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III

He was not, however, completely unconscious throughout his entire illness: it was a feverish state, with delirium and semi-consciousness. He later remembered much of it. At times it seemed to him that many people were gathering around him and wanted to take him and carry him somewhere, arguing and quarreling about him very much. Then suddenly he was alone in the room, everyone had left and was afraid of him, and only occasionally would they open the door slightly to look at him, threaten him, conspire about something among themselves, laugh and taunt him. He often remembered Nastasya beside him; he also distinguished another person, seemingly very familiar to him, but who exactly he could not guess and grieved about this, even wept. At times it seemed to him that he had been lying there for a month; at other times—that it was all the same day. But about that—about that he had completely forgotten; yet every minute he remembered that he had forgotten something that must not be forgotten—he tormented himself, suffered, trying to remember, groaned, fell into rage or into terrible, unbearable fear. Then he would try to rise from his place, wanting to run, but someone would always stop him by force, and he would fall back into helplessness and unconsciousness. At last he fully came to his senses.

This happened in the morning, at ten o'clock. On clear days at this morning hour, the sun always passed in a long stripe along his right wall and illuminated the corner near the door. At his bedside stood Nastasya and another person, examining him very curiously and completely unknown to him. This was a young fellow in a kaftan, with a small beard, and in appearance resembled an artel worker. The landlady was peering out from the half-open door. Raskolnikov raised himself up.

"Who is this, Nastasya?" he asked, pointing at the fellow.

"Look, he's come to!" she said.

"Come to," echoed the artel worker. Having guessed that he had come to, the landlady, who had been peering from the door, immediately closed it and hid herself. She was always shy and found conversations and explanations burdensome; she was about forty, fat and stout, dark-browed and dark-eyed, kind from her fatness and from laziness, and even quite comely in appearance. But excessively bashful.

"You... who are you?" he continued questioning, addressing the artel worker himself. But at that moment the door opened wide again, and, stooping slightly because he was tall, Razumikhin entered.

"What a ship's cabin," he shouted upon entering, "I always bump my forehead; and they call this a lodging! So, brother, you've come to? I just heard from Pashenka."

"Just came to," said Nastasya.

"Just came to," the artel worker echoed again with a smile.

"And who might you be, sir?" Razumikhin suddenly asked, turning to him. "I, if you please, am Vrazumikhin; not Razumikhin, as everyone calls me, but Vrazumikhin, a student, a nobleman's son, and this is my friend. Well, sir, and who are you?"

"And I'm an artel worker in our office, sir, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I'm here on business, sir."

"Please sit on this chair," Razumikhin himself sat on another, on the other side of the table. "You did well to come to, brother," he continued, addressing Raskolnikov. "For four days you've barely eaten or drunk. Really, they gave you tea with a spoon. I brought Zossimov to you twice. Do you remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said right away that it's all nonsense—something hit you in the head. Some nervous nonsense, he says, bad rations, he says, not enough beer and horseradish, that's why the illness, but it's nothing, it will pass and grind away. Zossimov's a fine fellow! He's begun treating patients splendidly. Well, sir, I won't detain you," he turned again to the artel worker, "would you care to explain your business? Note, Rodya, this is the second time they've come from their office; only before it wasn't this one who came, but another, and we had an explanation with that one. Who was it who came here before you?"

"That must have been the day before yesterday, sir, exactly so, sir. That was Alexei Semyonovich; he's also with our office, sir."

"And isn't he more sensible than you, what do you think?"

"Yes, sir; he's somewhat more solid, sir."

"Admirable; well, sir, continue."

"Well, through Afanasy Ivanovich Vakrushin, about whom, I believe, you have heard on numerous occasions, sir, at your mama's request, through our office a transfer is being made to you, sir," the artel worker began, addressing Raskolnikov directly. "In case you are already in understanding, sir—thirty-five rubles to hand over to you, sir, since Semyon Semyonovich received notification from Afanasy Ivanovich, at your mama's request, in the former manner about this. Do you know of this, sir?"

"Yes... I remember... Vakrushin..." Raskolnikov said thoughtfully.

"You hear: he knows the merchant Vakrushin!" Razumikhin cried out. "How could you not understand? And moreover, I now notice that you're also a sensible person. Well, sir! It's pleasant to hear intelligent speech."

