– 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.
“She must have been a decent girl,” observed Avdotya Romanovna briefly. “God forgive me, but I actually rejoiced at her death then, though I don’t know which of them would have ruined the other—him or her?” concluded Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Then, cautiously and hesitatingly, with constant glances at Dounia—clearly making her uncomfortable—she began once more to question about yesterday’s scene between Rodya and Luzhin. It was evident this incident troubled her more than anything else, filling her with fear and anxiety. Razumikhin recounted everything again in detail, but this time added his own conclusion: he directly accused Raskolnikov of deliberately insulting Pyotr Petrovich, making little allowance now for his illness. “He planned this even before he fell ill,” he added.
Well, nothing particularly extraordinary. I only found out that this marriage, which was nearly settled and fell through only due to the bride's death, was quite disagreeable to Mrs. Zarnitsyna herself. Besides, they say the bride wasn't even good-looking—rather plain, in fact—and sickly, and somewhat odd... though, still, she must have had certain qualities. There must have been some merits; otherwise, it's impossible to make sense of it. As for dowry, there was none, though he wouldn't have counted on that anyway. Generally speaking, it's hard to judge such matters.
“Do you know anything in detail about this incident?” asked Avdotya Romanovna. “You think,” continued Pulcheria Alexandrovna eagerly, “that my tears, my pleas, my illness, even my death—perhaps from grief—our poverty—would have stopped him then? No, he would have calmly stepped over every obstacle. But surely, surely he must love us?”
“He never spoke to me personally about this matter,” cautiously replied Razumikhin, “but I did hear a few things from the lady herself, Mrs. Zarnitsyna, who isn’t much of a talker by nature, and what I heard was rather strange, I must say…”
“What? What exactly did you hear?” both women asked at once.
– About Rody, both of you could be mistaken – said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, somewhat piqued. – I am not referring to the present, Dunya. What Pyotr Petrovich writes in this letter… and what we suspected together – might well be untrue. But you can't imagine, Dmitri Prokofich, how fantastical he is, and, how shall I put it, capricious. I’ve never been able to rely on his character, even when he was just fifteen. I’m convinced that even now he might suddenly do something to himself that no ordinary person would ever dream of doing… And there's no need to look far: do you know how he astonished me, upset me, and nearly killed me outright, a year and a half ago, when he suddenly decided to marry that woman, what was her name – the daughter of that Mrs Zarnitsyna, his landlady?
“You’ve said quite a few interesting things about your brother’s character… and quite impartially too. That’s good; I thought you held him in awe,” observed Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. “It does seem true that a woman should be by his side,” she added thoughtfully. “I didn’t say that, though perhaps you’re right there too, only…”
“What is it?”
“He doesn’t love anyone; perhaps he’ll never love anyone at all,” Razumikhin cut in bluntly. “What do you mean—he’s incapable of love?”
“You know, Avdotya Romanovna, you’re really very much like your brother—almost in every way!” he blurted out suddenly, even surprising himself, and immediately, recalling what he’d just said about her brother, turned bright red like a lobster and grew terribly flustered. Avdotya Romanovna couldn’t help laughing as she looked at him.
Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he likely would not have felt any fear at all; but now, perhaps precisely because she was so plainly dressed and because he had noticed the meagre surroundings, a sense of dread crept into his heart, making him anxious about every word he spoke and every gesture he made—something deeply uncomfortable for a man who already lacked confidence in himself.
And at last, Razumikhin looked more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna. During the conversation, he had often glanced at her, but only fleetingly, for a moment at a time, instantly turning his eyes away. Avdotya Romanovna kept moving—now sitting down at the table and listening intently, now getting up again and walking slowly from corner to corner, as was her habit, arms crossed, lips tightly pressed, occasionally pausing to ask a question without stopping her pacing, lost in thought. She too had the habit of not waiting for a full reply. She was dressed in a simple dark dress made of light fabric, with a white translucent scarf tied around her neck. From many small signs, Razumikhin quickly realised that the two women were living in extreme poverty.
