Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

At that moment Polenka 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-coloured
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-coloured 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. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband
again. The priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of
admonition and consolation to Katerina 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 succour," the priest
  "Ach! He is 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 Katerina 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 Katerina 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 and mine for drink!
And thank God he's dying! One less to keep!"
  "You must forgive in the hour of death, that's a sin, madam, such
feelings are a great sin."
  Katerina 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 sousing 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 I should have been darning them. That's how I spend my
nights!... What's the use of talking of 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.
  Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not take his eyes off the
face of Katerina Ivanovna, 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 Katerina Ivanovna,
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 do-own!" cried Katerina Ivanovna.
  With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on
his elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly for some time on his daughter,
as though not recognising her. He had never seen her before in such
attire. Suddenly he recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her
humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye
to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering.
  "Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!" he cried, and he tried to hold out his
hand to her, but 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," Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her
husband's dead body. "Well, what's to be done now? How am I to bury
him! What can I give them to-morrow to eat?"
  Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna.
  "Katerina Ivanovna," he began, "last week your husband told me all
his life and circumstances.... Believe me, he spoke of you with
passionate reverence. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted
he was to you all and how he loved and respected you especially,
Katerina Ivanovna, 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 roubles 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 to-morrow.... Good-bye!"
  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
Nikodim Fomitch, 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 Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.
  "Ah, is that you?" he asked him.
  "He's dead," answered Raskolnikov. "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 cheer 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 spattered with blood," observed Nikodim Fomitch,
noticing in the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov's
  "Yes... I'm covered with blood," Raskolnikov said with a peculiar
air; then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.
  He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious
of it, entirely absorbed 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; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting
with him. He was just descending the last steps when he heard rapid
footsteps behind him. Some one overtook him; it was Polenka. She was
running after him, calling "Wait! wait!"
  He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and
stopped short a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard.
Raskolnikov could distinguish the child's thin but pretty little face,
looking at him with a bright childish 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
  "I knew it was sister Sonia sent you."
  "Mamma sent me, too... when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma
came up, too, and said 'Run fast, Polenka.'"
  "Do you love sister Sonia?"
  "I love her more than any one," 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, raising her
tear-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 Lida most," she went 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 me 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 my education began."
  "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 Kolya and Lida say them aloud with mother.
First they 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."
  "Polenka, 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 suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and
hugged him warmly once more.
  Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to
come next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him. It 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 and triumphantly. "I've done with
fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! 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 of will, and of strength... and now
we will see! We will try our strength!" he added defiantly, as
though challenging some power of darkness. "And I was ready to consent
to live in a square of space!
  "I am very weak at this moment, but... I believe my illness is all
over. I knew it would be over when I went out. By the way,
Potchinkov's house is only a few steps away. I certainly must go to
Razumihin even if it were not close by... let him win his bet! Let
us give him some 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 added 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 had 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 conclusion,
but he did not think of that.
  "But I did ask her to remember 'Thy servant Rodion' in her prayers,"
the idea struck him. "Well, that was... in case of emergency," he
added and laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of
  He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already known at
Potchinkov's and the porter at once showed him the way. Half-way
upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a 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 fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the
entry, where two of the landlady's servants were busy behind a
screen with two samovars, bottles, plates and dishes of pie and
savouries, brought up 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 you've won your bet and that no one really knows what may not
happen to him. I can't come in; I am so weak that I shall fall down
directly. And so good evening and good-bye! Come and see me
  "Do you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you're weak
yourself, you must..."
  "And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has just
peeped out?"
  "He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle's I expect, or
perhaps he has come without being invited... I'll leave uncle with
them, 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've come just in the nick of time- another
two minutes and I should have come to blows! They are 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 Zossimov."
  Zossimov 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
  "It's a good thing you are taking him home," observed Zossimov to
Razumihin- "we shall see how he is to-morrow, to-day he's not at all
amiss- a considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn..."
  "Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were coming out?"
Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they were in the street. "I won't
tell you everything, brother, because they are such fools. Zossimov
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, for he's got a notion in
his head that 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 hang that he has got such a wild
idea; and thirdly, 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 to-day with Zametov."
  "Zametov told you all about it?"
  "Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so
does Zametov.... Well, the fact is, Rodya... 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 one ventured to say it aloud, because
the idea is too absurd and especially since the arrest of that
painter, that bubble's burst and gone for ever. But why are they
such fools? I gave Zametov 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 Luise
Ivanovna's. But to-day, to-day it's all cleared up. That Ilya
Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! He took advantage of your
fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now; I
know that..."
  Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk enough to talk
too freely.
  "I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of paint,"
said Raskolnikov.
  "No need to explain that! And it wasn't the paint only: the fever
had been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how
crushed that boy is now, you wouldn't believe! 'I am 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 to-day in
the Palais de Crystal, 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 Jove, it's what they deserve! Ah,
that I wasn't there! He was hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, 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's mad on mental diseases. But
don't you mind him..."
