Part 3

Chapter 3

22 min

“He is well, quite well!” Zossimov cried cheerfully as they entered.

“He’s fine, perfectly fine!” Zossimov said cheerfully as they entered.

He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for some time past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen.

He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting on the sofa, in the same place as before. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner. He was fully dressed, carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for some time. The room quickly became crowded, but Nastasya managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen.

Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his condition the day before, but he was still pale, listless, and sombre. He looked like a wounded man or one who has undergone some terrible physical suffering. His brows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke little and reluctantly, as though performing a duty, and there was a restlessness in his movements.

Raskolnikov really was almost well compared with the day before. But he was still pale, listless, and gloomy. He looked like a wounded man or someone who had suffered terrible physical pain. His brows were drawn together, his lips pressed tight, and his eyes feverish. He spoke little and reluctantly, as though it were a duty. His movements were restless.

He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete the impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. The pale, sombre face lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of suffering remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying his patient with all the zest of a young doctor beginning to practise, noticed in him no joy at the arrival of his mother and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw later that almost every word of the following conversation seemed to touch on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same time he marvelled at the power of controlling himself and hiding his feelings in a patient who the previous day had, like a monomaniac, fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word.

All he needed was a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger. Then he would have looked exactly like a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. His pale, gloomy face lit up for a moment when his mother and sister entered. But instead of looking listless and dejected, he now looked as though he were suffering even more. The light soon faded, but the look of suffering remained. Zossimov watched and studied his patient with all the enthusiasm of a young doctor just beginning to practice. He noticed no joy at the arrival of the patient’s mother and sister. Instead, he saw a kind of bitter, hidden determination to endure another hour or two of unavoidable torture. As the conversation went on, Zossimov saw that almost every word seemed to touch a sore spot and irritate it. At the same time, he was amazed by the patient’s ability to control himself and hide his feelings. The day before, the patient had flown into a frenzy at the slightest word, like a man obsessed with a single idea.

“Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well,” said Raskolnikov, giving his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at once. “And I don’t say this as I did yesterday,” he said, addressing Razumihin, with a friendly pressure of his hand.

“Yes, I can see now that I’m almost well,” said Raskolnikov. He kissed his mother and sister in greeting, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s face lit up at once. “And I don’t mean it as I did yesterday,” he said to Razumihin, giving his hand a friendly squeeze.

“Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day,” began Zossimov, much delighted at the ladies’ entrance, for he had not succeeded in keeping up a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. “In another three or four days, if he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he was a month ago, or two... or perhaps even three. This has been coming on for a long while.... eh? Confess, now, that it has been perhaps your own fault?” he added, with a tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him.

“Yes, I’m quite surprised at him today,” Zossimov began. He was delighted that the ladies had come in, because he had not managed to keep a conversation going with his patient for ten minutes. “If he keeps improving like this, he’ll be back to his old self in another three or four days. That is, as he was a month or two ago... or perhaps even three. This has been coming on for a long time.... hasn’t it? Now, admit it. Perhaps it’s been your own fault?” he added with a tentative smile, as if he were still afraid of irritating him.

“It is very possible,” answered Raskolnikov coldly.

“That’s very possible,” Raskolnikov replied coldly.

“I should say, too,” continued Zossimov with zest, “that your complete recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you, I should like to impress upon you that it is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak, fundamental causes tending to produce your morbid condition: in that case you will be cured, if not, it will go from bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don’t know, but they must be known to you. You are an intelligent man, and must have observed yourself, of course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement coincides with your leaving the university. You must not be left without occupation, and so, work and a definite aim set before you might, I fancy, be very beneficial.”

“I should add,” Zossimov continued eagerly, “that your complete recovery depends entirely on you. Now that we can talk to you, I want to stress something. You must avoid the basic, or rather, fundamental causes of your illness. If you do, you will recover. If not, you will get worse and worse. I don’t know what these fundamental causes are, but you must know them. You are an intelligent man, and surely you have observed yourself. I believe the first stage of your mental disturbance coincided with your leaving the university. You must have something to occupy you. So I believe work and a definite goal might do you a great deal of good.”

“Yes, yes; you are perfectly right.... I will make haste and return to the university: and then everything will go smoothly....”

“Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right.... I’ll hurry back to the university. Then everything will go smoothly....”

Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified, when, glancing at his patient, he observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted an instant, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov, especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night.

Zossimov had begun offering his wise advice partly to impress the ladies. So he was certainly somewhat puzzled when he glanced at his patient and saw unmistakable mockery on his face. The expression lasted only a moment, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna immediately began thanking Zossimov, especially for visiting them at their lodgings the night before.

