О чем говорят каналы

Meanwhile, as Raskolnikov turned slightly towards him in reply, he suddenly began to scrutinise him closely once more, with a peculiar curiosity, as though he had not fully taken him in earlier or as though something new in him had struck his attention—indeed, he even deliberately raised himself a little from the pillow for a better look. Certainly, there was something strikingly distinctive in Pyotr Petrovich’s overall appearance—an air that somehow justified the term “bridegroom,” so casually applied to him just now. First of all, it was evident—indeed, overly apparent—that Pyotr Petrovich had hurriedly taken advantage of his few days in the capital to dress up and smarten himself in anticipation of his bride, which, of course, was quite innocent and permissible.

– Your mother, while I was still with them, started writing to you. When I arrived here, I purposely waited several days and didn't come to see you, so as to be perfectly certain that you'd already been informed about everything; but now, to my surprise... – I know, I know! – suddenly muttered Raskolnikov, with an expression of the utmost impatience and annoyance. – So it's you? The fiancé? Well, I know!... and that's enough! Pyotr Petrovich was deeply offended, but he held his peace. He was urgently trying to make sense of what all this could possibly mean. For a minute, silence continued.

He pulled his chair away from the table, creating a small gap between the table and his knees, and waited tensely for the visitor to squeeze through. The moment was timed so precisely that it was impossible to refuse, and the guest scrambled through the narrow opening, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down and glanced uneasily at Razumikhin. "Please, don't stand on ceremony," said the latter bluntly. "Rodya's been ill for five days now, and delirious for three. But today he's come to and even ate with an appetite. This here is his doctor, just finished examining him, and I'm Rodya's mate—used to be a student too—and now I'm helping nurse him. So don't mind us, don't feel awkward, just carry on with what you've come for." "Thank you," said Pyotr Petrovich, turning to Zosimov. "But might my presence and conversation trouble the patient?" "N-no," mumbled Zosimov, "you might even cheer him up," and yawned again.

– Listen, why are you just standing at the door? – Razumikhin suddenly interrupted. – If you've something to say, then sit down. It's too cramped for both of you there with Nastasya. Nastasyushka, move aside and let him through! Come on in, here's a chair—right here! Do come in!

“Yes! I’m Raskolnikov! What do you want?” The visitor looked at him intently and said with dignity: “Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin. I have every hope that my name is not entirely unknown to you.” But Raskolnikov, who had been expecting something altogether different, stared at him blankly and thoughtfully, without uttering a word, as though he were hearing Pyotr Petrovich’s name for the very first time. “What? Could it be that you’ve still received no information whatsoever?” asked Pyotr Petrovich, visibly annoyed. In reply, Raskolnikov slowly sank onto the pillow, placed his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. A look of gloom appeared on Luzhin’s face. Zosimov and Razumikhin began to examine him with even greater curiosity, and he clearly began to feel embarrassed. “I had assumed—and indeed counted on it—that my letter, dispatched over ten days ago, almost two weeks now…”

Raskolnikov had been lying the whole time silently on his back, staring fixedly and without thought at the man who entered. His face, now turned away from the curious flower pattern on the wallpaper, was extremely pale and showed signs of intense suffering, as though he had just undergone a painful operation or had been released from torture. But the gentleman who came in gradually began to attract more and more of his attention, then surprise, then suspicion, and even something like fear. When Zosimov, pointing to him, said, "Here is Raskolnikov," he suddenly sat up quickly, almost springing up on the bed, and in a voice that was almost defiant, though broken and weak, he spoke:

“Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, sir—student, or former student?” Zosimov shifted slowly, and might perhaps have answered, had not Razumikhin, to whom the question wasn’t even addressed, promptly cut in: “He’s lying on the sofa right there. What do you want with him?” This blunt, familiar “What do you want with him?” visibly stung the stiff, formal gentleman. He nearly whirled around towards Razumikhin, but managed just in time to restrain himself and quickly turned back to Zosimov instead. “Here’s Raskolnikov,” mumbled Zosimov, nodding toward the sick man, then yawned—opening his mouth unusually wide and holding it that way unusually long. Then, slowly, he reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out an enormous, thick, old-fashioned gold watch with a silent face, flipped it open, glanced at the time, and just as slowly and lazily began putting it away again.

The tense silence lasted about a minute, and then, as might have been expected, a slight change in the scene took place. Perhaps realising, from certain rather obvious signs, that maintaining an overly rigid bearing would get him nowhere in this "cabin," the visitor softened slightly and, speaking politely though still with a touch of sternness, addressed Zosimov, articulating each syllable of his question with precision:

He was a gentleman of advanced years, stiff and dignified in manner, with a cautious and irritable expression, who began by stopping at the doorway, looking around with an offence-laden, undisguised astonishment, as though silently asking with his eyes: "Where on earth have I ended up?" With distrust, and even with an air of exaggerated alarm—perhaps even affront—he surveyed Raskolnikov's cramped, low-ceilinged "cabin." Then, with the same amazement, he turned his gaze upon Raskolnikov himself—undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, lying on his wretched, filthy sofa, staring back at him without moving. Next, slowly, he shifted his eyes to the tousled, unshaven, unkempt figure of Razumikhin, who in turn stared boldly and inquisitively straight back at him, not budging an inch.

– Clever! No, brother, that’s clever. That’s the cleverest part of all! – But why, why? – Because everything fits together too perfectly… and ties up too neatly… just like a play. – Oh! – Razumikhin was about to exclaim, but just then the door opened, and in came a new face, unknown to any of those present.

People might even have seen him, but didn’t pay attention—there are so many people passing by! But he dropped the box from his pocket while standing behind that door and didn’t notice losing it, because he was too tense at the time. And yet the box clearly proves he must have stood right there. That’s the whole point!

— What’s my explanation? Well, what’s there to explain? The facts are clear! At least the direction in which the investigation must proceed is now evident and proven—thanks precisely to the box. The real murderer dropped these earrings. He was upstairs when Koch and Pestryakov knocked, hiding behind the bolt. Koch panicked and went downstairs; that’s when the murderer jumped out and ran down too, since there was no other way out for him. On the staircase, he hid from Koch, Pestryakov, and the caretaker in an empty flat—exactly at the moment when Dmitry and Nikolay ran out of it. He stayed behind the door while the caretaker and the others went upstairs, waited till the footsteps died down, and then calmly walked downstairs—just at the very moment when Dmitry and Nikolay had rushed out into the street, everyone had dispersed, and no one was left under the gateway.

– The very point is, no one saw anything, – answered Razumikhin irritably – and that’s the problem; even Koch and Pestryakov didn’t notice them when they went upstairs, although their testimony wouldn’t be of much value now anyway. 'We saw,' they say, 'that the door was open, so probably some workmen were inside, but we didn’t pay attention as we passed, and can’t clearly remember whether the workers were actually there at that moment or not.' – Hmm. So the only defence they have is that they were beating each other and laughing. Granted, that’s strong evidence, but… Let me ask you now: how do you yourself explain the whole incident? How do you account for the discovery of the earrings, if indeed he found them exactly as he claims?