  For half a minute both were silent.
  "Listen, Razumihin," began Raskolnikov, "I want to tell you plainly:
I've just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died... I gave them all
my money... and besides I've just been kissed by some one who, if I
had killed any one, would just the same... in fact I saw some one else
there... with a flame-coloured feather... but I am 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 asked
  "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..."
  They were already at the foot of the last flight 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 Raskolnikov's garret.
  "Queer! Nastasya, perhaps," observed Razumihin.
  "She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long
ago, but... I don't care! Good-bye!"
  "What do you mean? I am coming with you, we'll come in together!"
  "I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and
say good-bye to you here. So give me your hand, good-bye!"
  "What's the matter with you, Rodya?"
  "Nothing... come along... you shall be witness."
  They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that
perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. "Ah, I've upset him with my
chatter!" he muttered to himself.
  When they reached the door they heard voices in the room.
  "What is it?" cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov 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 and had been
waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never
thought of them, though the news that they had started, were on
their way and would arrive immediately, had been repeated to him
only that day? They had spent that hour and a half plying Nastasya
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" to-day, ill and, as they understood from
her 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 Raskolnikov'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 who was standing in the
doorway flew into the room, seized 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! Water! See, he is coming to
himself, he is all right again!"
  And seizing Dounia by the arm 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 Nastasya all that had been
done for their Rodya during his illness, by this "very competent young
man," as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in
conversation with Dounia.

                              PART THREE
                             Chapter One
  RASKOLNIKOV got up, and sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand
weakly to Razumihin 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 agonisingly poignant, and at the same time
something immovable, almost insane. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to
  Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother's.
  "Go home... with him," he said in a broken voice, pointing to
Razumihin, "good-bye till to-morrow; to-morrow everything... Is it
long since you arrived?"
  "This evening, Rodya," answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "the train
was awfully late. But, Rodya, 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 Razumihin, "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!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning,
once more pressing Razumihin's 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, mamma, come out of the room at least for a minute," Dounia
whispered in dismay; "we are distressing him, that's evident."
  "Mayn't I look at him after three years?" wept Pulcheria
  "Stay," he stopped them again, "you keep interrupting me, and my
ideas get muddled.... Have you seen Luzhin?"
  "No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard,
Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit you today,"
Pulcheria Alexandrovna added somewhat timidly.
  "Yes... he was so kind... Dounia, I promised Luzhin I'd throw him
downstairs and told him to go to hell...."
  "Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don't mean to tell us..."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at
  Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her brother, waiting
for what would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from
Nastasya, so far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting
it, and were in painful perplexity and suspense.
  "Dounia," Raskolnikov continued with an effort, "I don't want that
marriage, so at the first opportunity to-morrow you must refuse
Luzhin, so that we may never hear his name again."
  "Good Heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
  "Brother, think what you are saying!" Avdotya Romanovna began
impetuously, but immediately checked herself. "You are not fit to talk
now, perhaps; you are tired," she added gently.
  "You think I am delirious? No... You are marrying Luzhin for my
sake. But I won't accept the sacrifice. And so write a letter before
to-morrow, 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
  "Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to-morrow... Don't you
see..." the mother interposed in dismay. "Better come away!"
  "He is raving," Razumihin cried tipsily, "or how would he dare!
To-morrow all this nonsense will be over... to-day he certainly did
drive him away. That was so. And Luzhin got angry, too... He made
speeches here, wanted to show off his learning and he went out
  "Then it's true?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
  "Good-bye till to-morrow, brother," said Dounia compassionately-
"let us go, mother... Good-bye, Rodya."
  "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 Luzhin! Go
  "But you're out of your mind! Despot!" roared Razumihin; 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 Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin
positively started at her glance.
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed.
  "Nothing would induce me to go," she whispered in despair to
Razumihin. "I will stay somewhere here... escort Dounia home."
  "You'll spoil everything," Razumihin answered in the same whisper,
losing patience- "come out on to the stairs, anyway. Nastasya, show
a light! I assure you," he went on in a half whisper on the stairs-
"that he was almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you
understand? The doctor himself! Even he gave way and left him, so as
not to irritate him. I remained 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 blackguard Pyotr
Petrovitch couldn't find you better lodgings... But you know I've
had a little to drink, and that's what makes me... swear; don't mind
  "But I'll go to the landlady here," Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted,
"Ill beseech her to find some corner for Dounia 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. Nastasya lighted them from a step below. Razumihin
was in extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earlier, while he was
bringing Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too 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, and at almost every word he uttered, probably to emphasize his
arguments, he squeezed their hands painfully as in a vise. 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 the closer to him. If
they'd told him to jump head foremost from the staircase, he would
have done it without thought or hesitation in their service. Though
Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too
eccentric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her Rodya
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. It was only
the unbounded confidence inspired by Nastasya'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 realised,
too, that even running away was perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes
later, however, she was considerably reassured; it was
characteristic of Razumihin that he showed his true nature at once,
whatever mood he might be in, so that people quickly saw the sort of
man they had to deal with.