“What! he saw you last night?” Raskolnikov asked, as though startled. “Then you have not slept either after your journey.”

“What? He saw you last night?” Raskolnikov asked, sounding startled. “Then you haven't slept after your journey either.”

“Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o’clock. Dounia and I never go to bed before two at home.”

“Oh, Rodya, that was only until two o’clock. Dounia and I never go to bed before two at home.”

“I don’t know how to thank him either,” Raskolnikov went on, suddenly frowning and looking down. “Setting aside the question of payment—forgive me for referring to it (he turned to Zossimov)—I really don’t know what I have done to deserve such special attention from you! I simply don’t understand it... and... and... it weighs upon me, indeed, because I don’t understand it. I tell you so candidly.”

“I don’t know how to thank him either,” Raskolnikov continued, suddenly frowning and looking down. “Leaving payment aside, forgive me for bringing it up.” He turned to Zossimov. “I really don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such special attention from you! I just don’t understand it... and... and... it really weighs on me because I don’t understand it. I’m telling you this honestly.”

“Don’t be irritated.” Zossimov forced himself to laugh. “Assume that you are my first patient—well—we fellows just beginning to practise love our first patients as if they were our children, and some almost fall in love with them. And, of course, I am not rich in patients.”

“Don’t be irritated.” Zossimov forced himself to laugh. “Think of yourself as my first patient. Well, we doctors just starting out love our first patients as if they were our children. Some of us almost fall in love with them. And, of course, I don’t have many patients.”

“I say nothing about him,” added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin, “though he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble.”

“I won’t say anything about him,” Raskolnikov added, pointing to Razumihin. “Though he’s had nothing from me either, except insults and trouble.”

“What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood to-day, are you?” shouted Razumihin.

“What nonsense he’s talking! You’re feeling sentimental today, are you?” shouted Razumihin.

If he had had more penetration he would have seen that there was no trace of sentimentality in him, but something indeed quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna noticed it. She was intently and uneasily watching her brother.

If he had been more perceptive, he would have seen that there was no trace of sentimentality in him. In fact, there was something quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna noticed it. She was watching her brother intently and uneasily.

“As for you, mother, I don’t dare to speak,” he went on, as though repeating a lesson learned by heart. “It is only to-day that I have been able to realise a little how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come back.”

“As for you, Mother, I don’t dare speak,” he went on, as if reciting a lesson he had memorized. “Only today have I begun to realize how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come back.”

When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her since their dispute the previous day. The mother’s face lighted up with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. “Yes, that is what I love him for,” Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. “He has these movements.”

After he said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister and smiled without a word. But his smile showed a flash of genuine feeling. Dounia noticed it at once and warmly squeezed his hand, overjoyed and grateful. It was the first time he had spoken to her since their argument the day before. Their mother’s face lit up with joy when she saw this unmistakable, silent reconciliation. “Yes, that’s what I love him for,” Razumihin muttered to himself, making too much of it all. He turned sharply in his chair. “He has these moments.”

“And how well he does it all,” the mother was thinking to herself. “What generous impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he put an end to all the misunderstanding with his sister—simply by holding out his hand at the right minute and looking at her like that.... And what fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is!... He is even better looking than Dounia.... But, good heavens, what a suit—how terribly he’s dressed!... Vasya, the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanitch’s shop, is better dressed! I could rush at him and hug him... weep over him—but I am afraid.... Oh, dear, he’s so strange! He’s talking kindly, but I’m afraid! Why, what am I afraid of?...”

“And how well he does everything,” the mother thought. “What generous impulses he has. And how simply and gently he put an end to all the misunderstanding with his sister. He just held out his hand at the right moment and looked at her like that.... And what beautiful eyes he has. His whole face is beautiful!... He’s even better looking than Dounia.... But, good heavens, what a suit. He’s dressed so terribly!... Vasya, the messenger boy at Afanasy Ivanitch’s shop, is better dressed! I could rush over and hug him... and weep over him, but I’m afraid.... Oh, dear, he’s so strange! He’s speaking kindly, but I’m afraid! Why, what am I afraid of?...”

“Oh, Rodya, you wouldn’t believe,” she began suddenly, in haste to answer his words to her, “how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now that it’s all over and done with and we are quite happy again—I can tell you. Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that woman—ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya!... She told us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had just run away from the doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets. You can’t imagine how we felt! I couldn’t help thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father’s—you can’t remember him, Rodya—who ran out in the same way in a high fever and fell into the well in the court-yard and they couldn’t pull him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We were on the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask him to help.... Because we were alone, utterly alone,” she said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, although “we are quite happy again.”

