again,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. “What’s the matter, Rodya?” asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully.

– Oh, don’t say that, Dunya! Please don’t be angry, Rodya… What are you saying, Dunya! – Pulcheria Alexandrovna began nervously. – I truly was looking forward to this, all the way here I kept dreaming, even in the train, about how we’d meet and share everything with each other… I was so happy I didn’t even notice the journey! How can I complain? I’m happy even now… It’s wrong of you, Dunya! Just seeing you, Rodya, makes me happy… – Enough, Mother, – he mumbled awkwardly, not looking at her and squeezing her hand – we’ll have plenty of time to talk.

– …She did have this habit, though, and right after lunch, so as not to be late, she’d immediately head off to the bathhouse… You see, she was undergoing some water treatment there; they have a cold spring, and she bathed in it regularly every day. And the moment she stepped into the water, suddenly she had a stroke! – No wonder! – said Zosimov. – Did he beat her badly? – Well, that doesn't really matter, – replied Dunya. – Hmph! Though really, mother dear, why must you go on about such nonsense? – Raskolnikov suddenly snapped irritably, as if unintentionally. – Oh, my dear, I simply didn’t know what to talk about! – burst out Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – What, are you all afraid of me or something? – he said, with a twisted smile. – It's true, in fact, – said Dunya, looking straight and sternly at her brother. – Mother even made the sign of the cross when she came up the stairs, she was so frightened. His face twitched as though from a spasm.

– Ah, yes, I remember… So she’s dead? Oh, really? – he suddenly perked up, as if waking from a dream. – Is it true? What did she die of? – Imagine, quite suddenly! – Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurried on, encouraged by his interest. – In fact, just around the time I sent you that letter, even on the very same day! This dreadful man, they say, was actually the cause of her death. Apparently, he beat her terribly! – But did they live like that? – he asked, turning to his sister. – No, quite the opposite. He was always very patient with her, even polite. In many ways, he was even too tolerant of her nature, for seven whole years… And then suddenly, he lost his patience. – So he can’t be all that terrible, if he endured it for seven years? You seem to be defending him, Dunya? – No, no! He’s a dreadful man! I can’t imagine anyone worse! – Dunya replied almost with a shudder, her brows furrowed in thought.

"They're actually afraid of me," Raskolnikov thought to himself, glancing sideways at his mother and sister. Indeed, the more silent Pulcheria Alexandrovna became, the more frightened and uneasy she looked. "From afar, it seems, I truly loved them," flashed through his mind. "You know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna has passed away!" suddenly blurted out Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Which Marfa Petrovna?" "Good heavens, why, Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailova! I wrote to you so much about her."

– No, not that way, – Dounia replied firmly. – Ah! So you too… with intentions! – he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred and giving a mocking smile. – I should've realised... Well, good for you; better for you. And you'll come to a line beyond which you won't cross – then you'll be unhappy. But if you do cross it – perhaps even unhappier. But anyway, it's all nonsense! – he added irritably, annoyed at his own involuntary outburst. – I only meant to say, you see, that I beg your pardon, mother, – he concluded sharply and abruptly. – Enough, Rodya, I'm certain everything you do is wonderful! – said the delighted mother. – Don't be so certain, – he replied, twisting his mouth into a smile. Silence followed. There was something tense in the entire conversation, in the silence, in the reconciliation, in the apology – and everyone felt it.

– What? – the other seemed to wake up – Ah, yes... I did get stained with blood while helping carry him to the apartment... By the way, Mother, I did something quite unforgivable yesterday; I wasn't in my right senses at all. I gave away all the money you sent me – to his widow – for the funeral. She's a widow now, consumptive, a pitiful woman, with three little orphans, starving... the house is empty... and there's another daughter too... You might have given it yourself, had you seen them... Still, I admit I had no right to do so, especially knowing how hard-earned that money was for you. One must have the right before helping others, otherwise it's just: "Crevez chiens, si vous n'êtes pas contents!" – He laughed. – Don't you think so, Dounia?