  "You can't go to the landlady, 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: Nastasya 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
and a quarter of an hour later, on my word of honour, 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've a lot of friends there, all
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! I'll drag him to Rodya, and then to you, so that you'll
get two reports 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 at the landlady's, to be at hand. Which is better for him: you
or the doctor? So come home then! But 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 Avdotya Romanovna and of you, too, if you
want to know... of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She is an
absolutely, absolutely unaccountable character! But I am a fool,
too!... No matter! Come along! Do you trust me? Come, do you trust
me or not?"
  "Let us go, mother," said Avdotya Romanovna, "he will certainly do
what he has promised. He has saved Rodya 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!"
Razumihin cried in ecstasy, "let us go! Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit
with him with a light; I'll come in a quarter of an hour."
  Though Pulcheria 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 broke in
upon her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled 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 pailfuls 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 any one, but
not with me! I am his friend, and therefore I am your friend, too, I
want to be... I had a presentiment... Last year there was a
moment... though it wasn't a presentiment 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 Avdotya 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 your coming here.... Ah! It would have been
better if you had come to-morrow. It's a good 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 that's just what they 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!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only
added fuel to the flames.
  "What do you think?" shouted Razumihin, louder than ever, "you think
I am attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to
talk nonsense. That's man's one privilege over all creation. Through
error you come to the truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach
any truth without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a hundred
and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, 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 some one 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. We prefer to live on other people's ideas, it's what we are
used to! Am I right, am I right?" cried Razumihin, pressing and
shaking the two ladies' hands.
  "Oh, mercy, I do not know," cried poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
  "Yes, yes... though I don't agree with you in everything," added
Avdotya Romanovna earnestly and at once uttered a cry, for he squeezed
her hand so painfully.
  "Yes, you say yes... well after that you... you..." he cried in a
transport, "you are 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?" Pulcheria
Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed.
  "Get up, get up!" said Dounia laughing, though she, too, was upset.
  "Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That's it!
Enough! I get up and we'll 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've done homage.... Here are your
lodgings, and for that alone Rodya was right in driving your Pyotr
Petrovitch 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 fiance is a scoundrel."
  "Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting..." Pulcheria
Alexandrovna was beginning.
  "Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of
it," Razumihin made haste to apologise. "But... but you can't be angry
with me for speaking so! For I speak sincerely and not because...
hm, hm! That would be disgraceful; in fact not because I'm in... hm!
Well, anyway I won't say why, I daren't.... But we all saw to-day when
he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his
hair curled at the barber's, 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,
while Pyotr Petrovitch... 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 Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and
that bullock Zossimov, 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 3.... 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 bring Zossimov, you'll see! Good-bye, I'll run."
  "Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?" said Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay.
  "Don't worry yourself, mother," said Dounia, 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 Rodya...."
  "Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I
bring myself to leave Rodya?... And how different, how different I had
fancied our meeting! How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see
  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, what will happen? And how he
talked to you, Dounia!" said the mother, looking timidly at her
daughter, trying to read her thoughts and, already half consoled by
Dounia's standing up for her brother, which meant that she had already
forgiven him. "I am sure he will think better of it to-morrow," she
added, probing her further.
  "And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow... about that,"
Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going
beyond that, for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was
afraid to discuss. Dounia 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
Avdotya 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 Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric
condition, many people would have thought it justified if they had
seen Avdotya Romanovna, especially at that moment when she was walking
to and fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya 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 detract 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 vigour. 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
always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles,
how well youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible, laughter suited her
face! It was natural enough that a warm, open, simple-hearted,
honest giant like Razumihin, who had never seen any one like her and
was not quite sober at the time, should lose his head immediately.
Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Dounia 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
  He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his
drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna, Raskolnikov's
eccentric landlady, would be jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well
as of Avdotya Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria
Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retained traces of her
former 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 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 grey and thin,
there had long been little crow's foot wrinkles round her eyes, her
cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a
handsome face. She was Dounia over again, twenty years older, but
without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria 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
by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which nothing
would induce her to cross.
  Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin's departure, there 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. Nastasya's with him; I told her not to
leave till I came. Now I am fetching Zossimov, he will report to you
and then you'd better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do
  And he ran off down the corridor.
  "What a very competent and... devoted young man!" cried Pulcheria
Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted.
  "He seems a splendid person!" Avdotya Romanovna 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 Razumihin's promise; he actually had succeeded
in bringing Zossimov. Zossimov 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 Razumihin
in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and
flattered; he saw that they were really expecting him as an oracle. He
stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and
comforting Pulcheria 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 Avdotya Romanovna, he endeavoured not to notice her
at all during his visit and addressed himself solely to Pulcheria
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 Avdotya Romanovna was following his words with close
attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. On
Pulcheria 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, Zossimov,
was now particularly studying this interesting branch of medicine- but
that it must be recollected that until to-day the patient had been
in delirium and... and that no doubt the presence of his family
would have a favourable 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 Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously offered her
hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit and
still more so with himself.
