This
was
a gentleman
no
longer
young,
of
a stiff
and
portly appearance,
and
a
cautious
and
sour
countenance.
He
began
by
stopping
short
in
the
doorway, staring
about
him
with
offensive
and
undisguised astonishment,
as
though
asking
himself
what
sort
of
place
he
had
come
to. Mistrustfully
and
with
an
affectation
of
being alarmed
and
almost
affronted,
he
scanned Raskolnikov's
low
and
narrow
"cabin."
With
the
same
amazement
he
stared
at
Raskolnikov,
who
lay
undressed, dishevelled, unwashed,
on
his
miserable
dirty sofa,
looking
fixedly
at
him.
Then
with
the
same
deliberation
he
scrutinised
the
uncouth,
unkempt
figure
and
unshaven face
of
Razumihin,
who
looked
him
boldly
and
inquiringly
in
the
face
without
rising
from
his
seat. A
constrained
silence
lasted
for
a
couple
of
minutes,
and
then,
as
might
be
expected,
some
scene-shifting
took
place. Reflecting, probably
from
certain
fairly
unmistakable signs,
that
he
would
get
nothing
in
this
"cabin"
by
attempting
to
overawe them,
the
gentleman softened somewhat,
and
civilly,
though
with
some
severity,
emphasising
every
syllable
of
his
question,
addressed
Zossimov: "Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student,
or
formerly
a student?" Zossimov
made
a slight movement,
and
would
have
answered, had
not
Razumihin
anticipated
him. "Here
he
is
lying
on
the
sofa!
What
do
you
want?"
This
familiar
"what
do
you
want"
seemed
to
cut
the
ground
from
the
feet
of
the
pompous
gentleman.
He
was
turning
to
Razumihin,
but
checked
himself
in
time
and
turned
to
Zossimov again. "This
is
Raskolnikov," mumbled Zossimov,
nodding
towards
him.
Then
he
gave a
prolonged
yawn,
opening
his
mouth
as
wide
as
possible.
Then
he
lazily
put
his
hand
into
his
waistcoat-pocket,
pulled
out
a
huge
gold
watch
in
a round hunter's case,
opened
it,
looked
at
it
and
as
slowly
and
lazily
proceeded
to
put
it
back. Raskolnikov
himself
lay
without
speaking,
on
his
back, gazing persistently,
though
without
understanding,
at
the
stranger.
Now
that
his
face
was
turned
away
from
the
strange
flower
on
the
paper,
it
was
extremely
pale
and
wore a
look
of
anguish,
as
though
he
had
just
undergone
an
agonising
operation
or
just
been taken
from
the
rack.
But
the
new-comer gradually began
to
arouse
his
attention,
then
his
wonder,
then
suspicion
and
even
alarm.
When
Zossimov said "This
is
Raskolnikov"
he
jumped
up
quickly, sat
on
the
sofa
and
with
an
almost
defiant,
but
weak
and
breaking, voice articulated: "Yes, I
am
Raskolnikov!
What
do
you
want?"
The
visitor
scrutinised
him
and
pronounced impressively: "Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I
believe
I
have
reason
to
hope
that
my
name
is
not
wholly
unknown
to
you?"
But
Raskolnikov,
who
had
expected
something
quite
different, gazed
blankly
and
dreamily
at
him,
making
no
reply,
as
though
he
heard
the
name
of
Pyotr Petrovitch
for
the
first
time. "Is
it
possible
that
you
can
up
to
the
present
have
received
no
information?"
asked
Pyotr Petrovitch,
somewhat
disconcerted.
