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Title: Crime and Punishment



Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky



Translator: Constance Garnett



Release date: March 28, 2006 [eBook #2554]

                Most recently updated: December 28, 2025



Language: English



Credits: John Bickers, Dagny and David Widger





*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRIME AND PUNISHMENT ***









CRIME AND PUNISHMENT



By Fyodor Dostoevsky







Translated By Constance Garnett









TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE



A few words about Dostoevsky himself may help the English reader to

understand his work.



Dostoevsky was the son of a doctor. His parents were very hard-working

and deeply religious people, but so poor that they lived with their five

children in only two rooms. The father and mother spent their evenings

in reading aloud to their children, generally from books of a serious

character.



Though always sickly and delicate Dostoevsky came out third in the

final examination of the Petersburg school of Engineering. There he had

already begun his first work, “Poor Folk.”



This story was published by the poet Nekrassov in his review and

was received with acclamations. The shy, unknown youth found himself

instantly something of a celebrity. A brilliant and successful career

seemed to open before him, but those hopes were soon dashed. In 1849 he

was arrested.



Though neither by temperament nor conviction a revolutionist, Dostoevsky

was one of a little group of young men who met together to read Fourier

and Proudhon. He was accused of “taking part in conversations against

the censorship, of reading a letter from Byelinsky to Gogol, and of

knowing of the intention to set up a printing press.” Under Nicholas

I. (that “stern and just man,” as Maurice Baring calls him) this was

enough, and he was condemned to death. After eight months’ imprisonment

he was with twenty-one others taken out to the Semyonovsky Square to

be shot. Writing to his brother Mihail, Dostoevsky says: “They snapped

words over our heads, and they made us put on the white shirts worn by

persons condemned to death. Thereupon we were bound in threes to stakes,

to suffer execution. Being the third in the row, I concluded I had only

a few minutes of life before me. I thought of you and your dear ones and

I contrived to kiss Plestcheiev and Dourov, who were next to me, and to

bid them farewell. Suddenly the troops beat a tattoo, we were unbound,

brought back upon the scaffold, and informed that his Majesty had spared

us our lives.” The sentence was commuted to hard labour.



One of the prisoners, Grigoryev, went mad as soon as he was untied, and

never regained his sanity.



The intense suffering of this experience left a lasting stamp on

Dostoevsky’s mind. Though his religious temper led him in the end to

accept every suffering with resignation and to regard it as a blessing

in his own case, he constantly recurs to the subject in his writings.

He describes the awful agony of the condemned man and insists on the

cruelty of inflicting such torture. Then followed four years of penal

servitude, spent in the company of common criminals in Siberia, where

he began the “Dead House,” and some years of service in a disciplinary

battalion.



He had shown signs of some obscure nervous disease before his arrest

and this now developed into violent attacks of epilepsy, from which he

suffered for the rest of his life. The fits occurred three or four times

a year and were more frequent in periods of great strain. In 1859 he was

allowed to return to Russia. He started a journal--“Vremya,” which was

forbidden by the Censorship through a misunderstanding. In 1864 he lost

his first wife and his brother Mihail. He was in terrible poverty, yet

he took upon himself the payment of his brother’s debts. He started

another journal--“The Epoch,” which within a few months was also

prohibited. He was weighed down by debt, his brother’s family was

dependent on him, he was forced to write at heart-breaking speed, and is

said never to have corrected his work. The later years of his life were

much softened by the tenderness and devotion of his second wife.



In June 1880 he made his famous speech at the unveiling of the

monument to Pushkin in Moscow and he was received with extraordinary

demonstrations of love and honour.



A few months later Dostoevsky died. He was followed to the grave by a

vast multitude of mourners, who “gave the hapless man the funeral of a

king.” He is still probably the most widely read writer in Russia.



In the words of a Russian critic, who seeks to explain the feeling

inspired by Dostoevsky: “He was one of ourselves, a man of our blood and

our bone, but one who has suffered and has seen so much more deeply than

we have his insight impresses us as wisdom... that wisdom of the heart

which we seek that we may learn from it how to live. All his other

gifts came to him from nature, this he won for himself and through it he

became great.”











CRIME AND PUNISHMENT









PART I







CHAPTER I



On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of

the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though

in hesitation, towards K. bridge.



He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His

garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more

like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with garret,

dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time

he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which

invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a

sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was

hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.



This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but

for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable condition,

verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in

himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not

only his landlady, but anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty, but the

anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had

given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all

desire to do so. Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror

for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her

trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats

and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to

lie--no, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and

slip out unseen.



This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely

aware of his fears.



“I want to attempt a thing _like that_ and am frightened by these

trifles,” he thought, with an odd smile. “Hm... yes, all is in a man’s

hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that’s an axiom. It would

be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new

step, uttering a new word is what they fear most.... But I am talking

too much. It’s because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is

that I chatter because I do nothing. I’ve learned to chatter this

last month, lying for days together in my den thinking... of Jack the

Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of _that_? Is

_that_ serious? It is not serious at all. It’s simply a fantasy to amuse

myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything.”



The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle

and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that

special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out

of town in summer--all worked painfully upon the young man’s already

overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot-houses, which

are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men

whom he met continually, although it was a working day, completed

the revolting misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest

disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man’s refined face. He was,

by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim,

well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank

into deep thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness

of mind; he walked along not observing what was about him and not caring

to observe it. From time to time, he would mutter something, from the

habit of talking to himself, to which he had just confessed. At these

moments he would become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a

tangle and that he was very weak; for two days he had scarcely tasted

food.



He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would

have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that quarter

of the town, however, scarcely any shortcoming in dress would have

created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number

of establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the trading

and working class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the

heart of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in the streets

that no figure, however queer, would have caused surprise. But there was

such accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young man’s heart, that,

in spite of all the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least

of all in the street. It was a different matter when he met with

acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked

meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown

reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy

dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as he drove past: “Hey there, German

hatter” bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at him--the young

man stopped suddenly and clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall

round hat from Zimmerman’s, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all

torn and bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly

fashion. Not shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror

had overtaken him.



“I knew it,” he muttered in confusion, “I thought so! That’s the worst

of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might

spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable.... It looks absurd

and that makes it noticeable.... With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any

sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears such

a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be remembered.... What

matters is that people would remember it, and that would give them

a clue. For this business one should be as little conspicuous as

possible.... Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why, it’s just such

trifles that always ruin everything....”



He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate

of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted

them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no

faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their hideous

but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had begun to look upon

them differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which he jeered at

his own impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard

this “hideous” dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he

still did not realise this himself. He was positively going now for a

“rehearsal” of his project, and at every step his excitement grew more

and more violent.



With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house

which on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the

street. This house was let out in tiny tenements and was inhabited by

working people of all kinds--tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of

sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, etc.

There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and in the

two courtyards of the house. Three or four door-keepers were employed on

the building. The young man was very glad to meet none of them, and

at once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the

staircase. It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was familiar

with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these surroundings:

in such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded.



“If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that

I were really going to do it?” he could not help asking himself as he

reached the fourth storey. There his progress was barred by some porters

who were engaged in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that the

flat had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service, and his

family. This German was moving out then, and so the fourth floor on this

staircase would be untenanted except by the old woman. “That’s a good

thing anyway,” he thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old

woman’s flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as though it were made of

tin and not of copper. The little flats in such houses always have bells

that ring like that. He had forgotten the note of that bell, and now

its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of something and to bring it

clearly before him.... He started, his nerves were terribly overstrained

by now. In a little while, the door was opened a tiny crack: the old

woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust through the crack, and

nothing could be seen but her little eyes, glittering in the darkness.

But, seeing a number of people on the landing, she grew bolder, and

opened the door wide. The young man stepped into the dark entry, which

was partitioned off from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing

him in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminutive,

withered up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp

little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared

with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck,

which looked like a hen’s leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag,

and, in spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy

fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every

instant. The young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar

expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.



“Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago,” the young man made

haste to mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be more

polite.



“I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here,” the

old woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face.



“And here... I am again on the same errand,” Raskolnikov continued, a

little disconcerted and surprised at the old woman’s mistrust. “Perhaps

she is always like that though, only I did not notice it the other

time,” he thought with an uneasy feeling.



The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one side,

and pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor pass

in front of her:



“Step in, my good sir.”



The little room into which the young man walked, with yellow paper on

the walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly

lighted up at that moment by the setting sun.



“So the sun will shine like this _then_ too!” flashed as it were by

chance through Raskolnikov’s mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned

everything in the room, trying as far as possible to notice and

remember its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the room. The

furniture, all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with

a huge bent wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a

dressing-table with a looking-glass fixed on it between the windows,

chairs along the walls and two or three half-penny prints in yellow

frames, representing German damsels with birds in their hands--that was

all. In the corner a light was burning before a small ikon. Everything

was very clean; the floor and the furniture were brightly polished;

everything shone.



“Lizaveta’s work,” thought the young man. There was not a speck of dust

to be seen in the whole flat.



“It’s in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds such

cleanliness,” Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a curious glance

at the cotton curtain over the door leading into another tiny room, in

which stood the old woman’s bed and chest of drawers and into which he

had never looked before. These two rooms made up the whole flat.



“What do you want?” the old woman said severely, coming into the room

and, as before, standing in front of him so as to look him straight in

the face.



“I’ve brought something to pawn here,” and he drew out of his pocket

an old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back of which was engraved a

globe; the chain was of steel.



“But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day

before yesterday.”



“I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little.”



“But that’s for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait or to sell

your pledge at once.”



“How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?”



“You come with such trifles, my good sir, it’s scarcely worth anything.

I gave you two roubles last time for your ring and one could buy it

quite new at a jeweler’s for a rouble and a half.”



“Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my father’s. I

shall be getting some money soon.”



“A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!”



“A rouble and a half!” cried the young man.



“Please yourself”--and the old woman handed him back the watch. The

young man took it, and was so angry that he was on the point of going

away; but checked himself at once, remembering that there was nowhere

else he could go, and that he had had another object also in coming.



“Hand it over,” he said roughly.



The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared behind

the curtain into the other room. The young man, left standing alone in

the middle of the room, listened inquisitively, thinking. He could hear

her unlocking the chest of drawers.



“It must be the top drawer,” he reflected. “So she carries the keys in

a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a steel ring.... And there’s

one key there, three times as big as all the others, with deep notches;

that can’t be the key of the chest of drawers... then there must be some

other chest or strong-box... that’s worth knowing. Strong-boxes always

have keys like that... but how degrading it all is.”



The old woman came back.



“Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so I must take

fifteen copecks from a rouble and a half for the month in advance. But

for the two roubles I lent you before, you owe me now twenty copecks

on the same reckoning in advance. That makes thirty-five copecks

altogether. So I must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the

watch. Here it is.”



“What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!”



“Just so.”



The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at the

old woman, and was in no hurry to get away, as though there was still

something he wanted to say or to do, but he did not himself quite know

what.



“I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona

Ivanovna--a valuable thing--silver--a cigarette-box, as soon as I get it

back from a friend...” he broke off in confusion.



“Well, we will talk about it then, sir.”



“Good-bye--are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with

you?” He asked her as casually as possible as he went out into the

passage.



“What business is she of yours, my good sir?”



“Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick.... Good-day,

Alyona Ivanovna.”



Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became more

and more intense. As he went down the stairs, he even stopped short, two

or three times, as though suddenly struck by some thought. When he was

in the street he cried out, “Oh, God, how loathsome it all is! and

can I, can I possibly.... No, it’s nonsense, it’s rubbish!” he added

resolutely. “And how could such an atrocious thing come into my head?

What filthy things my heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all,

disgusting, loathsome, loathsome!--and for a whole month I’ve been....”

 But no words, no exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling

of intense repulsion, which had begun to oppress and torture his heart

while he was on his way to the old woman, had by now reached such a

pitch and had taken such a definite form that he did not know what to

do with himself to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the

pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the passers-by, and jostling

against them, and only came to his senses when he was in the next

street. Looking round, he noticed that he was standing close to a tavern

which was entered by steps leading from the pavement to the basement.

At that instant two drunken men came out at the door, and abusing and

supporting one another, they mounted the steps. Without stopping to

think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Till that moment he had

never been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and was tormented by a

burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his

sudden weakness to the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little

table in a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly drank

off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his thoughts became

clear.



“All that’s nonsense,” he said hopefully, “and there is nothing in it

all to worry about! It’s simply physical derangement. Just a glass of

beer, a piece of dry bread--and in one moment the brain is stronger,

the mind is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all

is!”



But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful

as though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed

round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But even at that

moment he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also

not normal.



There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two drunken

men he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about five men and

a girl with a concertina had gone out at the same time. Their departure

left the room quiet and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern

were a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not extremely so,

sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man with

a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very drunk: and had

dropped asleep on the bench; every now and then, he began as though in

his sleep, cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper

part of his body bounding about on the bench, while he hummed some

meaningless refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these:



   “His wife a year he fondly loved

    His wife a--a year he--fondly loved.”



Or suddenly waking up again:



   “Walking along the crowded row

    He met the one he used to know.”



But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with

positive hostility and mistrust at all these manifestations. There was

another man in the room who looked somewhat like a retired government

clerk. He was sitting apart, now and then sipping from his pot and

looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some agitation.







CHAPTER II



Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided

society of every sort, more especially of late. But now all at once he

felt a desire to be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking

place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for company. He

was so weary after a whole month of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy

excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other

world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the

surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern.



The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently

came down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with

red turn-over tops coming into view each time before the rest of his

person. He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat,

with no cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an

iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was

another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the

counter lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and

some fish, chopped up small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably

close, and so heavy with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such

an atmosphere might well make a man drunk.



There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the

first moment, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on

Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked

like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this impression

afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked repeatedly

at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring

persistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At

the other persons in the room, including the tavern-keeper, the clerk

looked as though he were used to their company, and weary of it, showing

a shade of condescending contempt for them as persons of station and

culture inferior to his own, with whom it would be useless for him to

converse. He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height,

and stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was of

a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids out of which keen

reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there was something very

strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as though of intense

feeling--perhaps there were even thought and intelligence, but at the

same time there was a gleam of something like madness. He was wearing an

old and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons missing

except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently clinging to this

last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt front, covered with spots

and stains, protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore

no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin

looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respectable

and like an official about his manner too. But he was restless; he

ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his head drop into his

hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky

table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and

resolutely:



“May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation?

Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not command respect, my

experience admonishes me that you are a man of education and not

accustomed to drinking. I have always respected education when in

conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular

counsellor in rank. Marmeladov--such is my name; titular counsellor. I

make bold to inquire--have you been in the service?”



“No, I am studying,” answered the young man, somewhat surprised at

the grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at being so directly

addressed. In spite of the momentary desire he had just been feeling for

company of any sort, on being actually spoken to he felt immediately his

habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached

or attempted to approach him.



“A student then, or formerly a student,” cried the clerk. “Just what

I thought! I’m a man of experience, immense experience, sir,” and he

tapped his forehead with his fingers in self-approval. “You’ve been a

student or have attended some learned institution!... But allow me....”

 He got up, staggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down beside

the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke

fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing the thread of his

sentences and drawling his words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as

greedily as though he too had not spoken to a soul for a month.



“Honoured sir,” he began almost with solemnity, “poverty is not a vice,

that’s a true saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue,

and that that’s even truer. But beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a

vice. In poverty you may still retain your innate nobility of soul, but

in beggary--never--no one. For beggary a man is not chased out of human

society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as

humiliating as possible; and quite right, too, forasmuch as in beggary

I am ready to be the first to humiliate myself. Hence the pot-house!

Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and

my wife is a very different matter from me! Do you understand? Allow me

to ask you another question out of simple curiosity: have you ever spent

a night on a hay barge, on the Neva?”



“No, I have not happened to,” answered Raskolnikov. “What do you mean?”



“Well, I’ve just come from one and it’s the fifth night I’ve slept

so....” He filled his glass, emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in

fact clinging to his clothes and sticking to his hair. It seemed quite

probable that he had not undressed or washed for the last five days.

His hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black

nails.



His conversation seemed to excite a general though languid interest. The

boys at the counter fell to sniggering. The innkeeper came down from the

upper room, apparently on purpose to listen to the “funny fellow”

 and sat down at a little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity.

Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure here, and he had most

likely acquired his weakness for high-flown speeches from the habit of

frequently entering into conversation with strangers of all sorts in

the tavern. This habit develops into a necessity in some drunkards, and

especially in those who are looked after sharply and kept in order

at home. Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify

themselves and even if possible obtain consideration.



“Funny fellow!” pronounced the innkeeper. “And why don’t you work, why

aren’t you at your duty, if you are in the service?”



“Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir,” Marmeladov went on, addressing

himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put

that question to him. “Why am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache

to think what a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr. Lebeziatnikov

beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay drunk, didn’t I suffer?

Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you... hm... well, to

petition hopelessly for a loan?”



“Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?”



“Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you

will get nothing by it. You know, for instance, beforehand with positive

certainty that this man, this most reputable and exemplary citizen, will

on no consideration give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he?

For he knows of course that I shan’t pay it back. From compassion? But

Mr. Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas explained the other day

that compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that’s

what is done now in England, where there is political economy. Why, I

ask you, should he give it to me? And yet though I know beforehand that

he won’t, I set off to him and...”



“Why do you go?” put in Raskolnikov.



“Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must

have somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must

go somewhere! When my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket,

then I had to go... (for my daughter has a yellow passport),” he added

in parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness at the young man.

“No matter, sir, no matter!” he went on hurriedly and with apparent

composure when both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the

innkeeper smiled--“No matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of

their heads; for everyone knows everything about it already, and all

that is secret is made open. And I accept it all, not with contempt, but

with humility. So be it! So be it! ‘Behold the man!’ Excuse me, young

man, can you.... No, to put it more strongly and more distinctly; not

_can_ you but _dare_ you, looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?”



The young man did not answer a word.



“Well,” the orator began again stolidly and with even increased dignity,

after waiting for the laughter in the room to subside. “Well, so be

it, I am a pig, but she is a lady! I have the semblance of a beast, but

Katerina Ivanovna, my spouse, is a person of education and an officer’s

daughter. Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel, but she is a woman of a

noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by education. And yet... oh,

if only she felt for me! Honoured sir, honoured sir, you know every man

ought to have at least one place where people feel for him! But Katerina

Ivanovna, though she is magnanimous, she is unjust.... And yet, although

I realise that when she pulls my hair she only does it out of pity--for

I repeat without being ashamed, she pulls my hair, young man,” he

declared with redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering again--“but, my

God, if she would but once.... But no, no! It’s all in vain and it’s no

use talking! No use talking! For more than once, my wish did come true

and more than once she has felt for me but... such is my fate and I am a

beast by nature!”



“Rather!” assented the innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov struck his fist

resolutely on the table.



“Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you know, I have sold her very

stockings for drink? Not her shoes--that would be more or less in the

order of things, but her stockings, her stockings I have sold for drink!

Her mohair shawl I sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her own

property, not mine; and we live in a cold room and she caught cold this

winter and has begun coughing and spitting blood too. We have three

little children and Katerina Ivanovna is at work from morning till

night; she is scrubbing and cleaning and washing the children, for she’s

been used to cleanliness from a child. But her chest is weak and she has

a tendency to consumption and I feel it! Do you suppose I don’t feel it?

And the more I drink the more I feel it. That’s why I drink too. I try

to find sympathy and feeling in drink.... I drink so that I may suffer

twice as much!” And as though in despair he laid his head down on the

table.



“Young man,” he went on, raising his head again, “in your face I seem to

read some trouble of mind. When you came in I read it, and that was why

I addressed you at once. For in unfolding to you the story of my life, I

do not wish to make myself a laughing-stock before these idle listeners,

who indeed know all about it already, but I am looking for a man

of feeling and education. Know then that my wife was educated in a

high-class school for the daughters of noblemen, and on leaving she

danced the shawl dance before the governor and other personages for

which she was presented with a gold medal and a certificate of merit.

