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And in any case, I haven't the right to put it off any longer, I must arrest you. So think it over: it makes no difference to me now and so I speak only for your sake. Believe me, it will be better, Rodion Romanovitch." Raskolnikov smiled malignantly. "That's not simply ridiculous, it's positively shameless.
Elena Ivanovna sat down at the entrance and, putting her arm round her little girl, pondered something, and judging from the little girl's expression, melancholy thoughts were straying through her mind, too; as she brooded she played with the sumptuous lace on the parasol she had taken out of her mother's hands. "Poverty," said Rodion, "a great deal of anxiety you see no end to it.
"I did not indeed! although I knew that he had called, and his object in doing so!" replied Raskolnikoff dryly. "Did you really know why?" "I did. And what did you gather from it?" "I gathered from it, batuchka! Rodion Romanovitch, the knowledge of a good many of your doings in fact, I know all! I know what was your mood at the time.
Pray sometimes for me, too. 'And Thy servant Rodion, nothing more." "I'll pray for you all the rest of my life," the little girl declared hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and hugged him warmly once more. Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him.
In the mouth of a coarse man, who deprives himself of nothing, such a statement might afford food for laughter. Never mind, however, but there lies a theory in suffering. Mikolka is right. You won't escape, Rodion Romanovitch." Raskolnikoff rose and took his cap. Porphyrius Petrovitch did the same. "Are you going for a walk? The night will be a fine one, as long as we get no storm.
You will be led to do so insensibly, almost without being conscious of it. I am even of opinion that, after careful consideration, you will make up your mind to make atonement. You do not believe me at this moment, but wait and see. In truth, Rodion Romanovitch, suffering is a grand thing.
Entreaties, and friendliness, and persuasion I see are all useless." He fixed his indignant eyes on Rodion and went on: "My wife and I behaved to you as human beings, as to our equals, and you? But what's the use of talking! It will end by our looking down upon you. There is nothing left!" And making an effort to restrain his anger, not to say too much, he turned and went on.
This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov; in the first place he has heard of you and wants to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little matter of business with you. Bah! Zametov, what brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long?" "What does this mean?" thought Raskolnikov uneasily. Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so.
You may have noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that here I mean in Russia, of course, and especially in St. Petersburg circles that when two intelligent men happen to meet who, as yet, are not familiar, but who, however, have mutual esteem as, for instance, you and I have at this moment don't know what to talk about for half an hour at a time. They seem, both of them, as if petrified.
But almost at the same instant a serious and careworn look came into his face; to his surprise Raskolnikov saw a touch of sadness in it. He had never seen and never suspected such an expression in his face. "A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rodion Romanovitch. Our first interview, too, was a strange one; but then... and one thing after another!
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