It
happened
at
ten
o'clock
in
the
morning.
On
fine
days
the
sun
shone
into
the
room
at
that
hour, throwing a streak
of
light
on
the
right
wall
and
the
corner
near
the
door. Nastasya
was
standing
beside
him
with
another
person, a complete stranger,
who
was
looking
at
him
very
inquisitively.
He
was
a
young
man
with
a beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat,
and
looked
like
a messenger.
The
landlady
was
peeping
in
at
the
half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up. "Who
is
this, Nastasya?"
he
asked, pointing
to
the
young
man. "I say, he's
himself
again!"
she
said. "He
is
himself,"
echoed
the
man.
Concluding
that
he
had
returned
to
his
senses,
the
landlady closed
the
door
and
disappeared.
She
was
always
shy
and
dreaded
conversations
or
discussions.
She
was
a
woman
of
forty,
not
at
all
bad-looking,
fat
and
buxom,
with
black
eyes
and
eyebrows, good-natured
from
fatness
and
laziness,
and
absurdly
bashful. "Who...
are
you?"
he
went on,
addressing
the
man.
But
at
that
moment
the
door
was
flung open, and,
stooping
a little,
as
he
was
so
tall, Razumihin came in. "What a
cabin
it
is!"
he
cried. "I
am
always
knocking
my head.
You
call
this
a lodging!
So
you
are
conscious, brother? I've
just
heard
the
news
from
Pashenka." "He has
just
come
to," said Nastasya. "Just
come
to,"
echoed
the
man
again,
with
a smile. "And
who
are
you?" Razumihin asked, suddenly
addressing
him. "My
name
is
Vrazumihin,
at
your
service;
not
Razumihin,
as
I
am
always
called,
but
Vrazumihin, a
student
and
gentleman;
and
he
is
my friend.
And
who
are
you?" "I
am
the
messenger
from
our
office,
from
the
merchant
Shelopaev,
and
I've
come
on
business." "Please
sit
down." Razumihin
seated
himself
on
the
other
side
of
the
table. "It's a
good
thing
you've
come
to, brother,"
he
went
on
to
Raskolnikov. "For
the
last
four
days
you
have
scarcely
eaten
or
drunk
anything.
We
had
to
give
you
tea
in
spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov
to
see
you
twice.
You
remember
Zossimov?
He
examined
you
carefully
and
said
at
once
it
was
nothing
serious—something
seemed
to
have
gone
to
your
head.
Some
nervous
nonsense,
the
result
of
bad
feeding,
he
says
you
have
not
had
enough
beer
and
radish,
but
it's
nothing
much,
it
will
pass
and
you
will
be
all
right. Zossimov
is
a first-rate fellow!
He
is
making
quite
a name. Come, I won't
keep
you,"
he
said,
addressing
the
man
again. "Will
you
explain
what
you
want?
You
must
know, Rodya,
this
is
the
second
time
they
have
sent
from
the
office;
but
it
was
another
man
last
time,
and
I talked
to
him.
Who
was
it
came before?" "That
was
the
day
before
yesterday, I
venture
to
say,
if
you
please, sir.
That
was
Alexey Semyonovitch;
he
is
in
our
office, too." "He
was
more
intelligent
than
you, don't
you
think
so?" "Yes, indeed, sir,
he
is
of
more
weight
than
I am." "Quite so;
go
on." "At
your
mamma's request,
through
Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin,
of
whom
I
presume
you
have
heard
more
than
once, a remittance
is
sent
to
you
from
our
office,"
the
man
began,
addressing
Raskolnikov. "If
you
are
in
an
intelligible
condition, I've thirty-five roubles
to
remit
to
you,
as
Semyon Semyonovitch has received
from
Afanasy Ivanovitch
at
your
mamma's
request
instructions
to
that
effect,
as
on
previous
occasions.
Do
you
know
him, sir?" "Yes, I remember... Vahrushin," Raskolnikov said dreamily. "You hear,
he
knows
Vahrushin," cried Razumihin. "He
is
in
'an
intelligible
condition'!
And
I
see
you
are
an
intelligent
man
too. Well, it's
always
pleasant
to
hear
words
of
wisdom." "That's
the
gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch.