The medal... well, the medal of course was sold--long ago, hm... but the

certificate of merit is in her trunk still and not long ago she showed

it to our landlady. And although she is most continually on bad terms

with the landlady, yet she wanted to tell someone or other of her past

honours and of the happy days that are gone. I don’t condemn her for

it, I don’t blame her, for the one thing left her is recollection of

the past, and all the rest is dust and ashes. Yes, yes, she is a lady

of spirit, proud and determined. She scrubs the floors herself and has

nothing but black bread to eat, but won’t allow herself to be treated

with disrespect. That’s why she would not overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov’s

rudeness to her, and so when he gave her a beating for it, she took to

her bed more from the hurt to her feelings than from the blows. She was

a widow when I married her, with three children, one smaller than the

other. She married her first husband, an infantry officer, for love, and

ran away with him from her father’s house. She was exceedingly fond of

her husband; but he gave way to cards, got into trouble and with that he

died. He used to beat her at the end: and although she paid him back, of

which I have authentic documentary evidence, to this day she speaks of

him with tears and she throws him up to me; and I am glad, I am glad

that, though only in imagination, she should think of herself as having

once been happy.... And she was left at his death with three children in

a wild and remote district where I happened to be at the time; and she

was left in such hopeless poverty that, although I have seen many ups

and downs of all sort, I don’t feel equal to describing it even. Her

relations had all thrown her off. And she was proud, too, excessively

proud.... And then, honoured sir, and then, I, being at the time a

widower, with a daughter of fourteen left me by my first wife, offered

her my hand, for I could not bear the sight of such suffering. You can

judge the extremity of her calamities, that she, a woman of education

and culture and distinguished family, should have consented to be my

wife. But she did! Weeping and sobbing and wringing her hands, she

married me! For she had nowhere to turn! Do you understand, sir, do you

understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn? No,

that you don’t understand yet.... And for a whole year, I performed

my duties conscientiously and faithfully, and did not touch this” (he

tapped the jug with his finger), “for I have feelings. But even so, I

could not please her; and then I lost my place too, and that through no

fault of mine but through changes in the office; and then I did touch

it!... It will be a year and a half ago soon since we found ourselves at

last after many wanderings and numerous calamities in this magnificent

capital, adorned with innumerable monuments. Here I obtained a

situation.... I obtained it and I lost it again. Do you understand? This

time it was through my own fault I lost it: for my weakness had come

out.... We have now part of a room at Amalia Fyodorovna Lippevechsel’s;

and what we live upon and what we pay our rent with, I could not say.

There are a lot of people living there besides ourselves. Dirt and

disorder, a perfect Bedlam... hm... yes... And meanwhile my daughter by

my first wife has grown up; and what my daughter has had to put up with

from her step-mother whilst she was growing up, I won’t speak of. For,

though Katerina Ivanovna is full of generous feelings, she is a spirited

lady, irritable and short-tempered.... Yes. But it’s no use going over

that! Sonia, as you may well fancy, has had no education. I did make an

effort four years ago to give her a course of geography and universal

history, but as I was not very well up in those subjects myself and we

had no suitable books, and what books we had... hm, anyway we have not

even those now, so all our instruction came to an end. We stopped at

Cyrus of Persia. Since she has attained years of maturity, she has read

other books of romantic tendency and of late she had read with great

interest a book she got through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, Lewes’ Physiology--do

you know it?--and even recounted extracts from it to us: and that’s the

whole of her education. And now may I venture to address you, honoured

sir, on my own account with a private question. Do you suppose that

a respectable poor girl can earn much by honest work? Not fifteen

farthings a day can she earn, if she is respectable and has no special

talent and that without putting her work down for an instant! And what’s

more, Ivan Ivanitch Klopstock the civil counsellor--have you heard of

him?--has not to this day paid her for the half-dozen linen shirts she

made him and drove her roughly away, stamping and reviling her, on the

pretext that the shirt collars were not made like the pattern and were

put in askew. And there are the little ones hungry.... And Katerina

Ivanovna walking up and down and wringing her hands, her cheeks flushed

red, as they always are in that disease: ‘Here you live with us,’ says

she, ‘you eat and drink and are kept warm and you do nothing to help.’

And much she gets to eat and drink when there is not a crust for the

little ones for three days! I was lying at the time... well, what of

it! I was lying drunk and I heard my Sonia speaking (she is a gentle

creature with a soft little voice... fair hair and such a pale, thin

little face). She said: ‘Katerina Ivanovna, am I really to do a thing

like that?’ And Darya Frantsovna, a woman of evil character and very

well known to the police, had two or three times tried to get at her

through the landlady. ‘And why not?’ said Katerina Ivanovna with a jeer,

‘you are something mighty precious to be so careful of!’ But don’t blame

her, don’t blame her, honoured sir, don’t blame her! She was not herself

when she spoke, but driven to distraction by her illness and the crying

of the hungry children; and it was said more to wound her than anything

else.... For that’s Katerina Ivanovna’s character, and when children

cry, even from hunger, she falls to beating them at once. At six o’clock

I saw Sonia get up, put on her kerchief and her cape, and go out of the

room and about nine o’clock she came back. She walked straight up to

Katerina Ivanovna and she laid thirty roubles on the table before her

in silence. She did not utter a word, she did not even look at her, she

simply picked up our big green _drap de dames_ shawl (we have a shawl,

made of _drap de dames_), put it over her head and face and lay down

on the bed with her face to the wall; only her little shoulders and her

body kept shuddering.... And I went on lying there, just as before....

And then I saw, young man, I saw Katerina Ivanovna, in the same silence

go up to Sonia’s little bed; she was on her knees all the evening

kissing Sonia’s feet, and would not get up, and then they both fell

asleep in each other’s arms... together, together... yes... and I... lay

drunk.”



Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice had failed him. Then he

hurriedly filled his glass, drank, and cleared his throat.



“Since then, sir,” he went on after a brief pause--“Since then, owing

to an unfortunate occurrence and through information given by

evil-intentioned persons--in all which Darya Frantsovna took a

leading part on the pretext that she had been treated with want of

respect--since then my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has been forced to take

a yellow ticket, and owing to that she is unable to go on living with

us. For our landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna would not hear of it (though

she had backed up Darya Frantsovna before) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too...

hm.... All the trouble between him and Katerina Ivanovna was on Sonia’s

account. At first he was for making up to Sonia himself and then all of

a sudden he stood on his dignity: ‘how,’ said he, ‘can a highly educated

man like me live in the same rooms with a girl like that?’ And Katerina

Ivanovna would not let it pass, she stood up for her... and so that’s

how it happened. And Sonia comes to us now, mostly after dark; she

comforts Katerina Ivanovna and gives her all she can.... She has a room

at the Kapernaumovs’ the tailors, she lodges with them; Kapernaumov is

a lame man with a cleft palate and all of his numerous family have cleft

palates too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate. They all live in one

room, but Sonia has her own, partitioned off.... Hm... yes... very poor

people and all with cleft palates... yes. Then I got up in the morning,

and put on my rags, lifted up my hands to heaven and set off to his

excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch. His excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch, do you

know him? No? Well, then, it’s a man of God you don’t know. He is wax...

wax before the face of the Lord; even as wax melteth!... His eyes were

dim when he heard my story. ‘Marmeladov, once already you have

deceived my expectations... I’ll take you once more on my own

responsibility’--that’s what he said, ‘remember,’ he said, ‘and now you

can go.’ I kissed the dust at his feet--in thought only, for in reality

he would not have allowed me to do it, being a statesman and a man of

modern political and enlightened ideas. I returned home, and when I

announced that I’d been taken back into the service and should receive a

salary, heavens, what a to-do there was!...”



Marmeladov stopped again in violent excitement. At that moment a whole

party of revellers already drunk came in from the street, and the sounds

of a hired concertina and the cracked piping voice of a child of seven

singing “The Hamlet” were heard in the entry. The room was filled with

noise. The tavern-keeper and the boys were busy with the new-comers.

Marmeladov paying no attention to the new arrivals continued his story.

He appeared by now to be extremely weak, but as he became more and more

drunk, he became more and more talkative. The recollection of his

recent success in getting the situation seemed to revive him, and was

positively reflected in a sort of radiance on his face. Raskolnikov

listened attentively.



“That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes.... As soon as Katerina Ivanovna

and Sonia heard of it, mercy on us, it was as though I stepped into the

kingdom of Heaven. It used to be: you can lie like a beast, nothing but

abuse. Now they were walking on tiptoe, hushing the children. ‘Semyon

Zaharovitch is tired with his work at the office, he is resting, shh!’

They made me coffee before I went to work and boiled cream for me! They

began to get real cream for me, do you hear that? And how they managed

to get together the money for a decent outfit--eleven roubles, fifty

copecks, I can’t guess. Boots, cotton shirt-fronts--most magnificent,

a uniform, they got up all in splendid style, for eleven roubles and

a half. The first morning I came back from the office I found Katerina

Ivanovna had cooked two courses for dinner--soup and salt meat with

horse radish--which we had never dreamed of till then. She had not any

dresses... none at all, but she got herself up as though she were going

on a visit; and not that she’d anything to do it with, she smartened

herself up with nothing at all, she’d done her hair nicely, put on a

clean collar of some sort, cuffs, and there she was, quite a different

person, she was younger and better looking. Sonia, my little darling,

had only helped with money ‘for the time,’ she said, ‘it won’t do for me

to come and see you too often. After dark maybe when no one can see.’ Do

you hear, do you hear? I lay down for a nap after dinner and what do you

think: though Katerina Ivanovna had quarrelled to the last degree with

our landlady Amalia Fyodorovna only a week before, she could not

resist then asking her in to coffee. For two hours they were sitting,

whispering together. ‘Semyon Zaharovitch is in the service again,

now, and receiving a salary,’ says she, ‘and he went himself to his

excellency and his excellency himself came out to him, made all the

others wait and led Semyon Zaharovitch by the hand before everybody into

his study.’ Do you hear, do you hear? ‘To be sure,’ says he, ‘Semyon

Zaharovitch, remembering your past services,’ says he, ‘and in spite

of your propensity to that foolish weakness, since you promise now and

since moreover we’ve got on badly without you,’ (do you hear, do you

hear;) ‘and so,’ says he, ‘I rely now on your word as a gentleman.’ And

all that, let me tell you, she has simply made up for herself, and not

simply out of wantonness, for the sake of bragging; no, she believes it

all herself, she amuses herself with her own fancies, upon my word she

does! And I don’t blame her for it, no, I don’t blame her!... Six days

ago when I brought her my first earnings in full--twenty-three roubles

forty copecks altogether--she called me her poppet: ‘poppet,’ said she,

‘my little poppet.’ And when we were by ourselves, you understand?

You would not think me a beauty, you would not think much of me as a

husband, would you?... Well, she pinched my cheek, ‘my little poppet,’

said she.”



Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin began

to twitch. He controlled himself however. The tavern, the degraded

appearance of the man, the five nights in the hay barge, and the pot of

spirits, and yet this poignant love for his wife and children bewildered

his listener. Raskolnikov listened intently but with a sick sensation.

He felt vexed that he had come here.



“Honoured sir, honoured sir,” cried Marmeladov recovering himself--“Oh,

sir, perhaps all this seems a laughing matter to you, as it does to

others, and perhaps I am only worrying you with the stupidity of all the

trivial details of my home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me.

For I can feel it all.... And the whole of that heavenly day of my life

and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting dreams of how I would

arrange it all, and how I would dress all the children, and how I should

give her rest, and how I should rescue my own daughter from dishonour

and restore her to the bosom of her family.... And a great deal more....

Quite excusable, sir. Well, then, sir” (Marmeladov suddenly gave a sort

of start, raised his head and gazed intently at his listener) “well, on

the very next day after all those dreams, that is to say, exactly five

days ago, in the evening, by a cunning trick, like a thief in the night,

I stole from Katerina Ivanovna the key of her box, took out what was

left of my earnings, how much it was I have forgotten, and now look

at me, all of you! It’s the fifth day since I left home, and they are

looking for me there and it’s the end of my employment, and my uniform

is lying in a tavern on the Egyptian bridge. I exchanged it for the

garments I have on... and it’s the end of everything!”



Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, closed

his eyes and leaned heavily with his elbow on the table. But a minute

later his face suddenly changed and with a certain assumed slyness and

affectation of bravado, he glanced at Raskolnikov, laughed and said:



“This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for a pick-me-up!

He-he-he!”



“You don’t say she gave it to you?” cried one of the new-comers; he

shouted the words and went off into a guffaw.



“This very quart was bought with her money,” Marmeladov declared,

addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. “Thirty copecks she gave

me with her own hands, her last, all she had, as I saw.... She said

nothing, she only looked at me without a word.... Not on earth, but up

yonder... they grieve over men, they weep, but they don’t blame them,

they don’t blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when they don’t

blame! Thirty copecks yes! And maybe she needs them now, eh? What do

you think, my dear sir? For now she’s got to keep up her appearance. It

costs money, that smartness, that special smartness, you know? Do you

understand? And there’s pomatum, too, you see, she must have things;

petticoats, starched ones, shoes, too, real jaunty ones to show off her

foot when she has to step over a puddle. Do you understand, sir, do you

understand what all that smartness means? And here I, her own father,

here I took thirty copecks of that money for a drink! And I am drinking

it! And I have already drunk it! Come, who will have pity on a man like

me, eh? Are you sorry for me, sir, or not? Tell me, sir, are you sorry

or not? He-he-he!”



He would have filled his glass, but there was no drink left. The pot was

empty.



“What are you to be pitied for?” shouted the tavern-keeper who was again

near them.



Shouts of laughter and even oaths followed. The laughter and the oaths

came from those who were listening and also from those who had heard

nothing but were simply looking at the figure of the discharged

government clerk.



“To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?” Marmeladov suddenly declaimed,

standing up with his arm outstretched, as though he had been only

waiting for that question.



“Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! there’s nothing to pity me for! I

ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me,

oh judge, crucify me but pity me! And then I will go of myself to be

crucified, for it’s not merry-making I seek but tears and tribulation!...

Do you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of yours has been

sweet to me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and

tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity

us Who has had pity on all men, Who has understood all men and all

things, He is the One, He too is the judge. He will come in that day

and He will ask: ‘Where is the daughter who gave herself for her cross,

consumptive step-mother and for the little children of another? Where is

the daughter who had pity upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father,

undismayed by his beastliness?’ And He will say, ‘Come to me! I have

already forgiven thee once.... I have forgiven thee once.... Thy sins

which are many are forgiven thee for thou hast loved much....’ And he

will forgive my Sonia, He will forgive, I know it... I felt it in my

heart when I was with her just now! And He will judge and will forgive

all, the good and the evil, the wise and the meek.... And when He has

done with all of them, then He will summon us. ‘You too come forth,’

He will say, ‘Come forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye weak ones, come

forth, ye children of shame!’ And we shall all come forth, without shame

and shall stand before him. And He will say unto us, ‘Ye are swine, made

in the Image of the Beast and with his mark; but come ye also!’ And the

wise ones and those of understanding will say, ‘Oh Lord, why dost Thou

receive these men?’ And He will say, ‘This is why I receive them, oh ye

wise, this is why I receive them, oh ye of understanding, that not one

of them believed himself to be worthy of this.’ And He will hold out His

hands to us and we shall fall down before him... and we shall weep...

and we shall understand all things! Then we shall understand all!... and

all will understand, Katerina Ivanovna even... she will understand....

Lord, Thy kingdom come!” And he sank down on the bench exhausted, and

helpless, looking at no one, apparently oblivious of his surroundings

and plunged in deep thought. His words had created a certain impression;

there was a moment of silence; but soon laughter and oaths were heard

again.



“That’s his notion!”



“Talked himself silly!”



“A fine clerk he is!”



And so on, and so on.



“Let us go, sir,” said Marmeladov all at once, raising his head and

addressing Raskolnikov--“come along with me... Kozel’s house, looking

into the yard. I’m going to Katerina Ivanovna--time I did.”



Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting to go and he had meant to

help him. Marmeladov was much unsteadier on his legs than in his speech

and leaned heavily on the young man. They had two or three hundred

paces to go. The drunken man was more and more overcome by dismay and

confusion as they drew nearer the house.



“It’s not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now,” he muttered in

agitation--“and that she will begin pulling my hair. What does my hair

matter! Bother my hair! That’s what I say! Indeed it will be better if

she does begin pulling it, that’s not what I am afraid of... it’s her

eyes I am afraid of... yes, her eyes... the red on her cheeks, too,

frightens me... and her breathing too.... Have you noticed how people

in that disease breathe... when they are excited? I am frightened of

the children’s crying, too.... For if Sonia has not taken them food...

I don’t know what’s happened! I don’t know! But blows I am not afraid

of.... Know, sir, that such blows are not a pain to me, but even an

enjoyment. In fact I can’t get on without it.... It’s better so. Let

her strike me, it relieves her heart... it’s better so... There is the

house. The house of Kozel, the cabinet-maker... a German, well-to-do.

Lead the way!”



They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The staircase

got darker and darker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o’clock

and although in summer in Petersburg there is no real night, yet it was

quite dark at the top of the stairs.



A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A very

poor-looking room about ten paces long was lighted up by a candle-end;

the whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was all in disorder,

littered up with rags of all sorts, especially children’s garments.

Across the furthest corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Behind it

probably was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two chairs

and a sofa covered with American leather, full of holes, before which

stood an old deal kitchen-table, unpainted and uncovered. At the edge

of the table stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an iron candlestick. It

appeared that the family had a room to themselves, not part of a room,

but their room was practically a passage. The door leading to the other

rooms, or rather cupboards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel’s flat was

divided stood half open, and there was shouting, uproar and laughter

within. People seemed to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words

of the most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.



Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather tall,

slim and graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent dark brown

hair and with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down

in her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips

were parched and her breathing came in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes

glittered as in fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And

that consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the

candle-end playing upon it made a sickening impression. She seemed to

Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for

Marmeladov.... She had not heard them and did not notice them coming in.

She seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and seeing nothing. The room

was close, but she had not opened the window; a stench rose from the

staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the inner

rooms clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not

close the door. The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep, sitting

curled up on the floor with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older

stood crying and shaking in the corner, probably he had just had a

beating. Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin,

wearing a thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere pelisse flung

over her bare shoulders, long outgrown and barely reaching her knees.

Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her brother’s neck. She was

trying to comfort him, whispering something to him, and doing all she

could to keep him from whimpering again. At the same time her large

dark eyes, which looked larger still from the thinness of her frightened

face, were watching her mother with alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the

door, but dropped on his knees in the very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov

in front of him. The woman seeing a stranger stopped indifferently

facing him, coming to herself for a moment and apparently wondering what

he had come for. But evidently she decided that he was going into

the next room, as he had to pass through hers to get there. Taking no

further notice of him, she walked towards the outer door to close it

and uttered a sudden scream on seeing her husband on his knees in the

doorway.



“Ah!” she cried out in a frenzy, “he has come back! The criminal! the

monster!... And where is the money? What’s in your pocket, show me! And

your clothes are all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the

money! Speak!”



And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively and obediently

held up both arms to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there.



“Where is the money?” she cried--“Mercy on us, can he have drunk it all?

There were twelve silver roubles left in the chest!” and in a fury

she seized him by the hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov

seconded her efforts by meekly crawling along on his knees.



“And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, but is a

positive con-so-la-tion, ho-nou-red sir,” he called out, shaken to and

fro by his hair and even once striking the ground with his forehead.

The child asleep on the floor woke up, and began to cry. The boy in the

corner losing all control began trembling and screaming and rushed

to his sister in violent terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was

shaking like a leaf.



“He’s drunk it! he’s drunk it all,” the poor woman screamed in

despair--“and his clothes are gone! And they are hungry, hungry!”--and

wringing her hands she pointed to the children. “Oh, accursed life!

And you, are you not ashamed?”--she pounced all at once upon

Raskolnikov--“from the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have

been drinking with him, too! Go away!”



The young man was hastening away without uttering a word. The inner door

was thrown wide open and inquisitive faces were peering in at it. Coarse

laughing faces with pipes and cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust

themselves in at the doorway. Further in could be seen figures in

dressing gowns flung open, in costumes of unseemly scantiness, some of

them with cards in their hands. They were particularly diverted, when

Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair, shouted that it was a consolation

to him. They even began to come into the room; at last a sinister shrill

outcry was heard: this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself pushing her

way amongst them and trying to restore order after her own fashion and

for the hundredth time to frighten the poor woman by ordering her

with coarse abuse to clear out of the room next day. As he went out,

Raskolnikov had time to put his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the

coppers he had received in exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to

lay them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on the stairs, he changed

his mind and would have gone back.



“What a stupid thing I’ve done,” he thought to himself, “they have Sonia

and I want it myself.” But reflecting that it would be impossible to

take it back now and that in any case he would not have taken it, he

dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back to his lodging.

“Sonia wants pomatum too,” he said as he walked along the street, and he

laughed malignantly--“such smartness costs money.... Hm! And maybe Sonia

herself will be bankrupt to-day, for there is always a risk, hunting

big game... digging for gold... then they would all be without a crust

to-morrow except for my money. Hurrah for Sonia! What a mine they’ve dug

there! And they’re making the most of it! Yes, they are making the most

of it! They’ve wept over it and grown used to it. Man grows used to

everything, the scoundrel!”



