Part 3 · Chapter 2

Razumihin woke up next morning around eight, feeling totally stressed and serious. He was dealing with a bunch of unexpected problems. He never thought he would ever feel like that.

He remembered everything from the day before and knew something totally new had happened - he’s had an impression unlike anything he’s ever known.

At the same time, he realized the dream that had excited him was completely impossible - so impossible that he felt embarrassed about it, and quickly moved on to the more practical worries left by "that awful yesterday."

The worst thing he remembered was how he’d acted like a jerk, not just because he was drunk, but because he’d taken advantage of the young woman’s situation to trash her fiancé out of stupid jealousy, without knowing anything about their relationship or even about the guy himself.

And what gave him the right to criticize him like that? Who even asked for his opinion? Could anyone believe that someone like Avdotya Romanovna would marry a loser for money? So there had to be something to him. The apartment? But how could he even know the quality of the apartment?

He was setting up a place... Seriously? How pathetic! And what was with the excuse that he was drunk? That was just a worse look!

"In wine there is truth," and the truth had all come out - "all the uncleanness of his rough and jealous heart"!

And would a dream like that ever be possible for him, Razumihin? What was he next to such a girl - he, the drunk, loudmouth braggart from last night? Was it even possible to imagine such a ridiculous and cynical comparison?

Razumihin’s face burned just thinking about it, and then he remembered what he'd said on the stairs last night about the landlady being jealous of Avdotya Romanovna... that was completely unacceptable. He slammed his fist down hard on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand, and sent a brick flying.

"Of course," he muttered to himself a minute later, feeling totally ashamed, "of course, all these messes can’t be erased or smoothed over... and so it’s pointless even to think about it, and I have to go to them quietly and do my duty... quietly, too... and not ask for forgiveness, and say nothing... because it’s all lost now!"

But as he got dressed, he checked his clothes more carefully than usual. He didn’t have another suit - if he had, maybe he wouldn't have worn this one.

"He would’ve made a point of not wearing it."

But either way, he couldn't stay a cynic and a sloppy mess; he had no right to offend other people's feelings, especially when they needed his help and were asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully. His underwear was always decent; he was especially clean in that area.

He washed up really well that morning - he got some soap from Nastasya - he washed his hair, his neck, and especially his hands.

When it came to shaving his five o’clock shadow or not (Praskovya Pavlovna had some seriously sharp razors left by her late husband), the answer came back angrily in the negative.

"Let it stay! What if they think I shaved on purpose to...? They definitely would think so! Not a chance!"

"And... seriously, the worst part was he was so rough, so... gross. He acted like he’d just rolled out of a dive bar; and... and even if he admitted he knew some basics of being a decent guy... what was there to be proud of? Everyone should be a gentleman, and way more than that..."

"and still (he remembered) he, too, had done some shady stuff... not exactly dishonest, but still... And the thoughts he sometimes had! Ugh... forget it! So be it! Fine, he’d be a total slob, greasy and acting like a dive bar regular, and he wouldn’t even care! He’d be even worse!"

He was lost in one of those monologues when Zossimov, who’s spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna’s room, came in.

He was heading home and wanted to check on the invalid ASAP. Razumihin told him Raskolnikov was sleeping like a log. Zossimov said not to wake him and promised to swing by around eleven.

"If he’s still around," he added.

"Seriously, how are you supposed to cure someone if you can’t even control them? Do you know if he's going to see them, or if they’re coming here?"

"They’re coming, I think," said Razumihin, figuring out what he was asking. "They’ll probably hash out some family stuff. I’m outta here. You, as the doctor, have more reason to be here than I do."

"But I’m not a therapist; I’m popping in and out; I’ve got a ton of stuff to do besides babysitting them."

"One thing’s bugging me," Razumihin said, frowning. "On the way home, I was slurring my words and rambling... saying all sorts of things... and I even mentioned that you were worried he... might lose it."

"You told the ladies that too."

