Your humble servant, P. Luzhin

“What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofych?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to say, almost in tears. “How am I to suggest that Rodya not come? Yesterday he demanded so insistently that we refuse Pyotr Petrovich, and now we're told not to receive him! But if he finds out, he will come on purpose...and what will happen then?”

“Do as Avdotya Romanovna has decided,” Razumikhin replied calmly and at once.

“Ah, my God! She says...she says God knows what, and she won't explain her purpose! She says it would be better—not really better, that is, but it's somehow supposedly necessary—that Rodya also come tonight, on purpose, at eight o'clock, and it's necessary that they meet... As for me, I didn't even want to show him the letter; I wanted to arrange it somehow slyly, through you, so that he wouldn't come...because he's so irritable...Besides, I don't understand a thing— who is this drunkard who died, and who is this daughter, and how could he give this daughter all the money he has left...that . . .”

“That cost you so dearly, mama,” Avdotya Romanovna added.

“He was not himself yesterday,” Razumikhin said thoughtfully. “If you knew what sort of things he poured out yesterday in the tavern, though it was all intelligent. . . hm! He was indeed saying something yesterday, as we were going home, about some dead man and some girl, but I didn't understand a word of it...However, yesterday I myself . . .”

“Best of all, mama, let's go to him ourselves, and there, I assure you, we'll see at once what to do. And besides, it's time—Lord, it's past ten!” she exclaimed, glancing at her magnificent gold and enamel watch, which hung round her neck on a fine Venetian chain and was terribly out of harmony with the rest of her attire. “A present from the fiancé,” thought Razumikhin.

“Ah, it's time! ... It's time, Dunechka, it's time!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began bustling about in alarm. “He may think we're angry because of yesterday, since we're so long in coming. Ah, my God!”

She was busily throwing on her cape and putting on her hat as she spoke; Dunechka also readied herself. Her gloves were not only worn out but even torn, as Razumikhin noticed, and yet the obvious poverty of their dress even lent both ladies an air of some special dignity, as always happens with those who know how to wear poor clothing. Razumikhin looked at Dunechka with awe and was proud to be escorting her. “That queen,” he thought to himself, “who mended her own stockings in prison—of course, she looked like a real queen at that moment, even more so than during the most splendid solemnities and appearances.”^[71]

“My God!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “would I ever have thought I'd be afraid to meet my own son, my dear, dear Rodya, as I am now! ... I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofych!” she added, glancing at him timidly.

“Don't be afraid, mama,” Dunya said, kissing her. “Better to believe in him. I do.”

“Ah, my God! So do I, but I didn't sleep all night!” the poor woman exclaimed.

They walked out to the street.

“You know, Dunechka, I no sooner fell asleep a little, towards morning, than I suddenly dreamed of the late Marfa Petrovna...all in white...she came up to me and took me by the hand, and she shook her head at me so sternly, so sternly, as if in disapproval. . . Does that bode well? Ah, my God, Dmitri Prokofych, you don't know yet: Marfa Petrovna died!”

“No, I didn't know. What Marfa Petrovna?”

“Quite suddenly! And imagine...”

“Later, mama!” Dunya interrupted. “He doesn't know yet who Marfa Petrovna is!”

“Ah, you don't know? And I thought you already knew everything. You must forgive me, Dmitri Prokofych, I'm quite addled these days. I really regard you as our Providence, and so I was convinced that you already knew everything. I regard you as one of our family...You won't be angry with me for saying so. Ah, my God, what's the matter with your right hand? Did you hurt it?”

“Yes, I hurt it,” murmured the overjoyed Razumikhin.

“I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dunya corrects me...But, my God, what a closet he lives in! Is he awake yet, I wonder? And that woman, his landlady, considers it a room? Listen, you say he doesn't like to show his heart; do you think perhaps I'll tire him out with my...weaknesses?...Won't you teach me, Dmitri Prokofych? How should I be with him? You know, I go about quite like a lost person.”

“Don't question him too much about anything, if you see him making a wry face; especially avoid asking him too much about his health—he doesn't like it.”

“Ah, Dmitri Prokofych, how difficult it is to be a mother! But here is the stairway...What an awful stairway!”

“Mama, you're even pale; calm yourself, my dear,” Dunya said, caressing her. “He must be happy just to see you, and you torment yourself so,” she added, flashing her eyes.

“Wait, I'll go ahead and find out if he's awake.”

The ladies slowly followed after Razumikhin, who started up the stairs ahead of them. When they came to the fourth-floor landing, outside the landlady's door, they noticed that the door was open a tiny crack and that two quick black eyes were examining them both from the darkness. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly slammed shut with such a bang that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out in fright.

III

“He's well, he's well!” Zossimov cried cheerily to greet the people entering. He had been there for about ten minutes already, and was sitting on the same end of the sofa as yesterday. Raskolnikov was sitting on the opposite end, fully dressed and even carefully washed and combed—something that had not happened with him for a long time. The room filled up immediately, but Nastasya still managed to slip in with the visitors and began to listen.

Indeed, Raskolnikov was almost well, especially as compared with yesterday, only he was very pale, distracted, and sullen. Externally, he seemed to resemble a wounded man or a man suffering from some acute physical pain: his brows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes inflamed. He spoke little and reluctantly, as if forcing himself or fulfilling a duty, and a certain anxiety showed every now and then in his movements.

All that was lacking was some bandage or gauze wrapping to complete his resemblance to a man with, for example, a painful abscess on his finger, or an injured hand, or something of the sort.

However, even this pale and sullen face brightened momentarily, as if with light, when his mother and sister entered; but this seemed to lend only a more concentrated torment to his expression, in place of the former anguished distraction. The light quickly faded but the torment remained, and Zossimov, observing and studying his patient with all the youthful ardor of a doctor just beginning to get a taste of practice, was surprised to note in him, instead of joy at his family's arrival, something like a heavy, concealed determination to endure an hour or two of torture that could no longer be avoided. He saw later how almost every word of the ensuing conversation seemed to touch and reopen some wound in his patient; but at the same time he marveled somewhat that yesterday's monomaniac, who all but flew into a rage at the slightest word, today was able to control himself and keep his feelings hidden.

“Yes, I myself can now see that I am almost well,” Raskolnikov said, kissing his mother and sister affably, at which Pulcheria Alexandrovna immediately beamed, “and I say it not as I did yesterday, “ he added, addressing Razumikhin and giving him a friendly handshake.

“And I even marveled at him today,” began Zossimov, who was glad to see the visitors, because in ten minutes he had already managed to lose the thread of his conversation with his patient. “If it goes on like this, in three or four days things will be just as they were—that is, as they were a month ago, or two...or maybe even three? Because this started and was coming on from way back...eh? Do you admit, now, that you yourself may be to blame?” he added with a cautious smile, as though still fearing to irritate him with something.