"He is well, quite well!" Zossimov cried cheerfully as they entered.
He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for some time past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen.
Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his condition the day before, but he was still pale, listless, and sombre. He looked like a wounded man or one who has undergone some terrible physical suffering. His brows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke little and reluctantly, as though performing a duty, and there was a restlessness in his movements.
He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete the impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. The pale, sombre face lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of suffering remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying his patient with all the zest of a young doctor beginning to practise, noticed in him no joy at the arrival of his mother and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw later that almost every word of the following conversation seemed to touch on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same time he marvelled at the power of controlling himself and hiding his feelings in a patient who the previous day had, like a monomaniac, fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word.
"Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well," said Raskolnikov, giving his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at once. "And I don't say this /as I did yesterday/," he said, addressing Razumihin, with a friendly pressure of his hand.
"Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day," began Zossimov, much delighted at the ladies' entrance, for he had not succeeded in keeping up a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. "In another three or four days, if he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he was a month ago, or two . . . or perhaps even three. This has been coming on for a long while. . . . eh? Confess, now, that it has been perhaps your own fault?" he added, with a tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him.
"It is very possible," answered Raskolnikov coldly.
"I should say, too," continued Zossimov with zest, "that your complete recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you, I should like to impress upon you that it is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak, fundamental causes tending to produce your morbid condition: in that case you will be cured, if not, it will go from bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don't know, but they must be known to you. You are an intelligent man, and must have observed yourself, of course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement coincides with your leaving the university. You must not be left without occupation, and so, work and a definite aim set before you might, I fancy, be very beneficial."
"Yes, yes; you are perfectly right. . . . I will make haste and return to the university: and then everything will go smoothly. . . ."
Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified, when, glancing at his patient, he observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted an instant, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov, especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night.
"What! he saw you last night?" Raskolnikov asked, as though startled. "Then you have not slept either after your journey."
"Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o'clock. Dounia and I never go to bed before two at home."
"I don't know how to thank him either," Raskolnikov went on, suddenly frowning and looking down. "Setting aside the question of payment-- forgive me for referring to it (he turned to Zossimov)--I really don't know what I have done to deserve such special attention from you! I simply don't understand it . . . and . . . and . . . it weighs upon me, indeed, because I don't understand it. I tell you so candidly."
"Don't be irritated." Zossimov forced himself to laugh. "Assume that you are my first patient--well--we fellows just beginning to practise love our first patients as if they were our children, and some almost fall in love with them. And, of course, I am not rich in patients."
"I say nothing about him," added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin, "though he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble."
"What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood to-day, are you?" shouted Razumihin.
If he had had more penetration he would have seen that there was no trace of sentimentality in him, but something indeed quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna noticed it. She was intently and uneasily watching her brother.
"As for you, mother, I don't dare to speak," he went on, as though repeating a lesson learned by heart. "It is only to-day that I have been able to realise a little how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come back."
When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her since their dispute the previous day. The mother's face lighted up with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. "Yes, that is what I love him for," Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. "He has these movements."
"And how well he does it all," the mother was thinking to herself. "What generous impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he put an end to all the misunderstanding with his sister--simply by holding out his hand at the right minute and looking at her like that. . . . And what fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is! . . . He is even better looking than Dounia. . . . But, good heavens, what a suit --how terribly he's dressed! . . . Vasya, the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanitch's shop, is better dressed! I could rush at him and hug him . . . weep over him--but I am afraid. . . . Oh, dear, he's so strange! He's talking kindly, but I'm afraid! Why, what am I afraid of? . . ."
"Oh, Rodya, you wouldn't believe," she began suddenly, in haste to answer his words to her, "how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now that it's all over and done with and we are quite happy again--I can tell you. Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that woman--ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya! . . . She told us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had just run away from the doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets. You can't imagine how we felt! I couldn't help thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father's-- you can't remember him, Rodya--who ran out in the same way in a high fever and fell into the well in the court-yard and they couldn't pull him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We were on the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask him to help. . . . Because we were alone, utterly alone," she said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, although "we are quite happy again."
"Yes, yes. . . . Of course it's very annoying. . . ." Raskolnikov muttered in reply, but with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Dounia gazed at him in perplexity.
"What else was it I wanted to say?" He went on trying to recollect. "Oh, yes; mother, and you too, Dounia, please don't think that I didn't mean to come and see you to-day and was waiting for you to come first."
"What are you saying, Rodya?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too, was surprised.
"Is he answering us as a duty?" Dounia wondered. "Is he being reconciled and asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating a lesson?"
"I've only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her . . . Nastasya . . . to wash out the blood . . . I've only just dressed."
"Blood! What blood?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm.
"Oh, nothing--don't be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced upon a man who had been run over . . . a clerk . . ."
"Delirious? But you remember everything!" Razumihin interrupted.
"That's true," Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. "I remember everything even to the slightest detail, and yet--why I did that and went there and said that, I can't clearly explain now."
"A familiar phenomenon," interposed Zossimov, "actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions-- it's like a dream."
"Perhaps it's a good thing really that he should think me almost a madman," thought Raskolnikov.
"Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too," observed Dounia, looking uneasily at Zossimov.
"There is some truth in your observation," the latter replied. "In that sense we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen, but with the slight difference that the deranged are somewhat madder, for we must draw a line. A normal man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens--perhaps hundreds of thousands--hardly one is to be met with."
At the word "madman," carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter on his favourite subject, everyone frowned.
Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something.
"Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!" Razumihin cried hastily.