  "We'll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!" Razumihin said in
conclusion, following Zossimov out. "I'll be with you to-morrow
morning as early as possible with my report."
  "That's a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna," remarked
Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both came out into the
  "Fetching? You said fetching?" roared Razumihin and he flew at
Zossimov 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 devil," said Zossimov, struggling and when
he had let him go, he stared at him and went off into a sudden guffaw.
Razumihin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection.
  "Of course, I am an ass," he observed, sombre as a storm cloud, "but
still... you are another."
  "No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming of any


Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

They walked along in silence and only when they were close to
Raskolnikov's lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence in considerable
  "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 on straight into the dirt. You've 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 to-night 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 to 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...."
  Zossimov 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
all began with that song; Now you're a regular performer, a maitre,
a Rubinstein.... 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.... Tchebarov tried that...."
  "Well, then, drop her!"
  "But 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 are good at mathematics, and working at it
now... begin teaching her the integral calculus; upon my soul, I'm not
joking. I'm in earnest, it'll be just the same to her. She will gaze
at you and sigh for a whole year together. I talked to her once for
two days at a time about the Prussian House of Lords (for 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, write. You may
even venture on a kiss, if you're careful."
  "But what do I want with her?"
  "Ach, 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
featherbed element here, brother,- ach! and not only that! There's
an attraction here- here you have the end of the world, an
anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes
that are the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of
savoury fish-pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs and warm
shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on- as snug as though you were dead,
and yet you're alive- the advantages of both at once! Well, hang it,
brother, what stuff I'm talking, it's bedtime! Listen. I sometimes
wake up at night; so 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- wake me at once. But there can't be...."

                             Chapter Two
  RAZUMIHIN 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 recognised 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 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 fiance 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 criticise him in that hasty and unguarded
manner? Who had asked for his opinion! Was it thinkable that such a
creature as Avdotya 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 blushed
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 Avdotya Romanovna... that was
simply intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen
stove, hurt his hand and sent 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 is lost 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 assistance and 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 Nastasya-
he washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to
the question whether to shave his stubby chin or not (Praskovya
Pavlovna had capital razors 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 to...? They
certainly  would think so! Not on any account!"
  "And... the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the
manners of a pothouse; and... and even admitting that he knew he had
some of the essentials of a gentleman... what was there in that to
be proud of? Every one 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;
hm... and to set all that beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be
it! Well, he'd make a point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in
his manners and he wouldn't care! He'd be worse!"
  He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the
night in Praskovya Pavlovna's parlour, 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 patients, 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've
plenty 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 sort of
things... and amongst them that you were afraid that he... might
become insane."
  "You told the ladies so, too."
  "I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so
  "That's nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously! You,
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
then at the police station and that some wretch... had insulted him
with this suspicion! Hm... 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 Zametov's story that cleared up half the mystery
to my mind. Why, I know one case in which a hypochondriac, 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 hypochondria, 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 Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but hm... he shouldn't have
told all that last night. He is an awful chatterbox!"
  "But whom did he tell it to? You and me?"
  "And Porfiry."
  "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 to-day...."
  "They'll get on all right!" Razumihin answered reluctantly.
  "Why is he so set against this Luzhin? 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?" Razumihin 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 your Praskovya Pavlovna from me for
my night's lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my bonjour
through the door; she was up at seven o'clock, the samovar was taken
in to her from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal
  At nine o'clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at
Bakaleyev's house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous
impatience. They had risen at seven o'clock or earlier. He entered
looking as black as night, bowed awkwardly and was at once furious
with himself for it. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria
Alexandrovna fairly rushed at him, seized him by both hands and was
almost kissing them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but
her proud countenance wore at that moment an expression of such
gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unlooked-for respect (in
place of the sneering looks and ill-disguised 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 Rodya had not yet
waked, Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it,
because "she had something which it was very, very necessary to talk
over beforehand." Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an
invitation to have it with them; they had waited to have it with
him. Avdotya 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 Pulcheria 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 Raskolnikov's
life, concluding with a circumstantial account of his illness. He
omitted, 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!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in hastily.
  "Dmitri Prokofitch."
  "I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch... 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 so to say his dreams? Under what
influences is he now? In a word, I should like..."
  "Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?" observed Dounia.
  "Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like
this, Dmitri Prokofitch!"
  "Naturally," answered Razumihin. "I have no mother, but my uncle
comes every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise me,
even in appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years'
separation means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known
Rodion 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; it's as though he
were alternating 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 hadn't 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 Pulcheria Alexandrovna, distressed by
Razumihin's account of her Rodya.
