He is well, quite well," Zossimov cried cheerfully as they entered. He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as before on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for some time past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nostashim managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen. Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his condition the day before, but he was still pale, listless, and somber. He looked like a wounded man, or one who was undergone some terrible physical suffering. His brows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke little and reluctantly as though performing a duty, and there was a restlessness in his movements. He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete the impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. The pale somber face lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this only gave it a look of more intense suffering in place of its listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of suffering remained, and Zosimov, watching and studying his patient with all the zest of a young doctor beginning to practice, noticed in him no joy at the arrival of his mother and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw later that almost every word of the following conversation seemed to touch on some sore place and irritated. But at the same time, he marveled at the power of controlling himself and hiding his feelings in a patient who the previous day had, like a monomaniac, fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word. Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well, said Raskolnikov, giving his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which made Polkarya Alexandrovna radiant at once. And I don't say this as I did yesterday, he said, addressing Razumihin with the friendly pressure of his hand. Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised in him today, began Zosimov, much delighted at the lady's entrance, for he had not succeeded in keeping up a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. In another three or four days, if he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he was a month ago, or two, or perhaps even three. This has been coming on for a long while, eh? Confess now that it has been perhaps your own fault, he added, with a tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him. It is very possible, answered Raskolnikov coldly. I should say, too, continued Zosimov, which says, that your complete recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you, I should like to impress upon you that it is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak, fundamental causes tending to produce your morbid condition. In that case, you will be cured. If not, it will go from bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don't know, but they must be known to you.  I fancy the first stage of your derangement coincides with your leaving the university. You must not be left without occupation, and so, work in a definite aim set before you might, I fancy, be very beneficial. Yes, yes, you are perfectly right. I will make haste and return to the university, and then everything will go smoothly. Zosimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified when glancing at his patient he observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted an instant, however. Bolkaria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zosimov, especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night. What, he saw you last night? Raskolnikov asked as though startled. Then you have not slept either after your journey. Ah, Karodia, that was only till two o'clock. Donya and I never go to bed before two at home. I don't know how to thank him either, Raskolnikov went on, suddenly frowning and looking down. Setting aside the question of payment, forgive me for referring to it, he turned to Zosimov, I really don't know what I have done to deserve such special attention from you. I simply don't understand it, and it weighs upon me, indeed, because I don't understand it. I tell you so candidly. Don't be irritated, Zosimov forced himself to laugh. Assume that you are my first patient. Well, we fellows just beginning to practice love our first patients as if they were our children, and some almost fall in love with them. And of course I am not rich in patients. I say nothing about him, added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin, though he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble. What nonsense he is talking!  If he had had more penetration, he would have seen that there was no trace of sentimentality in him, but something indeed quite the opposite. But Avdocha Romanovna noticed it, she was intently and uneasily watching her brother. As for you, mother, I don't dare to speak, he went on, as they are repeating a lesson learned by heart, is only today that I have been able to realize a little how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come back. When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real, unfaithful feeling. Donya caught it at once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her since the dispute the previous day. The mother's face lighted up with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. Yes, that is what I love him for, Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. He has these movements. And how well he does it all, the mother was thinking to herself, what generous impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he put an end to all the misunderstanding with his sister, simply by holding out his hand at the right minute and looking at her like that, and what fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is. He is even better looking than Donya. But good heavens, what a suit, how terribly he's dressed. Vasha, the messenger boy in Afanasi Ivanovich's shop is better dressed. I could rush at him and hug him, weep over him, but I am afraid. Oh dear, he's so strange. He's talking kindly, but I am afraid. Why? What am I afraid of? Oh, Rodia, you wouldn't believe. She began suddenly in haste to answer his words to her. How unhappy Donya and I were yesterday. Now that it's all over and done with, we are, and we are quite happy again, I can tell you. Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that woman. Ah, here she is. Good morning, Nastasha. She told us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had just run away from the doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets. You can't imagine how we felt. I couldn't help thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father's. You can't remember him, Rodia, who ran out in the same way in a high fever and fell into the well in the courtyard and they couldn't pull him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We were on the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovich to ask him to help. Because we were alone, utterly alone, she said plaintively, and stopped short. Suddenly, recollecting it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovich, although we are quite happy again. Yes, yes. Of course it's very annoying. Rascal on the cuff muttered and replied, but with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Donya gazed at him in perplexity. What else was it I wanted to say? He went on trying to recollect. Oh yes, mother, and you too, Donya, please don't think that I didn't mean to come and see you today and was waiting for you to come first. What are you saying, Rodia? cried Pokeria Alexandrovna. She too was surprised. Is he answering us as a duty? Donya wondered. Is he being reconciled and asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating a lesson? I've only just waked up and wanted to go to you but was delayed owing to my clothes. I forgot yesterday to ask her, Nastasha, to wash out the blood. I've only just thrust. Blood? What blood? Pokeria Alexandrovna asked in alarm.  It was when I was wandering about yesterday rather delirious. I chanced upon a man who had been run over, a clerk. Delirious? But you remember everything, resume he had interrupted. That's true, Rascal on the cuff answered with special carefulness. I remember everything, even to the slightest detail, and yet, why I did that and went there and said that, I can't clearly explain now. A familiar phenomenon in reposed Susamov. Actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions. It's like a dream. Perhaps it's a good thing, really, that he should think me almost a madman, thought Rascal on the cuff. Why, people in perfect health act in the same way to, observed Donya looking uneasily at Susamov. There is some truth in your observation, the latter replied. In that sense, we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen, but with a slight difference that the deranged are somewhat madder, for we must draw a line. A normal man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens, perhaps hundreds of thousands, hardly one is to be met with.  Raskolnikov sat, seeming not to pay attention, plunged and thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something. Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you, resume him, cried hastily. What? Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. Oh, I got spattered with blood helping to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mama, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money you sent me, to his wife, for the funeral.  There's a daughter, too. Perhaps you'd have given it yourself if you'd seen them. But I had no right to do it, I admit, especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others, one must have the right to do it, or else revision, si vous n'est pas content, he laughed. That's right, isn't it, Donia? No, it's not, answered Donia firmly. Bah, you, too, have ideals, he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically. I ought to have considered that. Well, that's praiseworthy, and it's better for you. And if you reach a line you won't overstep, you will be unhappy. And if you overstep it, maybe you will be still unhappier. But all that's nonsense, he added irritably, affects to being carried away. I only meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother. He concluded, shortly and abruptly. That's enough, Rhodia. I'm sure that everything you do is very good, had his mother delighted.  