"What?" Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. "Oh . . . I got spattered with blood helping to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mamma, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money you sent me . . . to his wife for the funeral. She's a widow now, in consumption, a poor creature . . . three little children, starving . . . nothing in the house . . . there's a daughter, too . . . perhaps you'd have given it yourself if you'd seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit, especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others one must have the right to do it, or else /Crevez, chiens, si vous n'etes pas contents/." He laughed, "That's right, isn't it, Dounia?"
"No, it's not," answered Dounia firmly.
"Bah! you, too, have ideals," he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically. "I ought to have considered that. . . . Well, that's praiseworthy, and it's better for you . . . and if you reach a line you won't overstep, you will be unhappy . . . and if you overstep it, maybe you will be still unhappier. . . . But all that's nonsense," he added irritably, vexed at being carried away. "I only meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother," he concluded, shortly and abruptly.
"That's enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good," said his mother, delighted.
"Don't be too sure," he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile.
A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all this conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and all were feeling it.
"It is as though they were afraid of me," Raskolnikov was thinking to himself, looking askance at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the longer she kept silent.
"Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much," flashed through his mind.
"Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead," Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out.
"What Marfa Petrovna?"
"Oh, mercy on us--Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailov. I wrote you so much about her."
"A-a-h! Yes, I remember. . . . So she's dead! Oh, really?" he roused himself suddenly, as if waking up. "What did she die of?"
"Only imagine, quite suddenly," Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. "On the very day I was sending you that letter! Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been the cause of her death. They say he beat her dreadfully."
"Why, were they on such bad terms?" he asked, addressing his sister.
"Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was always very patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven years of their married life he gave way to her, too much so indeed, in many cases. All of a sudden he seems to have lost patience."
"Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?"
"No, no, he's an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!" Dounia answered, almost with a shudder, knitting her brows, and sinking into thought.
"That had happened in the morning," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on hurriedly. "And directly afterwards she ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to the town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am told. . . ."
"After the beating?"
"That was always her . . . habit; and immediately after dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the bath-house. . . . You see, she was undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got into the water when she suddenly had a stroke!"
"I should think so," said Zossimov.
"And did he beat her badly?"
"What does that matter!" put in Dounia.
"H'm! But I don't know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother," said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite of himself.
"Ah, my dear, I don't know what to talk about," broke from Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Why, are you all afraid of me?" he asked, with a constrained smile.
"That's certainly true," said Dounia, looking directly and sternly at her brother. "Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the stairs."
His face worked, as though in convulsion.
"Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don't be angry, please, Rodya. . . . Why did you say that, Dounia?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed--"You see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the train, how we should meet, how we should talk over everything together. . . . And I was so happy, I did not notice the journey! But what am I saying? I am happy now. . . . You should not, Dounia. . . . I am happy now--simply in seeing you, Rodya. . . ."
"Hush, mother," he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing her hand. "We shall have time to speak freely of everything!"
As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him that he had just told a fearful lie--that he would never now be able to speak freely of everything--that he would never again be able to /speak/ of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not looking at anyone walked towards the door.
"What are you about?" cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm.
He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. They were all looking at him in perplexity.
"But what are you all so dull for?" he shouted, suddenly and quite unexpectedly. "Do say something! What's the use of sitting like this? Come, do speak. Let us talk. . . . We meet together and sit in silence. . . . Come, anything!"
"Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning again," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.
"What is the matter, Rodya?" asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully.
"Oh, nothing! I remembered something," he answered, and suddenly laughed.
"Well, if you remembered something; that's all right! . . . I was beginning to think . . ." muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. "It is time for me to be off. I will look in again perhaps . . . if I can . . ." He made his bows, and went out.
"What an excellent man!" observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent," Raskolnikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he had not shown till then. "I can't remember where I met him before my illness. . . . I believe I have met him somewhere---- . . . And this is a good man, too," he nodded at Razumihin. "Do you like him, Dounia?" he asked her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed.
"Very much," answered Dounia.
"Foo!--what a pig you are!" Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud.
"Where are you off to?"
"I must go."
"You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don't go. What's the time? Is it twelve o'clock? What a pretty watch you have got, Dounia. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking."
"It was a present from Marfa Petrovna," answered Dounia.
"And a very expensive one!" added Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady's."
"I like that sort," said Dounia.
"So it is not a present from her /fiance/," thought Razumihin, and was unreasonably delighted.
"I thought it was Luzhin's present," observed Raskolnikov.
"No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet."
"A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and wanted to get married?" he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted by the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke of it.
"Oh, yes, my dear."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia and Razumihin.
"H'm, yes. What shall I tell you? I don't remember much indeed. She was such a sickly girl," he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again. "Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was always dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very well. She was an ugly little thing. I really don't know what drew me to her then--I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or hunchback, I believe I should have liked her better still," he smiled dreamily. "Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium."
"No, it was not only spring delirium," said Dounia, with warm feeling.
He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not hear or did not understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up, went up to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place and sat down.
"You love her even now?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched.
"Her? Now? Oh, yes. . . . You ask about her? No . . . that's all now, as it were, in another world . . . and so long ago. And indeed everything happening here seems somehow far away." He looked attentively at them. "You, now . . . I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away . . . but, goodness knows why we are talking of that! And what's the use of asking about it?" he added with annoyance, and biting his nails, fell into dreamy silence again.
"What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It's like a tomb," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. "I am sure it's quite half through your lodging you have become so melancholy."
