Capítulo 14 de 41

VII

In the middle of the street stood a carriage, smart and lordly, drawn by a pair of spirited gray horses; there were no passengers, and the coachman himself had climbed down from his box and stood beside it; the horses were being held by their bridles. A crowd of people pressed around, policemen at the front. One of them held a lighted lantern in his hand, which he, bending down, used to illuminate something on the pavement, right by the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, gasping; the coachman seemed bewildered and occasionally repeated:

"What a sin! Lord, what a sin!"

Raskolnikov pushed his way through as far as possible and finally saw the object of all this commotion and curiosity. On the ground lay a man just run over by the horses, apparently unconscious, very poorly dressed but in "respectable" clothing, all covered in blood. Blood was flowing from his face and head; his face was all beaten, scraped, mangled. It was clear he had been run over badly.

"Good Lord!" the coachman wailed, "how could I see him! If I'd been racing or hadn't shouted to him, but I was going slowly, steadily. Everyone saw it: it's a lie, and I say so too. A drunk man won't stand on ceremony—that's well known!.. I see him crossing the street, staggering, nearly falling—I shouted once, then a second time, then a third, and I held back the horses; but he fell straight under their feet! Whether he did it on purpose or was too drunk... The horses are young, skittish—they jerked, and he cried out—they got worse... and so the trouble came."

"That's exactly how it was!" came someone's witness testimony from the crowd.

"He did shout, that's true, he shouted three times to him," another voice responded.

"Exactly three times, everyone heard!" a third shouted.

However, the coachman was not very dejected or frightened. It was clear that the carriage belonged to a wealthy and important owner who was waiting somewhere for its arrival; the police, of course, were very concerned with how to settle this last circumstance. The run-over man had to be taken to the station and to the hospital. No one knew his name.

Meanwhile Raskolnikov pushed through and bent even closer. Suddenly the lantern brightly illuminated the unfortunate man's face; he recognized him.

"I know him, I know him!" he shouted, pushing all the way forward, "he's an official, retired, a titular councilor, Marmeladov! He lives here, nearby, in Kozel's house... Get a doctor quickly! I'll pay, here!" He pulled money from his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in remarkable agitation.

The policemen were pleased that they found out who the run-over man was. Raskolnikov also gave his own name, gave his address, and with all his might, as if it concerned his own father, urged them to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his apartment as quickly as possible.

"It's right here, three houses away," he fussed, "Kozel's house, a German, wealthy... He was probably drunk now, making his way home. I know him... He's a drunkard... He has a family there, a wife, children, one daughter. Why drag him to the hospital when there's probably a doctor in the house! I'll pay, I'll pay!.. At least there'll be proper care, they'll help right away, otherwise he'll die before reaching the hospital..."

He even managed to slip something discreetly into someone's hand; the matter, however, was clear and lawful, and in any case help was closer here. They lifted the run-over man and carried him; helpers were found. Kozel's house was about thirty paces away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully supporting the head and showing the way.

"This way, this way! Up the stairs head first; turn him... like this! I'll pay, I'll thank you," he muttered.

Katerina Ivanovna, as always, whenever a free minute fell, immediately began to pace back and forth in her little room, from the window to the stove and back, arms tightly crossed on her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Lately she had begun to talk more and more with her eldest daughter, ten-year-old Polenka, who, though she still didn't understand much, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always followed her with her big intelligent eyes and tried her best to pretend she understood everything. This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day, to put him to bed. While waiting for his shirt to be changed, which had to be washed that night, the boy sat on a chair silently, with a serious expression, straight and motionless, with his little legs stretched forward, pressed tightly together, heels toward the public and toes apart. He listened to what mama was saying to his little sister, with puffed lips and bulging eyes, not moving, exactly as all smart boys should sit when being undressed for bed. An even smaller girl, in complete rags, stood by the screen waiting her turn. The door to the staircase was open to provide at least some protection from the waves of tobacco smoke bursting in from other rooms and constantly making the poor consumptive cough long and painfully. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner this week, and the red spots on her cheeks burned even brighter than before.