– It's proven, – replied Razumikhin, frowning and seemingly reluctant. – Koch identified the item and named the pawnbroker, and the pawnbroker clearly confirmed that the item was indeed his. – Not good. Now, one more thing: did anyone happen to see Nikolai during the time when Koch and Pestryakov went upstairs, and can that be proven in any way?

– Of course, it's strange! Of course, impossible, but… – No, brother, not 'but'—if the earrings, found in Nikolay's hands at the same hour and on the same day, indeed constitute a serious factual evidence against him—yet clearly explained by his own statement, and therefore still doubtful—then one must also consider the exonerating facts, especially since they are factual. Now, what do you think—according to the nature of our legal system, will they accept, or are they even capable of accepting, such a fact—one based solely on a psychological impossibility, on nothing more than a state of mind—as an undeniable fact that shatters all incriminating and material evidence, no matter how strong? No, they won't accept it, they simply won't, for they'll say the box was found and the man tried to hang himself—'which couldn't have happened if he hadn't felt guilty!' That, brother, is the crucial point, that's what makes me so agitated! Understand! – Yes, I can see you're worked up. Wait, I forgot to ask: what proves that the box with the earrings was actually taken from the old woman’s chest?

Now pay close attention: the bodies upstairs were still warm, do you hear, still warm, when they were discovered! If they, or only Nikolai, had committed the murder, broken open the trunks and robbed the place, or even taken part in the robbery in any way, let me ask you just one question: does such a state of mind—squealing, laughing, a childish scuffle right under the gateway—match up with axes, blood, villainous cunning, caution, robbery? They must have killed just moments ago, only five or ten minutes earlier—because only then would the bodies still be warm—and yet, instantly abandoning the bodies, leaving the flat wide open, knowing people had already passed by, and leaving behind the loot, they roll about in the street like little children, laughing, drawing everyone’s attention to themselves—and there are ten unanimous witnesses to this!

Listen to me, listen carefully: the watchman, Koch, Pestryakov, another watchman, the first watchman’s wife, the towns-woman who was sitting in the lodge at that very time, and Privy Councillor Kryukov, who at that very moment stepped down from a cab and entered the gateway arm-in-arm with a lady—everyone, that is eight or ten witnesses, unanimously state that Nikolai had Dmitri pinned to the ground, was lying on top of him and beating him, while Dmitri had grabbed him by the hair and was beating him back. They were lying across the road, blocking the passage; people were shouting at them from all sides, yet they, "like little children" (the exact words of the witnesses), lay on top of each other, squealing, fighting and laughing—both laughing wildly, making the funniest faces, chasing each other just like children who’ve rushed out to play in the street. Did you hear that?

– What’s there to think about? There’s a clue, however slight. A fact. Are you going to let your dyer go free? – But they’ve already marked him down as the murderer! They haven’t a shadow of doubt left... – You’re lying; you’re getting heated. Well then, what about the earrings? Admit it yourself—if on the very same day and hour, those earrings from the old woman’s chest ended up in Nikolai’s hands—admit it yourself, they must have got there somehow. That’s no small thing, considering the investigation. – How did they get there? How? – cried Razumikhin. – And can it be, doctor, you, who above all should study human nature, and who have more opportunity than anyone else to understand it—can it be that you don’t see, from all these facts, what sort of person this Nikolai is? Can’t you see at once that everything he stated during questioning is absolutely true? That the earrings came into his hands exactly as he described—stepped on the box and picked it up? – Absolutely true! Yet he himself admitted he lied the first time?

– What happened next? The moment he saw the earrings, he immediately forgot about the apartment and about Mityka, grabbed his hat and ran to Dushkin's, where, as you know, he got a rouble by lying that he'd found them on the pavement, and straight away went on a drinking spree. About the murder, he confirms what he said before: 'Don't know, never heard of it, only heard about it on the third day.' – 'Then why didn't you come forward till now?' – 'Out of fear.' – 'And why did you want to hang yourself?' – 'Because of thoughts.' – 'What thoughts?' – 'That I'd be punished.' Well, that's the whole story. Now, what do you think they made of it?

– Behind the doors? Lying behind the doors? Behind the doors? – suddenly cried Raskolnikov, staring at Razumikhin with a dull, frightened gaze, slowly pushing himself up on the sofa with one hand. – Yes… What is it? What's wrong with you? Why are you like this? – Razumikhin also got to his feet at once. – Nothing!... – Raskolnikov whispered faintly, sinking back onto the pillow and turning away again towards the wall. They all fell silent for a while. – Must've dozed off—just woken up confused, perhaps – said Razumikhin finally, glancing at Zosimov, who gave a slight shake of his head in disagreement. – Well then, go on – Zosimov said – what happened next?

I started gathering things and waited for Mitreya, hoping he’d come. Then near the door in the entranceway, behind the wall, in the corner, I stepped on a box. I look—there it was, wrapped in paper. I removed the paper, saw some tiny hooks, took the hooks off—lo and behold, inside the box were earrings…"

And I’m running after him, shouting at the top of my voice, and as I’m coming down the stairs into the gateway, I crash straight into the sweeper and some gentlemen—I don’t remember how many gentlemen were with him—so the sweeper abused me, another sweeper abused me too, then the sweeper’s wife came out and abused us both, and one gentleman entering the gateway with a lady also scolded us because Mitka and I were lying right across the passage: I had grabbed Mitka by the hair, thrown him down, and started beating him, while Mitka, from underneath, grabbed me by the hair too and started beating me—though we did it not out of malice, but purely in affection, just playing. Then Mitka broke free and ran out onto the street, and I ran after him but couldn’t catch up, so I came back alone to the fatera because we still had to clean up.

– No, I’m not talking about evidence now; I’m talking about the question itself, how they understand their own nature! Well, damn it! So they kept pressing him, pressing him, pushing, pushing, and finally he confessed: "Not on the panel, I found it in the fatera where Mitreya and I were painting." – "What exactly do you mean?" – "Just this: Mitreya and I had been painting the whole day till eight o'clock, and were about to leave, when Mitreya took a brush and smeared paint right across my face – slapped paint on my face and ran off, so I chased after him.

– Well, no, still, there is evidence.

Heard about it for the first time from Afanasy Pavlych, on the third day, at a drinking booth.” – “Where did you get the earrings?” – “Found them on the street.” – “Why didn’t you show up for work with Mithry the next day?” – “Because I went on a drinking spree.” – “Where exactly did you go on this spree?” – “At such and such places.” – “Why did you run away from Dushkin’s?” – “Because we were terribly frightened then.” – “What were you so afraid of?” – “That we’d be sentenced.” – “How could you be afraid like that if you felt you were innocent of anything?” Well, believe it or not, Zosimov, this question was actually asked, and in exactly these words—I know for certain, it was reported to me accurately! What do you say? What do you think?

“Take me,” he told them, “to such-and-such precinct; I’ll confess to everything.” Well, they brought him, with due formalities, to that precinct—here, in fact. So and so, who, how, how old—“twenty-two”—and so on, and so forth. Question: “When you were working with Mithry, did you see anyone going up or down the stairs around such and such a time?” Answer: “Well, people might have passed by, but we didn’t pay attention.” – “Did you hear any noise, any commotion or anything?” – “Didn’t hear anything particularly unusual.” – “Did you, Mikolay, know on that very day that such-and-such a widow was murdered and robbed at such-and-such a time along with her sister?” – “Don’t know, can’t say.