And
at
the
request
of
your
mamma,
who
has sent
you
a remittance
once
before
in
the
same
manner
through
him,
he
did
not
refuse
this
time also,
and
sent
instructions
to
Semyon Semyonovitch
some
days
since
to
hand
you
thirty-five roubles
in
the
hope
of
better
to
come." "That 'hoping
for
better
to
come'
is
the
best
thing
you've said,
though
'your mamma'
is
not
bad
either.
Come
then,
what
do
you
say?
Is
he
fully
conscious, eh?" "That's
all
right.
If
only
he
can
sign
this
little
paper." "He
can
scrawl
his
name.
Have
you
got
the
book?" "Yes, here's
the
book." "Give
it
to
me. Here, Rodya,
sit
up. I'll
hold
you.
Take
the
pen
and
scribble
'Raskolnikov'
for
him.
For
just
now, brother,
money
is
sweeter
to
us
than
treacle." "I don't
want
it," said Raskolnikov,
pushing
away
the
pen. "Not
want
it?" "I won't
sign
it." "How
the
devil
can
you
do
without
signing it?" "I don't want...
the
money." "Don't
want
the
money! Come, brother, that's nonsense, I
bear
witness. Don't trouble, please, it's
only
that
he
is
on
his
travels again.
But
that's pretty
common
with
him
at
all
times though....
You
are
a
man
of
judgment
and
we
will
take
him
in
hand,
that
is,
more
simply,
take
his
hand
and
he
will
sign
it. Here." "But I
can
come
another
time." "No, no.
Why
should
we
trouble
you?
You
are
a
man
of
judgment.... Now, Rodya, don't
keep
your
visitor,
you
see
he
is
waiting,"
and
he
made
ready
to
hold
Raskolnikov's
hand
in
earnest. "Stop, I'll
do
it
alone," said
the
latter,
taking
the
pen
and
signing
his
name.
The
messenger
took
out
the
money
and
went away. "Bravo!
And
now, brother,
are
you
hungry?" "Yes,"
answered
Raskolnikov. "Is
there
any
soup?" "Some
of
yesterday's,"
answered
Nastasya,
who
was
still
standing there. "With
potatoes
and
rice
in
it?" "Yes." "I
know
it
by
heart.
Bring
soup
and
give
us
some
tea." "Very well." Raskolnikov
looked
at
all
this
with
profound
astonishment
and
a dull, unreasoning terror.
He
made
up
his
mind
to
keep
quiet
and
see
what
would
happen. "I
believe
I
am
not
wandering. I
believe
it's reality,"
he
thought.
In
a
couple
of
minutes
Nastasya
returned
with
the
soup,
and
announced
that
the
tea
would
be
ready
directly.
With
the
soup
she
brought
two
spoons,
two
plates, salt, pepper,
mustard
for
the
beef,
and
so
on.
The
table
was
set
as
it
had
not
been
for
a
long
time.
The
cloth
was
clean. "It
would
not
be
amiss, Nastasya,
if
Praskovya Pavlovna
were
to
send
us
up
a
couple
of
bottles
of
beer.
We
could
empty them." "Well,
you
are
a cool hand,"
muttered
Nastasya,
and
she
departed
to
carry
out
his
orders. Raskolnikov
still
gazed wildly
with
strained attention. Meanwhile Razumihin sat
down
on
the
sofa
beside
him,
as
clumsily
as
a
bear
put
his
left
arm
round Raskolnikov's head, although
he
was
able
to
sit
up,
and
with
his
right
hand
gave
him
a spoonful
of
soup, blowing
on
it
that
it
might
not
burn
him.
But
the
soup
was
only
just
warm. Raskolnikov
swallowed
one
spoonful greedily,
then
a second,
then
a third.
But
after
giving
him
a
few
more
spoonfuls
of
soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped,
and
said
that
he
must
ask
Zossimov
whether
he
ought
to
have
more. Nastasya came
in
with
two
bottles
of
beer. "And
will
you
have
tea?" "Yes." "Cut along, Nastasya,
and
bring
some
tea,
for
tea
we
may
venture
on
without
the
faculty.
But
here
is
the
beer!"