A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all this conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and all were feeling it. It is as though they were afraid of me, Raskolnikov was thinking to himself, looking as scant said his mother and sister. Polkarya Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the longer she kept silent. Yet in their absence, I seemed to love them so much, flashed through his mind. Do you know, Rhodia, Marfa Petrovna is dead, Polkarya Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out. What Marfa Petrovna? Oh, Mercyana, Marfa Petrovna, Sfidrykolov, I wrote you so much about her. Ah, yes, I remember. So she's dead. Oh, really? He roused himself suddenly, as if waking up. What did she die of? Only imagine, quite suddenly, Polkarya Alexandrovna answered hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. On the very day I was sending you that letter, would you believe it that awful man seems to have been the cause of her death? They say he beat her dreadfully. Why, were they on such bad terms, he asked, addressing his sister? Not at all, quite the contrary indeed. With her he was always very patient, consider it even. In fact, all those seven years of their married life he gave way to her, too much so indeed, in many cases. All of a sudden he seems to have lost patience. Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven years. You seem to be defending him, Donya. No, no, he's an awful man. I can imagine nothing more awful, Donya answered almost with a shudder, knitting her brows and sinking into thought. That had happened in the morning. Polkarya Alexandrovna went on hurriedly, and directly afterwards she ordered the horses to be harnessed and to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to the town in such cases. She had a very good dinner, I am told, after the beating. That was always her habit, and immediately after dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the bath house. You see, she was undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she gotten to the water when she suddenly had a stroke. I should think so, said Sosimov, and did he beat her badly? What does that matter, put in Donya? But I don't know why you want to tell us such gossip, either, mother, said Raskolnikov irritably, as if it were in spite of himself. Oh, my dear, I don't know what to talk about, broke from Polkarya Alexandrovna. Why, are you all afraid of me, he asked, with a constrained smile? That's certainly true, said Donya, looking directly and sternly at her brother. Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the stairs. His face warped as though in convulsion. What are you saying, Donya?  Why did you say that, Donya? Polkarya Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed. You see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way in the train, how we should meet, how we should talk over everything together, and I was so happy. I did not notice the journey. But what am I saying? I am happy now. You should not, Donya. I am happy now, simply in seeing you, Rodya. Hush, mother. He muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing her hand. We shall have time to speak freely of everything. As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned pale. Again, that awful sensation he had known of late, passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again, it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him, that he had just told a fearful lie, that he would never now be able to speak freely of anything, that he would never again be able to speak of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not looking at anyone, walked toward the door. What are you about? cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm. He sat down again, and began looking about him in silence. They were all looking at him in perplexity. But what are you all so dull for? he shouted, suddenly and quite unexpectedly. Do say something. What's the use of sitting like this? Come, do speak. Let us talk. We meet together and sit in silence. Come, anything. Thank God! I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning again, said Polkariya Aleksandrovna, crossing herself. What is the matter, Rodya? asked Ava Doty Romanovna distrustfully. Oh, nothing. I remembered something, he answered, and suddenly laughed. Well, if you remembered something, that's all right. I was beginning to think, Murad Zosimov, getting up from the sofa. It is time for me to be off. I will look in again, perhaps. If I can. He made his bow, and went out. What an excellent man, observed Polkariya Aleksandrovna. Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent, Raskolnikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he had not shown till then. I can't remember where I met him before my illness. I believe I have met him somewhere. And this is a good man, too, he nodded at Razumihin. Do you like him, Donya? he asked her, and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed. Very much, answered Donya.  Polkariya Aleksandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud. Where are you off to? I must go. You need not at all. Stay. Zosimov is gone. So you must. Don't go. What's the time? Is it twelve o'clock? What a pretty watch you have got, Donya. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking. It was a present from Marfa Petrovna, answered Donya. And a very expensive one, added Polkariya Aleksandrovna. Ah, what a big one, hardly like a lady's. I like that sort, said Donya. So it was not a present from her fiancée, I thought, Razumihin, and was unreasonably delighted. I thought it was Lucien's present, observed Raskolnikov. No, he has not made Donya any presence yet. Ah, and do you remember, Mother, I was in love and wanted to get married? He said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted by the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke of it. Oh, yes, my dear. Polkariya Aleksandrovna exchanged glances with Donya and Razumihin. Hmm, yes. What shall I tell you? I don't remember much indeed. She was such a sickly girl, he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again. Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor and was always dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very well.  I really don't know what drew me to her then. I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or hunchback, I believe I should have liked her better still. He smiled dreamily. Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium. No, it was not only spring delirium, said Donya, with feeling. He fixed a strained intent look on a sister, but he did not hear or did not understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up, went to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place, and sat down. You love her even now, said Pochera Alexanderovna, touched. Her? Now? Oh, yes. You ask about her? No, that's all now, as it were, in another world, and so long ago, and indeed, everything happening here seems somehow far away. He looked a ton of lay at them. You now, I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away, but goodness knows why we are talking him bad. And what's the use of asking about it? He added with annoyance, and biting his nails fell into dreamy silence again.  It's like a tomb, said Pochera Alexanderovna, suddenly breaking the oppressor's silence. I am sure it's quite half through your lodging you've become some melancholy. My lodging? He answered blisslessly. Yes, the lodging had a great deal to deal with it. I thought that, too.  A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister, with him after three years absent, this intimate tone of conversation, in face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything, would have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent manner which must be settled one way or the other that day, so he had decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it as a means of escape. Listen, Donya. He began, gravely and dryly. Of course I beg your pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to tell you again that I do not withdraw from my chief point. It is me your illusion. If I am a scoundrel, you must not be. One is enough. If you marry Lucian, I cease at once to look on you as a sister. Brodya, Brodya, it is the same as yesterday again. Lucariox and Drovna cried mournfully. And why do you call yourself a scoundrel? I can't bear it. You said the same yesterday. Brother, Donya answered firmly and with the same dryness. In all this, there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at night and found out the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself to some, to someone and for someone. That is not the case at all. I am simply marrying for my own sake because things are hard for me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to my family. But that is not the chief motive for my decision. She is lying, he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively. Proud creature. She won't admit she wants to do it out of charity. Too haughty. Oh, base characters. They even love as though they hate.  In fact, continued Donya, I am marrying Piotr Petrovich because of two evils I choose the less. I intend to do honestly all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving him. Why did you smile just now?  All? He asked with the malignant grin. Within certain limits, both the manner and form of Piotr Petrovich's courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too well of himself, but I hope he esteems me too. Why are you laughing again? And why are you blushing again?  You are intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold your own against me. You cannot respect Lucian. I have seen him and talked with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush for it. It is not true. I am not lying, cried Donia, losing your composure. I would not marry him if I were not convinced that he esteems me and things highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it this very day. And such a marriage is not a vileness, as you say. And even if you were right, if I really had determined on a vile action, is it not merciless on your part to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is despotism. It is tyranny. If I ruin anyone, it is only myself. I am not committing a murder. Why do you look at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodeo darling, what's the matter? Good heavens, you have made him faint, cried Polcarii Alexentrovna. No, no, nonsense. It's nothing. A little giddiness, not fainting. You have fainting on the brain. Yes. What was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you get convincing proof today that you can respect him and that he esteems you, as you said? I think you said today? Mother, show Erodea, Piotr Petrovich's letter, said Donia. With trembling hands, Polcarii Alexentrovna gave him the letter. He took it with great interest, but before opening it, he suddenly looked with a sort of wonder at Donia. It is strange, he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. What am I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like. He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some time at his sister as though puzzled. He opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then, slowly and attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice. Polcarii Alexentrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected something particular.  