– Stop! Just hear the end! Of course, they ran off in all directions to find Mikolay: Dushkin was arrested and searched, Mithry too; they even ransacked the Kolomenskoye lot—only, suddenly, the day before yesterday, they bring in Mikolay himself: they’d caught him near the Skaya checkpoint, at a roadside inn. He arrived there, took off his silver cross, and asked to exchange it for a glass of vodka. They gave it to him. A little while later, a woman went into the cowshed and saw through a crack that he had tied his belt to a beam in the shed, made a noose, stepped onto a log, and was about to put the noose around his neck. The woman screamed at the top of her voice; people came running. “So this is how it is!” they said.

– Of course! – said Zosimov.

That’s when I decide to stop him: “Wait, Mikolay,” I say, “won’t you have a drink?” And I wink at the boy to hold the door, then step out from behind the counter—whereupon he bolts from me, dashes into the street, starts running, turns into an alley, and I never saw him again. That’s when I became certain of his guilt, plain and simple…’

“No,” he says, “didn’t see him.” “Hasn’t been here?” “No,” he says, “not since the third day.” “Where did you sleep last night?” “On the Sands,” he says, “with the Kolomensk men.” “And where,” I say, “did you get the earrings then?” “I found them on the pavement,” he says—and says it awkwardly, without looking me in the eye. “And did you hear,” I say, “that on that very evening, at that very hour, right on that staircase, such and such happened?” “No,” he says, “I didn’t hear.” But he’s listening, eyes popping out, and suddenly turns pale, as white as chalk. I keep talking, watching him, and suddenly he grabs his cap and starts to get up.

Their workplace was on the same staircase as the victims, on the second floor. Hearing all this, we didn’t tell anyone anything then,’ Dushkin says, ‘and tried to find out everything we could about the murder, returning home still uncertain. But this morning at eight o’clock—that’s on the third day, you understand?—I see Mikolay walk in, not quite sober but not heavily drunk either, still able to understand what’s said. He sits down on the bench and keeps quiet. At that time, apart from him, there was just one other stranger in the shop, another man, a regular, was asleep on a bench, and two of our own boys were around. “Did you see Mitreya?” I asked.

Mikolay isn’t a drunkard, but he does drink, and we knew he was working in that same house doing painting, along with Mitreya, and that the two men were from the same village. When he got the ticket, he immediately changed it, drank two small glasses, took his change, and left. I didn’t see Mitreya with him at the time. The next day we heard that Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna had been murdered with an axe, and we knew them well. That’s when I began to suspect something about the earrings—because we knew the murdered woman used to lend money against valuables. So I went to the house and began quietly making discreet enquiries, and first of all asked: “Is Mikolay around?” Mitreya told me Mikolay had gone on a binge, came home at dawn drunk, stayed ten minutes, and left again. Mitreya hadn’t seen him since and was finishing the job alone.

When I asked him where he got them, he said he’d picked them up from the pavement. I didn’t press him further,’ Dushkin says, ‘and simply gave him a pawn ticket for one rouble, thinking that if not with me, he’d pawn them with someone else anyway, and would just drink the money. Better the item stays with me: easier to return, quicker to claim. And if anything turns up or there’s news, I’ll hand it in right away.’ Well, of course, he’s telling an old woman’s dream, lying like a horse; I know this Dushkin—he’s a pawnbroker himself and often hides stolen goods, so he didn’t steal a thirty-rouble item from Mikolay just to “hand it in.” He simply got scared. But never mind that—listen on. Dushkin continues: ‘I’ve known this peasant Mikolay Dementyev since he was a boy. He’s from our province and district, Zaraysk, while we ourselves are from Ryazan.

– Yes indeed! Well, listen to this: exactly on the third day after the murder, early in the morning, when they were still fussing around with Koch and Pestryakov—though both had fully accounted for their movements; the evidence is screaming clear!—suddenly the most unexpected fact turns up. A certain peasant, Dushkin, who runs a liquor shop right opposite the very house, comes to the police station and hands in a jeweller’s case containing a pair of gold earrings with gemstones, and tells quite a tale: ‘A worker, a dyer by trade, by the name of Mikolay—who had been to my shop earlier that day—came running to me in the evening, on the third day, around nine o'clock—mind the date and hour, do you understand?—and brought me this box with gold earrings and stones, asking me to give him two roubles on pledge.

– Don't get so heated up; they've just been detained; it can't be helped... By the way, I happened to meet that Koch—turns out he was buying pawned goods from the old woman, right? – Yes, some kind of swindler! He deals in promissory notes too. A businessman, of sorts. But let him be! What I'm angry about, do you understand, is their rotten, stale, vulgar, and rigid routine! But here, in this one case, an entirely new path could be opened up. Based purely on psychological insights, one could show how to arrive at the truth. "We have facts," they say! But facts aren't everything; at least half the job lies in knowing how to handle the facts! – And do you know how to handle facts? – But how can one stay silent when one feels—yes, senses instinctively—that one could help solve the case if only... Ah, well!... Do you know the details of the case? – I'm waiting for the dyer, actually.

– Let it be, but still, let’s get it out! – shouted Razumikhin, banging his fist on the table. – What’s most annoying here? It’s not that they lie; lies can always be forgiven; lying is actually a pleasant thing because it leads to the truth. No, what’s irritating is that they lie and then actually worship their own lies. I respect Porfiry, but still… What, for instance, misled them right from the start? The door was locked, but when they arrived with the watchman, it was open: so then, obviously, Koch and Pestryakov must have done it! That’s their logic.

— What evidence, for heaven's sake! Though indeed, they go by evidence—and yet that supposed evidence isn't evidence at all; that's exactly what needs to be proved! It's just like how at first they nabbed and suspected those fellows—what were their names again—Koch and Pestryakov. Pah! How stupidly everything is done—it makes you feel dirty even watching from afar! Pestryakov might drop by today… By the way, Rodya, you must already know about this business—it happened before your illness, just the day before you fainted in the office when they were talking about it… Zosimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov; the latter didn't stir. — You know what, Razumikhin? I've been watching you—you're quite the busybody, aren't you?— remarked Zosimov.

– And they've gone and listed him as a murderer too! – Razumikhin went on fervently. – What evidence is there, anyway?

– I've heard about the murder even before you mentioned it, and I've taken an interest in it... partly... due to a certain circumstance... and I've read about it in the newspapers! And now... – They killed Lizaveta too! – suddenly blurted out Nastasya, turning to Raskolnikov. She had been standing in the room all along, pressed close to the door, listening intently. – Lizaveta? – Raskolnikov muttered in a barely audible voice. – Why, Lizaveta, the peddler woman – don't you know? She used to come downstairs here. She even mended a shirt for you. Raskolnikov turned towards the wall, fixing his eyes on an awkward white flower among the dirty yellow wallpaper with little white blooms, this one marked with brown streaks. He began studying it closely—counting how many petals it had, examining the notches on the leaves, tracing the brown lines. He felt his arms and legs grow numb, as if completely paralysed, yet he made no effort to move, stubbornly staring at the flower. – Well then, what about the dyer? – Zossimov interrupted Nastasya's chatter with a distinct note of irritation. She sighed and fell silent.