"My lodging," he answered, listlessly. "Yes, the lodging had a great deal to do with it. . . . I thought that, too. . . . If only you knew, though, what a strange thing you said just now, mother," he said, laughing strangely.
A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister, with him after three years' absence, this intimate tone of conversation, in face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything, would have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent matter which must be settled one way or the other that day--so he had decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, as a means of escape.
"Listen, Dounia," he began, gravely and drily, "of course I beg your pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to tell you again that I do not withdraw from my chief point. It is me or Luzhin. If I am a scoundrel, you must not be. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease at once to look on you as a sister."
"Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again," Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. "And why do you call yourself a scoundrel? I can't bear it. You said the same yesterday."
"Brother," Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. "In all this there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at night, and found out the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That is not the case at all. I am simply marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to my family. But that is not the chief motive for my decision. . . ."
"She is lying," he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively. "Proud creature! She won't admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate. . . . Oh, how I . . . hate them all!"
"In fact," continued Dounia, "I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because of two evils I choose the less. I intend to do honestly all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving him. . . . Why did you smile just now?" She, too, flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes.
"All?" he asked, with a malignant grin.
"Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovitch's courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too. . . . Why are you laughing again?"
"And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. You are intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold your own against me. . . . You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush for it."
"It is not true. I am not lying," cried Dounia, losing her composure. "I would not marry him if I were not convinced that he esteems me and thinks highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it this very day . . . and such a marriage is not a vileness, as you say! And even if you were right, if I really had determined on a vile action, is it not merciless on your part to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is despotism; it is tyranny. If I ruin anyone, it is only myself. . . . I am not committing a murder. Why do you look at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what's the matter?"
"Good heavens! You have made him faint," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"No, no, nonsense! It's nothing. A little giddiness--not fainting. You have fainting on the brain. H'm, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him, and that he . . . esteems you, as you said. I think you said to-day?"
"Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch's letter," said Dounia.
With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before opening it, he suddenly looked with a sort of wonder at Dounia.
"It is strange," he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. "What am I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like!"
He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some time at his sister, as though puzzled. He opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then, slowly and attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected something particular.
"What surprises me," he began, after a short pause, handing the letter to his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, "is that he is a business man, a lawyer, and his conversation is pretentious indeed, and yet he writes such an uneducated letter."
They all started. They had expected something quite different.
"But they all write like that, you know," Razumihin observed, abruptly.
"Have you read it?"
"Yes."
"We showed him, Rodya. We . . . consulted him just now," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.
"That's just the jargon of the courts," Razumihin put in. "Legal documents are written like that to this day."
"Legal? Yes, it's just legal--business language--not so very uneducated, and not quite educated--business language!"
"Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap education, he is proud indeed of having made his own way," Avdotya Romanovna observed, somewhat offended by her brother's tone.
"Well, if he's proud of it, he has reason, I don't deny it. You seem to be offended, sister, at my making only such a frivolous criticism on the letter, and to think that I speak of such trifling matters on purpose to annoy you. It is quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things stand. There is one expression, 'blame yourselves' put in very significantly and plainly, and there is besides a threat that he will go away at once if I am present. That threat to go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon you both if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after summoning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can one resent such an expression from Luzhin, as we should if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had written it, or Zossimov, or one of us?"
"N-no," answered Dounia, with more animation. "I saw clearly that it was too naively expressed, and that perhaps he simply has no skill in writing . . . that is a true criticism, brother. I did not expect, indeed . . ."
"It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than perhaps he intended. But I must disillusion you a little. There is one expression in the letter, one slander about me, and rather a contemptible one. I gave the money last night to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed with trouble, and not 'on the pretext of the funeral,' but simply to pay for the funeral, and not to the daughter--a young woman, as he writes, of notorious behaviour (whom I saw last night for the first time in my life)--but to the widow. In all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to raise dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon, that is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and with a very naive eagerness. He is a man of intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all shows the man and . . . I don't think he has a great esteem for you. I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely wish for your good . . ."
Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only awaiting the evening.
"Then what is your decision, Rodya?" asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was more uneasy than ever at the sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk.
"What decision?"
"You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be with us this evening, and that he will go away if you come. So will you . . . come?"
"That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you first, if you are not offended by such a request; and secondly, by Dounia, if she, too, is not offended. I will do what you think best," he added, drily.
"Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare.
"I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to be with us at this interview," said Dounia. "Will you come?"
"Yes."
"I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o'clock," she said, addressing Razumihin. "Mother, I am inviting him, too."
"Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided," added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "so be it. I shall feel easier myself. I do not like concealment and deception. Better let us have the whole truth. . . . Pyotr Petrovitch may be angry or not, now!"