He sank into thought.



“And what if I am wrong,” he cried suddenly after a moment’s thought.

“What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the

whole race of mankind--then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial

terrors and there are no barriers and it’s all as it should be.”







CHAPTER III



He waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But his sleep had not

refreshed him; he waked up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked

with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six

paces in length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty

yellow paper peeling off the walls, and it was so low-pitched that a man

of more than average height was ill at ease in it and felt every moment

that he would knock his head against the ceiling. The furniture was in

keeping with the room: there were three old chairs, rather rickety; a

painted table in the corner on which lay a few manuscripts and books;

the dust that lay thick upon them showed that they had been long

untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and

half the floor space of the room; it was once covered with chintz, but

was now in rags and served Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep

on it, as he was, without undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his old

student’s overcoat, with his head on one little pillow, under which he

heaped up all the linen he had, clean and dirty, by way of a bolster. A

little table stood in front of the sofa.



It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of disorder, but to

Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this was positively agreeable.

He had got completely away from everyone, like a tortoise in its shell,

and even the sight of a servant girl who had to wait upon him and looked

sometimes into his room made him writhe with nervous irritation. He was

in the condition that overtakes some monomaniacs entirely concentrated

upon one thing. His landlady had for the last fortnight given up sending

him in meals, and he had not yet thought of expostulating with her,

though he went without his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only servant,

was rather pleased at the lodger’s mood and had entirely given up

sweeping and doing his room, only once a week or so she would stray into

his room with a broom. She waked him up that day.



“Get up, why are you asleep?” she called to him. “It’s past nine, I have

brought you some tea; will you have a cup? I should think you’re fairly

starving?”



Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognised Nastasya.



“From the landlady, eh?” he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting

up on the sofa.



“From the landlady, indeed!”



She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak and stale tea and

laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side of it.



“Here, Nastasya, take it please,” he said, fumbling in his pocket (for

he had slept in his clothes) and taking out a handful of coppers--“run

and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the

pork-butcher’s.”



“The loaf I’ll fetch you this very minute, but wouldn’t you rather have

some cabbage soup instead of sausage? It’s capital soup, yesterday’s. I

saved it for you yesterday, but you came in late. It’s fine soup.”



When the soup had been brought, and he had begun upon it, Nastasya

sat down beside him on the sofa and began chatting. She was a country

peasant-woman and a very talkative one.



“Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police about you,” she

said.



He scowled.



“To the police? What does she want?”



“You don’t pay her money and you won’t turn out of the room. That’s what

she wants, to be sure.”



“The devil, that’s the last straw,” he muttered, grinding his teeth,

“no, that would not suit me... just now. She is a fool,” he added aloud.

“I’ll go and talk to her to-day.”



“Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if you are so

clever, do you lie here like a sack and have nothing to show for it? One

time you used to go out, you say, to teach children. But why is it you

do nothing now?”



“I am doing...” Raskolnikov began sullenly and reluctantly.



“What are you doing?”



“Work...”



“What sort of work?”



“I am thinking,” he answered seriously after a pause.



Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter. She was given to laughter

and when anything amused her, she laughed inaudibly, quivering and

shaking all over till she felt ill.



“And have you made much money by your thinking?” she managed to

articulate at last.



“One can’t go out to give lessons without boots. And I’m sick of it.”



“Don’t quarrel with your bread and butter.”



“They pay so little for lessons. What’s the use of a few coppers?” he

answered, reluctantly, as though replying to his own thought.



“And you want to get a fortune all at once?”



He looked at her strangely.



“Yes, I want a fortune,” he answered firmly, after a brief pause.



“Don’t be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall I get you the

loaf or not?”



“As you please.”



“Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday when you were out.”



“A letter? for me! from whom?”



“I can’t say. I gave three copecks of my own to the postman for it. Will

you pay me back?”



“Then bring it to me, for God’s sake, bring it,” cried Raskolnikov

greatly excited--“good God!”



A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it: from his mother,

from the province of R----. He turned pale when he took it. It was a

long while since he had received a letter, but another feeling also

suddenly stabbed his heart.



“Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness’ sake; here are your three

copecks, but for goodness’ sake, make haste and go!”



The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to open it in her

presence; he wanted to be left _alone_ with this letter. When Nastasya

had gone out, he lifted it quickly to his lips and kissed it; then he

gazed intently at the address, the small, sloping handwriting, so dear

and familiar, of the mother who had once taught him to read and write.

He delayed; he seemed almost afraid of something. At last he opened it;

it was a thick heavy letter, weighing over two ounces, two large sheets

of note paper were covered with very small handwriting.



“My dear Rodya,” wrote his mother--“it’s two months since I last had a

talk with you by letter which has distressed me and even kept me

awake at night, thinking. But I am sure you will not blame me for my

inevitable silence. You know how I love you; you are all we have to look

to, Dounia and I, you are our all, our one hope, our one stay. What a

grief it was to me when I heard that you had given up the university

some months ago, for want of means to keep yourself and that you had

lost your lessons and your other work! How could I help you out of my

hundred and twenty roubles a year pension? The fifteen roubles I sent

you four months ago I borrowed, as you know, on security of my pension,

from Vassily Ivanovitch Vahrushin a merchant of this town. He is a

kind-hearted man and was a friend of your father’s too. But having given

him the right to receive the pension, I had to wait till the debt was

paid off and that is only just done, so that I’ve been unable to send

you anything all this time. But now, thank God, I believe I shall

be able to send you something more and in fact we may congratulate

ourselves on our good fortune now, of which I hasten to inform you. In

the first place, would you have guessed, dear Rodya, that your sister

has been living with me for the last six weeks and we shall not be

separated in the future. Thank God, her sufferings are over, but I will

tell you everything in order, so that you may know just how everything

has happened and all that we have hitherto concealed from you. When you

wrote to me two months ago that you had heard that Dounia had a great

deal to put up with in the Svidrigaïlovs’ house, when you wrote that

and asked me to tell you all about it--what could I write in answer to

you? If I had written the whole truth to you, I dare say you would have

thrown up everything and have come to us, even if you had to walk all

the way, for I know your character and your feelings, and you would not

let your sister be insulted. I was in despair myself, but what could I

do? And, besides, I did not know the whole truth myself then. What

made it all so difficult was that Dounia received a hundred roubles

in advance when she took the place as governess in their family, on

condition of part of her salary being deducted every month, and so it

was impossible to throw up the situation without repaying the debt.

This sum (now I can explain it all to you, my precious Rodya) she took

chiefly in order to send you sixty roubles, which you needed so terribly

then and which you received from us last year. We deceived you then,

writing that this money came from Dounia’s savings, but that was not

so, and now I tell you all about it, because, thank God, things have

suddenly changed for the better, and that you may know how Dounia loves

you and what a heart she has. At first indeed Mr. Svidrigaïlov treated

her very rudely and used to make disrespectful and jeering remarks at

table.... But I don’t want to go into all those painful details, so as

not to worry you for nothing when it is now all over. In short, in spite

of the kind and generous behaviour of Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigaïlov’s

wife, and all the rest of the household, Dounia had a very hard time,

especially when Mr. Svidrigaïlov, relapsing into his old regimental

habits, was under the influence of Bacchus. And how do you think it

was all explained later on? Would you believe that the crazy fellow had

conceived a passion for Dounia from the beginning, but had concealed

it under a show of rudeness and contempt. Possibly he was ashamed and

horrified himself at his own flighty hopes, considering his years and

his being the father of a family; and that made him angry with Dounia.

And possibly, too, he hoped by his rude and sneering behaviour to hide

the truth from others. But at last he lost all control and had the face

to make Dounia an open and shameful proposal, promising her all sorts of

inducements and offering, besides, to throw up everything and take her

to another estate of his, or even abroad. You can imagine all she went

through! To leave her situation at once was impossible not only on

account of the money debt, but also to spare the feelings of Marfa

Petrovna, whose suspicions would have been aroused: and then Dounia

would have been the cause of a rupture in the family. And it would

have meant a terrible scandal for Dounia too; that would have been

inevitable. There were various other reasons owing to which Dounia could

not hope to escape from that awful house for another six weeks. You know

Dounia, of course; you know how clever she is and what a strong will she

has. Dounia can endure a great deal and even in the most difficult cases

she has the fortitude to maintain her firmness. She did not even write

to me about everything for fear of upsetting me, although we were

constantly in communication. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa

Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband imploring Dounia in the

garden, and, putting quite a wrong interpretation on the position, threw

the blame upon her, believing her to be the cause of it all. An awful

scene took place between them on the spot in the garden; Marfa Petrovna

went so far as to strike Dounia, refused to hear anything and was

shouting at her for a whole hour and then gave orders that Dounia should

be packed off at once to me in a plain peasant’s cart, into which they

flung all her things, her linen and her clothes, all pell-mell, without

folding it up and packing it. And a heavy shower of rain came on, too,

and Dounia, insulted and put to shame, had to drive with a peasant in an

open cart all the seventeen versts into town. Only think now what answer

could I have sent to the letter I received from you two months ago and

what could I have written? I was in despair; I dared not write to

you the truth because you would have been very unhappy, mortified

and indignant, and yet what could you do? You could only perhaps ruin

yourself, and, besides, Dounia would not allow it; and fill up my letter

with trifles when my heart was so full of sorrow, I could not. For a

whole month the town was full of gossip about this scandal, and it came

to such a pass that Dounia and I dared not even go to church on account

of the contemptuous looks, whispers, and even remarks made aloud about

us. All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody even bowed to us in the

street, and I learnt that some shopmen and clerks were intending to

insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates of our house with pitch,

so that the landlord began to tell us we must leave. All this was set

going by Marfa Petrovna who managed to slander Dounia and throw dirt at

her in every family. She knows everyone in the neighbourhood, and that

month she was continually coming into the town, and as she is

rather talkative and fond of gossiping about her family affairs and

particularly of complaining to all and each of her husband--which is not

at all right--so in a short time she had spread her story not only in

the town, but over the whole surrounding district. It made me ill, but

Dounia bore it better than I did, and if only you could have seen how

she endured it all and tried to comfort me and cheer me up! She is

an angel! But by God’s mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr.

Svidrigaïlov returned to his senses and repented and, probably

feeling sorry for Dounia, he laid before Marfa Petrovna a complete and

unmistakable proof of Dounia’s innocence, in the form of a letter Dounia

had been forced to write and give to him, before Marfa Petrovna

came upon them in the garden. This letter, which remained in Mr.

Svidrigaïlov’s hands after her departure, she had written to refuse

personal explanations and secret interviews, for which he was entreating

her. In that letter she reproached him with great heat and indignation

for the baseness of his behaviour in regard to Marfa Petrovna, reminding

him that he was the father and head of a family and telling him how

infamous it was of him to torment and make unhappy a defenceless girl,

unhappy enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter was so nobly and

touchingly written that I sobbed when I read it and to this day I cannot

read it without tears. Moreover, the evidence of the servants, too,

cleared Dounia’s reputation; they had seen and known a great deal more

than Mr. Svidrigaïlov had himself supposed--as indeed is always the case

with servants. Marfa Petrovna was completely taken aback, and ‘again

crushed’ as she said herself to us, but she was completely convinced of

Dounia’s innocence. The very next day, being Sunday, she went straight

to the Cathedral, knelt down and prayed with tears to Our Lady to give

her strength to bear this new trial and to do her duty. Then she

came straight from the Cathedral to us, told us the whole story, wept

bitterly and, fully penitent, she embraced Dounia and besought her to

forgive her. The same morning without any delay, she went round to all

the houses in the town and everywhere, shedding tears, she asserted in

the most flattering terms Dounia’s innocence and the nobility of

her feelings and her behavior. What was more, she showed and read to

everyone the letter in Dounia’s own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigaïlov and

even allowed them to take copies of it--which I must say I think was

superfluous. In this way she was busy for several days in driving about

the whole town, because some people had taken offence through precedence

having been given to others. And therefore they had to take turns, so

that in every house she was expected before she arrived, and everyone

knew that on such and such a day Marfa Petrovna would be reading the

letter in such and such a place and people assembled for every reading

of it, even many who had heard it several times already both in their

own houses and in other people’s. In my opinion a great deal, a very

great deal of all this was unnecessary; but that’s Marfa Petrovna’s

character. Anyway she succeeded in completely re-establishing Dounia’s

reputation and the whole ignominy of this affair rested as an indelible

disgrace upon her husband, as the only person to blame, so that I really

began to feel sorry for him; it was really treating the crazy fellow too

harshly. Dounia was at once asked to give lessons in several families,

but she refused. All of a sudden everyone began to treat her with marked

respect and all this did much to bring about the event by which, one may

say, our whole fortunes are now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya,

that Dounia has a suitor and that she has already consented to marry

him. I hasten to tell you all about the matter, and though it has been

arranged without asking your consent, I think you will not be aggrieved

with me or with your sister on that account, for you will see that we

could not wait and put off our decision till we heard from you. And you

could not have judged all the facts without being on the spot. This

was how it happened. He is already of the rank of a counsellor, Pyotr

Petrovitch Luzhin, and is distantly related to Marfa Petrovna, who

has been very active in bringing the match about. It began with his

expressing through her his desire to make our acquaintance. He was

properly received, drank coffee with us and the very next day he sent

us a letter in which he very courteously made an offer and begged for a

speedy and decided answer. He is a very busy man and is in a great hurry

to get to Petersburg, so that every moment is precious to him. At first,

of course, we were greatly surprised, as it had all happened so quickly

and unexpectedly. We thought and talked it over the whole day. He is a

well-to-do man, to be depended upon, he has two posts in the government

and has already made his fortune. It is true that he is forty-five years

old, but he is of a fairly prepossessing appearance and might still be

thought attractive by women, and he is altogether a very respectable and

presentable man, only he seems a little morose and somewhat conceited.

But possibly that may only be the impression he makes at first sight.

And beware, dear Rodya, when he comes to Petersburg, as he shortly will

do, beware of judging him too hastily and severely, as your way is, if

there is anything you do not like in him at first sight. I give you this

warning, although I feel sure that he will make a favourable impression

upon you. Moreover, in order to understand any man one must be

deliberate and careful to avoid forming prejudices and mistaken ideas,

which are very difficult to correct and get over afterwards. And Pyotr

Petrovitch, judging by many indications, is a thoroughly estimable man.

At his first visit, indeed, he told us that he was a practical man, but

still he shares, as he expressed it, many of the convictions ‘of our

most rising generation’ and he is an opponent of all prejudices. He

said a good deal more, for he seems a little conceited and likes to be

listened to, but this is scarcely a vice. I, of course, understood very

little of it, but Dounia explained to me that, though he is not a man

of great education, he is clever and seems to be good-natured. You know

your sister’s character, Rodya. She is a resolute, sensible, patient and

generous girl, but she has a passionate heart, as I know very well.

Of course, there is no great love either on his side, or on hers, but

Dounia is a clever girl and has the heart of an angel, and will make

it her duty to make her husband happy who on his side will make her

happiness his care. Of that we have no good reason to doubt, though it

must be admitted the matter has been arranged in great haste. Besides he

is a man of great prudence and he will see, to be sure, of himself, that

his own happiness will be the more secure, the happier Dounia is with

him. And as for some defects of character, for some habits and even

certain differences of opinion--which indeed are inevitable even in

the happiest marriages--Dounia has said that, as regards all that, she

relies on herself, that there is nothing to be uneasy about, and

that she is ready to put up with a great deal, if only their future

relationship can be an honourable and straightforward one. He struck me,

for instance, at first, as rather abrupt, but that may well come

from his being an outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it is. For

instance, at his second visit, after he had received Dounia’s consent,

in the course of conversation, he declared that before making

Dounia’s acquaintance, he had made up his mind to marry a girl of

good reputation, without dowry and, above all, one who had experienced

poverty, because, as he explained, a man ought not to be indebted to his

wife, but that it is better for a wife to look upon her husband as her

benefactor. I must add that he expressed it more nicely and politely

than I have done, for I have forgotten his actual phrases and only

remember the meaning. And, besides, it was obviously not said of design,

but slipped out in the heat of conversation, so that he tried afterwards

to correct himself and smooth it over, but all the same it did strike

me as somewhat rude, and I said so afterwards to Dounia. But Dounia was

vexed, and answered that ‘words are not deeds,’ and that, of course, is

perfectly true. Dounia did not sleep all night before she made up

her mind, and, thinking that I was asleep, she got out of bed and was

walking up and down the room all night; at last she knelt down before

the ikon and prayed long and fervently and in the morning she told me

that she had decided.



“I have mentioned already that Pyotr Petrovitch is just setting off for

Petersburg, where he has a great deal of business, and he wants to open

a legal bureau. He has been occupied for many years in conducting civil

and commercial litigation, and only the other day he won an important

case. He has to be in Petersburg because he has an important case before

the Senate. So, Rodya dear, he may be of the greatest use to you, in

every way indeed, and Dounia and I have agreed that from this very day

you could definitely enter upon your career and might consider that

your future is marked out and assured for you. Oh, if only this comes to

pass! This would be such a benefit that we could only look upon it as a

providential blessing. Dounia is dreaming of nothing else. We have even

ventured already to drop a few words on the subject to Pyotr Petrovitch.

He was cautious in his answer, and said that, of course, as he could not

get on without a secretary, it would be better to be paying a salary to

a relation than to a stranger, if only the former were fitted for the

duties (as though there could be doubt of your being fitted!) but then

he expressed doubts whether your studies at the university would leave

you time for work at his office. The matter dropped for the time, but

Dounia is thinking of nothing else now. She has been in a sort of fever

for the last few days, and has already made a regular plan for

your becoming in the end an associate and even a partner in Pyotr

Petrovitch’s business, which might well be, seeing that you are a

student of law. I am in complete agreement with her, Rodya, and share

all her plans and hopes, and think there is every probability of

realising them. And in spite of Pyotr Petrovitch’s evasiveness, very

natural at present (since he does not know you), Dounia is firmly

persuaded that she will gain everything by her good influence over her

future husband; this she is reckoning upon. Of course we are careful

not to talk of any of these more remote plans to Pyotr Petrovitch,

especially of your becoming his partner. He is a practical man and might

take this very coldly, it might all seem to him simply a day-dream. Nor

has either Dounia or I breathed a word to him of the great hopes we have

of his helping us to pay for your university studies; we have not spoken

of it in the first place, because it will come to pass of itself,

later on, and he will no doubt without wasting words offer to do it of

himself, (as though he could refuse Dounia that) the more readily since

you may by your own efforts become his right hand in the office, and

receive this assistance not as a charity, but as a salary earned by your

own work. Dounia wants to arrange it all like this and I quite agree

with her. And we have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that

is, because I particularly wanted you to feel on an equal footing when

you first meet him. When Dounia spoke to him with enthusiasm about

you, he answered that one could never judge of a man without seeing

him close, for oneself, and that he looked forward to forming his own

opinion when he makes your acquaintance. Do you know, my precious

Rodya, I think that perhaps for some reasons (nothing to do with Pyotr

Petrovitch though, simply for my own personal, perhaps old-womanish,

fancies) I should do better to go on living by myself, apart, than with

them, after the wedding. I am convinced that he will be generous and

delicate enough to invite me and to urge me to remain with my daughter

for the future, and if he has said nothing about it hitherto, it is

simply because it has been taken for granted; but I shall refuse. I have

noticed more than once in my life that husbands don’t quite get on with

their mothers-in-law, and I don’t want to be the least bit in anyone’s

way, and for my own sake, too, would rather be quite independent, so

long as I have a crust of bread of my own, and such children as you and

Dounia. If possible, I would settle somewhere near you, for the most

joyful piece of news, dear Rodya, I have kept for the end of my letter:

know then, my dear boy, that we may, perhaps, be all together in a

very short time and may embrace one another again after a separation of

almost three years! It is settled _for certain_ that Dounia and I are to

set off for Petersburg, exactly when I don’t know, but very, very soon,

possibly in a week. It all depends on Pyotr Petrovitch who will let us

know when he has had time to look round him in Petersburg. To suit his

own arrangements he is anxious to have the ceremony as soon as possible,

even before the fast of Our Lady, if it could be managed, or if that is

too soon to be ready, immediately after. Oh, with what happiness I shall

press you to my heart! Dounia is all excitement at the joyful thought

of seeing you, she said one day in joke that she would be ready to marry

Pyotr Petrovitch for that alone. She is an angel! She is not writing

anything to you now, and has only told me to write that she has so much,

so much to tell you that she is not going to take up her pen now, for

a few lines would tell you nothing, and it would only mean upsetting

herself; she bids me send you her love and innumerable kisses. But

although we shall be meeting so soon, perhaps I shall send you as much

money as I can in a day or two. Now that everyone has heard that Dounia

is to marry Pyotr Petrovitch, my credit has suddenly improved and I know

that Afanasy Ivanovitch will trust me now even to seventy-five roubles

on the security of my pension, so that perhaps I shall be able to send

you twenty-five or even thirty roubles. I would send you more, but I am

uneasy about our travelling expenses; for though Pyotr Petrovitch has

been so kind as to undertake part of the expenses of the journey, that

is to say, he has taken upon himself the conveyance of our bags and big

trunk (which will be conveyed through some acquaintances of his), we

must reckon upon some expense on our arrival in Petersburg, where we

can’t be left without a halfpenny, at least for the first few days. But

we have calculated it all, Dounia and I, to the last penny, and we see

that the journey will not cost very much. It is only ninety versts from

us to the railway and we have come to an agreement with a driver we

know, so as to be in readiness; and from there Dounia and I can travel

quite comfortably third class. So that I may very likely be able to send

to you not twenty-five, but thirty roubles. But enough; I have covered

two sheets already and there is no space left for more; our whole

history, but so many events have happened! And now, my precious Rodya,

I embrace you and send you a mother’s blessing till we meet. Love Dounia

your sister, Rodya; love her as she loves you and understand that she

loves you beyond everything, more than herself. She is an angel and you,

Rodya, you are everything to us--our one hope, our one consolation. If

only you are happy, we shall be happy. Do you still say your prayers,

Rodya, and believe in the mercy of our Creator and our Redeemer? I am

afraid in my heart that you may have been visited by the new spirit of

infidelity that is abroad to-day; If it is so, I pray for you. Remember,

dear boy, how in your childhood, when your father was living, you used

to lisp your prayers at my knee, and how happy we all were in those

days. Good-bye, till we meet then--I embrace you warmly, warmly, with

many kisses.