“Oh, Rodya, you wouldn’t believe how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday!” she began suddenly, eager to respond to him. “Now that it’s all over and we’re quite happy again, I can tell you. Imagine, we came here almost straight from the train to hug you, and that woman, oh, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya! ... She told us at once that you had a high fever and had just run away from the doctor, delirious. They were looking for you in the streets. You can’t imagine how we felt! I couldn’t stop thinking about the tragic death of Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father’s. You can’t remember him, Rodya. He ran out in the same way with a high fever and fell into the courtyard well. They couldn’t pull him out until the next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We were about to rush off and find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask for his help.... Because we were alone, completely alone,” she said plaintively. Then she stopped suddenly, remembering that it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, although “we are quite happy again.”

“Yes, yes.... Of course it’s very annoying....” Raskolnikov muttered in reply, but with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Dounia gazed at him in perplexity.

“Yes, yes.... Of course it’s very annoying....” Raskolnikov muttered in reply. But he seemed so distracted and inattentive that Dounia looked at him in confusion.

“What else was it I wanted to say,” he went on trying to recollect. “Oh, yes; mother, and you too, Dounia, please don’t think that I didn’t mean to come and see you to-day and was waiting for you to come first.”

“What else did I want to say?” he went on, trying to remember. “Oh, yes. Mother, and you too, Dounia, please don’t think I was waiting for you to come first. I meant to come and see you today.”

“What are you saying, Rodya?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too, was surprised.

“What are you saying, Rodya?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She was surprised too.

“Is he answering us as a duty?” Dounia wondered. “Is he being reconciled and asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating a lesson?”

“Is he answering us out of duty?” Dounia wondered. “Is he making peace and asking forgiveness as if performing a ritual or reciting a lesson?”

“I’ve only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her... Nastasya... to wash out the blood... I’ve only just got dressed.”

“I’ve only just woken up and wanted to come to you, but my clothes delayed me. I forgot to ask her yesterday... Nastasya... to wash out the blood... I’ve only just gotten dressed.”

“Blood! What blood?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm.

“Blood! What blood?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked, alarmed.

“Oh, nothing—don’t be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced upon a man who had been run over... a clerk...”

“Oh, nothing, don’t worry. Yesterday, while I was wandering around, a little delirious, I happened to come across a man who had been run over... a clerk...”

“Delirious? But you remember everything!” Razumihin interrupted.

“That’s true,” Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. “I remember everything even to the slightest detail, and yet—why I did that and went there and said that, I can’t clearly explain now.”

“That’s true,” Raskolnikov answered very carefully. “I remember everything, down to the smallest detail. But I can’t clearly explain now why I did that, went there, and said that.”

“A familiar phenomenon,” interposed Zossimov, “actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions—it’s like a dream.”

“That’s a familiar phenomenon,” Zossimov interrupted. “Sometimes actions are carried out with great skill and cunning, while their direction is deranged and shaped by various sick impressions. It’s like a dream.”

“Perhaps it’s a good thing really that he should think me almost a madman,” thought Raskolnikov.

“Maybe it’s a good thing that he thinks I’m almost mad,” thought Raskolnikov.

“Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too,” observed Dounia, looking uneasily at Zossimov.

“Even perfectly healthy people act the same way,” Dounia said, looking uneasily at Zossimov.

“There is some truth in your observation,” the latter replied. “In that sense we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen, but with the slight difference that the deranged are somewhat madder, for we must draw a line. A normal man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens—perhaps hundreds of thousands—hardly one is to be met with.”

“There’s some truth in what you say,” the other replied. “In that sense, we are all quite often like madmen. But there is a slight difference. People who are mentally ill are a little madder, because we have to draw a line somewhere. The truth is, a normal person hardly exists. You would hardly find one among dozens, perhaps hundreds of thousands.”

At the word “madman,” carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter on his favourite subject, everyone frowned.

Everyone frowned when Zossimov casually used the word “madman” while chatting about his favorite subject.

Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something.

Raskolnikov sat there, seemingly unaware of what was happening, lost in thought. A strange smile played on his pale lips. He was still thinking about something.

“Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!” Razumihin cried hastily.

“Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!” Razumihin said hastily.

“What?” Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. “Oh... I got spattered with blood helping to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mamma, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money you sent me... to his wife for the funeral. She’s a widow now, in consumption, a poor creature... three little children, starving... nothing in the house... there’s a daughter, too... perhaps you’d have given it yourself if you’d seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit, especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others one must have the right to do it, or else Crevez, chiens, si vous n’êtes pas contents.” He laughed, “That’s right, isn’t it, Dounia?”

