Part 2 · Chapter 7

A fancy carriage was parked right in the middle of the road, pulled by a pair of energetic grey horses. There was no one inside, and the coachman had hopped down and was standing nearby; someone was holding the horses by their reins.

A bunch of people had gathered around, with the police standing at the front. One of them held a lit lantern, shining it on something lying near the wheels. Everyone was talking, yelling, and freaking out. The coachman looked totally lost and kept repeating:

"This is awful! Oh my gosh, this is awful!"

Raskolnikov pushed his way through the crowd and finally got a good look at what everyone was looking at. On the ground, a man who’d been hit lay there, apparently unconscious and covered in blood. He was dressed pretty rough, but not like a construction worker.

Blood was pouring from his head and face; his face was smashed up and unrecognizable. He was seriously hurt.

"Good heavens!" wailed the coachman, "What more could I have done? If I’d been speeding or hadn’t yelled at him, but I was going slow, not rushing. Everyone could see I was driving normally, just like everyone else. A drunk can’t walk straight, we all know that..."

I saw him crossing the street, stumbling and almost falling. I yelled again, and then a third time, then I pulled back on the reins, but he just fell right under the horses' feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was super wasted...

"The horses are young and easily spooked... they bolted, he screamed... that made things even worse. That's what happened!"

"That’s exactly how it was," a voice in the crowd confirmed.

"He yelled, that’s true, he yelled three times," another voice declared.

"Three times, we all heard it," shouted a third.

But the coachman didn’t seem too upset or scared. It was clear that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was waiting for it somewhere; the police, of course, were really anxious to avoid messing up his plans.

All they had to do was take the injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one knew his name.

Meanwhile, Raskolnikov had squeezed through and leaned closer. The lantern suddenly lit up the unfortunate man’s face. He recognized him.

"I know him! I know him!" he shouted, pushing to the front. "He’s a retired government clerk, Marmeladov. He lives nearby in Kozel’s house... Hurry and get a doctor! I’ll pay, I promise!"

He pulled money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was totally agitated.

The police were relieved to have figured out who the man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and, as earnestly as if it had been his own father, he begged the police to take the unconscious Marmeladov to his place right away.

"Just there, three houses down," he said eagerly, "the house belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was probably heading home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he's a drunk. He has a family there, a wife, kids, he has one daughter..."

"It's going to take a while to get him to the hospital, and there’s sure to be a doctor in the house. I’ll pay, I’ll pay! At least he’ll be looked after at home... they’ll help him right away. But he’ll die before you get him to the hospital."

He managed to slip something unseen into the policeman’s hand. It was nothing shady, and help was closer here anyway. They lifted the injured man; people volunteered to help.

Kozel’s house was about ninety feet away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding Marmeladov’s head and showing the way.

"This way, this way! We have to get him upstairs head first. Turn around! I’ll pay, I’ll make it worth your while," he muttered.

Katerina Ivanovna was doing what she always did when she had a spare moment - pacing her small room, back and forth from the window to the stove. She had her arms crossed and was muttering to herself, coughing a lot.

Lately, she'd been talking to her oldest daughter, Polenka, a ten-year-old, more than ever. Polenka might not have understood everything, but she knew her mom needed her, so she always watched her with those big, smart eyes and tried her best to look like she got it.

This time, Polenka was getting her little brother ready for bed. He’s been feeling sick all day, and needed a bath. The boy was waiting for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed that night.

He sat straight and still on a chair, his face serious, his legs stretched out straight, heels together and toes pointed.

He was listening to what his mom was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly still with a pout and wide-open eyes - just like all good little boys have to when they’re getting ready for bed. A younger girl, practically dressed in rags, stood by the screen, waiting for her turn.

The door to the hallway was open to let in a little fresh air and escape the clouds of tobacco smoke drifting in from the other rooms - smoke that triggered long, terrible coughing fits for the poor, sickly woman.

Katerina Ivanovna seemed even thinner than usual that week, and the flush on her cheeks was brighter than ever.

"You wouldn’t believe it, you can’t even imagine, Polenka," she said, walking around the room, "how amazing our life was at my dad’s house, and how this drunk has ruined it - and will ruin all of you!"

Her dad was a colonel in the military, just one step away from becoming a governor. Everyone who visited him would say, "We’re already thinking of you, Ivan Mihailovitch, as our governor!"

When I... when..." she coughed violently, "oh, this life is awful," she cried, clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her chest, "when I... when at the last ball... at the marshal’s...