He
moved
back
to
his
chair,
pulled
the
soup
and
meat
in
front
of
him,
and
began
eating
as
though
he
had
not
touched
food
for
three
days. "I
must
tell
you, Rodya, I
dine
like
this
here
every
day
now,"
he
mumbled
with
his
mouth
full
of
beef, "and it's
all
Pashenka,
your
dear
little
landlady,
who
sees
to
that;
she
loves
to
do
anything
for
me. I don't
ask
for
it, but,
of
course, I don't object.
And
here's Nastasya
with
the
tea.
She
is
a
quick
girl. Nastasya, my dear, won't
you
have
some
beer?" "Get
along
with
your
nonsense!" "A
cup
of
tea, then?" "A
cup
of
tea, maybe." "Pour
it
out. Stay, I'll
pour
it
out
myself.
Sit
down."
He
poured
out
two
cups, left
his
dinner,
and
sat
on
the
sofa
again.
As
before,
he
put
his
left
arm
round
the
sick
man's head,
raised
him
up
and
gave
him
tea
in
spoonfuls,
again
blowing
each
spoonful steadily
and
earnestly,
as
though
this
process
was
the
principal
and
most
effective
means
towards
his
friend's recovery. Raskolnikov said
nothing
and
made
no
resistance,
though
he
felt
quite
strong
enough
to
sit
up
on
the
sofa
without
support
and
could
not
merely
have
held
a
cup
or
a spoon,
but
even
perhaps
could
have
walked about.
But
from
some
queer,
almost
animal, cunning
he
conceived
the
idea
of
hiding
his
strength
and
lying
low
for
a time, pretending
if
necessary
not
to
be
yet
in
full
possession
of
his
faculties,
and
meanwhile
listening
to
find
out
what
was
going on.
Yet
he
could
not
overcome
his
sense
of
repugnance.
After
sipping
a
dozen
spoonfuls
of
tea,
he
suddenly
released
his
head,
pushed
the
spoon
away
capriciously,
and
sank
back
on
the
pillow.
There
were
actually
real
pillows
under
his
head
now,
down
pillows
in
clean cases,
he
observed
that, too,
and
took
note
of
it. "Pashenka
must
give
us
some
raspberry
jam to-day
to
make
him
some
raspberry
tea," said Razumihin, going
back
to
his
chair
and
attacking
his
soup
and
beer
again. "And
where
is
she
to
get
raspberries
for
you?"
asked
Nastasya,
balancing
a
saucer
on
her
five
outspread
fingers
and
sipping
tea
through
a lump
of
sugar. "She'll
get
it
at
the
shop, my dear.
You
see, Rodya,
all
sorts
of
things
have
been happening
while
you
have
been laid up.
When
you
decamped
in
that
rascally
way
without
leaving
your
address, I felt
so
angry
that
I resolved
to
find
you
out
and
punish
you. I
set
to
work
that
very
day.
How
I
ran
about
making
inquiries
for
you!
This
lodging
of
yours I had forgotten,
though
I
never
remembered
it, indeed,
because
I
did
not
know
it;
and
as
for
your
old
lodgings, I
could
only
remember
it
was
at
the
Five
Corners, Harlamov's house. I kept trying
to
find
that
Harlamov's house,
and
afterwards
it
turned
out
that
it
was
not
Harlamov's,
but
Buch's.
How
one
muddles
up
sound
sometimes!
So
I lost my temper,
and
I went
on
the
chance
to
the
address
bureau
next
day,
and
only
fancy,
in
two
minutes
they
looked
you
up!
Your
name
is
down
there." "My name!" "I
should
think
so;
and
yet
a
General
Kobelev
they
could
not
find
while
I
was
there. Well, it's a
long
story.