“Yours till death,



“PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV.”





Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolnikov’s face was

wet with tears; but when he finished it, his face was pale and distorted

and a bitter, wrathful and malignant smile was on his lips. He laid his

head down on his threadbare dirty pillow and pondered, pondered a long

time. His heart was beating violently, and his brain was in a turmoil.

At last he felt cramped and stifled in the little yellow room that was

like a cupboard or a box. His eyes and his mind craved for space. He

took up his hat and went out, this time without dread of meeting

anyone; he had forgotten his dread. He turned in the direction of the

Vassilyevsky Ostrov, walking along Vassilyevsky Prospect, as though

hastening on some business, but he walked, as his habit was, without

noticing his way, muttering and even speaking aloud to himself, to the

astonishment of the passers-by. Many of them took him to be drunk.







CHAPTER IV



His mother’s letter had been a torture to him, but as regards the chief

fact in it, he had felt not one moment’s hesitation, even whilst he was

reading the letter. The essential question was settled, and irrevocably

settled, in his mind: “Never such a marriage while I am alive and

Mr. Luzhin be damned!” “The thing is perfectly clear,” he muttered

to himself, with a malignant smile anticipating the triumph of his

decision. “No, mother, no, Dounia, you won’t deceive me! and then they

apologise for not asking my advice and for taking the decision without

me! I dare say! They imagine it is arranged now and can’t be broken

off; but we will see whether it can or not! A magnificent excuse:

‘Pyotr Petrovitch is such a busy man that even his wedding has to be in

post-haste, almost by express.’ No, Dounia, I see it all and I know what

you want to say to me; and I know too what you were thinking about, when

you walked up and down all night, and what your prayers were like before

the Holy Mother of Kazan who stands in mother’s bedroom. Bitter is

the ascent to Golgotha.... Hm... so it is finally settled; you have

determined to marry a sensible business man, Avdotya Romanovna, one

who has a fortune (has _already_ made his fortune, that is so much

more solid and impressive), a man who holds two government posts and who

shares the ideas of our most rising generation, as mother writes, and

who _seems_ to be kind, as Dounia herself observes. That _seems_ beats

everything! And that very Dounia for that very ‘_seems_’ is marrying

him! Splendid! splendid!



“... But I should like to know why mother has written to me about ‘our

most rising generation’? Simply as a descriptive touch, or with the idea

of prepossessing me in favour of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, the cunning of them!

I should like to know one thing more: how far they were open with one

another that day and night and all this time since? Was it all put into

_words_, or did both understand that they had the same thing at heart

and in their minds, so that there was no need to speak of it aloud, and

better not to speak of it. Most likely it was partly like that, from

mother’s letter it’s evident: he struck her as rude _a little_, and

mother in her simplicity took her observations to Dounia. And she was

sure to be vexed and ‘answered her angrily.’ I should think so! Who

would not be angered when it was quite clear without any naïve questions

and when it was understood that it was useless to discuss it. And why

does she write to me, ‘love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you more than

herself’? Has she a secret conscience-prick at sacrificing her daughter

to her son? ‘You are our one comfort, you are everything to us.’ Oh,

mother!”



His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he had happened to

meet Mr. Luzhin at the moment, he might have murdered him.



“Hm... yes, that’s true,” he continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that

chased each other in his brain, “it is true that ‘it needs time and care

to get to know a man,’ but there is no mistake about Mr. Luzhin. The

chief thing is he is ‘a man of business and _seems_ kind,’ that was

something, wasn’t it, to send the bags and big box for them! A kind man,

no doubt after that! But his _bride_ and her mother are to drive in a

peasant’s cart covered with sacking (I know, I have been driven in

it). No matter! It is only ninety versts and then they can ‘travel very

comfortably, third class,’ for a thousand versts! Quite right, too. One

must cut one’s coat according to one’s cloth, but what about you, Mr.

Luzhin? She is your bride.... And you must be aware that her mother has

to raise money on her pension for the journey. To be sure it’s a matter

of business, a partnership for mutual benefit, with equal shares and

expenses;--food and drink provided, but pay for your tobacco. The

business man has got the better of them, too. The luggage will cost less

than their fares and very likely go for nothing. How is it that they

don’t both see all that, or is it that they don’t want to see? And

they are pleased, pleased! And to think that this is only the first

blossoming, and that the real fruits are to come! But what really

matters is not the stinginess, is not the meanness, but the _tone_

of the whole thing. For that will be the tone after marriage, it’s a

foretaste of it. And mother too, why should she be so lavish? What will

she have by the time she gets to Petersburg? Three silver roubles or

two ‘paper ones’ as _she_ says.... that old woman... hm. What does

she expect to live upon in Petersburg afterwards? She has her reasons

already for guessing that she _could not_ live with Dounia after the

marriage, even for the first few months. The good man has no doubt let

slip something on that subject also, though mother would deny it: ‘I

shall refuse,’ says she. On whom is she reckoning then? Is she counting

on what is left of her hundred and twenty roubles of pension when

Afanasy Ivanovitch’s debt is paid? She knits woollen shawls and

embroiders cuffs, ruining her old eyes. And all her shawls don’t add

more than twenty roubles a year to her hundred and twenty, I know

that. So she is building all her hopes all the time on Mr. Luzhin’s

generosity; ‘he will offer it of himself, he will press it on me.’

You may wait a long time for that! That’s how it always is with these

Schilleresque noble hearts; till the last moment every goose is a swan

with them, till the last moment, they hope for the best and will see

nothing wrong, and although they have an inkling of the other side of

the picture, yet they won’t face the truth till they are forced to; the

very thought of it makes them shiver; they thrust the truth away with

both hands, until the man they deck out in false colours puts a fool’s

cap on them with his own hands. I should like to know whether Mr. Luzhin

has any orders of merit; I bet he has the Anna in his buttonhole and

that he puts it on when he goes to dine with contractors or merchants.

He will be sure to have it for his wedding, too! Enough of him, confound

him!



“Well,... mother I don’t wonder at, it’s like her, God bless her, but

how could Dounia? Dounia darling, as though I did not know you! You were

nearly twenty when I saw you last: I understood you then. Mother writes

that ‘Dounia can put up with a great deal.’ I know that very well. I

knew that two years and a half ago, and for the last two and a half

years I have been thinking about it, thinking of just that, that ‘Dounia

can put up with a great deal.’ If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigaïlov

and all the rest of it, she certainly can put up with a great deal. And

now mother and she have taken it into their heads that she can put up

with Mr. Luzhin, who propounds the theory of the superiority of

wives raised from destitution and owing everything to their husband’s

bounty--who propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted

that he ‘let it slip,’ though he is a sensible man, (yet maybe it

was not a slip at all, but he meant to make himself clear as soon as

possible) but Dounia, Dounia? She understands the man, of course, but

she will have to live with the man. Why! she’d live on black bread

and water, she would not sell her soul, she would not barter her moral

freedom for comfort; she would not barter it for all Schleswig-Holstein,

much less Mr. Luzhin’s money. No, Dounia was not that sort when I knew

her and... she is still the same, of course! Yes, there’s no denying,

the Svidrigaïlovs are a bitter pill! It’s a bitter thing to spend one’s

life a governess in the provinces for two hundred roubles, but I know

she would rather be a nigger on a plantation or a Lett with a German

master than degrade her soul, and her moral dignity, by binding herself

for ever to a man whom she does not respect and with whom she has

nothing in common--for her own advantage. And if Mr. Luzhin had been of

unalloyed gold, or one huge diamond, she would never have consented to

become his legal concubine. Why is she consenting then? What’s the

point of it? What’s the answer? It’s clear enough: for herself, for her

comfort, to save her life she would not sell herself, but for someone

else she is doing it! For one she loves, for one she adores, she will

sell herself! That’s what it all amounts to; for her brother, for her

mother, she will sell herself! She will sell everything! In such cases,

‘we overcome our moral feeling if necessary,’ freedom, peace, conscience

even, all, all are brought into the market. Let my life go, if only my

dear ones may be happy! More than that, we become casuists, we learn

to be Jesuitical and for a time maybe we can soothe ourselves, we can

persuade ourselves that it is one’s duty for a good object. That’s just

like us, it’s as clear as daylight. It’s clear that Rodion Romanovitch

Raskolnikov is the central figure in the business, and no one else. Oh,

yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in the university, make him

a partner in the office, make his whole future secure; perhaps he may

even be a rich man later on, prosperous, respected, and may even end his

life a famous man! But my mother? It’s all Rodya, precious Rodya, her

first born! For such a son who would not sacrifice such a daughter! Oh,

loving, over-partial hearts! Why, for his sake we would not shrink even

from Sonia’s fate. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the eternal victim so long

as the world lasts. Have you taken the measure of your sacrifice, both

of you? Is it right? Can you bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in

it? And let me tell you, Dounia, Sonia’s life is no worse than life with

Mr. Luzhin. ‘There can be no question of love,’ mother writes. And what

if there can be no respect either, if on the contrary there is aversion,

contempt, repulsion, what then? So you will have to ‘keep up your

appearance,’ too. Is not that so? Do you understand what that smartness

means? Do you understand that the Luzhin smartness is just the same

thing as Sonia’s and may be worse, viler, baser, because in your case,

Dounia, it’s a bargain for luxuries, after all, but with Sonia it’s

simply a question of starvation. It has to be paid for, it has to be

paid for, Dounia, this smartness. And what if it’s more than you can

bear afterwards, if you regret it? The bitterness, the misery, the

curses, the tears hidden from all the world, for you are not a Marfa

Petrovna. And how will your mother feel then? Even now she is uneasy,

she is worried, but then, when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes,

indeed, what have you taken me for? I won’t have your sacrifice, Dounia,

I won’t have it, mother! It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it

shall not, it shall not! I won’t accept it!”



He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood still.



“It shall not be? But what are you going to do to prevent it? You’ll

forbid it? And what right have you? What can you promise them on your

side to give you such a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you

will devote to them _when you have finished your studies and obtained a

post_? Yes, we have heard all that before, and that’s all _words_, but

now? Now something must be done, now, do you understand that? And

what are you doing now? You are living upon them. They borrow on their

hundred roubles pension. They borrow from the Svidrigaïlovs. How are

you going to save them from Svidrigaïlovs, from Afanasy Ivanovitch

Vahrushin, oh, future millionaire Zeus who would arrange their lives for

them? In another ten years? In another ten years, mother will be blind

with knitting shawls, maybe with weeping too. She will be worn to a

shadow with fasting; and my sister? Imagine for a moment what may have

become of your sister in ten years? What may happen to her during those

ten years? Can you fancy?”



So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such questions, and

finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions were not

new ones suddenly confronting him, they were old familiar aches. It was

long since they had first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long, long

ago his present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and

gathered strength, it had matured and concentrated, until it had taken

the form of a fearful, frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured

his heart and mind, clamouring insistently for an answer. Now his

mother’s letter had burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear

that he must not now suffer passively, worrying himself over unsolved

questions, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it

quickly. Anyway he must decide on something, or else...



“Or throw up life altogether!” he cried suddenly, in a frenzy--“accept

one’s lot humbly as it is, once for all and stifle everything in

oneself, giving up all claim to activity, life and love!”



“Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have

absolutely nowhere to turn?” Marmeladov’s question came suddenly into

his mind, “for every man must have somewhere to turn....”



He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had had yesterday,

slipped back into his mind. But he did not start at the thought

recurring to him, for he knew, he had _felt beforehand_, that it must

come back, he was expecting it; besides it was not only yesterday’s

thought. The difference was that a month ago, yesterday even, the

thought was a mere dream: but now... now it appeared not a dream at all,

it had taken a new menacing and quite unfamiliar shape, and he suddenly

became aware of this himself.... He felt a hammering in his head, and

there was a darkness before his eyes.



He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for something. He wanted

to sit down and was looking for a seat; he was walking along the K----

Boulevard. There was a seat about a hundred paces in front of him. He

walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way he met with a little

adventure which absorbed all his attention. Looking for the seat, he had

noticed a woman walking some twenty paces in front of him, but at first

he took no more notice of her than of other objects that crossed his

path. It had happened to him many times going home not to notice the

road by which he was going, and he was accustomed to walk like that. But

there was at first sight something so strange about the woman in front

of him, that gradually his attention was riveted upon her, at first

reluctantly and, as it were, resentfully, and then more and more

intently. He felt a sudden desire to find out what it was that was so

strange about the woman. In the first place, she appeared to be a girl

quite young, and she was walking in the great heat bareheaded and with

no parasol or gloves, waving her arms about in an absurd way. She had

on a dress of some light silky material, but put on strangely awry, not

properly hooked up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, close to the

waist: a great piece was rent and hanging loose. A little kerchief was

flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting on one side. The girl was

walking unsteadily, too, stumbling and staggering from side to side. She

drew Raskolnikov’s whole attention at last. He overtook the girl at the

seat, but, on reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the corner;

she let her head sink on the back of the seat and closed her eyes,

apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her closely, he saw at once

that she was completely drunk. It was a strange and shocking sight. He

could hardly believe that he was not mistaken. He saw before him the

face of a quite young, fair-haired girl--sixteen, perhaps not more than

fifteen, years old, pretty little face, but flushed and heavy looking

and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to know what she was

doing; she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it indecorously, and

showed every sign of being unconscious that she was in the street.



Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to leave her,

and stood facing her in perplexity. This boulevard was never much

frequented; and now, at two o’clock, in the stifling heat, it was quite

deserted. And yet on the further side of the boulevard, about fifteen

paces away, a gentleman was standing on the edge of the pavement. He,

too, would apparently have liked to approach the girl with some object

of his own. He, too, had probably seen her in the distance and had

followed her, but found Raskolnikov in his way. He looked angrily at

him, though he tried to escape his notice, and stood impatiently biding

his time, till the unwelcome man in rags should have moved away. His

intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a plump, thickly-set

man, about thirty, fashionably dressed, with a high colour, red lips and

moustaches. Raskolnikov felt furious; he had a sudden longing to insult

this fat dandy in some way. He left the girl for a moment and walked

towards the gentleman.



“Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What do you want here?” he shouted, clenching

his fists and laughing, spluttering with rage.



“What do you mean?” the gentleman asked sternly, scowling in haughty

astonishment.



“Get away, that’s what I mean.”



“How dare you, you low fellow!”



He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his fists, without

reflecting that the stout gentleman was a match for two men like

himself. But at that instant someone seized him from behind, and a

police constable stood between them.



“That’s enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place. What

do you want? Who are you?” he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his

rags.



Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight-forward, sensible,

soldierly face, with grey moustaches and whiskers.



“You are just the man I want,” Raskolnikov cried, catching at his arm.

“I am a student, Raskolnikov.... You may as well know that too,” he

added, addressing the gentleman, “come along, I have something to show

you.”



And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him towards the seat.



“Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down the boulevard.

There is no telling who and what she is, she does not look like a

professional. It’s more likely she has been given drink and deceived

somewhere... for the first time... you understand? and they’ve put her

out into the street like that. Look at the way her dress is torn, and

the way it has been put on: she has been dressed by somebody, she has

not dressed herself, and dressed by unpractised hands, by a man’s hands;

that’s evident. And now look there: I don’t know that dandy with whom I

was going to fight, I see him for the first time, but he, too, has seen

her on the road, just now, drunk, not knowing what she is doing, and now

he is very eager to get hold of her, to get her away somewhere while she

is in this state... that’s certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw

him myself watching her and following her, but I prevented him, and he

is just waiting for me to go away. Now he has walked away a little, and

is standing still, pretending to make a cigarette.... Think how can we

keep her out of his hands, and how are we to get her home?”



The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout gentleman was easy to

understand, he turned to consider the girl. The policeman bent over to

examine her more closely, and his face worked with genuine compassion.



“Ah, what a pity!” he said, shaking his head--“why, she is quite a

child! She has been deceived, you can see that at once. Listen, lady,”

 he began addressing her, “where do you live?” The girl opened her weary

and sleepy-looking eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and waved her

hand.



“Here,” said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and finding twenty

copecks, “here, call a cab and tell him to drive her to her address. The

only thing is to find out her address!”



“Missy, missy!” the policeman began again, taking the money. “I’ll fetch

you a cab and take you home myself. Where shall I take you, eh? Where do

you live?”



“Go away! They won’t let me alone,” the girl muttered, and once more

waved her hand.



“Ach, ach, how shocking! It’s shameful, missy, it’s a shame!” He shook

his head again, shocked, sympathetic and indignant.



“It’s a difficult job,” the policeman said to Raskolnikov, and as he

did so, he looked him up and down in a rapid glance. He, too, must have

seemed a strange figure to him: dressed in rags and handing him money!



“Did you meet her far from here?” he asked him.



“I tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering, just here, in

the boulevard. She only just reached the seat and sank down on it.”



“Ah, the shameful things that are done in the world nowadays, God have

mercy on us! An innocent creature like that, drunk already! She has been

deceived, that’s a sure thing. See how her dress has been torn too....

Ah, the vice one sees nowadays! And as likely as not she belongs to

gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe.... There are many like that nowadays.

She looks refined, too, as though she were a lady,” and he bent over her

once more.



Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, “looking like ladies and

refined” with pretensions to gentility and smartness....



“The chief thing is,” Raskolnikov persisted, “to keep her out of this

scoundrel’s hands! Why should he outrage her? It’s as clear as day what

he is after; ah, the brute, he is not moving off!”



Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him. The gentleman heard him,

and seemed about to fly into a rage again, but thought better of it, and

confined himself to a contemptuous look. He then walked slowly another

ten paces away and again halted.



“Keep her out of his hands we can,” said the constable thoughtfully,

“if only she’d tell us where to take her, but as it is.... Missy, hey,

missy!” he bent over her once more.



She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him intently, as

though realising something, got up from the seat and walked away in the

direction from which she had come. “Oh shameful wretches, they won’t let

me alone!” she said, waving her hand again. She walked quickly, though

staggering as before. The dandy followed her, but along another avenue,

keeping his eye on her.



“Don’t be anxious, I won’t let him have her,” the policeman said

resolutely, and he set off after them.



“Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!” he repeated aloud, sighing.



At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an instant a

complete revulsion of feeling came over him.



“Hey, here!” he shouted after the policeman.



The latter turned round.



“Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her go! Let him amuse

himself.” He pointed at the dandy, “What is it to do with you?”



The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him open-eyed. Raskolnikov

laughed.



“Well!” ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture of contempt, and he

walked after the dandy and the girl, probably taking Raskolnikov for a

madman or something even worse.