Princess Bezzemelny saw me - who gave us a blessing when your dad and I got married, Polenka - she asked right away, ‘Isn’t that the pretty girl who did the shawl dance at the party?’

(You have to fix that tear, you need to grab your needle and sew it up like I showed you, or tomorrow - cough, cough, cough - he’s going to make the hole bigger," she said with effort. "Prince Schegolskoy, a courtier, had just come from Petersburg then...

he danced the mazurka with me and wanted to propose the next day; but I thanked him with nice words and told him that my heart already belonged to someone else. That someone was your dad, Polya; papa was furious... Is the water ready? Give me the shirt and the stockings!

Lida," she said to the youngest, "you’ll have to sleep without your slip tonight... and lay your stockings out with it... I’ll wash them together... Why doesn’t that drunk ever show up? He’s worn his shirt until it looks like a dishcloth, he’s ripped it to shreds!

"I’d do it all together, so I don’t have to work two nights in a row! Oh, man! (Cough, cough, cough, cough! Again! What’s this?" she cried, noticing a group of people in the hallway and men pushing into her room, carrying something. "What is it? What are they bringing? Have mercy!"

"Where are we going to put him?" asked the police officer, looking around when Marmeladov, unconscious and covered in blood, was carried in.

"On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way," Raskolnikov showed him.

"He ran right into the street! Drunk!" someone yelled from the hallway.

Katerina Ivanovna stood there, turning white and struggling to breathe. The kids were terrified. Little Lida screamed, ran to Polenka, and clung to her, trembling.

After laying Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov rushed to Katerina Ivanovna.

"For goodness sake, chill out, don't freak out!" he said, talking super fast. "He was crossing the street and got hit by a carriage, don't panic, he’s gonna be okay, I told them to bring him here... I was already here, remember? He’s gonna pull through, I’ll cover it!"

"He’s really done it this time!" Katerina Ivanovna cried, totally bummed, and rushed to her husband.

Raskolnikov noticed right away that she wasn’t the type to faint easily. She instantly put a pillow under the unlucky guy’s head, which no one else had thought of, and started taking off his clothes and checking him over.

She kept her cool, forgetting about herself, biting her trembling lips and holding back the sobs that were about to burst out.

Raskolnikov, meanwhile, got someone to run for a doctor. There was a doctor, apparently, just next door.

"I’m sending for a doctor," he kept reassuring Katerina Ivanovna, "don’t worry, I’ll pay. Don’t you have any water?... and get me a cloth or a towel, anything, as fast as you can... He’s hurt, but he’s not dead, believe me... We’ll see what the doctor says!"

Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken chair in the corner, a big ceramic bowl full of water had been set out, ready for washing her kids’ and her husband’s laundry that night. She did the washing at night at least twice a week, if not more.

The family was in such a tight spot that they barely had any clean clothes, and Katerina Ivanovna couldn’t stand dirt, and would rather wear herself out at night, working past her limits when everyone else was asleep, just to get the wet laundry hung up and dry by morning.

She picked up the bowl of water at Raskolnikov’s request, but almost tripped under the weight. But he’s already found a towel, soaked it, and started wiping the blood off Marmeladov’s face.

Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing hard and pressing her hands to her chest. She needed some attention herself. Raskolnikov started to think he might have made a mistake bringing the injured man here. The policeman, too, stood around, unsure what to do.

"Polenka," cried Katerina Ivanovna, "run to Sonia, hurry! If you don’t find her at home, tell her her father got hit by a carriage and she needs to come here right away... when she gets here. Run, Polenka! There, grab the shawl."

"Go as fast as you can!" shouted the little boy on the chair suddenly, then went back to staring blankly, with wide eyes, his heels pushed forward and his toes spread out.

Meanwhile, the room had gotten so crowded you couldn’t even drop a pin. The police officers left, except for one, who stuck around for a while, trying to push out the people who were streaming in from the hallway.

Almost all of Madame Lippevechsel’s neighbors had crowded in from the other rooms; at first they were squished together in the doorway, but then they spilled into the room. Katerina Ivanovna totally lost it.

"You could at least let him die in peace," she shouted at the crowd, "is it a show for you to gawk at? With cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough! You could at least keep your hats on... And someone’s wearing a hat with a feather!... Get out! You should respect the dead, at least!"

Her cough choked her - but her scolding wasn’t without effect. They seemed pretty intimidated by Katerina Ivanovna.