But
as
soon
as
I
did
land
on
this
place, I
soon
got
to
know
all
your
affairs—all, all, brother, I
know
everything; Nastasya
here
will
tell
you. I
made
the
acquaintance
of
Nikodim Fomitch
and
Ilya Petrovitch,
and
the
house-porter
and
Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch,
the
head
clerk
in
the
police
office, and, last,
but
not
least,
of
Pashenka; Nastasya
here
knows...." "He's got round her," Nastasya murmured,
smiling
slyly. "Why don't
you
put
the
sugar
in
your
tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?" "You
are
a one!" Nastasya cried suddenly, going
off
into
a giggle. "I
am
not
Nikiforovna,
but
Petrovna,"
she
added suddenly,
recovering
from
her
mirth. "I'll
make
a
note
of
it. Well, brother,
to
make
a
long
story
short, I
was
going
in
for
a regular
explosion
here
to
uproot
all
malignant
influences
in
the
locality,
but
Pashenka won
the
day. I had
not
expected, brother,
to
find
her
so... prepossessing. Eh,
what
do
you
think?" Raskolnikov
did
not
speak,
but
he
still
kept
his
eyes
fixed
upon
him,
full
of
alarm. "And
all
that
could
be
wished, indeed,
in
every
respect," Razumihin went on,
not
at
all
embarrassed
by
his
silence. "Ah,
the
sly
dog!" Nastasya
shrieked
again.
This
conversation
afforded
her
unspeakable delight. "It's a pity, brother,
that
you
did
not
set
to
work
in
the
right
way
at
first.
You
ought
to
have
approached
her
differently.
She
is,
so
to
speak, a
most
unaccountable character.
But
we
will
talk
about
her
character
later....
How
could
you
let
things
come
to
such
a pass
that
she
gave
up
sending
you
your
dinner?
And
that
I O U?
You
must
have
been
mad
to
sign
an
I O U.
And
that
promise
of
marriage
when
her
daughter, Natalya Yegorovna,
was
alive?... I
know
all
about
it!
But
I
see
that's a
delicate
matter
and
I
am
an
ass;
forgive
me. But, talking
of
foolishness,
do
you
know
Praskovya Pavlovna
is
not
nearly
so
foolish
as
you
would
think
at
first
sight?" "No," mumbled Raskolnikov,
looking
away,
but
feeling
that
it
was
better
to
keep
up
the
conversation. "She isn't,
is
she?" cried Razumihin,
delighted
to
get
an
answer
out
of
him. "But
she
is
not
very
clever
either, eh?
She
is
essentially,
essentially
an
unaccountable character! I
am
sometimes
quite
at
a loss, I
assure
you....
She
must
be
forty;
she
says
she
is
thirty-six,
and
of
course
she
has
every
right
to
say
so.
But
I
swear
I
judge
her
intellectually, simply
from
the
metaphysical
point
of
view;
there
is
a
sort
of
symbolism
sprung
up
between
us, a
sort
of
algebra
or
what
not! I don't
understand
it! Well, that's
all
nonsense. Only,
seeing
that
you
are
not
a
student
now
and
have
lost
your
lessons
and
your
clothes,
and
that
through
the
young
lady's
death
she
has
no
need
to
treat
you
as
a relation,
she
suddenly
took
fright;
and
as
you
hid
in
your
den
and
dropped
all
your
old
relations
with
her,
she
planned
to
get
rid
of
you.
And
she's been
cherishing
that
design
a
long
time,
but
was
sorry
to
lose
the
I O U,
for
you
assured
her
yourself
that
your
mother
would
pay." "It
was
base
of
me
to
say
that.... My mother
herself
is
almost
a beggar...
and
I
told
a
lie
to
keep
my lodging...
and
be
fed," Raskolnikov said loudly
and
distinctly. "Yes,
you
did
very
sensibly.
But
the
worst
of
it
is
that
at
that
point
Mr. Tchebarov
turns
up, a
business
man. Pashenka
would
never
have
thought
of
doing
anything
on
her
own
account,
she
is
too
retiring;
but
the
business
man
is
by
no
means
retiring,
and
first
thing
he
puts
the
question, 'Is
there
any
hope
of
realising
the
I O U?' Answer:
there
is,
because
he
has a mother
who
would
save
her
Rodya
with
her
hundred
and
twenty-five roubles pension,
if
she
has
to
starve
herself;
and
a sister, too,
who
would
go
into
bondage
for
his
sake. That's
what
he
was
building upon....
Why
do
you
start? I
know
all
the
ins
and
outs
of
your
affairs now, my
dear
boy—it's
not
for
nothing
that
you
were
so
open
with
Pashenka
when
you
were
her
prospective
son-in-law,
and
I
say
all
this
as
a friend....
But
I
tell
you
what
it
is;
an
honest
and
sensitive
man
is
open;
and
a
business
man
'listens
and
goes
on
eating'
you
up. Well,
then
she
gave
the
I O U
by
way
of
payment
to
this
Tchebarov,
and
without
hesitation
he
made
a
formal
demand
for
payment.