“Well, perhaps it’s just as well that he almost thinks me mad,” thought Raskolnikov. “Why, in that case, even healthy people might be the same,” observed Dunya, looking anxiously at Zosimov. “A very fair observation,” he replied. “In this sense, truly, all of us, and very often, are almost like lunatics, with the only difference being that the ‘ill’ are slightly more so than we are. Hence, one must necessarily draw a line. As for the perfectly balanced man, he hardly exists at all—perhaps one in tens, or even hundreds of thousands, and even then, only in rather feeble examples…” At the word “lunatic,” which slipped carelessly from Zosimov, engrossed in his favourite topic, everyone winced. Raskolnikov sat as though absorbed in thought, paying no attention, with a strange smile on his pale lips. He seemed to be pondering something. “Well then, what about that squashed one? I interrupted you!” Razumikhin quickly shouted.

“In a delirium? But you remember everything,” Razumikhin interrupted. “That’s true,” Raskolnikov replied rather carefully, “I remember everything, even the smallest details. But still, I can’t clearly explain why I did that, went there, said those things—why, I just can’t make sense of it.” “An extremely well-known phenomenon,” Zossimov chimed in. “The execution of the act may be clever, even remarkably skillful, but the control over one’s actions, the very initiation of those actions, is disturbed and influenced by various pathological impressions. It’s quite like a dream.”

– Yes, yes… all this is certainly unpleasant… – mumbled Raskolnikov in reply, but in such a distracted and almost indifferent manner that Dunya stared at him in surprise. – What was it I wanted again? – he went on, making an effort to recollect – Ah, yes: please, dear mother, and you, Dunya, don't think that I didn't want to come to meet you first today, or that I was waiting for you to come to me. – Why, what's this, Rodya? – cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, also astonished. "He's speaking to us as if fulfilling a duty," Dunya thought – "making up, asking forgiveness, as if performing a service or reciting a lesson." – I had just woken up and was about to go out, but my clothes held me back; I forgot yesterday to tell her… Nastasya… to wipe off that blood… Only just now have I managed to get dressed. – Blood! What blood? – Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked anxiously. – It's nothing… don't worry. It's just blood from yesterday, when I was wandering about delirious and came upon a man who'd been run over… a government clerk…

Of course, we immediately imagined something even worse. We even thought of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovich, just so we’d have someone to help us… because we were all alone, completely alone, – she added in a pitiful tone, and suddenly stopped short, remembering that mentioning Pyotr Petrovich was still rather risky, even though ‘everything was now once again perfectly happy’.

– Oh, Rodya, you won’t believe it, – she exclaimed suddenly, eager to respond to his remark – how wretched Dunya and I were yesterday! Now that everything’s passed and over, and we’re all happy again, I can tell you. Imagine, we rushed here to embrace you, almost straight from the train, and this woman – ah, there she is! Good day, Nastasya! – suddenly tells us that you’ve been lying in delirium tremens and had just quietly slipped away from the doctor, half-crazed, out into the street, and that people had gone running after you. You can’t imagine what we went through! Right away, I pictured the tragic end of Lieutenant Potanchikov, our acquaintance, a friend of your father’s – you wouldn’t remember him, Rodya – who also ran out in delirium tremens just like that and fell into a well in the courtyard; they only pulled him out two days later.

“That’s exactly why I love him!” whispered Razumikhin, always one to exaggerate, energetically turning on his chair. “He has such mannerisms!” “And how smoothly everything turns out for him,” thought the mother to herself. “What noble impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately, he cleared up yesterday’s misunderstanding with my daughter—just by offering his hand at that moment and giving such a look… What beautiful eyes he has, and what a striking face! He’s even more handsome than Dunya… But, my Lord, what about his clothes? How terribly he’s dressed! Vasya, the errand boy at Aphanasy Ivanovich’s shop, is better dressed! I feel like rushing to him, hugging him, and… bursting into tears—but I’m afraid, so afraid… He’s so strange, my Lord! He speaks so kindly, yet I’m frightened! Why am I afraid?..”

– I hardly dare speak of you, Mother, – he continued, as though reciting a lesson learnt by heart that morning, – only today could I begin to understand how much you must have suffered here yesterday, anxiously waiting for my return. – Saying this, he suddenly reached out silently to his sister with a smile. But in that smile there flashed this time a genuine, heartfelt emotion. Dounia instantly seized the outstretched hand and warmly pressed it, overjoyed and deeply grateful. It was the first time he had reached out to her since their quarrel the previous day. The mother's face lit up with rapture and happiness at the sight of this final, wordless reconciliation between brother and sister.