"That's exactly it, sir, Vakrushin, Afanasy Ivanovich, and at your mama's request, who already once sent you money through them in the same manner, they didn't refuse this time either, sir, and Semyon Semyonovich was notified these days from their place that thirty-five rubles should be transferred to you, sir, in expectation of better, sir."

"Well, 'in expectation of better' came out best; not bad also about 'your mama.' Well, so what's your opinion: is he in full or not full memory, eh?"

"What do I care, sir. Just there ought to be a receipt, sir."

"He'll scribble one! What have you got, a book or something?"

"A book, sir, here it is, sir."

"Give it here. Well, Rodya, sit up. I'll support you; sign Raskolnikov for him, take the pen, because, brother, money is sweeter than treacle to us now."

"I don't need to," said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.

"What do you mean you don't need to?"

"I won't sign."

"Damn it, but how can we do without a receipt?"

"I don't need... the money..."

"So you don't need the money! Well, brother, you're lying, I'm a witness! Don't worry, please, he's just like that... voyaging again. Though it happens to him when he's awake too... You're a sensible person, and we'll guide him, that is, simply guide his hand, and he'll sign. Let's get to it..."

"However, I can come another time, sir."

"No, no; why should you trouble yourself. You're a sensible person... Well, Rodya, don't detain the guest... you see, he's waiting," and he seriously prepared to guide Raskolnikov's hand.

"Leave off, I'll do it myself..." he said, took the pen and signed in the book. The artel worker laid out the money and departed.

"Bravo! And now, brother, do you want to eat?"

"I do," answered Raskolnikov.

"Do you have soup?"

"Yesterday's," answered Nastasya, who had been standing there all this time.

"With potato and rice groats?"

"With potato and groats."

"I know it by heart. Bring the soup, and give us tea too."

"I'll bring it."

Raskolnikov looked at everything with deep astonishment and dull, senseless fear. He decided to remain silent and wait: what would happen next? "It seems I'm not delirious," he thought, "it seems this is really happening..."

Two minutes later Nastasya returned with the soup and announced that tea would be ready soon. With the soup appeared two spoons, two plates and a complete setting: salt cellar, pepper pot, mustard for the beef and so forth, which hadn't been there in such order for a long time. The tablecloth was clean.

"It wouldn't be bad, Nastasyushka, if Praskovya Pavlovna would dispatch a couple of bottles of beer. We could drink them, sir."

"Well, you're a fast one!" Nastasya muttered and went to carry out the order.

Raskolnikov continued to observe wildly and with strain. Meanwhile Razumikhin moved over to him on the divan, clumsily as a bear embraced his head with his left arm, although he could have raised himself up on his own, and with his right brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth, first blowing on it several times so he wouldn't burn himself. But the soup was only lukewarm. Raskolnikov greedily swallowed one spoonful, then another, a third. But after bringing up several spoonfuls, Razumikhin suddenly stopped and announced that regarding anything further it was necessary to consult with Zossimov.

Nastasya came in, carrying two bottles of beer.

"And do you want tea?"

"I do."

"Roll out the tea quickly too, Nastasya, because regarding tea, it seems, we can do without the faculty. But here's the beer!" He moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and beef toward himself and began to eat with such appetite as if he hadn't eaten for three days.

"I, brother Rodya, dine here like this every day now," he mumbled, as far as his mouth full of beef allowed him to speak, "and it's all Pashenka, your landlady, who arranges it all, honors me with all her heart. I, of course, don't insist on it, well, but I don't protest either. And here's Nastasya with tea. What a quick one! Nastenka, want some beer?"

"Oh, go on, you troublemaker!"

"And some tea?"

"I'll have some tea."

"Pour it. Wait, I'll pour it for you myself; sit at the table."

He immediately took charge, poured, then poured another cup, abandoned his breakfast and moved back to the divan. As before, he embraced the sick man's head with his left arm, raised him up and began to give him tea from a teaspoon, again blowing ceaselessly and especially zealously on the spoon, as if this process of blowing constituted the most important and salutary point of recovery. Raskolnikov was silent and didn't resist, despite the fact that he felt sufficient strength in himself to sit up on the divan without any outside help, and not only to control his arms enough to hold a spoon or cup, but perhaps even to walk. But by some strange, almost animal cunning it suddenly occurred to him to conceal his strength for the time being, to lie low, to pretend, if necessary, that he didn't even yet fully understand, and meanwhile to listen and find out what was happening here. However, he couldn't master his disgust: after sipping about ten spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly freed his head, capriciously pushed away the spoon and fell back on the pillow. Real pillows now actually lay under his head—downy ones with clean pillowcases; he noticed this too and took it into consideration.

