Chapter 17 of 41

III

"Hello, hello!" Zosimov cried out cheerfully to those entering. He had already been there for about ten minutes and was sitting in his usual corner on the sofa. Raskolnikov sat in the opposite corner, fully dressed and even carefully washed and combed, which hadn't happened to him in a long time. The room suddenly filled up, but Nastasya still managed to follow the visitors in and began to listen.

Indeed, Raskolnikov was almost well, especially compared to yesterday, but he was very pale, distracted and gloomy. Outwardly he resembled a wounded man or someone enduring some severe physical pain: his brows were drawn together, his lips compressed, his gaze inflamed. He spoke little and reluctantly, as if forcing himself or fulfilling an obligation, and some restlessness occasionally appeared in his movements.

All that was missing was some bandage on his arm or a taffeta cover on his finger for complete resemblance to a man who, for example, has a very painful festering finger, or has injured his arm, or something of that sort.

However, even this pale and gloomy face was illuminated for a moment as if by light when his mother and sister entered, but this only added to his expression, instead of the former anguished distraction, something like more concentrated torment. The light soon faded, but the torment remained, and Zosimov, observing and studying his patient with all the youthful fervor of a doctor just beginning to practice, noticed with surprise that instead of joy at his relatives' arrival, there appeared in him something like a heavy, hidden determination to endure an hour or two of torture that could no longer be avoided. He saw later how almost every word of the ensuing conversation seemed to touch some wound in his patient and irritate it; but at the same time he was partly amazed at today's ability to control himself and hide his feelings—yesterday's monomaniac who had nearly fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word.

"Yes, I can see now myself that I'm almost well," said Raskolnikov, affectionately kissing his mother and sister, which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna immediately beam, "and I'm not saying this like yesterday," he added, turning to Razumikhin and firmly shaking his hand.

"I'm actually amazed at him today," began Zosimov, very glad the visitors had come, because in ten minutes he had already lost the thread of conversation with his patient. "In three or four days, if it continues like this, he'll be completely as before, that is, as he was a month ago, or two... or perhaps even three? After all, this began and developed long ago, didn't it? You admit now that you may have been at fault yourself?" he added with a cautious smile, as if still fearing to irritate him somehow.

"Very possibly," Raskolnikov answered coldly.

"I say this," continued Zosimov, warming to his subject, "because your complete recovery now depends chiefly on yourself alone. Now that one can talk with you, I'd like to impress upon you that it's necessary to eliminate the original, so to speak, root causes that influenced the origin of your morbid condition, then you'll be cured, otherwise it will be even worse. I don't know these original causes, but they must be known to you. You're an intelligent man and have certainly observed yourself. It seems to me the beginning of your disorder coincides partly with your leaving the university. You can't remain without occupation, and therefore work and a firmly set goal before you, it seems to me, could help you greatly."

"Yes, yes, you're quite right... I'll re-enter the university as soon as possible, and then everything will go... like clockwork..."

Zosimov, who had begun his wise advice partly for effect before the ladies, was naturally somewhat puzzled when, finishing his speech and glancing at his listener, he noticed a decidedly mocking expression on his face. However, this lasted only a moment. Pulcheria Alexandrovna immediately began thanking Zosimov, especially for his visit to their hotel last night.

"What, he was at your place at night?" asked Raskolnikov, as if alarmed. "So you didn't sleep after your journey either?"

"Ah, Rodya, that was all only until two o'clock. Dunya and I never go to bed before two at home either."

"I also don't know how to thank him," continued Raskolnikov, suddenly frowning and looking down. "Setting aside the question of money—you'll forgive my mentioning it" (he turned to Zosimov), "I really don't know what I've done to deserve such special attention from you. I simply don't understand... and... and it's actually burdensome to me because I don't understand: I'm telling you frankly."

"Don't get irritated," Zosimov laughed with effort, "suppose you're my first patient, well, our sort, when just starting to practice, love our first patients like our own children, and some almost fall in love with them. And I'm not rich in patients."

