“Well, what about this man who was run over? I interrupted you!” Razumikhin hastened to exclaim.

“What?” the other asked, as if waking up. “Ah, yes...so I got stained with blood when I helped carry him into his apartment...Incidentally, mama, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday; I was truly out of my mind. Yesterday I gave all the money you sent me...to his wife...for the funeral. She's a widow now, consumptive, a pitiful woman...three little orphans, hungry...they have nothing in the house...and there's yet another daughter...Perhaps you'd have given her the money yourself, if you'd seen...However, I had no right, I admit, especially knowing how hard it was for you to get it. Before helping people, one must first have the right; otherwise— 'Crevez, chiens, si vous n'êtes pas contents!' “^[72] He laughed. “Right, Dunya?”

“No, not right,” Dunya answered firmly.

“Bah! So you, too...have your notions! . . .” he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred and smiling derisively. “I should have realized it...Well, that's praiseworthy; it's better for you...and you'll come to a certain line, and if you don't cross it, you'll be unhappy, and if you do, maybe you'll be even more unhappy...However, it's all nonsense!” he added irritably, annoyed at getting involuntarily carried away. “I only wanted to say that I ask your forgiveness, mama,” he concluded sharply and abruptly.

“Ah, Rodya, there's no need; I'm sure everything you do is wonderful!” his gladdened mother said.

“Don't be sure,” he said, twisting his mouth into a smile. Silence ensued. There was something tense in this whole conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and everyone felt it.

“So they really are afraid of me,” Raskolnikov thought to himself, glancing sullenly at his mother and sister. Indeed, the longer Pulcheria Alexandrovna remained silent, the more timid she became.

“I seemed to love them so much when they weren't here,” flashed through his head.

“You know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna died!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly popped up.

“What Marfa Petrovna?”

“Ah, my God—Marfa Petrovna—Svidrigailov! I wrote you so much about her.”

“A-a-ah, yes, I remember...So she died? Ah, did she?” he suddenly roused himself, as if waking up. “She really died? Of what?”

“Just imagine, it was a sudden death!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurried on, encouraged by his curiosity. “And just at the same time as I sent you that letter, even the same day! Imagine, that terrible man seems to have been the cause of her death. They say he gave her a terrible beating!”

“Is that how they were?” he asked, turning to his sister.

“No, quite the opposite. He was always very patient with her, even polite. In many cases he was even too indulgent of her nature, for all those seven years...Somehow he suddenly lost patience.”

“So he's not so terrible, if he managed to restrain himself for seven years? You seem to be vindicating him, Dunechka?”

“No, no, he's a terrible man! I can't even imagine anything more terrible,” Dunya answered, almost with a shudder, and she frowned and lapsed into thought.

“That was in the morning,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly continued. “Afterwards she immediately ordered the horses to be harnessed, to go to town right after dinner, because she always used to go to town in such cases; they say she ate dinner with great appetite...”

“In spite of the beating, eh?”

“. . . But then, that was always her...habit; and as soon as she finished dinner, so as not to be late to town, she went straight to the bathhouse...You see, she was taking some sort of bathing cure; they have a cold spring there, and she bathed in it regularly, every day, and as soon as she got into the water, she suddenly had a stroke!”

“Sure enough!” said Zossimov.

“And was it a bad beating?”

“That hardly matters,” Dunya responded.

“Hm! Anyway, mama, why do you bother telling me about such nonsense?” Raskolnikov suddenly said, irritably and as if inadvertently.

“Ah, my friend, I just didn't know what to talk about,” escaped from Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“What is it, are you all afraid of me or something?” he said with a twisted smile.

“In fact, it's true,” said Dunya, looking directly and sternly at her brother. “Mama was so afraid coming up the stairs that she even crossed herself.”

His face became all contorted as if in a spasm.

“Ah, Dunya, stop it! Rodya, please don't be angry...How could you, Dunya!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna started to say in confusion. “The truth is that as we were coming here, I was dreaming all the way, on the train, of how we would see each other, how we would tell each other everything...and I was so happy that I didn't even notice the journey! But what am I saying! I'm happy now, too...Dunya, you really shouldn't! It makes me happy just to see you, Rodya . . .”

“Enough, mama,” he muttered in confusion, pressing her hand without looking at her. “We'll have time to talk all we want!”

Having said this, he suddenly became confused and turned pale: again that terrible, recent feeling passed like a deathly chill over his soul; again it suddenly became perfectly plain and clear to him that he had just uttered a terrible lie, that not only would he never have the chance to talk all he wanted, but that it was no longer possible for him to talk at all, with anyone, about anything, ever. The impression of this tormenting thought was so strong that for a moment he almost forgot himself entirely; he rose from his place and, without looking at anyone, started out the door.

“What are you doing?” Razumikhin exclaimed, seizing his arm.

He sat down again and began silently looking around him; everyone was looking at him in perplexity.

“But why are you all so dull!” he suddenly cried out, quite unexpectedly. “Say something! What's the point of sitting here like this! Well, speak! Let's talk...We got together and don't open our mouths...So, say something!”

“Thank God! I thought it was going to be the same as yesterday,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna said, crossing herself.

“What is it, Rodya?” Avdotya Romanovna asked mistrustfully.

“Nothing. I just remembered something,” he answered, and suddenly laughed.

“Well, that's good. At least it was something! Otherwise I'd have thought. . .” Zossimov muttered, rising from the sofa. “However, it's time I was going; maybe I'll stop by later...if you're here . . .”

He made his bows and left.

“What a wonderful man!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna observed.

“Yes, wonderful, excellent, educated, intelligent . . .” Raskolnikov suddenly started saying in a sort of unexpected patter, and with hitherto unusual animation. “I can't recall where I met him before my illness...I think I did meet him somewhere...And here is another good man!” He motioned towards Razumikhin. “Do you like him, Dunya?” he asked, and for no apparent reason suddenly burst out laughing.

“Very much,” Dunya replied.

“Pah, you're a real...little swine!” said Razumikhin, frightfully abashed and blushing, and he rose from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled slightly, and Raskolnikov roared with laughter.

“But where are you off to?”

“I also...have to . . .”

“You don't have to at all; stay here! Zossimov left, so you also have to. Don't go...What time is it? Twelve already? What a pretty watch you have, Dunya! But why are you all silent again? I'm the only one who keeps talking! . . .”

“It was a present from Marfa Petrovna,” Dunya replied.

“And a very expensive one,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added.

“Ahh! Look at the size of it—almost too big for a lady.”

“I like it like that,” said Dunya.

Razumikhin thought to himself: “So it's not from her fiancé,” and for some reason he rejoiced.