– It's all about the painter, I mean the dyer… We'll get him out, don't worry! But anyway, no harm done now. The case is perfectly, absolutely clear! We just need to give it a little push. – What dyer are you talking about? – What, haven't I told you? Or did I not? Why, I only just started telling you about it… you know, about the murder of that old pawnbroker woman, the government clerk… Well, now this dyer's got mixed up in it too…

– Well, so he warms his hands, and couldn’t care less! So what if he warms them! – suddenly shouted Razumikhin, getting oddly agitated – Was I praising him for warming his hands? I said he's good in his own way! But if you look straight at all kinds, how many good people would be left at all? I’m sure, at that time, for me – right down to my insides – they’d give just one baked onion, and that too only if you’re thrown in as extra! – That’s too little; I’ll give two for you… – But I’ll give only one for you! Keep shaving! I’ll still pull young Zametov’s hair, because one must attract such a fellow, not push him away. Pushing a man away won’t reform him, let alone a boy. With a boy, one must be twice as careful. Oh, you progressive blockheads, you understand nothing! You don’t respect a human being, you insult yourselves… And if you want to know, perhaps we’ve already got some common business going. – Would like to know.

– And that's just fine. Well then — some students, a teacher, an official, a musician, an officer, and Zamyotov... – Just tell me, please, what could possibly be common between you, or even him — Zossimov nodded towards Raskolnikov — and some Zamyotov? – Oh, these grumpy ones! Always with their principles!... You're all about principles, like springs in a machine; afraid to move unless the rules allow it. But for me, if a man's good, that's principle enough — and I don't care to know anything more. Zamyotov is a splendid fellow. – And warms his hands, too.

– Oh, what a pity! I'm celebrating my housewarming today, just two steps away; he could've come too. Wish he'd just lie on the sofa between us! Will you come? – Razumikhin suddenly turned to Zosimov – Don't forget, mind you, you promised. – Maybe later, perhaps. What sort of gathering are you having? – Nothing fancy, just tea, vodka, herring. They'll bring a pie—just our local folks, mostly new faces. Except maybe my old uncle, though he's kind of new too: arrived in Petersburg only yesterday on some business or other; we meet once every five years. – Who is he? – Lived his whole life as a district postmaster... gets a small pension, sixty-five years old, not worth talking about... But I do like him, though. Porfiry Petrovich is coming—local investigator in charge of inquiries... a law expert. You know him, right? – He's another relative of yours? – Some distant connection. Why are you frowning? Just because you two had a quarrel once, you won't come now? – I couldn't care less about him...

– You can give her anything... soup, tea... but no mushrooms or pickles, of course, and no beef either, and... well, what's the use of talking about it!.. – He exchanged a glance with Razumikhin. – Toss out the medicine, throw everything away; I'll check on her tomorrow... Though maybe even today... well, yes... – Tomorrow evening I'm taking him out for a walk! – Razumikhin decided. – To Yusupov Garden, then we'll pop into the 'Palace de Crystal'. – I wouldn't move him at all tomorrow, if you ask me, but then again... just a little... well, we'll see.

– I came to see you twice, brother… See, you’re finally awake! – cried Razumikhin. – I see, I see; so how are we feeling now, hmm? – Zosimov turned to Raskolnikov, eyeing him closely as he settled down on the sofa at his feet, sprawling there as comfortably as possible. – Still feeling low, that’s all, – Razumikhin went on. – We changed his linen just now, and he nearly burst into tears. – Understandable… we could’ve waited with the linen, if he didn’t want it… Pulse is fine. Head still aching a bit, eh? – I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine! – Raskolnikov insisted irritably, suddenly sitting up on the sofa, his eyes flashing, but immediately collapsing back onto the pillow and turning towards the wall. Zosimov watched him closely. – Very good… everything’s in order, – he said languidly. – Had anything to eat? They told him what had been given and asked what else could be offered.

Zosimov was a tall, heavy man with a flabby, pale, clean-shaven face, straight tow-coloured hair, glasses, and a large gold ring on his fat, swollen finger. He was about twenty-seven. He wore a loose, stylish light coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him was loose, smart, and brand new; his linen was immaculate, his watch chain heavy. His manner was slow, almost languid, yet studiedly casual; pretensions, though carefully hidden, showed through every now and then. Those who knew him found him dull company, but admitted he knew his profession well.

– Leave it! I don’t want it! – Raskolnikov waved him off, listening with disgust to Razumikhin’s eager, playful account of buying the clothes… – Brother, that’s impossible! What do you expect me to walk in, then? – Razumikhin insisted. – Nastasya, don’t be shy, help me out, like this! – And despite Raskolnikov’s resistance, he changed his underclothes anyway. Raskolnikov sank back onto the pillow and remained silent for nearly two minutes. “They just won’t leave me in peace!” he thought. – Where did all this come from? What money was it bought with? – he asked at last, staring at the wall. – Money? Well, look at that! From your very own, of course. A workman came by just now, from Vahrushin – your mother sent it. Or have you forgotten? – Ah, yes… I remember now… – Raskolnikov muttered after a long, gloomy silence. Razumikhin frowned and watched him anxiously. The door opened, and in walked a tall, sturdy man who seemed somehow familiar to Raskolnikov. – Zosimov! About time! – Razumikhin cried, clearly delighted.

Forty-five kopecks change, in copper five-kopeck coins, please accept it – and thus, Rodya, you're now fully equipped in proper attire, because in my opinion, your overcoat isn't only still serviceable, but even has a certain distinguished air: no need at all to order one from Sharmer! As for socks and other small items, I leave that to you; we still have twenty-five rubles left, and don't worry about Pashenka or the rent – I've spoken: unlimited credit. Now, brother, allow me to change your linen, otherwise the illness might just be lingering in that shirt right now...

– Not suitable? And what's this? – he pulled out from his pocket Rodya's old, worn-out, filthy boot, caked with dried mud and full of holes – I went specially to check the size, and they confirmed the exact measurement from this very boot. Everything was done heartily. And I've already settled the matter of linen with the landlady. Here, to begin with, three shirts, coarse linen, but with fashionable neckbands... Well then: eight groats for the cap, two rubles twenty-five for the other clothes, making three rubles five kopecks; one ruble fifty for the boots – because they're really excellent – making four rubles fifty-five kopecks; and five rubles for all the linen – got it wholesale, so that makes exactly nine rubles fifty-five kopecks.

– Maybe, it's not the right time! – remarked Nastasya.

Now then, let's move on to the shoes—what do you think? Clearly second-hand, but they'll serve you well for two months, because it's foreign make and imported goods: an attaché from the British Embassy sold them last week at Tolkoochi; wore them just six days, but urgently needed money. Price: one rupee fifty paise. A good deal?