"You won't believe, you can't even imagine, Polenka," she said, walking around the room, "how cheerfully and magnificently we lived at papa's house, and how this drunkard has ruined me and will ruin you all! Papa was a state colonel and almost a governor; he had only one more step to take, so that everyone came to him and said: 'We already consider you, Ivan Mikhailych, as our governor.' When I... cough! when I... cough-cough-cough... oh, thrice-cursed life!" she cried out, coughing up phlegm and clutching her chest, "when I... ah, when at the last ball... at the marshal's... Princess Bezzemelnaya saw me—who later blessed me when I was marrying your papa, Polya—she immediately asked: 'Isn't that the lovely girl who danced with the shawl at graduation?'... (That hole needs to be sewn up; you should take a needle and darn it right now, as I taught you, otherwise tomorrow... cough! tomorrow... cough-cough-cough!.. it'll tear worse!—she cried out, straining)... Then the chamber-junker Prince Shchegolskoy had just arrived from Petersburg... he danced the mazurka with me and the very next day wanted to come with a proposal; but I myself thanked him in flattering terms and said that my heart had long belonged to another. That other was your father, Polya; papa was terribly angry... And is the water ready? Well, give me the shirt; and the stockings?.. Lida," she turned to her little daughter, "you'll just sleep without a shirt tonight somehow; somehow... and put your stockings out too... Wash them all together... Why doesn't that ragamuffin come, the drunkard! Wore out his shirt like some rag, tore it all up... I'd do everything at once, so as not to suffer two nights! Lord! Cough-cough-cough-cough! Again! What's this?" she cried out, looking at the crowd in the hallway and at people pushing through with some burden into her room. "What's this? What are they carrying? Lord!"

"Where should we put him?" the policeman asked, looking around, when they had already dragged the bloody and unconscious Marmeladov into the room.

"On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, head here," Raskolnikov indicated.

"Run over in the street! Drunk!" someone shouted from the hallway.

Katerina Ivanovna stood all pale and breathing with difficulty. The children were frightened. Little Lidochka screamed, rushed to Polenka, embraced her, and began trembling all over.

Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov rushed to Katerina Ivanovna:

"For God's sake, calm yourself, don't be frightened!" he said rapidly, "he was crossing the street, he was run over by a carriage, don't worry, he'll come to, I ordered him brought here... I was at your place, remember... He'll come to, I'll pay!"

"He's done it!" Katerina Ivanovna cried out desperately and rushed to her husband.

Raskolnikov quickly noticed that this woman was not one of those who immediately faint. In an instant a pillow, which no one had yet thought of, appeared under the unfortunate man's head; Katerina Ivanovna began to undress him, examine him, bustle about and not lose her head, forgetting about herself, biting her trembling lips and suppressing the cries ready to burst from her chest.

Raskolnikov meanwhile persuaded someone to run for a doctor. The doctor, it turned out, lived in the next building.

"I've sent for a doctor," he kept repeating to Katerina Ivanovna, "don't worry, I'll pay. Isn't there any water?.. And give me a napkin, a towel, something, quickly; it's not yet clear how badly he's wounded... He's wounded, not killed, be assured... We'll see what the doctor says!"

Katerina Ivanovna rushed to the window; there, on a sagging chair in the corner, stood a large clay basin with water, prepared for the night washing of the children's and husband's linen. This night washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna herself, with her own hands, at least twice a week, and sometimes more often, for they had reached the point where there was almost no change of linen at all, and each family member had only one set, and Katerina Ivanovna could not bear uncleanliness and preferred to torture herself at night beyond her strength, when everyone was asleep, in order to have time to dry the wet linen on the stretched rope by morning and give out clean linen, rather than see dirt in the house. She grabbed the basin to carry it at Raskolnikov's request but nearly fell with the load. But he had already managed to find a towel, wet it with water, and began to wash Marmeladov's blood-drenched face. Katerina Ivanovna stood right there, painfully catching her breath and holding her chest with her hands. She herself needed help. Raskolnikov began to understand that he might have done badly in persuading them to bring the run-over man here. The policeman also stood in bewilderment.

"Polya!" Katerina Ivanovna cried, "run to Sonya, quickly. If you don't find her at home, never mind, say that her father was run over by horses and that she should come here immediately... when she returns. Quickly, Polya! Here, cover yourself with a shawl!"