“What?” Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. “Oh... I got blood on me while helping carry him home. By the way, Mama, I did something unforgivable yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave all the money you sent me... to his wife for the funeral. She’s a widow now, dying of tuberculosis, poor woman... three little children, starving... nothing in the house... there’s a daughter, too... perhaps you would have given her the money yourself if you’d seen them. But I admit I had no right to do it. Especially since I knew how much you needed the money yourself. To help others, you have to have the right to do it. Otherwise, Crevez, chiens, si vous n’êtes pas contents.” He laughed. “That’s right, isn’t it, Dounia?”

“No, it’s not,” answered Dounia firmly.

“No, it’s not,” Dounia said firmly.

“Bah! you, too, have ideals,” he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically. “I ought to have considered that.... Well, that’s praiseworthy, and it’s better for you... and if you reach a line you won’t overstep, you will be unhappy... and if you overstep it, maybe you will be still unhappier.... But all that’s nonsense,” he added irritably, vexed at being carried away. “I only meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother,” he concluded, shortly and abruptly.

“Bah! You have ideals too,” he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred and smiling sarcastically. “I should have thought of that.... Well, that’s admirable, and it’s better for you... and if you reach a line you won’t cross, you’ll be unhappy... and if you cross it, maybe you’ll be even unhappier.... But all that’s nonsense,” he added irritably, annoyed at having gotten carried away. “I only meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother,” he concluded, curtly and abruptly.

“That’s enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good,” said his mother, delighted.

“That’s enough, Rodya. I’m sure everything you do is very good,” his mother said, delighted.

“Don’t be too sure,” he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile.

“Don’t be too sure,” he replied, twisting his mouth into a smile.

A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all this conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and all were feeling it.

A silence followed. There was a certain awkwardness in the conversation, the silence, the reconciliation, and the forgiveness. Everyone felt it.

“It is as though they were afraid of me,” Raskolnikov was thinking to himself, looking askance at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the longer she kept silent.

“It’s as if they’re afraid of me,” Raskolnikov thought, glancing sideways at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the longer she stayed silent.

“Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much,” flashed through his mind.

“Yet when they were away, I seemed to love them so much,” flashed through his mind.

“Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out.

“Did you know, Rodya, that Marfa Petrovna is dead?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out.

“What Marfa Petrovna?”

“Which Marfa Petrovna?”

“Oh, mercy on us—Marfa Petrovna Svidrigaïlov. I wrote you so much about her.”

“Oh, goodness, Marfa Petrovna Svidrigaïlov. I wrote you so much about her.”

“A-a-h! Yes, I remember.... So she’s dead! Oh, really?” he roused himself suddenly, as if waking up. “What did she die of?”

“Ah! Yes, I remember.... So she’s dead! Oh, really?” He suddenly became alert, as if waking up. “What did she die of?”

“Only imagine, quite suddenly,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. “On the very day I was sending you that letter! Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been the cause of her death. They say he beat her dreadfully.”

“Just imagine, it happened so suddenly,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna replied hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. “It was the very day I was sending you that letter! Can you believe that awful man seems to have caused her death? They say he beat her terribly.”

“Why, were they on such bad terms?” he asked, addressing his sister.

“Why, did they get along so badly?” he asked his sister.

“Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was always very patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven years of their married life he gave way to her, too much so indeed, in many cases. All of a sudden he seems to have lost patience.”

“Not at all. Quite the opposite. He was always very patient with her, even considerate. In fact, throughout all seven years of their marriage, he gave in to her, often too much. Then, all of a sudden, he seems to have lost patience.”

“Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?”

“Then he couldn’t have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?”

“No, no, he’s an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!” Dounia answered, almost with a shudder, knitting her brows, and sinking into thought.

“No, no, he’s a terrible man! I can’t imagine anyone more terrible!” Dounia replied, almost shuddering. She frowned and fell into thought.

“That had happened in the morning,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on hurriedly. “And directly afterwards she ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to the town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am told....”

“That happened in the morning,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued hurriedly. “Right afterward, she ordered the horses harnessed so she could go to town immediately after dinner. She always went to town in such cases. I’m told she ate a very good dinner....”

“After the beating?”

“That was always her... habit; and immediately after dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the bath-house.... You see, she was undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got into the water when she suddenly had a stroke!”

“That was always her... habit. Right after dinner, she went to the bathhouse so she wouldn’t be late setting out.... You see, she was having bath treatments. There’s a cold spring there, and she bathed in it every day. But as soon as she got into the water, she suddenly had a stroke!”

“I should think so,” said Zossimov.

“I would think so,” said Zossimov.

“And did he beat her badly?”

“What does that matter!” put in Dounia.

“What does that matter!” Dounia interrupted.

“H’m! But I don’t know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother,” said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite of himself.

“Hmm! But I don't know why you want to tell us such gossip, Mother,” Raskolnikov said irritably, as if he couldn't help himself.