And as for being second-hand, well, honestly, that's even better: softer, more comfortable… You see, Rodya, to get ahead in life, I believe, all you need is to keep an eye on the seasons; if you don't demand asparagus in January, you'll save yourself a few rupees; the same applies to this purchase. It's summer now, so I've made a summer purchase; by autumn, the season will naturally call for warmer material anyway, so you'll have to discard them… particularly since by then they'll have worn out on their own, if not from increased luxury, then from internal weaknesses. Now then, take a look! How much would you say? Two rupees twenty-five paise! And remember, again with the same condition: once you've worn these out, you get another pair free next year! That's how Fedyayev's shop works: pay once, and you're set for life, since you won't want to go back there yourself ever again.

– A two-anna piece, you fool! – he shouted, offended, – these days even you can't be bought for two annas, eight rupees! And that's only because it's second-hand. True, they do promise: once you've worn this one out, they'll give you another one free next year, upon my word! Now then, let's proceed to the United States of America, as we used to call it at school. I must warn you—I'm proud of these trousers! – and he spread out before Raskolnikov a pair of grey trousers made of light summer wool – not a single hole or stain, and yet quite respectable, though worn; the waistcoat is the same, plain-coloured, as fashion demands.

– Must have given a two-anna coin, – replied Nastasya.

– No, brother Rodya, don’t resist—it’ll be too late then; and anyway, I wouldn’t sleep a wink all night, since I bought it blind, without measurements. Just right! – he declared triumphantly, trying it on – fits like a glove! Headgear, brother, is the very first thing in an outfit—sort of like a calling card. My friend Tolstikov has to take off his hat every time he enters a public place where everyone else stands around in hats and caps. People think it’s out of humility, but really, he’s just ashamed of his bird’s nest—such a modest man! Now then, Nastenka, here are two headpieces: this Palmerston (he pulled from the corner Raskolnikov’s battered round hat, which for some reason he called a Palmerston) or this fine piece of jewellery? Tell me, Rodya, how much do you think I paid? Nastasyushka? – he turned to her, seeing that he remained silent.

– Hmm! – he said – Forgot! Earlier, I kept thinking you weren't quite yourself. Now, after a good sleep, you're feeling better... Honestly, you do look much improved. That's the spirit! Well then, let's get to it. You'll remember now. Just look here, my dear fellow. He began untying the knot, which apparently interested him greatly. – This, brother, believe me, has been weighing heavily on my mind. After all, we must make a proper man out of you. Now, let's begin – from the top. See this cap here? – he said, pulling from the bundle a rather neat but quite ordinary and cheap cap. – Just let me try it on you? – Later, later – muttered Raskolnikov, brushing him off grumpily.

– I'm fine! I'm not ill... Razumikhin, how long have you been here? – I told you, I've been waiting for three hours. – No, but before that? – What do you mean, before? – Since when have you been coming here? – Why, didn't I just tell you earlier? Don't you remember? Raskolnikov fell into thought. Everything earlier seemed to him like a dream. He couldn't recollect on his own and looked at Razumikhin questioningly.

He woke up hearing someone enter, opened his eyes and saw Razumikhin standing in the doorway, the door flung wide open, hesitating whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov quickly sat up on the sofa, staring at him as if trying hard to remember something. — Ah, awake, are you? Good! Here I am! Nastya, bring the bundle up here! — shouted Razumikhin downstairs. — You'll get an update right away... — What time is it? — asked Raskolnikov anxiously, looking around. — You've had a proper sleep, brother! Evening now, about six o'clock. You've slept over six hours... — Good Lord! What have I done! — What's wrong with that? Good for your health! Where's the rush? Got a date or something? We've got all the time now. I've been waiting for you nearly three hours—came by twice, but you were fast asleep. Went to see Zosimov twice too—wasn't in yet, but he'll turn up!... I also stepped out for a bit on personal errands. I shifted house today—fully moved, with my uncle. I've got an uncle now, you see. But never mind that—let's get down to business!... Bring the bundle here, Nastenka. Now we'll see... So, how are you feeling, brother?

He grabbed the bottle, which still had a full glass of beer left, and drank it down in one go, savouring it as though quenching a fire burning in his chest. But hardly a minute passed before the beer hit his head, and a slight, even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the blanket over himself. His thoughts, already troubled and disjointed, grew more and more confused, and soon a light, soothing sleep overcame him. With pleasure, he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped himself more snugly in the soft cotton quilt that now covered him instead of his old torn overcoat, gave a quiet sigh, and fell into a deep, sound, healing sleep.

"Ah, Zametov!... The office!... Why are they calling me to the office? Where's the summons? Ah!... I've mixed things up: that was back then when they summoned me! Back then I was examining a sock too, but now... now I've been ill. But why did Zametov come by? Why did Razumikhin bring him here?..." he muttered weakly, sinking back onto the sofa. "What is going on? Is this delirium still gripping me, or is it real? Seems like it's real... Ah, I remember: run! Run quickly, I must run, absolutely must run! But... where to? Where's my clothes? No boots! They've taken them! Hidden them! I understand! Ah, here's the coat—missed it! And there's money on the table, thank God! And the bill of exchange too... I'll take the money and leave, rent another room, they won't find me!... But then, the registry office? They'll track me down! Razumikhin will find me. Better to flee altogether... far away... to America, and let them rot! And take the bill of exchange—it'll come in handy there. What else should I take? They think I'm sick! They don't know I can walk, heh-heh-heh!... I could tell from their eyes they know everything! If only I could make it down the stairs! But what if they've posted guards there, police officers! What's this—tea? Ah, here's some beer left, half a bottle, cold!"

He stood in the middle of the room, looking around in helpless bewilderment. He walked to the door, opened it, and listened; but no, that wasn't it. Suddenly, as if remembering something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole in the wallpaper, began examining everything closely, thrust his hand into the hole, and felt around—still nothing. Then he went to the stove, opened it, and started searching through the ashes: fragments of trouser fringe and torn pieces of a pocket still lay scattered just as he had left them—so no one had come looking! Then he recalled the sock that Razumikhin had just mentioned. True enough, there it was, lying on the sofa under the blanket—but so worn and soiled by now that Zametov surely could not have made anything out of it.

– Calls me Pashenka! You sly-faced one! – Nastasya muttered after him, then opened the door and started eavesdropping. But she couldn't bear it and rushed downstairs herself. She was terribly curious to find out what he was talking to the landlady about—and besides, it was clear she was completely charmed by Razumikhin. As soon as the door closed behind her, the sick man threw off the blanket and jumped out of bed like a madman. He had been waiting with burning, agonizing impatience for them to leave so he could immediately get down to business—on his own. But what business? It was as if, just now and on purpose, he had forgotten. "Lord! Just tell me one thing: do they know everything already, or not yet? What if they already know, but are only pretending, teasing me while I'm lying here—and then suddenly walk in and say it's all been known for ages, and they were just acting... What should I do now? And I've forgotten it on purpose—suddenly forgotten! Just now I remembered!"

Well then, down to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I'll take ten, and in about two hours I'll give you an account. Meanwhile, I'll let Zosimov know—he should've been here long ago anyway, it's already noon. And you, Nastenka, keep visiting in my absence, check whether he needs some drink or anything else... I'll myself tell Pashenka what's needed right away. Goodbye!