"I know it was dumb! You can yell at me if you want! Did you really think that?"

"That’s ridiculous, how could I think that seriously?"

You yourself described him as a weirdo when you brought me to see him... and we just added fuel to the fire yesterday, you know, with your story about the painter; it was a wild conversation, especially since he was, like, totally fixated on that point!

If only I’d known what happened then at the police station and that some jerk... had insulted him with that suspicion! Ugh... I wouldn’t have let that conversation happen yesterday. These weirdos will blow things way out of proportion... and see their fantasies as solid reality.

As far as I can remember, it was Zametov’s story that cleared up half the mystery, in my opinion. Seriously, I know one case where a hypochondriac, a guy who was forty, cut the throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn’t stand the jokes he made at the dinner table!

And in this case, his worn-out clothes, that rude cop, the fever, and this suspicion! It all piled on a guy who was already half-crazy with hypochondria, and with his sick, inflated ego! That might have been the starting point of the illness. Whatever...

"And, by the way, Zametov’s a good guy, but ugh... he shouldn’t have spilled all that last night. He’s a total chatterbox!"

"But who did he tell it to?"

" You and me?" "And Porfiry."

"So what?"

"And, by the way, do you have any influence over them, his mom and sister? Tell them to be extra careful with him today..."

"They’ll be fine!" Razumihin answered reluctantly.

"Why is he so against this Luzhin? He’s got money, and she doesn’t seem to hate him... and they’re broke, right?"

"But what’s it any of your business?" Razumihin snapped, annoyed.

"How would you even know if they have a penny? Ask them yourself and maybe you’ll find out..."

"Seriously? You’re such an idiot sometimes! Last night’s wine hasn’t worn off yet... Goodbye; tell Praskovya Pavlovna thanks for letting me crash. She locked herself in, didn’t even reply to my ‘hello’ through the door; she was up at seven, the samovar was brought to her from the kitchen."

"I didn’t even get a personal interview..."

It was exactly nine o’clock when Razumihin showed up at Bakaleyev’s place. Both ladies were waiting for him, super nervous. They'd been up since seven, or even earlier. He walked in looking totally drained, bowed awkwardly, and immediately felt embarrassed about it.

He hadn’t expected this: Pulcheria Alexandrovna practically leaped at him, grabbing his hands and almost kissing them.

He glanced shyly at Avdotya Romanovna, but her usually proud face had this look of gratitude and friendliness, total respect (instead of the sneering and obvious contempt he's braced himself for). It threw him way off, like he’s been ambushed.

Luckily, they had something to talk about, and he jumped at the chance.

Hearing that things were okay and Rodya was still asleep, Pulcheria Alexandrovna said she was glad, because "there was something she really, really needed to talk over first. Then came the breakfast questions and an invitation to eat with them - they’d held off until he got there.

Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell; a ragged, dirty waiter answered, and they asked him to bring tea, but it arrived in such a mess that the ladies were mortified. Razumihin started to go after the place, but then remembered Luzhin and stopped, feeling awkward.

He was relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s questions, which just kept coming.

He talked for almost an hour, constantly being interrupted by their questions, and managed to explain all the most important things he knew about Raskolnikov’s last year, finishing with a detailed account of his illness.

He left out a bunch of stuff, though - the stuff that was better left unsaid, like the scene at the police station and all the fallout. They listened intently to his story, and when he thought he was done and had satisfied them, they thought he’s barely started.

"Tell me, tell me! What do you think...?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna interjected, a little breathless.

"I still don’t even know your name!"

"Dmitri Prokofitch."

"I’m dying to know, Dmitri Prokofitch... what he looks like these days... what he’s into, you know? How can I explain... what he likes and dislikes? Is he always so cranky? Tell me, if you can, what his hopes are... his dreams, so to speak? What’s influencing him now?"

"Basically, I’m really curious..."

"Mom, how can he answer all that at once?" Dounia chimed in.