"Run as fast as you can!" the boy suddenly shouted from the chair, and having said this, sank back into his previous silent upright sitting on the chair, eyes bulging, heels forward and toes apart.

Meanwhile the room filled so full there wasn't room to drop an apple. The policemen left, except for one who remained for the time being and tried to drive the public that had gathered from the staircase back onto the staircase. Meanwhile, almost all the tenants of Mrs. Lippevechsel poured out from the inner rooms and at first crowded only in the doorway, but then flooded in a crowd into the room itself. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a frenzy.

"At least let him die in peace!" she shouted at the whole crowd, "what a spectacle you've found! With cigarettes! Cough-cough-cough! Come in with your hats on too!.. And there is one in a hat... Out! At least show respect for a dead body!"

The coughing choked her, but the scolding was effective. Katerina Ivanovna was obviously even feared; the tenants, one after another, squeezed back toward the door with that strange inner feeling of satisfaction that is always noticed, even in the closest people, at a sudden misfortune to their neighbor, and from which no person is exempt, without exception, despite even the most sincere feeling of regret and sympathy.

Beyond the door, however, voices were heard about the hospital and that one shouldn't disturb things here needlessly.

"He shouldn't die!" Katerina Ivanovna cried and was about to throw open the door to let loose a whole thunderstorm on them, but collided in the doorway with Mrs. Lippevechsel herself, who had just managed to hear about the misfortune and came running to organize things. This was an extremely quarrelsome and disorderly German woman.

"Ach, mein Gott!" she threw up her hands, "your husband drunk horse trampled. To hospital with him! I am landlady!"

"Amalia Ludwigovna! I ask you to remember what you are saying," Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she always spoke to the landlady in a haughty tone so that she would "remember her place," and even now could not deny herself this pleasure), "Amalia Ludwigovna..."

"I told you once-before that you never dare call me Amal Ludwigovna; I am Amal-Ivan!"

"You are not Amal-Ivan but Amalia Ludwigovna, and since I do not belong to your base flatterers, like Mr. Lebezyatnikov, who is laughing now behind the door" (behind the door indeed laughter and a shout were heard: "they're at it!"), "I will always call you Amalia Ludwigovna, though I absolutely cannot understand why you dislike this name. You see yourself what has happened to Semyon Zakharovich; he is dying. I ask you to lock this door immediately and not let anyone in here. At least let him die in peace! Otherwise, I assure you, tomorrow your conduct will be known to the Governor-General himself. The prince knew me as a girl and remembers Semyon Zakharovich very well, to whom he was often a benefactor. Everyone knows that Semyon Zakharovich had many friends and patrons, whom he himself left out of noble pride, feeling his unfortunate weakness, but now" (she pointed to Raskolnikov) "one magnanimous young man with means and connections is helping us, and whom Semyon Zakharovich knew as a child, and be assured, Amalia Ludwigovna..."

All this was pronounced in extreme haste, faster and faster, but a cough suddenly interrupted Katerina Ivanovna's eloquence. At this moment the dying man came to and groaned, and she ran to him. The patient opened his eyes and, still not recognizing or understanding, began to peer at Raskolnikov standing over him. He was breathing heavily, deeply and rarely; blood appeared at the corners of his lips; sweat stood out on his forehead. Not recognizing Raskolnikov, he began anxiously moving his eyes around. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but stern gaze, and tears flowed from her eyes.

"My God! His whole chest is crushed! The blood, the blood!" she said in despair. "We must take off all his outer clothing! Turn a little, Semyon Zakharovich, if you can," she shouted to him.

Marmeladov recognized her.

"A priest!" he said in a hoarse voice.

Katerina Ivanovna went to the window, pressed her forehead against the window frame, and exclaimed in despair:

"Oh, thrice-cursed life!"

"A priest!" the dying man said again after a minute's silence.

"Go-o-one!" Katerina Ivanovna shouted at him; he obeyed the shout and fell silent. With a timid, melancholy gaze he sought her eyes; she returned to him again and stood at his bedside. He calmed down somewhat, but not for long. Soon his eyes rested on little Lidochka (his favorite), trembling in the corner as if in a fit, and looking at him with her astonished, childishly intent eyes.