The neighbors, one after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that weird feeling of satisfaction that you sometimes see when something bad happens, even to people you care about, a feeling no one can escape, even with the best intentions.

Voices outside were heard, though, talking about the hospital and saying they shouldn’t be causing a scene here.

"Seriously, no reason to die!" Katerina Ivanovna shouted, rushing to the door to unleash her anger, but she bumped into Madame Lippevechsel, who’d just heard about the accident and ran in to calm things down.

She was a notoriously difficult and irresponsible German.

"Oh my gosh!" she cried, clasping her hands, "Your husband’s drunken horses trampled him! Get him to the hospital! I’m the landlady!"

"Amalia, please remember what you’re saying," Katerina Ivanovna began, with a superior air (she always took a superior tone with the landlady, just to remind her "who was boss," and couldn’t resist doing it even now). "Amalia..."

"I already told you not to call me Amalia Ludwigovna; I’m Amalia Ivanovna."

"You’re Amalia Ludwigovna, and unlike Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who’s laughing behind the door right now (you could actually hear his laughter and a cry of ‘they’re at it again’ from the door), I’m not going to flatter you, so I’m going to keep calling you Amalia Ludwigovna, even though I don’t get why you hate that name."

You can see for yourself what happened to Semyon Zaharovitch; he’s dying. I’m begging you to shut that door and not let anyone in. Let him at least die in peace! Or I swear the Governor-General himself will hear about this tomorrow.

The prince knew me when I was younger; he remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well and has often helped him out.

Everyone knows Semyon Zaharovitch had tons of friends and protectors, who he abandoned because of his pride, knowing his weakness, but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) a generous young man has come to our aid, who has money and connections, and who Semyon Zaharovitch has known since he was a kid.

"You can be sure, Amalia Ludwigovna..."

All this came out super fast, getting faster and faster, but a cough suddenly cut her off. At that moment, the dying man woke up and groaned; she ran to him. The injured man opened his eyes and, without recognizing anything, stared at Raskolnikov, who was leaning over him.

He took deep, slow, painful breaths; blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, and sweat dripped from his forehead. Not recognizing Raskolnikov, he started looking around anxiously. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but firm face, and tears welled up in her eyes.

"Oh my gosh! His whole chest is crushed! He’s bleeding so much," she said in despair. "We need to take off his clothes. Turn a little, Semyon Zaharovitch, if you can," she cried to him.

Marmeladov recognized her.

"A priest," he rasped.

Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, pressed her head against the frame, and exclaimed in despair:

"Ugh, this life is awful!"

"A priest," the dying man said again after a moment of silence.

"They’re getting him," Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him, and he followed her words, falling silent.

With sad, timid eyes, he looked for her; she returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little calmer, but not for long.

Soon his eyes landed on little Lida, his favorite, who was shaking in the corner, as if she were having a fit, and staring at him with her wide, childlike eyes.

"A-ah," he signed toward her uneasily.

He wanted to say something.

"What is it?" cried Katerina Ivanovna.

"Barefoot, barefoot!" he mumbled, pointing with frantic eyes at the child’s bare feet.

"Be quiet," Katerina Ivanovna snapped, "you know why she’s barefooted."

"Thank goodness, the doctor," exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved.

The doctor strolled in, a tiny, precise old dude - German, looking around like he didn't trust anyone. He went straight to the sick guy, checked his pulse, carefully felt his head, and with Katerina Ivanovna’s help, unbuttoned his blood-soaked shirt, exposing his chest.

It was all messed up - gashed, crushed, and fractured. Several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side, just over his heart, was a huge, nasty yellowish-black bruise - a brutal kick from a horse’s hoof. The doctor frowned.

The cop told him the guy got caught in the wheel and spun around the road for thirty yards.

"It’s crazy he’s even awake," the doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"He’s gonna die, like, right now."

"Seriously? No chance?"

"Not a single one! He’s on his last breath... His head’s really messed up, too... Hm... I could bleed him if you want, but... it’s pointless. He’s gonna die within the next five or ten minutes."

"Bleed him then."

"If you insist... But I’m telling you, it won’t do anything."

Just then, they heard more footsteps. The crowd in the hallway shifted, and the priest, a small, grey old man, appeared in the doorway, carrying the sacrament. A cop had gone for him when the accident happened. The doctor swapped spots with him, exchanging a quick look.

