“Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does Zametov. … Well, the fact is, Rodya … the point is … I am a little drunk now. … But that’s … no matter … the point is that this idea … you understand? was just being hatched in their brains … you understand? That is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the idea is too absurd and especially since the arrest of that painter, that bubble’s burst and gone for ever. But why are they such fools? I gave Zametov a bit of a thrashing at the time— that’s between ourselves, brother; please don’t let out a hint that you know of it; I’ve noticed he is a ticklish subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna’s. But to-day, to-day it’s all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! He took advantage of your fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now; I know that …”
Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk enough to talk too freely.
“I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of paint,” said Raskolnikov.
“No need to explain that! And it wasn’t the paint only: the fever had been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how crushed that boy is now, you wouldn’t believe! ‘I am not worth his little finger,’ he says. Yours, he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the lesson, the lesson you gave him to-day in the Palais de Cristal, that was too good for anything! You frightened him at first, you know, he nearly went into convulsions! You almost convinced him again of the truth of all that hideous nonsense, and then you suddenly—put out your tongue at him: ‘There now, what do you make of it?’ It was perfect! He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove, it’s what they deserve! Ah, that I wasn’t there! He was hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, too, wants to make your acquaintance …”
“Ah! … he too … but why did they put me down as mad?”
“Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother. … What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it’s clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances … and how that irritated you and worked in with your illness … I am a little drunk, brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own … I tell you, he’s mad on mental diseases. But don’t you mind him …”
For half a minute both were silent.
“Listen, Razumihin,” began Raskolnikov, “I want to tell you plainly: I’ve just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died … I gave them all my money … and besides I’ve just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone, would just the same … in fact I saw someone else there … with a flame-coloured feather … but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak, support me … we shall be at the stairs directly …”
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter with you?” Razumihin asked anxiously.
“I am a little giddy, but that’s not the point, I am so sad, so sad … like a woman. Look, what’s that? Look, look!”
“What is it?”
“Don’t you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack …”
They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level of the landlady’s door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that there was a light in Raskolnikov’s garret.
“Queer! Nastasya, perhaps,” observed Razumihin.
“She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago, but … I don’t care! Good-bye!”
“What do you mean? I am coming with you, we’ll come in together!”
“I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say good-bye to you here. So give me your hand, good-bye!”
“What’s the matter with you, Rodya?”
“Nothing … come along … you shall be witness.”
They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. “Ah, I’ve upset him with my chatter!” he muttered to himself.
When they reached the door they heard voices in the room.
“What is it?” cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door; he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered.
His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of them, though the news that they had started, were on their way and would arrive immediately, had been repeated to him only that day? They had spent that hour and a half plying Nastasya with questions. She was standing before them and had told them everything by now. They were beside themselves with alarm when they heard of his “running away” to-day, ill and, as they understood from her story, delirious! “Good Heavens, what had become of him?” Both had been weeping, both had been in anguish for that hour and a half.
A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov’s entrance. Both rushed to him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden intolerable sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them, he could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and cried. He took a step, tottered and fell to the ground, fainting.
Anxiety, cries of horror, moans … Razumihin who was standing in the doorway flew into the room, seized the sick man in his strong arms and in a moment had him on the sofa.
“It’s nothing, nothing!” he cried to the mother and sister—“it’s only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was much better, that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming to himself, he is all right again!”
And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated it, he made her bend down to see that “he is all right again.” The mother and sister looked on him with emotion and gratitude, as their Providence. They had heard already from Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya during his illness, by this “very competent young man,” as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with Dounia.