They all started. They had expected something quite different. But they all write like that, you know, Razumihin observed abruptly. Have you read it? Yes. We showed him, Rodia. We consulted him just now. Polcarii Alexentrovna began embarrassed. That's just the jargon of the courts, Razumihin put in. Legal documents are written like that to this day. Legal? Yes, it's just legal. Business language, not so very uneducated, and not quite educated. Business language. Piotr Petrovich makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap education. He is proud indeed of having made his own way. I've doti Romanovna observed, someone offended by her brother's tone. While if he's proud of it, he has reason. I don't deny it. You seem to be offended, sister, at my making only such a frivolous criticism on the letter, and to think that I speak of such trifling matters on purpose to annoy you. It is quite the contrary. In observation, I propose the style occurred to me. That is by no means irrelevant as things stand. There is one expression, blame yourselves, put in very significantly and plainly, and there is besides a threat that he will go away at once if I am present.  Well, what do you think? Can one resent such an expression from Lucien? As we should if he pointed to Razumihin. Had written it, or Zosimov, or one of us? No, answered Donya with more animation. I saw clearly that it was too naively expressed and that perhaps he simply has no skill in writing. That is a true criticism, brother. I did not expect, indeed, it is expressed in legal style and sounds coarser than perhaps he intended, but I must disillusion you a little. There is one expression in the letter, one slander about me, and rather contemptible one. I gave the money last night to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed with trouble, and not on the pretext of the funeral, but simply to pay for the funeral, and not to the daughter, a young woman as he writes, of notorious behavior, whom I saw last night for the first time in my life. But to the widow, in all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to raise dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon, that is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and with a very naive eagerness. He is a man of intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all shows the man, and I don't think he has a great esteem for you. I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely wish for your good. Donia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only awaiting the evening. Then what is your decision, Rhodia? asked Polkariya Alexandrovna, who was more uneasy than ever at the sudden new business-like tone of his talk. What decision? You see, Piotr Petrovich writes that you are not to be with us this evening, and that it will go away if you calm. So will you calm? That, of course, is not for me to decide but for you first, if you are not offended by such a request, and secondly by Donia, if she too is not offended. I will do what you think best, he added, dryly. Donia has already decided, and I fully agree with her, Polkariya Alexandrovna hastened to declare. I decided to ask you, Rhodia, to urge you not to fail to be with us at this interview, said Donia. Will you calm? Yes. I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o'clock, she said, addressing Razumihin. Mother, I am inviting him too. Quite right, Donia. Well, since you have decided, added Polkariya Alexandrovna, so be it. I shall feel easier myself. I do not like concealment and deception. Better let us have the whole truth. Piotr Petrovich may be angry or not now. At that moment the door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into the room, looking timidly about her. Everyone turned towards her with surprise and curiosity. At first sight Raskolnikov did not recognize her. It was Sofia Semionovna Marmelado, who was the first woman to be seen in the room. She was the first woman to be seen in the room. She was the first woman to be seen in the room. She was the first woman to be seen in the room. Sofia Semionovna Marmeladov. He had seen her yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such a dress, that his memory retained a very different image of her. Now she was a modestly and poorly dressed young girl, very young indeed, almost like a child, with a modest and refined manner, with a candid but somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wearing a very plain indoor dress, and had on a shabby old-fashioned hat, but she still carried a parasol. Unexpectedly finding the room full of people, she was not so much embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like a little child. She was even about to retreat. Oh, it's you, said Raskolnikov, extremely astonished, and he too was confused. He had once recollected that his mother and sister knew through Lucine's letter of some young woman of notorious behavior. He had only just been protesting against Lucine's calamity, and declaring that he had seen the girl last night for the first time, and suddenly she had walked in. He remembered, too, that he had not protested against the expression of notorious behavior. All this passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brain, but looking at her more intently, he saw that the humiliated creature was so humiliated that he felt suddenly sorry for her. When she made a movement to retreat in terror, it sent a pang to his heart. I did not expect you, he said hurriedly, with a look that made her stop. Please, sit down. You come, no doubt, from Katarina Ivanovna? Allow me. Not there. Sit here. At Sonya's entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnikov's three chairs, close to the door, got up to allow her to enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa, where Zosimov had been sitting, but feeling that the sofa, which served him as a bed, was too familiar a place, he hurriedly motioned her to Razumihin's chair. You sit here, he said to Razumihin, putting him on the sofa. Sonya sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked timidly at the two ladies. It was evidently almost inconceivable to herself that she could sit down beside them. At the thought of it, she was so frightened that she hurriedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed Raskolnikov. I have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you, she began falteringly. I come from Katarina Ivanovna, and she had no one to send. Katarina Ivanovna told me to beg you, to be at the service, in the morning, at Mitrofanievsky, and then to us, to her, to do the honour. She told me to beg you, Sonya stammered and ceased speaking. I will try, certainly, most certainly," answered Raskolnikov. He too stood up, and he too faltered, and could not finish his sentence. Please, sit down, he said suddenly. I want to talk to you. You are perhaps in a hurry, but please, be so kind. Spare me two minutes," and he drew up a chair for her. Sonya sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried, frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes.  Mother, he said, firmly and insistently, This is Sophia Seminovna Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was run over yesterday before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling you.  In spite of her embarrassment, before Rodia's urgent and challenging look, she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Sonya gazed gravely and intently into the poor girl's face, and scrutinized her with perplexity. Sonya, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes again, but was more embarrassed than ever. I wanted to ask you, said Raskolnikov hastily, how things were arranged yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance? No, that was all right. It was too evident, the cause of death. They did not worry us. Only the lodgers are angry. Why? At the body's remaining so long, you see, it is hot now, so that, today, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until tomorrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it's necessary. Today, then, she begs you to do us the honour to be in the church tomorrow, for the service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch. She is giving a funeral lunch? Yes, just a little. She told me to thank you very much for helping us yesterday, but for you we should have nothing for the funeral. All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but with an effort she controlled herself, looking down again. During the conversation Raskolnikov watched her carefully.  She could not have been called pretty, but her blue eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up there was such a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help being attracted. Her face and her whole figure, indeed, had another peculiar characteristic. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked almost like a little girl, almost a child, and in some of her gestures this childishness seemed almost absurd. But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such small means? Does she even mean to have a funeral lunch? Raskolnikov asked, persistently keeping up the conversation. The coffin will be plain, of course, and everything will be plain, so it won't cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it all out, so that there will be enough left. And Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious, it should be so. You know, one can't. It's a comfort to her. She is like that, you know? I understand, I understand, of course. Why do you look at my room like that?  