“He has carried off my twenty copecks,” Raskolnikov murmured angrily

when he was left alone. “Well, let him take as much from the other

fellow to allow him to have the girl and so let it end. And why did I

want to interfere? Is it for me to help? Have I any right to help? Let

them devour each other alive--what is it to me? How did I dare to give him

twenty copecks? Were they mine?”



In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched. He sat down on

the deserted seat. His thoughts strayed aimlessly.... He found it hard

to fix his mind on anything at that moment. He longed to forget himself

altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and begin life

anew....



“Poor girl!” he said, looking at the empty corner where she had

sat--“She will come to herself and weep, and then her mother will find

out.... She will give her a beating, a horrible, shameful beating and

then maybe, turn her out of doors.... And even if she does not, the

Darya Frantsovnas will get wind of it, and the girl will soon be

slipping out on the sly here and there. Then there will be the hospital

directly (that’s always the luck of those girls with respectable

mothers, who go wrong on the sly) and then... again the hospital...

drink... the taverns... and more hospital, in two or three years--a

wreck, and her life over at eighteen or nineteen.... Have not I seen

cases like that? And how have they been brought to it? Why, they’ve all

come to it like that. Ugh! But what does it matter? That’s as it should

be, they tell us. A certain percentage, they tell us, must every year

go... that way... to the devil, I suppose, so that the rest may remain

chaste, and not be interfered with. A percentage! What splendid words

they have; they are so scientific, so consolatory.... Once you’ve said

‘percentage’ there’s nothing more to worry about. If we had any other

word... maybe we might feel more uneasy.... But what if Dounia were one

of the percentage! Of another one if not that one?



“But where am I going?” he thought suddenly. “Strange, I came out for

something. As soon as I had read the letter I came out.... I was going

to Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to Razumihin. That’s what it was... now I

remember. What for, though? And what put the idea of going to Razumihin

into my head just now? That’s curious.”



He wondered at himself. Razumihin was one of his old comrades at the

university. It was remarkable that Raskolnikov had hardly any friends at

the university; he kept aloof from everyone, went to see no one, and did

not welcome anyone who came to see him, and indeed everyone soon gave

him up. He took no part in the students’ gatherings, amusements or

conversations. He worked with great intensity without sparing himself,

and he was respected for this, but no one liked him. He was very poor,

and there was a sort of haughty pride and reserve about him, as though

he were keeping something to himself. He seemed to some of his comrades

to look down upon them all as children, as though he were superior in

development, knowledge and convictions, as though their beliefs and

interests were beneath him.



With Razumihin he had got on, or, at least, he was more unreserved and

communicative with him. Indeed it was impossible to be on any other

terms with Razumihin. He was an exceptionally good-humoured and candid

youth, good-natured to the point of simplicity, though both depth and

dignity lay concealed under that simplicity. The better of his comrades

understood this, and all were fond of him. He was extremely intelligent,

though he was certainly rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking

appearance--tall, thin, black-haired and always badly shaved. He was

sometimes uproarious and was reputed to be of great physical strength.

One night, when out in a festive company, he had with one blow laid

a gigantic policeman on his back. There was no limit to his drinking

powers, but he could abstain from drink altogether; he sometimes went

too far in his pranks; but he could do without pranks altogether.

Another thing striking about Razumihin, no failure distressed him, and

it seemed as though no unfavourable circumstances could crush him. He

could lodge anywhere, and bear the extremes of cold and hunger. He was

very poor, and kept himself entirely on what he could earn by work of

one sort or another. He knew of no end of resources by which to earn

money. He spent one whole winter without lighting his stove, and used to

declare that he liked it better, because one slept more soundly in

the cold. For the present he, too, had been obliged to give up the

university, but it was only for a time, and he was working with all his

might to save enough to return to his studies again. Raskolnikov had

not been to see him for the last four months, and Razumihin did not even

know his address. About two months before, they had met in the street,

but Raskolnikov had turned away and even crossed to the other side that

he might not be observed. And though Razumihin noticed him, he passed

him by, as he did not want to annoy him.







CHAPTER V



“Of course, I’ve been meaning lately to go to Razumihin’s to ask for

work, to ask him to get me lessons or something...” Raskolnikov thought,

“but what help can he be to me now? Suppose he gets me lessons, suppose

he shares his last farthing with me, if he has any farthings, so that

I could get some boots and make myself tidy enough to give lessons...

hm... Well and what then? What shall I do with the few coppers I

earn? That’s not what I want now. It’s really absurd for me to go to

Razumihin....”



The question why he was now going to Razumihin agitated him even more

than he was himself aware; he kept uneasily seeking for some sinister

significance in this apparently ordinary action.



“Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find a way out by

means of Razumihin alone?” he asked himself in perplexity.



He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long

musing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a fantastic

thought came into his head.



“Hm... to Razumihin’s,” he said all at once, calmly, as though he had

reached a final determination. “I shall go to Razumihin’s of course,

but... not now. I shall go to him... on the next day after It, when It

will be over and everything will begin afresh....”



And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.



“After It,” he shouted, jumping up from the seat, “but is It really

going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?” He left the

seat, and went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back, homewards,

but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing;

in that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all _this_ had for a

month past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.



His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel

shivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he

began almost unconsciously, from some inner craving, to stare at all

the objects before him, as though looking for something to distract his

attention; but he did not succeed, and kept dropping every moment into

brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and looked round,

he forgot at once what he had just been thinking about and even where he

was going. In this way he walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came

out on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge and turned towards the

islands. The greenness and freshness were at first restful to his weary

eyes after the dust of the town and the huge houses that hemmed him in

and weighed upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling closeness,

no stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations passed into morbid

irritability. Sometimes he stood still before a brightly painted summer

villa standing among green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw

in the distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and balconies,

and children running in the gardens. The flowers especially caught his

attention; he gazed at them longer than at anything. He was met, too, by

luxurious carriages and by men and women on horseback; he watched them

with curious eyes and forgot about them before they had vanished from

his sight. Once he stood still and counted his money; he found he had

thirty copecks. “Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya for the

letter, so I must have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs

yesterday,” he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown reason, but he

soon forgot with what object he had taken the money out of his pocket.

He recalled it on passing an eating-house or tavern, and felt that he

was hungry.... Going into the tavern he drank a glass of vodka and ate a

pie of some sort. He finished eating it as he walked away. It was a long

while since he had taken vodka and it had an effect upon him at once,

though he only drank a wineglassful. His legs felt suddenly heavy and

a great drowsiness came upon him. He turned homewards, but reaching

Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped completely exhausted, turned off the road

into the bushes, sank down upon the grass and instantly fell asleep.



In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular

actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times

monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are

so truth-like and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, but

so artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like

Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking

state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a

powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system.



Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was back in his childhood

in the little town of his birth. He was a child about seven years old,

walking into the country with his father on the evening of a holiday. It

was a grey and heavy day, the country was exactly as he remembered it;

indeed he recalled it far more vividly in his dream than he had done in

memory. The little town stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, not

even a willow near it; only in the far distance, a copse lay, a dark

blur on the very edge of the horizon. A few paces beyond the last market

garden stood a tavern, a big tavern, which had always aroused in him a

feeling of aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it with his father.

There was always a crowd there, always shouting, laughter and abuse,

hideous hoarse singing and often fighting. Drunken and horrible-looking

figures were hanging about the tavern. He used to cling close to his

father, trembling all over when he met them. Near the tavern the road

became a dusty track, the dust of which was always black. It was a

winding road, and about a hundred paces further on, it turned to the

right to the graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard stood a stone

church with a green cupola where he used to go to mass two or three

times a year with his father and mother, when a service was held in

memory of his grandmother, who had long been dead, and whom he had never

seen. On these occasions they used to take on a white dish tied up in a

table napkin a special sort of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in

the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned, unadorned

ikons and the old priest with the shaking head. Near his grandmother’s

grave, which was marked by a stone, was the little grave of his younger

brother who had died at six months old. He did not remember him at all,

but he had been told about his little brother, and whenever he visited

the graveyard he used religiously and reverently to cross himself and

to bow down and kiss the little grave. And now he dreamt that he was

walking with his father past the tavern on the way to the graveyard; he

was holding his father’s hand and looking with dread at the tavern. A

peculiar circumstance attracted his attention: there seemed to be

some kind of festivity going on, there were crowds of gaily dressed

townspeople, peasant women, their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts,

all singing and all more or less drunk. Near the entrance of the tavern

stood a cart, but a strange cart. It was one of those big carts usually

drawn by heavy cart-horses and laden with casks of wine or other heavy

goods. He always liked looking at those great cart-horses, with their

long manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing along a perfect

mountain with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier going

with a load than without it. But now, strange to say, in the shafts of

such a cart he saw a thin little sorrel beast, one of those peasants’

nags which he had often seen straining their utmost under a heavy load

of wood or hay, especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or in

a rut. And the peasants would beat them so cruelly, sometimes even

about the nose and eyes, and he felt so sorry, so sorry for them that

he almost cried, and his mother always used to take him away from the

window. All of a sudden there was a great uproar of shouting, singing

and the balalaïka, and from the tavern a number of big and very drunken

peasants came out, wearing red and blue shirts and coats thrown over

their shoulders.



“Get in, get in!” shouted one of them, a young thick-necked peasant with

a fleshy face red as a carrot. “I’ll take you all, get in!”



But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in the

crowd.



“Take us all with a beast like that!”



“Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?”



“And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!”



“Get in, I’ll take you all,” Mikolka shouted again, leaping first into

the cart, seizing the reins and standing straight up in front. “The bay

has gone with Matvey,” he shouted from the cart--“and this brute, mates,

is just breaking my heart, I feel as if I could kill her. She’s just

eating her head off. Get in, I tell you! I’ll make her gallop! She’ll

gallop!” and he picked up the whip, preparing himself with relish to

flog the little mare.



“Get in! Come along!” The crowd laughed. “D’you hear, she’ll gallop!”



“Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years!”



“She’ll jog along!”



“Don’t you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, get ready!”



“All right! Give it to her!”



They all clambered into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and making jokes. Six

men got in and there was still room for more. They hauled in a fat,

rosy-cheeked woman. She was dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded

headdress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and laughing.

The crowd round them was laughing too and indeed, how could they help

laughing? That wretched nag was to drag all the cartload of them at a

gallop! Two young fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready to

help Mikolka. With the cry of “now,” the mare tugged with all her might,

but far from galloping, could scarcely move forward; she struggled with

her legs, gasping and shrinking from the blows of the three whips which

were showered upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and in the

crowd was redoubled, but Mikolka flew into a rage and furiously thrashed

the mare, as though he supposed she really could gallop.



“Let me get in, too, mates,” shouted a young man in the crowd whose

appetite was aroused.



“Get in, all get in,” cried Mikolka, “she will draw you all. I’ll beat

her to death!” And he thrashed and thrashed at the mare, beside himself

with fury.



“Father, father,” he cried, “father, what are they doing? Father, they

are beating the poor horse!”



“Come along, come along!” said his father. “They are drunken and

foolish, they are in fun; come away, don’t look!” and he tried to draw

him away, but he tore himself away from his hand, and, beside himself

with horror, ran to the horse. The poor beast was in a bad way. She was

gasping, standing still, then tugging again and almost falling.



“Beat her to death,” cried Mikolka, “it’s come to that. I’ll do for

her!”



“What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?” shouted an old man

in the crowd.



“Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling such a

cartload,” said another.



“You’ll kill her,” shouted the third.



“Don’t meddle! It’s my property, I’ll do what I choose. Get in, more of

you! Get in, all of you! I will have her go at a gallop!...”



All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered everything: the mare,

roused by the shower of blows, began feebly kicking. Even the old man

could not help smiling. To think of a wretched little beast like that

trying to kick!



Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the mare to beat her

about the ribs. One ran each side.



“Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes,” cried Mikolka.



“Give us a song, mates,” shouted someone in the cart and everyone in the

cart joined in a riotous song, jingling a tambourine and whistling. The

woman went on cracking nuts and laughing.



... He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her being whipped

across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he felt choking, his

tears were streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with the whip across

the face, he did not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he

rushed up to the grey-headed old man with the grey beard, who was

shaking his head in disapproval. One woman seized him by the hand and

would have taken him away, but he tore himself from her and ran back to

the mare. She was almost at the last gasp, but began kicking once more.



“I’ll teach you to kick,” Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw down

the whip, bent forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a long,

thick shaft, he took hold of one end with both hands and with an effort

brandished it over the mare.



“He’ll crush her,” was shouted round him. “He’ll kill her!”



“It’s my property,” shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down with a

swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy thud.



“Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?” shouted voices in the

crowd.



And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second time

on the spine of the luckless mare. She sank back on her haunches, but

lurched forward and tugged forward with all her force, tugged first on

one side and then on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six

whips were attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raised

again and fell upon her a third time, then a fourth, with heavy measured

blows. Mikolka was in a fury that he could not kill her at one blow.



“She’s a tough one,” was shouted in the crowd.



“She’ll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her,” said

an admiring spectator in the crowd.



“Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off,” shouted a third.



“I’ll show you! Stand off,” Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw down

the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron crowbar. “Look

out,” he shouted, and with all his might he dealt a stunning blow at the

poor mare. The blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull,

but the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her back and she fell on

the ground like a log.



“Finish her off,” shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of

the cart. Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized anything

they could come across--whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dying

mare. Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing random blows with the

crowbar. The mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died.



“You butchered her,” someone shouted in the crowd.



“Why wouldn’t she gallop then?”



“My property!” shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the bar

in his hands. He stood as though regretting that he had nothing more to

beat.



“No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,” many voices were

shouting in the crowd.



But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming, through the

crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head and

kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips.... Then he jumped up and

flew in a frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instant

his father, who had been running after him, snatched him up and carried

him out of the crowd.



“Come along, come! Let us go home,” he said to him.



“Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!” he sobbed, but his

voice broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting chest.



“They are drunk.... They are brutal... it’s not our business!” said his

father. He put his arms round his father but he felt choked, choked. He

tried to draw a breath, to cry out--and woke up.



He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and

stood up in terror.



“Thank God, that was only a dream,” he said, sitting down under a tree

and drawing deep breaths. “But what is it? Is it some fever coming on?

Such a hideous dream!”



He felt utterly broken: darkness and confusion were in his soul. He

rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands.



“Good God!” he cried, “can it be, can it be, that I shall really take an

axe, that I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open... that I

shall tread in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble;

hide, all spattered in the blood... with the axe.... Good God, can it

be?”



He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.



“But why am I going on like this?” he continued, sitting up again, as it

were in profound amazement. “I knew that I could never bring myself

to it, so what have I been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday,

yesterday, when I went to make that... _experiment_, yesterday I

realised completely that I could never bear to do it.... Why am I going

over it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs

yesterday, I said myself that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile... the

very thought of it made me feel sick and filled me with horror.



“No, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Granted, granted that there is

no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have concluded this last

month is clear as day, true as arithmetic.... My God! Anyway I couldn’t

bring myself to it! I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Why, why then am

I still...?”



He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though surprised at

finding himself in this place, and went towards the bridge. He was pale,

his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in every limb, but he seemed suddenly

to breathe more easily. He felt he had cast off that fearful burden that

had so long been weighing upon him, and all at once there was a sense

of relief and peace in his soul. “Lord,” he prayed, “show me my path--I

renounce that accursed... dream of mine.”



Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the

glowing red sun setting in the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness he

was not conscious of fatigue. It was as though an abscess that had been

forming for a month past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom,

freedom! He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession!



Later on, when he recalled that time and all that happened to him during

those days, minute by minute, point by point, he was superstitiously

impressed by one circumstance, which, though in itself not very

exceptional, always seemed to him afterwards the predestined

turning-point of his fate. He could never understand and explain to

himself why, when he was tired and worn out, when it would have been

more convenient for him to go home by the shortest and most direct way,

he had returned by the Hay Market where he had no need to go. It was

obviously and quite unnecessarily out of his way, though not much so. It

is true that it happened to him dozens of times to return home without

noticing what streets he passed through. But why, he was always asking

himself, why had such an important, such a decisive and at the same time

such an absolutely chance meeting happened in the Hay Market (where he

had moreover no reason to go) at the very hour, the very minute of his

life when he was just in the very mood and in the very circumstances

in which that meeting was able to exert the gravest and most decisive

influence on his whole destiny? As though it had been lying in wait for

him on purpose!



It was about nine o’clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the tables

and the barrows, at the booths and the shops, all the market people were

closing their establishments or clearing away and packing up their

wares and, like their customers, were going home. Rag pickers and

costermongers of all kinds were crowding round the taverns in the dirty

and stinking courtyards of the Hay Market. Raskolnikov particularly

liked this place and the neighbouring alleys, when he wandered aimlessly

in the streets. Here his rags did not attract contemptuous attention,

and one could walk about in any attire without scandalising people. At

the corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had two tables set out

with tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, etc. They, too, had got up to

go home, but were lingering in conversation with a friend, who had just

come up to them. This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as everyone

called her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of the old pawnbroker, Alyona

Ivanovna, whom Raskolnikov had visited the previous day to pawn his

watch and make his _experiment_.... He already knew all about Lizaveta

and she knew him a little too. She was a single woman of about

thirty-five, tall, clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was

a complete slave and went in fear and trembling of her sister, who

made her work day and night, and even beat her. She was standing with

a bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening earnestly and

doubtfully. They were talking of something with special warmth. The

moment Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strange

sensation as it were of intense astonishment, though there was nothing

astonishing about this meeting.



“You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna,” the

huckster was saying aloud. “Come round to-morrow about seven. They will

be here too.”



“To-morrow?” said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to

make up her mind.



“Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna,” gabbled

the huckster’s wife, a lively little woman. “I look at you, you are like

some little babe. And she is not your own sister either--nothing but a

step-sister and what a hand she keeps over you!”



“But this time don’t say a word to Alyona Ivanovna,” her husband

interrupted; “that’s my advice, but come round to us without asking.

It will be worth your while. Later on your sister herself may have a

notion.”



“Am I to come?”



“About seven o’clock to-morrow. And they will be here. You will be able

to decide for yourself.”



“And we’ll have a cup of tea,” added his wife.



“All right, I’ll come,” said Lizaveta, still pondering, and she began

slowly moving away.



Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly,

unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His first amazement was followed

by a thrill of horror, like a shiver running down his spine. He had

learnt, he had suddenly quite unexpectedly learnt, that the next day at

seven o’clock Lizaveta, the old woman’s sister and only companion, would

be away from home and that therefore at seven o’clock precisely the old

woman _would be left alone_.



He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in like a man

condemned to death. He thought of nothing and was incapable of thinking;

but he felt suddenly in his whole being that he had no more freedom

of thought, no will, and that everything was suddenly and irrevocably

decided.



Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, he

could not reckon on a more certain step towards the success of the plan

than that which had just presented itself. In any case, it would have

been difficult to find out beforehand and with certainty, with

greater exactness and less risk, and without dangerous inquiries and

investigations, that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whose

life an attempt was contemplated, would be at home and entirely alone.







CHAPTER VI



Later on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his

wife had invited Lizaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there was

nothing exceptional about it. A family who had come to the town and been

reduced to poverty were selling their household goods and clothes, all

women’s things. As the things would have fetched little in the market,

they were looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta’s business. She

undertook such jobs and was frequently employed, as she was very honest

and always fixed a fair price and stuck to it. She spoke as a rule

little and, as we have said already, she was very submissive and timid.



But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The traces of

superstition remained in him long after, and were almost ineradicable.

And in all this he was always afterwards disposed to see something

strange and mysterious, as it were, the presence of some peculiar

influences and coincidences. In the previous winter a student he knew

called Pokorev, who had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversation to

give him the address of Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker, in case he

might want to pawn anything. For a long while he did not go to her, for

he had lessons and managed to get along somehow. Six weeks ago he had

remembered the address; he had two articles that could be pawned: his

father’s old silver watch and a little gold ring with three red stones,

a present from his sister at parting. He decided to take the ring. When

he found the old woman he had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her

at the first glance, though he knew nothing special about her. He got

two roubles from her and went into a miserable little tavern on his way

home. He asked for tea, sat down and sank into deep thought. A strange

idea was pecking at his brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very

much absorbed him.



Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he

did not know and had never seen, and with him a young officer. They had

played a game of billiards and began drinking tea. All at once he heard

the student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna and

give him her address. This of itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov; he

had just come from her and here at once he heard her name. Of course

it was a chance, but he could not shake off a very extraordinary

impression, and here someone seemed to be speaking expressly for him;

the student began telling his friend various details about Alyona

Ivanovna.