"Pashenka must send us raspberry preserve today, to make him a drink," said Razumikhin, settling into his place and returning to the soup and beer.

"And where will she get raspberries?" asked Nastasya, holding the saucer on her five spread fingers and sipping tea "through sugar."

"Raspberries, my friend, she'll get at the shop. You see, Rodya, a whole story happened here without you. When you ran away from me in such a scoundrelly manner and didn't give your address, I was suddenly so angry that I resolved to find you and punish you. That very day I set about it. How I walked and walked, asked and asked! I'd forgotten this present lodging; though actually I never remembered it, because I didn't know it. Well, and the former lodging—I remembered only that it was at Five Corners, Kharlamov's house. I searched and searched for this Kharlamov house—and it turned out later that it wasn't Kharlamov's house at all, but Bukh's—how one sometimes gets confused in sounds! Well, so I got angry. Got angry and went, come what may, the next day to the address bureau, and just imagine: they found you for me in two minutes. You're registered there."

"Registered!"

"Of course; and yet they couldn't find General Kobelev there in my presence. Well, sir, it's a long story. But as soon as I turned up here, I immediately became acquainted with all your affairs; all of them, brother, all, I know everything; she saw it: I became acquainted with Nicodim Fomich, and they showed me Ilya Petrovich, and I met the yard-keeper, and Mr. Zametov, Alexander Grigoryevich, the clerk in the local office, and finally with Pashenka—this was the crown; she knows..."

"He sugared her up," Nastasya muttered, smiling roguishly.

"Why don't you put it in the saucer, Nastasya Nikiforovna."

"Oh, you dog!" Nastasya suddenly cried out and burst out laughing. "And I'm Petrovna, not Nikiforovna," she added suddenly when she stopped laughing.

"We'll appreciate it, ma'am. Well, so then, brother, not to say too much, I wanted at first to spread an electric current throughout here, so as to eradicate all prejudices in this locality at once; but Pashenka prevailed. I, brother, never expected that she would be such... an avvenante little thing... eh? What do you think?"

Raskolnikov was silent, though he hadn't taken his anxious gaze off him for a minute, and now stubbornly continued to stare at him.

"And very much so," Razumikhin continued, not at all embarrassed by the silence and as if confirming a received answer, "and very much so in order, in all respects."

"Oh, the creature!" Nastasya cried out again, apparently deriving inexplicable bliss from this conversation.

"It's too bad, brother, that from the very beginning you didn't know how to handle things. You should have handled her differently. Because this is, so to speak, the most unexpected character! Well, we'll talk about her character later... But how, for example, did it come to the point that she didn't dare send you dinner? Or, for example, that promissory note? You must have gone mad to sign promissory notes! Or, for example, that proposed marriage, when the daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was still alive... I know everything! But I see that this is a delicate string and that I'm an ass; forgive me. But speaking of stupidity: don't you think, brother, that Praskovya Pavlovna is not at all as stupid as one might suppose at first glance, eh?"

"Yes..." Raskolnikov drawled, looking aside, but understanding that it was advantageous to maintain the conversation.

"Isn't that right?" Razumikhin cried out, visibly pleased that he had been answered, "but she's not clever either, eh? A completely, completely unexpected character! I, brother, am partly at a loss, I assure you... She must be forty for certain. She says thirty-six and has every right to. However, I swear to you that I judge her more intellectually, by metaphysics alone; we've got such an emblem tied up here, brother, that it's worse than your algebra! I don't understand anything! Well, but all this is nonsense, only she, seeing that you're no longer a student, lost your lessons and costume, and that after the young lady's death there's no reason for her to keep you on a family footing, suddenly got frightened; and since you, for your part, crept into a corner and didn't maintain anything from before, she decided to drive you from the lodging. And she'd been nurturing this intention for a long time, but felt sorry about the promissory note. Besides, you yourself assured her that your mama would pay..."

"I said that out of my vileness... My mother herself almost begs for alms... and I lied so they would keep me in the lodging and... feed me," Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.