In
reply Raskolnikov sank
languidly
back
on
the
pillow,
put
his
hands
behind
his
head
and
gazed
at
the
ceiling. A
look
of
dismay came
into
Luzhin's face. Zossimov
and
Razumihin stared
at
him
more
inquisitively
than
ever,
and
at
last
he
showed
unmistakable
signs
of
embarrassment. "I had
presumed
and
calculated,"
he
faltered, "that a
letter
posted
more
than
ten
days,
if
not
a
fortnight
ago..." "I say,
why
are
you
standing
in
the
doorway?" Razumihin interrupted suddenly. "If you've
something
to
say,
sit
down. Nastasya
and
you
are
so
crowded. Nastasya,
make
room. Here's a chair, thread
your
way
in!"
He
moved
his
chair
back
from
the
table,
made
a
little
space
between
the
table
and
his
knees,
and
waited
in
a
rather
cramped
position
for
the
visitor
to
"thread
his
way
in."
The
minute
was
so
chosen
that
it
was
impossible
to
refuse,
and
the
visitor
squeezed
his
way
through, hurrying
and
stumbling. Reaching
the
chair,
he
sat down,
looking
suspiciously
at
Razumihin. "No
need
to
be
nervous,"
the
latter
blurted out. "Rodya has been
ill
for
the
last
five
days
and
delirious
for
three,
but
now
he
is
recovering
and
has got
an
appetite.
This
is
his
doctor,
who
has
just
had a
look
at
him. I
am
a
comrade
of
Rodya's,
like
him,
formerly
a student,
and
now
I
am
nursing him;
so
don't
you
take
any
notice
of
us,
but
go
on
with
your
business." "Thank you.
But
shall
I
not
disturb
the
invalid
by
my
presence
and
conversation?" Pyotr Petrovitch
asked
of
Zossimov. "N-no," mumbled Zossimov; "you
may
amuse
him."
He
yawned
again. "He has been
conscious
a
long
time,
since
the
morning," went
on
Razumihin,
whose
familiarity
seemed
so
much
like
unaffected good-nature
that
Pyotr Petrovitch began
to
be
more
cheerful, partly, perhaps,
because
this
shabby
and
impudent
person
had
introduced
himself
as
a student. "Your mamma," began Luzhin. "Hm!" Razumihin cleared
his
throat
loudly. Luzhin
looked
at
him
inquiringly. "That's
all
right,
go
on." Luzhin shrugged
his
shoulders. "Your
mamma
had
commenced
a
letter
to
you
while
I
was
sojourning
in
her
neighbourhood.
On
my
arrival
here
I purposely allowed a
few
days
to
elapse
before
coming
to
see
you,
in
order
that
I
might
be
fully
assured
that
you
were
in
full
possession
of
the
tidings;
but
now,
to
my astonishment..."
There
was
no
doubt
about
Pyotr Petrovitch's being
offended
this
time,
but
he
said nothing.
He
made
a
violent
effort
to
understand
what
it
all
meant.
There
was
a moment's silence. Meanwhile Raskolnikov,
who
had
turned
a
little
towards
him
when
he
answered, began suddenly staring
at
him
again
with
marked
curiosity,
as
though
he
had
not
had a
good
look
at
him
yet,
or
as
though
something
new
had struck him;
he
rose
from
his
pillow
on
purpose
to
stare
at
him.
There
certainly
was
something
peculiar
in
Pyotr Petrovitch's
whole
appearance,
something
which
seemed
to
justify
the
title
of
"fiancé"
so
unceremoniously applied
to
him.
In
the
first
place,
it
was
evident,
far
too
much
so
indeed,
that
Pyotr Petrovitch had
made
eager
use
of
his
few
days
in
the
capital
to
get
himself
up
and
rig
himself
out
in
expectation
of
his
betrothed—a perfectly
innocent
and
permissible
proceeding, indeed.
Even
his
own,
perhaps
too
complacent, consciousness
of
the
agreeable
improvement
in
his
appearance
might
have
been
forgiven
in
such
circumstances,
seeing
that
Pyotr Petrovitch had taken
up
the
rôle
of
fiancé.
All
his
clothes
were
fresh
from
the
tailor's
and
were
all
right,
except
for
being
too
new
and
too
distinctly appropriate.
