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Updated: June 29, 2025
"Be good enough, my dear," said Lizaveta, disconcerted by this remark, "not to bring me any more letters for the future, and tell the person who sent you that he ought to be ashamed." But Hermann was not the man to be thus put off. Every day Lizaveta received from him a letter, sent now in this way, now in that. They were no longer translated from the German.
Lizaveta Nikolaevna's business with Shatov turned out, to my surprise, to be really only concerned with literature. I had imagined, I don't know why, that she had asked him to come with some other object. We, Mavriky Nikolaevitch and I that is, seeing that they were talking aloud and not trying to hide anything from us, began to listen, and at last they asked our advice.
We have a musician here, an old German, very learned and quite an original. He gives Liza lessons. You would simply make him go out of his mind." "Is Lizaveta Mikhailovna also a musician?" asked Madame Lavretsky, turning her head a little towards her. "Yes; she doesn't play badly, and she is very fond I of music. But what does that signify in comparison with you?
"From a friend of a person very well known to you," replied Tomsky, "from a very distinguished man." "And whom is this distinguished man?" "His name is Hermann." Lizaveta made no reply, but her hands and feet lost all sense of feeling. "This Hermann," continued Tomsky, "is a man of romantic personality. He has the profile of a Napoleon, and the soul of a Mephistopheles.
This way leads out on to the bridge over the long, stinking pool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and burdocks under the hurdle our revelers saw Lizaveta asleep. They stopped to look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness.
"If you can, marry Lizaveta Nikolaevna," Mavriky Nikolaevitch brought out suddenly at last, and what was most curious, it was impossible to tell from his tone whether it was an entreaty, a recommendation, a surrender, or a command. Stavrogin still remained silent, but the visitor had evidently said all he had come to say and gazed at him persistently, waiting for an answer.
Three antiquated chambermaids entered the bedroom, and they were shortly afterwards followed by the Countess, who, more dead than alive, sank into a Voltaire armchair. Hermann peeped through a chink. Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by him, and he heard her hurried steps as she hastened up the little spiral staircase.
Even the pride and disdainful aloofness for which he had been so detested four years before was now liked and respected. Varvara Petrovna was triumphant. I don't know whether she grieved much over the shattering of her dreams concerning Lizaveta Nikolaevna. Family pride, of course, helped her to get over it.
"I don't know.... Excuse me..." muttered the stranger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street. Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now.
"I am going to dress." "There is plenty of time, my dear. Sit down here. Open the first volume and read to me aloud." Her companion took the book and read a few lines. "Louder," said the Countess. "What is the matter with you, my child? Have you lost your voice? Wait give me that footstool a little nearer that will do." Lizaveta read two more pages. The Countess yawned.
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