"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
Nastasya
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
sombre.
He
looked
like
a
wounded
man
or
one
who
has 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,
sombre
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
Zossimov,
watching
and
studying
his
patient
with
all
the
zest
of
a
young
doctor
beginning
to
practise, 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
irritate
it.
But
at
the
same
time
he
marvelled
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, indeed, I
am
quite
surprised
at
him
to-day," began Zossimov,
much
delighted
at
the
ladies' 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
Zossimov
with
zest, "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.
You
are
an
intelligent
man,
and
must
have
observed
yourself,
of
course. I fancy
the
first
stage
of
your
derangement
coincides
with
your
leaving
the
university.
You
must
not
be
left
without
occupation,
and
so,
work
and
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...." Zossimov,
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. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began
at
once
thanking
Zossimov, 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." "Ach, Rodya,
that
was
only
till
two
o'clock. Dounia
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
Zossimov)—I really don't
know
what
I
have
done
to
deserve
such
special
attention
from
you! I simply don't
understand
it... and... and...
it
weighs
upon
me, indeed,
because
I don't
understand
it. I
tell
you
so
candidly." "Don't
be
irritated." Zossimov forced
himself
to
laugh. "Assume
that
you
are
my
first
patient—well—we
fellows
just
beginning
to
practise
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! Why,
you
are
in
a sentimental mood to-day,
are
you?" shouted Razumihin.
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
Avdotya 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
though
repeating a
lesson
learned
by
heart. "It
is
only
to-day
that
I
have
been
able
to
realise
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
unfeigned feeling. Dounia
caught
it
at
once,
and
warmly
pressed
his
hand,
overjoyed
and
thankful.
It
was
the
first
time
he
had
addressed
her
since
their
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
Dounia.... But,
good
heavens,
what
a suit—how terribly he's dressed!... Vasya,
the
messenger
boy
in
Afanasy Ivanitch'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'm afraid! Why,
what
am
I
afraid
of?..." "Oh, Rodya,
you
wouldn't believe,"
she
began suddenly,
in
haste
to
answer
his
words
to
her, "how unhappy Dounia
and
I
were
yesterday!
Now
that
it's
all
over
and
done
with
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, Nastasya!...
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, Rodya—who
ran
out
in
the
same
way
in
a high
fever
and
fell
into
the
well
in
the
court-yard
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 Petrovitch
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 Petrovitch, although "we
are
quite
happy
again." "Yes, yes....
Of
course
it's
very
annoying...." Raskolnikov
muttered
in
reply,
but
with
such
a preoccupied
and
inattentive air
that
Dounia 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, Dounia,
please
don't
think
that
I didn't
mean
to
come
and
see
you
to-day
and
was
waiting
for
you
to
come
first." "What
are
you
saying, Rodya?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too,
was
surprised. "Is
he
answering
us
as
a duty?" Dounia 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... Nastasya...
to
wash
out
the
blood... I've
only
just
dressed." "Blood!
What
blood?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna
asked
in
alarm. "Oh, nothing—don't
be
uneasy.
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!" Razumihin interrupted. "That's true," Raskolnikov
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,"
interposed
Zossimov, "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
Raskolnikov. "Why,
people
in
perfect
health
act
in
the
same
way
too,"
observed
Dounia,
looking
uneasily
at
Zossimov. "There
is
some
truth
in
your
observation,"
the
latter
replied. "In
that
sense
we
are
certainly
all
not
infrequently
like
madmen,
but
with
the
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."
At
the
word
"madman,"
carelessly
dropped
by
Zossimov
in
his
chatter
on
his
favourite subject, everyone frowned. Raskolnikov sat seeming
not
to
pay
attention, plunged
in
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!" Razumihin cried hastily. "No, it's not,"
answered
Dounia 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,
vexed
at
being carried away. "I
only
meant
to
say
that
I
beg
your
forgiveness, mother,"
he
concluded,
shortly
and
abruptly. "That's enough, Rodya, I
am
sure
that
everything
you
do
is
very
good," said
his
mother, delighted. "Don't
be
too
sure,"
he
answered, twisting
his
mouth
into
a smile. 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
askance
at
his
mother
and
sister. Pulcheria 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, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna
is
dead," Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out. "What Marfa Petrovna?" "Oh,
mercy
on
us—Marfa Petrovna Svidrigaďlov. I wrote
you
so
much
about
her." "A-a-h! 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," Pulcheria 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,
considerate
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, Dounia?" "No, no, he's
an
awful
man! I
can
imagine
nothing
more
awful!" Dounia answered,
almost
with
a shudder, knitting
her
brows,
and
sinking
into
thought. "That had
happened
in
the
morning," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went
on
hurriedly. "And directly afterwards
she
ordered
the
horses
to
be
harnessed
to
drive
to
the
town
immediately
after
dinner.