Even
the
stylish
new
round
hat
had
the
same
significance. Pyotr Petrovitch treated
it
too
respectfully
and
held
it
too
carefully
in
his
hands.
The
exquisite
pair
of
lavender
gloves,
real
Louvain,
told
the
same
tale,
if
only
from
the
fact
of
his
not
wearing them,
but
carrying
them
in
his
hand
for
show.
Light
and
youthful
colours
predominated
in
Pyotr Petrovitch's attire.
He
wore a charming
summer
jacket
of
a
fawn
shade,
light
thin
trousers, a waistcoat
of
the
same,
new
and
fine
linen, a
cravat
of
the
lightest
cambric
with
pink
stripes
on
it,
and
the
best
of
it
was,
this
all
suited
Pyotr Petrovitch.
His
very
fresh
and
even
handsome face
looked
younger
than
his
forty-five
years
at
all
times.
His
dark, mutton-chop
whiskers
made
an
agreeable
setting
on
both
sides,
growing
thickly
upon
his
shining, clean-shaven chin.
Even
his
hair, touched
here
and
there
with
grey,
though
it
had been
combed
and
curled
at
a hairdresser's,
did
not
give
him
a
stupid
appearance,
as
curled
hair
usually does,
by
inevitably
suggesting
a
German
on
his
wedding-day.
If
there
really
was
something
unpleasing
and
repulsive
in
his
rather
good-looking
and
imposing countenance,
it
was
due
to
quite
other
causes.
After
scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov
smiled
malignantly, sank
back
on
the
pillow
and
stared
at
the
ceiling
as
before.
But
Mr. Luzhin
hardened
his
heart
and
seemed
to
determine
to
take
no
notice
of
their
oddities. "I feel
the
greatest
regret
at
finding
you
in
this
situation,"
he
began,
again
breaking
the
silence
with
an
effort. "If I had been
aware
of
your
illness I
should
have
come
earlier.
But
you
know
what
business
is. I have, too, a
very
important
legal
affair
in
the
Senate,
not
to
mention
other
preoccupations
which
you
may
well
conjecture. I
am
expecting
your
mamma
and
sister
any
minute." Raskolnikov
made
a
movement
and
seemed
about
to
speak;
his
face
showed
some
excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited,
but
as
nothing
followed,
he
went on: "...
Any
minute. I
have
found a lodging
for
them
on
their
arrival." "Where?"
asked
Raskolnikov weakly. "Very
near
here,
in
Bakaleyev's house." "That's
in
Voskresensky,"
put
in
Razumihin. "There
are
two
storeys
of
rooms,
let
by
a
merchant
called
Yushin; I've been there." "Yes, rooms..." "A
disgusting
place—filthy,
stinking
and, what's more,
of
doubtful character.
Things
have
happened
there,
and
there
are
all
sorts
of
queer
people
living
there.
And
I went
there
about
a
scandalous
business. It's cheap, though..." "I
could
not,
of
course, find
out
so
much
about
it,
for
I
am
a
stranger
in
Petersburg myself," Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. "However,
the
two
rooms
are
exceedingly clean,
and
as
it
is
for
so
short
a time... I
have
already
taken a permanent,
that
is,
our
future
flat,"
he
said,
addressing
Raskolnikov, "and I
am
having
it
done
up.
And
meanwhile I
am
myself
cramped
for
room
in
a lodging
with
my
friend
Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov,
in
the
flat
of
Madame
Lippevechsel;
it
was
he
who
told
me
of
Bakaleyev's house, too..." "Lebeziatnikov?" said Raskolnikov slowly,
as
if
recalling something. "Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk
in
the
Ministry.