"I'm not even speaking about him," added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumikhin, "but he's seen nothing from me except insults and trouble."

"What nonsense he's talking! Are you in a sentimental mood today or what?" cried Razumikhin.

If he'd been more perceptive, he would have seen that there was no sentimental mood here at all, but rather something quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna noticed this. She was watching her brother closely and anxiously.

"As for you, mama, I dare not even speak," he continued, as if reciting a lesson learned that morning, "only today could I grasp somewhat how you must have suffered here yesterday, waiting for my return." Having said this, he suddenly, silently and with a smile, extended his hand to his sister. But in this smile there flashed this time a genuine, unfeigned feeling. Dunya immediately seized and warmly pressed the hand extended to her, gladdened and grateful. This was the first time he had addressed her since yesterday's quarrel. Their mother's face lit up with rapture and happiness at the sight of this final and wordless reconciliation between brother and sister.

"Now that's why I love him!" whispered the ever-exaggerating Razumikhin, turning energetically in his chair. "He has these gestures!..."

"And how well everything comes out for him," the mother thought to herself, "what noble impulses he has, and how simply, delicately he ended all yesterday's misunderstanding with his sister—just by extending his hand at such a moment and looking kindly... And what beautiful eyes he has, and what a beautiful face altogether!... He's even better-looking than Dunechka... But, my God, what a costume he has, how terribly he's dressed! Vasya the messenger boy at Afanasy Ivanovich's shop is better dressed!... If only I could, if only, it seems, I could rush to him and embrace him and... weep—but I'm afraid, afraid, my God!.. He's so... even when he speaks kindly, I'm afraid! But what am I afraid of?..."

"Ah, Rodya, you won't believe," she suddenly rushed on, hurrying to respond to his remark, "how unhappy Dunechka and I were... yesterday! Now that it's all over and done with and we're all happy again—I can tell you. Imagine, we were running here to embrace you, almost straight from the train, and that woman—ah, there she is! Hello, Nastasya!... She suddenly tells us that you're lying in brain fever and that you just ran away secretly from the doctor, delirious, into the street, and that they'd gone to find you. You won't believe what came over us! I immediately remembered how Lieutenant Potanchikov, our acquaintance, a friend of your father's, died tragically—you don't remember him, Rodya—also in brain fever and ran out just the same way and fell into the well in the yard, and they could only pull him out the next day. And we, of course, exaggerated even more. We were about to rush to find Pyotr Petrovich, so that at least with his help... because we were alone, completely alone," she drawled in a plaintive voice and suddenly stopped short completely, remembering that it was still rather dangerous to speak about Pyotr Petrovich, despite the fact that "everyone was completely happy again."

"Yes, yes... all that is certainly vexing..." muttered Raskolnikov in response, but with such a distracted and almost inattentive manner that Dunechka looked at him in amazement.

"What else did I want to say," he continued, struggling to remember, "yes: please, mama, and you, Dunechka, don't think that I didn't want to come to you first today and waited for you to come first."

"Why are you saying this, Rodya!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, also surprised.

"Is he answering us out of duty or something?" thought Dunechka. "Making peace and asking forgiveness as if performing a service or reciting a lesson."

"I'd only just woken up and was about to go, but my clothes detained me; I forgot to tell her yesterday... Nastasya... to wash out that blood... I only just managed to get dressed now."

"Blood! What blood?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna became alarmed.

"It's nothing... don't worry. It's blood from yesterday when I was wandering somewhat delirious and stumbled upon a crushed man... a certain official..."

"Delirious? But you remember everything," interrupted Razumikhin.

"That's true," Raskolnikov answered somehow especially carefully, "I remember everything, down to the smallest detail, but why I did that, and went there, and said that—I can't really explain."

"A well-known phenomenon," Zosimov chimed in, "the execution of an action is sometimes masterful, most intricate, but the control of actions, the origin of actions, is disordered and depends on various morbid impressions. Like a dream."

"Well, perhaps it's actually good that he considers me almost mad," thought Raskolnikov.