  And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna at
last. He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a
moment and looked away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the
table, listening attentively, then got up again and began walking to
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 round her
neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of extreme poverty in their
belongings. Had Avdotya 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.
  "You've told us a great deal that is interesting about my
brother's character... and have told it impartially. I am glad. I
thought that you were too uncritically devoted to him," observed
Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. "I think you are right that he needs a
woman's care," she added thoughtfully.
  "I didn't say so; but I daresay you are right, only..."
  "He loves no one and perhaps he never will," Razumihin declared
  "You mean he is not capable of love?"
  "Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully like your
brother, in everything, indeed!" he blurted out suddenly to his own
surprise, but remembering at once what he had just before said of
her brother, he turned as red as a crab and was overcome with
confusion. Avdotya Romanovna couldn't help laughing when she looked at
  "You may both be mistaken about Rodya," Pulcheria Alexandrovna
remarked, slightly piqued. "I am not talking of our present
difficulty, Dounia. What Pyotr Petrovitch writes in this letter and
what you and I have supposed may be mistaken, but you can't imagine,
Dmitri Prokofitch, 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 am
sure that he might do something now that nobody else would think of
doing... Well, 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
  "Did you hear about that affair?" asked Avdotya Romanovna.
  "Do you suppose-" Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly. "Do you
suppose that my tears, my entreaties, 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," Razumihin
answered cautiously. "But I did hear something from Praskovya Pavlovna
herself, though 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 Praskovya 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 am sure she was a good girl," Avdotya 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," Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began
tentatively questioning him about the scene on the previous day with
Luzhin, hesitating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to
the latter's annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently
caused her uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin described it in
detail again, but this time he added his own conclusions: he openly
blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not
seeking to excuse him on the score of his illness.
  "He had planned it before his illness," he added.
  "I think so, too," Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected
air. But she was very much surprised at hearing Razumihin express
himself so carefully and even with a certain respect about Pyotr
Petrovitch. Avdotya Romanovna, too, was struck by it.
  "So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovitch?" Pulcheria
Alexandrovna could not resist asking.
  "I can have no other opinion of your daughter's future husband,"
Razumihin answered firmly and with warmth, "and I don't say it
simply from vulgar politeness, but because... simply because Avdotya
Romanovna has of her own free will deigned 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. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did
not break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment they
began to speak of Luzhin.
  Without her support Pulcheria 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
  "You see, Dmitri Prokofitch," she began. "I'll be perfectly open
with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?"
  "Of course, mother," said Avdotya Romanovna 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 Pyotr Petrovitch in reply to our letter
announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station, you
know; instead of that he sent a servant 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 in it
which worries me very much... you will soon see what that is, and...
tell me your candid opinion, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya's
character better than any one and no one can advise us better than you
can. Dounia, I must tell you, made her decision at once, but I still
don't feel sure how to act and I... I've been waiting for your
  Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous evening and
read as follows:
  "DEAR MADAM, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour 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 likewise shall be deprived of the honour of an
interview with you to-morrow morning by business in the Senate that
does not admit of delay, and also that I may not intrude on your
family circle while you are meeting your son, and Avdotya Romanovna
her brother. I shall have the honour of visiting you and paying you my
respects at your lodgings not later than to-morrow evening at eight
o'clock precisely, and herewith I venture to present my earnest and, I
may add, imperative request that Rodion Romanovitch 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 honour to inform
you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet Rodion
Romanovitch, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately and then you
have only yourself to blame. I write on the assumption that Rodion
Romanovitch 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 behaviour, he gave
twenty-five roubles 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. LUZHIN."
  "What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?" began Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, almost weeping. "How can I ask Rodya not to come?
Yesterday he insisted so earnestly on our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch
and now we are ordered not to receive Rodya! He will come on purpose
if he knows, and... what will happen then?"
  "Act on Avdotya Romanovna's decision," Razumihin answered calmly
at once.
  "Oh, dear me! She says... goodness knows what she says, she
doesn't explain her object! She says that it would be best, at
least, not that it would be best, but that it's absolutely necessary
that Rodya 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 stratagem 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 cost you such sacrifice, mother," put in Avdotya Romanovna.
  "He was not himself yesterday," Razumihin said thoughtfully, "if you
only knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there
was sense in it too.... Hm! 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 a splendid gold enamelled watch which hung round her neck on a thin
Venetian chain, and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of
her dress. "A present from her fiance," thought Razumihin.
  "We must start, Dounia, we must start," her mother cried in a
flutter. "He will be thinking we are still angry after yesterday, from
our coming so late. Merciful heavens!"
  While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle;
Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as Razumihin noticed, were
not merely shabby but had holes in them, and 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. Razumihin looked
reverently at Dounia 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 levees."
  "My God," exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "little did I think that
I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodya! I am
afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch," she added, glancing at him timidly.
  "Don't be afraid, mother," said Dounia, 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, Dounia, 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,
Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna's dead!"