Do
you
know
him?" "Yes... no," Raskolnikov answered. "Excuse me, I fancied
so
from
your
inquiry. I
was
once
his
guardian.... A
very
nice
young
man
and
advanced. I
like
to
meet
young
people:
one
learns
new
things
from
them." Luzhin
looked
round hopefully
at
them
all. "How
do
you
mean?"
asked
Razumihin. "In
the
most
serious
and
essential
matters," Pyotr Petrovitch replied,
as
though
delighted
at
the
question. "You see, it's
ten
years
since
I
visited
Petersburg.
All
the
novelties, reforms,
ideas
have
reached
us
in
the
provinces,
but
to
see
it
all
more
clearly
one
must
be
in
Petersburg.
And
it's my
notion
that
you
observe
and
learn
most
by
watching
the
younger
generation.
And
I
confess
I
am
delighted..." "At what?" "Your
question
is
a
wide
one. I
may
be
mistaken,
but
I fancy I find clearer views, more,
so
to
say, criticism,
more
practicality..." "That's true," Zossimov
let
drop. "Nonsense! There's
no
practicality." Razumihin flew
at
him. "Practicality
is
a
difficult
thing
to
find;
it
does
not
drop
down
from
heaven.
And
for
the
last
two
hundred
years
we
have
been
divorced
from
all
practical
life. Ideas,
if
you
like,
are
fermenting,"
he
said
to
Pyotr Petrovitch, "and
desire
for
good
exists,
though
it's
in
a
childish
form,
and
honesty
you
may
find, although
there
are
crowds
of
brigands. Anyway, there's
no
practicality. Practicality
goes
well
shod." "I don't
agree
with
you," Pyotr Petrovitch replied,
with
evident
enjoyment. "Of course,
people
do
get
carried
away
and
make
mistakes,
but
one
must
have
indulgence;
those
mistakes
are
merely evidence
of
enthusiasm
for
the
cause
and
of
abnormal
external
environment.
If
little
has been done,
the
time has been
but
short;
of
means
I
will
not
speak. It's my
personal
view,
if
you
care
to
know,
that
something
has been accomplished already.
New
valuable ideas,
new
valuable
works
are
circulating
in
the
place
of
our
old
dreamy
and
romantic authors.
Literature
is
taking
a
maturer
form,
many
injurious
prejudices
have
been
rooted
up
and
turned
into
ridicule....
In
a word,
we
have
cut
ourselves
off
irrevocably
from
the
past,
and
that,
to
my thinking,
is
a
great
thing..." "He's learnt
it
by
heart
to
show
off!" Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly. "What?"
asked
Pyotr Petrovitch,
not
catching
his
words;
but
he
received
no
reply. "That's
all
true," Zossimov hastened
to
interpose. "Isn't
it
so?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably
at
Zossimov. "You
must
admit,"
he
went on,
addressing
Razumihin
with
a shade
of
triumph
and
superciliousness—he
almost
added "young man"—"that
there
is
an
advance, or,
as
they
say
now,
progress
in
the
name
of
science
and
economic
truth..." "A commonplace." "No,
not
a commonplace! Hitherto,
for
instance,
if
I
were
told, 'love thy neighbour,'
what
came
of
it?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on,
perhaps
with
excessive
haste. "It came
to
my
tearing
my coat
in
half
to
share
with
my
neighbour
and
we
both
were
left
half
naked.
As
a
Russian
proverb
has it, 'Catch
several
hares
and
you
won't
catch
one.'
Science
now
tells
us,
love
yourself
before
all
men,
for
everything
in
the
world
rests
on
self-interest.
You
love
yourself
and
manage
your
own
affairs
properly
and
your
coat
remains
whole.
Economic
truth
adds
that
the
better
private
affairs
are
organised
in
society—the
more
whole
coats,
so
to
say—the
firmer
are
its
foundations
and
the
better
is
the
common
welfare
organised too. Therefore,
in
acquiring
wealth
solely
and
exclusively
for
myself, I
am
acquiring,
so
to
speak,
for
all,
and
helping
to
bring
to
pass my neighbour's
getting
a
little
more
than
a
torn
coat;
and
that
not
from
private,
personal
liberality,
but
as
a
consequence
of
the
general
advance.