"But perhaps healthy people do the same thing," remarked Dunechka, looking anxiously at Zosimov.

"A rather accurate observation," he answered, "in this sense indeed we all, and very often, are almost like lunatics, with only a small difference, that the 'sick' are somewhat more mad than we are, so here it's necessary to draw a line. But a harmonious person, it's true, almost doesn't exist; in tens, or perhaps even many hundreds of thousands, you meet one, and even then in rather weak specimens..."

At the word "mad," carelessly escaped from Zosimov, who had gotten carried away on his favorite topic, everyone winced. Raskolnikov sat as if paying no attention, in contemplation and with a strange smile on his pale lips. He continued pondering something.

"Well, so what about that crushed man? I interrupted you!" Razumikhin cried hastily.

"What?" he seemed to wake up. "Yes... well, I got stained with blood when I helped carry him to his apartment... By the way, mama, I did one unforgivable thing yesterday; I really wasn't in my right mind. Yesterday I gave away all the money you sent me... to his wife... for the funeral. She's a widow now, consumptive, a pitiful woman... three little orphans, hungry... the house is empty... and there's another daughter too... Perhaps you would have given it yourselves if you'd seen... Though I had no right at all, I admit, especially knowing how you obtained that money yourselves. To help others, one must first have the right to do so, otherwise: 'Crevez, chiens, si vous n'êtes pas contents!'" He laughed. "Isn't that right, Dunya?"

"No, not right," Dunya answered firmly.

"Bah! So you too... have intentions!..." he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred and smiling mockingly. "I should have realized that... Well, that's commendable; it's better for you... and you'll reach a certain line that you won't cross—you'll be unhappy, but if you do cross it—you may be even more unhappy... But anyway, it's all nonsense!" he added irritably, annoyed at his involuntary enthusiasm. "I only wanted to say that I'm asking your forgiveness, mama," he concluded abruptly and tersely.

"Enough, Rodya, I'm sure everything you do is excellent!" said the delighted mother.

"Don't be sure," he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile. A silence followed. There was something strained in all this conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and everyone felt it.

"It's as if they're really afraid of me," thought Raskolnikov to himself, glancing from under his brows at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna indeed grew more timid the longer she kept silent.

"From a distance, it seems I loved them so much," flashed through his mind.

"You know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna died!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out.

"Which Marfa Petrovna?"

"Oh, my God, Marfa Petrovna, Svidrigailov! I wrote you so much about her."

"A-a-ah, yes, I remember... So she died? Oh, really?" he suddenly roused himself, as if waking up. "Did she really die? What from?"

"Imagine, suddenly!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurried on, encouraged by his curiosity, "and precisely at the very time when I sent you that letter, on that very day even! Imagine, that terrible man seems to have been the cause of her death. They say he beat her terribly!"

"Did they really live like that?" he asked, turning to his sister.

"No, quite the contrary even. He was always very patient with her, even courteous. In many cases he was even too indulgent toward her character, for a whole seven years... Somehow he suddenly lost patience."

"So he's not so terrible after all, if he restrained himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him, Dunechka?"

"No, no, he's a terrible man! I can't imagine anything more terrible," Dunya answered, almost shuddering, frowning and falling into thought.

"It happened with them in the morning," Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued hurriedly. "After that she immediately ordered the horses harnessed to go to town right after dinner, because she always went to town in such cases; they say she ate dinner with great appetite..."

"Despite being beaten?"

"...She always had that... habit anyway, and as soon as she'd dined, so as not to be late for her drive, she immediately set off for the bathhouse... You see, she was somehow being treated there with bathing; they have a cold spring there, and she bathed in it regularly every day, and as soon as she entered the water, she suddenly had a stroke!"

"No wonder!" said Zosimov.

"And did he beat her badly?"

"That doesn't really matter," responded Dunya.

"Hmm! But anyway, mama, why are you telling such nonsense," Raskolnikov suddenly said irritably and as if inadvertently.