"Oh my gosh, I didn’t expect him to be like this at all, Dmitri Prokofitch!"

"Naturally," Razumihin replied. "I don’t have a mom, but my uncle visits every year and almost every time he barely recognizes me, even though he’s smart; and three years apart is a long time. What am I supposed to tell you?"

I’ve known Rodion for a year and a half; he’s moody, gloomy, proud, and arrogant. Lately - and maybe for a while before - he’s been suspicious and spacey. He's got a good heart, a noble spirit. He doesn't like showing his feelings and would rather do something harsh than open up.

Sometimes, though, he's not at all weird, just cold and totally detached; it’s like he’s got two completely different personalities. Sometimes he’s super closed off! He says he’s too busy that everything is a distraction, and yet he just lies in bed doing nothing.

He doesn't make fun of things, not because he's not witty, but as if he doesn't have time to waste on silly stuff. He never really listens to what people say. He’s never interested in what other people are into at any given moment. He thinks pretty highly of himself, and maybe he’s right.

"Well, what else? I think your arrival will be really good for him."

"I really hope so," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, worried by Razumihin’s story about her Rodya.

And Razumihin finally dared to look at Avdotya Romanovna. He kept glancing at her while he talked, but just for a second, then quickly looking away.

Avdotya Romanovna sat at the table, listening carefully, then got up and started pacing back and forth with her arms crossed and her lips pressed together. She’d occasionally ask a question, but kept moving. She had this habit of not really listening.

She was wearing a thin, dark dress and a white, sheer scarf around her neck. Razumihin quickly noticed how broke they were. Even if Avdotya Romanovna was dressed like a queen, he thought he wouldn’t be scared of her.

But because she was dressed so poorly, and he saw all the misery around them, his heart filled with dread, and he started to worry about every word he said and every move he made - which was tough for someone who already felt awkward.

"You’ve told us a lot about my brother’s personality... and you’re being fair. That’s good. I thought you were way too devoted to him," observed Avdotya Romanovna with a smile.

"I think you’re right that he needs someone to take care of him," she added thoughtfully.

"I didn’t say that, but you’d probably be right, only..."

"What?"

"He doesn’t love anyone, and maybe he never will," Razumihin declared firmly.

"You mean he’s not capable of love?"

"Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you’re totally like your brother in every way!" he blurted out suddenly, surprised by his own words.

But then he remembered what he’d just said about her brother, and he turned as red as a lobster and felt super embarrassed. Avdotya Romanovna couldn’t help but laugh when she looked at him.

"You two might both be wrong about Rodya," Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked, a little annoyed. "I’m not talking about our current problem, Dounia."

What Pyotr Petrovitch wrote in this letter and what you and I have thought might be wrong, but Dmitri Prokofitch, you can’t imagine how moody and, like, unpredictable he is. I could never depend on what he’d do, even when he was just fifteen.

"And I’m sure he could do something now that nobody else would ever think of doing... Well, for instance, do you know how a year and a half ago he freaked me out and gave me a shock that almost killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl - what was her name - his landlady’s daughter?"

"Did you hear about that?" asked Avdotya Romanovna.

"Do you think - - " Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly.

"Do you think my tears, my begging, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty would have stopped him? No, he would have calmly ignored all the obstacles. And yet, it’s not like he doesn’t love us!"

"He’s never said a word about that to me," Razumihin answered carefully. "But I did hear something from Praskovya Pavlovna herself, though she’s not really a gossip. And what I heard was pretty strange."

"And what did you hear?" both the ladies asked at once.

"Well, nothing too crazy. I just learned that the marriage, which only fell through because the girl died, wasn’t really something Praskovya Pavlovna wanted. They say, too, the girl wasn’t pretty at all, actually, people said she was pretty ugly... and such an invalid... and weird."

"But she must have had some good qualities. She had to have some good qualities, or it’s totally inexplicable... She didn’t have any money either, and he definitely wouldn’t have considered her money... But it’s always hard to judge in those situations."