"Ah... ah..." he pointed at her anxiously. He wanted to say something.

"What else?" Katerina Ivanovna cried.

"Barefoot! Barefoot!" he muttered, pointing with a half-mad gaze at the girl's bare feet.

"Be quie-e-et!" Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, "you know yourself why she's barefoot!"

"Thank God, the doctor!" Raskolnikov cried joyfully.

The doctor entered, a neat little old man, a German, looking around with a mistrustful air; he approached the patient, took his pulse, carefully felt his head, and, with Katerina Ivanovna's help, unbuttoned the blood-soaked shirt and bared the patient's chest. The whole chest was mangled, crushed, and torn; several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side, right over the heart, was an ominous, large, yellowish-black spot, a brutal blow from a hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that the run-over man had been caught in the wheel and dragged, spinning, about thirty paces along the pavement.

"It's amazing that he even came to," the doctor whispered quietly to Raskolnikov.

"What do you say?" he asked.

"He'll die right away."

"Is there really no hope?"

"Not the slightest! At his last gasp... Moreover, the head is very dangerously wounded... Hm. Perhaps we could let blood... but... it would be useless. In five or ten minutes he'll die without fail."

"Then it's better to let blood!"

"Perhaps... However, I warn you, it will be completely useless."

At that moment more steps were heard, the crowd in the hallway parted, and on the threshold appeared a priest with the reserved sacraments, a gray-haired old man. A policeman had accompanied him from the street. The doctor immediately yielded his place to him and exchanged a significant glance with him. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to wait at least a little while. He shrugged his shoulders and remained.

Everyone stepped back. The confession lasted very briefly. The dying man could hardly understand anything; he could only pronounce abrupt, unclear sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took Lidochka, took the boy from the chair, and, going into the corner by the stove, knelt down and made the children kneel before her. The girl only trembled; but the boy, standing on his bare little knees, rhythmically raised his little hand, crossed himself with a full cross, and bowed to the ground, bumping his forehead, which apparently gave him particular pleasure. Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back tears; she too was praying, occasionally adjusting the child's shirt and managing to throw over the girl's too-exposed shoulders a kerchief she had taken from the chest of drawers, without rising from her knees and while praying. Meanwhile, the doors from the inner rooms began to open again with curious people. In the hallway the spectators, tenants from all over the staircase, crowded more and more densely, not crossing, however, beyond the threshold of the room. A single candle-end illuminated the whole scene.

At this moment, through the crowd from the hallway, Polenka quickly pushed through, having run for her sister. She entered, barely catching her breath from the fast run, took off her shawl, sought out her mother with her eyes, approached her and said: "She's coming! I met her on the street!" The mother pulled her to her knees and placed her beside herself. From the crowd, silently and timidly, a girl pushed through, and it was strange—her sudden appearance in this room, among poverty, rags, death, and despair. She too was in rags; her outfit was cheap, but decorated in street fashion, according to the taste and rules established in her particular world, with a glaringly and shamefully obvious purpose. Sonya stopped in the hallway at the very threshold but did not cross beyond the threshold and looked lost, not conscious, it seemed, of anything, forgetting about her fourth-hand silk dress, inappropriate here, with its ridiculously long train and immense crinoline blocking the whole doorway, and her light-colored boots, and her parasol, unnecessary at night but which she had taken with her, and her ridiculous round straw hat with a bright flame-colored feather. From under this hat worn rakishly like a boy's peeked out a thin, pale, and frightened little face with an open mouth and eyes motionless with horror. Sonya was small in stature, about eighteen years old, thin but rather pretty, a blonde with remarkable blue eyes. She stared at the bed, at the priest; she too was breathless from fast walking. Finally the whispering, some words in the crowd, probably reached her. She lowered her eyes, stepped across the threshold and stood in the room, but again right in the doorway.

The confession and communion ended. Katerina Ivanovna again approached her husband's bed. The priest stepped back and, leaving, turned to say a couple of words of guidance and consolation to Katerina Ivanovna.

"And where am I to put these?" she interrupted sharply and irritably, pointing at the little ones.