  "No, I didn't know; who is Marfa Petrovna?"
  "She died suddenly; and only fancy..."
  "Afterwards, mamma," put in Dounia. "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, Dmitri Prokofitch, 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," muttered Razumihin overjoyed.
  "I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia 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,
Dmitri Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted, you
  "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, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here
are the stairs.... What an awful staircase!"
  "Mother, you are quite pale, don't distress yourself, darling," said
Dounia 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 has waked up."
  The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, and when
they reached the landlady's door on the fourth storey, 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 Pulcheria
Alexandrovna almost cried out.

                            Chapter Three
  "HE IS well, quite well!" Zossimov cried 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.
  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.
  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.
  "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, 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.
  "It is very possible," answered Raskolnikov 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."
  "Yes, yes; you are perfectly right.... I will make haste and
return to the university: and 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
  "What! he saw you last night?" Raskolnikov asked, as though
startled. "Then you have not slept either after your journey."
  "Ach, Rodya, that was only till 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."
  "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
  "I say nothing about him," added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin,
"though he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble."
  "What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood
to-day, 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.
  "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."
  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."
  "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
  "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 courtyard 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
  "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.
  "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 are you saying, Rodya?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She,
too, was surprised.
  "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?"
  "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 dressed."
  "Blood! What blood?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm.
  "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..."
  "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."
  "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."
  "Perhaps it's a good thing really that he should think me almost a
madman," thought Raskolnikov.
  "Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too," observed
Dounia, 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."
  At the word "madman," carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his
chatter on his favourite subject, every one frowned.
  Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought
with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on
  "Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!"
Razumihin cried 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'etes pas contents." He laughed, "That's right, isn't
it, Dounia?"
  "No, it's not," answered Dounia 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.
  "That's enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very
good," said his mother, delighted.
  "Don't be too sure," he answered, 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.
  "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.
  "Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much," flashed
through his mind.
  "Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead," Pulcheria Alexandrovna
suddenly blurted out.
  "What Marfa Petrovna?"
  "Oh, mercy on us- Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailov. 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?"
  "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."
  "Why, were they on such bad terms?" he asked, addressing 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."
  "Then he could not 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.
  "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...."
  "After the beating?"
  "That was always her... habit; and immediately after dinner, so as
not to be late in starting, she went to the bathhouse.... 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!"
  "I should think so," said Zossimov.
  "And did he beat her badly?"
  "What does that matter!" put in Dounia.
  "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.
  "Ah, my dear, I don't know what to talk about," broke from Pulcheria
  "Why, are you all afraid of me?" he asked, with a constrained 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."
  His face worked, as though in 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...."
  "Hush, mother," he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but
pressing her hand. "We shall have time to speak freely of 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 any one. 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 any one walked towards the
  "What are you about?" cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm.
  He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. They
were all looking at him in perplexity.
  "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!"
  "Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning
again," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.
  "What is the matter, Rodya?" asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully.
  "Oh, nothing! I remembered something," he answered, and suddenly
  "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.
  "What an excellent man!" observed 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.
  "Very much," answered Dounia.
  "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.
  "Where are you off to?"
  "I must 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
  "It was a present from Marfa Petrovna," answered Dounia.
  "And a very expensive one!" added Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
  "A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady's."
  "I like that sort," said Dounia.
  "So it is not a present from her fiance," thought Razumihin, and was
unreasonably delighted.
  "I thought it was Luzhin's present," observed Raskolnikov.
  "No, he has not made Dounia any presents 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
  "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."
  "No, it was not only spring delirium," said Dounia, with warm
  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.
  "You love her even now?" said 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.


Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

"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
  "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.
  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.
  "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."
  "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."
  "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 some one and for some one. 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
  "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!"
  "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.
  "All?" he asked, with a malignant grin.
  "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?"
  "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."
  "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 any one, 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?"
  "Good heavens! You have made him faint," cried Pulcheria
  "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
  "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.
  "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!"
  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.
  "What surprises me," he began, after a short pause, handing the
letter to his mother, but not addressing any one 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."
  They all started. They had expected something quite different.
  "But they all write like that, you know," Razumihin observed,
  "Have you read it?"
  "We showed him, Rodya. We... consulted him just now," Pulcheria
Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.
  "That's just the jargon of the courts," Razumihin put in. "Legal
documents are written like that to this day."
  "Legal? Yes, it's just legal- business language- not so very
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.
  "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
  "N-no," answered Dounia, with more animation. "I saw clearly that it
was too naively expressed, and that perhaps he simply has no skill
in writing... that is a true criticism, brother. I did not 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
naive 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..."
  Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only
awaiting the 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.
  "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?"
  "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.
  "Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her,"
Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare.
  "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 will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o'clock," she said,
addressing Razumihin. "Mother, I am 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!"