– Don’t get agitated, please, – Zosimov forced a laugh. – Just suppose you’re my first patient. Well, you know how we doctors, especially those just starting out, feel about our first patients – we love them like our own children, some even fall half in love with them. And honestly, I’m not exactly overflowing with patients. – And I’m not even talking about him, – added Raskolnikov, pointing at Razumikhin, – he too has seen nothing from me but insults and trouble. – What a fibber! Are you feeling sentimental today or what? – cried Razumikhin. He would have noticed, had he been more perceptive, that there was no sentimentality at all, but rather something quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna did notice. She was watching her brother closely, with deep concern.

– I don't even know how to thank you, – continued Raskolnikov, suddenly frowning and looking down. – Leaving aside the financial matter – please forgive me for bringing it up (he turned to Zosimov) – I really can't understand what I've done to deserve such special attention from you. I simply don't get it... and to be honest, it's even uncomfortable, because it's so unclear.

– Yes, yes, you're absolutely right... I'll hurry up and join the university, and then everything will go... like clockwork... Zosimov, who had begun his wise advice partly to impress the ladies, was somewhat taken aback when, having finished speaking and glancing at his listener, he noticed a look of clear mockery on his face. However, it lasted only a moment. Pulcheria Alexandrovna immediately began thanking Zosimov, especially for his visit to them at the hotel the previous night. – What, he was with you at night? – asked Raskolnikov, as if troubled. – So you didn't sleep either after your journey? – Oh, Rodya, it was only until two o'clock. Back home, Dunya and I never used to go to bed before two anyway.

—I say this, said Zosimov, gaining confidence, that your complete recovery now depends entirely on you. Now that you're well enough to talk, I want to impress upon you that you must eliminate the original, the fundamental causes that led to your illness. Only then will you recover; otherwise, things may get even worse. I don't know these root causes, but you must be aware of them. You're an intelligent man and have surely observed yourself. It seems to me that the beginning of your illness partly coincided with your leaving the university. You mustn't remain idle—work, and a clear goal firmly set before you, would, I believe, help you greatly.

– Yes, I can see now that I’m almost well, – said Raskolnikov, warmly kissing his mother and sister, which immediately lit up Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s face; – and I’m not saying this now just to please you, – he added, turning to Razumikhin and shaking his hand in a friendly way. – In fact, I was quite amazed at him today, – began Zosimov, visibly delighted by the visitors’ arrival, since he had already, in just ten minutes, lost the thread of conversation with his patient. – In another three or four days, if things continue like this, he’ll be just as he was before – I mean, the way he was a month or two ago, or possibly even three? For this all started long ago and had been building up gradually… eh? Do you now admit that perhaps you were partly to blame yourself? – he added with a cautious smile, as if still afraid of irritating him in any way. – Very likely, – replied Raskolnikov coolly.

He observed further how nearly every word of the ensuing conversation touched some raw wound of his patient and aggravated it; yet at the same time, he was partly amazed by the patient’s unexpected self-control today—the ability to conceal his feelings, so unlike the raving monomaniac of yesterday, who would have flown into a rage over the slightest remark.

Yet even this pale and gloomy face lit up for a moment like a flash of light when his mother and sister entered, but this only added to his expression—instead of the previous melancholy distraction—an even more concentrated anguish. The light quickly faded, but the suffering remained, and Zosimov, observing and studying his patient with the eager intensity of a young doctor just beginning his practice, noticed with surprise that, at the arrival of his family, instead of joy, the man seemed to show a heavy, concealed determination to endure an hour or two of torture that could no longer be avoided.

– Healthy, perfectly healthy! – Zosimov called out cheerfully to the newcomers. He had arrived about ten minutes earlier and was sitting in his usual corner on the sofa, just as the day before. Raskolnikov sat in the opposite corner, fully dressed and even carefully washed and combed – something that hadn’t happened in quite a while. The room quickly filled up, but Nastasya still managed to follow the visitors in and stood listening. Indeed, Raskolnikov was almost well, especially compared to the previous day, though extremely pale, absent-minded and gloomy. Outwardly, he resembled someone recovering from an injury or enduring severe physical pain: his brows were knitted, his lips tightly pressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke little and reluctantly, as if with effort, or merely fulfilling a duty, and occasional restlessness showed in his movements. All that was missing was a bandage on his hand or a taffeta cover on one finger to complete the look of a man suffering, say, from an abscessed finger or a bruised arm – something of that sort.