Raskolnikov begged the doctor to stay a bit longer. He shrugged and stayed put.

Everyone stepped back. The confession was over quickly. The dying guy probably didn't understand much; he could only make quiet, broken sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in the corner by the stove and made the kids kneel in front of her.

The little girl was still shaking, but the boy, kneeling on his tiny bare knees, raised his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision and bowing down, touching the floor with his forehead - it seemed to really satisfy him.

Katerina Ivanovna bit her lip and held back her tears; she prayed, too, now and then straightening the boy’s shirt and managed to cover the girl’s bare shoulders with a kerchief she grabbed from the chest without standing up or stopping her prayers.

Meanwhile, the door to the other rooms opened again, curious. In the hallway, the crowd of onlookers from all the apartments on the staircase grew thicker and thicker, but they didn't dare step over the threshold. A single candle flickered, lighting up the scene.

At that moment, Polenka pushed her way through the crowd at the door. She came in, panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for her mom, went up to her and said, "She’s coming! I saw her in the street. Her mom made her kneel beside her.

Quietly and carefully, a young girl made her way through the crowd, and she looked totally out of place in that room, surrounded by poverty, worn-out clothes, sickness, and despair.

She was in rags too, her clothes were cheap and basic, but she's dressed up in flashy, second-hand stuff, clearly showing it was meant to impress. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and looked around, confused and unaware of everything.

She forgot her old, gaudy silk dress - totally inappropriate here with its ridiculous long train, and her huge crinoline that filled up the whole doorway, and her light-colored shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, even though it was useless at night, and the silly round straw hat with its bright orange feather.

Under that tilted hat was a pale, scared little face with parted lips and eyes wide with fear. Sonia was a small, thin girl of eighteen with fair hair, pretty, with amazing blue eyes. She stared intently at the bed and the priest; she was out of breath from running too.

Finally, she heard whispers, some words from the crowd, and she looked down, taking a hesitant step forward into the room, still close to the door.

The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went back to her husband. The priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of comfort and advice to Katerina Ivanovna as they left.

"What am I supposed to do with these?" she snapped sharply and angrily, pointing to the kids.

"God is merciful; look to the Most High for help," the priest began.

"Yeah, He’s merciful, but not to us."

"That’s a sin, a sin, madam," the priest said, shaking his head.

"And isn’t that a sin?" Katerina Ivanovna cried, pointing to the dying man.

"Perhaps those who accidentally caused the accident will agree to pay you back, at least for the money he used to make."

"You don’t get it! Katerina Ivanovna shouted, waving her hand. "And why should they pay me? He was drunk and threw himself under the horses! What earnings? He brought us nothing but misery. He drank everything away, the drunk! He robbed us to get drink, he wasted his life and mine for drink!"

"And thank God he’s dying! One less to worry about!"

"You must forgive at the hour of death, that’s a sin, madam, those feelings are a great sin."

Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was giving him water, wiping the blood and sweat from his head, fixing his pillow, and only turned around for a moment to talk to the priest. Now she turned to him almost in a frenzy.

"Oh, Father! That’s just words! Forgive?"

If he hadn’t been run over, he’d have come home today drunk and his only shirt dirty and in rags, and he’d have fallen asleep like a log, and I’d have been scrubbing and rinsing all night, washing his rags and the kids’ and then drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight I’d have been mending them.

"That’s how I spend my nights!... What’s the point of talking about forgiveness? I’ve forgiven as much as I can!"

A terrible, hacking cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and said nothing.

Marmeladov was in his last moments; he didn’t take his eyes off Katerina Ivanovna’s face, who was bending over him again.

He kept trying to say something to her; he began moving his tongue with difficulty and trying to speak, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he wanted to ask for her forgiveness, called out to him sharply:

"Be quiet! No need! I know what you want to say!"

And the sick man fell silent, but at that moment his wandering eyes drifted to the doorway and he saw Sonia.

Until then, he hadn’t noticed her: she was standing in the shadows in a corner.

"Who’s that? Who’s that?" he said suddenly, his voice thick and shaky, totally freaked out as he turned to look at his daughter standing in the doorway, trying to sit up.

"Lie down! Lie down!" cried Katerina Ivanovna.

He’s got crazy strength and managed to prop himself up on his elbow. He stared at his daughter, like he didn't even recognize her. He’s never seen her dressed like that before.

Then, it hit him - he recognized her, crushed and embarrassed by her flashy outfit, just waiting her turn to say good-bye to her dying dad. His face showed intense pain.

"Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!" he cried, reaching out his hand to her, but he lost his balance and fell off the sofa, face down on the floor.

They rushed to pick him up, put him back on the sofa, but he was dying. Sonia, with a little cry, ran up, hugged him, and just stayed like that. He died in her arms.

"He got what he wanted," Katerina Ivanovna cried, looking at her dead husband. "Okay, what now? How am I supposed to bury him? What am I gonna feed everyone tomorrow?"

Raskolnikov approached Katerina Ivanovna.

"Katerina Ivanovna," he started, "last week your husband told me everything about his life... Believe me, he talked about you with so much respect."

From that night, when I learned how devoted he was to you all and how much he loved and respected you, especially you, Katerina Ivanovna, despite his flaws, we became friends... Let me... do something... repay my debt to my dead friend. Here’s twenty rubles, I think - and if that helps, then...

"I... basically, I’ll be back, I’ll definitely be back... I might even come back tomorrow... Bye!"

And he quickly left the room, pushing his way through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd, he bumped into Nikodim Fomitch, who had heard about what happened and came to give instructions in person.

They hadn’t seen each other since the scene at the police station, but Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.

"Oh, is that you?" he asked.

"He’s dead," answered Raskolnikov. "The doctor and the priest have been, everything’s been handled. Don’t upset the poor woman too much, she’s already got consumption. Try to cheer her up... you’re a good guy, I know..." he added with a smile, looking straight into his face.

"But you’re covered in blood," observed Nikodim Fomitch, noticing fresh stains on Raskolnikov’s vest in the lamplight.

"Yeah... I’m covered in blood," Raskolnikov said with a weird look; then he smiled, nodded, and headed downstairs.

He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not realizing it, totally absorbed in a new, intense feeling of life and strength that suddenly surged through him. This feeling was like a man who’s been sentenced to death suddenly getting a pardon.

Halfway down the stairs, he was overtaken by the priest on his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent nod. He was just stepping off the last step when he heard quick footsteps behind him. Someone caught up to him - it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling "Wait! wait!"

He turned around. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped a step above him. A faint light came in from the yard. Raskolnikov could make out the child’s thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright, childish smile.

She’s run after him with a message she was clearly excited to give.

"Tell me, what’s your name?... and where do you live?" she said quickly, out of breath.

He put both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a kind of happiness. It was such a joy to look at her, he couldn't explain why.

"Who sent you?"

"Sister Sonia sent me," answered the girl, smiling even brighter.

"I knew it was sister Sonia who sent you."

"Mom sent me, too... when sister Sonia was sending me, Mom came up, too, and said, ‘Run fast, Polenka.’"

"Do you love sister Sonia?"

"I love her more than anyone," Polenka answered, really serious, and her smile got softer.

"And will you love me?"

Instead of answering, he saw the little girl’s face coming closer, her lips sticking out like she was being playful. Suddenly, her arms, thin as twigs, wrapped around him tight. Her head rested on his shoulder, and the little girl started to cry softly, pressing her face against him.

"I’m sorry about Dad," she said a little later, looking up with tear-stained cheeks and wiping her eyes. "It’s just bad luck now," she added, trying to sound grown-up like she'd heard adults say.

"Tell me, did your dad love you?"

"He loved Lida the most," she went on seriously, no smile, just like grown-ups.

"He loved her because she’s little and because she’s sick, too. And he always brought her presents. But he taught us to read and me grammar and scripture, too," she added, acting all important.

"And Mom never said much, but we knew she liked it, and Dad knew it, too. And Mom wants to teach me French, because it’s time my education started."

"And do you know your prayers?"

"Of course! We’re big girls now. I say my prayers to myself, but Kolya and Lida say them out loud with Mom. First they repeat the ‘Ave Maria’ and then another prayer: ‘Lord, forgive and bless sister Sonia,’ and then another, ‘Lord, forgive and bless our second dad.’"

"Our older dad is gone, and this is another one , but we still pray for the other one."

"Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray for me sometimes, too. ‘And Thy servant Rodion,’ that’s all."

"I’ll pray for you forever," the little girl declared fiercely, and then, smiling again, she rushed at him and hugged him really tight.

Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to come back the next day. The little girl left, totally charmed by him. It was past ten when he walked out onto the street. In five minutes, he was standing on the bridge where the woman had jumped.