"I’m sure she was a good girl," Avdotya Romanovna said simply.

"God, I’m sorry, I just felt happy when she died. I don’t even know who would have made the other more miserable - him to her or her to him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna finished.

Then she started cautiously asking him about what happened the day before with Luzhin, pausing and constantly looking at Dounia, who was clearly annoyed. That whole thing, more than anything else, really stressed her out, even freaked her out.

Razumihin described it in detail again, but this time he added his own thoughts: he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, and he didn’t try to excuse him because of his illness.

"He planned it even before he got sick," he added.

"I think so too," Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed, sounding really down.

But she was super surprised to hear Razumihin speak so carefully, and even with a bit of respect, about Pyotr Petrovitch. Avdotya Romanovna noticed it too.

"So, that’s what you think of Pyotr Petrovitch?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna couldn’t resist asking.

"I can’t have any other opinion of your daughter’s future husband," Razumihin answered firmly and warmly, "and I’m not saying it just to be polite, but... simply because Avdotya Romanovna chose to accept this guy."

"If I was so rude about him last night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and... totally out of my mind, too; yeah, I lost it completely... and this morning I’m embarrassed about it."

He blushed and stopped talking. Avdotya Romanovna’s face flushed, but she didn’t say anything. She hadn’t spoken a word since they started talking about Luzhin.

Without her support, Pulcheria Alexandrovna didn’t know what to do. Finally, stammering and constantly glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was really worried about one thing.

"You see, Dmitri Prokofitch," she began.

"I’ll be totally honest with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?"

"Of course, Mom," said Avdotya Romanovna emphatically.

"Here’s the thing," she started quickly, like talking about her problem lifted a weight off her.

"Very early this morning we got a note from Pyotr Petrovitch, responding to our letter saying we’d arrived."

He promised to meet us at the train station, you know; instead, he sent a servant to give us the address of these rooms and show us the way, and he sent a message that he’d be here himself this morning. But then this note came from him.

You should read it yourself; there’s one thing in it that really worries me... you’ll see what it is soon, and... tell me what you honestly think, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya’s personality better than anyone, and nobody can give us better advice than you can.

"Dounia, I have to tell you, made up her mind right away, but I still don’t know what to do and I... I’ve been waiting for your opinion."

Razumihin unfolded the note, which was dated the night before, and began to read.

"Dear Madam Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I’d love to say I made it to the train station to meet you, but things came up - totally unexpected. I sent someone really reliable to handle it. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to see you tomorrow morning either, because of a Senate meeting that’s unavoidable."

Plus, I don't want to crash your family time while you’re catching up with your son, Rodion Romanovitch, and his sister, Avdotya Romanovna. I’ll swing by your place sometime tomorrow evening, no later than eight o’clock.

And please, seriously, I need Rodion Romanovitch not to be there when we talk - he basically disrespected me when I went to see him when he was sick yesterday. And honestly, I need to get some answers from you directly, and I want to hear it in your own words.

If, against my wishes, I run into Rodion Romanovitch, I’m outta there - and then it's on you. I’m assuming that Rodion, who looked awful yesterday, magically bounced back a couple of hours later and might be coming over too.

I got that feeling from seeing a drunk guy get hit by a car and die - he gave his daughter, who’s got a reputation, twenty-five rubles for the funeral, which was wild, considering how much effort you put in to scrape that money together.

Anyway, sending my best to your amazing daughter, Avdotya Romanovna.

and lastly... hoping you accept my sincere respect.

Your humble servant, P Luzhin.

"What am I supposed to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?" began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, near tears.

"How can I ask Rodya not to come? Yesterday he was so insistent about us not seeing Pyotr Petrovitch, and now we’re being told not to receive Rodya! He’s going to show up on purpose if he knows, and... what’s going to happen then?"

"Do what Avdotya Romanovna decides," Razumihin said calmly.