"Ah, my dear, I didn't know what else to talk about," burst from Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"What, are you all afraid of me or something?" he said with a twisted smile.

"That's actually true," said Dunya, looking directly and sternly at her brother. "Mama was even crossing herself from fear coming up the stairs."

His face contorted as if in a spasm.

"Ah, why are you saying that, Dunya! Don't be angry, please, Rodya... Why did you, Dunya!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in confusion. "The thing is, I was coming here, thinking all the way, in the train: how we'll see each other, how we'll tell each other everything... and I was so happy I didn't even see the road! But what am I saying! I'm happy now too... You shouldn't have, Dunya! I'm happy just seeing you, Rodya..."

"Enough, mama," he muttered in confusion, not looking at her and squeezing her hand. "We'll have time to talk our fill!"

Having said this, he suddenly became confused and turned pale: again that recent terrible sensation passed like a deathly chill through his soul; again it suddenly became completely clear and comprehensible to him that he had just told a terrible lie, that not only would he never now have time to talk his fill, but that he could no longer talk about anything at all, ever, with anyone. The impression of this tormenting thought was so strong that for a moment he almost completely forgot himself, rose from his place and, not looking at anyone, started to leave the room.

"What are you doing?" cried Razumikhin, grabbing him by the arm.

He sat down again and began silently looking around; everyone was staring at him in bewilderment.

"Why are you all so boring!" he suddenly cried out, quite unexpectedly. "Say something! Why just sit like this! Well, talk then! Let's have a conversation... We've gathered and we're silent... Well, something!"

"Thank God! And I thought yesterday's thing was starting with him again," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.

"What's wrong, Rodya?" Avdotya Romanovna asked mistrustfully.

"Nothing, I just remembered something," he answered and suddenly laughed.

"Well, if it's something, then that's fine! Otherwise I was beginning to think myself..." muttered Zosimov, rising from the sofa. "However, I must be going; I'll stop by again, perhaps... if I find you in..."

He made his farewells and left.

"What a wonderful man!" remarked Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"Yes, wonderful, excellent, educated, intelligent..." Raskolnikov suddenly began speaking with unexpected rapidity and with some animation unusual until now. "I can't remember where I met him before my illness... I think I met him somewhere... Now here's another good man!" he nodded at Razumikhin. "Do you like him, Dunya?" he asked her and suddenly, for no apparent reason, laughed.

"Very much," answered Dunya.

"Pah, what a... pig you are!" pronounced the terribly embarrassed and blushing Razumikhin, rising from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled faintly, and Raskolnikov burst out laughing.

"Where are you going?"

"I also... I need to."

"You don't need to at all, stay! Zosimov left, so you need to as well. Don't go... What time is it? Is it twelve? What a lovely watch you have, Dunya! But why are you all silent again? It's only me talking!..."

"It was a gift from Marfa Petrovna," answered Dunya.

"And very expensive," added Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"A-a-ah! How large, almost not ladylike."

"I like them that way," said Dunya.

"So it's not a gift from the fiancé," thought Razumikhin and for some reason was pleased.

"And I thought it was Luzhin's gift," remarked Raskolnikov.

"No, he hasn't given Dunechka anything yet."

"A-a-ah! And do you remember, mama, I was in love and wanted to get married," he suddenly said, looking at his mother, who was struck by the unexpected turn and the tone with which he spoke about it.

"Oh, my dear, yes!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dunechka and Razumikhin.

"Hmm! Yes! And what can I tell you? I barely remember. She was such a sickly girl," he continued, as if suddenly falling into thought again and looking down, "completely ailing; she loved giving to beggars, and was always dreaming about a convent, and once burst into tears when she began talking to me about it, yes, yes... I remember... I remember very well. Such a plain little thing... really. I don't know why I became attached to her then, I think because she was always sick... If she'd been lame or hunchbacked too, I think I would have loved her even more..." (He smiled pensively.) "So... it was some kind of spring delirium..."

"No, it wasn't just spring delirium," said Dunechka with animation.