The ladies quietly followed Razumikhin, who had gone ahead up the stairs. As they reached the fourth floor, level with the landlady's door, they noticed it was slightly ajar, just a narrow crack, and two quick, dark eyes scrutinising both of them from the darkness within. The moment their eyes met those, the door suddenly slammed shut with such force that Pulcheria Alexandrovna nearly cried out in fright. III

– I often speak straight from the heart, so Dounia has to correct me… But oh dear, what a tiny room he lives in! I wonder if he's even awake by now? And that landlady of his—does she actually call this a room? Please tell me, you said he doesn't like showing his feelings, so perhaps my... emotional ways might be irritating to him? Could you guide me, Dmitry Prokofich? How should I behave with him? You see, I'm completely lost. – Don't question him too much about anything if you notice him frowning; especially avoid asking about his health—he dislikes that. – Oh, Dmitry Prokofich, how hard it is to be a mother! And now this staircase… What a dreadful staircase! – Mother, you've gone quite pale. Please calm down, darling, – said Dounia, caressing her. – He should feel blessed just to see you, and here you are, tormenting yourself so, – she added, flashing her eyes. – Wait, let me go ahead and check if he's awake.

– Oh, you don't know? I thought you already knew everything. Forgive me, Dmitry Prokofich, my mind's been all over the place these days. Honestly, I look upon you as nothing short of our guardian angel, that's why I was so sure you already knew. I truly think of you as family… Please don't mind me saying so. Oh dear, what happened to your right hand? Did you hurt it? – Yes, I hurt it – mumbled a delighted Razumikhin.

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “Could I ever have thought that I’d fear meeting my own son, my dear, dear Rodya, as I do now… I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofich!” she added, glancing timidly at him. “Don’t be afraid, Mama,” said Dounia, kissing her. “Have faith in him. I do.” “Oh, dear Lord! I believe too, but I couldn’t sleep all night!” cried the poor woman. They stepped out into the street. “You know, Dounia,” she began, “just as I dozed off a little before morning, suddenly the late Marfa Petrovna appeared to me in a dream—dressed all in white. She came up, took me by the hand, and kept shaking her head at me so sternly, so sternly, as if condemning me… Could it be an omen? Oh, Lord! Dmitri Prokofich, you don’t even know yet—Marfa Petrovna is dead!” “No, I didn’t know. Which Marfa Petrovna?” “She died suddenly! And just imagine…” “Later, Mama,” Dounia interrupted. “They don’t even know who Marfa Petrovna was.”

As she said this, she fussed about, draping her mantle over her shoulders and putting on her hat; Dunya too got ready. The gloves she wore were not only worn out, but actually torn, which Razumikhin noticed; yet this obvious poverty in their dress lent both ladies a certain distinguished air, as is always the case with those who know how to wear simple clothes with grace. Razumikhin gazed at Dunya with deep respect and felt proud to be her escort. "That queen," he thought to himself, "who darned her stockings in prison—she surely looked like a true queen then, even more so than during her grandest ceremonies and public appearances."

– The best thing, Mama, is for us to go to him ourselves, and I assure you, once we're there, we'll immediately know what to do. Besides, it's high time! Good heavens! It's already eleven o'clock! – she exclaimed, glancing at her magnificent enamel-covered gold watch hanging from a delicate Venetian chain around her neck—a piece that clashed dreadfully with the rest of her outfit. "A gift from her fiancé," thought Razumikhin. – Oh, it's time! Time, Dunyasha, time! – Pulcheria Alexandrovna fluttered anxiously. – He'll start thinking we're upset with him since yesterday, that we're deliberately delaying. Oh, my lord!