“Ah, my dear, I don’t know what to talk about,” broke from Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Oh, my dear, I don’t know what to talk about,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out.

“Why, are you all afraid of me?” he asked, with a constrained smile.

“Why, are you all afraid of me?” he asked with a forced smile.

“That’s certainly true,” said Dounia, looking directly and sternly at her brother. “Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the stairs.”

“That’s certainly true,” said Dounia, looking sternly at her brother. “Mother was crossing herself in terror as she came up the stairs.”

His face worked, as though in convulsion.

His face twitched as if in a convulsion.

“Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don’t be angry, please, Rodya.... Why did you say that, Dounia?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed—“You see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the train, how we should meet, how we should talk over everything together.... And I was so happy, I did not notice the journey! But what am I saying? I am happy now.... You should not, Dounia.... I am happy now—simply in seeing you, Rodya....”

“Oh, what are you saying, Dounia? Please don’t be angry, Rodya.... Why did you say that, Dounia?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed. “You see, on the train here, I dreamed all the way about how we would meet and talk everything over together.... I was so happy I didn’t even notice the journey! But what am I saying? I’m happy now.... You shouldn’t, Dounia.... I’m happy now, just seeing you, Rodya....”

“Hush, mother,” he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing her hand. “We shall have time to speak freely of everything!”

“Quiet, mother,” he muttered in confusion. He pressed her hand but did not look at her. “We'll have time to talk freely about everything!”

As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him that he had just told a fearful lie—that he would never now be able to speak freely of everything—that he would never again be able to speak of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not looking at anyone walked towards the door.

As he said this, he was suddenly overcome with confusion and turned pale. Once again, the awful feeling he had experienced lately passed over his soul with a deadly chill. Once again, he suddenly realized clearly that he had just told a terrible lie. He would never now be able to speak freely about everything. He would never again be able to speak about anything to anyone. The thought caused him so much anguish that he almost forgot himself for a moment. He got up from his seat and walked toward the door without looking at anyone.

“What are you about?” cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm.

“What are you doing?” cried Razumihin, grabbing him by the arm.

He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. They were all looking at him in perplexity.

He sat down again and looked around in silence. They were all looking at him, puzzled.

“But what are you all so dull for?” he shouted, suddenly and quite unexpectedly. “Do say something! What’s the use of sitting like this? Come, do speak. Let us talk.... We meet together and sit in silence.... Come, anything!”

“But why are you all so quiet?” he shouted, suddenly and unexpectedly. “Say something! What’s the point of sitting here like this? Come on, speak. Let’s talk.... We get together and sit in silence.... Come on, say anything!”

“Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning again,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.

“Thank God. I was afraid what happened yesterday was starting again,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.

“What is the matter, Rodya?” asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully.

“What’s wrong, Rodya?” Avdotya Romanovna asked, suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing! I remembered something,” he answered, and suddenly laughed.

“Oh, nothing! I remembered something,” he said, and suddenly laughed.

“Well, if you remembered something; that’s all right!... I was beginning to think...” muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. “It is time for me to be off. I will look in again perhaps... if I can...” He made his bows, and went out.

“Well, if you remembered something, that’s all right!... I was beginning to think...” muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. “It’s time for me to go. I may stop by again... if I can...” He bowed and went out.

“What an excellent man!” observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“What a wonderful man!” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent,” Raskolnikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he had not shown till then. “I can’t remember where I met him before my illness.... I believe I have met him somewhere——... And this is a good man, too,” he nodded at Razumihin. “Do you like him, Dounia?” he asked her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed.

“Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent,” Raskolnikov began. He suddenly spoke with surprising speed and energy, unlike anything he had shown until then. “I can’t remember where I met him before I got sick.... I believe I’ve met him somewhere.... And this is a good man, too.” He nodded at Razumihin. “Do you like him, Dounia?” he asked her. Then, for some unknown reason, he suddenly laughed.

“Very much,” answered Dounia.

“Very much,” Dounia said.

“Foo!—what a pig you are!” Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud.

“Ugh, what a pig you are!” Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible confusion. He got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud.

“Where are you off to?”

“Where are you going?”

“I must go.”

“I have to go.”

“You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don’t go. What’s the time? Is it twelve o’clock? What a pretty watch you have got, Dounia. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking.”

“You don’t need to at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must stay. Don’t go. What time is it? Is it twelve o’clock? What a pretty watch you have, Dounia. But why are you all quiet again? I’m doing all the talking.”

“It was a present from Marfa Petrovna,” answered Dounia.

“It was a gift from Marfa Petrovna,” Dounia replied.

“And a very expensive one!” added Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady’s.”

“Oh! What a big one! Hardly like a lady’s.”

“I like that sort,” said Dounia.