"That’s it," he said, sounding sure of himself. "No more daydreaming, fake fears, and ghosts! Life is real! Don’t I feel it now? My life hasn’t ended with that old woman! The Kingdom of Heaven to her - and now, enough, madam, leave me alone!"

"Now for reason and light... and will, and strength... and now we’ll see! We’ll test our strength!" he added, challenging some dark force.

And I was ready to live in a tiny room!

"I’m weak right now, but... I think I’m better. I knew it when I went out. By the way, Potchinkov’s place is just a few steps away. I definitely have to go see Razumihin even if it’s not close... let him win his bet! Let’s give him some satisfaction - it doesn’t matter!"

"Strength, strength is what you need - you can’t get anything without it, and strength has to be earned with strength - that’s what they don’t understand," he added, sounding proud and confident, and he walked away from the bridge with slow steps.

Pride and confidence grew stronger with every step; he was becoming a different person every moment. What had happened to change him so much?

He didn't know himself; like someone grabbing onto a lifeline, he suddenly felt that he, too, ‘could live, that there was still life for him, that his life hadn’t ended with the old woman. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions, but he didn’t think about that.

"But I asked her to remember ‘Your servant Rodion’ in her prayers," the thought hit him. "Well, that was... just in case of emergency," he added and laughed at his own silly comment.

He was feeling pretty good.

He easily found Razumihin; the new roommate was already known at Potchinkov’s, and the doorman immediately showed him the way. Halfway up the stairs, he could hear a bunch of people making noise and chatting excitedly.

The door was wide open onto the landing, and he could hear people exclaiming and discussing things. Razumihin’s room was pretty big; there were fifteen people inside.

Raskolnikov stopped in the entryway, where two of the landlady’s helpers were busy behind a screen with two samovars, bottles, plates, and trays of pastries and snacks, all brought up from the landlady’s kitchen. Raskolnikov sent for Razumihin. He ran out, looking thrilled.

At first glance, it was clear he’s been drinking a lot; though no amount of booze ever made Razumihin totally drunk, he was definitely feeling it this time.

"Listen," Raskolnikov rushed to say, "I just came to tell you that you won your bet and that anything can happen to anyone. I can’t go in; I’m so weak I’m gonna collapse. And so, good evening and goodbye! Come see me tomorrow."

"You know what? I’ll walk you home. If you say you’re weak, you really need..."

"And who are your guests? Who’s that guy with the curly hair who just peeked out?"

"Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle’s, I guess, or maybe he just showed up without being invited... I’ll leave uncle with them, he’s a real lifesaver, it’s a shame I can’t introduce you right now. But seriously, ignore them all for now!"

I need some fresh air, you showed up just in time - another two minutes and I would’ve gotten into a fight! They’re talking so much crazy stuff... you wouldn’t believe what people say! Though, why shouldn’t you imagine? Don’t we talk nonsense ourselves?

"And let them... that’s how you learn not to!... Wait a sec, I’ll grab Zossimov."

Zossimov practically pounced on Raskolnikov, showing a lot of interest in him; soon his face brightened.

"You need to go to bed right away," he said, checking him out as best he could, "and take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it ready a while ago... a powder."

"Two, if you like," answered Raskolnikov.

The powder was taken immediately.

"It’s a good thing you’re taking him home," observed Zossimov to Razumihin - "we’ll see how he is tomorrow, today he’s not doing too bad - a big change from this afternoon. Live and learn..."

"Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were leaving?" Razumihin blurted out as soon as they were on the street. "I’m not going to tell you everything, brother, because they’re such clueless people."

Zossimov told me to talk freely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and then I’m supposed to tell him about it, because he has this idea that you’re... losing it or close to it. Can you believe it?

"First of all, you’ve got three times the brains he does; second, if you’re not crazy, you don’t need to worry about what he thinks; and third, that piece of beef who’s a surgeon has gone bonkers about mental illnesses, and he came to this conclusion about you based on your conversation today with Zametov."

"Zametov told you all about it?"

"Yeah, and he totally nailed it. Now I get what’s going on, and Zametov does too... Look, Rodya... the thing is... I’m a little buzzed now... But whatever... the point is that this idea... you know? was just starting to pop into their heads... you get it?"

Like, nobody was saying it out loud, because it’s just too crazy, especially after that painter got arrested - that bubble just burst and vanished. But why are they being so clueless?

