the most crucial and essential facts known to him from the last year of Rodion Romanovich’s life, concluding with a detailed account of his illness. All the same, he left out whatever needed to be left out, including the scene in the police bureau, with all its consequences. His listeners hung on his every word; but just when he thought he’d reached the end and satisfied their demands, it turned out that for them he had barely begun.
‘Now tell me, tell me, what is your opinion . . . ? Oh, forgive me, I still don’t know your name,’ rushed Pulkheria Alexandrovna.
‘Dmitry Prokofich.’
‘Well then, Dmitry Prokofich, I am desperately, desperately keen to learn about how he . . . in general . . . sees things now. I mean – how should I put it, put it best? – I mean, well, what does he like and what doesn’t he like? Is he always so very irritable? What does he wish for, as it were, and, as it were, dream about? What influences is he subject to right now? In a word, I would like . . .’
‘Oh, Mama, how could anyone reply to all that in one go?’ remarked Dunya.
‘But heavens, I could never, ever have expected to find him like this, Dmitry Prokofich.’
‘That’s very understandable, ma’am,’ replied Dmitry Prokofich. ‘My mother’s dead, but my uncle comes here once a year and he nearly always fails to recognize me, even physically, though he’s clever enough; so just think how much must have changed in the three years that you’ve been apart. What can I say? I’ve known Rodion for a year and a half: he’s sullen, gloomy, haughty, proud; recently (and perhaps much earlier, too) he’s paranoid and hypochondriac. Generous and kind. Doesn’t like to express his feelings and would sooner do something cruel than say what’s in his heart. Sometimes, though, he’s not hypochondriac at all, just cold and unfeeling to an almost inhuman degree, as if two contrasting characters were taking turns inside him. And he can be terribly untalkative! Never has time for anyone, finds everyone a nuisance, yet lounges around doing nothing. Not given to mockery, but not through lack of wit – rather, it’s as if his time is too precious to waste on such trifles. Never listens to the end. Never interested in what everyone else is interested in. Terribly conceited and not, perhaps, without cause. What else? . . . If you ask me, your arrival will have a very salutary effect on him.’
‘Pray God!’ cried Pulkheria Alexandrovna, worried to death by Razumikhin’s report about her Rodya.
Now, at long last, Razumikhin looked up at Avdotya Romanovna with a touch more confidence. He’d glanced at her often in the course of the conversation, but fleetingly, for a mere instant, before immediately looking away. One moment Avdotya Romanovna would sit down at the table and listen closely, the next she would get up again and start pacing the room, as was her habit, from one corner to the other, folding her arms, pressing her lips together and occasionally posing a question of her own, while still walking, deep in thought. She, too, had the habit of not listening to the end. She was wearing a darkish dress of thin material, with a white transparent scarf tied around her neck. It was impossible for Razumikhin not to notice at once the desperate poverty in which both women lived. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he would not, it seems, have been remotely afraid of her; but now, precisely because her clothes were so poor, perhaps, and because he could no longer ignore the meanness of her surroundings, terror took root in his heart and he began to fear his every word, his every gesture, and this, of course, was rather inhibiting for a man already lacking in confidence.
‘You’ve said many interesting things about my brother’s character and . . . you’ve spoken without prejudice. That’s good. I thought that perhaps you revered him,’ Avdotya Romanovna observed with a smile. ‘It’s also true, it seems, that he needs a woman at his side,’ she added pensively.
‘I didn’t say that, though you may be right there too, only . . .’
‘Only what?’
‘Well, he doesn’t love anyone, and perhaps he