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sunset, and that the last time Raskolnikov visited the
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police office at two in the afternoon he was reproached for
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coming too late.--TRANSLATOR.
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“Raskolnikov.”
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“Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn’t imagine I’d forgotten? Don’t think I
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am like that... Rodion Ro--Ro--Rodionovitch, that’s it, isn’t it?”
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“Rodion Romanovitch.”
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“Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovitch! I was just getting at it. I
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made many inquiries about you. I assure you I’ve been genuinely grieved
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since that... since I behaved like that... it was explained to me
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afterwards that you were a literary man... and a learned one too... and
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so to say the first steps... Mercy on us! What literary or scientific
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man does not begin by some originality of conduct! My wife and I have
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the greatest respect for literature, in my wife it’s a genuine passion!
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Literature and art! If only a man is a gentleman, all the rest can be
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gained by talents, learning, good sense, genius. As for a hat--well,
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what does a hat matter? I can buy a hat as easily as I can a bun; but
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what’s under the hat, what the hat covers, I can’t buy that! I was even
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meaning to come and apologise to you, but thought maybe you’d... But I
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am forgetting to ask you, is there anything you want really? I hear your
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family have come?”
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“Yes, my mother and sister.”
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“I’ve even had the honour and happiness of meeting your sister--a highly
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cultivated and charming person. I confess I was sorry I got so hot with
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you. There it is! But as for my looking suspiciously at your fainting
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fit--that affair has been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and fanaticism!
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I understand your indignation. Perhaps you are changing your lodging on
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account of your family’s arriving?”
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“No, I only looked in... I came to ask... I thought that I should find
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Zametov here.”
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“Oh, yes! Of course, you’ve made friends, I heard. Well, no, Zametov is
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not here. Yes, we’ve lost Zametov. He’s not been here since yesterday...
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he quarrelled with everyone on leaving... in the rudest way. He is a
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feather-headed youngster, that’s all; one might have expected something
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from him, but there, you know what they are, our brilliant young men.
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He wanted to go in for some examination, but it’s only to talk and
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boast about it, it will go no further than that. Of course it’s a very
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different matter with you or Mr. Razumihin there, your friend. Your
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career is an intellectual one and you won’t be deterred by failure. For
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you, one may say, all the attractions of life _nihil est_--you are an
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ascetic, a monk, a hermit!... A book, a pen behind your ear, a learned
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research--that’s where your spirit soars! I am the same way myself....
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Have you read Livingstone’s Travels?”
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“No.”
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“Oh, I have. There are a great many Nihilists about nowadays, you know,
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and indeed it is not to be wondered at. What sort of days are they? I
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ask you. But we thought... you are not a Nihilist of course? Answer me
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openly, openly!”
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“N-no...”
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“Believe me, you can speak openly to me as you would to yourself!
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Official duty is one thing but... you are thinking I meant to say
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_friendship_ is quite another? No, you’re wrong! It’s not friendship,
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but the feeling of a man and a citizen, the feeling of humanity and of
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love for the Almighty. I may be an official, but I am always bound
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to feel myself a man and a citizen.... You were asking about Zametov.
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Zametov will make a scandal in the French style in a house of bad
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reputation, over a glass of champagne... that’s all your Zametov is good
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for! While I’m perhaps, so to speak, burning with devotion and lofty
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feelings, and besides I have rank, consequence, a post! I am married and
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have children, I fulfil the duties of a man and a citizen, but who is
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he, may I ask? I appeal to you as a man ennobled by education... Then
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these midwives, too, have become extraordinarily numerous.”
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Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The words of Ilya
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Petrovitch, who had obviously been dining, were for the most part a
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stream of empty sounds for him. But some of them he understood. He
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looked at him inquiringly, not knowing how it would end.
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“I mean those crop-headed wenches,” the talkative Ilya Petrovitch
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continued. “Midwives is my name for them. I think it a very satisfactory
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one, ha-ha! They go to the Academy, study anatomy. If I fall ill, am
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I to send for a young lady to treat me? What do you say? Ha-ha!” Ilya
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Petrovitch laughed, quite pleased with his own wit. “It’s an immoderate
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zeal for education, but once you’re educated, that’s enough. Why abuse
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it? Why insult honourable people, as that scoundrel Zametov does? Why
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did he insult me, I ask you? Look at these suicides, too, how common
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they are, you can’t fancy! People spend their last halfpenny and kill
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themselves, boys and girls and old people. Only this morning we heard
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about a gentleman who had just come to town. Nil Pavlitch, I say, what
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was the name of that gentleman who shot himself?”
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“Svidrigaïlov,” someone answered from the other room with drowsy
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listlessness.
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Raskolnikov started.
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“Svidrigaïlov! Svidrigaïlov has shot himself!” he cried.
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