"Yes, that was sensible of you. Only the whole thing is that then Mr. Chebarov turned up, a court councillor and a business man. Without him Pashenka would never have thought of anything, she's too bashful; well, but a business man isn't bashful, and first thing, of course, he posed the question: is there hope of realizing the note? Answer: there is, because there's such a mama who will save Rodenka even if she herself doesn't eat, out of her hundred-and-twenty-five-ruble pension, and there's such a sister who will go into bondage for her brother. That's what he based it on... Why are you fidgeting? I, brother, have now learned all your secrets, it's not for nothing that you were frank with Pashenka when you were still on a family footing, and now I'm speaking with love... That's exactly the point: an honest and sensitive man is frank, and a business man listens and eats, and then devours you. So she transferred this note to this Chebarov as payment, and he formally demanded it, wasn't embarrassed. I wanted, when I learned all this, to give him an electric current too, for conscience's sake, but at that time harmony came about between me and Pashenka, and I ordered this whole business stopped, that is, at the very source, vouching that you would pay. I, brother, vouched for you, do you hear? We called Chebarov, stuck ten silver rubles in his teeth, got the paper back, and I have the honor to present it to you—they believe your word now—here, take it, I've even torn it as it should be."

Razumikhin laid the promissory note on the table; Raskolnikov glanced at it and, without saying a word, turned to the wall. Even Razumikhin was taken aback.

"I see, brother," he said after a minute, "that I've made a fool of myself again. I thought to distract you and amuse you with chatter, but it seems I've only stirred up bile."

"Was it you I didn't recognize in my delirium?" Raskolnikov asked, also after keeping silent for a minute and not turning his head.

"Me, and you even went into raptures on that account, especially when I once brought Zametov."

"Zametov?.. The clerk?.. Why?" Raskolnikov quickly turned and fixed his eyes on Razumikhin.

"Why are you so... What are you alarmed about? He wanted to make your acquaintance; he wanted it himself, because we talked a lot about you... Otherwise, who would I have learned so much about you from? He's a fine fellow, brother, a splendid one... in his way, of course. Now we're friends; we see each other almost daily. Because I've moved to this part of town. You didn't know yet? I've only just moved. We've been to Laviza's with him a couple of times. Do you remember Laviza, Laviza Ivanovna?"

"Did I rave anything?"

"Of course! You were beside yourself, sir."

"What did I rave about?"

"Good heavens! What did you rave about? It's well known what people rave about... Well, brother, now, so as not to waste time, let's get to business."

He got up from his chair and grabbed his cap.

"What did I rave about?"

"How he keeps at it! Are you afraid of some secret? Don't worry: nothing was said about a countess. But there was a lot said about some bulldog, and about earrings, and about some chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and about some yard-keeper, and about Nicodim Fomich, and about Ilya Petrovich, the assistant superintendent. And besides, you were extremely interested in your own sock, extremely! You kept whining: give it to me, you said, and that's all. Zametov himself searched all the corners for your socks and handed you that trash with his own hands, washed in perfume, with rings on them. Only then did you calm down, and you held that trash in your hands for a whole day; we couldn't tear it away. It must still be lying somewhere under your blanket now. And then you asked for fringe on your trousers, and so tearfully! We kept trying to find out: what kind of fringe? But we couldn't make anything out... Well, sir, to business! Here are thirty-five rubles; I'm taking ten of them, and in a couple of hours I'll give you an accounting for them. Meanwhile I'll let Zossimov know too, though he should have been here long ago anyway, because it's past twelve. And you, Nastenka, look in often while I'm gone, in case they want a drink or something else... And I'll tell Pashenka myself right now what's needed. Goodbye!"

"He calls her Pashenka! Oh, you sly face!" Nastasya said after him; then she opened the door and began to eavesdrop, but couldn't bear it and ran downstairs herself. She was very interested to find out what he was saying down there with the landlady; and in general it was evident that she was completely charmed by Razumikhin.

Scarcely had the door closed behind her when the sick man threw off the blanket and jumped up from the bed like a madman. With burning, convulsive impatience he had been waiting for them to leave quickly, so that he could immediately, without them, set about his business. But about what, about what business?—he seemed now, as if on purpose, to have forgotten. "Lord! Just tell me one thing: do they know about everything or don't they yet? What if they already know and are just pretending, teasing me while I'm lying here, and then they'll suddenly come in and say that they've known everything for a long time and that they were just... What should I do now? And here I've forgotten, as if on purpose; I suddenly forgot, I remembered it just now!..."

