Sayfa 527 / 1294

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.