– The ones that cost you so dearly, Mother, – added Avdotya Romanovna. – He wasn't himself yesterday, – said Razumikhin thoughtfully. – If only you knew what he said yesterday at the tavern—clever, certainly… hmmm! About some dead man and some young woman, he really did say something to me on our way home, but I didn't understand a word… Though, to be fair, I myself was rather...

your humble servant, P. Luzhin." "What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofich?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna said, almost in tears. "How can I ask Rodya not to come? He insisted so strongly yesterday that we refuse Pyotr Petrovich, and now they're telling us not to receive Rodya himself! He'll come on purpose as soon as he finds out—and what will happen then?" "Act according to Avdotya Romanovna's decision," Razumikhin replied calmly and immediately. "Oh, my God! She says... she says something I can't make sense of and won't explain her purpose! She says it will be better—no, not better, but for some reason it's absolutely necessary that Rodya should deliberately come today at eight o'clock, and that they must definitely meet. But I didn't even want to show him the letter, and hoped somehow to manage slyly, through you, so that he wouldn't come—because he's so excitable! And I don't understand anything—some drunkard has died, and some daughter, and how could he have given all his last money to this daughter, the money which..."

My suspicion is confirmed by my own eyes: at the residence of a drunken man who was trampled to death by horses—whose daughter, a girl of most questionable conduct—you yesterday handed over up to twenty-five roubles under the pretext of funeral expenses, which greatly surprised me, knowing the difficulties you faced in gathering such a sum. Conveying my highest respects to the esteemed Avdotya Romanovna, I remain, with sentiments of profound regard,

Moreover, I have a personal and essential matter requiring full discussion with you on a certain point, regarding which I wish to hear your own explanation. I take this opportunity to inform you in advance that should Rodion Romanovich, contrary to my request, be present at our meeting, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately—and in that case, the responsibility will rest entirely upon yourself. I write this under the assumption that Rodion Romanovich, who appeared extremely ill during my visit, suddenly recovered within two hours and thus may very well come to see you upon leaving the house.

Respected Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to inform you that due to sudden unforeseen delays, I was unable to meet you at the arrival platform, though I sent in my stead a very prompt and efficient person for this purpose. Likewise, I shall be deprived of the honour of meeting you tomorrow morning, owing to urgent Senate duties, and in order not to disturb the family reunion between you and your son, as well as between Avdotya Romanovna and her brother. I shall therefore have the honour of calling upon you and paying my respects at your residence only tomorrow, precisely at eight in the evening. At this time, I venture to add an earnest, and I may further say pressing, request that Rodion Romanovich not be present during our meeting, as he most insolently and discourteously offended me during my visit to him yesterday while he was supposedly unwell.

Razumikhin unfolded the note, dated yesterday, and read the following:

I must tell you that Dunya has already decided everything at once, right from the start; but I, I still don't know what to do, and... and I've been waiting for you.

– This is the thing, – she began hurriedly, as if relieved to have permission to share her troubles. – This morning, very early, we received a note from Pyotr Petrovich, in reply to our message yesterday about our arrival. You see, he was supposed to meet us at the railway station himself, as he promised; but instead, a servant was sent to meet us with the address of these lodgings to show us the way, and we were informed that Pyotr Petrovich would come to see us here first thing this morning. However, instead of coming, this note arrived this morning... It would be best if you read it yourself; there's a point in it that greatly troubles me... you'll see for yourself which point it is, and... please give me your honest opinion, Dmitry Prokofich! You understand Rodya's nature better than anyone, and you can advise best.

– I can’t possibly hold any other opinion about your daughter’s future husband – I say this with firmness and sincerity, not just from empty politeness, but because… because… well, simply because Avdotya Romanovna herself, freely and willingly, chose this man. And if I spoke so harshly about him yesterday, it was only because I was disgustingly drunk and… mad; yes, mad, out of my mind, completely out of my senses, quite insane… and today I am truly ashamed of it! – He blushed and fell silent. Avdotya Romanovna flushed too, but did not break the silence. She hadn’t uttered a single word since the talk turned to Luzhin. Meanwhile, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, without her daughter’s support, clearly felt uncertain. Finally, stammering and constantly glancing at her daughter, she said that one particular matter was troubling her greatly now. – You see, Dmitri Prokofyich… – she began. – Shall I be completely open with you, Dunechka? – Of course, Mother, – Avdotya Romanovna said firmly.

“I think so too,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, looking utterly disheartened. But she was greatly surprised that Razumikhin had spoken of Pyotr Petrovich so cautiously this time, and even seemingly with respect. This surprised Avdotya Romanovna as well. “So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovich?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not help asking.