The
idea
is
simple,
but
unhappily
it
has been a
long
time reaching us, being
hindered
by
idealism
and
sentimentality.
And
yet
it
would
seem
to
want
very
little
wit
to
perceive
it..." "Excuse me, I've
very
little
wit
myself," Razumihin
cut
in
sharply, "and
so
let
us
drop
it. I began
this
discussion
with
an
object,
but
I've grown
so
sick
during
the
last
three
years
of
this
chattering
to
amuse
oneself,
of
this
incessant
flow
of
commonplaces,
always
the
same, that,
by
Jove, I blush
even
when
other
people
talk
like
that.
You
are
in
a hurry,
no
doubt,
to
exhibit
your
acquirements;
and
I don't
blame
you, that's
quite
pardonable. I
only
wanted
to
find
out
what
sort
of
man
you
are,
for
so
many
unscrupulous
people
have
got
hold
of
the
progressive
cause
of
late
and
have
so
distorted
in
their
own
interests
everything
they
touched,
that
the
whole
cause
has been
dragged
in
the
mire. That's enough!" "Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, affronted,
and
speaking
with
excessive
dignity. "Do
you
mean
to
suggest
so
unceremoniously
that
I too..." "Oh, my
dear
sir...
how
could
I?... Come, that's enough," Razumihin concluded,
and
he
turned
abruptly
to
Zossimov
to
continue
their
previous
conversation. Pyotr Petrovitch had
the
good
sense
to
accept
the
disavowal.
He
made
up
his
mind
to
take
leave
in
another
minute
or
two. "I
trust
our
acquaintance,"
he
said,
addressing
Raskolnikov, "may,
upon
your
recovery
and
in
view
of
the
circumstances
of
which
you
are
aware,
become
closer...
Above
all, I
hope
for
your
return
to
health..." Raskolnikov
did
not
even
turn
his
head. Pyotr Petrovitch began
getting
up
from
his
chair. "One
of
her
customers
must
have
killed
her," Zossimov
declared
positively. "Not a
doubt
of
it," replied Razumihin. "Porfiry doesn't
give
his
opinion,
but
is
examining
all
who
have
left
pledges
with
her
there." "Examining them?" Raskolnikov
asked
aloud. "Yes.
What
then?" "Nothing." "How
does
he
get
hold
of
them?"
asked
Zossimov. "Koch has
given
the
names
of
some
of
them,
other
names
are
on
the
wrappers
of
the
pledges
and
some
have
come
forward
of
themselves." "It
must
have
been a cunning
and
practised
ruffian!
The
boldness
of
it!
The
coolness!" "That's
just
what
it
wasn't!"
interposed
Razumihin. "That's
what
throws
you
all
off
the
scent.
But
I
maintain
that
he
is
not
cunning,
not
practised,
and
probably
this
was
his
first
crime!
The
supposition
that
it
was
a calculated
crime
and
a cunning criminal doesn't work.
Suppose
him
to
have
been inexperienced,
and
it's clear
that
it
was
only
a
chance
that
saved him—and
chance
may
do
anything. Why,
he
did
not
foresee
obstacles, perhaps!
And
how
did
he
set
to
work?
He
took
jewels
worth
ten
or
twenty
roubles, stuffing
his
pockets
with
them,
ransacked
the
old
woman's trunks,
her
rags—and
they
found
fifteen
hundred
roubles, besides notes,
in
a
box
in
the
top
drawer
of
the
chest!
He
did
not
know
how
to
rob;
he
could
only
murder.
It
was
his
first
crime, I
assure
you,
his
first
crime;
he
lost
his
head.
And
he
got
off
more
by
luck
than
good
counsel!" "You
are
talking
of
the
murder
of
the
old
pawnbroker, I believe?" Pyotr Petrovitch
put
in,
addressing
Zossimov.