"Oh, dear me! She says... goodness knows what she’s thinking, she doesn’t explain anything! She says it’s absolutely essential that Rodya makes a point of being here at eight o’clock, and that they need to meet..."

"I didn’t even want to show him the letter, but to keep him away with your help, somehow... because he’s so easily ticked off. Plus, I don’t get the whole thing about the drunk who died and his daughter, and how he could have given the daughter all the money... which..."

"Which cost you so much, Mom," put in Avdotya Romanovna.

"He wasn’t himself yesterday," Razumihin said thoughtfully. "If you only knew what he was up to at the restaurant yesterday - there was some sense to it though. He did mention a dead man and a girl as we were walking home last night, but I didn’t understand a word. Last night, I..."

"The best thing, Mom, is for us to go to him ourselves, and I promise you we’ll figure out what’s going on right away."

Plus, it’s late - good heavens, it’s past ten! she cried, looking at a gorgeous gold, jeweled watch hanging around her neck on a thin Venetian chain, which totally clashed with the rest of her outfit. A gift from her fiancé, thought Razumihin.

"We have to go, Dounia, we have to go," her mother cried, flustered. "He’s going to think we’re still mad about yesterday, because we’ll be so late. Merciful heavens!"

She said this while quickly grabbing her hat and coat. Dounia was doing the same. Razumihin noticed her gloves weren't just worn out - they had holes in them.

But somehow, their obvious poverty gave the two women a special kind of dignity, the kind you see in people who know how to carry themselves, even when they don’t have much. Razumihin looked at Dounia with admiration and felt proud to be walking with her.

"The queen who patched her stockings in prison," he thought, "must have looked like a queen then, even more than she would at fancy parties and official events."

"Oh my gosh!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I never thought I’d be scared to see my son, my sweet, darling Rodya! I’m worried, Dmitri Prokofitch," she added, glancing at him nervously.

"Don’t worry, Mom," said Dounia, kissing her. "Have faith in him."

"Oh dear, I do have faith, but I haven’t slept all night," the poor woman wailed.

They stepped out into the street.

"You know, Dounia, I dozed off a little this morning and I dreamed about Marfa Petrovna... she was all in white... she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly, like she was blaming me... Is that a good sign? Oh dear!"

"You don’t know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna’s passed away!"

"I didn’t know; who is Marfa Petrovna?"

"She died suddenly; and get this..."

"Afterwards, Mom," put in Dounia.

"He doesn’t know who Marfa Petrovna is."

"Oh, you don’t know? And I was thinking you knew everything about us. Sorry, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don’t know what I’m thinking these past few days. I really see you as a lifesaver for us, so I just assumed you knew all about us. I think of you as family... Don’t be mad at me for saying that."

"Oh dear, what’s wrong with your right hand? Did you bump it?"

"Yeah, I got a bruise," Razumihin mumbled, clearly thrilled.

"Sometimes I talk too much from the heart, and Dounia gets on my case... But, oh dear, what a tiny apartment he lives in! I wonder if he’s even awake? Do you think his landlady even considers that a room? You said he doesn’t show his feelings much, so maybe I’ll annoy him with my... quirks?"

"Please advise me, Dmitri Prokofitch, how should I treat him? I’m totally frazzled, you know."

"Don’t grill him too much about anything if you see him frown; don’t push him about his health; he doesn’t like that."

"Oh, Dmitri Prokofitch, it’s so hard being a mom! But here are the stairs... What a creepy staircase!"

"Mom, you’re really pale, don’t stress yourself out, darling," said Dounia, stroking her hair.

Then, her eyes flashed, and she added, "He should be happy to see you, and you’re torturing yourself so much."

"Wait, I’ll peek in and see if he’s awake."

The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who was leading the way. When they reached the landlady’s door on the fourth floor, they noticed it was cracked open a tiny bit and that two sharp, dark eyes were watching them from the shadows inside.

When their eyes met, the door slammed shut so suddenly that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost jumped.