You gave us everything yesterday, Sonia said suddenly in reply in a loud, rapid whisper, and again she looked down in confusion. Her lips and chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once by Raskolnikov's poor surroundings, and now these words broke out spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Donia's eyes, and even Pulceria Aleksandrovna looked kindly at Sonia. Rodia, she said, getting up, we shall have dinner together, of course.  I am afraid we have exhausted you. Yes, yes, I'll come, he answered, getting up fussily. But I have something to see to. But surely you will have dinner together, cried for a sumihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. What do you mean? Yes, yes, I am coming, of course, of course, and you stay a minute.  Or perhaps I am taking him from you? Oh, no, no, and will you, Dmitry Prokofievich, do us the favor of dining with us? Please do, added Donia. Raskolnikov bowed, passively radiant. For one moment they were all strangely embarrassed. Good-bye, Rodia, that is, till we meet. I do not like saying good-bye. Good-bye, Nastasia. Ah, I have said good-bye again. Pulceria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too. But it somehow failed to come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room. But Avdotia Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and following her mother out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a hurried, frightened curtsy. There was a look of poignant discomfort in her face, as though Avdotia Romanovna's courtesy and attention were oppressive and painful to her. Donia, good-bye! called Raskolnikov in the passage. Give me your hand. Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten? said Donia, turning warmly and awkwardly to him. Never mind, give it to me again. And he squeezed her fingers warmly. Donia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went off, quite happy. Come, that's capital, he said to Sonia, going back and looking brightly at her. God give peace to the dead, and living have still to live. That is right, isn't it? Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his face. He looked at her for some moments in silence. The whole history of the dead father floated before his memory in those moments. Heavens, Donia! Bolcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they were in the street. I really feel relieved myself at coming away, more at ease. How little did I think yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad of that. I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don't you see it? Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be patient, and much, much can be forgiven. Well, you were not very patient. Bolcheria Alexandrovna caught her up hotly and jealously. Do you know, Donia, I was looking at you two. You are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You are both melancholy, both morose and hot-tempered, both haughty and both generous. Surely he can't be an egoist, Doniae. When I think of what is in store for us this evening, my heart sinks.  What must be will be. Doniae only think what a position we are in. What if Piotr Bedrovic breaks it off? Poor Bolcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, unconsciously. He won't be worth much if he does, answered Doniae, sharply and contemptuously. We did well to come away, Bolcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in. He was in a hurry about some business or other.  But where is one to get a breath of air here? The very streets here feel like shut-up rooms. Good heavens! What a town! Stay, this side.  Why, it is a piano they have got. I declare. How they push. I am very much afraid of that young woman, too. What young woman, mother? Why, that Sophia Seminona, who was there just now. Why? I have a pre-sentiment, Doniae. Well, you may believe it or not, but as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief cause of all the trouble. Nothing of the sort, cried Doniae in vexation. What nonsense! With your pre-sentiments, mother! He only made her acquaintance the evening before, and he did not know her when she came in. Well, you will see, she worries me. But you will see, you will see. I was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes.  Do you remember? It seems so strange, but Piotr Betrovich writes like that about her, and he introduces her to us. To you! So he must think a great deal of her. People will write anything. We were talked about and written about, too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she is a good girl, and that it is all nonsense. God grant that it may be. And Piotr Betrovich is a contemptible slanderer, Doniae snapped out suddenly. Pulseria Alexandrovna was crushed. The conversation was not resumed. I will tell you what I want with you, said Raskolnikov, drawing Rassumi into the window. Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming, Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart. One minute, Sofia Semionovna, we have no secrets. You are not in our way. I want to have another word or two with you. Listen. He turned suddenly to Rassumi him again. You know that, what's his name, Piotr Betrovich? I should think so. He is a relation. Why? added the latter, with interest. Is not he managing the case, you know, about that murder? You were speaking about it yesterday. Yes? Well, Rassumi his eyes opened wide. He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have some pledges there, too. Trifles. A ring my sister gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my father's silver watch. They are only worth five or six rubles altogether, but I value them. So what am I to do now? I do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was quaking just now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, when we spoke of Doniae's watch. It is the only thing a father's left us. She would be ill if it were lost.  So tell me what to do. I know I ought to have given notice at the police station, but would it not be better to go straight to Porphyry? Eh? What do you think? The matter might be settled more quickly. You see, mother may ask for it before dinner. Certainly not to the police station, certainly to Porphyry. Rassumi his shouted in extraordinary excitement. Well, how glad I am. Let us go at once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find him. Very well, let us go. And he will be very, very glad to make your acquaintance. I have often talked to him of you at different times. I was speaking of you yesterday. Let us go. So you knew the old woman, so that's it. It is all turning out splendidly. Oh, yes, Sophia Ivanovna. Sophia Semionovna, corrected Raskolnikov. Sophia Semionovna, this is my friend Rassumihin, and he is a good man. If you have to go now, Sonia was beginning, not looking at Rassumihin at all, and still more embarrassed. Let us go, decided Raskolnikov. I will come to you today, Sophia Semionovna. Only tell me where you live. He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and avoided her eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed as she did so. They all went out together. Don't you lock up? asked Rassumihin, following him on to the stairs. Never! answered Raskolnikov. I have been meaning to buy a lock for these two years. People are happy, who have no need of locks. He said, laughing to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway. Do you go to the right, Sophia Semionovna? How did you find me, by the way? He added, as though he wanted to say something quite different. He wanted to look at her soft, clear eyes, but this was not easy. Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday. Polenka? Oh, yes, Polenka. That is the little girl. She is your sister. Did I give her the address? Why, had you forgotten? No, I remember. I had heard my father speak of you. Only I did not know your name, and he did not know it. And now I came, and, as I had learnt your name, I asked today, where does Mr. Raskolnikov live? I did not know you had only a room, too. Goodbye, I will tell Katerina Ivanovna. She was extremely glad to escape, at last. She went away, looking down, hurrying to get out of sight, as soon as possible, to walk the twenty steps to the turning on the right, and to be at last alone, and then moving rapidly along, looking at no one, noticing nothing, to think, to remember, to meditate on every word, every detail. Never, never had she felt anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a whole new world was opening before her. She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to come to her that day, perhaps at once. Only not to-day, please not to-day. She kept muttering, with a sinking heart, as though entreating someone, like a frightened child. Mercy, to me, to that room, he will see, oh dear! She was not capable, at that instant, of noticing an unknown gentleman, who was watching her, and following at her heels. He had accompanied her from the gateway. At the moment when Razumihin Raskolnikov and she stood still at parting on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing, started on hearing Sonya's words, and I asked where Mr. Raskolnikov lived. He turned a rapid but attentive look upon all three, especially upon Raskolnikov, to whom Sonya was speaking, then looked back and noted the house. All this was done in an instant, as he passed, and trying not to betray his interest, he walked on more slowly, as though waiting for something. He was waiting for Sonya. He saw that they were parting, and that Sonya was going home. Home? Where? I've seen that face somewhere, he thought. I must find out. At the turning he crossed over, looked around, and saw Sonya coming the same way, noticing nothing. She turned the corner, he followed her on the other side. After about fifty paces, he crossed over again, overtook her, and kept two or three yards behind her. He was a man about fifty, rather tall, and thickly set, with broad, high shoulders, which made him look as though he stooped a little. He wore good and fashionable clothes, and looked like a gentleman of position. He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement at each step. His gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather pleasant face, with high cheekbones, and a fresh color, not often seen in Petersburg.  