When
I
heard
of
all
this
I wanted
to
blow
him
up, too,
to
clear my conscience,
but
by
that
time
harmony
reigned
between
me
and
Pashenka,
and
I
insisted
on
stopping
the
whole
affair, engaging
that
you
would
pay. I went
security
for
you, brother.
Do
you
understand?
We
called
Tchebarov, flung
him
ten
roubles
and
got
the
I O U
back
from
him,
and
here
I
have
the
honour
of
presenting
it
to
you.
She
trusts
your
word
now. Here,
take
it,
you
see
I
have
torn
it." Razumihin
put
the
note
on
the
table. Raskolnikov
looked
at
him
and
turned
to
the
wall
without
uttering
a word.
Even
Razumihin felt a twinge. "I see, brother,"
he
said a
moment
later, "that I
have
been
playing
the
fool again. I
thought
I
should
amuse
you
with
my chatter,
and
I
believe
I
have
only
made
you
cross." "Was
it
you
I
did
not
recognise
when
I
was
delirious?" Raskolnikov asked,
after
a moment's
pause
without
turning
his
head. "Yes,
and
you
flew
into
a
rage
about
it, especially
when
I brought Zametov
one
day." "Zametov?
The
head
clerk?
What
for?" Raskolnikov
turned
round
quickly
and
fixed
his
eyes
on
Razumihin. "What's
the
matter
with
you?...
What
are
you
upset about?
He
wanted
to
make
your
acquaintance
because
I talked
to
him
a
lot
about
you....
How
could
I
have
found
out
so
much
except
from
him?
He
is
a
capital
fellow, brother, first-rate...
in
his
own
way,
of
course.
Now
we
are
friends—see
each
other
almost
every
day. I
have
moved
into
this
part,
you
know. I
have
only
just
moved. I've been
with
him
to
Luise Ivanovna
once
or
twice....
Do
you
remember
Luise, Luise Ivanovna? "Did I
say
anything
in
delirium?" "I
should
think
so!
You
were
beside
yourself." "What
did
I rave about?" "What next?
What
did
you
rave about?
What
people
do
rave about.... Well, brother,
now
I
must
not
lose
time.
To
work."
He
got
up
from
the
table
and
took
up
his
cap. "What
did
I rave about?" "How
he
keeps
on!
Are
you
afraid
of
having
let
out
some
secret? Don't worry yourself;
you
said
nothing
about
a countess.
But
you
said a
lot
about
a bulldog,
and
about
ear-rings
and
chains,
and
about
Krestovsky Island,
and
some
porter,
and
Nikodim Fomitch
and
Ilya Petrovitch,
the
assistant
superintendent.
And
another
thing
that
was
of
special
interest
to
you
was
your
own
sock.
You
whined, 'Give
me
my sock.' Zametov hunted
all
about
your
room
for
your
socks,
and
with
his
own
scented, ring-bedecked
fingers
he
gave
you
the
rag.
And
only
then
were
you
comforted,
and
for
the
next
twenty-four
hours
you
held
the
wretched
thing
in
your
hand;
we
could
not
get
it
from
you.
It
is
most
likely
somewhere
under
your
quilt
at
this
moment.
And
then
you
asked
so
piteously
for
fringe
for
your
trousers.
We
tried
to
find
out
what
sort
of
fringe,
but
we
could
not
make
it
out.
Now
to
business!
Here
are
thirty-five roubles; I
take
ten
of
them,
and
shall
give
you
an
account
of
them
in
an
hour
or
two. I
will
let
Zossimov
know
at
the
same
time,
though
he
ought
to
have
been
here
long
ago,
for
it
is
nearly twelve.
And
you, Nastasya,
look
in
pretty
often
while
I
am
away,
to
see
whether
he
wants
a
drink
or
anything
else.
And
I
will
tell
Pashenka
what
is
wanted myself. Good-bye!" "He
calls
her
Pashenka! Ah, he's a
deep
one!" said Nastasya
as
he
went out;
then
she
opened
the
door
and
stood listening,
but
could
not
resist
running downstairs
after
him.
She
was
very
eager
to
hear
what
he
would
say
to
the
landlady.
