He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna's funeral had been appointed for that day, and was glad not to be present at it. Nastasya brought him something to eat; he ate and drank with great appetite, all but greedily. His head was fresher, and he himself was calmer, than during those last three days. He even marveled, fleetingly, at his earlier influxes of panic fear. The door opened and Razumikhin came in.

“Aha! he's eating! That means he's not sick!” Razumikhin said, and, taking a chair, he sat down at the table across from Raskolnikov. He was troubled and did not try to conceal it. He spoke with obvious vexation, but without hurrying and without raising his voice especially. One might have thought there was some special and even exceptional intention lodged in him. “Listen,” he began resolutely, “devil take you all, as far as I'm concerned, but from what I see now, I see clearly that I can't understand anything; please don't think I've come to question you—I spit on it! I don't want it myself! Reveal everything now, all your secrets, and maybe I won't even listen, I'll just spit and walk away. I've come only to find out personally and finally: first of all, is it true that you're mad? You see, a belief exists (well, somewhere or other) that you may be mad, or very much inclined that way. I'll confess to you, I myself was strongly inclined to support that opinion, judging, first, by your stupid and partly vile actions (unexplainable by anything), and, second, by your recent behavior with your mother and sister. Only a monster and a scoundrel, if not a madman, would act with them as you did; consequently, you're a madman . . .”

“How long ago did you see them?”

“Just now. And you haven't seen them since then? Where have you been hanging around, may I ask; I've come by here three times already. Your mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She wanted to come here; Avdotya Romanovna tried to hold her back, but she wouldn't listen to anything: 'If he's sick,' she said, 'if he's going mad, who will help him if not his mother?' We all came here, because we couldn't let her come alone. We kept telling her to calm down all the way to your very door. We came in; you weren't home; here's where she sat. She sat for ten minutes, silently, with us standing over her. She got up and said: 'If he can go out, and is therefore well and has simply forgotten his mother, then it's indecent and shameful for a mother to stand on his doorstep and beg for affection as for a handout.' She went home and came down sick; now she has a fever: 'I see,' she says, 'he has time enough for that one of his. ' She thinks that one is Sofya Semyonovna, your fiancée or your mistress, I really don't know. I went to Sofya Semyonovna's at once, because I wanted to find out everything, brother—I came and saw a coffin standing there, children crying. Sofya Semyonovna was trying their mourning clothes on them. You weren't there. I looked in, apologized, and left, and reported to Avdotya Romanovna. So it's all nonsense, and there isn't any that one involved; so it must be madness. But here you sit gobbling boiled beef as if you hadn't eaten for three days. Granted madmen also eat, but you, though you haven't said a word to me...are not mad! I'll swear to it. Whatever else you are, you're not mad. And so, devil take you all, because there's some mystery here, some secret, and I have no intention of breaking my head over your secrets. I've just come to swear at you,” he concluded, getting up, “to vent my feelings, and now I know what to do!”

“What are you going to do now?”

“What do you care what I'm going to do now?”

“Look out, you'll go on a binge!”

“How...how did you know?”

“What else?”

Razumikhin paused for a minute.

“You've always been a very reasonable man, and you've never, ever been mad,” he suddenly observed with ardor. “It's true—I'll go on a binge! Good-bye!” And he made a move to leave.

“I was talking about you, Razumikhin, two days ago, I think, with my sister.”

“About me! But. . . where could you have seen her two days ago?” Razumikhin stopped, and even paled a little. One could guess that his heart had begun pounding slowly and tensely in his chest.

“She came here, alone, sat down and talked to me.”

“She did!”

“Yes, she did.”

“What did you tell her...about me, I mean?”

“I told her that you're a very good, honest, and hard-working man. I didn't tell her that you loved her, because she knows it herself.”

“Knows it herself?”

“What else! Wherever I may go, whatever happens to me—you will remain their Providence. I'm handing them over to you, so to speak, Razumikhin. I say this because I know perfectly well how much you love her and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I also know that she can love you as well, and perhaps even already does. Now decide for yourself, as best you can, whether you want to go on a binge or not.”

“Rodka...you see...well. . . Ah, the devil! And where do you plan on going? You see, if it's all a secret, let it stay that way! But I...I'll find out the secret...And I'm certain that it's some sort of nonsense and terribly trifling, and that it's all your own doing. But, anyway, you're a most excellent man! A most excellent man! ... ”

“And I was precisely about to add, when you interrupted me, that you had quite a good thought just now about not finding out these mysteries and secrets. Let it be for now, and don't worry. You'll learn everything in due time, precisely when you should. Yesterday a certain person told me that man needs air, air, air! I want to go to him now and find out what he meant by that.”

Razumikhin stood pensive and agitated, figuring something out.

“He's a political conspirator! For sure! And he's about to take some decisive step—for sure! It can't be otherwise, and...and Dunya knows . . .” he suddenly thought to himself.

“So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you,” he said, stressing each word, “and you yourself want to see a man who says we need air, more air, and...and, therefore, this letter, too...is something of the same sort,” he concluded, as if to himself.

“What letter?”

“She received a certain letter today; it troubled her very much. Very. Even too much. I began talking about you—she asked me to be quiet. Then...then she said we might be parting very soon, and began thanking me ardently for something; then she went to her room and locked herself in.”

“She received a letter?” Raskolnikov pensively repeated the question.

“Yes, a letter; and you didn't know? Hm.”

They were both silent for a short time.

“Good-bye, Rodion. I...there was a time, brother...anyway, good-bye. You see, there was a time...Well, good-bye! I must go, too. And I won't drink. There's no need now...Forget it!”

He hurried out, but having left and almost closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again and said, looking somewhere aside:

“By the way! Remember that murder, you know, Porfiry's case— the old woman? Well, you ought to know that the murderer has been found, he confessed and presented all the proofs himself. It was one of those workmen, those painters, just think of it; remember me defending them here? Would you believe that that whole scene of laughing and fighting on the stairs with his friend, when the others were going up, the caretaker and the two witnesses, was set up by him on purpose, precisely as a blind? What cunning, what presence of mind, in such a young pup! It's hard to believe; but he explained it all, he confessed it all himself! And what a sucker I was! Well, I suppose it's simply the genius of shamming and resourcefulness, the genius of the legal blind—and so there's nothing to be especially surprised at! Such people do exist, don't they? And that his character broke down and he confessed, makes me believe him all the more. It's more plausible...But how, how could I have been such a sucker! I was crawling the walls for them!”