She
always
used
to
drive
to
the
town
in
such
cases.
She
ate 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
got
into
the
water
when
she
suddenly had a stroke!" "I
should
think
so," said Zossimov. "And
did
he
beat
her
badly?" "What
does
that
matter!"
put
in
Dounia. "H'm!
But
I don't
know
why
you
want
to
tell
us
such
gossip, mother," said Raskolnikov irritably,
as
it
were
in
spite
of
himself. "Ah, my dear, I don't
know
what
to
talk about,"
broke
from
Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Why,
are
you
all
afraid
of
me?"
he
asked,
with
a
constrained
smile. "That's certainly true," said Dounia,
looking
directly
and
sternly
at
her
brother. "Mother
was
crossing
herself
with
terror
as
she
came
up
the
stairs."
His
face worked,
as
though
in
convulsion. "Ach,
what
are
you
saying, Dounia! Don't
be
angry, please, Rodya....
Why
did
you
say
that, Dounia?" Pulcheria 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, Dounia.... 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!" "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 Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. "What
is
the
matter, Rodya?"
asked
Avdotya 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..."
muttered
Zossimov,
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
bows,
and
went out. "What
an
excellent
man!"
observed
Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "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, Dounia?"
he
asked
her;
and
suddenly,
for
some
unknown
reason, laughed. "Very much,"
answered
Dounia. "Foo!—what a
pig
you
are!" Razumihin protested, blushing
in
terrible
confusion,
and
he
got
up
from
his
chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna
smiled
faintly,
but
Raskolnikov laughed aloud. "Where
are
you
off
to?" "I
must
go." "You
need
not
at
all. Stay. Zossimov has gone,
so
you
must. Don't go. What's
the
time?
Is
it
twelve
o'clock?
What
a pretty
watch
you
have
got, Dounia.
But
why
are
you
all
silent
again? I
do
all
the
talking." "It
was
a
present
from
Marfa Petrovna,"
answered
Dounia. "And a
very
expensive one!" added Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "A-ah!
What
a
big
one!
Hardly
like
a lady's." "I
like
that
sort," said Dounia. "I
thought
it
was
Luzhin's present,"
observed
Raskolnikov. "No,
he
has
not
made
Dounia
any
presents
yet." "A-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." Pulcheria Alexandrovna
exchanged
glances
with
Dounia
and
Razumihin. "H'm, 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.
She
was
an
ugly
little
thing. 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 Dounia,
with
warm
feeling.
He
fixed a strained
intent
look
on
his
sister,
but
did
not
hear
or
did
not
understand
her
words. Then, completely lost
in
thought,
he
got up, went
up
to
his
mother,
kissed
her, went
back
to
his
place
and
sat down. "You
love
her
even
now?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, 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
attentively
at
them. "You, now... I
seem
to
be
looking
at
you
from
a
thousand
miles
away... but,
goodness
knows
why
we
are
talking
of
that!
And
what's
the
use
of
asking
about
it?"
he
added
with
annoyance,
and
biting
his
nails,
fell
into
dreamy
silence again. "What a wretched lodging
you
have, Rodya! It's
like
a tomb," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly
breaking
the
oppressive
silence. "I
am
sure
it's
quite
half
through
your
lodging
you
have
become
so
melancholy." "My lodging,"
he
answered, listlessly. "Yes,
the
lodging had a
great
deal
to
do
with
it.... I
thought
that, too....
If
only
you
knew, though,
what
a
strange
thing
you
said
just
now, mother,"
he
said, laughing strangely. A
little
more,
and
their
companionship,
this
mother
and
this
sister,
with
him
after
three
years' absence,
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
matter
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, Dounia,"
he
began, gravely
and
drily, "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
or
Luzhin.
