Again there was a silence.
“Hm...well then . . .” Raskolnikov muttered. “Because, you know ... I was thinking...I keep imagining...it might have been a fantasy.”
“What's this all about? I don't quite understand you.”
“You've all been saying that I was mad,” Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, “and just now I imagined that perhaps I really am mad and was only seeing a ghost!”
“But what is this about?”
“And who knows! Maybe I really am mad, and everything that's happened during these days, maybe everything is just my imagination . . .”
“Eh, Rodya, you've been upset again! ... But what did he say? Why did he come?”
Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumikhin reflected for a moment.
“Well, listen to my report,” he began. “I stopped by your place; you were asleep. Then we had dinner, and then I went to Porfiry's. Zamyotov was still there. I tried to begin, but nothing came of it. I just couldn't begin talking in a real way. It's as if they don't understand, and cannot understand, and are not at all embarrassed. I took Porfiry over to the window and began talking, but again for some reason it didn't come out right; he looked away, and I looked away. Finally I brought my fist up to his mug and said I was going to smash him, in a familial way. He just stared at me. I spat and left, that's all. Very stupid. Not a word between me and Zamyotov. Only, you see, I thought I'd fouled things up, but as I was going down the stairs it occurred to me, it just dawned on me: what are we fussing about, the two of us? If there was anything to it, or any danger for you, then of course. But what is it to you? You've got nothing to do with it, so spit on them; we'll have the laugh on them afterwards, and in your place I'd even start mystifying them. Because they'll really be ashamed afterwards! Spit on it; you can give them a beating afterwards, but for now let's laugh!”
“You're right, of course!” Raskolnikov replied. “But what will you say tomorrow?” he thought to himself. Strangely, until then it had never once occurred to him: “What will Razumikhin think when he finds out?” Having thought of it, Raskolnikov looked at him intently. As for Razumikhin's present report of his visit to Porfiry, he was not very interested in it: so much had been lost and gained since then! . . .
In the corridor they ran into Luzhin: he had arrived at eight o'clock sharp and was searching for the room, so that all three entered together, but without greeting or looking at one another. The young men went in first, while Pyotr Petrovich, for propriety's sake, lingered a little in the entryway, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna went at once to meet him at the threshold. Dunya was greeting her brother.
Pyotr Petrovich walked in and quite affably, though with redoubled solemnity, bowed to the ladies. However, he looked as though he had been slightly thrown off and had not yet found himself. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who also seemed embarrassed, hastened at once to seat everyone at the round table, on which a samovar was boiling. Dunya and Luzhin were placed opposite each other on two sides of the table. Razumikhin and Raskolnikov found themselves facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna—Razumikhin closer to Luzhin, Raskolnikov next to his sister.
A momentary silence ensued. Pyotr Petrovich unhurriedly pulled out a cambric handkerchief that gave off a whiff of scent, and blew his nose with the air of a man of virtue whose dignity has been somewhat offended and who, moreover, has firmly resolved to demand an explanation. While still in the entryway the thought had occurred to him of leaving without taking off his coat, thereby punishing the two ladies severely and impressively, so as to let them feel the whole weight of it. But he had not dared. Besides, the man did not like uncertainty, and here an explanation was called for: if his orders had been so openly defied, there must be something behind it, and therefore it was better to find it out now; as for punishment, there would always be time for that, and he had the upper hand.
“I trust the trip went well?” he addressed Pulcheria Alexandrovna in an official tone.
“Thank God, it did, Pyotr Petrovich.”
“Pleased to hear it, madam. And Avdotya Romanovna did not find it too tiring either?”
“I'm young and strong, I don't get tired, but it was very hard on mother.”
“There's no help for it; our nation's railways are quite long. Our so-called 'Mother Russia' is a vast country...And I, for all that I desired to do so, was simply unable to meet you. I trust, however, that everything went without any special trouble.”
“Ah, no, Pyotr Petrovich, we were very disheartened,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare, with a special intonation, “and would simply have perished if Dmitri Prokofych had not been sent to us, as I think, by God Himself. This is he, Dmitri Prokofych Razumikhin,” she added, introducing him to Luzhin.
“Indeed, I had the pleasure...yesterday,” Luzhin muttered, with an unfriendly sidelong glance at Razumikhin; then he frowned and fell silent. Generally speaking, Pyotr Petrovich belonged to that category of people who appear extremely affable in company, and with a special claim to affability, but who, as soon as something grates on them, instantly lose all their resources and begin to seem more like sacks of flour than offhand and convivial cavaliers. Everyone again fell silent; Raskolnikov was stubbornly silent, Avdotya Romanovna did not want to break the silence for the time being, Razumikhin had nothing to say—and so Pulcheria Alexandrovna started worrying again.
“Marfa Petrovna died, have you heard?” she began, falling back on her capital resource.
“Of course I have, madam. I was informed at the first rumor of it, and have even come now to tell you that Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov left in all haste for Petersburg immediately following his wife's funeral. That is so, at least, according to the most precise reports which I have received.”
“To Petersburg? Here?” Dunechka asked worriedly, and she exchanged glances with her mother.
“Just so, madam, and surely not without purpose, considering the hastiness of his departure and the preceding circumstances in general.”
“Lord! But can it be that he will not leave Dunechka alone even here?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna exclaimed.
“It seems to me that there is nothing to be particularly worried about, either for you or for Avdotya Romanovna, unless, of course, you yourselves wish to enter into some sort of relations with him. For my part, I am watching, and am now seeking to discover where he is staying . . .”
“Ah, Pyotr Petrovich, you wouldn't believe how you frightened me just now!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on. “I have seen him only twice, but I found him terrible, terrible! I'm sure he was the cause of the late Marfa Petrovna's death.”
“Concerning that, no conclusion is possible. I have precise information. I will not dispute that he perhaps contributed to hastening the course of events, so to speak, by the moral influence of his offense; but concerning the behavior and the moral characteristics of the person in general, I agree with you. I do not know whether he is rich now or precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; that will be known to me very shortly; but, of course, here in Petersburg, with at least some financial means, he will at once resume his old habits. He is the most depraved and vice-ridden of all men of his sort! I have significant grounds for supposing that Marfa Petrovna, who had the misfortune of falling so much in love with him and redeeming him from his debts eight years ago, served him in still another respect: solely as the result of her efforts and sacrifices, a criminal case was snuffed out at the very start, a case having a tinge of brutal and, so to speak, fantastic evildoing, for which he could quite, quite possibly have taken a trip to Siberia. That is what the man is like, if you wish to know.”