I gave Zametov a good smackdown the other day - that’s just between us, bro; please don't breathe a word of it; I'm telling you, he's super sensitive; it was at Luise Ivanovna’s place. But today, today it all makes sense. That Ilya Petrovitch is behind it all!

"He took advantage of you fainting at the police station, but he’s even ashamed of it now; I know that..." Raskolnikov listened, totally hooked. Razumihin was drunk enough to spill everything.

"I fainted because it was so close and smelled like paint," said Raskolnikov.

"No need to explain! And it wasn't just the paint: you had a fever for a month; Zossimov will tell you! But how crushed that kid is now, you wouldn’t believe! ‘I’m not worth his little finger,’ he says. Yours, he means. He’s got feelings sometimes, bro."

But the lesson, the lesson you gave him today in the Crystal Palace, that was epic! You scared him at first, he almost had a panic attack! You almost convinced him again about all that messed-up nonsense, and then you just - stuck out your tongue at him: ‘There, what do you think of that now?’

"It was perfect! He’s crushed, totally wiped out now! It was brilliant, honestly, that’s what they deserve! Man, I wish I’d been there! He was hoping to meet you really bad. Porfiry wants to meet you too..."

"Oh wow... he too... but why did they think I was crazy?"

"Oh, not crazy. I probably said too much, bro... What got to him, you see, was that only that topic seemed to interest you; now it’s clear why it did interest you, knowing all the details... and how that irritated you and messed with your illness..."

"I’m a little tipsy, bro, but, seriously, he’s obsessed with mental illnesses. But don’t worry about him..." They were silent for a minute.

"Listen, Razumihin," began Raskolnikov, "I need to tell you straight up: I just left a deathbed, a clerk who died... I gave them all my money... and on top of that, I just got hugged by someone who, if I’d killed anyone, would feel the same way..."

"actually, I saw someone else there too... with a bright red feather... but I’m rambling; I’m really weak, help me out... we’ll be at the stairs in a sec..."

"What’s wrong? What’s the matter?" Razumihin asked, worried.

"I’m a little dizzy, but that’s not the point, I’m so sad, so bummed out... like a girl. 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 bottom of the last flight of stairs, level with the landlady’s door, and they could, as a matter of fact, see from below that there was a light in Raskolnikov’s attic.

"Weird! Maybe Nastasya," observed Razumihin.

"She’s never in my room this late, and she should’ve been asleep ages ago, but... I don’t care! Bye!"

"What do you mean? I’m coming with you, we’ll go in together!"

"I know we’re going in together, but I want to shake your hand here and say goodbye here. So give me your hand, bye!"

"What’s wrong with you, Rodya?"

"Nothing... come on... you’ll be a witness."

They started up the stairs, and Razumihin had a feeling that maybe Zossimov was right after all.

"Ugh, I probably freaked him out with my rambling," he muttered to himself.

When they reached the door they heard voices in the room.

"What’s going on?" Razumihin yelled.

Raskolnikov was the first to open the door; he threw it open and just froze in the doorway, totally shocked.

His mom and sister were sitting on his couch and had been waiting for him for like an hour and a half. Why hadn’t he thought about them, even though he’s been told all day that they were on their way and would be there any minute?

They’d spent that whole hour and a half grilling Nastasya with questions. She was standing there, and she's basically told them everything. They were freaking out when they heard he’s "taken off," sick and, according to her, delirious!

"Oh my gosh, what happened to him?"

Both were crying, both were worried sick for that hour and a half.

A shout of joy, like pure happiness, went up when Raskolnikov walked in. Both rushed to him. But he stood there like a statue; a sudden, awful feeling hit him like a lightning bolt. He didn’t lift his arms to hug them, he couldn’t. His mom and sister hugged him, kissed him, laughed and cried.

He took a step, stumbled, and collapsed to the floor, passing out.

Panic, cries of horror, moans... Razumihin, who was standing in the doorway, bolted into the room, scooped up the sick guy in his strong arms, and in a second, had him on the couch.

"It’s nothing, seriously!" he said to his mom and sister - "just a faint, a tiny thing! Just now the doctor said he was much better, that he's perfectly fine! Water! See, he’s coming around, he’s okay again!"

And grabbing Dounia by the arm, almost pulling her arm out of its socket, he made her lean in to see that "he’s all right again." His mom and sister looked at him with so much emotion and gratitude, like he was their savior.

They’d already heard from Nastasya everything that had been done for Rodya during his illness, by this "really good young guy," as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening while talking to Dounia.