“That 'in expectation of better things to come' came off better than anything else, though the part about 'your mama' wasn't too bad either. Well, what do you think, is he of completely sound mind, or not so completely? Eh?”

“I don't care, as for me, sir. Just so long as there's a little signature, sir.”

“That he'll scribble for you. Have you got a book with you or something?”

“A book, sir, right here.”

“Hand it to me. Now, Rodya, sit up. I'll support you. Scrawl your Raskolnikov for him, take the pen, brother, because we want money now more than a bear wants molasses.”

“No need,” Raskolnikov said, pushing the pen away.

“No need for what?”

“I won't sign.”

“Pah, the devil, but we can't do without the signature!”

“I don't need...money . . .”

“You don't need money! Well, brother, that is a lie, and I'll be your witness! Don't worry, please, he's just...wandering again. By the way, the same thing happens to him when he's awake...You're a reasonable man, and we can guide him, I mean, simply guide his hand and he'll sign. Here we go . . .”

“By the way, I can come back some other time, sir.”

“No, no, why trouble yourself. You're a reasonable man...Come on, Rodya, don't keep your visitor...look, he's waiting,” and he seriously prepared to guide Raskolnikov's hand.

“No, don't, I'll do it myself . . .” he said, and he took the pen and signed the book. The agent laid out the money and departed.

“Bravo! And now, brother, do you want something to eat?”

“Yes,” Raskolnikov answered.

“Have you got soup?”

“From yesterday,” answered Nastasya, who had been standing right there all the while.

“With potatoes and rice?”

“With potatoes and rice.”

“I know it by heart. Fetch your soup, and some tea as well.”

“So I will.”

Raskolnikov looked at everything with deep astonishment and dull, senseless fear. He decided to say nothing and wait for what would happen next. “I don't seem delirious,” he was thinking, “this all seems real enough . . .”

In two minutes Nastasya came back with the soup and announced that tea would follow shortly. The soup arrived with two spoons, two plates, and a whole setting: salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so forth, which had not happened in such proper order for a long time. The tablecloth was clean.

“It wouldn't be a bad idea, Nastasyushka, if Praskovya Pavlovna dispatched us a couple of bottles of beer. We could do with a drink.”

“Well, isn't he a fast one!” Nastasya muttered, and went to carry out the order.

Raskolnikov kept looking wildly and tensely about him. Meanwhile Razumikhin sat down next to him on the sofa, clumsy as a bear, put his left hand behind his head, though he was able to sit up by himself, and with his right hand brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth, having blown on it first so that he would not scald his tongue. But the soup was just barely warm. Raskolnikov greedily swallowed one spoonful, then a second, a third. After giving him several spoonfuls, however, Razumikhin suddenly stopped and declared that concerning any more he would have to consult Zossimov.

Nastasya came in carrying two bottles of beer.

“And will you have tea?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Fetch us up some tea, too, Nastasya, because as far as tea is concerned, I think we can do without the medical faculty. Meanwhile, here's our beer!” He went back to his chair, pulled the soup and beef towards him, and started eating with as much appetite as though he had not eaten for three days.

“I, brother Rodya, now have dinner here like this every day,” he mumbled as well as his beef-stuffed mouth would allow, “and it's all due to Pashenka, your little landlady, who honors me from the bottom of her soul. Naturally, I don't insist, but I don't protest either. And here's Nastasya with the tea. What a quick one! Want some beer, Nastenka?”

“Eh, deuce take you!”

“Some tea, then?”

“I wouldn't refuse.”

“Pour some. Wait, I'll pour you some myself; sit down at the table.”

He set things out at once, poured her tea, poured another cup, abandoned his breakfast, and went and sat on the sofa again. He put his left hand behind the sick man's head as before, raised him up, and began giving him tea from a spoon, again blowing on each spoonful repeatedly and with a special zeal, as though it were this process of blowing that constituted the main and saving point for recovery. Raskolnikov was silent and did not resist, though he felt strong enough to raise himself and sit on the sofa without any external help, strong enough not only to hold the spoon or the cup, but perhaps even to walk. But from some strange, almost animal cunning, it suddenly occurred to him to conceal his strength for the time being, to lie low, to pretend, if necessary, that he had even not quite recovered his wits, and meanwhile to listen and learn what was going on there. However, he was unable to control his loathing: having swallowed about ten spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly freed his head, pushed the spoon away testily, and fell back on the pillow. Under his head there now indeed lay real pillows—down pillows, in clean pillowcases; this, too, he noticed and took into consideration.

“Pashenka must send us up some raspberry preserve today, to make a drink for him,” Razumikhin said, taking his chair again and going back to his soup and beer.

“And where is she going to get raspberries for you?” Nastasya asked, holding the saucer on her five outspread fingertips and sucking tea from it “through the sugar.”^[51]

“In the shop, my friend, that's where she'll get raspberries. You see, Rodya, a whole story has gone on here in your absence. When you ran out on me in such a rascally fashion, without even telling me your address, I suddenly got so mad that I resolved to find you and punish you. I started out that same day. I walked and walked, asked and asked! This apartment, the present one, I forgot about; I'd never have remembered it anyway, because I never knew about it. Well, and the previous one—I only remembered that it was near the Five Corners,^[52] in Kharlamov's house. I searched and searched for this Kharlamov's house— and it turned out finally that it wasn't Kharlamov's house at all, but Buch's—that's how sounds can confuse you! So I got angry. I got angry and went the next day to try my luck at the address bureau, and what do you think: in two minutes they found you for me. They've got you registered.”

“Registered!”

“Sure enough; but General Kobelev just refused to be found while I was there! Well, sir, it's a long story. Anyway, when I landed here, I immediately got to know about all your affairs; all of them, brother, all of them, I know everything, the girl here saw it—Ilya Petrovich was pointed out to me, Nikodim Fomich is my acquaintance now, and so is the caretaker, and Mr. Zamyotov, Alexander Grigorievich, the clerk in the local office, and finally Pashenka—to crown it all. The girl here knows . . .”

“He sweet-talked her,” Nastasya muttered, grinning mischievously.

“Put that into your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna.”

“Go on, you dog!” Nastasya suddenly cried, and burst out laughing. “And I'm Petrovna, not Nikiforovna,” she added suddenly, once she stopped laughing.

“We shall cherish that fact, ma'am. And so, brother, to avoid being superfluous, I first wanted to blast this whole place with electricity and wipe out all the prejudice in the local neighborhood at once; but Pashenka prevailed. I'd never have suspected she could be such a...winsome little thing...Eh, brother? What do you think?”

Raskolnikov remained silent, though he never for a moment tore his anxious eyes from him, and now went on stubbornly staring at him.