“No, Rodya, but he already knows of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovich was so good as to visit you today,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, somewhat timidly.
“Yes...was so good...Dunya, I told Luzhin I'd kick him down the stairs today, and threw him the hell out of here...”
“Rodya, what are you saying! Surely you...you don't mean . . .” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began fearfully, but stopped, looking at Dunya.
Avdotya Romanovna peered intently at her brother and waited to hear more. They had both been forewarned of the quarrel by Nastasya, as far as she had been able to understand and convey it, and had suffered in perplexity and anticipation.
“Dunya,” Raskolnikov continued with effort, “I do not want this marriage, and therefore you must refuse him tomorrow, first thing, so that he won't drag his face here again.”
“My God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
“Brother, think what you are saying!” Avdotya Romanovna began hot-temperedly, but at once restrained herself. “Perhaps you're in no condition now, you're tired,” she said meekly.
“Raving? No...You're marrying Luzhin for my sake. And I do not accept the sacrifice. And therefore, by tomorrow, write a letter...of refusal...Give it to me to read in the morning, and there's an end to it!”
“I cannot do that!” the offended girl cried out. “What right have you . . .”
“Dunechka, you're too hot-tempered yourself; stop now; tomorrow...Don't you see . . .” the frightened mother rushed to Dunya. “Ah, we'd better go!”
“He's raving!” the drunk Razumikhin shouted. “Otherwise how would he dare! Tomorrow all this foolishness will leave him...But he really did throw him out today. Just like he said. Well, and the other one got angry...He was playing the orator here, showing off his knowledge, and then he left with his tail between his legs . . .”
“So it's true?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out.
“Until tomorrow, brother,” Dunya said with compassion. “Come, mama...Good-bye, Rodya!”
“Listen, sister,” he repeated to her back, summoning a last effort.
“I'm not raving; this marriage is a vile thing. Maybe I'm vile myself, but you mustn't... one is enough...and though I may be vile, I will not regard such a sister as a sister. It's either me or Luzhin! Go, both of you . . .”
“You're out of your mind! Despot!” Razumikhin roared, but Raskolnikov no longer answered, and was perhaps unable to answer. He lay back on the sofa and turned to the wall, completely exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna gave Razumikhin a curious look; her dark eyes flashed; Razumikhin even jumped under her glance. Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood as if stunned.
“I cannot possibly leave!” she whispered to Razumikhin, almost in despair. “I'll stay here, somewhere...Take Dunya home.”
“You'll spoil the whole thing!” Razumikhin also whispered, losing his temper. “Let's at least go out to the stairs. Nastasya, a light! I swear to you,” he continued in a half whisper, once they were on the stairs, “he almost gave us a beating earlier, the doctor and me! Do you understand? The doctor himself! And he gave in and left so as not to irritate him, and I stayed to keep watch downstairs, but he got dressed and slipped out. And he'll slip out now if you irritate him, in the dark, and do something to himself . . .”
“Ah, what are you saying!”
“Besides, it's impossible for Avdotya Romanovna to be in that place without you! Just think where you're staying! As if that scoundrel Pyotr Petrovich couldn't have found you better...You know, I'm a bit drunk, though; that's why I'm...calling names; don't pay any . . .”
“But I shall go to the landlady here,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted. “I shall plead with her to give me and Dunya a corner for tonight. I cannot leave him like this, I cannot!”
They were standing on the stairway as they spoke, on the landing just outside the landlady's door. Nastasya held the light for them from the bottom step. Razumikhin was extremely agitated. Half an hour earlier, as he was taking Raskolnikov home, though he had been unnecessarily talkative and he knew it, he had felt completely alert and almost fresh, despite the terrible quantity of wine he had drunk that evening. But now his condition even bordered on a sort of ecstasy, and at the same time it was as if all the wine he had drunk came rushing to his head again, all at once, and with twice the force. He stood with the two ladies, grasping them both by the hand, persuading them and presenting his arguments with amazing frankness, and at almost every word, probably for added conviction, he painfully squeezed their hands, very tightly, as in a vise, and he seemed to devour Avdotya Romanovna with his eyes, without being the least embarrassed by it. Once or twice the pain made them try to free their hands from his huge and bony grip, but he not only did not notice the reason for it, but drew them to him even more tightly. If at that moment they had ordered him to throw himself headlong down the stairs, as a service to them, he would have carried out the order at once, without argument or hesitation. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, alarmed as she was by the thought of her Rodya, though she felt that the young man was being much too eccentric and was pressing her hand too painfully, at the same time, since he was like her Providence, did not wish to notice all these eccentric details. But Avdotya Romanovna, who shared her alarm, though far from fearful by nature, was amazed and almost frightened to meet the eyes of her brother's friend, flashing with wild fire, and only the boundless trust inspired by Nastasya's stories about this strange man held her back from the temptation of running away from him and dragging her mother with her. She also understood that now, perhaps, they even could not run away from him. However, after about ten minutes she felt considerably reassured: Razumikhin had the property of speaking the whole of himself out at once, whatever mood he was in, so that everyone soon knew with whom they were dealing. “It's impossible to go to the landlady, and it's terrible nonsense!” he cried out, reasoning with Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “You may be his mother, but if you stay, you'll drive him into a fury, and then devil knows what will happen! Listen, here's what I'll do: Nastasya will sit with him now, and I'll take you both to your place, because you can't go through the streets by yourselves; our Petersburg, in that respect... Well, spit on it! ... Then I'll run back here at once, and in a quarter of an hour, on my greatest word of honor, I'll bring you a report: how he is, whether he's sleeping, and all the rest of it. Then—listen!—then from you I'll go straight to my place—I have guests there, all drunk— I'll pick up Zossimov—that's the doctor who's treating him, he's at my place now, not drunk; no, he's not drunk, he never gets drunk! I'll drag him to Rodka, and then straight to you, so within an hour you'll get two reports on him—one from the doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself; that's a whole lot better than from me! If he's bad, I swear I'll bring you here myself; if he's well, you can go to sleep. And I'll spend the whole night here, in the entryway, he won't hear me, and I'll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady's, so as to be on hand. So, what's better for him now, you or the doctor? The doctor is much more useful, much more. So go home, then! And staying with the landlady's impossible; possible for me, but impossible for you—she won't let you, because...because she's a fool. She'll get jealous of Avdotya Romanovna on account of me, if you want to know, and of you as well. . . And of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She's a totally, totally unexpected character! However, I'm a fool myself...Spit on it! Let's go! Do you believe me? Well, do you believe me or not?”
“Come, mama,” said Avdotya Romanovna, “he will surely do as he's promised. He already resurrected my brother, and if it's true that the doctor is willing to spend the night here, what could be better?”