She
was
evidently
quite
fascinated
by
Razumihin.
No
sooner
had
she
left
the
room
than
the
sick
man
flung
off
the
bedclothes
and
leapt
out
of
bed
like
a madman.
With
burning, twitching
impatience
he
had
waited
for
them
to
be
gone
so
that
he
might
set
to
work.
But
to
what
work? Now,
as
though
to
spite him,
it
eluded
him. "Good God,
only
tell
me
one
thing:
do
they
know
of
it
yet
or
not?
What
if
they
know
it
and
are
only
pretending, mocking
me
while
I
am
laid up,
and
then
they
will
come
in
and
tell
me
that
it's been
discovered
long
ago
and
that
they
have
only...
What
am
I
to
do
now? That's
what
I've forgotten,
as
though
on
purpose; forgotten
it
all
at
once, I
remembered
a
minute
ago."
He
stood
in
the
middle
of
the
room
and
gazed
in
miserable
bewilderment
about
him;
he
walked
to
the
door,
opened
it, listened;
but
that
was
not
what
he
wanted. Suddenly,
as
though
recalling something,
he
rushed
to
the
corner
where
there
was
a
hole
under
the
paper, began
examining
it,
put
his
hand
into
the
hole, fumbled—but
that
was
not
it.
He
went
to
the
stove,
opened
it
and
began
rummaging
in
the
ashes;
the
frayed
edges
of
his
trousers
and
the
rags
cut
off
his
pocket
were
lying
there
just
as
he
had thrown them.
No
one
had looked, then!
Then
he
remembered
the
sock
about
which
Razumihin had
just
been telling him. Yes,
there
it
lay
on
the
sofa
under
the
quilt,
but
it
was
so
covered
with
dust
and
grime
that
Zametov
could
not
have
seen
anything
on
it. "Bah, Zametov!
The
police
office!
And
why
am
I sent
for
to
the
police
office? Where's
the
notice? Bah! I
am
mixing
it
up;
that
was
then. I
looked
at
my
sock
then, too,
but
now...
now
I
have
been ill.
But
what
did
Zametov
come
for?
Why
did
Razumihin
bring
him?"
he
muttered,
helplessly
sitting
on
the
sofa
again. "What
does
it
mean?
Am
I
still
in
delirium,
or
is
it
real? I
believe
it
is
real.... Ah, I remember; I
must
escape!
Make
haste
to
escape. Yes, I must, I
must
escape! Yes...
but
where?
And
where
are
my clothes? I've
no
boots. They've taken
them
away! They've
hidden
them! I understand! Ah,
here
is
my coat—they
passed
that
over!
And
here
is
money
on
the
table,
thank
God!
And
here's
the
I O U... I'll
take
the
money
and
go
and
take
another
lodging.
They
won't find me!... Yes,
but
the
address
bureau? They'll find me, Razumihin
will
find me.
Better
escape
altogether...
far
away...
to
America,
and
let
them
do
their
worst!
And
take
the
I O U...
it
would
be
of
use
there....
What
else
shall
I take?
They
think
I
am
ill!
They
don't
know
that
I
can
walk, ha-ha-ha! I
could
see
by
their
eyes
that
they
know
all
about
it!
If
only
I
could
get
downstairs!
And
what
if
they
have
set
a
watch
there—policemen! What's
this
tea? Ah,
and
here
is
beer
left,
half
a bottle, cold!"
He
snatched
up
the
bottle,
which
still
contained
a glassful
of
beer,
and
gulped
it
down
with
relish,
as
though
quenching
a
flame
in
his
breast.
But
in
another
minute
the
beer
had gone
to
his
head,
and
a faint
and
even
pleasant
shiver
ran
down
his
spine.
He
lay
down
and
pulled
the
quilt
over
him.
His
sick
and
incoherent
thoughts
grew
more
and
more
disconnected,
and
soon
a light,
pleasant
drowsiness
came
upon
him.
With
a sense
of
comfort
he
nestled
his
head
into
the
pillow, wrapped
more
closely
about
him
the
soft,
wadded
quilt
which
had replaced
the
old,
ragged
greatcoat, sighed softly
and
sank
into
a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.
He
woke up, hearing someone
come
in.