“She is first-rate,” he said. “You can always get money from her. She is

as rich as a Jew, she can give you five thousand roubles at a time and

she is not above taking a pledge for a rouble. Lots of our fellows have

had dealings with her. But she is an awful old harpy....”



And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she was, how if you

were only a day late with your interest the pledge was lost; how she

gave a quarter of the value of an article and took five and even seven

percent a month on it and so on. The student chattered on, saying

that she had a sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little creature was

continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child,

though Lizaveta was at least six feet high.



“There’s a phenomenon for you,” cried the student and he laughed.



They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her with a

peculiar relish and was continually laughing and the officer listened

with great interest and asked him to send Lizaveta to do some mending

for him. Raskolnikov did not miss a word and learned everything about

her. Lizaveta was younger than the old woman and was her half-sister,

being the child of a different mother. She was thirty-five. She worked

day and night for her sister, and besides doing the cooking and the

washing, she did sewing and worked as a charwoman and gave her sister

all she earned. She did not dare to accept an order or job of any kind

without her sister’s permission. The old woman had already made her

will, and Lizaveta knew of it, and by this will she would not get a

farthing; nothing but the movables, chairs and so on; all the money was

left to a monastery in the province of N----, that prayers might be

said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower rank than her sister,

unmarried and awfully uncouth in appearance, remarkably tall with long

feet that looked as if they were bent outwards. She always wore battered

goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What the student expressed

most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta was

continually with child.



“But you say she is hideous?” observed the officer.



“Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but

you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a good-natured face

and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it is that lots of people are

attracted by her. She is such a soft, gentle creature, ready to put up

with anything, always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is

really very sweet.”



“You seem to find her attractive yourself,” laughed the officer.



“From her queerness. No, I’ll tell you what. I could kill that damned

old woman and make off with her money, I assure you, without the

faintest conscience-prick,” the student added with warmth. The officer

laughed again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!



“Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,” the student said hotly.

“I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid,

senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply

useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is

living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You

understand? You understand?”



“Yes, yes, I understand,” answered the officer, watching his excited

companion attentively.



“Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for

want of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good

deeds could be done and helped, on that old woman’s money which will be

buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on the

right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from ruin, from

vice, from the Lock hospitals--and all with her money. Kill her, take

her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of

humanity and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny

crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands

would be saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives

in exchange--it’s simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of

that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence!

No more than the life of a louse, of a black-beetle, less in fact

because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of

others; the other day she bit Lizaveta’s finger out of spite; it almost

had to be amputated.”



“Of course she does not deserve to live,” remarked the officer, “but

there it is, it’s nature.”



“Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but

for that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that,

there would never have been a single great man. They talk of

duty, conscience--I don’t want to say anything against duty and

conscience;--but the point is, what do we mean by them? Stay, I have

another question to ask you. Listen!”



“No, you stay, I’ll ask you a question. Listen!”



“Well?”



“You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the

old woman _yourself_?”



“Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it.... It’s nothing to

do with me....”



“But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there’s no justice about

it.... Let us have another game.”



Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary

youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in

different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear

such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain

was just conceiving... _the very same ideas_? And why, just at the

moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old

woman had he dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This

coincidence always seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern

had an immense influence on him in his later action; as though there had

really been in it something preordained, some guiding hint....



*****



On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and sat

for a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no

candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never

recollect whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At

last he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised

with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep

came over him, as it were crushing him.



He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya,

coming into his room at ten o’clock the next morning, had difficulty

in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the

second brew and again in her own tea-pot.



“My goodness, how he sleeps!” she cried indignantly. “And he is always

asleep.”



He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in

his garret and sank back on the sofa again.



“Going to sleep again,” cried Nastasya. “Are you ill, eh?”



He made no reply.



“Do you want some tea?”



“Afterwards,” he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning

to the wall.



Nastasya stood over him.



“Perhaps he really is ill,” she said, turned and went out. She came in

again at two o’clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood

untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began wrathfully

rousing him.



“Why are you lying like a log?” she shouted, looking at him with

repulsion.



He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the floor.



“Are you ill or not?” asked Nastasya and again received no answer.

“You’d better go out and get a breath of air,” she said after a pause.

“Will you eat it or not?”



“Afterwards,” he said weakly. “You can go.”



And he motioned her out.



She remained a little longer, looked at him with compassion and went

out.



A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked for a long while

at the tea and the soup. Then he took the bread, took up a spoon and

began to eat.



He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite, as it were

mechanically. His head ached less. After his meal he stretched himself

on the sofa again, but now he could not sleep; he lay without stirring,

with his face in the pillow. He was haunted by day-dreams and such

strange day-dreams; in one, that kept recurring, he fancied that he was

in Africa, in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan was resting,

the camels were peacefully lying down; the palms stood all around in a

complete circle; all the party were at dinner. But he was drinking water

from a spring which flowed gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was

wonderful, wonderful, blue, cold water running among the parti-coloured

stones and over the clean sand which glistened here and there like

gold.... Suddenly he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself,

raised his head, looked out of the window, and seeing how late it was,

suddenly jumped up wide awake as though someone had pulled him off the

sofa. He crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and began

listening on the staircase. His heart beat terribly. But all was quiet

on the stairs as if everyone was asleep.... It seemed to him strange and

monstrous that he could have slept in such forgetfulness from the

previous day and had done nothing, had prepared nothing yet.... And

meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his drowsiness and stupefaction

were followed by an extraordinary, feverish, as it were distracted

haste. But the preparations to be made were few. He concentrated all his

energies on thinking of everything and forgetting nothing; and his heart

kept beating and thumping so that he could hardly breathe. First he had

to make a noose and sew it into his overcoat--a work of a moment. He

rummaged under his pillow and picked out amongst the linen stuffed away

under it, a worn out, old unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long

strip, a couple of inches wide and about sixteen inches long. He folded

this strip in two, took off his wide, strong summer overcoat of some

stout cotton material (his only outer garment) and began sewing the two

ends of the rag on the inside, under the left armhole. His hands shook

as he sewed, but he did it successfully so that nothing showed outside

when he put the coat on again. The needle and thread he had got ready

long before and they lay on his table in a piece of paper. As for the

noose, it was a very ingenious device of his own; the noose was intended

for the axe. It was impossible for him to carry the axe through the

street in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he would still have

had to support it with his hand, which would have been noticeable. Now

he had only to put the head of the axe in the noose, and it would hang

quietly under his arm on the inside. Putting his hand in his coat

pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all the way, so that it did

not swing; and as the coat was very full, a regular sack in fact, it

could not be seen from outside that he was holding something with the

hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had designed a

fortnight before.



When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little opening

between his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and drew out

the _pledge_, which he had got ready long before and hidden there. This

pledge was, however, only a smoothly planed piece of wood the size and

thickness of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of wood

in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there was some sort of

a workshop. Afterwards he had added to the wood a thin smooth piece

of iron, which he had also picked up at the same time in the street.

Putting the iron which was a little the smaller on the piece of wood,

he fastened them very firmly, crossing and re-crossing the thread round

them; then wrapped them carefully and daintily in clean white paper and

tied up the parcel so that it would be very difficult to untie it. This

was in order to divert the attention of the old woman for a time, while

she was trying to undo the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip

was added to give weight, so that the woman might not guess the first

minute that the “thing” was made of wood. All this had been stored by

him beforehand under the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when

he heard someone suddenly about in the yard.



“It struck six long ago.”



“Long ago! My God!”



He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and began to descend

his thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had still the

most important thing to do--to steal the axe from the kitchen. That the

deed must be done with an axe he had decided long ago. He had also a

pocket pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still less

on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We may note in

passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the final resolutions taken by

him in the matter; they had one strange characteristic: the more final

they were, the more hideous and the more absurd they at once became in

his eyes. In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never for

a single instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his

plans.



And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point

could have been considered and finally settled, and no uncertainty of

any kind had remained, he would, it seems, have renounced it all

as something absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a whole mass of

unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for getting the axe,

that trifling business cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier.

Nastasya was continually out of the house, especially in the evenings;

she would run in to the neighbours or to a shop, and always left the

door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady was always scolding her

about. And so, when the time came, he would only have to go quietly into

the kitchen and to take the axe, and an hour later (when everything

was over) go in and put it back again. But these were doubtful points.

Supposing he returned an hour later to put it back, and Nastasya had

come back and was on the spot. He would of course have to go by and wait

till she went out again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss

the axe, look for it, make an outcry--that would mean suspicion or at

least grounds for suspicion.



But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and

indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off

trifling details, until _he could believe in it all_. But that seemed

utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at least. He could not

imagine, for instance, that he would sometime leave off thinking, get

up and simply go there.... Even his late experiment (i.e. his visit with

the object of a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt at

an experiment, far from being the real thing, as though one should say

“come, let us go and try it--why dream about it!”--and at once he

had broken down and had run away cursing, in a frenzy with himself.

Meanwhile it would seem, as regards the moral question, that his

analysis was complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he

could not find rational objections in himself. But in the last resort

he simply ceased to believe in himself, and doggedly, slavishly sought

arguments in all directions, fumbling for them, as though someone were

forcing and drawing him to it.



At first--long before indeed--he had been much occupied with one

question; why almost all crimes are so badly concealed and so easily

detected, and why almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He

had come gradually to many different and curious conclusions, and in his

opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the material impossibility

of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every

criminal is subject to a failure of will and reasoning power by a

childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very instant when prudence

and caution are most essential. It was his conviction that this eclipse

of reason and failure of will power attacked a man like a disease,

developed gradually and reached its highest point just before the

perpetration of the crime, continued with equal violence at the moment

of the crime and for longer or shorter time after, according to the

individual case, and then passed off like any other disease. The

question whether the disease gives rise to the crime, or whether the

crime from its own peculiar nature is always accompanied by something of

the nature of disease, he did not yet feel able to decide.



When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there

could not be such a morbid reaction, that his reason and will would

remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for the

simple reason that his design was “not a crime....” We will omit all the

process by means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have

run too far ahead already.... We may add only that the practical, purely

material difficulties of the affair occupied a secondary position in his

mind. “One has but to keep all one’s will-power and reason to deal

with them, and they will all be overcome at the time when once one has

familiarised oneself with the minutest details of the business....” But

this preparation had never been begun. His final decisions were what he

came to trust least, and when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite

differently, as it were accidentally and unexpectedly.



One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even

left the staircase. When he reached the landlady’s kitchen, the door

of which was open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether, in

Nastasya’s absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether

the door to her own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when

he went in for the axe. But what was his amazement when he suddenly

saw that Nastasya was not only at home in the kitchen, but was occupied

there, taking linen out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing

him, she left off hanging the clothes, turned to him and stared at him

all the time he was passing. He turned away his eyes, and walked past as

though he noticed nothing. But it was the end of everything; he had not

the axe! He was overwhelmed.



“What made me think,” he reflected, as he went under the gateway, “what

made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment!

Why, why, why did I assume this so certainly?”



He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself in

his anger.... A dull animal rage boiled within him.



He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go a walk

for appearance’ sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even more

revolting. “And what a chance I have lost for ever!” he muttered,

standing aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter’s little

dark room, which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter’s

room, two paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the

right caught his eye.... He looked about him--nobody. He approached the

room on tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a faint voice called

the porter. “Yes, not at home! Somewhere near though, in the yard, for

the door is wide open.” He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled

it out from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks of wood;

at once, before going out, he made it fast in the noose, he thrust both

hands into his pockets and went out of the room; no one had noticed him!

“When reason fails, the devil helps!” he thought with a strange grin.

This chance raised his spirits extraordinarily.



He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening

suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passers-by, tried to escape looking

at their faces at all, and to be as little noticeable as possible.

Suddenly he thought of his hat. “Good heavens! I had the money the day

before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!” A curse rose

from the bottom of his soul.



Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock on

the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste and at

the same time to go someway round, so as to approach the house from the

other side....



When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes

thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much

afraid now, was not afraid at all, indeed. His mind was even occupied

by irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov

garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great

fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere in all

the squares. By degrees he passed to the conviction that if the summer

garden were extended to the field of Mars, and perhaps joined to the

garden of the Mihailovsky Palace, it would be a splendid thing and a

great benefit to the town. Then he was interested by the question why

in all great towns men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some

peculiar way inclined to live in those parts of the town where there

are no gardens nor fountains; where there is most dirt and smell and all

sorts of nastiness. Then his own walks through the Hay Market came back

to his mind, and for a moment he waked up to reality. “What nonsense!”

 he thought, “better think of nothing at all!”



“So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that

meets them on the way,” flashed through his mind, but simply flashed,

like lightning; he made haste to dismiss this thought.... And by now

he was near; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock

somewhere struck once. “What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it

must be fast!”



Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very

moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay had

just driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under

the gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time to drive through into

the yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other

side of the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrelling; but no one

noticed him and no one met him. Many windows looking into that huge

quadrangular yard were open at that moment, but he did not raise his

head--he had not the strength to. The staircase leading to the old

woman’s room was close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was

already on the stairs....



Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and

once more feeling for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly

and cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every minute. But the

stairs, too, were quite deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no

one. One flat indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were

at work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still, thought

a minute and went on. “Of course it would be better if they had not been

here, but... it’s two storeys above them.”



And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the

flat opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old woman’s was

apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had been

torn off--they had gone away!... He was out of breath. For one instant

the thought floated through his mind, “Shall I go back?” But he made no

answer and began listening at the old woman’s door, a dead silence. Then

he listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently...

then looked about him for the last time, pulled himself together, drew

himself up, and once more tried the axe in the noose. “Am I very pale?”

 he wondered. “Am I not evidently agitated? She is mistrustful.... Had I

better wait a little longer... till my heart leaves off thumping?”



But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite

him, it throbbed more and more violently. He could stand it no longer,

he slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang. Half a minute later he

rang again, more loudly.



No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman

was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He had some

knowledge of her habits... and once more he put his ear to the door.

Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to

suppose), or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he suddenly

heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the

rustle of a skirt at the very door. Someone was standing stealthily

close to the lock and just as he was doing on the outside was secretly

listening within, and seemed to have her ear to the door.... He moved

a little on purpose and muttered something aloud that he might not have

the appearance of hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly, soberly,

and without impatience, Recalling it afterwards, that moment stood out

in his mind vividly, distinctly, for ever; he could not make out how he

had had such cunning, for his mind was as it were clouded at moments and

he was almost unconscious of his body.... An instant later he heard the

latch unfastened.







CHAPTER VII



The door was as before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp and

suspicious eyes stared at him out of the darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost

his head and nearly made a great mistake.



Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being alone, and not

hoping that the sight of him would disarm her suspicions, he took

hold of the door and drew it towards him to prevent the old woman from

attempting to shut it again. Seeing this she did not pull the door back,

but she did not let go the handle so that he almost dragged her out with

it on to the stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the doorway not

allowing him to pass, he advanced straight upon her. She stepped back

in alarm, tried to say something, but seemed unable to speak and stared

with open eyes at him.



“Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna,” he began, trying to speak easily, but

his voice would not obey him, it broke and shook. “I have come... I have

brought something... but we’d better come in... to the light....”



And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old

woman ran after him; her tongue was unloosed.



“Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?”



“Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov... here, I brought you

the pledge I promised the other day...” And he held out the pledge.



The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at once stared in

the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked intently, maliciously and

mistrustfully. A minute passed; he even fancied something like a sneer

in her eyes, as though she had already guessed everything. He felt that

he was losing his head, that he was almost frightened, so frightened

that if she were to look like that and not say a word for another half

minute, he thought he would have run away from her.



“Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?” he said suddenly,

also with malice. “Take it if you like, if not I’ll go elsewhere, I am

in a hurry.”



He had not even thought of saying this, but it was suddenly said of

itself. The old woman recovered herself, and her visitor’s resolute tone

evidently restored her confidence.



“But why, my good sir, all of a minute.... What is it?” she asked,

looking at the pledge.



“The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know.”



She held out her hand.



“But how pale you are, to be sure... and your hands are trembling too?

Have you been bathing, or what?”



“Fever,” he answered abruptly. “You can’t help getting pale... if you’ve

nothing to eat,” he added, with difficulty articulating the words.



His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like the

truth; the old woman took the pledge.



“What is it?” she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and

weighing the pledge in her hand.



“A thing... cigarette case.... Silver.... Look at it.”



“It does not seem somehow like silver.... How he has wrapped it up!”



Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all

her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left

him altogether for some seconds and stood with her back to him. He

unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did not yet

take it out altogether, simply holding it in his right hand under the

coat. His hands were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing

more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let the axe slip and

fall.... A sudden giddiness came over him.



“But what has he tied it up like this for?” the old woman cried with

vexation and moved towards him.



He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe quite out, swung

it with both arms, scarcely conscious of himself, and almost without

effort, almost mechanically, brought the blunt side down on her head. He

seemed not to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he had once

brought the axe down, his strength returned to him.



The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light hair, streaked

with grey, thickly smeared with grease, was plaited in a rat’s tail and

fastened by a broken horn comb which stood out on the nape of her neck.

As she was so short, the blow fell on the very top of her skull. She

cried out, but very faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on the

floor, raising her hands to her head. In one hand she still held “the

pledge.” Then he dealt her another and another blow with the blunt side

and on the same spot. The blood gushed as from an overturned glass, the

body fell back. He stepped back, let it fall, and at once bent over her

face; she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their sockets,

the brow and the whole face were drawn and contorted convulsively.



He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her

pocket (trying to avoid the streaming body)--the same right-hand pocket

from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in full

possession of his faculties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his

hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been

particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to get

smeared with blood.... He pulled out the keys at once, they were all,

as before, in one bunch on a steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom

with them. It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy images.

Against the other wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with

a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of

drawers. Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the keys into the

chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed

over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to give it all up and go

away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back.

He positively smiled at himself, when suddenly another terrifying idea

occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied that the old woman might be

still alive and might recover her senses. Leaving the keys in the chest,

he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and lifted it once more

over the old woman, but did not bring it down. There was no doubt that

she was dead. Bending down and examining her again more closely, he saw

clearly that the skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He

was about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed

it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect pool of

blood. All at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at it, but

the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked

with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but

something held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised

the axe again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not

dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood,

after two minutes’ hurried effort, he cut the string and took it off

without touching the body with the axe; he was not mistaken--it was a

purse. On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of

copper, and an image in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy

chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed

very full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it,

flung the crosses on the old woman’s body and rushed back into the

bedroom, this time taking the axe with him.



He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began trying them

again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It

was not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making

mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one

and would not fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered

and realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging

there with the small keys could not possibly belong to the chest of

drawers (on his last visit this had struck him), but to some strong box,

and that everything perhaps was hidden in that box. He left the chest

of drawers, and at once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old

women usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there was a

good-sized box under the bed, at least a yard in length, with an arched

lid covered with red leather and studded with steel nails. The notched

key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the top, under a white sheet, was

a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin; under it was a silk dress,

then a shawl and it seemed as though there was nothing below but

clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his blood-stained hands on

the red brocade. “It’s red, and on red blood will be less noticeable,”

 the thought passed through his mind; then he suddenly came to himself.

“Good God, am I going out of my senses?” he thought with terror.



But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped from

under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them all over. There turned

out to be various articles made of gold among the clothes--probably

all pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed--bracelets, chains,

ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in cases, others simply

wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with

tape. Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of his trousers

and overcoat without examining or undoing the parcels and cases; but he

had not time to take many....



He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He stopped

short and was still as death. But all was quiet, so it must have been

his fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry, as though

someone had uttered a low broken moan. Then again dead silence for

a minute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited

holding his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of

the bedroom.



In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her arms.

She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white as a sheet

and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him run out

of the bedroom, she began faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a

shudder ran down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but

still did not scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the

corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but still uttered no

sound, as though she could not get breath to scream. He rushed at her

with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as one sees babies’ mouths,

when they begin to be frightened, stare intently at what frightens them

and are on the point of screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so

simple and had been so thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not

even raise a hand to guard her face, though that was the most necessary

and natural action at the moment, for the axe was raised over her face.

She only put up her empty left hand, but not to her face, slowly holding

it out before her as though motioning him away. The axe fell with the

sharp edge just on the skull and split at one blow all the top of the

head. She fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head,

snatching up her bundle, dropped it again and ran into the entry.



Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this

second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the place

as fast as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing

and reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realise all the

difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the

absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and,

perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of

that place and to make his way home, it is very possible that he would

have flung up everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and

not from fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had

done. The feeling of loathing especially surged up within him and grew

stronger every minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even

into the room for anything in the world.



But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take

possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot what

was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the

kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought

him of washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with blood.

He dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap

that lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands

in the bucket. When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the

blade and spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood where

there were spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all

with some linen that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and

then he was a long while attentively examining the axe at the window.

There was no trace left on it, only the wood was still damp. He

carefully hung the axe in the noose under his coat. Then as far as was

possible, in the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat,

his trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed to be

nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and rubbed the boots.

But he knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there might be something

quite noticeable that he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the

room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind--the idea

that he was mad and that at that moment he was incapable of reasoning,

of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps to be doing something

utterly different from what he was now doing. “Good God!” he muttered,

“I must fly, fly,” and he rushed into the entry. But here a shock of

terror awaited him such as he had never known before.



He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer

door from the stairs, at which he had not long before waited and rung,

was standing unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt,

all the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it after him

perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen Lizaveta

afterwards! And how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that

she must have come in somehow! She could not have come through the wall!



He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.



“But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away....”



He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the

staircase.



He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the gateway,

two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding.

“What are they about?” He waited patiently. At last all was still, as

though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out,

but suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and someone

began going downstairs humming a tune. “How is it they all make such

a noise?” flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door and

waited. At last all was still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a

step towards the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps.



The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but

he remembered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he

began for some reason to suspect that this was someone coming _there_,

to the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow

peculiar, significant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now

_he_ had passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it was

growing more and more distinct! He could hear his heavy breathing. And

now the third storey had been reached. Coming here! And it seemed to

him all at once that he was turned to stone, that it was like a dream

in which one is being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is

rooted to the spot and cannot even move one’s arms.



At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floor, he suddenly

started, and succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the

flat and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook and softly,

noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had

done this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown

visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one

another, as he had just before been standing with the old woman, when

the door divided them and he was listening.



The visitor panted several times. “He must be a big, fat man,” thought

Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream

indeed. The visitor took hold of the bell and rang it loudly.



As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of

something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite

seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged violently

and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror

at the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every

minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem

possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the

fastening, but _he_ might be aware of it. A giddiness came over him

again. “I shall fall down!” flashed through his mind, but the unknown

began to speak and he recovered himself at once.



“What’s up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!” he bawled in a

thick voice, “Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey,

my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?”



And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen times at

the bell. He must certainly be a man of authority and an intimate

acquaintance.



At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far off, on the

stairs. Someone else was approaching. Raskolnikov had not heard them at

first.



“You don’t say there’s no one at home,” the new-comer cried in a

cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first visitor, who still went on

pulling the bell. “Good evening, Koch.”



“From his voice he must be quite young,” thought Raskolnikov.



“Who the devil can tell? I’ve almost broken the lock,” answered Koch.

“But how do you come to know me?”



“Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times running at

billiards at Gambrinus’.”



“Oh!”



“So they are not at home? That’s queer. It’s awfully stupid though.

Where could the old woman have gone? I’ve come on business.”



“Yes; and I have business with her, too.”



“Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aie--aie! And I was hoping to

get some money!” cried the young man.



“We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this time for? The

old witch fixed the time for me to come herself. It’s out of my way.

And where the devil she can have got to, I can’t make out. She sits here

from year’s end to year’s end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet

here all of a sudden she is out for a walk!”



“Hadn’t we better ask the porter?”



“What?”



“Where she’s gone and when she’ll be back.”



“Hm.... Damn it all!... We might ask.... But you know she never does go

anywhere.”



And he once more tugged at the door-handle.



“Damn it all. There’s nothing to be done, we must go!”



“Stay!” cried the young man suddenly. “Do you see how the door shakes if

you pull it?”



“Well?”



“That shows it’s not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how

the hook clanks?”



“Well?”



“Why, don’t you see? That proves that one of them is at home. If they

were all out, they would have locked the door from the outside with the

key and not with the hook from inside. There, do you hear how the hook

is clanking? To fasten the hook on the inside they must be at home,

don’t you see? So there they are sitting inside and don’t open the

door!”



“Well! And so they must be!” cried Koch, astonished. “What are they

about in there?” And he began furiously shaking the door.



“Stay!” cried the young man again. “Don’t pull at it! There must be

something wrong.... Here, you’ve been ringing and pulling at the door

and still they don’t open! So either they’ve both fainted or...”



“What?”



“I tell you what. Let’s go fetch the porter, let him wake them up.”



“All right.”



Both were going down.



“Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter.”



“What for?”



“Well, you’d better.”



“All right.”



“I’m studying the law you see! It’s evident, e-vi-dent there’s something

wrong here!” the young man cried hotly, and he ran downstairs.



Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell which gave one

tinkle, then gently, as though reflecting and looking about him, began

touching the door-handle pulling it and letting it go to make sure once

more that it was only fastened by the hook. Then puffing and panting he

bent down and began looking at the keyhole: but the key was in the lock

on the inside and so nothing could be seen.



Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was in a sort of

delirium. He was even making ready to fight when they should come in.

While they were knocking and talking together, the idea several times

occurred to him to end it all at once and shout to them through the

door. Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them,

while they could not open the door! “Only make haste!” was the thought

that flashed through his mind.



“But what the devil is he about?...” Time was passing, one minute, and

another--no one came. Koch began to be restless.



“What the devil?” he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his

sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and thumping with his heavy

boots on the stairs. The steps died away.



“Good heavens! What am I to do?”



Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door--there was no sound.

Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closing the door as

thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs.



He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice

below--where could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going

back to the flat.



“Hey there! Catch the brute!”



Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran

down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.



“Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!”



The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was

still. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast began

noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them. He

distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. “Hey!”



Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling “come what

must!” If they stopped him--all was lost; if they let him pass--all was

lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they were only

a flight from him--and suddenly deliverance! A few steps from him on the

right, there was an empty flat with the door wide open, the flat on the

second floor where the painters had been at work, and which, as though

for his benefit, they had just left. It was they, no doubt, who had just

run down, shouting. The floor had only just been painted, in the middle

of the room stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In one

instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden behind the wall

and only in the nick of time; they had already reached the landing.

Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He

waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs.



No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through

the gateway and turned to the left in the street.



He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the

flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as

the door had just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the

bodies, that before another minute had passed they would guess and

completely realise that the murderer had just been there, and had

succeeded in hiding somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would

guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat, while they were

going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much, though

the next turning was still nearly a hundred yards away. “Should he

slip through some gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No,

hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless,

hopeless!”



At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive.

Here he was half way to safety, and he understood it; it was less risky

because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a

grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could

scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck was all wet.

“My word, he has been going it!” someone shouted at him when he came out

on the canal bank.



He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the

worse it was. He remembered however, that on coming out on to the canal

bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and so being more

conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost

falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get home from

quite a different direction.



He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his

house! He was already on the staircase before he recollected the axe.

And yet he had a very grave problem before him, to put it back and to

escape observation as far as possible in doing so. He was of course

incapable of reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to

restore the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody’s yard. But

it all happened fortunately, the door of the porter’s room was closed

but not locked, so that it seemed most likely that the porter was at

home. But he had so completely lost all power of reflection that he

walked straight to the door and opened it. If the porter had asked him,

“What do you want?” he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But

again the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in putting the axe

back under the bench, and even covering it with the chunk of wood as

before. He met no one, not a soul, afterwards on the way to his room;

the landlady’s door was shut. When he was in his room, he flung himself

on the sofa just as he was--he did not sleep, but sank into blank

forgetfulness. If anyone had come into his room then, he would have

jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and shreds of thoughts were

simply swarming in his brain, but he could not catch at one, he could

not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts....









PART II







CHAPTER I



So he lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed to wake up, and at

such moments he noticed that it was far into the night, but it did not

occur to him to get up. At last he noticed that it was beginning to get

light. He was lying on his back, still dazed from his recent oblivion.

Fearful, despairing cries rose shrilly from the street, sounds which he

heard every night, indeed, under his window after two o’clock. They woke

him up now.



“Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns,” he thought, “it’s

past two o’clock,” and at once he leaped up, as though someone had

pulled him from the sofa.



“What! Past two o’clock!”



He sat down on the sofa--and instantly recollected everything! All at

once, in one flash, he recollected everything.



For the first moment he thought he was going mad. A dreadful chill came

over him; but the chill was from the fever that had begun long before in

his sleep. Now he was suddenly taken with violent shivering, so that his

teeth chattered and all his limbs were shaking. He opened the door and

began listening--everything in the house was asleep. With amazement he

gazed at himself and everything in the room around him, wondering how he

could have come in the night before without fastening the door, and have

flung himself on the sofa without undressing, without even taking his

hat off. It had fallen off and was lying on the floor near his pillow.



“If anyone had come in, what would he have thought? That I’m drunk

but...”



He rushed to the window. There was light enough, and he began hurriedly

looking himself all over from head to foot, all his clothes; were there

no traces? But there was no doing it like that; shivering with cold, he

began taking off everything and looking over again. He turned everything

over to the last threads and rags, and mistrusting himself, went through

his search three times.



But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one place, where

some thick drops of congealed blood were clinging to the frayed edge

of his trousers. He picked up a big claspknife and cut off the frayed

threads. There seemed to be nothing more.



Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he had taken out of

the old woman’s box were still in his pockets! He had not thought till

then of taking them out and hiding them! He had not even thought of them

while he was examining his clothes! What next? Instantly he rushed

to take them out and fling them on the table. When he had pulled out

everything, and turned the pocket inside out to be sure there was

nothing left, he carried the whole heap to the corner. The paper had

come off the bottom of the wall and hung there in tatters. He began

stuffing all the things into the hole under the paper: “They’re in! All

out of sight, and the purse too!” he thought gleefully, getting up and

gazing blankly at the hole which bulged out more than ever. Suddenly

he shuddered all over with horror; “My God!” he whispered in despair:

“what’s the matter with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to hide

things?”



He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had only thought of

money, and so had not prepared a hiding-place.



“But now, now, what am I glad of?” he thought, “Is that hiding things?

My reason’s deserting me--simply!”



He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once shaken by another

unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically he drew from a chair beside

him his old student’s winter coat, which was still warm though almost in

rags, covered himself up with it and once more sank into drowsiness and

delirium. He lost consciousness.



Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped up a second time,

and at once pounced in a frenzy on his clothes again.



“How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I have not

taken the loop off the armhole! I forgot it, forgot a thing like that!

Such a piece of evidence!”



He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw the bits

among his linen under the pillow.



“Pieces of torn linen couldn’t rouse suspicion, whatever happened; I

think not, I think not, any way!” he repeated, standing in the middle

of the room, and with painful concentration he fell to gazing about

him again, at the floor and everywhere, trying to make sure he had not

forgotten anything. The conviction that all his faculties, even memory,

and the simplest power of reflection were failing him, began to be an

insufferable torture.



“Surely it isn’t beginning already! Surely it isn’t my punishment coming

upon me? It is!”



The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on the

floor in the middle of the room, where anyone coming in would see them!



“What is the matter with me!” he cried again, like one distraught.



Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes

were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many

stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because

his perceptions were failing, were going to pieces... his reason was

clouded.... Suddenly he remembered that there had been blood on the

purse too. “Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put

the wet purse in my pocket!”



In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!--there were

traces, stains on the lining of the pocket!



“So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some sense and

memory, since I guessed it of myself,” he thought triumphantly, with

a deep sigh of relief; “it’s simply the weakness of fever, a moment’s

delirium,” and he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his

trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the

sock which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces! He

flung off his boots; “traces indeed! The tip of the sock was soaked with

blood;” he must have unwarily stepped into that pool.... “But what am I

to do with this now? Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket?”



He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the

room.



“In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn them?

But what can I burn them with? There are no matches even. No, better

go out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away,” he

repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, “and at once, this minute,

without lingering...”



But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy

shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him.



And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to

“go off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so that

it may be out of sight and done with, at once, at once!” Several times

he tried to rise from the sofa, but could not.



He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking at his door.



“Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!” shouted

Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. “For whole days together

he’s snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open, I tell you. It’s

past ten.”



“Maybe he’s not at home,” said a man’s voice.



“Ha! that’s the porter’s voice.... What does he want?”



He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a

positive pain.



“Then who can have latched the door?” retorted Nastasya. “He’s taken to

bolting himself in! As if he were worth stealing! Open, you stupid, wake

up!”



“What do they want? Why the porter? All’s discovered. Resist or open?

Come what may!...”



He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.



His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the

bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing there.



Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and

desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey folded

paper sealed with bottle-wax.



“A notice from the office,” he announced, as he gave him the paper.



“From what office?”



“A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office.”



“To the police?... What for?...”



“How can I tell? You’re sent for, so you go.”



The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to

go away.



“He’s downright ill!” observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him.

The porter turned his head for a moment. “He’s been in a fever since

yesterday,” she added.



Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without

opening it. “Don’t you get up then,” Nastasya went on compassionately,

seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. “You’re ill, and

so don’t go; there’s no such hurry. What have you got there?”



He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his

trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep

with them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it, he remembered that

half waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand

and so fallen asleep again.



“Look at the rags he’s collected and sleeps with them, as though he has

got hold of a treasure...”



And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.



Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his

eyes intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational

reflection at that moment, he felt that no one would behave like that

with a person who was going to be arrested. “But... the police?”



“You’d better have some tea! Yes? I’ll bring it, there’s some left.”



“No... I’m going; I’ll go at once,” he muttered, getting on to his feet.



“Why, you’ll never get downstairs!”



“Yes, I’ll go.”



“As you please.”



She followed the porter out.



At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags.



“There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt,

and rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion could

distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed,

thank God!” Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began

reading; he was a long while reading, before he understood. It was an

ordinary summons from the district police-station to appear that day at

half-past nine at the office of the district superintendent.



“But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with

the police! And why just to-day?” he thought in agonising bewilderment.

“Good God, only get it over soon!”



He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into

laughter--not at the idea of prayer, but at himself.



He began, hurriedly dressing. “If I’m lost, I am lost, I don’t care!

Shall I put the sock on?” he suddenly wondered, “it will get dustier

still and the traces will be gone.”



But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in loathing

and horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no other socks,

he picked it up and put it on again--and again he laughed.



“That’s all conventional, that’s all relative, merely a way of looking

at it,” he thought in a flash, but only on the top surface of his

mind, while he was shuddering all over, “there, I’ve got it on! I have

finished by getting it on!”



But his laughter was quickly followed by despair.



“No, it’s too much for me...” he thought. His legs shook. “From fear,”

 he muttered. His head swam and ached with fever. “It’s a trick! They

want to decoy me there and confound me over everything,” he mused, as

he went out on to the stairs--“the worst of it is I’m almost

light-headed... I may blurt out something stupid...”



On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things just as

they were in the hole in the wall, “and very likely, it’s on purpose

to search when I’m out,” he thought, and stopped short. But he was

possessed by such despair, such cynicism of misery, if one may so call

it, that with a wave of his hand he went on. “Only to get it over!”



In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain had

fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and mortar, again the stench

from the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken men, the Finnish

pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes,

so that it hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head going

round--as a man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out into the

street on a bright sunny day.



When he reached the turning into _the_ street, in an agony of

trepidation he looked down it... at _the_ house... and at once averted

his eyes.



“If they question me, perhaps I’ll simply tell,” he thought, as he drew

near the police-station.



The police-station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had lately been

moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a new house. He had been once

for a moment in the old office but long ago. Turning in at the gateway,

he saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mounting with

a book in his hand. “A house-porter, no doubt; so then, the office is

here,” and he began ascending the stairs on the chance. He did not want

to ask questions of anyone.



“I’ll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything...” he thought, as

he reached the fourth floor.



The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty water. The

kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and stood open almost

the whole day. So there was a fearful smell and heat. The staircase

was crowded with porters going up and down with their books under their

arms, policemen, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The door of

the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting within. There,

too, the heat was stifling and there was a sickening smell of fresh

paint and stale oil from the newly decorated rooms.



After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the next room.

All the rooms were small and low-pitched. A fearful impatience drew him

on and on. No one paid attention to him. In the second room some

clerks sat writing, dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a

queer-looking set. He went up to one of them.



“What is it?”



He showed the notice he had received.



“You are a student?” the man asked, glancing at the notice.



“Yes, formerly a student.”



The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. He was a

particularly unkempt person with the look of a fixed idea in his eye.



“There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no

interest in anything,” thought Raskolnikov.



“Go in there to the head clerk,” said the clerk, pointing towards the

furthest room.



He went into that room--the fourth in order; it was a small room and

packed full of people, rather better dressed than in the outer rooms.

Among them were two ladies. One, poorly dressed in mourning, sat at the

table opposite the chief clerk, writing something at his dictation.

The other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face,

excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as big as a

saucer, was standing on one side, apparently waiting for something.

Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The latter glanced

at it, said: “Wait a minute,” and went on attending to the lady in

mourning.



He breathed more freely. “It can’t be that!”



By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging himself to have

courage and be calm.



“Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray myself!

Hm... it’s a pity there’s no air here,” he added, “it’s stifling.... It

makes one’s head dizzier than ever... and one’s mind too...”



He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was afraid of losing

his self-control; he tried to catch at something and fix his mind on it,

something quite irrelevant, but he could not succeed in this at all. Yet

the head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him

and guess something from his face.



He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a dark mobile

face that looked older than his years. He was fashionably dressed and

foppish, with his hair parted in the middle, well combed and pomaded,

and wore a number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain

on his waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to a foreigner who

was in the room, and said them fairly correctly.



“Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down,” he said casually to the

gaily-dressed, purple-faced lady, who was still standing as though not

venturing to sit down, though there was a chair beside her.



“Ich danke,” said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk she sank

into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with white lace floated

about the table like an air-balloon and filled almost half the room. She

smelt of scent. But she was obviously embarrassed at filling half

the room and smelling so strongly of scent; and though her smile was

impudent as well as cringing, it betrayed evident uneasiness.



The lady in mourning had done at last, and got up. All at once, with

some noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, with a peculiar swing of

his shoulders at each step. He tossed his cockaded cap on the table and

sat down in an easy-chair. The small lady positively skipped from her

seat on seeing him, and fell to curtsying in a sort of ecstasy; but the

officer took not the smallest notice of her, and she did not venture to

sit down again in his presence. He was the assistant superintendent. He

had a reddish moustache that stood out horizontally on each side of his

face, and extremely small features, expressive of nothing much except

a certain insolence. He looked askance and rather indignantly at

Raskolnikov; he was so very badly dressed, and in spite of his

humiliating position, his bearing was by no means in keeping with his

clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily fixed a very long and direct look on

him, so that he felt positively affronted.



“What do you want?” he shouted, apparently astonished that such a ragged

fellow was not annihilated by the majesty of his glance.



“I was summoned... by a notice...” Raskolnikov faltered.



“For the recovery of money due, from _the student_,” the head clerk

interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his papers. “Here!” and he

flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. “Read that!”



“Money? What money?” thought Raskolnikov, “but... then... it’s certainly

not _that_.”



And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense indescribable relief. A

load was lifted from his back.



“And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?” shouted the

assistant superintendent, seeming for some unknown reason more and more

aggrieved. “You are told to come at nine, and now it’s twelve!”



“The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour ago,” Raskolnikov

answered loudly over his shoulder. To his own surprise he, too, grew

suddenly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. “And it’s enough that

I have come here ill with fever.”



“Kindly refrain from shouting!”



“I’m not shouting, I’m speaking very quietly, it’s you who are shouting

at me. I’m a student, and allow no one to shout at me.”



The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the first minute he

could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped up from his seat.



“Be silent! You are in a government office. Don’t be impudent, sir!”



“You’re in a government office, too,” cried Raskolnikov, “and you’re

smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect

to all of us.”



He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.



The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant

superintendent was obviously disconcerted.



“That’s not your business!” he shouted at last with unnatural loudness.

“Kindly make the declaration demanded of you. Show him. Alexandr

Grigorievitch. There is a complaint against you! You don’t pay your

debts! You’re a fine bird!”



But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at the

paper, in haste to find an explanation. He read it once, and a second

time, and still did not understand.



“What is this?” he asked the head clerk.



“It is for the recovery of money on an I O U, a writ. You must

either pay it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give a written

declaration when you can pay it, and at the same time an undertaking not

to leave the capital without payment, and nor to sell or conceal your

property. The creditor is at liberty to sell your property, and proceed

against you according to the law.”



“But I... am not in debt to anyone!”



“That’s not our business. Here, an I O U for a hundred and fifteen

roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has been brought us

for recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine

months ago, and paid over by the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov.

We therefore summon you, hereupon.”



“But she is my landlady!”



“And what if she is your landlady?”