He looked at his sister attentively and intently, but didn't hear or perhaps didn't even understand her words. Then, in deep thought, he rose, went to his mother, kissed her, returned to his place and sat down.

"You love her even now!" said the moved Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"Her? Now? Ah yes... you mean her! No. That's all now as if in another world... and so long ago. And everything around seems not to be happening here..."

He looked at them attentively.

"And you too... it's as if I'm looking at you from a thousand miles away... And the devil knows why we're talking about this! And why ask questions?" he added with annoyance and fell silent, biting his nails and lapsing into thought again.

"What a bad apartment you have, Rodya, just like a coffin," Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly said, breaking the oppressive silence, "I'm sure you've become half so melancholic from the apartment."

"Apartment?..." he answered distractedly. "Yes, the apartment contributed a lot... I've thought about that too... And if you only knew, however, what a strange thought you just expressed, mama," he added suddenly, smiling strangely.

A little more, and this company, these relatives, after three years' separation, this familial tone of conversation with the complete impossibility of talking about anything at all—would finally become absolutely unbearable to him. There was, however, one urgent matter that had to be decided today one way or another—so he had decided earlier when he woke up. Now he was glad of the matter as a way out.

"Listen, Dunya," he began seriously and dryly, "I, of course, ask your forgiveness for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to remind you again that I'm not backing down from the main point. Either me or Luzhin. Let me be a scoundrel, but you mustn't be. One of us. If you marry Luzhin, I'll immediately stop considering you my sister."

"Rodya, Rodya! But this is all the same as yesterday," Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out sorrowfully, "and why do you keep calling yourself a scoundrel, I can't bear it! It was the same yesterday..."

"Brother," Dunya answered firmly and also dryly, "there's a mistake on your part in all this. I thought about it overnight and found the mistake. It's all in the fact that you seem to suppose I'm sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That's not at all the case. I'm simply marrying for myself, because things are hard for me; and then, of course, I'll be glad if I can be useful to my family, but that's not the main motivation in my decision..."

"She's lying!" he thought to himself, biting his nails with malice. "Proud woman! Won't admit that she wants to play benefactress! Oh, base characters! They even love as if they hate... Oh, how I... hate them all!"

"In a word, I'm marrying Pyotr Petrovich," Dunechka continued, "because of two evils I choose the lesser. I intend to honestly fulfill everything he expects of me, which means I won't deceive him... Why did you smile just now?"

She also flushed, and anger flashed in her eyes.

"You'll fulfill everything?" he asked, smirking venomously.

"Up to a certain limit. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovich's courtship showed me immediately what he needs. He values himself highly, of course, perhaps too highly, but I hope he values me too... Why are you laughing again?"

"And why are you blushing again? You're lying, sister, you're lying deliberately, out of pure feminine stubbornness, just to have your way with me... You can't respect Luzhin: I saw him and spoke with him. Which means you're selling yourself for money, and which means in any case you're acting basely, and I'm glad you can at least blush!"

"That's not true, I'm not lying!" cried Dunechka, losing all composure. "I won't marry him without being convinced that he values and treasures me; I won't marry him without being firmly convinced that I myself can respect him. Fortunately, I can be convinced of this for certain, even today. And such a marriage is not base, as you say! And even if you were right, if I really had decided on something base—isn't it merciless on your part to speak to me like this? Why do you demand from me heroism that perhaps you yourself don't have? That's despotism, that's violence! If I ruin anyone, it's only myself... I haven't murdered anyone yet!.. Why are you looking at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, what's wrong? Rodya, dear!.."

"Good Lord! She's driven him to fainting!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"No, no... nonsense... nothing!.. My head just spun a little. Not fainting at all... You're obsessed with these faintings!.. Hmm! Yes... what did I want to say? Yes: how will you convince yourself today that you can respect him and that he... values you, I think you said? You said today, didn't you? Or did I mishear?"

"Mama, show brother Pyotr Petrovich's letter," said Dunechka.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna handed over the letter with trembling hands. He took it with great curiosity. But before unfolding it, he suddenly looked at Dunechka with some surprise.