He
opened
his
eyes
and
saw
Razumihin standing
in
the
doorway, uncertain
whether
to
come
in
or
not. Raskolnikov sat
up
quickly
on
the
sofa
and
gazed
at
him,
as
though
trying
to
recall something. "Ah,
you
are
not
asleep!
Here
I am! Nastasya,
bring
in
the
parcel!" Razumihin shouted
down
the
stairs. "You
shall
have
the
account
directly." "What time
is
it?"
asked
Raskolnikov,
looking
round uneasily. "Yes,
you
had a
fine
sleep, brother, it's
almost
evening,
it
will
be
six
o'clock
directly.
You
have
slept
more
than
six
hours." "Good heavens!
Have
I?" "And
why
not?
It
will
do
you
good. What's
the
hurry? A tryst,
is
it? We've
all
time
before
us. I've been
waiting
for
the
last
three
hours
for
you; I've been
up
twice
and
found
you
asleep. I've
called
on
Zossimov twice;
not
at
home,
only
fancy!
But
no
matter,
he
will
turn
up.
And
I've been
out
on
my
own
business, too.
You
know
I've been
moving
to-day,
moving
with
my uncle. I
have
an
uncle
living
with
me
now.
But
that's
no
matter,
to
business.
Give
me
the
parcel, Nastasya.
We
will
open
it
directly.
And
how
do
you
feel now, brother?" "I
am
quite
well, I
am
not
ill. Razumihin,
have
you
been
here
long?" "I
tell
you
I've been
waiting
for
the
last
three
hours." "No, before." "How
do
you
mean?" "How
long
have
you
been coming here?" "Why I
told
you
all
about
it
this
morning. Don't
you
remember?" Raskolnikov pondered.
The
morning
seemed
like
a
dream
to
him.
He
could
not
remember
alone,
and
looked
inquiringly
at
Razumihin. "Hm!" said
the
latter, "he has forgotten. I fancied
then
that
you
were
not
quite
yourself.
Now
you
are
better
for
your
sleep....
You
really
look
much
better. First-rate! Well,
to
business.
Look
here, my
dear
boy."
He
began untying
the
bundle,
which
evidently interested him. "Believe me, brother,
this
is
something
specially
near
my heart.
For
we
must
make
a
man
of
you. Let's
begin
from
the
top.
Do
you
see
this
cap?"
he
said,
taking
out
of
the
bundle a
fairly
good
though
cheap
and
ordinary
cap. "Let
me
try
it
on." "Presently, afterwards," said Raskolnikov,
waving
it
off
pettishly. "Come, Rodya, my boy, don't
oppose
it, afterwards
will
be
too
late;
and
I shan't
sleep
all
night,
for
I bought
it
by
guess,
without
measure.
Just
right!"
he
cried triumphantly, fitting
it
on, "just
your
size! A
proper
head-covering
is
the
first
thing
in
dress
and
a
recommendation
in
its
own
way. Tolstyakov, a
friend
of
mine,
is
always
obliged
to
take
off
his
pudding
basin
when
he
goes
into
any
public
place
where
other
people
wear
their
hats
or
caps.
People
think
he
does
it
from
slavish politeness,
but
it's simply
because
he
is
ashamed
of
his
bird's nest;
he
is
such
a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya,
here
are
two
specimens
of
headgear:
this
Palmerston"—he
took
from
the
corner
Raskolnikov's old,
battered
hat,
which
for
some
unknown
reason,
he
called
a Palmerston—"or
this
jewel! Guess
the
price, Rodya,
what
do
you
suppose
I paid
for
it, Nastasya!"
he
said,
turning
to
her,
seeing
that
Raskolnikov
did
not
speak. "Twenty copecks,
no
more, I
dare
say,"
answered
Nastasya. "Twenty copecks, silly!"
he
cried, offended. "Why,
nowadays
you
would
cost
more
than
that—eighty copecks!
And
that
only
because
it
has been worn.
And
it's bought
on
condition
that
when's it's
worn
out,
they
will
give
you
another
next
year. Yes,
on
my word! Well,
now
let
us
pass
to
the
United
States
of
America,
as
they
called
them
at
school. I
assure
you
I
am
proud
of
these
breeches,"
and
he
exhibited
to
Raskolnikov a pair
of
light,
summer
trousers
of
grey woollen material. "No holes,
no
spots,
and
quite
respectable, although a
little
worn;
and
a waistcoat
to
match,
quite
in
the
fashion.