– Oh, God grant it! – exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, distressed by Razumikhin's opinion of her Rodya.
Not sarcastic—not for lack of wit, but as if he simply has no time for such trifles. Doesn’t bother to listen when others speak. Never shows interest in what everyone else is currently interested in. Thinks very highly of himself—and seems to have some good reason for it. Well, what else?... I believe your arrival will have a most beneficial influence on him.”
“It’s only natural, sir,” replied Dmitry Prokofyevich. “I don’t have a mother, and even my uncle visits here every year but hardly recognises me each time—outwardly, I mean—and he’s a clever man. Well, in three years of separation, plenty of water flows under the bridge. What else can I say? I’ve known Rodya for about a year and a half: gloomy, reserved, haughty and proud. Lately—and perhaps long before—he’s become suspicious and melancholic. Yet he’s noble-hearted and kind. He dislikes expressing his feelings and would rather do something harsh than reveal his heart in words. At times, though, he isn’t melancholic at all, but simply cold and indifferent to a point bordering on inhumanity—truly, as if two opposite natures alternately take hold of him. He can be terribly silent! Always seems too busy, says everything bothers him, yet lies around doing nothing.
– Please, do tell me, what's your opinion… oh, excuse me, I still don’t even know your name? – hurriedly said Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – Dmitri Prokofyich. – Well then, Dmitri Prokofyich, I would very, very much like to know… how exactly… how does he look at things now, I mean, please understand me, how should I put it… or rather, what I mean is: what does he like and what does he dislike? Is he always so irritable? What are his wishes, and, so to speak, his dreams, if I may ask? What particularly influences him now? In short, I would like…
– Oh, Mother, how can anyone answer all that right away! – remarked Dounia. – Good heavens, I never expected him to be like this at all, Dmitri Prokofyich.
Answering them, he spoke for about three-quarters of an hour, constantly interrupted and questioned again and again, and managed to convey all the main and most essential facts he knew about Rodion Romanovich's life during the past year, concluding with a detailed account of his illness. Nevertheless, he omitted many things—things that needed to be left out, including the scene at the office and its consequences. His listeners hung on his every word; but when he thought he had finished and satisfied them, it turned out that, for them, he had hardly even begun.
Hearing that he was "still asleep" but "everything was fine," Pulcheria Alexandrovna said this was just as well, "because she very, very, very much needed to talk to him beforehand." She then asked about tea and invited everyone to drink together; they themselves had not yet had tea, waiting for Razumikhin. Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell, and a dirty, ragged servant appeared, who was ordered to bring tea. It was finally served, but so dirty and so unseemly that the ladies felt embarrassed. Razumikhin was about to energetically scold the landlord, but remembering Luzhin, he fell silent, felt awkward, and was extremely relieved when Pulcheria Alexandrovna finally began asking her questions one after another without pause.
At exactly nine o'clock, Razumikhin arrived at Bakaleev's lodging. Both ladies had been waiting for him for a long time with nervous impatience. They had risen around seven o'clock, or even earlier. He entered gloomy as night, awkwardly made his bow, and at once became angry—angry with himself, of course. He hadn't expected such warmth from the host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna rushed at him, seized both his hands, and nearly kissed them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna; but even on that proud face there was now such an expression of gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unexpected respect (instead of the mocking looks and involuntary, poorly concealed disdain earlier!), that he would have found it easier had they greeted him with insults—this was truly too embarrassing. Luckily, there was a ready topic for conversation, and he quickly seized upon it.