                             Chapter Four
  AT THAT moment the door was softly opened, and a young girl walked
into the room, looking timidly about her. Every one turned towards her
with surprise and curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not
recognise her. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her
yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such
surroundings and in such a dress, that his memory retained a very
different image of her. Now she was a modestly and poorly-dressed
young girl, very young, indeed almost like a child, with a modest
and refined manner, with a candid but somewhat frightened-looking
face. She was wearing a very plain indoor dress, and had on a shabby
old-fashioned hat, but she still carried a parasol. Unexpectedly
finding the room full of people, she was not so much embarrassed as
completely overwhelmed with shyness, like a little child. She was even
about to retreat. "Oh.... it's you!" said Raskolnikov, extremely
astonished, and he, too, was confused. He at once recollected that his
mother and sister knew through Luzhin's letter of "some young woman of
notorious behaviour." He had only just been protesting against
Luzhin's calumny and declaring that he had seen the girl last night
for the first time, and suddenly she had walked in. He remembered,
too, that he had not protested against the expression "of notorious
behaviour." All this passed vaguely and fleetingly through his
brain, but looking at her more intently, he saw that the humiliated
creature was so humiliated that he felt suddenly sorry for her. When
she made a movement to retreat in terror, it sent a pang to his heart.
  "I did not expect you," he said, hurriedly, with a look that made
her stop. "Please sit down. You come, no doubt, from Katerina
Ivanovna. Allow me- not there. Sit here...."
  At Sonia's entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on one of
Raskolnikov's three chairs, close to the door, got up to allow her
to enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa
where Zossimov had been sitting, but feeling that the sofa which
served him as a bed, was too familiar a place, he hurriedly motioned
her to Razumihin's chair.
  "You sit here," he said to Razumihin, putting him on the sofa.
  Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked timidly at
the two ladies. It was evidently almost inconceivable to herself
that she could sit down beside them. At the thought of it, she was
so frightened that she hurriedly got up again, and in utter
confusion addressed Raskolnikov.
  "I... I... have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you,"
she began falteringly. "I come from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had
no one to send. Katerina Ivanovna told me to beg you... to be at the
service... in the morning... at Mitrofanievsky... and then... to us...
to her... to do her the honour... she told me to beg you..." Sonia
stammered and ceased speaking.
  "I will try, certainly, most certainly," answered Raskolnikov. He,
too, stood up, and he, too, faltered and could not finish his
sentence. "Please sit down," he said, suddenly. "I want to talk to
you. You are perhaps in a hurry, but please, be so kind, spare me
two minutes," and he drew up a chair for her.
  Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried,
frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes. Raskolnikov's
pale face flushed, a shudder passed over him, his eyes glowed.
  "Mother," he said, firmly and insistently, "this is Sofya Semyonovna
Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was
run over yesterday before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly screwed up her
eyes. In spite of her embarrassment before Rodya's urgent and
challenging look, she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dounia
gazed gravely and intently into the poor girl's face, and
scrutinised her with perplexity. Sonia, hearing herself introduced,
tried to raise her eyes again, but was more embarrassed than ever.
  "I wanted to ask you," said Raskolnikov, hastily, "how things were
arranged yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance?"
  "No, that was all right... it was too evident, the cause of death...
they did not worry us... only the lodgers are angry."
  "At the body's remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that,
to-day, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until
to-morrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she
sees herself that it's necessary..."
  "To-day, then?"
  "She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church to-morrow
for the service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch."
  "She is giving a funeral lunch?"
  "Yes... just a little.... She told me to thank you very much for
helping us yesterday. But for you, we should have had nothing for
the funeral."
  All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with an
effort, she controlled herself, looking down again.
  During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her carefully. She
had a thin, very thin, pale little face, rather irregular and angular,
with a sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called
pretty, but her blue eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up,
there was such a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that
one could not help being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure
indeed, had another peculiar characteristic. In spite of her
eighteen years, she looked almost a little girl- almost a child. And
in some of her gestures, this childishness seemed almost absurd.
  "But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such small
means? Does she even mean to have a funeral lunch?" Raskolnikov asked,
persistently keeping up the conversation.
  "The coffin will be plain, of course... and everything will be
plain, so it won't cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it
all out, so that there will be enough left... and Katerina Ivanovna
was very anxious it should be so. You know one can't... it's a comfort
to her... she is like that, you know...."
  "I understand, I understand... of course... why do you look at my
room like that? My mother has just said it is like a tomb."
  "You gave us everything yesterday," Sonia said suddenly, in reply,
in a loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down in confusion. Her
lips and chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once by
Raskolnikov's poor surroundings, and now these words broke out
spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Dounia's eyes,
and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia.
  "Rodya," she said, getting up, "we shall have dinner together, of
course. Come, Dounia.... And you, Rodya, had better go for a little
walk, and then rest and lie down before you come to see us.... I am
afraid we have exhausted you...."
  "Yes, yes, I'll come," he answered, getting up fussily. "But I
have something to see to."