– Oh, he'll manage just fine! Surely you're not worried about some secret? Don't fret: nothing was said about the countess. But there was plenty of talk about some bulldog, earrings, chains, Krestovsky Island, a janitor, Nikodim Fomich, and Ilya Petrovich, the assistant superintendent. And besides that, they took quite an interest in your own sock—very much indeed! Kept complaining: "Hand it over," that's all they'd say. Zametov himself searched every corner for your socks and, with his own clean hands—perfumed and with rings on—personally handed you that rag. Only then did you calm down, and held onto that rag for a full day and night—you couldn't even pull it away. It's probably still lying somewhere under your blanket. Then you asked for fringe for your trousers—so tearfully! We tried to find out: what fringe exactly? But nothing could be understood...

– I got quite worked up about it, even to the point of frenzy, especially when once I brought Zametov along. – Zametov? The clerk? Why? – Raskolnikov quickly turned and stared intently at Razumikhin. – What's wrong with you... Why so agitated? He wanted to meet you—wanted it himself, because we'd talked so much about you. Otherwise, how would I have learned so much about you? He's a good fellow, really remarkable, in his own way, of course. Now we're friends—see each other almost daily. I've moved to that area now. You didn't know? Just moved in. Went with him to Laviza's a couple of times. Remember Laviza, Laviza Ivanovna? – Did I talk deliriously? – Of course! You weren't yourself at all. – What did I talk about in my delirium? – Oh, come on! What does one usually babble about in a fever? You know well enough... But brother, now let's not waste time—let's get to work. He stood up from the chair and grabbed his cap. – What did I talk about in my delirium?

Razumikhin placed the promissory note on the table; Raskolnikov glanced at it, said nothing, and turned away towards the wall. Even Razumikhin felt awkward. —I see, brother, — he said after a minute — I’ve made a fool of myself again. Thought I’d cheer you up, have a bit of a chat, but seems I’ve only poured gall into your heart. —Was it you I didn’t recognise during my delirium? — asked Raskolnikov, after keeping silent for about a minute, without turning his head.

– Yes, you were sensible enough. But the whole point is that here came along Mr. Chebarov, a privy councillor and a man of business. Poor Pashenka couldn't have thought of anything without him—she's too shy by nature. But a business-minded man isn't shy; naturally, his first question was: is there any hope of realising this little promissory note? The answer: yes, there is—such a mother exists who would go without food herself, even on her twenty-five-rouble pension, just to help her dear Rodya, and such a sister who'd sell herself into bondage for her brother. That's exactly what he relied upon... Why are you fidgeting? Brother, I now know every last detail about you—you weren't cautious when you opened up to Pashenka while still on good terms as relatives, and now I'm speaking out of kindness. That's precisely it: an honest, sensitive man speaks openly, while the man of business listens, eats it all up, and then devours him too. So she ended up transferring that promissory note to this Chebarov, supposedly to settle a debt, and he formally demanded payment—didn't even flinch. I nearly gave him a piece of my mind when I found out everything—just to clear my conscience—but at that time, I was in perfect harmony with Pashenka, so I ordered the entire matter dropped right at the source, guaranteeing that you would pay. Brother, I stood surety for you, do you hear? They called Chebarov, shoved ten gold pieces into his face, took back the document, and now I have the honour of presenting it to you—people now trust your word—here, take it, and see, I've torn it properly myself.

"It was out of sheer meanness that I spoke... My mother herself hardly begs for alms... yet I lied so they would keep me in the room and... feed me," said Raskolnikov loudly and distinctly.

– Isn't it the truth? – exclaimed Razumikhin, clearly delighted that he had received a response. – But she isn't clever, right? Her behaviour is completely, utterly unexpected! Brother, I must admit, I'm somewhat baffled... She's certainly pushing forty. She claims thirty-six, and well, she's entitled to say so. But I swear to you, I judge her more from an intellectual, almost metaphysical standpoint; brother, here we've got such a symbolic entanglement going on that your algebra can't solve it—I understand nothing! But never mind all that nonsense; the point is, seeing that you're no longer a student, have lost your tutoring and clothes allowance, and that after the young lady's death there's no reason to keep you around as family, she suddenly got frightened. And since you, on your side, kept withdrawing into yourself and didn't maintain previous ties, she decided to throw you out of the apartment. She's been planning this for a while, but hesitated because of the promissory notes. Besides, you yourself kept assuring her that your mother would pay...

“Yes…” mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but aware that it would be better to keep the conversation going.

– Very much so, – continued Razumikhin, not at all disconcerted by the silence, as though agreeing with the answer he had received. – Very much in order, in every respect. – Just look at the creature! – cried Nastasya again, clearly deriving indescribable delight from the conversation. – The bad thing, brother, is that right from the start you didn't handle the matter properly. You should never have approached her that way. She's, so to speak, of the most unexpected character! Well, we'll talk about character later... But tell me, for instance, how could she possibly stop sending you your meals? Or take that promissory note—have you lost your mind, signing such things? Or what about that proposed marriage, when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was still alive... I know all about it! But anyway, I see this is a delicate point, and I've been an ass; forgive me. But speaking of foolishness—what do you think? Praskovya Pavlovna isn't nearly as stupid, brother, as she might first appear, is she?

– We shall value it, sir. Well then, brother, to cut a long story short, I initially wanted to introduce electricity everywhere, so thoroughly that all the prejudices in this region would be eradicated at once; but Pashenka prevailed. Brother, I never expected she'd be so... charming... eh? What do you think? Raskolnikov remained silent, though he hadn't taken his anxious eyes off him for a moment, and now kept staring at him persistently.

– Recorded! – Of course! But they simply couldn't find General Kobyelov while I was there. Well, never mind, too long a story. But the moment I arrived here, I got to know all about your affairs—every single one, my friend, every last detail. She knows it too—I met Nikodim Fomich, saw Ilya Petrovich, got to know the watchman, then Mr. Zametov, Alexander Grigoryevich, the clerk at the local office, and finally even Pashenka—that was the crowning touch. She knows all about it... – Smooth talker, you are – mumbled Nastasya, grinning slyly. – Oh, no offence meant, Nastasya Nikiforovna. – You rogue! – suddenly shouted Nastasya, bursting into laughter. – And anyway, I'm Petrova, not Nikiforova – she added abruptly, once she'd stopped laughing.

– She’ll pick up the raspberries from the shop, my friend. You see, Rodya, a whole drama unfolded here in your absence. When you ran off from me so sneakily, without even leaving your address, I suddenly got so angry that I decided to track you down and give you a proper scolding. Started the very same day. I walked and walked, asked and asked! I’d forgotten about this present place, anyway I never really remembered it, since I never knew it properly. But the old place—I only recalled it was near Pyat Uglov, the house belonging to Kharlamov. I searched and searched for that Kharlamov house—turned out later it wasn’t Kharlamov at all, but Bukha! How the sounds sometimes get mixed up! Well, I got furious. Got angry and just went, come what may, to the address office the next day—and imagine: they found you in two minutes flat. You’re registered there.