“I like that kind,” said Dounia.

“So it is not a present from her fiancé,” thought Razumihin, and was unreasonably delighted.

“So it’s not a gift from her fiancé,” Razumihin thought, and was delighted for no good reason.

“I thought it was Luzhin’s present,” observed Raskolnikov.

“I thought it was Luzhin’s gift,” said Raskolnikov.

“No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet.”

“No, he hasn't given Dounia any gifts yet.”

“A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and wanted to get married?” he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted by the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke of it.

“Ah! And do you remember, Mother, I was in love and wanted to get married?” he said suddenly, looking at her. She was unsettled by the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke about it.

“Oh, yes, my dear.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia and Razumihin.

“H’m, yes. What shall I tell you? I don’t remember much indeed. She was such a sickly girl,” he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again. “Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was always dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very well. She was an ugly little thing. I really don’t know what drew me to her then—I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or hunchback, I believe I should have liked her better still,” he smiled dreamily. “Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium.”

“Hmm, yes. What can I tell you? I really don’t remember much. She was such a sickly girl,” he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again. “She was practically an invalid. She liked giving money to the poor and was always dreaming of joining a convent. Once, she burst into tears when she started talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very well. She was an ugly little thing. I really don’t know what attracted me to her then. I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or had a hunched back, I think I would have liked her even more.” He smiled dreamily. “Yes, it was a kind of springtime delirium.”

“No, it was not only spring delirium,” said Dounia, with warm feeling.

“No, it wasn't just spring delirium,” Dounia said warmly.

He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not hear or did not understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up, went up to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place and sat down.

He stared intently at his sister, his face tense, but he did not hear or understand her words. Then, lost in thought, he stood up and went to his mother. He kissed her, returned to his place, and sat down.

“You love her even now?” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched.

“You still love her?” asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched.

“Her? Now? Oh, yes.... You ask about her? No... that’s all now, as it were, in another world... and so long ago. And indeed everything happening here seems somehow far away.” He looked attentively at them. “You, now... I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away... but, goodness knows why we are talking of that! And what’s the use of asking about it?” he added with annoyance, and biting his nails he, fell into dreamy silence again.

“Her? Now? Oh, yes.... You’re asking about her? No... all that seems to be in another world now... and so long ago. And really, everything happening here seems somehow far away.” He looked at them closely. “You, for instance... I feel as if I’m looking at you from a thousand miles away... but goodness knows why we’re talking about that! And what’s the point of asking about it?” he added, annoyed. Biting his nails, he fell into a dreamy silence again.

“What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It’s like a tomb,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. “I am sure it’s quite half through your lodging you have become so melancholy.”

“What a miserable room you have, Rodya! It’s like a tomb,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. “I’m sure your room is at least partly responsible for making you so gloomy.”

“My lodging,” he answered, listlessly. “Yes, the lodging had a great deal to do with it.... I thought that, too.... If only you knew, though, what a strange thing you said just now, mother,” he said, laughing strangely.

“My room,” he answered without enthusiasm. “Yes, the room had a lot to do with it.... I thought that too.... But if only you knew how strange what you just said was, Mother,” he said, laughing strangely.

A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister, with him after three years’ absence, this intimate tone of conversation, in face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything, would have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent matter which must be settled one way or the other that day—so he had decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, as a means of escape.

A little longer, and he could not have endured being with his mother and sister. He had been away for three years, and they spoke so intimately, yet it was impossible to really talk about anything. But there was one urgent matter that had to be settled one way or the other that day. He had decided this when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, because it gave him a way to escape.

“Listen, Dounia,” he began, gravely and drily, “of course I beg your pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to tell you again that I do not withdraw from my chief point. It is me or Luzhin. If I am a scoundrel, you must not be. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease at once to look on you as a sister.”

“Listen, Dounia,” he began, serious and blunt. “Of course, I apologize for yesterday. But I feel I must tell you again that I stand by my main point. It’s either me or Luzhin. If I’m a scoundrel, you must not be one too. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I will no longer consider you my sister.”

“Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. “And why do you call yourself a scoundrel? I can’t bear it. You said the same yesterday.”

“Rodya, Rodya! It’s happening again, just like yesterday,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried sadly. “And why do you call yourself a scoundrel? I can’t bear it. You said the same thing yesterday.”

“Brother,” Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. “In all this there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at night, and found out the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That is not the case at all. I am simply marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to my family. But that is not the chief motive for my decision....”

“Brother,” Dounia answered firmly and just as dryly. “You are mistaken about all this. I thought it over last night and realized where you were wrong. It is all because you seem to think I am sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That is not true at all. I am simply marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for me. Of course, I will be glad if I can help my family. But that is not the main reason for my decision....”