He stood in the middle of the room and looked around in agonizing perplexity; he went to the door, opened it, listened; but that wasn't it. Suddenly, as if remembering, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole in the wallpaper, began to examine everything, thrust his hand into the hole, felt around, but that wasn't it either. He went to the stove, opened it and began to rummage in the ashes: the pieces of fringe from his trousers and the scraps of his torn pocket were still lying there as he had thrown them then, so no one had looked! Then he remembered about the sock that Razumikhin had just told him about. True, there it was lying on the divan, under the blanket, but it had become so worn and soiled since then that Zametov certainly couldn't have made anything out.

"Bah, Zametov!.. the office!.. And why are they calling me to the office? Where's the summons? Bah!.. I'm confusing things: that was then they summoned me! I examined the sock then too, but now... now I was ill. But why did Zametov come? Why did Razumikhin bring him?.." he muttered helplessly, sitting down on the divan again. "What is this? Is this all still delirium continuing with me or is it real? It seems real... Ah, I remembered: run! I must run quickly, I absolutely, absolutely must run! Yes... but where? And where are my clothes? No boots! They took them away! Hid them! I understand! Ah, here's the coat—they overlooked it! And here's the money on the table, thank God! And here's the note... I'll take the money and leave, and find another lodging, they won't find me!.. Yes, but the address bureau? They'll find me! Razumikhin will find me. Better to run away altogether... far away... to America, and spit on them! And take the note... it'll be useful there. What else should I take? They think I'm sick! They don't even know I can walk, heh-heh-heh!.. I could tell by their eyes that they know everything! If only I can get down the stairs! What if they have guards standing there, police! What's this, tea? Ah, and there's beer left, half a bottle, cold!"

He grabbed the bottle, in which there still remained beer enough for a whole glass, and drank it off with pleasure in one gulp, as if extinguishing a fire in his chest. But not even a minute had passed when the beer hit him in the head, and a light and even pleasant chill ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the blanket over himself. His thoughts, already sick and incoherent, began to mix more and more, and soon a light and pleasant sleep enveloped him. With pleasure he found a place on the pillow with his head, wrapped himself tighter in the soft quilted blanket that now covered him instead of his former torn overcoat, sighed quietly and fell into a deep, sound, healing sleep.

He woke up, hearing someone enter his room, opened his eyes and saw Razumikhin, who had opened the door wide and was standing on the threshold, hesitating: should he enter or not? Raskolnikov quickly sat up on the divan and looked at him, as if trying to remember something.

"Ah, you're not sleeping, well here I am! Nastasya, bring the bundle up here!" Razumikhin shouted downstairs. "You'll get the accounting right away..."

"What time is it?" asked Raskolnikov, looking around anxiously.

"Yes, brother, you slept well: it's evening outside, must be six o'clock. You slept more than six hours..."

"Good Lord! What have I!.."

"What's so bad about it? It's good for your health! Where are you rushing to? To a rendezvous or something? All the time is ours now. I've been waiting for you for three hours already; I came by twice, you were sleeping. I went to Zossimov's twice: not home, and that's all! Well, it doesn't matter, he'll come!.. I also went about my own little affairs. I moved today, you see, moved completely, with my uncle. I have an uncle now, you see... Well, to hell with it, let's get to business!.. Give me the bundle here, Nastasya. Now we'll... And how do you feel, brother?"

"I'm well! I'm not sick... Razumikhin, have you been here long?"

"I'm telling you, I've been waiting three hours."

"No, but before?"

"What before?"

"How long have you been coming here?"

"But I told you all about it just now; don't you remember?"

Raskolnikov grew thoughtful. The recent past seemed like a dream to him. He couldn't remember it alone and looked questioningly at Razumikhin.

"Hm!" said the latter, "forgot! I even fancied just now that you're still not yourself... Now that you've had sleep you're better... Really, you look much better. Fine fellow! Well, to business! It'll come back to you now. Look here, dear man."

He began to untie the bundle, in which he was evidently extremely interested.

"Believe me, brother, this has been especially on my heart. Because we must make a human being out of you. Let's begin: we'll start from the top. Do you see this little cap?" he began, taking out of the bundle a rather nice, but at the same time very ordinary and cheap cap. "Let me try it on?"

"Later, afterwards," Raskolnikov said, waving it away peevishly.