And
its
being
worn
really
is
an
improvement, it's softer, smoother....
You
see, Rodya,
to
my thinking,
the
great
thing
for
getting
on
in
the
world
is
always
to
keep
to
the
seasons;
if
you
don't
insist
on
having
asparagus
in
January,
you
keep
your
money
in
your
purse;
and
it's
the
same
with
this
purchase. It's
summer
now,
so
I've been
buying
summer
things—warmer
materials
will
be
wanted
for
autumn,
so
you
will
have
to
throw
these
away
in
any
case... especially
as
they
will
be
done
for
by
then
from
their
own
lack
of
coherence
if
not
your
higher
standard
of
luxury. Come,
price
them!
What
do
you
say?
Two
roubles twenty-five copecks!
And
remember
the
condition:
if
you
wear
these
out,
you
will
have
another
suit
for
nothing!
They
only
do
business
on
that
system
at
Fedyaev's;
if
you've bought a
thing
once,
you
are
satisfied
for
life,
for
you
will
never
go
there
again
of
your
own
free
will.
Now
for
the
boots.
What
do
you
say?
You
see
that
they
are
a
bit
worn,
but
they'll
last
a
couple
of
months,
for
it's
foreign
work
and
foreign
leather;
the
secretary
of
the
English
Embassy
sold
them
last
week—he had
only
worn
them
six
days,
but
he
was
very
short
of
cash. Price—a rouble
and
a half. A bargain?" "But
perhaps
they
won't fit,"
observed
Nastasya. "Not fit?
Just
look!"
and
he
pulled
out
of
his
pocket
Raskolnikov's old,
broken
boot, stiffly coated
with
dry
mud. "I
did
not
go
empty-handed—they
took
the
size
from
this
monster.
We
all
did
our
best.
And
as
to
your
linen,
your
landlady has
seen
to
that. Here,
to
begin
with
are
three
shirts, hempen
but
with
a fashionable front....
Well
now
then,
eighty
copecks
the
cap,
two
roubles twenty-five copecks
the
suit—together
three
roubles
five
copecks—a rouble
and
a
half
for
the
boots—for,
you
see,
they
are
very
good—and
that
makes
four
roubles fifty-five copecks;
five
roubles
for
the
underclothes—they
were
bought
in
the
lo—which
makes
exactly
nine
roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks
change
in
coppers.
Will
you
take
it?
And
so, Rodya,
you
are
set
up
with
a complete
new
rig-out,
for
your
overcoat
will
serve,
and
even
has a style
of
its
own.
That
comes
from
getting
one's
clothes
from
Sharmer's!
As
for
your
socks
and
other
things, I
leave
them
to
you; we've twenty-five roubles left.
And
as
for
Pashenka
and
paying
for
your
lodging, don't
you
worry. I
tell
you
she'll
trust
you
for
anything.
And
now, brother,
let
me
change
your
linen,
for
I daresay
you
will
throw
off
your
illness
with
your
shirt." "Let
me
be! I don't
want
to!" Raskolnikov
waved
him
off.
He
had
listened
with
disgust
to
Razumihin's
efforts
to
be
playful
about
his
purchases. "Come, brother, don't
tell
me
I've been trudging
around
for
nothing," Razumihin insisted. "Nastasya, don't
be
bashful,
but
help
me—that's it,"
and
in
spite
of
Raskolnikov's
resistance
he
changed
his
linen.
The
latter
sank
back
on
the
pillows
and
for
a
minute
or
two
said nothing. "It
will
be
long
before
I
get
rid
of
them,"
he
thought. "What
money
was
all
that
bought with?"
he
asked
at
last, gazing
at
the
wall. "Money? Why,
your
own,
what
the
messenger
brought
from
Vahrushin,
your
mother sent it.
Have
you
forgotten that, too?" "I
remember
now," said Raskolnikov
after
a long,
sullen
silence. Razumihin
looked
at
him,
frowning
and
uneasy.
The
door
opened
and
a tall, stout
man
whose
appearance
seemed
familiar
to
Raskolnikov came in.