– Who told him, anyway? You and me? – And Porfiry. – So what if it was Porfiry? – By the way, do you have any influence over them—the mother and sister? Tell them to be careful with him today... – They’ll gang up together! – muttered Razumikhin reluctantly. – Why does he have such a grudge against Luzhin? The man’s got money, doesn’t seem unpleasant to her... and they’ve got nothing, after all. Eh? – Why are you prying so much? – snapped Razumikhin irritably. – How would I know whether they’ve got something or nothing? Ask them yourself, maybe you’ll find out... – Ugh, how stupid you can be sometimes! Still hungover from yesterday... Goodbye. Tell your Praskovya Pavlovna I thank her for letting me stay. She locked herself in, didn’t even answer my "bonjour" through the door, but got up at seven herself—had the samovar carried from the kitchen down the corridor... I wasn’t honoured with a glimpse...
And here—ragged clothes, an insolent police clerk, a developing illness, and such a suspicion! Aimed at a frenzied hypochondriac! With insane, extraordinary vanity! Why, that very suspicion might well be the starting point of the illness! Damn it!... By the way, Zametov really is a decent fellow, but still... hm... it was pointless of him to tell all that yesterday. Terrible gossip, really!
– Nonsense, I'm telling you; what do you mean by a firm idea! You yourself described him as a monomaniac when you brought me to him... And then yesterday, you went and stirred things up even more with your stories—about that painter fellow; what a thing to talk about when he may have actually gone mad over it himself! If only I knew for sure what happened in that office, and how some scoundrel insulted him with that suspicion! Hm... I shouldn't have allowed such a conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs can turn a drop into an ocean, they see fictional scenes as real life. I remember, from that story of Zametov's yesterday, half the matter became clear to me. But still! I recall one case—about a hypochondriac, forty years old, who couldn't bear the daily taunts from an eight-year-old boy at the dining table, and ended up stabbing him!
– I know it's foolish! Go ahead, hit me! But tell me, did you really have any firm idea?
– Those, I suppose – replied Razumikhin, understanding the purpose of the question – will naturally talk about their family matters. I'll leave. You, as a doctor, naturally have more right than I do. – I'm not his confessor either; I'll come and go; I've plenty to do even without them. – One thing worries me – Razumikhin interrupted, frowning – yesterday, while drunk, I let slip on the way here some foolishness… various nonsense… among other things, that you're afraid he might… be inclined towards madness…
– You let slip the same thing to the ladies yesterday.
And... and most of all, he’s so coarse, filthy, with the manners of a tavern-keeper; and... and even if he knows—himself, even a little—that he's somewhat of a decent man... well, so what's there to be proud of in being a decent man? Everyone ought to be decent, and even better than that! And... and still (he remembered it well), there had been shady little affairs linked to him—nothing outright dishonourable, of course, but still!... And the thoughts he'd had! Hm... and to set all that beside Avdotya Romanovna! Well, damn it! But let it be! Deliberately, I'll be even filthier, greasier, more like a tavern-keeper, and just spit on it all! Even more so! Zosimov found him in the midst of such a monologue. Zosimov had been spending the night in the parlour at Praskovya Pavlovna's. He was on his way home and, while leaving, had hurried in to check on the patient. Razumikhin had told him the sick man was sleeping like a log. Zosimov instructed that he not be woken until he awoke naturally. He promised to drop by again around eleven. —That is, if he’s even at home, — he added. — Ugh, damn it! Can’t even control your own patient—go ahead and treat him! Never know whether he’ll go off to those people or if they’ll come here.
He washed himself thoroughly that morning—he had found soap with Afanasya—and scrubbed his hair, neck and especially his hands. When it came to the question of whether or not to shave off his beard (Praskovya Pavlovna had excellent razors left over from the late Mr. Zarnitsyn), the matter was fiercely settled in the negative: "Let it stay as it is! Suppose they begin thinking I shaved for... they'd certainly think that! No, not for anything in the world!"
"Of course," he muttered to himself a minute later, with a sense of humiliation, "of course, all these unpleasantnesses can never be covered up or undone now... so there's no use even thinking about it. Just go quietly, and... carry out my duties... quietly too, and... not ask for forgiveness, say nothing at all, and... and, of course, everything is utterly ruined now!"