His eyes were blue, and had a cold and thoughtful look. His lips were crimson. He was a remarkably well-preserved man, and looked much younger than his years. When Sonya came out on the canal bank, they were the only two persons on the pavement. He observed her dreaminess and preoccupation. On reaching the house where she lodged, Sonya turned in at the gate. He followed her, seeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right corner. Bah! muttered the unknown gentleman, and mounted the stairs behind her. Only then Sonya noticed him. She reached the third story, turned down the passage, and rang at number nine. On the door was inscribed in chalk, Kapernamov, Taylor. Bah! the stranger repeated again, wondering at the strange coincidence, and he rang next door at number eight. The doors were two or three yards apart. You lodged at Kapernamov's, he said, looking at Sonya and laughing. He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close here at Maramreslik's. How odd! Sonya looked at him attentively. We are neighbors, he went on gaily. I only came to town the day before yesterday. Good-bye for the present! Sonya made no reply. The door opened, and she slipped in. She felt, for some reason, ashamed and uneasy. On the way to Porphyry's, Razumihin was obviously excited. That's capital, brother, he repeated several times. And I am glad, I am glad. What are you glad about? Raskolnikov thought to himself. I didn't know that you pledged things at the old woman's, too, and was it long ago? I mean, was it long since you were there?  When was it? Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. Two or three days before her death it must have been. But I am not going to redeem the things now. He put in with a sort of hurried and conspicuous solicitude about the things. I am not more than a silver ruble left, after last night's accursed delirium. He laid special emphasis on the delirium. Yes, yes, Razumihin hastened to agree, with what was not clear. Then that's why you were struck partly, you know, in your delirium you were continually mentioning some rings or chains. Yes, yes, that's clear, it's all clear now. Although, how that idea must have got about among them! Here this man will go to the stake for me, and I find him delighted at having it cleared up while I spoke of rings and my delirium. What a hold the idea must have on all of them! Shall we find him? he asked suddenly. Oh, yes, Razumihin answered quickly. He is a nice fellow, you will see, brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say, he is a man of polished manners. But I mean clumsy in a different sense. He is an intelligent fellow, very much so indeed, but he has his own range of ideas. He is incredulous, skeptical, cynical. He likes to impose on people, or rather to make fun of them. His is the old circumstantial method, but he understands his work thoroughly. Last year he cleared up a case of murder in which the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very anxious to make your acquaintance. On what grounds is he so anxious? Oh, it's not exactly.   And so I concluded, from everything together, not only that, yesterday's Amatov. You know, Rodya, I talked some nonsense on the way home to you yesterday when I was drunk. I am afraid, brother, of your exaggerating it, you see. What, that they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right, he said, with a constrained smile. Yes, yes, that is—pooh, no. But all that I said, and there was something else, too, it was all nonsense, drunken nonsense. But why are you apologizing?  It was partly assumed, however. I know, I know, I understand, believe me, I understand, once ashamed to speak of it. If you are ashamed, then don't speak of it. Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic, and Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by what Razumihin had just said about Porfiry. I shall have to pull a long face with him, too, he thought, with the beating heart. And he turned white. And do it naturally, too. But the most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do nothing at all. No, carefully would not be natural again. Oh, well, we shall see how it turns out. We shall see, directly. Is it a good thing to go or not? The butterfly flies to the light, my heart is beating, that's what's bad. In this grey house, said Razumihin. The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was at the old hag's flat yesterday, and asked about the blood? I must find that out instantly, as soon as I go in, find out from his face, otherwise I'll find out if it's my ruin. I say, brother, he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin with a sly smile. I have been noticing all day that you seem to be curiously excited. Isn't it so? Excited? Not a bit of it, said Razumihin, stung to the quick. Yes, brother, I assure you it's noticeable.  You kept jumping up for nothing.  You even blushed, especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed awfully. Nothing of the sort, nonsense, what do you mean? But why are you wriggling out of it like a schoolboy? By Jove, there he's blushing again.  But why are you so shame-faced about it? Romeo, stay, I'll tell of you to-day. I'll make mother laugh, and someone else, too. Listen, listen, listen, this is serious. What next, you fiend? Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with her. What will you tell them?  You are like a summer rose, and if only you knew how it suits you, a Romeo over six-foot high. And how you've washed to-day. You cleaned your nails, I declare, eh? That's something unheard of. Why, I do believe you've got pomatum on your hair. Bend down. Pig. Razgolnikov laughed, as though he could not restrain himself. So laughing they entered, Porfiri Petrovich is flat. This is what Razgolnikov wanted. From within they could be heard laughing as they came in, still guffawing in the passage.  End of Part Three, Chapter Four. Razgolnikov was already entering the room. He came in, looking as though he had the utmost difficulty, not to burst out laughing again. Behind him, Razumihin strode in Gorky and Orchard, shame-face and red as a peony, with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and whole figure really were ridiculous at that moment, and amply justified Razgolnikov's laughter. Razgolnikov, not waiting for an introduction, bowed to Porfiri Petrovich, who stood in the middle of the room, looking inquiringly at them. He held out his hand, and shook hands, still apparently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth, and utter a few words to introduce himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air, and muttering something, when he suddenly glanced again, as though accidentally, at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself. His stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly, the more he tried to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with which Razumihin received this spontaneous mirth, gave the whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on purpose. Full! You fiend! he roared, waving his arm, which at once struck a little round table with an empty tea-gloss on it. Everything was sent flying and crashing. But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it's a loss to the crown, Porfiri Petrovich quoted gaily. Razgolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiri Petrovich's, but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment to put a natural end to it. Razumihin completely put to confusion by upsetting the table and smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned sharply to the window, where he stood looking out with his back to the company, with a fiercely scowling countenance, seeing nothing. Porfiri Petrovich laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but obviously looked for explanations. Zemitov had been sitting in the corner, but he rose at the visitor's entrance, and was standing in expectation with a smile on his lips, there we looked with surprise, and even it seemed in credulity at the whole scene, and at Razgolnikov with a certain embarrassment. Zemitov's unexpected presence struck Razgolnikov unpleasantly. I've got to think of that, he thought. Excuse me, please, he began affecting extreme embarrassment. Razgolnikov, not at all very pleasant to see you, and how pleasantly you've come in. Why, won't he even say good morning? Porfiri Petrovich nodded at Razumihin. Upon my honor, I don't know why he's in such a rage with me. I only told him as we came along that he was like Romeo, and proved it, and that was all I think. Pig! ejaculated Razumihin, without turning around. There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he's so furious at the word. Porfiri laughed.  That'll do, we're all fools. To come to business, this is my friend Rodin Romanovich Razgolnikov. In the first place, he's heard of you, and wants to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little matter of business with you. Zemitov, what brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long? What does this mean? thought Razgolnikov uneasily. Zemitov seemed taken aback, but not very much so. Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday, he said easily. Then I've been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to introduce him to you. Porfiri and you have sniffed each other out without me. Where's your tobacco? Porfiri Petrovich was wearing a dressing-gown, a very clean linen, and trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short, stout, even decorpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short, and had a large round head, particularly prominent at the back. His soft, round, rather snipped-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish colour, but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been good-natured, except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery, marquish light under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, and gave it something far more serious than could be guessed at first sight. As soon as Porfiri Petrovich heard that his visitor had a little matter of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa, and set down himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with that careful and over-serious attention, which is at once oppressive and embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases, Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so well satisfied with himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiri. Porfiri Petrovich did not once take his eyes off him, Razumihin, sitting opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently, looking from one to the other every moment with rather excessive interest. Fool! Raskolnikov swore to himself. You have to give information to the police, Porfiri replied, with a most business-like air, that having learned of this incident, that is, of the murder, you beg to inform the lawyer in charge of the case that such and such things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem them, or that they will write to you. That's just the point, that at the present moment, Raskolnikov tried his utmost to feign embarrassment. I am not quite in funds, and even this trifling sum is beyond me. I only wanted, you see, for the present to declare that the things are mine, and that when I have money— That's no matter, answered Porfiri Petrovich, receiving his explanation of his pecuniary position coldly. But you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say that having been informed of the matter, and claiming such and such as your property, you beg— On an ordinary sheet of paper, Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of the question. Oh, the most ordinary! And suddenly Porfiri Petrovich looked with obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes, and, as it were, winking at him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov's fancy, for it all lasted but a moment. There was suddenly something of the sort Raskolnikov could have sworn he winked at him, goodness knows why. He knows, fleshed through his mind like lightning. Forgive my troubling you about such trifles, he went on, a little disconcerted. The things are only worth five rubles, but I prized them particularly, for the sake of those from whom they came to me. I must confess that I was alarmed when I heard— That is why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zosimov that Porfiri was inquiring for everyone who had pledges, assuming he had put in with obvious intention. This was really unbearable, as Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him with a flesh of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately recollected himself. You seem to be jeering at me, brother, he said to him, with a well-famed irritability. I dare say I do seem to you absurdly anxious about such trash, but you mustn't think me selfish or grasping for that, and these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just now that the silver watch, though it's not worth a cent, is the only thing left as of my father's. You may love at me that my mother is here. He turned suddenly to Porfiri, and if she knew—he turned again hurriedly to Razumihin, carefully making his voice tremble— that the watch was lost, she would be in despair.  Not a bit of it. I didn't mean that at all. Quite the contrary, Sharut Razumihin distressed. Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it? Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. Why did I say that about women?  Yes. When did she come? Last night. Porfiri paused as though reflecting. Your things would not in any case be lost, he went on calmly and coldly. I've been expecting you here for some time. And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered the ash tray to Razumihin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash over the carpet. Raskolnikov shattered, but Porfiri did not seem to be looking at him and was still concerned with Razumihin's cigarette. What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges there? cried Razumihin. Porfiri Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov. Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on the paper your name was ledgably written in pencil, together with the date on which he left them with her. How observant you are, Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, doing his very utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed and suddenly added, I say that because I suppose there were great many pledges, that it must be difficult to remember them all, but you remember them all so clearly and, and... Stupid, feeble, he thought. Why did I add that? But we know all who had pledges, and you're the only one who hasn't come forward, Porfiri answered, with hardly perceptible irony. I haven't been quite well. I heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in great distress about something. You look pale still. I'm not pale at all. No, I'm quite well, Raskolnikov snapped out rudely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was mounting. He could not repress it. And in my anger I shall betray myself, fleshed through his mind again. Why are they torturing me? Not quite well, Razumihin caught him up. What next? He was unconscious and delirious all yesterday. Would you believe, Porfiri, as soon as our backs were turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave us the slip, and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight, delirious all the time. Would you believe it? Extraordinary. Really delirious? You don't say so. Porfiri shook his head in a womanish way. Nonsense! Don't you believe it? But you don't believe it anyway. Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiri Petrovich did not seem to catch those strange words. But how could you have gone out if you hadn't been delirious? Razumihin got hot suddenly. Where did you go out full? What was the object of it? And why on the sly? Were you near sensors when you did it? Now that all danger is over, I can speak plainly. I was awfully sick of them yesterday. Raskolnikov addressed Porfiri suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance. I ran away from them to take lodgings where they wouldn't find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr. Zemitov there saw it. I say, Mr. Zemitov, was I sensible or delirious yesterday? Settle our dispute. He could have strangled Zemitov at that moment, so hateful were his expression and his silence to him.  And Nikodin Fomich was telling me today, put in Porfiri Petrovich, that he met you very late last night in the lodging of a man who had been run over.  You gave your last penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen or twenty even, but keep three rubles for yourself at least, but he flung away all the twenty-five at once. Maybe I found a treasure somewhere, and you know nothing of it. So that's why I was liberal yesterday. Mr. Zemitov knows I found a treasure. Excuses, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such trivialities. He said, turning to Porfiri Petrovich, with trembling lips. We are boring you, aren't we? Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary. If only you knew how you interest me. It's interesting to look on and listen, and I'm really glad that you've come forward at last. But you might give us some tea. My throat's dry, cried Razumihin. Capital idea. Perhaps we'll all keep you company. Wouldn't you like something more essential before tea? Get along with you. Porfiri Petrovich went out to order tea. Raskolnikov's thoughts were in a whirl. He was in terrible ex-inspiration. The worst of it is, they don't disguise it. They don't care to stand on ceremony. And how, if you didn't know me at all, did you come to talk to Nicodemformich about me?  They simply spit at my face. He was shaking with rage. Come, strike me openly.  It's hardly civil, Porfiri Petrovich. But perhaps I won't allow it.  He could hardly breathe. And what if it's only my fancy? What if I'm mistaken? And through inexperience I get angry, and don't keep up my nasty part. Perhaps it's all unintentional. All their phrases are the usual ones, but there's something about them. It all might be said, but there's something. Why did he say bluntly, with her? Why did Zometov add that I spoke artfully? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes, their tone. I assume he's sitting here. Why does he see nothing? That innocent blockhead never does see anything. Feverish again. Did Porfiri wink at me just now? Of course it's nonsense. What could he wink for? Are they trying to upset my nerves, or are they teasing me? Either it's ill-fancy or they know. Even Zometov is rude. Is Zometov rude? Zometov has changed his mind. I foresaw he would change his mind. He is at home here, while it's my first visit. Porfiri does not consider him a visitor. Sits with his back to him. There are sickest thieves, no doubt, over me. Not a doubt they were talking about me before we came. Do they know about the flat? If only they'd make haste. When I said that I ran away to take a flat, he let it pass. I put that in cleverly about a flat. It may be of use afterwards. Delirious indeed. He knows all about last night. He didn't know if my mother's arrival. The hair had written the date on him pencil. You're wrong. You won't catch me. There are no facts. It's all supposition. You produce facts. The flat even isn't a fact, but the lyrium. I know what to say to them. Do they know about the flat? I won't go without finding out. What did I come for? But my being angry now, maybe is a fact. Full, how irritable I am. Perhaps that's right, to play the invalid. He's feeling me. He will try to catch me. Why did I come? All this flashed like lightning through his mind. Parfoul Petrovich returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial. Your party yesterday, brother, as it left my head rather, and I'm out of sorts altogether. He began in quite a different tone, laughing to resume him. Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point. Who got the best of it? Ah, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated off into space. Only fancy, Roger, what we got on to yesterday, whether there is such a thing as crime, I told you that we talked our heads of. What is there strange? It's an everyday social question, Raskolnikov answered casually. The question wasn't put quite like that, observed Parfoul. Not quite, that's true, resume him, agreed at once, getting warm and hurried as usual. Listen, Arjen, and tell us your opinion. I want to hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them, and wanted you to help me. I told them you were coming. It began with a socialist doctrine. You know that doctrine. Crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social organization, and nothing more. Nothing more. No other cause is admitted. You're wrong there, cried prophyry Petrovich. He was noticeably animated, and kept laughing as he looked at resume him, which made him more excited than ever. Nothing is admitted, resume him interrupted with heat. I'm not wrong. I'll show you their pamphlets. Everything with them is the influence of environment, and nothing else. Their favourite phrase, from which it follows that if society is normally organised, all crime will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest against, and all men will become righteous in one instant. Human nature is not taken into account, it is excluded, it's not supposed to exist. They don't recognise that humanity, developing by historical living process, will become at last a normal society, but they believe that a social system that has come out of some mathematical brain is going to organise all humanity at once, and make it just and sinless in an instant, quicker than any living process.  