“She is lying,” he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively. “Proud creature! She won’t admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate.... Oh, how I... hate them all!”

“She’s lying,” he thought, biting his nails spitefully. “Proud creature! She won’t admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too proud! Oh, what contemptible people! Even when they love, it’s as if they hate.... Oh, how I... hate them all!”

“In fact,” continued Dounia, “I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because of two evils I choose the less. I intend to do honestly all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving him.... Why did you smile just now?” She, too, flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes.

“In fact,” Dounia continued, “I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because I am choosing the lesser of two evils. I intend to honestly do all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving him.... Why did you just smile?” She flushed too, and a flash of anger showed in her eyes.

“All?” he asked, with a malignant grin.

“All?” he asked, grinning maliciously.

“Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovitch’s courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too.... Why are you laughing again?”

“To a certain extent. The way Pyotr Petrovitch courted me showed me at once what he wanted. Of course, he may think too highly of himself, but I hope he respects me, too.... Why are you laughing again?”

“And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. You are intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold your own against me.... You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush for it.”

“And why are you blushing again? You’re lying, sister. You’re lying on purpose, just out of feminine stubbornness, just to stand your ground against me.... You can’t respect Luzhin. I’ve met him and talked with him. So you’re selling yourself for money, and either way, you’re behaving shamefully. At least I’m glad you can blush about it.”

“It is not true. I am not lying,” cried Dounia, losing her composure. “I would not marry him if I were not convinced that he esteems me and thinks highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it this very day... and such a marriage is not a vileness, as you say! And even if you were right, if I really had determined on a vile action, is it not merciless on your part to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is despotism; it is tyranny. If I ruin anyone, it is only myself.... I am not committing a murder. Why do you look at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what’s the matter?”

“That’s not true. I’m not lying,” Dounia cried, losing her composure. “I wouldn’t marry him if I weren’t convinced that he values me and thinks highly of me. And I wouldn’t marry him if I weren’t absolutely sure I could respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of that today... And a marriage like that isn’t shameful, as you say! Even if you were right, even if I had decided to do something shameful, isn’t it cruel to speak to me like that? Why do you demand courage from me that perhaps you don’t have yourself? That’s being controlling. It’s tyranny. If I ruin anyone, it’s only myself.... I’m not committing murder. Why are you looking at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what’s the matter?”

“Good heavens! You have made him faint,” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Oh no! You made him faint,” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“No, no, nonsense! It’s nothing. A little giddiness—not fainting. You have fainting on the brain. H’m, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him, and that he... esteems you, as you said. I think you said to-day?”

“No, no, nonsense! It’s nothing. Just a little dizziness, not fainting. You’re obsessed with fainting. Hmm, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. How will you get convincing proof today that you can respect him and that he... respects you, as you said? I think you said today?”

“Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch’s letter,” said Dounia.

With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before opening it, he suddenly looked with a sort of wonder at Dounia.

With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He took it with great interest. But before opening it, he suddenly looked at Dounia with a kind of wonder.

“It is strange,” he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea, “What am I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like!”

“It’s strange,” he said slowly, as if struck by a new idea. “Why am I making such a fuss? What is it all about? Marry whoever you like!”

He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some time at his sister, as though puzzled. He opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then, slowly and attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected something particular.

He spoke aloud, though it seemed he was talking to himself. He looked at his sister for some time, as if puzzled. At last, he opened the letter, still wearing the same look of strange wonder. Then he read it slowly and carefully, twice through. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was visibly anxious, and everyone expected something unusual.

“What surprises me,” he began, after a short pause, handing the letter to his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, “is that he is a business man, a lawyer, and his conversation is pretentious indeed, and yet he writes such an uneducated letter.”

After a short pause, he handed the letter to his mother. He spoke without addressing anyone in particular. “What surprises me is that he’s a businessman and a lawyer, and he talks so pretentiously. Yet he writes such an uneducated letter.”

They all started. They had expected something quite different.

They all flinched. They had expected something very different.

“But they all write like that, you know,” Razumihin observed, abruptly.

“But they all write like that, you know,” Razumihin said abruptly.

“Have you read it?”

“Yes.”

“We showed him, Rodya. We... consulted him just now,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.

“We showed him, Rodya. We... just consulted him,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.

“That’s just the jargon of the courts,” Razumihin put in. “Legal documents are written like that to this day.”

“That’s just court jargon,” Razumihin said. “Legal documents are still written that way today.”

“Legal? Yes, it’s just legal—business language—not so very uneducated, and not quite educated—business language!”

“Legal? Yes, it’s just legal, business language. Not quite uneducated, and not quite educated. Business language!”

“Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap education, he is proud indeed of having made his own way,” Avdotya Romanovna observed, somewhat offended by her brother’s tone.

“Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had an inexpensive education. In fact, he is proud of having made his own way,” Avdotya Romanovna said, somewhat offended by her brother’s tone.

“Well, if he’s proud of it, he has reason, I don’t deny it. You seem to be offended, sister, at my making only such a frivolous criticism on the letter, and to think that I speak of such trifling matters on purpose to annoy you. It is quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things stand. There is one expression, ‘blame yourselves’, put in very significantly and plainly, and there is besides a threat that he will go away at once if I am present. That threat to go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon you both if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after summoning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can one resent such an expression from Luzhin, as we should if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had written it, or Zossimov, or one of us?”

“Well, if he’s proud of it, he has reason to be. I don’t deny it. Sister, you seem offended that I’ve made such a trivial criticism of the letter. You seem to think I’m talking about minor details just to annoy you. But it’s quite the opposite. Something about the style occurred to me that is far from irrelevant, given the situation. One phrase, ‘blame yourselves’, is included very deliberately and plainly. Besides that, he threatens to leave at once if I’m there. His threat to leave is really a threat to abandon you both if you disobey him. And he would abandon you now, after summoning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Should we take offense at such a phrase from Luzhin, as we would if he had written it?” He pointed to Razumihin. “Or if Zossimov or one of us had written it?”

“N-no,” answered Dounia, with more animation. “I saw clearly that it was too naïvely expressed, and that perhaps he simply has no skill in writing... that is a true criticism, brother. I did not expect, indeed...”

“N-no,” Dounia answered more eagerly. “I could see that it was expressed too naively, and that perhaps he simply isn’t good at writing... That is a fair criticism, brother. I really didn’t expect...”

“It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than perhaps he intended. But I must disillusion you a little. There is one expression in the letter, one slander about me, and rather a contemptible one. I gave the money last night to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed with trouble, and not ‘on the pretext of the funeral,’ but simply to pay for the funeral, and not to the daughter—a young woman, as he writes, of notorious behaviour (whom I saw last night for the first time in my life)—but to the widow. In all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to raise dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon, that is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and with a very naïve eagerness. He is a man of intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all shows the man and... I don’t think he has a great esteem for you. I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely wish for your good...”

“It is written in legal language and sounds harsher than he perhaps intended. But I must correct one of your impressions. There is one slanderous remark about me in the letter, and it is rather contemptible. Last night I gave the money to the widow, a woman dying of tuberculosis and overwhelmed by troubles. I gave it not ‘on the pretext of the funeral,’ but simply to pay for the funeral. And I gave it not to the daughter, a young woman whom he describes as notorious for her behavior, but to the widow. I saw the daughter for the first time in my life last night. All this shows me that he was too eager to slander me and stir up trouble between us. Once again, it is written in legal jargon, with its purpose all too obvious and a very naive eagerness. He is intelligent, but intelligence alone is not enough to make a person act sensibly. It all shows what kind of man he is and... I don’t think he has much respect for you. I’m telling you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely want what is best for you...”

Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only awaiting the evening.

Dounia did not reply. She had made up her mind. She was only waiting for evening.

“Then what is your decision, Rodya?” asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was more uneasy than ever at the sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk.

“Then what have you decided, Rodya?” asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna. His sudden new businesslike tone made her more uneasy than ever.

“What decision?”

“You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be with us this evening, and that he will go away if you come. So will you... come?”

“You see, Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you must not be with us this evening. He says he will leave if you come. So will you... come?”

“That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you first, if you are not offended by such a request; and secondly, by Dounia, if she, too, is not offended. I will do what you think best,” he added, drily.

“That, of course, is not for me to decide. First, it is for you to decide, if you are not offended by such a request. Second, it is for Dounia to decide, if she is not offended either. I will do whatever you think best,” he added dryly.

“Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare.

“Dounia has already decided, and I completely agree with her,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna said quickly.

“I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to be with us at this interview,” said Dounia. “Will you come?”

“I decided to ask you, Rodya, and urge you not to miss this meeting with us,” said Dounia. “Will you come?”

“Yes.”

“I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o’clock,” she said, addressing Razumihin. “Mother, I am inviting him, too.”

“I’d like you to join us at eight o’clock too,” she said to Razumihin. “Mother, I’m inviting him too.”

“Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided,” added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “so be it. I shall feel easier myself. I do not like concealment and deception. Better let us have the whole truth.... Pyotr Petrovitch may be angry or not, now!”

“Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you’ve decided,” added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “so be it. I’ll feel better myself. I don’t like secrets and deception. It’s better to tell the whole truth.... Pyotr Petrovitch can be angry or not, now!”