"God is merciful; hope for the help of the Almighty," the priest began.

"Eh! He's merciful, but not to us!"

"That is a sin, a sin, madam," the priest remarked, shaking his head.

"And isn't this a sin?" Katerina Ivanovna cried, pointing at the dying man.

"Perhaps those who were the involuntary cause will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of income..."

"You don't understand me!" Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, waving her hand. "And what is there to compensate for? He himself, drunk, crawled under the horses! What income? There was no income from him, only suffering. He, the drunkard, drank everything away. He robbed us and took it to the tavern, spent their life and mine in the tavern! And thank God he's dying! Less loss!"

"One should forgive in the hour of death, and this is a sin, madam, such feelings are a great sin!"

Katerina Ivanovna bustled around the patient, she gave him water, wiped the sweat and blood from his head, adjusted the pillows and talked with the priest, occasionally managing to turn to him between tasks. Now she suddenly pounced on him almost in a frenzy.

"Eh, father! Words and only words! Forgive! If he had come home drunk today, if they hadn't run him over, with only his one worn-out shirt in rags on him, he would have collapsed and gone to sleep, and I would have been rinsing in the water until dawn, washing his rags and the children's, and then would have dried them by the window, and as soon as it got light, would have sat down to darn—that's my night!.. So why talk about forgiveness! I have forgiven!"

A deep, terrible cough interrupted her words. She coughed up phlegm into a handkerchief and thrust it before the priest for him to see, painfully holding her chest with her other hand. The handkerchief was all covered in blood...

The priest bowed his head and said nothing.

Marmeladov was in his last agony; he did not take his eyes from Katerina Ivanovna's face, bent over him again. He kept wanting to say something to her; he even began, struggling to move his tongue and unclearly pronouncing words, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he wanted to ask her forgiveness, immediately cried out imperiously to him:

"Be quie-e-et! Don't!.. I know what you want to say!.." And the sick man fell silent; but at the same moment his wandering gaze fell on the door, and he saw Sonya...

Until now he had not noticed her: she stood in the corner and in shadow.

"Who's that? Who's that?" he suddenly said in a hoarse, gasping voice, all in alarm, in horror pointing with his eyes at the door where his daughter stood, and struggling to raise himself.

"Lie down! Lie do-o-own!" Katerina Ivanovna cried.

But with unnatural effort he managed to prop himself on his arm. He looked wildly and motionlessly for some time at his daughter, as if not recognizing her. Indeed, he had never seen her in such a costume. Suddenly he recognized her, humiliated, crushed, decked out and ashamed, meekly waiting her turn to say goodbye to her dying father. Infinite suffering was expressed in his face.

"Sonya! Daughter! Forgive me!" he cried out, and tried to stretch out his hand toward her, but, losing his support, he slipped and crashed from the sofa, straight face down on the floor; they rushed to pick him up, laid him down, but he was already passing. Sonya cried out weakly, ran up, embraced him, and froze in this embrace. He died in her arms.

"He got what he wanted!" Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband's corpse, "well, what now! How will I bury him! And how will I feed them, them tomorrow!"

Raskolnikov approached Katerina Ivanovna.

"Katerina Ivanovna," he began, "last week your late husband told me his whole life and all the circumstances... Be assured that he spoke of you with rapturous respect. From that evening, when I learned how devoted he was to you all and how especially he respected and loved you, Katerina Ivanovna, despite his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we became friends... Allow me now... to contribute toward paying the debt to my late friend. Here... it's twenty rubles, I think—and if this can help you, then... I... in a word, I'll come—I'll certainly come... I may even come tomorrow... Farewell!"

And he quickly left the room, hurrying to push through the crowd on the stairs; but in the crowd he suddenly collided with Nikodim Fomich, who had learned of the misfortune and wished to make arrangements personally. They had not seen each other since the scene in the office, but Nikodim Fomich instantly recognized him.

"Ah, it's you?" he asked him.

"He's dead," answered Raskolnikov. "There was a doctor, there was a priest, everything is in order. Don't trouble the poor woman too much, she has consumption as it is. Encourage her if you can... You're a kind man, I know..." he added with a smile, looking him straight in the eye.