That's why they so dislike the living process of life. They don't want a living soul. The living soul demands life. The soul won't obey the rules of mechanics. The soul is an object of suspicion. The soul is retrograde. But what they want, though it smells of death, and can be made of in-your-rubber, at least is not alive, has no will, is servile, and won't revolt. And it comes in the end, though they're reducing everything to the building of walls, and the planning of rooms and passages in a phalanstery. The phalanstery is ready, indeed, but your human nature is not ready for the phalanstery. It wants life. It hasn't completed its vital process. It's too soon for the graveyard. You can't skip over nature by logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions. Cut away a million, and reduce it all to the question of comfort. That's the easiest solution of the problem. It's seductively clear, and you mustn't think about it. That's the great thing. You mustn't think. The whole secret of life in two pages of print. Now he's off, beating the drum. Catch hold of him, do. Love, porphyry. Can you imagine, he turned to Raskolnikov. Six people holding forth like that last night, in one room, with punch as a preliminary. No, brother, you're wrong. Environment accounts for a great deal in crime. I can assure you of that. Oh, I know it does, but just tell me, a man of forty violates a child of ten. Was it environment drove him to it? Well, strictly speaking it did, porphyry observed, with noteworthy gravity. A crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the influence of environment. Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. Oh, if you like, he roared. I'll prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be described to the church of Ivan the Great, being two hundred and fifty feet high, and I'll prove it clearly, exactly, progressively, and even with a liberal tendency. I'll not take to. Will you bet on it? Done. Let's hear, please, how he will prove it. He's always humbugging, confound him, cried Razumihin, jumping up and gesticulating. What's the use of talking to you? He does all that on purpose. You don't know him, Rodion. He took their side yesterday, simply to make fools of them. And the things he said yesterday, and they were delighted. He can keep it up for a fortnight together. Last year he persuaded us they were going into a monastery. He stuck to it for two months. Not long ago, he took it into his head to declare he was going to get married, that he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no bride, nothing, all pure fantasy. Ah, you're wrong. I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes, in fact, that made me think of taking you in. Are you such a good dissembler? Raskolnikov asked carelessly. You wouldn't have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in, too. No, I'll tell you the truth. All these questions about crime, environment, children, recall to my mind an article of yours which interested me at the time. On crime, or something of the sort, I forget the title. I read it with pleasure two months ago in the periodical review. My article? In the periodical review? Raskolnikov asked in a storagement. I certainly did write an article upon a book six months ago when I left the university, but I sent it to the weekly review. But it came out in the periodical. And the weekly review ceased to exist, so that's why it wasn't printed at the time. That's true, but when it ceased to exist the weekly review was amalgamated with the periodical, and so your article appeared two months ago in a letter. Didn't you know? Raskolnikov had not known. Why, you might get some money out of them for the article.   It's a fact, I assure you. Bravo, Roger! I know nothing about it either! cried Razumane. I'll run to date through the reading room and ask for the number. Two months ago? What was the date? It doesn't matter though. I'll find it. Think of not telling us. How did you find out that the article was mine? It's only signed with an initial. I only learned it by chance the other day. Through the editor, I know him. I was very much interested. I analyzed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and after the crime. Yes, and you maintained that the preparation of a crime is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original. But it was not that part of your article that interested me so much. But an idea at the end of the article, which I regret to say, you may suggest it without working it out clearly. There is, if you collect, a suggestion that there are certain persons who can, that is, not precisely are able to, but have a perfect right to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not for them. Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his idea. What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the influence of environment? Razumane inquired with some alarm even. No, not exactly because of it, answered Porphyry. In his article, all men are divided into ordinary and extraordinary. Ordinary men have to live in submission, have no right to transgress the law, because, don't you see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right to commit any crime, and to transgress the law in any way, just because they are extraordinary. That was your idea, if I'm not mistaken. What do you mean? That can't be right. Razumane muttered in bewilderment. Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge. That wasn't quite my contention, he began simply and modestly. Yet I admit that you have stated it almost correctly. Perhaps, if you like, perfectly so. It almost gave him pleasure to admit this. The only difference is that I don't content that extraordinary people are always bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an extraordinary man has the right, that is, not an official right, but an inner right, to decide in his own conscience to overstep certain obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfilment of his idea. Sometimes perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity. You say that my article isn't definite, I'm ready to make it as clear as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to. Very well. I maintain that if discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have been in duty bound, to eliminate the dozen, or the hundred men, for the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that, that Newton had a right to murder people right and left, and to steal every day in the market. Then I remember I maintain in my article that all, well, legislators, and leaders of man, such as Lycurgus, Solon, Muhammad, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact that, making a new law, they'd transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors, and held sacred by the people, and they did not stop shorted bloodshed either, if that bloodshed, often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defense of ancient law, were of use to their cause. It's remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men, or even men, a little out of the common, that is to say, capable of giving some new word, must, from their very nature, be criminals. More or less, of course. Otherwise, it's hard for them to get out of the common rut, and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again. And to my mind, they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see, that there's nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it's somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are, in general, divided by a law of nature into two categories. Inferior, ordinary, that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter a new word. There are, of course, innumerable subdivisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law abiding. They live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking, it is their duty to be controlled, because that's their vocation, and there's nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the law. They are destroyers, or disposed to destruction, according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are, of course, relative and varied. For the most part, they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood. That depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It's only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article. You remember it began with a legal question. There's no need for such anxiety, however. The masses was scarcely ever admit this right. They punished them, or hang them, more or less. And in doing so, fulfill quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them, more or less. The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future, the first preserve the world and people in it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me. And, Vive la guerre étanelle, till the new Jerusalem, of course. Then you believe in the new Jerusalem, do you? I do, Raskolnikov answered firmly. As he said these words, and during the whole proceeding tirade, he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet. And, and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity.  