  "But surely you will have dinner together?" cried Razumihin, looking
in surprise at Raskolnikov. "What do you mean?"
  "Yes, yes, I am coming... of course, of course! And you stay a
minute. You do not want him just now, do you, mother? Or perhaps I
am taking him from you?"
  "Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of
dining with us?"
  "Please do," added Dounia.
  Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all
strangely embarrassed.
  "Good-bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like saying
good-bye. Good-bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said good-bye again."
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it somehow
failed to come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room.
  But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and following her
mother out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous bow. Sonia, in
confusion, gave a hurried, frightened curtsy. There was a look of
poignant discomfort in her face, as though Avdotya Romanovna's
courtesy and attention were oppressive and painful to her.
  "Dounia, good-bye," called Raskolnikov, in the passage. "Give me
your hand."
  "Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?" said Dounia,
turning warmly and awkwardly to him.
  "Never mind, give it to me again." And he squeezed her fingers
  Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went off quite
  "Come, that's capital," he said to Sonia, going back and looking
brightly at her. "God give peace to the dead, the living have still to
live. That is right, isn't it?"
  Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his face. He
looked at her for some moments in silence. The whole history of the
dead father floated before his memory in those moments....
  "Heavens, Dounia," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they
were in the street, "I really feel relieved myself at coming away-
more at ease. How little did I think yesterday in the train that I
could ever be glad of that."
  "I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don't you see it?
Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be patient, and much,
much can be forgiven."
  "Well, you were not very patient!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her
up, hotly and jealously. "Do you know, Dounia, I was looking at you
two. You are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in
soul. You are both melancholy, both morose and hot tempered, both
haughty and both generous.... Surely he can't be an egoist, Dounia.
Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this evening, my heart
  "Don't be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be."
  "Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr
Petrovitch breaks it off?" poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out,
  "He won't be worth much if he does," answered Dounia, sharply and
  "We did well to come away," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke
in. "He was in a hurry about some business or other. If he gets out
and has a breath of air... it is fearfully close in his room.... But
where is one to get a breath of air here. The very streets here feel
like shut-up rooms. Good heavens! what a town!... stay... this side...
they will crush you- carrying something. Why, it is a piano they
have got, I declare... how they push... I am very much afraid of
that young woman, too."
  "What young woman, mother?
  "Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just now."
  "I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it or not, but
as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the
chief cause of the trouble...."
  "Nothing of the sort!" cried Dounia, in vexation. "What nonsense,
with your presentiments, mother! He only made her acquaintance the
evening before, and he did not know her when she came in."
  "Well, you will see.... She worries me; but you will see, you will
see! I was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes. I
could scarcely sit still in my chair when he began introducing her, do
you remember? It seems so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like
that about her, and he introduces her to us- to you! So he must
think a great deal of her."
  "People will write anything. We were talked about and written about,
too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she is a good girl, and that
it is all nonsense."
  "God grant it may be!"
  "And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer," Dounia snapped
out, suddenly.
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not
  "I will tell you what I want with you," said Raskolnikov, drawing
Razumihin to the window.
  "Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming," Sonia said
hurriedly, preparing to depart.
  "One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets. You are not in
our way. I want to have another word or two with you. Listen!" he
turned suddenly to Razumihin again. "You know that... what's his
name... Porfiry Petrovitch?"
  "I should think so! He is a relation. Why?" added the latter, with
  "Is not he managing that case... you know about that murder?...
You were speaking about it yesterday."
  "Yes... well?" Razumihin's eyes opened wide.
  "He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have
some pledges there, too- trifles- a ring my sister gave me as a
keepsake when I left home, and my father's silver watch- they are only
worth five or six roubles altogether... but I value them. So what am I
to do now? I do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I
was quaking just now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, when we
spoke of Dounia's watch. It is the only thing of father's left us. She
would be ill if it were lost. You know what women are. So tell me what
to do. I know I ought to have given notice at the police station,
but would it not be better to go straight to Porfiry? Eh? What do
you think? The matter might be settled more quickly. You see mother
may ask for it before dinner."
  "Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry,"
Razumihin shouted in extraordinary excitement. "Well, how glad I am.
Let us go at once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find
  "Very well, let us go."
  "And he will be very, very glad to make your acquaintance. I have
often talked to him of you at different times. I was speaking of you
yesterday. Let us go. So you knew the old woman? So that's it! It is
all turning out splendidly.... Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna..."
  "Sofya Semyonovna," corrected Raskolnikov. "Sofya Semyonovna, this
is my friend Razumihin, and he is a good man."
  "If you have to go now," Sonia was beginning, not looking at
Razumihin at all, and still more embarrassed.
  "Let us go," decided Raskolnikov. "I will come to you to-day,
Sofya Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live."
  He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and avoided
her eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed as she did so. They
all went out together.
  "Don't you lock up?" asked Razumihin, following him on to the