بخش 02 - فصل 03

CHAPTER THREE

HE WAS NOT COMPLETELY unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there were a number of people around him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked him. He remembered Nastasia often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who they were, and this upset him, even made him cry. Sometimes he imagined he had been lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of that—of that he had no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness.

It happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasia was standing beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.

“Who is this, Nastasia?” he asked, pointing to the young man.

“He’s himself again!” she said.

“He’s himself,” echoed the man.

Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and laziness, and absurdly bashful.

“Who . . . are you?” he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumikhin came in.

“What a cabin it is!” he cried. “I am always knocking my head. You call this an apartment! So you are conscious, my friend? I’ve just heard the news from Pashenka.”

“He has just come to,” said Nastasia.

“Just come to,” echoed the man again, with a smile.

“And who are you?” Razumikhin asked, suddenly addressing him. “My name is Vrazumikhin, at your service; not Razumikhin, as I am always called, but Vrazumikhin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are you?” “I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I’ve come on business.”

“Please sit down.” Razumikhin seated himself on the other side of the table. “It’s a good thing you’ve come to, my friend,” he went on to Raskolnikov. “For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at once it was nothing serious—something seemed to have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is first-rate! He is making a real name for himself. Come, then, I won’t keep you,” he said, addressing the man again. “Will you explain what you want? You must know, Rodia, this is the second time they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who was it who came before?” “That was the day before yesterday, I would venture, if you please, sir. That was Alexey Semionovich; he is in our office, too.”

“He was more intelligent than you, don’t you think so?”

“Yes, indeed, sir, he’s weightier than I am.”

“Fine; go on.”

“At your mother’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than once, a gift has been sent to you from our office,” the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. “If you are in an intelligible condition, I’ve thirty-five rubles to give to you, as Semion Semionovich has received from Afanasy Ivanovich at your mother’s request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?” “Yes, I remember . . . Vakhrushin,” Raskolnikov said dreamily.

“You hear that, he knows Vakhrushin,” cried Razumikhin. “He is in ‘an intelligible condition’! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well, it’s always pleasant to hear words of wisdom.”

“That’s the gentleman, Vakhrushin, Afanasy Ivanovich. And at your mother’s request—she has sent you a gift once before in the same manner, through him—he did not refuse this time either, and sent instructions to Semion Semionovich some days since to hand you thirty-five rubles in the hope of better things to come.” “That ‘hoping for better things to come’ is the best thing you’ve said, though ‘your mother’ isn’t bad either. Come on then, what do you think? Is he fully conscious?”

“That’s all right. If he can just sign this little paper.”

“He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?”

“Yes, here’s the book.”

“Give it to me. Here, Rodia, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take the pen and scribble ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. At the moment, my friend, money is sweeter to us than treacle.”

“I don’t want it,” said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.

“Not want it?”

“I won’t sign it.”

“How the devil can you do without signing it?”

“I don’t want . . . the money.”

“Don’t want the money! Come on, that’s nonsense, I’ll be a witness to that. Don’t worry, he’s just on his travels again. But that’s pretty common with him anyway . You are a man of judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here.” “But I can come another time.”

“No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment . . . Now, Rodia, don’t keep your visitor, you can see that he’s waiting,” and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov’s hand in earnest.

“Stop, I’ll do it alone,” said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name.

The messenger took out the money and went away.

“Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?”

“Yes,” answered Raskolnikov.

“Is there any soup?”

“Some of yesterday’s,” answered Nastasia, who was still standing there.

“With potatoes and rice in it?”

“Yes.”

“I know it by heart. Bring us soup and tea.”

“I will.”

Raskolnikov observed all this with profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. “I don’t think I’m feverish; I think it’s all real,” he pondered.

In a couple of minutes Nastasia returned with the soup, and announced that the tea would soon be ready. With the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.

“It would not be amiss, Nastasia, if Praskovia Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them.”

“You don’t stop, do you,” muttered Nastasia, and she left to carry out his orders.

Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile Razumikhin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov’s head, although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it so it would not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumikhin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more.

Nastasia came in with two bottles of beer.

“And will you have tea?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, Nastasia, bring some tea; tea we can attempt without the faculty. But here is the beer!” He moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he had not touched food for three days.

“I must tell you, Rodia, I dine like this here every day now,” he mumbled with his mouth full of beef, “and it’s all Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don’t ask for it, but, of course, I don’t object. And here’s Nastasia with the tea. She’s a quick girl. Nastasia, my dear, won’t you have some beer?” “No way!”

“A cup of tea, then?”

“A cup of tea, maybe.”

“Pour it out. Stop, I’ll pour it out myself. Sit down.”

He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick man’s head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective means towards his friend’s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made no resistance, though he felt strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and could not only have held a cup or a spoon, but maybe even walked about. But in a moment of some strange, almost animal cunning he dreamt up the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a time, pretending if necessary that he was not yet in full possession of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that, too, and took note of it.

“Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam today to make him some raspberry tea,” said Razumikhin, going back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again.

“And where is she going to get raspberries for you?” asked Nastasia, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.