He
was
standing,
hat
and
gloves
in
hand,
but
before
departing
he
felt disposed
to
throw
off
a
few
more
intellectual phrases.
He
was
evidently
anxious
to
make
a
favourable
impression
and
his
vanity
overcame
his
prudence. "Yes. You've
heard
of
it?" "Oh, yes, being
in
the
neighbourhood." "Do
you
know
the
details?" "I can't
say
that;
but
another
circumstance
interests
me
in
the
case—the
whole
question,
so
to
say.
Not
to
speak
of
the
fact
that
crime
has been
greatly
on
the
increase
among
the
lower
classes
during
the
last
five
years,
not
to
speak
of
the
cases
of
robbery
and
arson
everywhere,
what
strikes
me
as
the
strangest
thing
is
that
in
the
higher
classes, too,
crime
is
increasing proportionately.
In
one
place
one
hears
of
a student's
robbing
the
mail
on
the
high road;
in
another
place
people
of
good
social
position
forge
false
banknotes;
in
Moscow
of
late
a
whole
gang has been captured
who
used
to
forge
lottery
tickets,
and
one
of
the
ringleaders
was
a lecturer
in
universal
history;
then
our
secretary
abroad
was
murdered
from
some
obscure
motive
of
gain....
And
if
this
old
woman,
the
pawnbroker, has been
murdered
by
someone
of
a
higher
class
in
society—for
peasants
don't pawn
gold
trinkets—how
are
we
to
explain
this
demoralisation
of
the
civilised
part
of
our
society?" "There
are
many
economic
changes,"
put
in
Zossimov. "How
are
we
to
explain
it?" Razumihin
caught
him
up. "It
might
be
explained
by
our
inveterate
impracticality." "How
do
you
mean?" "What
answer
had
your
lecturer
in
Moscow
to
make
to
the
question
why
he
was
forging
notes? 'Everybody
is
getting
rich
one
way
or
another,
so
I
want
to
make
haste
to
get
rich
too.' I don't
remember
the
exact
words,
but
the
upshot
was
that
he
wants
money
for
nothing,
without
waiting
or
working! We've grown used
to
having
everything ready-made,
to
walking
on
crutches,
to
having
our
food
chewed
for
us.
Then
the
great
hour
struck,[*]
and
every
man
showed
himself
in
his
true colours." "But morality?
And
so
to
speak, principles..." "But
why
do
you
worry
about
it?" Raskolnikov
interposed
suddenly. "It's
in
accordance
with
your
theory!" "In
accordance
with
my theory?" "Why, carry
out
logically
the
theory
you
were
advocating
just
now,
and
it
follows
that
people
may
be
killed..." "Upon my word!" cried Luzhin. "No, that's
not
so,"
put
in
Zossimov. Raskolnikov
lay
with
a
white
face
and
twitching
upper
lip,
breathing
painfully. "There's a
measure
in
all
things," Luzhin went
on
superciliously. "Economic
ideas
are
not
an
incitement
to
murder,
and
one
has
but
to
suppose..." "Upon my word," Luzhin cried wrathfully
and
irritably, crimson
with
confusion, "to
distort
my
words
in
this
way!
Excuse
me,
allow
me
to
assure
you
that
the
report
which
has reached you,
or
rather,
let
me
say, has been
conveyed
to
you, has
no
foundation
in
truth,
and
I... suspect who...
in
a word...
this
arrow...
in
a word,
your
mamma...
She
seemed
to
me
in
other
things,
with
all
her
excellent
qualities,
of
a
somewhat
high-flown
and
romantic
way
of
thinking....
But
I
was
a
thousand
miles
from
supposing
that
she
would
misunderstand
and
misrepresent
things
in
so
fanciful a way....