– We must have Pashenka send us some raspberry jam today itself, to make him a drink, – said Razumikhin, settling back into his seat and resuming his soup and beer. – But where will she get raspberries for you? – asked Nastasya, holding a saucer on her five outstretched fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.

Still, he couldn’t suppress his disgust entirely: after drinking about ten spoonfuls, he abruptly pulled his head away, pushed the spoon aside petulantly, and fell back onto the pillow. Indeed, he now lay on real pillows—down pillows with clean pillowcases. He noticed this too, and took it into account.

He immediately poured tea, then poured another cup, abandoned his breakfast, and moved back to the sofa. Once again, he supported the sick man’s head with his left arm, lifted him, and began to feed him tea from a teaspoon, blowing on the spoon continuously and with particular care—as though the very act of blowing were the most crucial, healing element of recovery. Raskolnikov remained silent and offered no resistance, although he clearly felt strong enough to sit up on the sofa without assistance, not only capable of using his hands well enough to hold a spoon or cup, but perhaps even to walk. Yet, on a sudden, strange impulse—something almost animal-like in its cunning—he decided to conceal his strength for now, to lie low, feign incomprehension if necessary, and instead listen carefully and find out what exactly was going on.

Nastasya entered, carrying two bottles of beer. – Would you like some tea? – Yes, please. – Run and get some tea quickly, Nastasya. Seems like we can manage tea without the faculty's approval. But here’s some beer! – He shifted back to his chair, pulled the soup and beef closer, and began eating with such appetite as if he hadn’t eaten for three days. – I’ve started having lunch here every day now, brother Rodya, – he mumbled, his mouth full of beef, – all thanks to dear Pashenka, your landlady, who treats me so warmly, from the heart. I don’t insist, of course, but I certainly don’t object either. And here’s Nastasya with tea. Look at her, so quick! Nastenka, would you like some beer? – Oh, you rascal! – A cup of tea, then? – Tea would be nice. – Then pour yourself some. Wait, I’ll pour it for you; take a seat at the table.

Raskolnikov kept staring wildly and tensely. Meanwhile, Razumikhin shifted over to the sofa beside him, awkwardly bear-like, and with his left arm cradled Raskolnikov's head—though Raskolnikov could have sat up on his own—and with his right hand brought a spoon of soup to his mouth, carefully blowing on it several times to cool it down so he wouldn't burn himself. The soup was only mildly warm, though. Raskolnikov greedily swallowed one spoonful, then another, then a third. But after feeding him a few more spoonfuls, Razumikhin suddenly paused and declared that any further feeding would have to be discussed with Zosimov.

Raskolnikov looked around with deep astonishment and a dull, senseless fear. He decided to stay silent and wait—what would happen next? "I must not be delirious," he thought. "This seems to be really happening..." Two minutes later, Nastasya returned with the soup and announced that tea would be ready shortly. Along with the soup came two spoons, two plates, and all the proper utensils—salt cellar, pepper shaker, mustard for beef, and other items that hadn’t been laid out so neatly in a long time. The tablecloth was clean. "Nastasyushka, just see that Praskovya Pavlovna sends over a couple of bottles of beer. We’ll have a drink, sir." "Oh, you sharp-toed fellow!" muttered Nastasya, and went off to carry out the order.

– Leave it, I’ll do it myself… – he said, took the pen, and signed the book. The contractor paid out the money and left. – Bravo! Now, brother, fancy something to eat? – Yes, I do, – replied Raskolnikov. – Got any soup? – Yesterday’s, – answered Nastasya, who had been standing there all along. – With potatoes and rice? – With potatoes and rice. – Knew it by heart. Bring the soup, and serve some tea too. – I will.

– It's all right by me, sir. Only, about the receipt, we really should— – He'll scribble it! What, is it some kind of register? – A register, sir, yes, sir. – Give it here. Come on, Rodya, sit up. I'll hold you; just sign it—write 'Raskolnikov,' take the pen. We need the money now, brother, more than we need molasses. – No, I don't want to, – said Raskolnikov, pushing the pen away. – What do you mean, no? – I won't sign. – Damn it, how can we manage without a receipt? – Don't need... the money... – Says he doesn't need the money! Look here, brother, you're lying—I'm a witness! Don't worry, please, he's just like this—having another spell. Though sometimes, even when awake, he gets this way... You're a sensible man; we'll guide him, I mean, just move his hand for him, and he'll sign. Go ahead... – Well then, I can come again later, sir. – No, no, why trouble yourself? You're such a reasonable man... Come on, Rodya, don't keep the gentleman waiting... see, he's waiting. – And seriously, he prepared to guide Raskolnikov's hand.

– It's them indeed, sir, Vakhruшин, Afanasy Ivanovich. And at the request of your mother – who previously sent you money in exactly the same way through them – they've obliged once again, sir. They informed Semyon Semyonovich just the other day from their end to hand you thirty-five roubles, sir, pending better times, sir. – Ah, "pending better times" – that's where you truly outdid yourself! And not bad at all the bit about "your dear mother" either. Well then, what's your opinion: is he in full possession of his senses or not?

– It must be the third year now, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovich; he's also attached to our office, sir. – Don't you think he'll be a bit more sensible than you? – Yes, sir; they are certainly rather more substantial, sir. – Good. Well then, please continue. – Now, through Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin—whom, I believe, you've heard mentioned more than once—on request from your late mother, a remittance has been sent to you via our office, sir, the foreman began, addressing Raskolnikov directly. – Provided you are aware of this, sir, thirty-five roubles are to be handed over to you, as Semyon Semyonovich received notification from Afanasy Ivanovich, as per your mother's request, in the usual manner. Do you know of this, sir? – Yes... I remember... Vakhrushin... Raskolnikov murmured thoughtfully. – There, you hear that? He knows the merchant Vakhrushin! cried Razumikhin. – How could he not be aware? And, by the way, I now see you're a sensible man yourself. Well then! It's a pleasure to hear intelligent talk.

Take note, Rodya, this is the second time someone's come from their office; though last time it wasn't you, but another man. We spoke with him. Who was it before you who came here?

– Please, sit on this chair – said Razumikhin, seating himself on another one on the opposite side of the table. – You did well, brother, to come to your senses – he continued, addressing Raskolnikov. – For four days now you've hardly eaten or drunk anything. We were actually feeding you tea with a spoon. Twice I brought Zosimov to see you. Do you remember Zosimov? He examined you carefully and said right away it was all nonsense – some sort of mental strain. Nervous nonsense, he called it; poor diet, he said, not enough beer and horseradish, so no wonder you fell ill – but nothing serious, it'll pass and grind itself out. Zosimov's a good man! He's started treatment well. Now then, I won't keep you, – he turned again to the contractor – perhaps you'd like to explain your business?

— And who might you be, if I may ask? — Razumikhin suddenly turned to him and asked. — You see, my name is Vrazumikhin; not Razumikhin, as everyone calls me, but Vrazumikhin, a student, son of a nobleman, and this is my friend. Now then, who might you be? — I'm the head worker at our shop, from merchant Shelopeev's establishment, and I'm here on business.