“他好了，他好了！”佐西莫夫高兴地对进来的人们喊了一声。佐西莫夫已经来了十来分钟了，坐在沙发上昨天他坐过的那个角落里。拉斯科利尼科夫坐在他对面那个角落上，已经完全穿好衣服，甚至细心梳洗过了，他好久没有这样做过了。屋里一下子坐满了人，但娜斯塔西娅还是跟着客人们进来，在那儿听着。
真的，拉斯科利尼科夫几乎已经好了，特别是与昨天的情况比较，更是如此，只不过他面色十分苍白，心不在焉，郁郁不乐。从外表看，他像一个受伤的人，或者是忍受着肉体上某种剧烈痛苦的人：他双眉紧锁，双唇紧闭，目光像在发烧。他说话很少，很不乐意，仿佛是勉为其难，或者是在尽义务，有时他的动作似乎有些慌乱。
只差胳膊上没有绷带，或者手指上没套着塔夫绸的套子，不然就完全像一个，譬如说吧，手指严重化脓，或是手臂受伤，或者受了这一类创伤的人了。
不过，当母亲和妹妹进来的时候，有一瞬间这张苍白和神情忧郁的脸仿佛被一道亮光照得发出了光彩，但这只是使他脸上以前那种布满愁云、心不在焉的表情变得更加痛苦，似乎把这痛苦凝缩集中起来了。光转瞬间就熄灭了，痛苦却留了下来，佐西莫夫怀着刚刚开始给人治病的医生那种年轻人的热情，从各方面观察和研究自己的病人，惊奇地发觉，亲人们的到来并没有使他变得高兴，他脸上流露出来的却似乎是暗暗隐藏着的、痛苦的决心——决心忍受一两个小时无法避免的折磨。后来他看到，随后的谈话，几乎每一句都像是接触到并刺痛了他病人的伤口；但同时他又有点儿惊讶：今天病人竟能控制住自己，把昨天那种偏执狂患者的感情隐藏起来，而昨天，为了一句无足轻重的话，他都几乎要发疯。
“是的，现在我自己也看出，我差不多好了，”拉斯科利尼科夫说，说着亲切地吻了吻母亲和妹妹，这样一来普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜立刻容光焕发，“而且我说这话已经不是用昨天的方式了，”他又对着拉祖米欣补上了一句，还和他友好地握了握手。
“今天我甚至对他感到惊讶，”佐西莫夫说，他们来了，他感到非常高兴，因为在这十分钟里他和自己的病人已经没有什么话可谈了。“如果一直这样下去，再过三、四天，他就会和以前完全一样了，也就是说和一个月以前，或者是两个月以前……或者，也许是三个月以前？因为冰冻三尺，非一日之寒，这病是从很久以前就开始的……不是吗？现在您得承认，也许，这得怪您自己，是吧？”他面带小心谨慎的微笑，补上一句，仿佛一直还在担心有什么话会惹他生气。
“很有可能，”拉斯科利尼科夫冷冰冰地回答。
“我说这话的意思是，”佐西莫夫得寸进尺，接下去说，“您要完全恢复健康，现在主要全在于您自己了。现在已经可以和您谈谈了，我想提醒您，必须消除最初的病因，也可以这样说，必须消除致病的根本原因，那么您就会完全痊愈了，不然，病情甚至会恶化。这最初的病因，我不知道，但您想必是知道的。您是聪明人，当然，也观察过自己。我觉得，您得病的时间与您离开大学的时间多少有些巧合。您不能无事可做，因此我觉得，工作和为自己提出一个坚定的目标，对您会非常有益。”
“对，对，您说得完全正确……我要赶快进大学，那么就一切都会……十分顺利了……”
佐西莫夫提出这些很有道理的劝告，一部分也是为了让这两位女士留下深刻的印象，可是他把话说完以后，看了看被劝告的对象，却发现后者的脸上露出明显的嘲笑神情，这时他当然有点儿发窘了。不过这只持续了很短暂的一会儿工夫。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜立刻向佐西莫夫致谢，特别是感谢他昨天夜里去旅馆看她们。
“怎么，他夜间也去过你们那里？”拉斯科利尼科夫好像有点儿担心地问。“这么说，你们长途旅行之后也没睡觉吗？”
“啊，罗佳，这只不过是在两点钟以前哪。我和杜尼娅在家里的时候，两点以前从来不睡。”
“我也不知道该怎样感谢他，”拉斯科利尼科夫接下去说，突然皱起眉头，眼睛看着地下。“钱的问题暂且不谈，——我提到这一点，请您原谅（他对佐西莫夫说），我不知道，我有哪一点值得您对我这样特别关心？简直无法理解……而且……而且这种关心甚至让我感到痛苦，因为无法理解：我坦率地对您说。”
“请您别生气，”佐西莫夫勉强笑着说，“假定说，您是我的第一个病人，而我们，刚刚开始行医的医生们，爱我们的第一个病人，就像爱自己的孩子一样，有些人几乎是深深地爱上了他们。而我的病人并不多。”
“至于他，我就不讲了，”拉斯科利尼科夫指着拉祖米欣补充说，“他也是，除了侮辱和一大堆麻烦事，从我这儿什么也没得到。”
“嘿，你胡说！今天你是不是有点儿多情善感？”拉祖米欣高声叫嚷。
如果他目光较为敏锐的话，那么他就会看出，这根本不是什么多情善感，而甚至是完全相反。但是阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜却发觉了。她担心地凝神注视着哥哥。
“而对您，妈妈，我连提都不敢提，”他接着说下去，仿佛是在背诵从早上就背熟了的功课，“今天我才能多少想象出，昨天您在这儿等我回来的时候，心里感到多么难过。”说完这句话，他突然默默地微笑着向妹妹伸过一只手去。但是这一次，微笑中流露出的却是绝非故意做作的真实感情。杜尼娅立刻抓住向她伸过来的手，热情地和他握手，她感到十分高兴，满怀着感激的心情。在昨天发生争执之后，这是他第一次向她流露自己的感情。看到兄妹默默无言的彻底和解，母亲欣喜若狂，感到十分幸福，脸上发出了光彩。
“瞧，我就是为了这一点爱他！”总是喜欢夸张的拉祖米欣喃喃地说，在椅子上坚决地扭转身去，“他是会这样的！