"But you've gotten blood all over yourself," Nikodim Fomich remarked, noticing by the light of the lantern several fresh spots on Raskolnikov's vest.

"Yes, I got blood on me... I'm covered in blood!" Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air, then smiled, nodded his head, and went down the stairs.

He descended slowly, unhurriedly, all in fever and, without realizing it, full of one new, immeasurable sensation of suddenly surging full and powerful life. This sensation could resemble the sensation of a man condemned to death who is suddenly and unexpectedly granted pardon. Halfway down the stairs the priest returning home overtook him; Raskolnikov silently let him pass, exchanging a silent bow with him. But already descending the last steps, he suddenly heard hurried steps behind him. Someone was catching up with him. It was Polenka; she was running after him and calling: "Listen! Listen!"

He turned to her. She ran down the last flight and stopped right in front of him, one step above him. Dim light came through from the courtyard. Raskolnikov made out the girl's thin but sweet little face, smiling at him and looking at him cheerfully, childishly. She had come with an errand that evidently pleased her very much.

"Listen, what's your name?.. and also: where do you live?" she asked hurriedly, in a breathless little voice.

He put both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a kind of happiness. It was so pleasant for him to look at her—he himself didn't know why.

"And who sent you?"

"My sister Sonya sent me," the girl answered, smiling even more cheerfully.

"I knew it was your sister Sonya who sent you."

"Mama sent me too. When sister Sonya started to send me, mama also came up and said: 'Run quickly, Polenka!'"

"Do you love your sister Sonya?"

"I love her most of all!" Polenka said with a particular firmness, and her smile suddenly became more serious.

"And will you love me?"

Instead of an answer he saw the girl's little face approaching his and her plump little lips naively stretched out to kiss him. Suddenly her thin little arms, like matchsticks, hugged him tightly-tightly, her head bent to his shoulder, and the girl quietly began to cry, pressing her face to him tighter and tighter.

"I feel sorry for papa!" she said after a minute, raising her tear-stained little face and wiping away tears with her hands, "so many misfortunes are happening now," she added unexpectedly, with that particularly serious air that children deliberately assume when they suddenly want to talk like "grown-ups."

"And did papa love you?"

"He loved Lidochka most of all," she continued very seriously and without smiling, now completely speaking like grown-ups do, "he loved her because she's little, and also because she's sick, and he always brought her treats, and he taught us to read, and taught me grammar and God's law," she added with dignity, "and mama said nothing, but we knew that she liked this, and papa knew, and mama wants to teach me French, because it's time for me to get an education."

"And do you know how to pray?"

"Oh, of course we do! We've known for a long time; I, since I'm big, pray by myself to myself, and Kolya with Lidochka together with mama out loud; first they read 'Mother of God,' and then another prayer: 'God, forgive and bless sister Sonya,' and then another: 'God, forgive and bless our other papa,' because our first papa already died, and this is our other one, but we pray for that one too."

"Polechka, my name is Rodion; pray sometime for me too: 'and the servant Rodion'—nothing more."

"I'll pray for you all my future life," the girl said fervently, and suddenly laughed again, rushed to him and hugged him tightly again.

Raskolnikov told her his name, gave his address, and promised to come the very next day without fail. The girl left in complete rapture over him. It was eleven o'clock when he went out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge, at exactly the same spot from which the woman had thrown herself earlier.

"Enough!" he pronounced decisively and solemnly, "away with mirages, away with false terrors, away with specters!.. There is life! Wasn't I just alive? My life hasn't died with the old woman! Heaven be hers and—enough, old woman, it's time to rest! The kingdom of reason and light now and... and of will, and of strength... and we'll see now! We'll measure ourselves now!" he added arrogantly, as if addressing some dark force and challenging it. "And I had already agreed to live on an arshin of space!