"Strange," he said slowly, as if suddenly struck by a new thought, "why am I making such a fuss? What's all the shouting about? Marry whoever you want!"

He spoke as if to himself, but said it aloud and looked at his sister for some time, as if puzzled.

He finally unfolded the letter, still maintaining an expression of some strange surprise; then slowly and attentively began to read and read it twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was especially anxious; indeed everyone expected something special.

"I find this surprising," he began after some reflection, handing the letter back to his mother but not addressing anyone in particular, "he handles business matters, he's a lawyer, and his conversation even has a certain flourish—but how illiterately he writes."

Everyone stirred; this was not at all what they expected.

"But they all write like that," Razumikhin remarked abruptly.

"You've read it?"

"Yes."

"We showed it to him, Rodya, we... consulted earlier," began the embarrassed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"It's specifically legal style," interrupted Razumikhin, "legal documents are still written like this."

"Legal? Yes, exactly legal, business-like... Not exactly very illiterate, but not exactly very literary either; business-like!"

"Pyotr Petrovich doesn't hide that he was educated on pennies, and even boasts that he made his own way," remarked Avdotya Romanovna, somewhat offended by her brother's new tone.

"Well, if he boasts, then he has something to boast about, I don't dispute it. You, sister, seem offended that from the whole letter I extracted such a frivolous remark, and you think I deliberately started talking about such trifles to show off before you out of spite. On the contrary, regarding the style, something came to mind that's not at all superfluous in the present case. There's one expression there: 'you have only yourself to blame,' placed very significantly and clearly, and besides that there's a threat that he'll leave immediately if I come. This threat to leave is the same as a threat to abandon you both if you're disobedient, and to abandon you now, after summoning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think: can one be equally offended by such an expression from Luzhin as if, say, he had written it" (he pointed at Razumikhin), "or Zosimov, or one of us?"

"N-no," answered Dunechka, livening up, "I understood very well that it's expressed too naively and that he's perhaps simply not skilled at writing... You judged that well, brother. I didn't even expect..."

"It's expressed in legal style, and in legal style one can't write otherwise, and it came out cruder than perhaps he intended. However, I must disillusion you somewhat: there's another expression in this letter, a slander about me, and a rather nasty one. Yesterday I gave money to the widow, a consumptive and injured woman, and not 'under the pretext of a funeral' but directly for the funeral, and not into the hands of the daughter—a girl, as he writes, 'of notorious behavior' (whom I saw yesterday for the first time in my life), but precisely to the widow. In all this I see too hasty a desire to smear me and quarrel with you. It's expressed again in legal fashion, that is, with too obvious a disclosure of purpose and with most naive haste. He's an intelligent man, but to act intelligently—intelligence alone isn't enough. All this portrays the man and... I don't think he values you much. I'm telling you this solely for your edification, because I sincerely wish you well..."

Dunechka didn't answer; her decision had been made long ago, she was only waiting for evening.

"So what do you decide, Rodya?" asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, even more troubled than before by his sudden new business-like tone of speech.

"What do you mean 'decide'?"

"Well, Pyotr Petrovich writes that you shouldn't be with us this evening and that he'll leave... if you come. So what will you... will you be there?"

"That's certainly not for me to decide, but first of all for you, if such a demand from Pyotr Petrovich doesn't offend you, and secondly for Dunya, if she's not offended either. But I'll do what's best for you," he added dryly.

"Dunechka has already decided, and I fully agree with her," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to insert.

"I've decided to ask you, Rodya, to urgently ask you to be definitely present at this meeting," said Dunya. "Will you come?"

"I'll come."

"I'm also asking you to be with us at eight o'clock," she turned to Razumikhin. "Mama, I'm inviting him too."

"Excellent, Dunechka. Well, as you've decided there," added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "so let it be. It's easier for me too; I don't like pretending and lying; better we speak the whole truth... Let Pyotr Petrovich be angry or not now!"