And
indeed... indeed..." "I
tell
you
what," cried Raskolnikov,
raising
himself
on
his
pillow
and
fixing
his
piercing,
glittering
eyes
upon
him, "I
tell
you
what." "What?" Luzhin stood still,
waiting
with
a
defiant
and
offended
face. Silence
lasted
for
some
seconds. "Why,
if
ever
again...
you
dare
to
mention
a single word...
about
my mother... I
shall
send
you
flying
downstairs!" "What's
the
matter
with
you?" cried Razumihin. "So that's
how
it
is?" Luzhin
turned
pale
and
bit
his
lip. "Let
me
tell
you, sir,"
he
began deliberately, doing
his
utmost
to
restrain
himself
but
breathing
hard, "at
the
first
moment
I
saw
you
you
were
ill-disposed
to
me,
but
I
remained
here
on
purpose
to
find
out
more. I
could
forgive
a
great
deal
in
a
sick
man
and
a connection,
but
you...
never
after
this..." "I
am
not
ill," cried Raskolnikov. "So
much
the
worse..." "Go
to
hell!"
But
Luzhin
was
already
leaving
without
finishing
his
speech, squeezing
between
the
table
and
the
chair; Razumihin got
up
this
time
to
let
him
pass.
Without
glancing
at
anyone,
and
not
even
nodding
to
Zossimov,
who
had
for
some
time been
making
signs
to
him
to
let
the
sick
man
alone,
he
went out, lifting
his
hat
to
the
level
of
his
shoulders
to
avoid
crushing
it
as
he
stooped
to
go
out
of
the
door.
And
even
the
curve
of
his
spine
was
expressive
of
the
horrible
insult
he
had received. "How
could
you—how
could
you!" Razumihin said, shaking
his
head
in
perplexity. "Let
me
alone—let
me
alone
all
of
you!" Raskolnikov cried
in
a frenzy. "Will
you
ever
leave
off
tormenting
me? I
am
not
afraid
of
you! I
am
not
afraid
of
anyone,
anyone
now!
Get
away
from
me! I
want
to
be
alone, alone, alone!" "Come along," said Zossimov,
nodding
to
Razumihin. "But
we
can't
leave
him
like
this!" "Come along," Zossimov repeated insistently,
and
he
went out. Razumihin
thought
a
minute
and
ran
to
overtake
him. "It
might
be
worse
not
to
obey
him," said Zossimov
on
the
stairs. "He mustn't
be
irritated." "What's
the
matter
with
him?" "If
only
he
could
get
some
favourable
shock, that's
what
would
do
it!
At
first
he
was
better....
You
know
he
has got
something
on
his
mind!
Some
fixed
idea
weighing
on
him.... I
am
very
much
afraid
so;
he
must
have!" "Perhaps it's
that
gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch.
From
his
conversation
I
gather
he
is
going
to
marry
his
sister,
and
that
he
had received a
letter
about
it
just
before
his
illness...." "Yes,
confound
the
man!
he
may
have
upset
the
case
altogether.
But
have
you
noticed,
he
takes
no
interest
in
anything,
he
does
not
respond
to
anything
except
one
point
on
which
he
seems
excited—that's
the
murder?" "Yes, yes," Razumihin agreed, "I noticed that, too.
He
is
interested, frightened.
It
gave
him
a shock
on
the
day
he
was
ill
in
the
police
office;
he
fainted." "Tell
me
more
about
that
this
evening
and
I'll
tell
you
something
afterwards.
He
interests
me
very
much!
In
half
an
hour
I'll
go
and
see
him
again.... There'll
be
no
inflammation
though." "Thanks!
And
I'll
wait
with
Pashenka meantime
and
will
keep
watch
on
him
through
Nastasya...." Raskolnikov, left alone,
looked
with
impatience
and
misery
at
Nastasya,
but
she
still
lingered. "Won't
you
have
some
tea
now?"
she
asked. "Later! I
am
sleepy!
Leave
me."
He
turned
abruptly
to
the
wall; Nastasya went out.