...I'm very weak at this moment, but... it seems all the illness has passed. I knew it would pass when I went out earlier. By the way: Pochinkov's house, it's two steps. I absolutely must go to Razumikhin, even if it's not two steps... let him win the bet!.. Let him amuse himself too—it doesn't matter, let him!.. Strength, strength is needed: without strength you can't get anything; and strength must be obtained by strength itself, that's what they don't know," he added proudly and self-confidently and walked, barely moving his legs, from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew in him every minute; in the next minute he was no longer the same person he had been in the previous one. What, however, had happened that was so special, that had so turned him around? He himself didn't know; it suddenly seemed to him, clutching at a straw, that "he too could live, that there was still life, that his life hadn't died with the old woman." Perhaps he had rushed to this conclusion, but he didn't think about it.

"But I did ask them to remember the servant Rodion," suddenly flashed in his head, "well, that's... just in case!" he added, and immediately laughed at his own boyish antic. He was in an excellent frame of mind.

He easily found Razumikhin; the new tenant in Pochinkov's house was already known, and the yardkeeper immediately showed him the way. Already from halfway up the stairs one could distinguish the noise and animated talk of a large gathering. The door to the staircase was wide open; shouts and arguments could be heard. Razumikhin's room was fairly large; the gathering was about fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entryway. There, behind a partition, two of the landlady's servant girls were bustling around two large samovars, around bottles, plates and dishes with pie and appetizers brought from the landlady's kitchen. Raskolnikov sent for Razumikhin. He came running in rapture. At first glance it was noticeable that he had drunk an extraordinary amount, and though Razumikhin could almost never get completely drunk, this time something was noticeable.

"Listen," Raskolnikov hurried, "I've only come to say that you've won the bet and that indeed no one knows what might happen to him. But I can't come in: I'm so weak I'll fall down right now. And so hello and goodbye! Come to me tomorrow..."

"You know what, I'll see you home! Since you yourself say you're weak, then..."

"And your guests? Who's that curly-haired one who just looked in here?"

"Him? The devil knows! Some friend of my uncle's, probably, or maybe he came on his own... I'll leave them with my uncle; he's an invaluable person; it's a pity you can't get acquainted now. But really, to hell with them all! I don't care about them now, and I need to get some fresh air, because, brother, you came just in time: another two minutes and I would have gotten into a fight there, by God! They're spouting such nonsense... You can't imagine to what degree a person can finally lie himself into! Though why can't you imagine? Don't we lie ourselves? Let them lie: then they won't lie later... Sit a minute, I'll bring Zosimov."

Zosimov pounced on Raskolnikov with something like eagerness; a particular curiosity was noticeable in him; soon his face brightened.

"You should go to sleep immediately," he decided, having examined the patient as far as possible, "and take one dose for the night. Will you take it? I prepared it earlier... it's a powder."

"Even two," answered Raskolnikov.

The powder was taken right there.

"It's very good that you'll take him yourself," Zosimov remarked to Razumikhin; "we'll see what happens tomorrow, but today it's actually quite good: a significant change from earlier. Live and learn..."

"You know what Zosimov whispered to me as we were leaving," Razumikhin blurted out as soon as they went outside. "I'll tell you everything straight, brother, because they're fools. Zosimov told me to chat with you on the way and make you chat, and then tell him about it, because he has an idea... that you're... mad or close to it. Imagine that! First of all, you're three times smarter than him, second, if you're not mad, you can spit on the fact that he has such nonsense in his head, and third, this piece of meat—a surgeon by specialty—has become obsessed with mental diseases, and what finally turned him regarding you was today's conversation with Zametov."

"Did Zametov tell you everything?"

"Everything, and he did excellently. I now understand the whole story, and so does Zametov... Well, in short, Rodya... the point is... I'm a bit drunk now... But that doesn't matter... the point is that this idea... you understand? really was hatching in them... you understand? That is, none of them dared to say it aloud, because it's the most absurd nonsense, and especially when they arrested that painter, all that burst and went out forever. But why are they fools? I beat up Zametov a bit then—this is between us, brother; please, don't even hint that you know; I noticed he's touchy; it was at Laviza's—but today, today everything became clear. Mainly, that Ilya Petrovich! He took advantage of your fainting in the office then, and afterward he was ashamed himself; I know..."

Raskolnikov listened eagerly. Razumikhin was letting things slip while drunk.

"I fainted then because it was stuffy and smelled of oil paint," said Raskolnikov.

