 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Book 2, Chapter 7. Translation by Constance Garnett. An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of spirited grey horses. There was no one in it, and the coachman had got off his box and stood by. The horses were being held by the bridle. A mass of people had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on something lying close to the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming. The coachman seemed at a loss and kept repeating, What a misfortune! Good Lord! What a misfortune! Miss Golnikov pushed his way in as far as he could and succeeded in last and seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a man who had been run over lay apparently unconscious and covered with blood. He was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing from his head and face. His face was crushed, mutilated, and disfigured. He was evidently badly injured. Merciful Heaven! Wailed the coachman. What more could I do? If I had been driving fast or had not shouted to him, but I was going quietly, not in a hurry, everyone could see that I was going along just like everybody else. A drunken man can't walk straight, we all know. I saw him crossing the street, staggering and almost falling. I shouted again and a second and a third time. Then I held the horses in, but he fell straight under their feet. Either he did it on purpose or he was very tipsy. The horses are young and ready to take fright. They started, he screamed, that made them worse. That's how it happened. That's just how it was, a voice in the crowd confirmed. He shouted, that's true. He shouted three times, another voice declared. Three times it was, we all heard it, shouted a third. But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was awaiting it somewhere. The police, of course, were in no little anxiety to avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one knew his name. Meanwhile, Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate man's face. He recognized him. I know him, I know him, he shouted, pushing to the front. It's the government clerk retired from the service, Marmellodov. He lives close by in Kozel's house. Make haste for a doctor. I will pay, see? He pulled money out of his pocket and showed it to the policemen. He was in violent agitation. The police were glad that they had found out who the man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and as earnestly as if it had been his father, he besought the police to carry the unconscious Marmellodov to his lodging at once. Just here, three houses away, he said eagerly. The house belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he is a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife, children, he has one daughter. It will take time to take him to the hospital, and there is sure to be a doctor in the house. I'll pay, I'll pay. At least he will be looked after at home. They will help him at once, but he'll die before you get him to the hospital. He managed to slip something unseen into the policeman's hand. But the thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in any case, help was closer here. They raised the injured man, people volunteered to help. Kozel's house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding Marmellodov's head and showing the way. This way, this way. We must take him upstairs, head foremost. Turn round. I'll pay, I'll make it worth your while," he muttered. Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment, walking to and fro in her little room from window to stove and back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polanka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her with her big, clever eyes and strove her utmost to appear to understand. This time Polanka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before him. Heels together and toes turned out. He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting lips and wide open eyes. Just as all good little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen waiting for her turn. The door onto the stairs was open to relieve them a little and the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other rooms and brought on long, terrible fits of coughing and the poor, consumptive woman. Catarina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner during that week and the hectic flesh on her face was brighter than ever. You wouldn't believe, you can't imagine, Polanka, she said walking about the room. What a happy, luxurious life we had in my papa's house and how this drunkard has brought me and will bring you all to ruin. Papa was a civil colonel and only a step from being a governor so that everyone who came to see him said, We look upon you, Ivan Mikhailovich, as our governor. When I, when she coughed violently, oh, cursed life she cried clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her breast. When I went at the last ball at the marshals, Princess Bazemel Nisami, who gave me the blessing when your father and I were married, Polanka, she asked at once, Isn't that the pretty little girl who danced the shawl dance at the breaking up? You must mend that tear. You must take your needle and don it as I showed you or tomorrow you will make the hole bigger. She articulated with effort. Prince Shigelskoy, a camera junker, had just come from Petersburg then. He danced the Mazurka with me and wanted to make me an offer next day but I thanked him in flattering expressions and told him that my heart had long been in others. That other was your father, Polya. Papa was fearfully angry. Is the water ready? Give me the shirt and the stockings. Lida, she said to the youngest one, You must manage without your chemise tonight and lay your stockings out with it. I'll wash them together. How is it that drunken vagabond doesn't come in? He has worn his shirt till it looks like a dishclout. He has torn it to rags. I'd do it all together so as not to have to work two nights running. Oh, dear. Again. What's this? She cried, noticing a crowd in the passage of the men who were pushing into her room carrying a burden. What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us. Where are we to put him? As the policeman, looking round, when Marmeladoff, unconscious and covered with blood, had been carried in. Marmeladoff put him straight on the sofa with his head this way. Raskolnikov showed him. Run over in the road. Drunk! Someone shouted in the passage. Katarina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polanka and clutched at her, trembling all over. Having laid Marmeladoff down, Raskolnikov flew to Katarina Ivanovna. For God's sake, be calm. Don't be frightened, he said, speaking quickly. He was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage. Don't be frightened, he will come to. I told them to bring him here. I've been here already. Remember? He will come to. I'll pay. He's done it this time. Katarina Ivanovna cried despairingly and she rushed to her husband. Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who swoon easily. She instantly placed under the luckless man's head a pillow which no one had thought of and began undressing and examining him. She kept her head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling the screams which were ready to break from her. Raskolnikov, meanwhile, induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a doctor, it appeared, next door but one. I've sent for a doctor, he kept assuring Katarina Ivanovna. Don't be uneasy. I'll pay. Having you watch her and give me a nap, gonna retell anything as quick as you can. He is injured but not killed, believe me. Wish you'll see what the doctor says. Katarina Ivanovna ran to the window. There, on a broken chair in the corner, a large earthenware basin full of water had been stood in readiness for washing her children's and husband's linen that night. This washing was done by Katarina Ivanovna at night, at least twice a week, if not oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they were practically without change of linen. And Katarina Ivanovna could not endure uncleanliness, and rather than see dirt in the house, she preferred to wear herself out at night, working beyond her strength when the rest were asleep, so as to get the wet linen hung on a line and dried by the morning. She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov's request but almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already succeeded in finding a towel, wetted it, and began washing the blood off Marmeladov's face. Katarina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully and pressing her hands to her breast. She was in need of attention herself when Raskolnikov began to realize that he might have made a mistake in having the injured man brought here. The policeman, too, stood in hesitation. Polanka cried Katarina Ivanovna, run to Sonia, make haste. If you don't find her at home, remember that her father has been run over and that she used to come here at once when she comes in. Run, Polanka, there, put on the shawl. Run your fastest, cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity with round eyes as he was thrust forward in his toes spread out. Meanwhile, the room had become so full of people that you couldn't have dropped a pin. The policeman left, all except one, who remained for a time, to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost all madame, the pevichels' lodgers, had streamed in from the other rooms, in the rooms of the flat. At first they were squeezed together in the doorway, but afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katarina Ivanovna flew into a fury. You might let him die at peace, at least, she shouted at the crowd. Is it a spectacle for you to gape at? With cigarettes. You might as well keep your hats on. And there is one in his hat. Get away, you should respect the dead, at least. Her cough choked her, but her reproaches were not without result. They evidently stood in some awe of Katarina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner feeling of satisfaction, which may be observed in the presence of a sudden accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which no living man is exempt, even in spite of this sincerest sympathy and compassion. Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital and saying that they'd no business to make a disturbance here. No business to die, cried Katarina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to the door to vent her wrath upon them, but on the doorway came face-to-face with Madame, the pavachal, who had only just heard of the accident and ran into restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible German. Ah, my God! she cried, clasping her hands. Your husband drunk and horses have trampled to the hospital with him. I am the landlady. Amalia Levigovna, I beg you to recollect what you were saying. Katarina Ivanovna began haughtily. She always took a haughty tone with the landlady that she might remember her place and even now could not deny herself the satisfaction. Amalia Levigovna, I have once before told you that to call me Amalia Levigovna may not dare. I am Amalia Ivanovna. You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Levigovna, and as I am not one of your despicable flatters like Mr. Libyziyatnikov, who was laughing behind the door at this moment, a laugh and a cry of, and I had it again, was in fact audible at the door. So I shall always call you Amalia Levigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zaharovich. He is dying. I beg you to close that door at once and to admit no one. Let him at least die in peace, or I warn you the Governor-General himself shall be informed of your conduct tomorrow. The Prince knew me as a girl. He remembers Semyon Zaharovich well and has often been a benefactor to him. Everyone knows that Semyon Zaharovich had many friends and protectors, whom he abandoned himself from an honorable pride knowing his unhappy weakness. But now, she pointed to Raskolnikov, a generous young man has come to our assistance who has wealth and connections and whom Semyon Zaharovich has known from a child. You may rest assured, Amalia Levigovna, all this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker, and Raskolnikov suddenly cut short, capturing Avonina's eloquence. At that instant, the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan, she ran to him. The injured man opened his eyes and, without recognition or understanding, gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him. He drew deep, slow, painful breaths, blood oozed at the corners of his mouth, and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognizing Raskolnikov, he began looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes. My God, his whole chest is crushed. How he's bleeding, she said in despair. We must take off his clothes. Turned a little, Semyon Zaharovich, if you can, she cried to him. Marmeladov recognized her. Her priest, he articulated huskily. Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window frame, and exclaimed in despair. Oh, cursed life. A priest, the dying man said again after a moment's silence. They'd gone for him. Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him. He obeyed her shout, and was silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her. She returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little easier, but not for long. Soon his eyes rested on little Lita, his favorite, who was shaking in the corner, as though she were in a fit and staring at him with her wondering childish eyes. Ah, ah, ah, he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something. What now? cried Katerina Ivanovna. Barefoot, barefoot, he muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the child's bare feet. Be silent, Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably. You know why she's barefooted. Thank God the doctor, exclaimed when Skolnikov relieved. The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, thinking about him mistrustfully. He went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefully felt his head, and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the bloodstained shirt and bare the injured man's chest. It was gashed, crushed, and fractured. Several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking yellowish-black bruise, cruel kick from the horse's hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel and turned round with it for thirty yards on the road. It's wonderful that he has recovered consciousness. The doctor whispered softly to Skolnikov. What do you think of him, he asked? They will die immediately. Is there really no hope? Not the faintest. He is at the last gasp. His head is badly injured, too. I could bleed him if you like, but it would be useless. He is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes. Better bleed him, then. If you like, but I want you, it will be perfectly useless. At that moment other steps were heard. The crowd and the passage parted, and the priest, a little gray old man, appeared in the doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident. The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glasses with him. Skolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He shrugged his shoulders and remained. All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably understood little. He could only utter indistinct, broken sounds. Catarina Ivannina took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, down in the corner by the stove, and made the children kneel in front of her. The little girl was still trembling, but the boy, kneeling on his little bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision and bowed down, touching the floor with his forehead, which seemed to afford him a special satisfaction. Catarina Ivannina bit her lips and held back her tears. She prayed, tuned, now and then, pulling straight the boy's shirt, to cover the girl's bare shoulders with a kerchief, which she took from the chest, without rising from her knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile, the door from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively again. In the passage, the crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircase grew denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the threshold. A single candle-end lighted up the scene. At that moment, Polinka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her and said, "'She's coming! I met her in the street!' Her mother made her kneel beside her. Timidly and noiselessly, a young girl made her way through the crowd, and strange was her appearance in that room, in the midst of want, rags, death, and despair. She too was in rags, her attire was all of the cheapest, but decked out in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmistakably betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and looked about her, bewildered, unconscious of everything. She forgot her fourth-hand gaudy silk dress so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train and her immense crinoline that filled up the whole doorway and her light-colored shoes and the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-colored feather. Under this rakishly tilted hat was a pale, frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small, thin girl of eighteen, with fair hair, rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the bed and the priest. She too was out of breath with running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably reached her. She looked down and took a step forward into the room, still keeping close to the door. The service was over. Catarina Ivanovna went up to her husband again. The priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of admonition and consolation to Catarina Ivanovna on leaving. What am I to do with these? She interrupted sharply and irritably, pointing to the little ones. God is merciful. Look to the most high for succor. The priest began, ah, merciful but not to us. That's a sin, a sin, madam, observed the priest shaking his head. And isn't that a sin? cried Catarina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying man. Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of his earnings. You don't understand, cried Catarina Ivanovna, angrily waving her hand. And why should they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and threw himself under the horses. What earnings! He brought us in nothing but misery. He drank everything away, the drunkard. He robbed us to get drink. He wasted their lives in mine for drink. And thank God he is dying. One less to keep. You must forgive in the hour of death. That's a sin, madam. Such feelings are a great sin. Catarina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man. She was giving him water, wiping the blood and sweat from his head, setting his pillow straight, and had only turned now and then for a moment to address the priest. Now she flew at him almost in a frenzy. Ah, Father, that's words and only words. Forgive! If he'd not been run over, he'd have come home to day drunk, and his only shirt dirty and in rags, and he'd have fallen asleep like a log, and I should have been sowsing and rinsing till daybreak, washing his rags and the children's, and then drying them by the window, and as soon as it was daylight, darning them. That's how I spend my nights. What's the use of talking forgiveness? I have forgiven as it is. A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and said nothing. Marmelladoff was in the last agony. He did not take his eyes off the face of Catarina Ivanova, who was bending over him again. He kept trying to say something to her. He began moving his tongue with difficulty and articulating indistinctly. But Catarina Ivanova, understanding that he wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to him, be silent, no need. I know what you want to say. And the sick man was silent. But at the same instant, his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway, and he saw Sonia. Till then he had not noticed her. She was standing in the shadow in a corner. Who's that? Who's that? He said suddenly in a thick, gasping voice, in agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his daughter was standing and trying to sit up. Lie down! Lie down! cried Catarina Ivanova. With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow. He looked wildly and fixably for some time on his daughter, as though not recognizing her. He had never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he recognized her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say goodbye to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering. Sonia, daughter, forgive! he cried, and he tried to hold out his hand to her. Losing his balance he fell off the sofa, face downwards on the floor. They rushed to pick him up. They put him on the sofa, but he was dying. Sonia, with a faint cry, ran up, embraced him, and remained so without moving. He died in her arms. He's got what he wanted. Catarina Ivanova cried, seeing her husband's dead body. What's to be done now? How am I to bury him? How am I to eat? Vaskolnikov went up to Catarina Ivanova. Catarina Ivanova, he began. Last week her husband told me all his life and circumstances. Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate reverence. From that evening when I learned how devoted he was to you all and how he loved and respected you, especially Catarina Ivanova in spite of his unfortunate weakness. From that evening we became friends. Allow me now to do something. To repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are twenty rubles. I think, and if that can be of any assistance to you then, I, in short, I will come again. I will be sure to come again. I shall perhaps come again tomorrow. Goodbye. And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against Nicodin Fomich, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but Nicodin Fomich knew him instantly. Ah, is that you? he asked him. He's dead, answered Briskolnikov. The doctor and the priest have been. All as it should have been. Don't worry the poor woman too much. She is in consumption as it is. Try and share her up, if possible. You are a kind-hearted man, I know. He added with a smile. Looking straight in his face. But you are a spattered with blood, observed Nicodin Fomich, noticing in the lamp-lights some fresh stains on Briskolnikov's waistcoat. Yes, I'm covered with blood, Briskolnikov said with a peculiar air. Then he smiled, nodded, and went downstairs. He walked on slowly and deliberately, feverish, but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of blood. He walked on slowly and deliberately, in a new overwhelming sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be compared to that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Halfway down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on his way home. Briskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting with him. He was just descending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Someone overtook him. It was Polenka. He was running after him, calling, Wait! Wait! He turned around. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped short a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Briskolnikov could distinguish the child's thin, but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright child's smile. She had run after him with a message which she was evidently glad to give. Tell me, what is your name? And where do you live? She said hurriedly in a breathless voice. He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a sort of rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her. He could not have said why. Who sent you? Sister Sonia sent me, answered the girl, smiling, still more brightly. I knew it was Sister Sonia sent you. Mama sent me too. When Sister Sonia was sending me, Mama came up too and said, Run fast, Polenka. Do you love your sister Sonia? I love her more than anyone, Polenka answered with a peculiar earnestness and her smile became graver. And will you love me? By way of answer, he saw the little girl's face approaching him. Her full lips naively held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder and the little girl wept softly, pressing her face against him. I am sorry for father, she said a moment later, with her stained face and brushing away the tears with her hands. It's nothing but misfortunes now, she added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air which children try hard to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people. Did your father love you? He loved Lita most. She wanted on very seriously without a smile. Exactly like grown-up people. He loved her because she is little and because she is ill too. And he always used to bring her presents. But he taught us to read and meet grammar and scripture too, she added with dignity. And mother never used to say anything. But we knew that she liked it and father knew it too. And mother wants to teach me French for it's time for my education to begin. And do you know your prayers? Of course we do. We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself as I am a big girl now, but call you and Lita say that and repeat the Ave Maria. And then another prayer. Lord forgive and bless sister Sonia. And then another. Lord forgive and bless our second father. For our elder father is dead and this is another one. But we do pray for the other as well. Polanka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me too. And thy servant Rodion. Nothing more. I'll pray for you all the rest of my life. The little girl declared hotly and smiling again. She rushed it to him and hugged him warmly once more. Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come the next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him. He was past ten when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in. Enough he pronounced resolutely intramppantly. Life is real. Haven't I lived just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman. The kingdom of heaven to her. And now enough madam leave me in peace. Now for the reign of reason and light and a will and of strength and now we will see. We will try our strength. He added defiantly and so challenging some power of darkness. And I was ready to consent to live in a square of space. I don't think at this moment, but I believe my illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out. By the way, Pachinkov's house is only a few steps away. I certainly must go to Razumihin if we're not close by. Let him win his bet. Let us give him more satisfaction too. No matter. Strength, strength is what one wants. You can get nothing without it and strength must be won by strength. That's what they don't know. He was proudly and self-confidently and he walked with flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew continually stronger in him. He was becoming a different man every moment. What was it that happened to work this revolution in him? He did not know himself. Like a man catching at a straw he suddenly felt that he too could live that there was still life for him that his life had not died with the old woman. Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his conclusions, but he did not think of that. But I did ask her to remember that I servant Rodian in her prayers. The idea struck him. In case of emergency he laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits. He easily found Razumihin. The new lodger was already known at Pachinkov's and the porter at once showed him the way. Halfway upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of the big gathering of people. The door was wide open on the stairs. He could hear exclamations and discussion. Razumihin's room was fairly large. The company consisted of 15 people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entry where two of the landlady's servants were busy behind a scream with two samovars, bottles, plates and dishes of pie and savouries brought it from the landlady's kitchen. Raskolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran out delighted. At the first glance it was apparent that he had had a great deal to drink and though no amount of liquor made Razumihin quite drunk this time he was perceptibly affected by it. Listen, Raskolnikov hastened to say, I've only just come to tell you that you've won your bet and that no one really knows what may not happen to him. I can't come in. And so good evening and goodbye. Come and see me tomorrow. But you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you're weak you must. And your visitors? Who is a curly-headed one who has just peeped out? He? Goodness only knows. Some friend of uncle's I expect or perhaps he's come without being invited. I'll leave uncle with him. He is an invaluable person. Pity I can't introduce you to him now. But confound them all now. They won't notice me and I need a little fresh air. For you come just in the nick of time. Another two minutes and I should have come to blows. They're talking such a lot of wild stuff. You simply can't imagine what men will say. Though why shouldn't you imagine? Don't we talk nonsense ourselves? And let them, that's the way to learn not to. Wait a minute. I'll fetch Razumov. Razumov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily. He showed a special interest in him. Soon his face brightened. You must go to bed at once, he pronounced, examining the patient as far as he could, and take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it ready some time ago. A powder. Two if you like, answered Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at once. It's a good thing you're taking him home, as Razumov observes off to Razumov. We shall see how he is tomorrow. Today he is not at all amiss. A considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn. Do you know what Razumov whispered to me when we were coming out? As in when he blurted out as soon as they were in the street? I won't tell you everything, brother, because they are such fools. Razumov told me to talk freely to you on the way, and get you to talk freely to me. And afterwards I am to tell him about it, but he's got a notion in his head that you are mad or close on it. Only for you, you are mad or close on it. Only fancy. In the first place, you've three times the brains he has. In the second, if you are not mad, you needn't care a hangman. He's got such a wild idea. And thoroughly, that piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases. And what's brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation today with Zomotov. Zomotov told you all about it? Yes, and he did well. Well, I understand what it all means, and so does Zomotov. Well, the fact is, the point is I am a little drunk now. But that's no matter. The point is that this idea you understand was just being hatched in their brains. You understand? That is no adventure to say it aloud because the idea is too absurd, and especially since the rest of that painter that bubbles burst and gone forever. Are they such fools? I gave Zomotov a bit of a thrashing at the time. That's between ourselves, brother. Please don't let out a hint that you know of it. I've noticed he is a ticklish subject. It was at the Weasley Bonham does. But today, today it's all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovich is at the bottom of it. He took advantage of your fencing of the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now. I know that. Vaskolnikov listened greedily. Resuming he was drunk enough to talk freely. I fainted them because it was so close in the smell of paint, Zomotov Vaskolnikov. Don't need to explain that. And it wasn't the paint only. The fever had been coming on for a month. Vaskolnikov testified to that. But how crushed that boy is now you wouldn't believe. I'm not worth his little finger, he says, yours, he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the lesson the lesson you gave him today in the Palais de Cristal that was too good for anything. You frightened him at first, you know. He nearly went into convulsions. You almost convinced him again of the truth of all that hideous nonsense. And then you suddenly put out your tongue at him. There now, what do you make of it? It was perfect. He is crushed annihilated now. It was masterly by Jovits what they deserve. Ah, that I wasn't there. He was hoping to see you awfully. Porphyry too wants to make your acquaintance. Ah, he too, but why did they put me down as mad? Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother. What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you. Now it's clear why it did interest you, knowing all the circumstances and how that irritated you and worked in with your illness. I am a little drunk, brother. Only confound him. He has some idea of his own. I tell you, he is mad on mental diseases. But don't you mind him. For half a minute, both were silent. Listen, Razumihin, begin with Skolnikov. I want to tell you plainly. I've just been at a deathbed. Our clerk who died. I gave them all my money. And besides, I've just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed him, in fact, I saw someone else there with a flame-colored feather. But I'm talking nonsense. I am very weak, support me. We shall be at the stairs directly. What's the matter? What's the matter with you, Razumihin, angst anxiously? I am a little giddy, but that's not the point. I am so sad, so sad, like a woman. Look, what's that? Look, look. What is it? Don't you see? A light in my room. You see? Through the crack. There were already at the foot of the last light of stairs, at the level of the landlady's door. And they could, as a fact, see from below that there was a light in Skolnikov's garret. Queer. Nastasia, perhaps? Observer, Razumihin. She is never in my room at this time, and she must be in bed long ago. But I don't care. Goodbye. Come in together. I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say goodbye to you here. So give me your hand. Goodbye. What's the matter with you, Rodia? Nothing. Come along. You shall be witness that began matting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that perhaps Osimov might be right after all. I've upset him with my chatter, he muttered to himself. He reached the door, they heard voices in the room. What is it? cried Razumihin. Miss Skolnikov was the first to open the door. He flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfounded. His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa, had been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of them? The news that they had started were on their way, and would arrive immediately, they had spent that hour and a half plying Nastasia with questions. She was standing before them and had told them everything by now. They were beside themselves with alarm when they heard of his running away today, ill, and as they understood from his story, delirious. Good heavens, what had become of him? Both had been weeping, both had been in anguish for that hour and a half. A cry of joy of ecstasy greeted Razumihin's entrance. Both rushed to him, but he stood like one dead. A sudden intolerable sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them. He could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and cried. He took a step, tottered, and fell to the ground fainting. Anxiety, cries of horror, moans. Razumihin was standing in the doorway, flew into the room, sees the sick man in his strong arms, and in a moment had him on the sofa. It's nothing, nothing, he cried to the mother and sister. It's only a faint, a mere trifle. Only just now the doctor said he was much better, that he is perfectly well. Watch her. See, he is coming to himself. He is all right again. And seizing Dunya by the arms so that he almost dislocated it, he made her bend down to see that he is all right again. The mother and sister looked on him with emotion and gratitude, as their providence. They had heard already from Nostazia all that had been done for their rodea during his illness by this very competent young man, Espelkeria. Aleksandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with Dunya. That was part two, chapter seven, of Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Translation by Konstantz Garnet. Part three, chapter one. Raskolnikov got up and sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly to resume him to cut short the flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister. Took them both by the hand and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking. His mother was alarmed by his expression. It revealed an emotion agonizingly poignant and at the same time something immovable, almost insane. Plokeria Aleksandrovna began to cry. Avdotya Romanovna was pale. Her hand trembled in her brother's. Go home with him. He said in a broken voice pointing to resume him. Goodbye till tomorrow. Tomorrow everything. You have long since you arrived. This evening Roja answered Plokeria Aleksandrovna. The train was awfully late but Roja nothing would induce me to leave you now. I will spend the night here, near you. Don't torture me, he said with a gesture of irritation. I will stay with him, cried Vizemihin. I won't leave him for a moment. Bother all my visitors. Let them rage to their hearts content. My uncle is presiding there. How? How can I thank you? Plokeria Aleksandrovna was beginning, once more pressing resume his hands. But Raskolnikov interrupted her again. I can't have it. I can't have it. He repeated irritably. Don't worry me. Enough, go away. I can't stand it. Come mama, come out of the room at least for a minute. We are distressing him. That's evident. Man, I look at him after three years. Wept Plokeria Aleksandrovna. Stay, he stopped them again. You keep interrupting me and my ideas get muddled. Have you seen Lusian? No, Roja, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard, Roja, that Piotr Petrovich was so kind to visit you today. Plokeria Aleksandrovna added somewhat timidly. Yes, he was so kind. Dunja, I promised Lusian I'd throw him downstairs and told him to go to hell. Roja, what are you saying? Surely you don't mean to tell us. Plokeria Aleksandrovna began an alarm, but she stopped looking at Dunja. Adotia Romanovna was looking at her brother, waiting for what would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from Nastasia, so far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in painful perplexity and suspense. Dunja, Raskolnikov continued with an effort, I don't want that marriage, so at the first opportunity tomorrow you must refuse Lusian so that we may never begin. Good heavens! Plokeria Aleksandrovna Brother, think what you were saying Adotia Romanovna began impetuously, but immediately checked herself. You are not fit to talk now, perhaps. You are tired, she added gently. You think I'm delirious? No, you were marrying Lusian for my sake, except the sacrifice. And so write a letter before tomorrow to refuse him. Let me read it in the morning, and that will be the end of it. That I can't do, the girl cried offended. What right have you? Dunja, you're a hasty two. Be quiet. Tomorrow, don't you see the mother interposed in dismay? Better come away. He is raving, would he dare? Tomorrow all this nonsense will be over. Today, he certainly did drive him away. That was so, and Lusian got angry, too. He made speeches here, wanted to show off his learning and went out crestfallen. Then it's true, cried Plokeria Aleksandrovna. Goodbye till tomorrow, brother, said Dunja, compassionately. Let us go, mother. Do you hear, sister? He repeated after them, making a last effort. I am not delirious. This marriage is an infamy. Let me act like a scoundrel, but you mustn't. One is enough. And though I am a scoundrel, I wouldn't own such a sister. It's me, or Lusian. Go now. But you're out of your mind. Despot! But Raskolnikov did not, and perhaps could not answer. He lay down on the sofa and turned to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with interest at Ruzumehin. Her black eyes flashed. Ruzumehin positively started at her glance. Plokeria Aleksandrovna stood overwhelmed. Nothing would induce me to go. She whispered in despair to Ruzumehin. I will stay somewhere here, escort Dunya home. You'll spoil everything, Ruzumehin answered in the same whisper at losing patience. Come out onto the stairs anyway. Nastasia, show a light. I assure you he went on in a half whisper on the stairs that he was almost beating the doctor in me this afternoon. Do you understand? The doctor himself, even he gave way and left him to irritate him. I remain downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once and slipped off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him at this time of night, and will do himself some mischief. What are you saying? And Avdotya Romanovna can't possibly be left in those lodgings without you. Just think where you are staying. That black-and-pure Petrovich couldn't find you better lodgings. But you know, I've had a little of what makes me swear. Don't mind it. But I'll go to the landlady here, Volkeria Alexandrovna insisted. I'll besiege her to find some corner for Dunya and me for the night. I can't leave him like that. I cannot. This conversation took place on the landing just before the landlady's door. Nastasia lighted them from a step below. Ruzumehin was an extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earlier while he was bringing Raskolnikov home. He had indeed talked true freely, but he was aware of it himself, and his head was clear, in spite of the vast quantities he had imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading them, and giving them reasons with astonishing plainness of speech, just every word he uttered, probably to emphasize his arguments. He squeezed their hands painfully as in a vice. He stared at Avdotya Romanovna without the least regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew them all closer to him. If they told him to jump head foremost from the staircase, he would have done it without much service. Though Polkariya Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too eccentric and pinched her hand too much, and her anxiety over her rhodia she looked on his presence as providential, and was unwilling to notice all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya Romanovna shared her anxiety and was not of timorous disposition, she could not see the glowing light in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. Only the unbounded confidence inspired by Nastasia's account of her brother's queer friend which prevented her from trying to run away from him and to persuade her mother to do the same. She realized too that even running away was perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later, however, she was considerably reassured. It was characteristic of Rizumihin that he showed his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in and so quickly saw the sort of man they had to deal with. You can't go to the land, lady. That's perfect nonsense, he cried. If you stay, though, you are his mother. You'll drive him to a frenzy and then goodness knows what will happen. Listen. I'll tell you what I'll do. Nastasia will stay with him now and I'll conduct you both home. You can't be in the streets alone. Petersburg is an awful place in that way. But no matter. Then I'll run straight back here in a quarter of an hour later on my word of honor. I'll bring you news how he is, whether he is asleep and all that. Then listen. Then I'll run home in a twinkling. I have a lot of friends there. I'll drunk. I'll fetch Zossimov. That's the doctor who is looking after him. He is there, too. But he is not drunk. He is not drunk. He is never drunk. He is in the courts in the hour. From the doctor, you understand. From the doctor himself. That's a very different thing from my account of him. If there's anything wrong, I swear I'll bring you here myself. But if it's all right, you go to bed. And I'll spend the night here in the