If
I
am
a scoundrel,
you
must
not
be.
One
is
enough.
If
you
marry
Luzhin, I
cease
at
once
to
look
on
you
as
a sister." "Rodya, Rodya!
It
is
the
same
as
yesterday
again," Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. "And
why
do
you
call
yourself a scoundrel? I can't
bear
it.
You
said
the
same
yesterday." "Brother," Dounia
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
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.... Oh,
how
I...
hate
them
all!" "In fact,"
continued
Dounia, "I
am
marrying
Pyotr Petrovitch
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?" She, too, flushed,
and
there
was
a gleam
of
anger
in
her
eyes. "All?"
he
asked,
with
a
malignant
grin. "Within
certain
limits.
Both
the
manner
and
form
of
Pyotr Petrovitch'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
lying, sister.
You
are
intentionally lying, simply
from
feminine
obstinacy, simply
to
hold
your
own
against me....
You
cannot
respect
Luzhin. 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 Dounia,
losing
her
composure. "I
would
not
marry
him
if
I
were
not
convinced
that
he
esteems
me
and
thinks
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? Rodya, darling, what's
the
matter?" "Good heavens!
You
have
made
him
faint," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "No, no, nonsense! It's nothing. A
little
giddiness—not fainting.
You
have
fainting
on
the
brain. H'm, yes,
what
was
I saying? Oh, yes.
In
what
way
will
you
get
convincing
proof
to-day
that
you
can
respect
him,
and
that
he...
esteems
you,
as
you
said. I
think
you
said to-day?" "Mother,
show
Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch's letter," said Dounia.
With
trembling
hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave
him
the
letter.
He
took
it
with
great
interest, but,
before
opening
it,
he
suddenly
looked
with
a
sort
of
wonder
at
Dounia. "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. Pulcheria Alexandrovna
showed
marked
anxiety,
and
all
indeed
expected
something
particular. "What
surprises
me,"
he
began,
after
a
short
pause, handing
the
letter
to
his
mother,
but
not
addressing
anyone
in
particular, "is
that
he
is
a
business
man, a lawyer,
and
his
conversation
is
pretentious
indeed,
and
yet
he
writes
such
an
uneducated letter."
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, Rodya. We...
consulted
him
just
now," Pulcheria Alexandrovna 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!" "Pyotr Petrovitch
makes
no
secret
of
the
fact
that
he
had a
cheap
education,
he
is
proud
indeed
of
having
made
his
own
way," Avdotya Romanovna observed,
somewhat
offended
by
her
brother's tone. "Well,
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,
an
observation
apropos
of
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.
That
threat
to
go
away
is
equivalent
to
a
threat
to
abandon
you
both
if
you
are
disobedient,
and
to
abandon
you
now
after
summoning
you
to
Petersburg. Well,
what
do
you
think?
Can
one
resent
such
an
expression
from
Luzhin,
as
we
should
if
he
(he pointed
to
Razumihin) had written it,
or
Zossimov,
or
one
of
us?" "N-no,"
answered
Dounia,
with
more
animation. "I
saw
clearly
that
it
was
too
naďvely 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
a
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
behaviour
(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
naďve 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..." Dounia
did
not
reply.
Her
resolution
had been taken.
She
was
only
awaiting
the
evening. "Then
what
is
your
decision, Rodya?"
asked
Pulcheria Alexandrovna,
who
was
more
uneasy
than
ever
at
the
sudden,
new
businesslike tone
of
his
talk. "What decision?" "You
see
Pyotr Petrovitch
writes
that
you
are
not
to
be
with
us
this
evening,
and
that
he
will
go
away
if
you
come.
So
will
you... come?" "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
Dounia,
if
she, too,
is
not
offended. I
will
do
what
you
think
best,"
he
added, drily. "Dounia has
already
decided,
and
I
fully
agree
with
her," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened
to
declare. "I decided
to
ask
you, Rodya,
to
urge
you
not
to
fail
to
be
with
us
at
this
interview," said Dounia. "Will
you
come?" "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, Dounia. Well,
since
you
have
decided," added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "so
be
it. I
shall
feel easier myself. I
do
not
like
concealment
and
deception.
Better
let
us
have
the
whole
truth.... Pyotr Petrovitch
may
be
angry
or
not, now!"