– You… who are you? – he continued questioning, turning to the foreman himself. But just then the door burst open, and, stooping slightly because he was tall, Razumikhin came in. – What a bloody cabin! – he cried, entering. – Always bang my forehead! And this is called a flat! So, brother, you've come to? Just heard from Pashenka. – Just came to, – said Nastasya. – Just now came to, – echoed the foreman again with a little smile.

This happened in the morning, at ten o'clock. On clear mornings at this hour, the sun always stretched in a long strip across his right wall, lighting up the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing by Raskolnikov's bed, along with another person—a young fellow in a long coat with a small beard, who bore the look of a workman and was eyeing him with great curiosity, though they had never met before. The landlady peeped in from the half-open door. Raskolnikov raised himself slightly. "Who's this, Nastasya?" he asked, pointing at the man. "Well, look at that—he's come to!" she said. "You've come to, sir," replied the workman. As soon as it became clear he was awake, the landlady, who had been watching from the doorway, quickly shut the door and disappeared. She was always shy and found conversations and explanations a great burden. About forty years old, heavy and plump, with thick dark brows and dark eyes, she was good-natured thanks to her plumpness and laziness—and quite good-looking too. Yet she was excessively, almost unnecessarily, bashful.

About *it* he had completely forgotten; yet every moment he remembered that he had forgotten something crucial—something he must not forget. This gnawed at him, tormented him; he'd struggle to recall, groan, fall into fits of rage or overwhelming, unbearable fear. Then he'd leap up, desperate to escape, but someone would always restrain him by force, and he'd sink once more into weakness and oblivion. Finally, he regained full consciousness.

He wasn't entirely unconscious throughout the entire illness—rather, he was in a feverish state, delirious and half-aware. He remembered many things later. At times, it seemed to him that a crowd had gathered around him, trying to seize him and carry him away somewhere, arguing and quarrelling fiercely over him. Then suddenly he'd be alone in the room, everyone having fled in fear, only peeping through the door now and then to glance at him, shaking their heads, whispering among themselves, laughing and taunting him. He often remembered Nastasya by his side, and could make out another person, someone very familiar indeed, yet try as he might, he couldn't figure out who it was—this troubled him deeply, even brought him to tears. Sometimes he felt he had been lying there for over a month; at other times, that it was still the very same day.

– Nobody came. It’s your own blood crying out. When there’s no outlet for it, when it starts burning up in your liver, that’s when things begin to appear… Are you going to eat something or not? He didn’t answer. Nastasya stood over him, staring intently, not leaving. – Give me some water, Nastasyushka. She went downstairs and returned after about two minutes with water in a white earthenware mug; but he no longer remembered what happened next. He only recalled taking one sip of the cold water and spilling some of it from the mug onto his chest. Then followed unconsciousness. III

“This is blood,” she answered at last, quietly, as if speaking to herself. “Blood?! What blood?” he mumbled, turning pale and edging towards the wall. Nastasya continued to stare at him silently. “No one beat the landlady,” she said again, in a firm and resolute voice. He stared at her, hardly breathing. “I heard it myself… I wasn’t asleep… I was sitting up,” he whispered even more faintly. “I listened for a long while… The assistant overseer came… People ran out onto the staircase from all the rooms…”

Raskolnikov fell helplessly onto the sofa, but could no longer close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in torment, gripped by an unbearable sense of infinite horror such as he had never known before. Suddenly, bright light flooded his room—Nastasya entered with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him closely and seeing he was awake, she set the candle on the table and began laying out what she had brought: bread, salt, the plate, and a spoon. ‘Haven’t eaten since yesterday, I bet. Wandering all day, and now fever’s got hold of you.’ ‘Nastasya… why did they beat the landlady?’ She stared at him intently. ‘Who beat the landlady?’ ‘Just now… half an hour ago—Illya Petrovich, the assistant warden, on the stairs… Why did he beat her like that? And… why did he come here?’ Nastasya studied him in silence, frowning. She kept staring at him, for a long while. He felt deeply uncomfortable under her gaze—almost afraid. ‘Nastasya… why are you silent?’ he finally whispered weakly.

Then at last, after nearly ten minutes of uproar, the noise began to die down. The landlady groaned and moaned; Ilya Petrovich kept threatening and cursing. But now, finally, even he seemed to quiet down—now he couldn’t be heard at all. Had he really left? "Thank God!" Yes, the landlady was leaving too, still sobbing and crying. Her door slammed shut. The crowd began dispersing from the stairwell into their rooms—exclaiming, arguing, calling to one another, voices rising to shouts and dropping to whispers. There must have been many—almost the entire house had gathered. "But good God, could this really happen? And why, why did he come here?"

Suddenly, Raskolnikov trembled like a leaf: he recognized that voice. It was Ilya Petrovich! Ilya Petrovich here, beating the landlady! Kicking her, banging her head against the steps—that was clear from the sounds, the shrieks, the thuds! Could it be? Had the world gone mad? He could hear crowds gathering on every floor, along the staircase—voices, exclamations, people rushing up, doors banging, footsteps hurrying. "But why? Why? How can this be?" he repeated, seriously thinking he must have lost his mind. But no—he heard it all too clearly! Then surely they’d come for him next, if things had come to this... "Because... it must be connected... because of yesterday... Lord help me!" He wanted to bolt the door, but his hand wouldn’t move—besides, it would be useless! Fear, cold as ice, gripped his soul, tortured him, numbed him.

He woke up in near darkness to a terrible scream. Good God, what a scream! Never before had he heard or seen such unnatural sounds—such howling, shrieking, wailing, weeping, blows and curses. He could never have imagined such brutality, such madness. In horror, he sat up on his bed, shivering and tormented every moment. But the fight, the screams and curses grew louder and louder. Then, to his utter astonishment, he suddenly recognized the voice of his landlady. She was wailing, shrieking, moaning, speaking in a rush, words tumbling out so fast they were impossible to understand—begging, clearly begging, to stop being beaten, for someone was mercilessly beating her on the stairs. The voice of the man beating her was so terrible with rage and fury that it was now just a choking rasp, yet even he was shouting something—also fast, incoherently, hurriedly, gasping for breath.

He returned to his room by evening, so he must have been walking for about six hours. Where and how he had come back, he remembered nothing. Undressing, trembling like a spent horse, he lay down on the sofa, pulled his overcoat over him, and at once lapsed into…

It seemed to him that at that very moment, he had cut himself off from everyone and everything, as with a pair of scissors.

It struck him as wild and strange that he had stopped at the exact same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could now think about the same things as before, and feel interest in the same old subjects and images that had once engaged him—so very recently. It almost made him want to laugh, yet at the same time, his chest tightened with pain. Somewhere deep below, far down, barely visible beneath his feet, his entire former past now appeared to him—his old thoughts, former problems, old themes, past impressions, the whole panorama, himself, and everything, everything… It seemed as if he were soaring upwards, and all was vanishing before his eyes. With an involuntary gesture, he suddenly felt the ten-kopeck coin tightly clenched in his fist. He opened his hand, stared intently at the coin, swung his arm, and flung it into the water; then he turned and walked home.