"No, brother Rodya, don't resist, it'll be too late afterwards; and I won't sleep all night, because I bought it by guesswork, without measurements. Just right!" he exclaimed triumphantly, trying it on, "just right! A head-covering, brother, is the very first thing in a costume, a kind of recommendation. My friend Tolstyakov is obliged to take off his covering every time he goes into some public place where everyone else stands in hats and caps. Everyone thinks it's from servile feelings, but it's simply because he's ashamed of his bird's nest: such a bashful man! Well, sir, Nastenka, here you have two head-coverings: this palmerston (he took from the corner Raskolnikov's battered round hat, which, for some unknown reason, he called a palmerston) or this jewel of a thing? Appraise it, Rodya, what do you think I paid? Nastasyushka?" he turned to her, seeing that he was silent.

"Twenty kopecks, I'll bet, he paid," answered Nastasya.

"Twenty kopecks, you fool!" he shouted, offended, "nowadays you can't even buy you for twenty kopecks—eighty kopecks! And that only because it's used. True, it's with a guarantee: wear this one out, next year they'll give you another for free, by God! Well, sir, let's proceed now to the United American States, as we used to call it in our gymnasium. I warn you—I'm proud of the trousers!" and he spread before Raskolnikov gray trousers of light summer woolen material, "not a hole, not a spot, and yet quite serviceable, though used, and there's a waistcoat to match, one color, as fashion requires. And that it's used, well, that's actually better, truth be told: softer, more delicate... You see, Rodya, in my opinion, to make a career in society, it's enough to always observe the season; if you don't demand asparagus in January, you'll save several rubles in your purse; the same applies to this purchase. It's summer season now, so I made a summer purchase, because toward autumn the season will require warmer material anyway, so you'll have to throw these away anyway... especially since by then they'll have managed to fall apart themselves, if not from intensified luxury, then from internal disorders. Well, appraise them! How much, in your opinion? Two rubles twenty-five kopecks! And remember, again with the former condition: wear these out, next year you get others for free! At Fedyaev's shop they don't do business any other way: once you've paid, it's enough for your whole life, because you won't go there a second time yourself. Well, sir, let's proceed now to the boots—what do you think? You can see, of course, that they're used, but they'll satisfy for a couple of months, because it's foreign workmanship and foreign goods: the secretary of the English embassy sold them at the flea market last week; he'd only worn them six days in all, but needed money very badly. Price: one ruble fifty kopecks. A good deal?"

"But maybe they won't fit!" Nastasya remarked.

"Won't fit! And what's this?" and he pulled from his pocket Raskolnikov's old, crusted boot, all covered with dried mud and full of holes, "I went prepared, and from this monstrosity they restored the real size for me. The whole thing was done heartily. And regarding linen, we came to an agreement with the landlady. Here, first of all, three shirts, coarse but with fashionable fronts... Well, sir, so: eighty kopecks the cap, two rubles twenty-five the rest of the clothing, total three rubles five kopecks; one ruble fifty the boots—because they're very good—total four rubles fifty-five kopecks, and five rubles all the linen—bargained wholesale—total exactly nine rubles fifty-five kopecks. Forty-five kopecks change, in copper five-kopeck pieces, here you are, sir, please accept them—and thus, Rodya, you are now restored in your entire costume, because, in my opinion, your coat can not only still serve, but even has a look of special nobility about it: that's what ordering from Charmer means! As for socks and other things, I leave them to you; we have twenty-five rubles left, and don't worry about Pashenka and paying for the lodging; I told you: boundless credit. And now, brother, allow me to change your linen, otherwise the illness perhaps sits only in the shirt now..."

"Leave me alone! I don't want to!" Raskolnikov waved him away, having listened with disgust to Razumikhin's strained-playful account of the purchase of clothes...

"This, brother, is impossible; what did I wear out my boots for!" Razumikhin insisted. "Nastasyushka, don't be shy, help out, that's it!" and despite Raskolnikov's resistance, he nevertheless changed his linen. Raskolnikov fell back against the pillow and for a couple of minutes didn't say a word.

"How long before they leave me alone!" he thought. "Where was all this bought from?" he asked at last, looking at the wall.

"Money? Well, well! From your own, of course. The artel worker was here just now, from Vakrushin, your mama sent it; have you forgotten that too?"

"I remember now..." Raskolnikov said, after a long and gloomy meditation. Razumikhin, frowning, looked at him with concern.

The door opened, and a tall and stout man entered, also already somewhat familiar in appearance to Raskolnikov.

"Zossimov! At last!" Razumikhin cried out, delighted.