“But can Katerina Ivanovna manage on such small means, and even plan to have a meal? . . .” Raskolnikov asked, determined to continue the conversation.

“But the coffin will be a simple one, sir...it will all be simple, so it won't cost much...Katerina Ivanovna and I calculated everything so as to have something left for the meal...and Katerina Ivanovna wants very much to have it. One can't really...it's a consolation to her...that's how she is, you know . . .”

“I understand, I understand...certainly...Why are you staring at my room? Mama here also says it's like a coffin.”

“You gave us all you had yesterday!” Sonechka suddenly said in reply, in a sort of intense and quick whisper, again looking down. Her lips and chin quivered again. She had been struck much earlier by the poverty of Raskolnikov's furnishings, and now these words somehow escaped her of themselves. Silence ensued. Dunechka's eyes somehow brightened, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna even looked affably at Sonya.

“Rodya,” she said, getting up, “we shall be dining together, of course. Dunechka, come...And you, Rodya, ought to go for a little walk, and then rest, lie down a bit, and afterwards come soon...I'm afraid we may have tired you...”

“Yes, yes, I'll come,” he said, getting up and beginning to hurry...”I have some business, however . . .”

“You don't mean you'll dine separately!” Razumikhin exclaimed, looking at Raskolnikov in surprise. “What's got into you?”

“Yes, yes, I'll come, of course, of course...And you stay for a minute. You don't need him now, mama? Or am I perhaps taking him from you?”

“Oh, no, no! And you, Dmitri Prokofych, will you be so kind as to join us for dinner?”

“Please do,” Dunya asked.

Razumikhin bowed, beaming all over. For a moment everyone suddenly became somehow strangely abashed.

“Good-bye, Rodya—I mean, for now; I don't like saying 'good-bye.' Good-bye, Nastasya...ah, I've said it again! . . .”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was going to bow to Sonechka, but it somehow did not come off, and she hastened from the room.

But Avdotya Romanovna was waiting her turn, as it were, and, following her mother past Sonya, gave her an attentive, polite, and full bow. Sonechka became embarrassed and bowed somehow hastily and fearfully; a sort of pained feeling even showed in her face, as if Avdotya Romanovna's politeness and attention were burdensome and tormenting to her.

“Dunya, good-bye!” Raskolnikov called out from the doorway, “give me your hand!”

“But I did; don't you remember?” Dunya answered, turning to him tenderly and awkwardly.

“Well, then give it to me again!”

And he squeezed her fingers tightly. Dunechka smiled at him, blushed, quickly pulled her hand back, and went after her mother, all happy herself for some reason.

“Well, that's nice!” he said to Sonya, coming back into the room and looking at her brightly. “May the Lord grant rest to the dead, but the living have still got to live! Right? Right? Isn't that right?”

Sonya looked at his suddenly brightened face even with surprise; for a few moments he gazed at her silently and fixedly: the whole story her deceased father had told him about her swept suddenly through his memory ...

“Lord, Dunechka!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to say, as soon as they came out to the street, “I really almost feel glad we've left; it's somehow easier. Now, would I have thought yesterday on the train that I could ever be glad of that!”

“I tell you again, mama, he's still very ill. Don't you see? Maybe it was suffering over us that upset him. One must be tolerant; then so much, so much can be forgiven.”

“But you were not very tolerant!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted at once, hotly and jealously. “You know, Dunya, I was looking at the two of you, and you're the perfect picture of him, not so much in looks as in soul: you're both melancholic, both sullen and hot-tempered, both arrogant, and both magnanimous...Is it possible that he's an egoist, Dunechka? Eh?...When I think what may happen tonight at our place, my heart just sinks!”

“Don't worry, mama, what must be, will be.”

“But, Dunechka, only think of the position we're in now! What if Pyotr Petrovich retracts?” poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly let out incautiously.

“What would he be worth after that!” Dunechka answered curtly and contemptuously.

“We did well to leave now,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to interrupt. “He was hurrying somewhere on business; let him go out for a walk, get some air...his room is awfully stuffy...but where can one get any air here? It's the same outside as in a closed room. Lord, what a city! ... Wait, look out, you'll be crushed, they're carrying something! Goodness, it's a piano...how they all push! ... I'm also very afraid of this girl . . .”

“What girl, mama?”

“Why, this Sofya Semyonovna who was there just now...”

“What about her?”

“I just have a certain presentiment, Dunya. Well, believe it or not, as soon as she walked in, at that very moment I thought to myself: here is where the main thing lies . . .”

“Nothing's lying there at all!” Dunya exclaimed in vexation. “You and your presentiments, mother! He's only known her since yesterday, and he didn't recognize her today when she came in.”

“Well, you'll see! ... She disturbs me; but you'll see, you will! And I got so scared: she looked at me, just looked, with such eyes, I could hardly sit still—remember, when he began introducing her? And it's strange: Pyotr Petrovich writes such things about her, and then he introduces her to us, to you of all people! It means he cares for her!”

“What does it matter what he writes! People talked and wrote about us, too, don't forget! And I'm sure she's...wonderful, and that this is all nonsense!”

“God be with her!”

“And Pyotr Petrovich is a worthless gossip,” Dunechka suddenly snapped.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna simply wilted. The conversation ceased.

“Listen, here's this business I have with you . . .” Raskolnikov said, drawing Razumikhin over to the window . . .

“I'll tell Katerina Ivanovna that you'll come, then . . .” Sonya hurried, bowing as she prepared to leave.

“One moment, Sofya Semyonovna; we have no secrets; you are not in our way...I'd like to say a couple of more words to you...Listen,” he suddenly turned to Razumikhin, as if breaking off without finishing the sentence, “you do know this...what's his name! ... Porfiry Petrovich?”

“Of course I do! My relative. What about it?” Razumikhin added with a sort of burst of curiosity.

“He's now in charge of...this case...well, this murder...the one you were talking about yesterday?”

“Yes...so?” Razumikhin suddenly goggled his eyes.

“He's been questioning the pawners, and I also pawned some things there—junk, really—but it's my sister's ring, which she gave me as a keepsake when I was coming here, and also my father's silver watch. Worth five or six roubles in all, but I care about them, as mementos. So what shall I do now? I don't want the things to be lost, especially the watch. I was trembling just now for fear mother would ask to see it when we started talking about Dunechka's watch. It's the only thing left of my father's. She'll be sick if it's lost! Women! So what shall I do, tell me! I know I should report it to the police! But wouldn't it be better to go to Porfiry himself, eh? What do you think? To be done with it sooner? Mama will still ask before dinner, you'll see!”

“Certainly not to the police, but to Porfiry—by all means!” Razumikhin cried in some unusual excitement. “I can't tell you how glad I am! But why wait? Let's go now, it's two steps away, we're sure to find him there.”

“Why not...let's go . . .”

“And he'll be very, very, very, very glad to meet you! I've told him a lot about you at various times...And yesterday, too. Let's go! ... So you knew the old woman! Well, there! ... It's all turned out quite mag-ni-fi-cently! ... Ah, yes...Sofya Ivanovna . . .”