Yet, while dressing, he examined his clothes more carefully than usual. He had no other suit, and even if he had, he might not have worn it—"just on purpose, I wouldn't wear it." But in any case, he could not remain a cynic or a sloven; he had no right to offend others' sensibilities, especially since those others needed him and had themselves invited him. He brushed his suit thoroughly. His underclothes were always decent—on this point, he was especially particular about cleanliness.
In wine there is truth, and the truth had all come out—"that is, all the filth of his envious, coarse heart had spilled out"! And was it even remotely acceptable for someone like Razumikhin to entertain such a thought? Who was he compared to such a woman—him, a drunken ruffian and yesterday's loudmouth braggart? "Could such a crude and ridiculous comparison even be imagined?" Razumikhin turned desperately red at this thought, and then, as if on purpose, at that very instant, he clearly recalled telling them yesterday, standing on the staircase, that his landlady would be jealous of him with Avdotya Romanovna… this was unbearable. In a furious fit, he punched the kitchen stove with full force, injured his hand, and knocked out a brick.
The most terrible memory for him was how yesterday he had been "so low and vile"—not merely because he was drunk, but because, taking advantage of the girl's vulnerable position, he had insulted her fiancé out of foolish, hasty jealousy, without knowing anything about their mutual relationship or commitments, and without even properly knowing the man himself. What right did he have to judge him so hastily and rashly? And who had made him a judge? Could a woman like Avdotya Romanovna possibly give herself to an unworthy man for money? Clearly, the man must have some worth. Numbers? But then again, how could he really have known they were just "numbers"? After all, the man was arranging a house… ugh, how utterly base all this was! And what sort of excuse was drunkenness? A stupid excuse, one that only degraded him further!
II
Anxious and serious, Razumikhin woke up the next day at eight o'clock. That morning, he suddenly found himself facing numerous new and unexpected puzzles. He had never imagined he would ever wake up feeling this way. He remembered every detail of the previous day and understood clearly that something extraordinary had happened to him—that he had absorbed an impression entirely new and unlike anything he had ever known before. At the same time, he clearly realized that the dream which had flared up in his mind was utterly unattainable—so completely unrealistic that he even felt ashamed of it, and quickly turned instead to other, more pressing worries and uncertainties left over from the cursed day before.
But if you notice anything—delirium, fever, anything—wake me up straight away. Though, of course, nothing will happen…
– Oh, I can’t explain it to you properly! Look: both of you are perfectly suited for each other! I’ve thought about you before… You’ll end up here anyway! So what difference does it make—sooner or later? There’s a kind of feather-bed beginning here, brother—ah, and not just a feather bed! It draws you in; it’s the end of the world, an anchor, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three-fish foundation of creation, the essence of pancakes, rich pirozhki, the evening samovar, soft sighs, warm kangris, heated sleeping platforms—well, exactly as if you’re dead, yet still alive, getting the best of both worlds! Ah, brother, I’ve rambled on like a devil—time to sleep! Listen: sometimes at night I wake up and go check on him. But nothing, nonsense, everything’s fine. Don’t worry too much yourself, but if you want, drop by once too.
– I’m not luring her at all—maybe I’m the one being lured, out of my own foolishness. To her, it makes absolutely no difference whether it’s you or me, as long as someone’s sitting nearby and sighing. There’s something about it, brother… I can’t quite put it into words. You see, you know mathematics well, and I know you’re still studying it… Well, just start teaching her integral calculus—I swear I’m not joking, I’m dead serious—she won’t care at all. She’ll just keep looking at you and sighing, for a whole year straight. I once talked to her for two whole days, nonstop, about the Prussian House of Lords (what else can you talk about with her?), and she just sighed and melted! Don’t even mention love—she gets embarrassingly shy, to the point of cramps—but make it clear you can’t stay away from her. That’s enough. It’s incredibly comfortable—just like home. You can read, sit, lie down, write… You can even kiss her, if you’re careful... – What do I need her for?