……”
“这一切他做得多么好啊，”母亲暗自想，“他心里充满多么高尚的激情，他是多么简单而又委婉地结束了昨天和妹妹的所有误解，——只不过是在这样的时刻伸出手来，亲切地看了一眼……他的眼睛多好看哪，他的脸多么美啊！…… 他甚至比杜涅奇卡还要好看……不过，我的天哪，他穿了一身什么样的衣服，他穿得多么不像样啊！……阿凡纳西·伊万诺维奇铺子里那个送信的瓦西亚也比他穿得好些！……我简直想，简直想立刻向他扑过去，拥抱他，……大哭一场，——可是我害怕，我怕……上帝啊！他是多么……瞧，他说话是那么亲切，可是我害怕！不过我怕什么呢？……”
“啊，罗佳，你不会相信的，”她突然接着话茬，赶快回答他的话，“昨天我和杜尼娅是多么……不幸啊！现在，一切都已经过去，已经结束，我们大家又都感到幸福了，——可以跟你说说了。你想想看，我们跑到这里，想要拥抱你，几乎是一下火车就跑来了，可是这个女人，——哦，对了，就是她！你好，娜斯塔西娅！…… 她突然对我们说，你害了热病，在发酒疯，刚才悄悄地从医生这儿逃跑了，神智不清地跑上街去，大家都跑去找你了。您想不出，我们急成了什么样子！我立刻想起波坦奇科夫中尉死得多么惨，他是我们的一个熟人，你父亲的朋友，——你不记得他，罗佳，——他也是发酒狂的时候这样跑出去，掉进院子当中的一口井里，只是到第二天才把他打捞上来。当然啦，我们是把事情看得过于严重了些。我们本想跑去找彼得·彼特罗维奇，希望至少有他的帮助……因为我们孤单无依，完全无依无靠，”她用诉苦的声音拖长语调说，可是突然住了声，因为她想起，这时提起彼得·彼特罗维奇还相当危险，尽管“我们大家又都感到幸福了”。
“是的，是的，……这一切当然让人感到遗憾……”拉斯科利尼科夫含糊不清地回答，然而他的样子看上去是那么心不在焉，几乎是漫不经心，以致杜尼娅惊讶地看了他一眼。
“我还想说什么来着？”他接着说，努力回想着，“对了：妈妈，还有你，杜涅奇卡，请你们不要认为，今天我不愿先到你们那儿去，却等着你们先到我这儿来。”
“你这是说什么话呀，罗佳！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼，她也感到惊讶了。
“他回答我们，是不是在尽义务呢？”杜涅奇卡想，“又是和好，又是请求原谅，就像是履行公事，或者是像背书。”
“我一睡醒就想过去，可是衣服把我耽误住了；昨天忘了告诉她……告诉娜斯塔西娅……洗净这块血迹……只是到现在我才穿好衣服。”
“血！什么血？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜惊恐地说。
“这没什么……您别担心。这血迹是因为，昨天我神智不清？在街上荡来荡去，碰上一个给轧伤的人……一个官员……”
“神智不清？可你不是什么都记得吗，”拉祖米欣打断了他的话。
“这是真的，”不知为什么，对这个问题拉斯科利尼科夫特别关心地回答说，“我什么都记得，就连最小的细节也记得，可是真怪：我为什么要做那件事，为什么要到那里去，为什么要说那些话？却不能解释清楚。”
“这是一种极为常见的现象，”佐西莫夫插嘴说，“一件事情的完成有时十分巧妙，而且极其复杂，是什么在支配这些行动，这些行动的起因是什么，却很难弄清，取决于各种病态的印象。这就像做梦一样。”
“他几乎把我当成了疯子，这倒也好，”拉斯科利尼科夫想。
“就是健康的人，好像也有这样的情况，”杜涅奇卡担心地望着佐西莫夫，说。
“这话相当正确，”佐西莫夫回答，“就这方面来说，我们大家当真往往几乎都是疯子，只有一个小小的区别，‘病人’多多少少比我们疯得厉害些，所以必须分清这个界线。完全正常的人，几乎根本就没有，这是对的；几十个人里，也许是几十万人里才能碰到一个，而且就是这样的人，也并不是没有缺陷……”
谈起自己心爱的话题，佐西莫夫不慎说漏了嘴，“疯子”一词脱口而出，一听到这个词儿，大家都皱起眉头。拉斯科利尼科夫却好像毫不在意，坐在那儿，陷入深思，苍白的嘴唇上露出奇怪的微笑。他不知继续在想什么。
“喂，这个给轧伤的人怎么样了？我把你的话打断了！”拉祖米欣赶快高声说。
“什么？”拉斯科利尼科夫好像从梦中醒来，“是的，……所以，当我帮着把他抬回家去的时候，沾上了血迹……顺带说一声，妈妈，昨天我做了一件不可原谅的事；真的是精神不正常。昨天我把您寄给我的钱全都送给了……他的妻子……用来安葬他。现在这个寡妇，她有肺病，这个可怜的女人……三个小孩子都成了孤儿，没有饭吃……家里什么都没有……还有个女儿……要是您看到了，说不定您自己也会送给她……不过，我得承认，我没有任何权利，特别是因为我知道，这些钱您是怎么弄来的。要帮助别人，得先有这样做的权利，要不，就只能说：‘Crevez，chiens，sivousnXeYtespascontents！’①他放声大笑起来，“是不是这样呢，杜尼娅？”
--------
①法文，意为：“畜生，如果你们觉得不好，那就死了吧。”
“不，不是这样，”杜尼娅坚决地回答。
“哦！你也有……企图！……”他含糊不清地说，几乎是憎恨地看了她一眼，并且含讥带讽地微微一笑。“这我本该猜到的……有什么呢，这也值得称赞；对你来说，这会更好……一直走到这样一条界线，如果你不跨过去，就会遭到不幸，跨过去呢，也许会更加不幸……不过这都是胡说八道！”他气愤地加上一句，为自己这种不由自主的兴奋情绪感到恼怒。“我只不过想说，妈妈，我请求您原谅，”他突然生硬地、断断续续地结束了自己的话。
“够了，罗佳，我相信，你做的一切都很好！”十分高兴的母亲说。
