“Zamyotov told you everything?”

“Everything, and it's an excellent thing he did. I now understand it all inside and out; Zamyotov understands it, too...Well, in short, Rodya...the point is...I'm a bit drunk now...but that doesn't matter...the point is that this notion...you understand?...was really hatching in them...you understand? That is, none of them dared to say it aloud, because it's the most absurd drivel, and especially once they'd picked up that house-painter, it all popped and went out forever. But how can they be such fools? I gave Zamyotov a bit of a beating then—that's between us, brother, don't let out even a hint that you know; I've noticed he's touchy; it was at Laviza's—but today, today it all became clear. This Ilya Petrovich, mainly! He took advantage of your fainting in the office that time, but afterwards he felt ashamed himself, that I know...”

Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumikhin was drunk and telling all.

“I fainted that time because it was stuffy and smelled of oil paint,” Raskolnikov said.

“He keeps explaining! And it wasn't only the paint: that inflammation had been coming on for a whole month; Zossimov is here to testify! But how mortified the boy is now, you can't even imagine! 'I'm not worth his little finger!' he says—meaning yours. He occasionally has decent feelings, brother. But the lesson, the lesson today in the 'Crystal Palace,' that tops them all! You really scared him at first, nearly drove him to convulsions! You really almost convinced him again about all that hideous nonsense, and then suddenly—stuck your tongue out at him: 'Take that!' Perfect! Now he's crushed, destroyed! By God, you're an expert; it serves them right! Too bad I wasn't there! He's been waiting terribly for you now. Porfiry also wants to make your acquaintance . . .”

“Ah...him, too...And why have I been put down as mad?”

“Well, not mad, exactly. It seems I've been spouting off too much, brother...You see, it struck him today that you were interested only in just that one point; now it's clear why you were interested; knowing all the circumstances...and how it irritated you then, and got tangled up with your illness...I'm a little drunk, brother, only devil knows about him, he's got some idea in his head...I tell you, he's gone crazy over mental illnesses. But you can spit . . .”

They were silent for half a minute or so.

“Listen, Razumikhin,” Raskolnikov started to say, “I want to tell you straight out: I'm just coming from a dead man's house, some official who died...I gave them all my money...and besides, I was just kissed by a being who, even if I had killed someone, would still...in short, I saw another being there, too...with a flame-colored feather...but I'm getting confused; I'm very weak, hold me up...here's the stairs . . .”

“What is it? What is it?” asked the alarmed Razumikhin.

“I'm a little dizzy, only that's not the point, but I feel so sad, so sad!—like a woman...really! Look, what's that? Look! Look!”

“What?”

“Don't you see? A light in my room, see? Through the crack . . .”

They were standing before the last flight, next to the landlady's door, and looking up one could indeed see that there was a light in Raskolnikov's closet.

“Strange! Nastasya, maybe,” observed Razumikhin.

“She never comes to my room at this hour; besides, she's long been asleep, but...I don't care! Farewell!”

“But what is it? I'll take you up, we'll go in together!”

“I know we'll go in together, but I want to shake your hand here and say farewell to you here. So, give me your hand, and farewell!”

“What's got into you, Rodya?”

“Nothing; let's go; you'll be a witness . . .”

They began climbing the stairs, and the thought flashed through Razumikhin's mind that Zossimov might be right after all. “Eh, I upset him with all my babbling!” he muttered to himself. Suddenly, coming up to the door, they heard voices in the room.

“What's going on here?” Razumikhin cried out.

Raskolnikov took the door first and flung it wide open, flung it open and stood rooted to the threshold.

His mother and sister were sitting on the sofa, and had already been waiting there for an hour and a half. Why was it that he had expected them least of all, and had thought of them least of all, even in spite of the earlier repeated news that they had left, were on their way, would arrive any moment? For the entire hour and a half they had been vying with each other in questioning Nastasya, who was standing before them even now and had managed to tell them the whole story backwards and forwards. They were beside themselves with fear when they heard that “he ran away today,” sick, and, as appeared from the story, certainly delirious. “God, what's become of him!” They both wept, they both endured the agony of the cross during that hour and a half of waiting.

A cry of rapturous joy greeted Raskolnikov's appearance. Both women rushed to him. But he stood like a dead man; a sudden, unbearable awareness struck him like a thunderbolt. And his arms would not rise to embrace them; they could not. His mother and sister hugged him tightly, kissed him, laughed, wept... He took a step, swayed, and collapsed on the floor in a faint.

Alarm, cries of terror, moans...Razumikhin, who was standing on the threshold, flew into the room, took the sick man up in his powerful arms, and in an instant had him lying on the sofa.

“It's nothing, nothing!” he cried to the mother and sister, “he's just fainted, it's all rubbish! The doctor just said he was much better, completely well! Water! See, he's already recovering; see, he's come to! . . .”

And grabbing Dunechka's arm so hard that he almost twisted it, he bent her down to see how “he's already come to.” The mother and sister both looked upon Razumikhin with tenderness and gratitude, as on Providence itself; they had already heard from Nastasya what he had been for their Rodya throughout his illness—this “efficient young man,” as he was referred to that same evening, in an intimate conversation with Dunva, by Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov herself.

Part Three

I

RASKOLNIKOV raised himself and sat up on the sofa. He waved weakly at Razumikhin to stop the whole stream of incoherent and ardent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister, took both of them by the hand, and for about two minutes peered silently now at the one, now at the other. His mother was frightened by his look. A strong feeling, to the point of suffering, shone in his eyes, but at the same time there was in them something fixed, even as if mad. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.

Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother's hand.

“Go home...with him,” he said in a broken voice, pointing at Razumikhin, “till tomorrow; tomorrow everything...Did you arrive long ago?”

“In the evening, Rodya,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered. “The train was terribly late. But, Rodya, I won't leave you now for anything! I'll spend the night here, beside...”

“Don't torment me!” he said, waving his hand irritably.

“I'll stay with him!” cried Razumikhin. “I won't leave him for a moment; devil take all the people at my place, let them climb the walls! They've got my uncle for a president.”

“How can I ever thank you!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna tried to begin, again pressing Razumikhin's hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her once more.

“I can't, I can't,” he kept repeating irritably, “don't torment me! Enough, go away...I can't! . . .”

“Come, mama, let's at least leave the room for a moment,” Dunya whispered, frightened. “You can see we're distressing him.”

“But can I really not even look at him after three years!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.

“Wait!” he stopped them again. “You keep interrupting me, and my thoughts get confused...Have you seen Luzhin?”