“She’ll get it at the store, my dear. You see, Rodia, all sorts of things have been happening while you have been laid up. When you went off in that terrible way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find you and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran about making inquiries for you! This apartment of yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Kharlamov’s house. I kept trying to find that Kharlamov’s house, and afterwards it turned out that it was not Kharlamov’s, but Buch’s. How confusing sounds get sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the off chance to the address bureau the next day, and just imagine, in two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there.” “My name!”

“I should think so; and yet they couldn’t find a General Kobelev while I was there. Well, it’s a long story. But as soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to learn about all your affairs—all of them, all of them, my friend, I know everything; Nastasia here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomich and Ilia Petrovich, and the house-porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexander Grigorievich, the head clerk in the police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasia here knows . . . ” “He’s got round her,” Nastasia murmured, smiling slyly.

“Why don’t you put sugar in your tea, Nastasia Nikiforovna?”

“You are a one!” Nastasia cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. “I’m not Nikiforovna, I’m Petrovna,” she added suddenly, recovering from her mirth.

“I’ll make a note of it. Well, my friend, to cut a long story short, I was going in for a real explosion here to uproot all the bad influences in the neighborhood, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected to find her so . . . headstrong. So, what do you think?” Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him, full of anxiety.

“And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,” Razumikhin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.

“You’re so cunning!” Nastasia shrieked again. This conversation gave her unspeakable delight.

“It’s a pity, my friend, that you did not set to work in the right way at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak, a pretty inexplicable character. But we will talk about her character later . . . How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I.O.U.? You must have been mad to sign an I.O.U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalia Yegorovna, was alive? . . . I know all about it! But I see that’s a delicate matter and I am an idiot; sorry. But, talking of idiocy, do you know Praskovia Pavlovna is not nearly as idiotic as you would think at first sight?” “No,” mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better to keep up the conversation.

“She isn’t, is she?” cried Razumikhin, delighted to get an answer out of him. “But she’s not very clever either, eh? She’s essentially, essentially an inexplicable character! I’m sometimes entirely at a loss, I assure you . . . She must be forty; she says she’s thirty-six, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I think highly of her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of symbolism between us, a sort of algebra or what not! I don’t understand it! Well, that’s all nonsense. Only, seeing as you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that because of the young lady’s death she has no need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she’s been cherishing that design for a long time, but she was sorry to lose the I.O.U. because you assured her yourself that your mother would pay.” “It was base of me to say that . . . My mother herself is almost a beggar . . . and I told a lie to keep my room . . . and be fed,” Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.

“Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr. Chebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but the business man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, ‘Is there any hope of realizing the I.O.U.?’ Answer: there is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodia with her hundred and twenty-five rubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into slavery for his sake. That’s what he was counting on . . . Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my friend—it’s not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend . . . But I tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business man ‘listens and goes on eating you up.’ Well, then she gave the I.O.U. as payment to this Chebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time Pashenka and I were getting along beautifully, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, telling him that you would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called Chebarov, flung him ten rubles and got the I.O.U. back from him, and here I have the honor of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have torn it.” Razumikhin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumikhin felt a twinge.

“I see, my friend,” he said a moment later, “that I’ve been playing the fool again. I thought my chatter would keep you amused, and I think all I’ve done is made you angry.”

“Was it you I didn’t recognize when I was delirious?” Raskolnikov asked, after a moment’s pause without turning his head.

“Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov one day.”

“Zametov? The head clerk? What for?” Raskolnikov turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumikhin.

“What’s the matter with you? . . . What are you upset about? He wanted to meet you because I talked to him a lot about you . . . How could I have found out so much except from him? He’s wonderful, my friend, he’s great . . . in his own way, of course. Now we are friends—see each other almost every day. I have just moved into this part of town. I’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice . . . Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?

“Did I say anything when I was delirious?”

“I’d say you did! You were beside yourself.”

“What did I rave about?”

“What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about . . . Well, my friend, I can’t waste time. I must do some work.” He got up from the table and took up his cap.

“What did I rave about?”

“How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don’t worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about earrings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomich and Ilia Petrovich, the assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest to you was your own sock. You whined, ‘Give me my sock.’ Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so piteously for some fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but we couldn’t make it out. Now, business! Here are thirty-five rubles; I’ll take ten of them, and I shall give you an account of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been here long ago, it’s nearly twelve. And you, Nastasia, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what she needs to do myself. Goodbye!” “He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a clever one!” said Nastasia as he went out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumikhin.

No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.

“Good God, just tell me one thing: do they know about it or not? What if they know and they’re just pretending, mocking me while I’m laid up, and then they’ll come in and tell me that they found out long ago and that they have only . . . What should I do now? That’s what I forgot; it’s as if I did it on purpose—forgot it all at once, I remembered a minute ago.” He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment around him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled—but that was not it. He went to the stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No-one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock which Razumikhin had just been telling him about. Yes, there it lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything on it.

“Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why did they send for me? Where’s the notice? Bah! I’m mixing it up; that was then. I looked at my sock then, too, but now . . . now I’ve been ill. But what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumikhin bring him?” he muttered, helplessly sitting on the sofa again. “What does it mean? Am I still delirious, or is it real? I believe it is real . . . Ah, I remember, I must escape! Escape fast. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes . . . but where? And where are my clothes? I haven’t got any boots. They’ve taken them away! They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here’s my coat—they didn’t take that! And here’s money on the table, thank God! And here’s the I.O.U.. I’ll take the money and go and rent another place to stay. They won’t find me! . Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find me, Razumikhin will find me. Better escape altogether . . . far away . . . to America, and let them do their worst! And take the I.O.U.. it’d be of use to me there . . . What else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if they have put someone on guard there—policemen! What’s this tea? Ah, and here is some beer left, half a bottle, cold!” He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his chest. But in a minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head in the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old, ragged overcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.

He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw Razumikhin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall something.

“Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasia, bring in the parcel!” Razumikhin shouted down the stairs. “You shall have the account immediately.”

“What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.

“Yes, you had a fine sleep, my friend, it’s almost evening; it will be six o’clock soon. You’ve slept more than six hours.”

“My God! Have I?”

“And why not? It’ll do you good. What’s the hurry? Do you have a date? We’ve got all eternity before us. I’ve been waiting for the last three hours for you; I’ve been up twice and found you asleep. I called on Zossimov twice; he wasn’t in. It doesn’t matter, he’ll turn up. And I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been moving today, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that’s unimportant, let’s get down to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasia. We’ll open it immediately. And how do you feel now, my friend?” “I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumikhin, have you been here long?”

“I tell you I’ve been waiting for the last three hours.”

“No, before.”

“How do you mean?”

“How long have you been coming here?”

“I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you remember?”

Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumikhin.

“Hm!” said the latter, “he has forgotten. I suspected then that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep . . . You really look much better. First rate! Well, to business. Look here.” He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.

“Believe me, my friend, this is something especially close to my heart. We’ve got to make a man of you. Let’s start from the top. Do you see this cap?” he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good, though cheap, and ordinary cap. “Let me try it on.” “In a moment, afterwards,” said Raskolnikov, waving it off.

“Come on, Rodia, don’t oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I shan’t sleep all night, because I guessed your size without measuring it. Just right!” he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, “just your size! A proper head-covering is the most important item of clothing and a recommendation in its own way. Tolstiakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does it out of slavish politeness, but it’s simply because he’s ashamed of his bird’s nest; he gets embarrassed so easily! Look, Nastasia, here are two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston”22—he took from the corner Raskolnikov’s old, battered hat, which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston—“or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodia! Nastasia, what do you suppose I paid for it?” he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.

“Twenty kopecks, no more, I’d say,” answered Nastasia.

“Twenty kopecks, silly!” he cried, offended. “Why, nowadays it would cost you more than that—eighty kopecks! And even then only if it’s been worn. And it’s bought on condition that when’s it’s worn out, they will give you another next year. I swear! Well, now let us pass to the United States of America, as they called them at school. I’m proud of these trousers, I can tell you” and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers made of a gray woolen material. “No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, pretty fashionable at the moment. And when it’s worn it really improves, it gets softer, smoother . You see, Rodia, the way I see it, the great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don’t insist on having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse! and it’s the same with this purchase. It’s summer now, so I’ve been buying summer things—warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any case . . . especially as they will be done for by then due to their own lack of sturdiness if not your higher standard of luxury. Come on, give them a price! What do you say? Two rubles twenty-five kopecks! And remember the conditions: if you wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at Fediaev’s; if you’ve bought a thing once, you’re satisfied for life, and you’ll never go there again of your own free will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You can see that they’re a bit worn, but they’ll last a couple of months because it’s foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last week—he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of cash. Price—a ruble and a half. A bargain?” “But maybe they won’t fit,” observed Nastasia.

“Won’t fit? Just look!” and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov’s old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. “I didn’t go empty-handed—they took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And as for your linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with, are three shirts made of hemp, but they’ve got a fashionable front . . . So, eighty kopecks for the cap, two rubles twenty-five kopecks for the suit—together that’s three rubles five kopecks—a ruble and a half for the boots—you see they’re pretty good—and that makes four rubles fifty-five kopecks; five rubles for the underclothes—they were bought in the lot—which makes exactly nine rubles fifty-five kopecks. Forty-five kopecks change in coppers. Will you take it? Come on, Rodia, you’ve got a new set of clothes, because your overcoat will do, and it’s even got a style of its own. That comes from getting your clothes from Sharmer’s!23 As for your socks and other things, I’ll leave them to you; we’ve got twenty-five rubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don’t you worry. I tell you, she’ll trust you for anything. And now, my friend, let me change your clothes; I’m sure you’ll throw off your illness with your shirt.” “Let me be! I don’t want to!” Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened with disgust to Razumikhin’s efforts to be playful about his purchases.

“Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging around for nothing,” Razumikhin insisted. “Nastasia, don’t be shy, help me—that’s it,” and in spite of Raskolnikov’s resistance he dressed him. The latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.

“It will be a long time before I get rid of them,” he thought. “What money was all that bought with?” he asked at last, gazing at the wall.

“Money? Your own, what the messenger brought from Vakhrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?”

“I remember now,” said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumikhin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.

The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in.