“请您不要相信，”他回答，撇了撇嘴，微微一笑。接着是沉默。在这场谈话中有某种紧张气氛，在沉默中，在他们和好与请求的时候，大家也都有同样的感觉。
“好像她们都怕我呀，”拉斯科利尼科夫皱起眉头瞅着母亲和妹妹，心中暗想。真的，普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜越是不说话，就越觉得害怕。
“不见面的时候，我倒好像很爱她们，”这想法突然在他脑子里一闪而过。
“你要知道，罗佳，玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜死了！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜忽然一下子站了起来。
“这个玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜是什么人？”
“唉，我的天哪，就是玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜·斯维德里盖洛娃呀！我在信里还给你写了那么多有关她的事情呢。”
“啊——啊——啊，对了，我记得……那么，她死了？唉，真的吗？”他突然打了个哆嗦，仿佛从梦中醒来。“难道她死了吗？怎么死的？”
“你要知道，是猝死！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜受到他好奇心的鼓舞，连忙说，“就在我给你发信的时候，甚至就在那一天！你要明白，这个可怕的人看来就是她致死的原因。据说，他把她狠狠地痛打了一顿！”
“难道他们就是这样生活的吗？”他问妹妹。
“不，甚至相反。他对她总是很有耐心，甚至客客气气。在许多情况下，对她的性格他甚至采取过分宽容的态度，整整七年……不知为什么突然失去了耐心。”
“既然他忍耐了七年，可见他根本不是那么可怕，不是吗？
杜涅奇卡，你好像是在为他辩解？”
“不，不，这是个可怕的人！我不能想象会有比这更可怕的，”杜尼娅几乎颤抖着回答，皱起眉头，陷入沉思。
“他们这件事发生在早上，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜连忙接下去说。“在这以后，她立刻吩咐套马，吃过午饭马上就进城去，因为每逢这种情况，她总是要进城；据说吃午饭的时候她胃口很好……”
“挨了打以后？”
“……不过，她一向有这么个……习惯，一吃完午饭，为了不耽误起程，立刻就去水滨浴场……你要知道，她在那儿进行浴疗；他们那里有一处冷泉，她每天按时在冷泉里沐浴，可是她一下水，就突然中风了！”
“那还用说！”佐西莫夫说。
“把她打得很厉害吗？”
“这还不一样吗，”杜尼娅回答。
“嗯哼！不过，妈妈，您倒喜欢讲这种无聊的事，”拉斯科利尼科夫气愤地、仿佛是无意中突然说。
“唉，我亲爱的，我真不知道该说什么呢，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜脱口而出。
“怎么，你们大家都怕我吗？”他撇着嘴，不自然地笑着说。
“的确是这样，”杜尼娅说，目光严厉地逼视着哥哥。“妈妈上楼的时候，甚至吓得在画十字。”
他的脸仿佛在抽搐，变得很难看。
“唉，看你说的，杜尼娅！请别生气，罗佳……你为什么要这样说呢，杜尼娅！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德芙娜着急地说，“我，真的，到这儿来的时候，坐在车厢里一路上都在梦想着：我们将怎样见面，怎样互相谈谈各自的情况……我感到那么幸福，都不觉得是在路上了！唉，我在说什么啊！现在我也感到很幸福……你不该那么说，杜尼娅！单是看到你，我就已经觉得幸福了，罗佳……”
“够了，妈妈，”他不好意思地含糊不清地说，紧紧握住她的手，可是不看着她，“我们会有时间痛痛快快说个够的。”
说完这句话，他突然感到很窘，脸色变得煞白：不久前体验过的一种可怕的感觉，一种像死人般冷冰冰的感觉，又突然穿透他的心灵；他又突然十分清楚，完全明白，刚才他撒了个弥天大谎：现在他不仅永远不能痛痛快快地说个够，而且永远再也不能跟任何人说什么了。这个折磨人的想法对他的影响是如此强烈，有那么一会儿工夫，他几乎想得出神，从座位上站起来，谁也不看，就从屋里往外走去。
“你怎么了？”拉祖米欣喊了一声，一把抓住了他的胳膊。
他又坐下，默默地朝四下里看看；大家都困惑不解地看着他。
“你们怎么都这样闷闷不乐！”他突然完全出乎意外地高声大喊，“随便说点儿什么嘛！真的，干吗这么干坐着！喂，说呀！大家都说话呀……我们聚会在一起，可是都不作声……
喂，随便说点儿什么呀！”
“谢天谢地！我还以为他又要像昨天那样呢，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜画了个十字，说。
“你怎么了，罗佳？”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜怀疑地问。
“没什么，我想起一件事来，”他回答，突然笑起来了。
“好，既然这样，那就好！不然我倒以为……”佐西莫夫含糊不清地说，说着从沙发上站起身来。“不过，我该走了；
也许，我还会再来一次……如果你们还在这儿……”
他告辞，走了。
“一个多好的人啊！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说。