passage. He won't hear me and I'll tell Zossimov to sleep with the landlady to be at hand. Which is better for him. You were the doctor. So come home, then. The landlady is out of the question. It's all right for me, but it's out of the question for you. She wouldn't take you for she's for she's a fool. She'd be jealous on my account of Abdoche Romanovna and of you, too, if you want to know of Abdoche Romanovna, certainly. She is an absolutely, absolutely unaccountable character. But I am a fool, too. No matter. Come along. Do you trust me? Do you trust me or not? Let us go, mother, said Abdoche Romanovna. He will certainly do what he has promised. He has saved Roger already and if the doctor really will consent to spend the night here, what could be better? You see, you, you understand me because you are an angel. Brisbane he cried in ecstasy. Let us go. Nastasia, fly upstairs and sit with him with the light. I'll come in a quarter of an hour. Though Polkariya Alexandrovna was not perfectly convinced, she made no further resistance. Razumihin gave an arm to each and drew them down the stairs. He still made her uneasy as though he was competent and good natured. Was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed in such a condition. Ah, I see you think I am in such a condition. Razumihin broken upon her thoughts, guessing them, he strilled along the pavement with huge steps so that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him. A fact he did not observe, however. Nonsense, that is. I am drunk like a fool, but that's not it. I am not drunk from wine. It's seeing you has turned my head. But don't mind me. Don't take any notice. I am talking nonsense. I am not worthy of you. I am utterly unworthy of you. The minute I've taken you home I'll pour a couple of pale folds of water over my head in the gutter here and then I shall be all right. If only you knew how I love you both. Don't laugh and don't be angry. You may be angry with anyone, but not with me. I am his friend and therefore I am your friend too. I want to be. I had a pre-sentiment. Last year there was a moment though it wasn't a pre-sentiment really for you seem to have fallen from heaven and I expect I shan't sleep all night. Zossimov was afraid a little time ago that he would go mad. That's why he mustn't be irritated. What do you say? cried the mother. Did the doctor really say that? asked of Doty Romanovna, alarmed. Yes, but it's not so. Not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a powder. I saw it and then you're coming here. Ah, it would have been better if you'd come tomorrow. The first thing we went away and in an hour Zossimov himself will report to you about everything. He is not drunk and I shan't be drunk. And what made me get so tight? Because they got me into an argument. Damn them. I've sworn never to argue. They talk such trash. I almost came to blows. I've left my uncle to preside. Would you believe they insist on complete absence of individualism and to be relish? Not to be themselves. To be as unlike themselves as they can. That's what they regard as the highest point of progress. If only their nonsense were their own. But as it is, listen, Bukeria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly but it only added fuel to the flames. What do you think? shouted Buzumihin louder than ever. You think I am attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit. I am attacking them to talk nonsense. That's man's one privilege over all creation. Through error you come to truth. I am a man because I err. You never reach any truth without making 14 mistakes and very likely 114. And a fine thing, two in its way, but we can't even make mistakes on our own account. Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense and I'll kiss you for it. To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's. In the first case, you are a man. In the second, you're no better than a bird. Truth won't escape you, but life can be cramped. There have been examples. And what are we doing now? In science, development, thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, experience and everything, everything, everything, we are still in the preparatory class at school. And on other people's ideas, it's what we're used to. Am I right? Am I right? Cried Rizemihin, pressing and shaking the two ladies' hands. Oh, mercy. I do not know. Cried Porpo Keria, Alexandrovna. Yes, yes. Though I don't agree with you in everything, added Abdoche Romano, earnestly, and at once uttered a cry for he squeezed her hand so painfully. Yes, you say yes. Well, after that, you cried in a transport. You were a fount of goodness, purity, sense and perfection. Give me your hand. You give me yours too. I want to kiss your hands here at once on my knees. And he fell on his knees on the pavement. Fortunately, at that time, deserted. Leave off. I entreat you. What are you doing? Porpo Keria, Alexandrovna, cried, Get up! Get up! said Dunia, laughing, though she too was upset. Not for anything to you. Let me kiss your hands. That's it. Enough. I get up and will go on. I am a luckless fool. I am unworthy of you and drunk. And I am ashamed. I am not worthy to love you, but to do homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast. And I have done homage. Here are your lodgings. Captain Rudger was right in driving your Piotr Petrovich away. How dare he? How dare he put you in such lodgings? It's a scandal. Do you know the sort of people they take in here? And you, his betrothed. You are his betrothed? Yes? Well, then I'll tell you, your fiancée is a scoundrel. Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting. Porpo Keria, Alexandrovna, was beginning. Yes, yes, you are right. I did forget myself. I am ashamed of it. Razumihin made haste to apologize. But, but you can't be angry with me for speaking so. For I speak sincerely and not because hmm, hmm, that would be disgraceful. In fact, not because I'm in hmm. Well, anyway, I won't say why. I dare it. But we all saw today when he came in that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair curled at the barbers, not because he was in such a hurry to show his wit. But because he is a spy. A speculator. Because he is a skin-flint and a buffoon. That's evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a fool. A fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see, ladies? He stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to their rooms. Though all my friends there are drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash, and I do too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last, for we are on the right path. Well, Piotr Petrovich is not on the right path. Though I've been calling them all sorts of names just now, I do respect them all. Though I don't respect Zomatov, I like him for he is a puppy. Because he is an honest man and knows his work. But enough, it's all said and forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then let's go on. I know this corridor. I've been here. There was a scandal here at number three. Where are you, here? Which number? Eight? Well, lock yourselves in for the night, then. Don't let anybody in. In a quarter of an hour I'll come back with news, and half an hour later I'll see. Goodbye, I'll run. Good heavens, Dunia! What is going to happen? Simple Keria Alexandrovna addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay. Don't worry yourself, mother, said Dunia, taking off her hat and cape. God has sent this gentleman to our aid, though he has come from a drinking party. We can depend on him, I assure you, and all that he has done for Roja. Ah, Dunia, goodness knows whether he will come. How could I bring myself to leave Roja? And how different, how different I had fancied our meeting. How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us. Tears came into her eyes. No, it's not that, mother. You didn't see. You were crying all the time. He is quite unhinged by serious illness. That's the reason. Ah, that illness. What will happen? And how he talked to you, Dunia, said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts and already half-consoled by Dunia standing up for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. I am sure he will think better of it tomorrow, she added, probing her further. And I am sure that he will say the same tomorrow about that, of Doty Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going beyond that, for this was the point which Volkeria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss. Dunia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumihin's return, timidly watching her daughter, who walked up and down the room with her arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was thinking was a habit of Doty Romanovna's, and the mother was always afraid to break in on her daughter's mood at such moments. Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken infatuation for Doty Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric condition, many people would have thought it justified if they had seen Doty Romanovna, especially at that moment, when she was walking to and fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Doty Romanovna was remarkably good-looking. She was tall, strikingly well-proportioned, strong and self-reliant. The latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the least attract from the grace and softness of her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother's. There was a proud light in her almost black eyes, and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy pallor. Her face was radiant with freshness and vigor. Her mouth was rather small. The full red lower lip projected a little as did her chin. It was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and almost haughty expression. Her face was almost more serious and thoughtful and gay, but how well smiles, how well light-hearted, irresponsible laughter suited her face. It was natural enough that a warm, open, simple-hearted, honest, giant like Razumihin, who had never seen anyone like her and was not quite sober at the time. She loses head immediately. Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Junior for the first time transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with indignation at her brother's insolent, cruel, and ungrateful words, and his fate was sealed. He had spoken the truth moreover when he blurted out in his drunken talk on the stairs that Preskovia Pavlovna, Raskolnikov's eccentric landlady would be jealous of Polkariya Alexandrovna, as well as of Abdocha Romanovna on his account. Although Polkariya Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retains traces of her form of beauty. She looked much younger than her age, indeed which is almost always the case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness, and pure and sincere warmth of heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to old age. Her hair had begun to grow gray and thin, there had long been little crows foot wrinkles and hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was dunya over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Polkariya Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a great deal even of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed to her honesty, principle, and the deepest convictions which nothing would induce her to cross. Exactly twenty minutes after resumeing his departure they came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door. He had come back. I won't come in. I haven't time. He hastened to say when the door was opened. He sleeps like a top, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasia is with him. I'll leave till I came. Now I'm fetching his awesome off. He will report to you and then you'd better turn in. I can see you're too tired to do anything. And he ran off down the corridor. What a very competent and devoted young man, cried Polkariya Alexandrovna, exceedingly delighted. He seems a splendid person. Abdoche Romanova replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down the room. It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women waited this time, completely relying on resumeing his promise. He actually had succeeded in bringing his awesome off. His awesome off had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to Raskolnikov's, but he came reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting resumeing in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered. He saw that they really were really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Polkariya Alexandrovna. He spoke with marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation. He did not utter a word on any other subject, and did not display the slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first entrance the dazzling beauty of Abdotya Romanovna, he endeavored not to notice her at all during his visit, and addressed himself solely to Polkariya Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going on very satisfactorily. According to his observations, the patient's illness was due partly to his unfortunate material surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly also a moral origin, was, so to speak, the product of several material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas, and so on. Noticing stealthily that Abdotya Romanovna was following his words with close attention, Zosimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. On Polkariya Alexandrovna's anxiously and timidly inquiring as to some suspicion of insanity, he replied with a composed and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated. That certainly the patient had some fixed idea, something approaching a monomania. He, Zosimov, was now particularly studying this interesting branch of medicine, but of that it must be recollected that until today the patient had been in delirium and that no doubt the presence of his family would have a favorable effect on his recovery and distract his mind. If only all fresh shocks can be avoided, he added significantly. Then he got up, took leave with an impressive and affable bow, while blessings, warm gratitude, and entreaties were showered upon him, and Doty Romanovna spontaneously offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit, and still more so with himself. We'll talk tomorrow, go to bed at once, resume he said in conclusion, following Zosimov out. I'll be with you tomorrow morning as early as possible with my report. That's a fetching little girl of Doty Romanovna, remarked Zosimov almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street. Fetching? You said fetching? word resume he and he flew Zosimov and seized him by the throat. If you ever dare, do you understand? Do you understand? he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him against the wall. Do you hear? Let me go, you drunken devils, said Zosimov, struggling, and when he had let him go he stared at him and went into his sudden guffaw. Resume he stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection. Of course I am an ass, he observed, somber as a storm-clown, but still, you are another. No, brother, not at all such another. I'm not dreaming of any folly. They walked along in silence and only when they were close to Baskovnikov's lodgings. Resume he broke the silence in terrible anxiety. Listen, he said, you're a first-rate fellow, but among your other failings you're a loose fish that I know and a dirty one, too. You are a feeble, nervous wretch and a mass of whims. You're getting fat and lazy and can't deny yourself anything. And I call that dirty because it leads one straight into the dirt. You let yourself get so slack that I don't know how it is. You are still a good, even a devoted doctor. You, a doctor, sleep on a feather bed and get up at night to your patients. In another three or four years you won't get up for your patients. But, hang it all, that's not the point. You are going to spend tonight in the landlady's flat here. Hard work I've had to persuade her and I'll be in the kitchen, so here's a chance for you to get her know her better. It's not as you think. There's not a trace of anything of the sort, brother. But I don't think. Here you have modesty, brother. Silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue. And yet she's sighing and melting like wax, simply melting. Save me from her by all that's unholy. She's most prepossessing. I'll repay you, I'll do anything. It's awesome I've laughed more violently than ever. Well, you are smitten. But what am I to do with her? It won't be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her as long as you sit by her and talk. You're a doctor, too. Try curing her of something. I swear you won't regret it. She has a piano and you know I strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one. I shed hot tears. She likes the genuine article and well, it'll all begin with that song. Now you're a regular performer, a matriot, a Rubenstein. I assure you, you won't regret it. But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps? Nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing of the kind. Besides, she is not that sort at all. Cheburov tried that. Well, then drop her. I can't drop her like that. Why can't you? Well, I can't. That's all about it. There's an element of attraction here, brother. Then why have you fascinated her? I haven't fascinated her. Perhaps I was fascinated myself in my folly. But she won't care a straw, whether it's you or I. So long as somebody sits beside her, sighing. I can't explain the position, brother. Look here, you're good at mathematics and working at it now. Begin teaching her the integral calculus. Upon my soul, I'm not joking. I'm an earnest. Same to her. She will gaze at you inside for a whole year together. I talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prussian House of Lords. One must talk of something. She just sighed and perspired. And you mustn't talk of love. She's bashful to hysterics. But just let her see you can't tear yourself away. That's enough. It's fearfully comfortable. You're quite at home. You can read, sit, lie about, right? And venture on a kiss if you're careful. But what do I want with her? Ah, I can't make you understand. You see, you are made for each other. I have often been reminded of you. You'll come to it in the end. So does it matter whether it's sooner or later? There's the feather-bed element here, brother. Ah, and not only that. There's an attraction here. Here you have the end of the world. Anchorage. Quiet haven. The navel of the earth. The three fishes that are the foundation of the world. The essence of pancakes. Of savory fish pies. Of the evening samovar. Of soft sighs. And warm shoals. And hot stoves to sleep on. As snug as though you were dead. And yet you're alive. The advantages of both at once. While I hang it, brother. What stuff I'm talking. It's bedtime. Listen, I sometimes wake up at night. I'll go in and look at him. But there's no need. It's all right. Don't you worry yourself. Yet, if you like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice anything, delirium or fever, like me at once. But there can't be. End of Book 3. Chapter 1. Crime and Punishment. By Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Translated by Constance Garnett. All LiberVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or to volunteer, please visit LiberVox.org. Crime and Punishment. By Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Translated by Constance Garnet. Part 3. Chapter 2. Resuming he'd waked up next morning at eight o'clock, troubled and serious, he found himself confronted with many new and unlooked-for perplexities. He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day, and he knew that a perfectly novel experience had befallen him, that he had received an impression unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognized clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly unattainable. So unattainable that he felt positively ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that thrice accursed to yesterday. The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had shown himself base and mean, not only because he had been drunk, but because he had taken advantage of the young girl's position to abuse her fiancé in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual relations and obligations, and next to nothing of the man himself. And what right had he to criticize him in that hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for his opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Abdoche Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there must be something in him. The lodgings? But after all, how could he know the character of the lodgings? He was furnishing a flat. Foo! How despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even more degrading. In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out. That is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious heart. And would such a dream ever be permissible to him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl? He, the drunken, noisy braggart of last night? Was it possible to imagine so absurd and cynical a juxtaposition? Razumihin fleshed desperately at the very idea, and suddenly the recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be jealous of Abdoche Romanovna. That was simply intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand, and set one of the bricks flying. Of course, he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of self-abasement, of course all these infamies can never be wiped out or smoothed over. And so it's useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in silence and do my duty, in silence, too, and not ask forgiveness and say nothing for all his loss now. And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more carefully than usual. He hadn't another suit. If he had had perhaps he wouldn't have put it on. I would have made a point of not putting it on. But in any case he could not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven. He had no right to offend the feelings of others, especially when they were in need of his assistants in asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully. His linen was always decent. In that respect he was especially clean. He washed that morning scrupulously. He got some soap from Nostasia. He washed his hair, his neck, and especially his hands. When I came to the question whether to shave his stubbly chin or not, Preskovia Pavlovna had capital raises that had been left by her late husband. The question was angrily answered in the negative. Let it stay as it is. What if they think that I shaved on purpose, too? They would certainly think so, not on any account. And the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty he had the manners of a pot house. And even admitting that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman, what was there in that to be proud of? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that. And all the same, he remembered, he, too, had done little things, not exactly dishonest and yet, and what thoughts he sometimes had. And to set all that beside of Dote Romanovna confound it, so be it. Well, he'd make a point, then, of being dirty, greasy pot house in his manners, and he wouldn't care. He'd be worse. He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who'd spent the night in Praskovia Pavlovna's parlor, came in. He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first. Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn't wake him and promised to see him again about eleven. If he is still at home, he added. Damn it all! If one can't control one's patience, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether he will go to them or whether they are coming here? They are coming, I think, said Razumihin, understanding the object of the question, and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt. I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I. But I am not a father confessor. I shall come and go away. I'm plenty just to do besides looking after them. One thing worries me, interposed Razumihin frowning. On the way home I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him, all sorts of things, and amongst them that you were afraid that he might become insane. You told the lady so, too. I know it was stupid. You may beat me if you like. Did you think so seriously? That's nonsense, I tell you. How could I think it seriously? You were yourself described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to him, and we added fuel to the fire yesterday. You did, that is, with your story about the painter. It was a nice conversation when he was perhaps mad on that very point. If only I'd known what happened that at the police station, and that some wretch had insulted him with this suspicion. Hmm. I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a molehill, and see their fancies as solid realities. As far as I remember it was Zossimov's story that cleared up half the mystery to my mind. Why, I know one case in which a hyperchondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn't endure the jokes he made every day at table. And in this case, his rags, the insolent police officer, the fever, and this suspicion. All that working upon a man half frantic with hyperchondria, and with his morbid exceptional vanity. That may well have been the starting point of illness. Well, bother it all. And, by the way, that Zomitav certainly is a nice fellow, but, hmm, he shouldn't have told all that last night. He is an awful chatterbox. But whom did he tell it to? You and me? I'm porphyry. What does that matter? And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his mother and sister? Tell them to be more careful with him today. They'll get on all right, resume he answered reluctantly. Why is he so set against this illusion? A man with money, and she doesn't seem to dislike him, and they haven't a farthing, I suppose, eh? But what business is it of yours? Resume he cried with annoyance. How can I tell whether they've a farthing? Ask them yourself, and perhaps you'll find out. Foo! What an ass you are sometimes. Last night's wine has not gone off yet. Good-bye. Thank you, Prescovia Pavlovna, for me, for my nice lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my bourgeois through the door. She was up at seven o'clock. The Samovar was taken into her from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal interview. At nine o'clock, precisely, resume he reached the lodgings at Bakalayev's house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous and patience. They had risen at seven o'clock or earlier. He entered licking as black as night, bowed awkwardly, and was at once furious with himself for it. He had reckoned without his host. Bokaria Alexandrovna fairly rushed at him, seized him by both hands, and was almost kissing them. He glanced timidly at Abdocha Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore them at that moment an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unlookful respect. In place of the sneering looks and ill-disguise contempt he had expected, that it threw him into greater confusion than if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a subject for conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it. Hearing that everything was going well and that Rojya had not yet waked, Bokaria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it, because she had something which it was very necessary to talk over beforehand. Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with him. They had waited to have it with him. Abdocha Romanovna rang the bell. It was answered by a ragged, dirty waiter. And they asked him to bring tea, which was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way that the ladies were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously attacked the lodgings, but remembering Luzhin stopped in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Bokaria Alexandrovna's questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him. He talked for three-quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted by their questions and succeeded in describing to them all the most important facts he knew of the last year of Vaskolnikov's life, concluding with a circumstantial account of his illness. He admitted, however, many things which were better omitted, including the scene at the police station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to his story, and when he thought he had finished and satisfied his listeners, he found that they considered he had hardly begun. "'Tell me, tell me, what do you think? Excuse me, I still don't know your name,' Bokaria Alexandrovna put in hastily. Dimitri Pokovic. I should like very, very much to know, Dimitri Pokovic, how he looks on things in general now, that is, how can I explain? What are his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can, what are his hopes and hopes to say his dreams? Under what influence is he now? In a word, I should like, ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?' observed Dunya. "'Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this,' Dimitri Pokovic. "'Naturally,' answered Razumihin. "'I have no mother, but my uncle comes every year, and almost every time he can scarcely recognize me, even in appearance, though he is a clever man, and your three-year separation means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rogin for a year and a half. He is morose, gloomy, proud, and haughty, and of late, and perhaps for a long time before, he has been suspicious and fanciful. He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely. Sometimes though he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and inhumanly callous. This is though he were alternated between two characters. Sometimes he is fearfully reserved. He says he is so busy that everything is a hindrance, and yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn't jeer at things, not because he hasn't the wit, but as though he had no time to waste on such trifles. He never listens to what is said to him. He is never interested in what interests other people at any given moment. He thinks very highly of himself, and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I think your arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon him. God grant it may, cried Polkaria Alexandrovna, distressed by Rizemihin's account of her rodia. And Rizemihin ventured to look more boldly at Abduce Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a moment, and looked away again at once. Abduce Romanovna sat at the table, listening attentively, then got up again and being and walking, two and fro, with her arms folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting in a question without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not listening to what was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff, and she had a white transparent scarf on her neck. Rizemihin soon detected signs of extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Abduce Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he felt that he would not be afraid of her. But perhaps just because she was poorly dressed, and that he noticed all the misery of her surroundings, his heart was filled with dread, and he began to be afraid of every word he uttered. Every gesture he made, which was very trying for a man who already felt diffident. I have told us a great deal that is interesting about my brother's character, and I have told it impartially. I am glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to him, observed Abduce Romanovna with a smile. I think you were right that he needs a woman's care, she added thoughtfully. I didn't say so, but I daresay you are right only what? He loves no one, and perhaps he never will, Rizemihin declared decisively. You mean he is not capable of love? Do you know, Abduce Romanovna, you were awfully like your brother in everything indeed. He blurted out suddenly to his own surprise, but remembering it once, what do you just before said of her brother? He turned as red as a crab, and was overcome with confusion. Abduce Romanovna couldn't help laughing when she looked at him. You may both be mistaken about Roja, Pocharia Alexandrovna remarked, slightly peaked. I am not talking of our present difficulty, Dunja. What Piotr Petrovic writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may be mistaken, but you can't imagine Dmitri Prokofic how moody and so to say capricious he is. I never could depend on what he would do when he was only fifteen, and I'm sure that he might do something now that nobody else would think of doing. Oh, for instance, do you know how a year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl? What was her name, his landlady's daughter? Did you hear about that affair, asked Abduce Romanovna? Do you suppose, Pocharia Alexandrovna continued warmly, do you suppose that my tears, my antrities, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty, would have made him pause? No, he would calmly have disregarded all obstacles, and yet it isn't that he doesn't love us. He has never spoken a word of that affair to me, was him he answered cautiously, but I did hear something from Preskovia Pavlovna herself, though as she is by no means a gossip, and what I heard certainly was rather strange. And what did you hear, both the ladies asked at once? Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, which only failed to take place through the girl's death, was not at all to Preskovia Pavlovna's liking. They say, too, the girl was not at all pretty. In fact, I am told positively ugly, and such an invalid and queer, but she seems to have had some good qualities. She must have had some good qualities, or it's quite inexplicable. She had no money, either, and he wouldn't have considered her money. But it's always difficult to judge in such matters. I'm sure she was a good girl, of Doty Romanovna, observed briefly. God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death, though I don't know which of them would have caused most misery to the other. He to her, or she to him? Bookaria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began tentatively questioning him about the scene on the previous day with Lusian, hesitating and continually glancing at Dunia, obviously to the latter's annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently caused her uneasiness, even consternation. Resuming he described it in detail again, but this time he added his own conclusions. He openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Piotr Petrovich, not seeking to excuse him on the score of his illness. He had planned it before his illness, he added. I think so, too, Bookaria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air. But she was very much surprised at hearing the resume he had expressed himself so carefully. And even with a certain respect about Piotr Petrovich, Abdochir Romagna, too, was struck by it. So this is your opinion of Piotr Petrovich? Bookaria Alexandrovna could not resist asking. I can have no other opinion of your daughter's future husband, resuming he answered firmly and with warmth. And I don't say it simply from vulgar politeness, but simply because Abdochir Romagna has of her own free will deign to accept this man. If I spoke so rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk, and mad besides. Yes, mad, crazy. I lost my head completely, and this morning I am ashamed of it. He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Abdochir Romagna fleshed but did not break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment they began to speak of Lusian. Without her support, Bookaria Alexandrovna obviously did not know what to do. At last, faltering and continually glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was exceedingly worried by one circumstance. You see, Dimitri Prokofich, she began, I'll be perfectly open with Dimitri Prokofich, dunya. Of course, mother, said Abdochir Romagna emphatically. This is what it is, she began in haste, as though the permission to speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her mind. Very early this morning we got a note from Piotr Petrovich and replied to our letter announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station, you know, and instead of that he sent a service to bring us the address of these lodgings and to show us the way. And he sent a message that he would be here himself this morning. But this morning this note came from him. You'd better read it yourself. There is one point on it which worries me very much. You will soon see what that is. And tell me your candid opinion, Dimitri Prokofich. You know Roja's character better than anyone, and no one can advise us better than you can. Dunya, I must tell you, made her decision at once. But I still don't feel sure how to act, and I've been waiting for your opinion. Resuming he opened the note which was dated the previous evening and read as follows. Dear Madam Polkariya Alexandrovna, I have the honor to inform you that owing to unforeseen obstacles, I was rendered unable to meet you at the railway station. I sent a very competent person with the same object in view. I, like what shall be deprived of the honor of an interview with you tomorrow morning by business in the Senate, that does not admit a delay, and also that I may not intrude on your family's circle while you are meeting your son, and of Doty Romanovna, her brother. I shall have the honor of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings not later than to mom evening at eight o'clock precisely. And herewith I venture to present my earnest, and I may add imperative request that Rodion Romanovich may not be present at our interview, as he offered me a gross and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my visit to him in his illness yesterday. And moreover, since I desire from you personally an indispensable and circumstantial explanation upon a certain point in regard to which I wish to learn your own interpretation, I have the honor to inform you in anticipation that if, in spite of my request, I meet Rodion Romanovich, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately. And then you have only yourself to blame. I write in the assumption that Rodion Romanovich, who appeared so ill at my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later, and so being able to leave the house, may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief by the testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of a drunken man who was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a young woman of notorious behavior, he gave twenty-five rubles on the pretext of the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what pains you were at to raise that sum. Herewith, expressing my special respect to your estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectful homage of your humble servant, P. Illusion. What am I to do now, Dimitri Prokofich? Begin Pukaria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. How can I ask Rodion not to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly on our refusing Piotr Petrovich, and now we are ordered not to receive Rodion. He will come on purpose, if he knows, and what will happen then? Act on Avdotya Romanovna's decision, resume he answered calmly at once. Oh, dear me! She says, goodness knows what she says. She doesn't explain her object. She says it would be best, at least not that it would be best, but it's that it's absolutely necessary that Rodion should make a point of being here at eight o'clock and that they must meet. I didn't want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him from coming by some strategy and with your help, because he is so irritable. Besides, I don't understand about that drunkard who died and that daughter and how he could have given the daughter all the money which which caused you such sacrifice, mother, put in Avdotya Romanovna. He was not himself yesterday, resume he said thoughtfully. If you only knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there was sense in it too. Hmm. He did say something as we were going home yesterday evening about a dead man and a girl, but I didn't understand a word. But last night I myself, the best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him ourselves, and there I assure you we shall see at once what's to be done. Besides, it's getting late. Good heavens, it's past ten, she cried, looking at the splendid gold enameled watch which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain, and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress, out present from her fiance, thought resume he. We must start, Dunya, we must start, her mother cried in a flutter. He will be thinking we are still angry after yesterday, for more coming so late. Most of all, heavens. While she said that she was hurly putting on her hat and mantle, Dunya, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as resume he noticed, were not really shabby but had holes in them, yet this evident poverty gave the two ladies an air of special dignity, which is always found in people who know how to wear poor clothes. Resume he looked reverently at Dunya and felt proud of escorting her. The queen who mended her stockings in prison, he thought, must have looked then every inch a queen, and even more a queen than at sumptuous banquets and levées. My God! exclaimed Polkaria Alexandrovna. Little did I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Roja. I am afraid, Dimitri Prokofit, she added, glancing at him timidly. Don't be afraid, mother, said Dunya, kissing her. Better have faith in him. Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven't slept all night, exclaimed the poor woman. They came out into the street. Do you know, Dunya, when I dozed a little this morning, I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna. She was all in white. She came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me. But so sternly as though she were blaming me. Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don't know, Dimitri Prokofit, that Marfa Petrovna is dead. No, I didn't know. Who is Marfa Petrovna? She died suddenly, and only fancy. Afterwards, Mama, put in Dunya, he doesn't know who Marfa Petrovna is. Ah, you don't know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us. Forgive me, Dimitri Prokofit. I don't know what I am thinking about these last few days. I look upon you really as a providence for us, and so I took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a relation. Don't be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what's the matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it? Yes, I bruised it, mother, resume, he overjoined. I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dunya finds fault with me. But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in. I wonder whether he is awake. Does this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him with my weaknesses? Do advise me, Dimitri Prokofit, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted, you know. Don't question him too much about anything if you see him frown. Don't ask him too much about his health. He doesn't like that. Ah, Dimitri Prokofit, how hard it is to be a mother. Oh, but here are the stairs. What an awful staircase. Mother, you are quite pale. Don't distress yourself, darling, said Dunya, caressing her, then with flashing eyes, she added. He ought to be happy at seeing you, and you are tormenting yourself so. Wait, I'll peep in and see whether he is waked up. The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, and when they reached the landlady's door on the fourth story, they noticed that her door was a tiny crack open, and that two keen black eyes were watching them from the darkness within. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut with such a slam that Polkariya Alexandrovna almost cried out.