“Ah, God grant us that!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out, tormented by Razumikhin's assessment of her Rodya.

And Razumikhin at last looked more courageously at Avdotya Romanovna. He had glanced at her frequently during the conversation, but cursorily, for a moment only, looking away at once. Avdotya Romanovna now sat at the table and listened attentively, now got up again and began pacing from corner to corner, as was her habit, arms crossed, lips pressed together, occasionally asking a question without interrupting her pacing, and again falling into thought. She, too, had the habit of not hearing people out to the end. She was wearing a dark dress of some thin fabric, with a sheer white scarf tied around her neck. Razumikhin noted at once by many tokens that both women were in extremely poor circumstances. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he most likely would not have been afraid of her at all; but now, perhaps just because she was so poorly dressed and because he noticed this whole niggardly situation, fear crept into his heart, and he became apprehensive of every word, every gesture— which, of course, was inconvenient for a man who did not trust himself to begin with.

“You have said many curious things about my brother's character, and...have spoken impartially. That's good; I thought you were in awe of him,” Avdotya Romanovna observed with a smile. “It also seems true that he ought to have a woman around him,” she added pensively.

“I didn't say so, but perhaps you're right about that, too, only . . .”

“What?”

“He doesn't love anyone, and maybe he never will,” Razumikhin said bluntly.

“You mean he's unable to love?”

“And you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you resemble your brother terribly much, in everything even!” he suddenly blurted out, unexpectedly for himself, but, recalling what he had just told her about her brother, he immediately blushed like a lobster and became terribly embarrassed. Looking at him, Avdotya Romanovna could not help laughing.

“You both may be mistaken about Rodya,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted, somewhat piqued. “I'm not talking about now, Dunechka. What Pyotr Petrovich writes in this letter...and what you and I were supposing, may not be true, but you cannot even imagine, Dmitri Prokofych, how fantastical and, how shall I put it, capricious he is. I could never trust his character, even when he was only fifteen years old. I'm certain that even now he might suddenly do something with himself that no other man would ever think of doing...There's no need to look far: do you know how he astounded me, shocked me, and all but completely did me in a year ago, when he took it into his head to marry that—what's her name?—Zarnitsyn, his landlady's daughter?”

“Do you know any details of that story?” asked Avdotya Romanovna.

“Do you think,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued hotly, “that my tears, my pleas, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty, would have stopped him? He would have stepped quite calmly over every obstacle. Yet can it be, can it be that he doesn't love us?”

“He never told me anything about that story himself,” Razumikhin answered cautiously, “but I have heard a thing or two from Mrs. Zarnitsyn herself, who for her own part is also not a great talker, and what I heard is perhaps even a bit strange...”

“But what, what did you hear?” both women asked at once.

“Nothing so very special, really. I only learned that this marriage, which was already quite settled and failed to take place only because of the bride's death, was not at all to Mrs. Zarnitsyn's liking...Besides, they say the bride was not even good-looking—that is, they say she was even homely...and quite sickly and...and strange...though it seems she had some merits. There absolutely must have been some merits; otherwise none of it makes any sense...There was no dowry either, but he wouldn't have counted on a dowry...Generally, it's hard to judge in such matters.”

“I'm sure she was a worthy girl,” Avdotya Romanovna observed tersely.

“God forgive me, but I was glad of her death all the same, though I don't know which of them would have ruined the other, he her or she him,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded; then carefully, with pauses and constant glances at Dunya, who obviously did not like it, she again began to ask questions about the previous day's scene between Rodya and Luzhin. One could see that this event troubled her most of all, to the point of fear and trembling. Razumikhin went over everything again in detail, but this time also added his own conclusion: he accused Raskolnikov straight out of deliberately insulting Pyotr Petrovich, this time excusing him very little on account of his illness.

“He thought it all up before his illness,” he added.

“I think so, too,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna said, looking crushed. But she was greatly struck that Razumikhin this time spoke so carefully, even as if respectfully, about Pyotr Petrovich. Avdotya Romanovna was also struck by this.

“So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovich?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not help asking.

“I cannot be of any other opinion regarding your daughter's future husband,” Razumikhin replied, firmly and ardently, “and I say it not only out of common politeness, but because...because...well, if only because Avdotya Romanovna herself, of her own free will, has deigned to choose this man. And if I abused him so much yesterday, it's because I was filthy drunk and...mad as well; yes, mad, off my head, out of my mind, completely...and today I'm ashamed of it! ... ” He got red in the face and fell silent. Avdotya Romanovna also blushed, but did not break her silence. She had not said a single word from the moment they began talking about Luzhin.

And meanwhile, without her support, Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously felt hesitant. At last, faltering and glancing continually at her daughter, she declared that one circumstance troubled her greatly at present.

“You see, Dmitri Prokofych . . .” she began. “Shall I be completely frank with Dmitri Prokofych, Dunechka?”

“Of course, mama,” Avdotya Romanovna remarked imposingly.

“This is what it is,” her mother hurried on, as if a mountain had been lifted from her by this permission to voice her grief. “This morning, very early, we received a note from Pyotr Petrovich in reply to yesterday's message concerning our arrival. You see, he was to have met us yesterday, as he had promised, right at the station. Instead, some lackey was sent to meet us at the station, to give us the address of this rooming house and show us the way, and Pyotr Petrovich told him to tell us he would come to us today, in the morning. Instead of which, today, in the morning, this note came from him...It would be best if you read it yourself; there is a point in it that troubles me very much...You'll see now what this point is and...tell me your frank opinion, Dmitri Prokofych! You know Rodya's character best of all and can advise us better than anyone else. I warn you that Dunechka already resolved everything from the first moment, but I, I still do not know how to act and...and have been waiting for you.”

Razumikhin unfolded the note, dated the previous day, and read the following:

Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honor of informing you that owing to suddenly arisen delays I was unable to meet you on the platform, having sent a rather efficient man for that purpose. I must equally deprive myself of the honor of seeing you tomorrow morning, owing to urgent matters in the Senate, and so as not to intrude upon your family reunion with your son, and Avdotya Romanovna's with her brother. I shall have the honor of calling upon you and paying my respects to you in your apartment not earlier than tomorrow evening at eight o'clock sharp, and with that I venture to add an earnest and, may I say, insistent request that Rodion Romanovich not be present at this general meeting of ours, inasmuch as he offended me in an unparalleled and discourteous way when I visited him yesterday in his illness, and wishing, moreover, to have a necessary and thorough discussion with you of a certain point, concerning which I should like to know your own interpretation. With that I have the honor of forewarning you beforehand that if, contrary to my request, I do encounter Rodion Romanovich, I shall be obliged to withdraw at once, and in that case you will have only yourself to blame. I write this with the understanding that Rodion Romanovich, who appeared so ill at the time of my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later, and may therefore be able to leave his room and come to you. This was confirmed for me by my own eyes, in the apartment of a certain drunkard, who was crushed by horses and died as a result, and to whose daughter, a girl of notorious behavior, he handed over as much as twenty-five roubles yesterday, on the pretext of a funeral, which surprised me greatly, knowing what trouble you had in gathering this sum. With that, and expressing my particular respect to the esteemed Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectfully devoted feelings of