“不错，是个很好的、出色的、学识渊博的聪明人……”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说，出乎意外地说得很快，而且异常兴奋，直到现在他还从未这么活跃过，“我已经记不得，生病以前我在什么地方见过他了……好像是在哪儿见过……瞧，这也是一位好人！”他朝拉祖米欣点点头，“你喜欢他吗，杜尼娅？”他问她，而且不知为什么突然大笑起来。
“很喜欢，”杜尼娅回答。
“呸，你是个多么……不讲交情的人！”给说得很不好意思、满脸通红的拉祖米欣说，说罢从椅子上站起来了。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜微微一笑，拉斯科利尼科夫却高声大笑起来。
“你去哪儿？”
“我也……我也该走了。”
“你根本不该走，请你留下来！佐西莫夫走了，所以你也该走吗？你别走……可是，几点了？十二点了吗？你这块表多可爱呀，杜尼娅！你们怎么又不说话了！就只有我一个人在说！……”
“这是玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜送给我的礼物，”杜尼娅回答。
“价钱很贵呢，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜补充说。
“啊——啊——啊！多么大啊，几乎不像女表。”
“我就喜欢这样的，”杜尼娅说。
“这么说，不是未婚夫的礼物，”拉祖米欣想，不知为什么觉得很高兴。
“我还以为是卢任送的礼物呢，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。
“不，他还什么也没送给过杜涅奇卡呢。”
“啊——啊——啊！您还记得吗，妈妈，我曾经恋爱过，还想结婚呢，”他看着母亲说，话题突然转变，还有他说这话的语调，都使她感到惊讶。
“唉，我亲爱的，是呀！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜和杜涅奇卡以及拉祖米欣互相使了个眼色。
“嗯哼！是的！我能跟你们说点儿什么呢？甚至记不得多少了。她是个有病的小姑娘，”他接下去说，仿佛又突然陷入沉思，低下了头，“完全是个病魔缠身的姑娘；喜欢向乞丐施舍，一直梦想进修道院，有一次她跟我谈起这件事来，泪流满面；是的，是的……我记得……记得很清楚。长得……不好看。真的，我不知道当时我为什么对她产生了那么深的感情，似乎是为了她总是生病……如果她再是个跛子或驼背，我大概会更爱她……（他若有所思地微微一笑。）这……就像是春天里的梦呓……”
“不，这不仅仅是春天里的梦呓，”杜涅奇卡兴奋地说。
他怀着紧张的心情留神看了看妹妹，但是没有听清或者甚至不理解她的话是什么意思。随后，他陷入沉思，站起来，走到母亲面前，吻了吻她，又回到原来的座位上，坐下了。
“你现在还在爱她！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说。
“她？现在？啊，对了……您说的是她！不。现在这一切就好像是在那个世界上……而且那么久了。就连周围的一切也似乎不是在这个世界上发生的。……”
他留心看了看他们。
“喏，就连你们……我好像也是从千里以外在望着你们……唉，天知道，我们为什么要谈这些！问这问那的作什么呢？”他懊恼地加上一句，随后不说话了，咬着自己的指甲，又陷入沉思。
“你住的房子多么不好啊，罗佳，像个棺材，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜突然说，打破了令人难堪的沉默，“我相信，你变得这么忧郁，一半得归咎于这间房子。”
“房子？……”他心不在焉地回答。“是啊，有很多事情是由房子促成的……我也这么想过……不过，妈妈，要是您能知道就好了，您刚刚说出了一个多么奇怪的想法，”他突然补上一句，奇怪地冷笑了一声。
再稍过一会儿，这一伙人、这离别三年之后重新聚首的亲人，还有这谈话的亲切语气——尽管他们根本无话可谈，——最后就都将使他完全无法忍受了。然而，有一件刻不容缓的事情，不管怎样一定得在今天解决，——还在不久前，他一醒来的时候，他就这样决定了。现在他为这件事感到高兴，仿佛把它看作一条出路。
“是这么回事，杜尼娅，”他认真而又冷淡地说，“昨天的事，我当然请你原谅，但是我认为我有责任再次提醒你，我的主要意见，我决不放弃。要么是我，要么是卢任。让我作个卑鄙的人吧，你却不应该这样。总有一个是卑鄙的。如果你嫁给卢任，我就不再把你看作妹妹。”
“罗佳，罗佳！这还不和昨天一样吗，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜伤心地高声说，“你为什么总是把自己叫作卑鄙的人呢，这我可受不了！昨天也是这样……”
“哥哥，”杜尼娅坚决地回答，语气也很冷淡，“这都是因为你有个错误的想法。我反复考虑了一夜，找出了你的错误。这都是因为，似乎，据你推测，好像我要嫁给什么人，是为了什么人而牺牲自己。根本不是这样。我要出嫁，只不过是为了自己，因为我很痛苦；其次，如果我能为亲人做点儿有益的事，我当然感到高兴，但这不是我作出这一决定的最主要的动机……”
“她说谎！”他暗自想，同时在愤恨地咬着指甲。“骄傲的女人！她不愿承认，她想施恩于人！噢，庸俗的人们哪！他们爱，就像是恨……噢，我是多么……憎恨他们所有的人！”