And do you believe in Lazarus rising from the dead? I, I do. Why do you ask all this? You believe it, literally. Literally. You don't say so. I ask from curiosity. Excuse me. But let us go back to the question. They are not always executed, some on the contrary. Triumph in their lifetime? Oh yes, some attain their ends in this life and then they begin executing other people. If it's necessary, indeed for the most part they do. Your remark is very witty. Thank you. But tell me this. How do you distinguish those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural anxiety of a practical law abiding citizen, but couldn't they adopt a special uniform, for instance? Couldn't they wear something, be branded in some way? For you know, if confusion arises, and a member of one category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to eliminate obstacles, as she so happily expressed it, then, oh, that very often happens. That remark is witcher than the other. Thank you. No reason to, but take note that the mistake can only arise in the first category, that is, among the ordinary people, as I perhaps unfortunately called them. In spite of their predisposition to obedience, very many of them, through a playfulness of nature, sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves advanced people, destroy us, and to push themselves into the new movement, and this quite sincerely. Meanwhile, the really new people are very often unobserved by them, or even despised as reactionaries of groveling tendencies. But I don't think there is any considerable danger here, and you really need not be uneasy, for they never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their fancy run away with them, and to teach them their place, but no more. In fact, even this isn't necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very conscientious. Some perform this service for one another, and others just ties themselves with their own hands. They will impose various public acts of penitence upon themselves, with a beautiful and edifying effect. In fact, you've nothing to be uneasy about. It's a law of nature. Well, you've suddenly set my mind more at rest on that school. But there's another thing worse me. Tell me, please, are there many people who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary people? I'm ready to bow down to them, of course, but you must admit it's alarming if there are a great many of them, eh? Oh, you needn't worry about that either, Raskolnikov went on in the same tone. People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying something new, are extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. One thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades and subdivisions of men must follow with unfailing regularity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present, but I am convinced that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in ten thousand perhaps, I speak roughly, approximately, is born with some independence, and with still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact, I have not peeped into the retort in which all this takes place, but there certainly is and must be a definite law. It cannot be a matter of chance. Why, are you both joking? Razumihin cried at last. There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you serious, Roger? Raskolnikov raised his pill in almost mournful face and made no reply, and the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and discourteous sarcasm of porphyry seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful face. Well, brother, if you are really serious, you are right, of course, in saying that it's not new, that it's like what we've read and heard a thousand times already, but what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed in the name of conscience, and, excuse my saying so, with such fanaticism, that, I take it, is the point of your article. But that sanction of bloodshed by conscience is, to my mind, more terrible than the official legal sanction of bloodshed. You are quite right. It is more terrible, porphyry agreed. Yes, you must have exaggerated. There is some mistake. I shall read it. You can't think that. I shall read it. All that is not in the article. There's only a hint of it, said Raskolnikov. Yes, yes. Porphyry couldn't sit still. Your attitude to crime is pretty clear to me now, but excuse me for my impudence. I'm really ashamed to be worrying you like this. You see, you've removed my anxiety as to the two grades getting mixed, but there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy. What if some man or youth imagines that he is a lycurgis or a mohammed? A future one, of course, and suppose he begins to remove all obstacles. He has some great enterprise before him and needs money for it, and tries to get it. Do you see? Zemetov gave his son Gaffa in his corner, Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him. I must admit, he went on calmly, that such cases certainly must arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare. Young people especially. Yes, you see. Well then. What then? Raskolnikov smiled in reply. That's not my fault. So it is, and so it always will be. He said just now, he nodded at Razumihin, that I sanction bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There is no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief. And what if we do catch him? Then he gets what he deserves. You are certainly logical, but what of his conscience? Why do you care about that? Simply from humanity. If he has a conscience, he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment, as well as the prison. But the real geniuses asked Razumihin, frowning. Those who have the right to murder. Orton day to suffer at all, even for the blood they've shed. Why the word odd? It's not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will suffer if he's sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great man must, I think, have great sadness on earth. He added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation. He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison with his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Everyone got up.  Porphy Petrovitch began again. But I can't resist. Allow me one little question. I know I'm troubling you. There is just one little notion I want to express. Simply that I may not forget it. Very good. Tell me your little notion. Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale and grave before him. Well, you see, I really don't know how to express it properly. It's a playful, psychological idea. When you were writing your article, surely you couldn't have helped. Fancying yourself. Just a little, an extraordinary man uttering a new word in your sense. That is so, isn't it? Quite possibly, Raskolnikov answered contentiously, resume and made a movement. And if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties and hardship, or for some service to humanity, to overstep obstacles, for instance, to rob and murder? And again he winked with his left eye and laughed noisily just as before. If I did, I certainly should not tell you, Raskolnikov answered with defiant and haughty contempt. No, I was only interested on account of your article, from a literary point of view. How obvious an incident that is, Raskolnikov thought with repulsion. Allow me to observe, he answered dryly, that I don't consider myself a Mohammed or a Napoleon, nor any personage of that kind, and not being one of them, I cannot tell you how I should act. Oh come, don't we all think ourselves Napoleons now in Russia, Porphyry Petrovitch said, with alarming familiarity. Something peculiar portrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice. Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona Ivanovna last week, some had off blurted out from the corner. Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Porphyry. Razumihin was cowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov turned to go. Are you going already?  Very, very glad of your acquaintance. As for your quest, have no uneasiness, right just as I told you. Or, better still, come to me there yourself in a day or two. Tomorrow indeed. I shall be there at eleven o'clock for certain. We'll arrange it all. We'll have a talk. As one of the last to be there, you might perhaps be able to tell us something. He added with a most good natured expression. You want to cross-examine me officially in due form? Raskolnikov asked sharply. Oh, why? That's not necessary for the present. You must understand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and I've talked with all word pledges. I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the last. Yes, by the way, he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted. I just remember what was I thinking of. He turned to Razumihin. You were talking my ears off about that Nikolai. Of course, I know. I know very well. He turned to Raskolnikov. That the fellow is innocent, but what is one to do? We had to trouble Dmitri too. This is the point. This is all. When you went up the stairs, it was past seven, wasn't it? Yes, answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very moment he spoke, that he need not have said it. Then, when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn't you see in a flat that stood open on a second story, do you remember, two workmen, or at least one of them? They were painting there. Didn't you notice them? It's very, very important for them. Painters? No. I didn't see them. Raskolnikov answered slowly, as they were ransacking his memory, while at the same instant he was wrecking every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety, to conjecture as quickly as possible, where the trap lay, and not to overlook anything. No, I didn't see them, and I don't think I noticed a flat like that open. But on the fourth story, he had mastered the trap now, and was triumphant. I remember now that someone was moving out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovnaz. I remember, I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa, and they squeezed me against the wall. But painters? No, I don't remember that there were any painters, and I don't think that there was a flat open anywhere. No, there wasn't. What do you mean? Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though it reflected and realised. Why, it was on the day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was there three days before. What are you asking? I've muddled it. Porphyry slapped himself on the forehead. Deuce, take it. This business is turning my brain. He addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. It would be such a great thing for us to find out whether anyone had seen them between seven and eight at the flat, so I fancied you could perhaps have told us something. I quite muddled it. Then you should be more careful, Razumihin observed grimly. The last words were uttered in the passage. Porphyry Petrovich sold them to the door with excessive politeness. They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath. End of part 3 chapter 5


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