"Still explaining! And it wasn't just the paint: the inflammation had been developing for a whole month; Zosimov can testify! But how crushed that boy is now, you can't imagine! 'I'm not worth his little finger,' he says! Yours, that is. He has good feelings sometimes, brother. But the lesson, the lesson for him today in the 'Crystal Palace,' that's the height of perfection! You frightened him at first, brought him to convulsions! You almost made him convinced again of all that hideous nonsense, and then suddenly—you stuck your tongue out at him: 'There, take that!' Perfect! He's crushed, destroyed now! You're a master, by God, that's how they should be treated. Eh, I wasn't there! He was waiting for you terribly now, and Porfiry also wants to meet you..."

"Ah... him too... And why did they put me down as mad?"

"Well, not as mad exactly. It seems I've been talking too much, brother... What struck him earlier, you see, was that only this one point interested you; now it's clear why it interested you; knowing all the circumstances... and how that irritated you then and got tangled up with your illness... I'm a bit drunk, brother, only, the devil knows, he has some idea of his own... I tell you: he's obsessed with mental diseases. But you can spit on him..."

They were both silent for half a minute.

"Listen, Razumikhin," Raskolnikov began, "I want to tell you straight: I was just at a dead man's, an official died... I gave away all my money there... and besides, I was just kissed by a creature who, even if I had killed someone, would also... in short, I saw there another creature... with a flame-colored feather... but anyway, I'm getting confused; I'm very weak, support me... the stairs are just ahead..."

"What's wrong with you? What's wrong?" asked the alarmed Razumikhin.

"My head's spinning a little, only that's not the point, but the point is that I'm so sad, so sad! just like a woman... really! Look, what's that? Look! look!"

"What?"

"Don't you see? A light in my room, see? In the crack..."

They were already standing before the last staircase, next to the landlady's door, and indeed from below it was noticeably visible that there was light in Raskolnikov's closet.

"Strange! Maybe Nastasya," Razumikhin remarked.

"She's never in my room at this time, and she's been asleep for a long time, but... it's all the same to me! Goodbye!"

"What do you mean? I'm seeing you in, we'll go in together!"

"I know we'll go in together, but I want to shake your hand here and say goodbye to you here. Well, give me your hand, goodbye!"

"What's wrong with you, Rodya?"

"Nothing; let's go; you'll be a witness..."

They began to climb the stairs, and the thought flashed in Razumikhin's mind that maybe Zosimov was right. "Eh! I've upset him with my chattering!" he muttered to himself. Suddenly, approaching the door, they heard voices in the room.

"What is this?" Razumikhin cried out.

Raskolnikov was first to take hold of the door and opened it wide, opened it and stood on the threshold as if rooted to the spot.

His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting for an hour and a half. Why had he least of all expected them and least of all thought about them, despite the news repeated even today that they were coming, were on their way, would arrive soon? All this hour and a half they had been questioning Nastasya in turn, who stood before them now and had already managed to tell them everything in detail. They were beside themselves with fear when they heard that he "ran away today," sick and, as was clear from the story, certainly delirious! "Good Lord, what's happened to him!" Both were crying, both had suffered a martyrdom during this hour and a half of waiting.

A joyful, rapturous cry greeted Raskolnikov's appearance. Both rushed to him. But he stood like one dead; an unbearable sudden realization struck him like thunder. And his arms would not rise to embrace them: they could not. Mother and sister squeezed him in their arms, kissed him, laughed, cried... He took a step, swayed, and collapsed on the floor in a faint.

Alarm, cries of horror, moans... Razumikhin, who was standing at the threshold, flew into the room, seized the patient in his powerful arms, and in an instant he was on the sofa.

"It's nothing, nothing!" he shouted to the mother and sister, "it's a faint, it's nonsense! The doctor just said he's much better, that he's completely well! Water! Well, he's already coming to, there, he's come to!.."

And seizing Dunechka by the arm so hard he nearly wrenched her arm out, he made her lean down to see that "there, he's come to!" And both mother and sister looked at Razumikhin as at providence, with emotion and gratitude; they had already heard from Nastasya what this "capable young man," as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikova herself called him that same evening in an intimate conversation with Dunya, had been for their Rodya throughout his illness.

PART THREE