“总而言之，我要嫁给彼得·彼特罗维奇，”杜涅奇卡接着说下去，“是因为两害相权取其轻。我愿诚实地履行他期待于我的一切义务，所以，我并没有欺骗他……你为什么这样笑？”
她也发火了，她的眼里闪射出愤怒的火花。
“履行一切义务？”他恶毒地冷笑着问。
“到一定的限度。彼得·彼特罗维奇求婚的态度和方式立刻就向我显示出，他需要的是什么。他当然自命不凡，也许把自己估计得太高了，不过我希望他也能尊重我，……你为什么又笑了？”
“你为什么脸又红了？你在说谎，妹妹，只是由于女性的固执，你才故意说谎，这只不过是为了在我面前坚持己见……你不可能尊重卢任，因为我见过他了，还和他谈过话。可见你是为了钱而出卖自己，可见，不管怎么说，你的行为是卑鄙的，我感到高兴的是，至少你还会脸红！”
“不对，我没说谎！……”杜涅奇卡高声叫嚷起来，失去了冷静的态度，“如果我不是深信他尊重我，珍视我，我是决不会嫁给他的；如果我不是坚决相信，我会尊重他，我也决不会嫁给他。幸而对于这一点我可以深信不疑，就连今天，我也毫不怀疑。这样的婚姻决不是像你所说的那种卑鄙的事！即使你是对的，即使我当真下决心要做卑鄙的事，那么你像这样和我说话，从你那方面来说，难道不是太残酷了吗？你为什么要求我表现出也许连你自己都没有的英雄气概？这是专横霸道，这是强制！即使我毁了什么人，那么也只是毁了我自己……我还没杀害过任何人！……你为什么这样看着我？你的脸色为什么变得这么白？罗佳，你怎么了？罗佳，亲爱的！”
“上帝啊！你说得他都快要昏厥了！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼。
“不，不，……没有的事……没什么！……头稍有点儿晕。根本不是昏厥……您怎么老是忘不了这些昏厥啊！……嗯哼！对了……我要说什么来着？对了：你今天是怎么会相信你能尊敬他，他也……会尊重你的，用你的话来说，是这样吧？你好像说过，今天，是吗？还是我听错了呢？”
“妈妈，请把彼得·彼特罗维奇的信拿给哥哥看看，”杜涅奇卡说。
普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜用颤抖的双手把信递给他。他怀着强烈的好奇心接过了信。但是在把信打开之前，他突然不知为什么惊奇地看了看杜涅奇卡。
“奇怪，”他慢慢地说，仿佛突然有个新的想法使他吃了一惊，“我操的是哪份心？我干吗大嚷大叫？你爱嫁给谁就嫁给谁好了！”
他似乎是在自言自语，可是说出了声，有那么一会儿工夫，他瞅着妹妹，好像大惑不解。
他终于把信打开了，脸上仍然保持着某种奇怪的惊讶神情；然后他慢慢地、很用心地看起信来，看了两遍。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜特别焦灼不安；大家也都预料会发生什么不平常的事情。
“这使我觉得奇怪，”他默默地想了一会儿，说，一边把信递给母亲，可是他这话并不是对着某一个人说的，“因为卢任是个办案的，是个律师，就连他说话也是这样……一副律师腔调，——可是信却写得文理不通。”
大家都騷动起来；完全没料到会有这样的反应。
“因为他们写信都是这个样子，”拉祖米欣断断续续地说。
“莫非你看过了？”
“是的。”
“我们让他看了，罗佳，我们……不久前我们商量过，”感到很窘的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说。
“这其实是司法界的文体，”拉祖米欣打断了她的话，“司法界的公文至今都是这样写法。”
“司法界的？对，正是司法界的，公文式的……倒不是说十分不通，可也并不完全合乎语言规范；是公文式的！”
“彼得·彼特罗维奇并不隐瞒，他没念过多少书，甚至夸耀他是靠自我奋斗，取得了目前的社会地位，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜说，对哥哥的新语调有点儿生气了。
“有什么呢，既然夸耀，就是说有值得夸耀的东西，——这我并不反对。妹妹，我看完了信，竟提了一个这么不够郑重的意见，你好像是生气了，心想，我是由于恼怒，故意挑出这样一些鸡毛蒜皮的小事来挖苦你。恰恰相反，由于文体，我才想到了一个在目前情况下绝非多余的意见。信上有这么一句话：‘咎由自取’，写上这句话，意义重大，用意是明显的，此外，还有一句威胁性的话，说是如果我去，他立刻就走。这要走的威胁，也就等于威胁说，如果你们不听话，他就会抛弃你们，而且是现在，已经把你们叫到彼得堡来以后，现在就抛弃你们。嗯，你是怎么想呢，如果卢任的那句话是他（他指指拉祖米欣），或者是佐西莫夫，或者是我们当中随便哪一个写出来的，会不会同样令人感到气愤呢？”
“不——会”，杜涅奇卡兴奋地回答，“我很明白，这话说得太天真了，可能他只不过是不善于写信……你考虑得很有道理，哥哥。我甚至没料到……”
“这是司法界的说法，而用司法界的语言，就不能写成另一个样子，结果写出来的也许就比他所想的更粗鲁些了。不过，我一定会让你有点儿失望：这封信里还有一句话，一句诽谤我的话，而且是相当卑鄙的诽谤。昨天我是把钱送给了那个害肺病的、悲痛欲绝的寡妇，不是‘借口安葬’，而是，就是用来安葬死者的，也不是交给了女儿——像他信上说的，一个‘行为不端’的姑娘（昨天是我有生以来第一次看见她），而是交给了寡妇本人。我认为，这分明是他迫不及待的愿望：诋毁我，挑拨我和你们争吵。这句话又是用刀笔吏的语言说出来的，也就是过于明显地暴露了目的，而且是十分天真地急欲达到这个目的。他是个聪明人，不过要想做得聪明，单靠聪明还不够。这一切活活画出了一个人的面