The head clerk looked at him with a condescending smile of compassion,

and at the same time with a certain triumph, as at a novice under fire

for the first time--as though he would say: “Well, how do you feel now?”

 But what did he care now for an I O U, for a writ of recovery! Was that

worth worrying about now, was it worth attention even! He stood, he

read, he listened, he answered, he even asked questions himself, but

all mechanically. The triumphant sense of security, of deliverance from

overwhelming danger, that was what filled his whole soul that moment

without thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions

or surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was an instant

of full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But at that very moment

something like a thunderstorm took place in the office. The assistant

superintendent, still shaken by Raskolnikov’s disrespect, still fuming

and obviously anxious to keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the

unfortunate smart lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came in

with an exceedingly silly smile.



“You shameful hussy!” he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice. (The

lady in mourning had left the office.) “What was going on at your house

last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you’re a scandal to the whole street.

Fighting and drinking again. Do you want the house of correction? Why,

I have warned you ten times over that I would not let you off the

eleventh! And here you are again, again, you... you...!”



The paper fell out of Raskolnikov’s hands, and he looked wildly at the

smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw what it

meant, and at once began to find positive amusement in the scandal. He

listened with pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and laugh... all his

nerves were on edge.



“Ilya Petrovitch!” the head clerk was beginning anxiously, but stopped

short, for he knew from experience that the enraged assistant could not

be stopped except by force.



As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled before the

storm. But, strange to say, the more numerous and violent the terms of

abuse became, the more amiable she looked, and the more seductive the

smiles she lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and

curtsied incessantly, waiting impatiently for a chance of putting in her

word: and at last she found it.



“There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain,” she

pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speaking Russian confidently,

though with a strong German accent, “and no sort of scandal, and his

honour came drunk, and it’s the whole truth I am telling, Mr. Captain,

and I am not to blame.... Mine is an honourable house, Mr. Captain,

and honourable behaviour, Mr. Captain, and I always, always dislike any

scandal myself. But he came quite tipsy, and asked for three bottles

again, and then he lifted up one leg, and began playing the pianoforte

with one foot, and that is not at all right in an honourable house, and

he _ganz_ broke the piano, and it was very bad manners indeed and I said

so. And he took up a bottle and began hitting everyone with it. And then

I called the porter, and Karl came, and he took Karl and hit him in the

eye; and he hit Henriette in the eye, too, and gave me five slaps on the

cheek. And it was so ungentlemanly in an honourable house, Mr. Captain,

and I screamed. And he opened the window over the canal, and stood in

the window, squealing like a little pig; it was a disgrace. The idea of

squealing like a little pig at the window into the street! Fie upon him!

And Karl pulled him away from the window by his coat, and it is true,

Mr. Captain, he tore _sein rock_. And then he shouted that _man muss_

pay him fifteen roubles damages. And I did pay him, Mr. Captain, five

roubles for _sein rock_. And he is an ungentlemanly visitor and caused

all the scandal. ‘I will show you up,’ he said, ‘for I can write to all

the papers about you.’”



“Then he was an author?”



“Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in an honourable

house....”



“Now then! Enough! I have told you already...”



“Ilya Petrovitch!” the head clerk repeated significantly.



The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head clerk slightly shook his

head.



“... So I tell you this, most respectable Luise Ivanovna, and I tell it

you for the last time,” the assistant went on. “If there is a scandal

in your honourable house once again, I will put you yourself in the

lock-up, as it is called in polite society. Do you hear? So a literary

man, an author took five roubles for his coat-tail in an ‘honourable

house’? A nice set, these authors!”



And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. “There was a scandal

the other day in a restaurant, too. An author had eaten his dinner and

would not pay; ‘I’ll write a satire on you,’ says he. And there was

another of them on a steamer last week used the most disgraceful

language to the respectable family of a civil councillor, his wife and

daughter. And there was one of them turned out of a confectioner’s shop

the other day. They are like that, authors, literary men, students,

town-criers.... Pfoo! You get along! I shall look in upon you myself one

day. Then you had better be careful! Do you hear?”



With hurried deference, Luise Ivanovna fell to curtsying in all

directions, and so curtsied herself to the door. But at the door, she

stumbled backwards against a good-looking officer with a fresh, open

face and splendid thick fair whiskers. This was the superintendent of

the district himself, Nikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna made haste

to curtsy almost to the ground, and with mincing little steps, she

fluttered out of the office.



“Again thunder and lightning--a hurricane!” said Nikodim Fomitch to Ilya

Petrovitch in a civil and friendly tone. “You are aroused again, you are

fuming again! I heard it on the stairs!”



“Well, what then!” Ilya Petrovitch drawled with gentlemanly nonchalance;

and he walked with some papers to another table, with a jaunty swing of

his shoulders at each step. “Here, if you will kindly look: an author,

or a student, has been one at least, does not pay his debts, has given

an I O U, won’t clear out of his room, and complaints are constantly

being lodged against him, and here he has been pleased to make a protest

against my smoking in his presence! He behaves like a cad himself, and

just look at him, please. Here’s the gentleman, and very attractive he

is!”



“Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go off like powder,

you can’t bear a slight, I daresay you took offence at something and

went too far yourself,” continued Nikodim Fomitch, turning affably to

Raskolnikov. “But you were wrong there; he is a capital fellow, I assure

you, but explosive, explosive! He gets hot, fires up, boils over, and no

stopping him! And then it’s all over! And at the bottom he’s a heart of

gold! His nickname in the regiment was the Explosive Lieutenant....”



“And what a regiment it was, too,” cried Ilya Petrovitch, much gratified

at this agreeable banter, though still sulky.



Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say something exceptionally pleasant

to them all. “Excuse me, Captain,” he began easily, suddenly addressing

Nikodim Fomitch, “will you enter into my position?... I am ready to

ask pardon, if I have been ill-mannered. I am a poor student, sick

and shattered (shattered was the word he used) by poverty. I am not

studying, because I cannot keep myself now, but I shall get money.... I

have a mother and sister in the province of X. They will send it to

me, and I will pay. My landlady is a good-hearted woman, but she is so

exasperated at my having lost my lessons, and not paying her for the

last four months, that she does not even send up my dinner... and I

don’t understand this I O U at all. She is asking me to pay her on this

I O U. How am I to pay her? Judge for yourselves!...”



“But that is not our business, you know,” the head clerk was observing.



“Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to explain...”

 Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing Nikodim Fomitch, but trying

his best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently

appeared to be rummaging among his papers and to be contemptuously

oblivious of him. “Allow me to explain that I have been living with her

for nearly three years and at first... at first... for why should I not

confess it, at the very beginning I promised to marry her daughter, it

was a verbal promise, freely given... she was a girl... indeed, I liked

her, though I was not in love with her... a youthful affair in fact...

that is, I mean to say, that my landlady gave me credit freely in those

days, and I led a life of... I was very heedless...”



“Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we’ve no time to

waste,” Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and with a note of triumph;

but Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he suddenly found it

exceedingly difficult to speak.



“But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain... how it all

happened... In my turn... though I agree with you... it is unnecessary.

But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained lodging there as

before, and when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said

to me... and in a friendly way... that she had complete trust in me,

but still, would I not give her an I O U for one hundred and fifteen

roubles, all the debt I owed her. She said if only I gave her that,

she would trust me again, as much as I liked, and that she would never,

never--those were her own words--make use of that I O U till I could pay

of myself... and now, when I have lost my lessons and have nothing to

eat, she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?”



“All these affecting details are no business of ours.” Ilya Petrovitch

interrupted rudely. “You must give a written undertaking but as for your

love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with

that.”



“Come now... you are harsh,” muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at

the table and also beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed.



“Write!” said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.



“Write what?” the latter asked, gruffly.



“I will dictate to you.”



Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually and

contemptuously after his speech, but strange to say he suddenly felt

completely indifferent to anyone’s opinion, and this revulsion took

place in a flash, in one instant. If he had cared to think a little,

he would have been amazed indeed that he could have talked to them like

that a minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And where had

those feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not

with police officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he

would not have found one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A

gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took

conscious form in his soul. It was not the meanness of his sentimental

effusions before Ilya Petrovitch, nor the meanness of the latter’s

triumph over him that had caused this sudden revulsion in his heart.

Oh, what had he to do now with his own baseness, with all these petty

vanities, officers, German women, debts, police-offices? If he had been

sentenced to be burnt at that moment, he would not have stirred, would

hardly have heard the sentence to the end. Something was happening to

him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was not that he understood, but

he felt clearly with all the intensity of sensation that he could

never more appeal to these people in the police-office with sentimental

effusions like his recent outburst, or with anything whatever; and that

if they had been his own brothers and sisters and not police-officers,

it would have been utterly out of the question to appeal to them in any

circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange and awful

sensation. And what was most agonising--it was more a sensation than a

conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising of all the

sensations he had known in his life.



The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration,

that he could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date, that

he would not leave the town, nor sell his property, and so on.



“But you can’t write, you can hardly hold the pen,” observed the head

clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. “Are you ill?”



“Yes, I am giddy. Go on!”



“That’s all. Sign it.”



The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others.



Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going away,

he put his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his hands. He

felt as if a nail were being driven into his skull. A strange idea

suddenly occurred to him, to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim

Fomitch, and tell him everything that had happened yesterday, and then

to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the things in the hole

in the corner. The impulse was so strong that he got up from his seat

to carry it out. “Hadn’t I better think a minute?” flashed through his

mind. “No, better cast off the burden without thinking.” But all at once

he stood still, rooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly

with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words reached him:



“It’s impossible, they’ll both be released. To begin with, the whole

story contradicts itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it

had been their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a blind? No,

that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen at

the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went in. He was walking

with three friends, who left him only at the gate, and he asked the

porters to direct him, in the presence of the friends. Now, would he

have asked his way if he had been going with such an object? As for

Koch, he spent half an hour at the silversmith’s below, before he went

up to the old woman and he left him at exactly a quarter to eight. Now

just consider...”



“But excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction? They state

themselves that they knocked and the door was locked; yet three minutes

later when they went up with the porter, it turned out the door was

unfastened.”



“That’s just it; the murderer must have been there and bolted himself

in; and they’d have caught him for a certainty if Koch had not been

an ass and gone to look for the porter too. _He_ must have seized the

interval to get downstairs and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps crossing

himself and saying: ‘If I had been there, he would have jumped out and

killed me with his axe.’ He is going to have a thanksgiving service--ha,

ha!”



“And no one saw the murderer?”



“They might well not see him; the house is a regular Noah’s Ark,” said

the head clerk, who was listening.



“It’s clear, quite clear,” Nikodim Fomitch repeated warmly.



“No, it is anything but clear,” Ilya Petrovitch maintained.



Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did

not reach it....



When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting in a chair,

supported by someone on the right side, while someone else was standing

on the left, holding a yellowish glass filled with yellow water, and

Nikodim Fomitch standing before him, looking intently at him. He got up

from the chair.



“What’s this? Are you ill?” Nikodim Fomitch asked, rather sharply.



“He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing,” said the head clerk,

settling back in his place, and taking up his work again.



“Have you been ill long?” cried Ilya Petrovitch from his place, where

he, too, was looking through papers. He had, of course, come to look at

the sick man when he fainted, but retired at once when he recovered.



“Since yesterday,” muttered Raskolnikov in reply.



“Did you go out yesterday?”



“Yes.”



“Though you were ill?”



“Yes.”



“At what time?”



“About seven.”



“And where did you go, may I ask?”



“Along the street.”



“Short and clear.”



Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily,

without dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch’s stare.



“He can scarcely stand upright. And you...” Nikodim Fomitch was

beginning.



“No matter,” Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather peculiarly.



Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further protest, but glancing at

the head clerk who was looking very hard at him, he did not speak. There

was a sudden silence. It was strange.



“Very well, then,” concluded Ilya Petrovitch, “we will not detain you.”



Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on his

departure, and above the rest rose the questioning voice of Nikodim

Fomitch. In the street, his faintness passed off completely.



“A search--there will be a search at once,” he repeated to himself,

hurrying home. “The brutes! they suspect.”



His former terror mastered him completely again.







CHAPTER II



“And what if there has been a search already? What if I find them in my

room?”



But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had peeped in.

Even Nastasya had not touched it. But heavens! how could he have left

all those things in the hole?



He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the

things out and lined his pockets with them. There were eight articles in

all: two little boxes with ear-rings or something of the sort, he hardly

looked to see; then four small leather cases. There was a chain, too,

merely wrapped in newspaper and something else in newspaper, that looked

like a decoration.... He put them all in the different pockets of his

overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his trousers, trying to conceal

them as much as possible. He took the purse, too. Then he went out of

his room, leaving the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, and

though he felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He was afraid of

pursuit, he was afraid that in another half-hour, another quarter of an

hour perhaps, instructions would be issued for his pursuit, and so at

all costs, he must hide all traces before then. He must clear everything

up while he still had some strength, some reasoning power left him....

Where was he to go?



That had long been settled: “Fling them into the canal, and all traces

hidden in the water, the thing would be at an end.” So he had decided in

the night of his delirium when several times he had had the impulse to

get up and go away, to make haste, and get rid of it all. But to get

rid of it, turned out to be a very difficult task. He wandered along

the bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or more and looked

several times at the steps running down to the water, but he could not

think of carrying out his plan; either rafts stood at the steps’ edge,

and women were washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and

people were swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and noticed

from the banks on all sides; it would look suspicious for a man to go

down on purpose, stop, and throw something into the water. And what if

the boxes were to float instead of sinking? And of course they would.

Even as it was, everyone he met seemed to stare and look round, as if

they had nothing to do but to watch him. “Why is it, or can it be my

fancy?” he thought.



At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to the

Neva. There were not so many people there, he would be less observed,

and it would be more convenient in every way, above all it was further

off. He wondered how he could have been wandering for a good half-hour,

worried and anxious in this dangerous past without thinking of it

before. And that half-hour he had lost over an irrational plan, simply

because he had thought of it in delirium! He had become extremely absent

and forgetful and he was aware of it. He certainly must make haste.



He walked towards the Neva along V---- Prospect, but on the way

another idea struck him. “Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to go

somewhere far off, to the Islands again, and there hide the things

in some solitary place, in a wood or under a bush, and mark the spot

perhaps?” And though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the idea

seemed to him a sound one. But he was not destined to go there. For

coming out of V---- Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left a

passage leading between two blank walls to a courtyard. On the right

hand, the blank unwhitewashed wall of a four-storied house stretched far

into the court; on the left, a wooden hoarding ran parallel with it for

twenty paces into the court, and then turned sharply to the left. Here

was a deserted fenced-off place where rubbish of different sorts was

lying. At the end of the court, the corner of a low, smutty, stone shed,

apparently part of some workshop, peeped from behind the hoarding. It

was probably a carriage builder’s or carpenter’s shed; the whole place

from the entrance was black with coal dust. Here would be the place to

throw it, he thought. Not seeing anyone in the yard, he slipped in, and

at once saw near the gate a sink, such as is often put in yards where

there are many workmen or cab-drivers; and on the hoarding above had

been scribbled in chalk the time-honoured witticism, “Standing here

strictly forbidden.” This was all the better, for there would be nothing

suspicious about his going in. “Here I could throw it all in a heap and

get away!”



Looking round once more, with his hand already in his pocket, he noticed

against the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink, a big unhewn

stone, weighing perhaps sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a

street. He could hear passers-by, always numerous in that part, but he

could not be seen from the entrance, unless someone came in from the

street, which might well happen indeed, so there was need of haste.



He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in both hands,

and using all his strength turned it over. Under the stone was a small

hollow in the ground, and he immediately emptied his pocket into it.

The purse lay at the top, and yet the hollow was not filled up. Then he

seized the stone again and with one twist turned it back, so that it was

in the same position again, though it stood a very little higher. But

he scraped the earth about it and pressed it at the edges with his foot.

Nothing could be noticed.



Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense,

almost unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had in

the police-office. “I have buried my tracks! And who, who can think of

looking under that stone? It has been lying there most likely ever since

the house was built, and will lie as many years more. And if it were

found, who would think of me? It is all over! No clue!” And he laughed.

Yes, he remembered that he began laughing a thin, nervous noiseless

laugh, and went on laughing all the time he was crossing the square. But

when he reached the K---- Boulevard where two days before he had come

upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other ideas crept into his

mind. He felt all at once that it would be loathsome to pass that seat

on which after the girl was gone, he had sat and pondered, and that it

would be hateful, too, to meet that whiskered policeman to whom he had

given the twenty copecks: “Damn him!”



He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas now

seemed to be circling round some single point, and he felt that there

really was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing that

point--and for the first time, indeed, during the last two months.



“Damn it all!” he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury.

“If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how

stupid it is!... And what lies I told to-day! How despicably I fawned

upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I

care for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! It

is not that at all!”



Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple

question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.



“If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if

I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even

glance into the purse and don’t know what I had there, for which I have

undergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base,

filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the

water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen

either... how’s that?”



Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and

it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night

without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though

it could not possibly be otherwise.... Yes, he had known it all, and

understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the

moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out

of it.... Yes, so it was.



“It is because I am very ill,” he decided grimly at last, “I have been

worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know what I am doing....

Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been

worrying myself.... I shall get well and I shall not worry.... But what

if I don’t get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!”



He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some

distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new

overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him

every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for

everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred.

All who met him were loathsome to him--he loathed their faces, their

movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he

might have spat at him or bitten him....



He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near

the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. “Why, he lives here, in that house,”

 he thought, “why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here

it’s the same thing over again.... Very interesting to know, though;

have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never

mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the

day _after_; well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further

now.”



He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor.



The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and

he opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each

other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on

his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.



“Is it you?” he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a

brief pause, he whistled. “As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you’ve

cut me out!” he added, looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. “Come sit down,

you are tired, I’ll be bound.”



And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was

in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his

visitor was ill.



“Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?” He began feeling his

pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.



“Never mind,” he said, “I have come for this: I have no lessons.... I

wanted,... but I don’t really want lessons....”



“But I say! You are delirious, you know!” Razumihin observed, watching

him carefully.



“No, I am not.”



Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to

Razumihin’s, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend

face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all

disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the

wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at

himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold.



“Good-bye,” he said abruptly, and walked to the door.



“Stop, stop! You queer fish.”



“I don’t want to,” said the other, again pulling away his hand.



“Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this

is... almost insulting! I won’t let you go like that.”



“Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could

help... to begin... because you are kinder than anyone--cleverer, I

mean, and can judge... and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear?

Nothing at all... no one’s services... no one’s sympathy. I am by

myself... alone. Come, that’s enough. Leave me alone.”



“Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all

I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don’t care about that, but

there’s a bookseller, Heruvimov--and he takes the place of a lesson.

I would not exchange him for five lessons. He’s doing publishing of a

kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they

have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I

was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am!

Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of

anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of

the German text--in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses

the question, ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, of course, triumphantly

proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a

contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand

these two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous

title half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He

pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles

for the job, and I’ve had six already in advance. When we have finished

this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of

the dullest scandals out of the second part of _Les Confessions_ we have

marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was

a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don’t contradict him, hang him!

Well, would you like to do the second signature of ‘_Is woman a human

being?_’ If you would, take the German and pens and paper--all those

are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in

advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share.

And when you have finished the signature there will be another three

roubles for you. And please don’t think I am doing you a service; quite

the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to

begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly

adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part.

The only comfort is, that it’s bound to be a change for the better.

Though who can tell, maybe it’s sometimes for the worse. Will you take

it?”



Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles

and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment.

But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the

stairs to Razumihin’s again and laying on the table the German article

and the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.



“Are you raving, or what?” Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last.

“What farce is this? You’ll drive me crazy too... what did you come to

see me for, damn you?”



“I don’t want... translation,” muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.



“Then what the devil do you want?” shouted Razumihin from above.

Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.



“Hey, there! Where are you living?”



No answer.



“Well, confound you then!”



But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky

Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant

incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him

a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under

his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the

railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle

of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth.

He heard laughter, of course.



“Serves him right!”



“A pickpocket I dare say.”



“Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on

purpose; and you have to answer for him.”



“It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.”



But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered

after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt

someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman

in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter,

wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.



“Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.”



He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From

his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar

asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he

doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.



He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and

turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without

a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the

Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the

bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight,

and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished.

The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one

uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood

still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was

especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had

hundreds of times--generally on his way home--stood still on this spot,

gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at

a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely

cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered

every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting

himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled

those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was

no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and

grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before,

as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be

interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him...

so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his

heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him

now--all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories,

his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all.... He

felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing

from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he

suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his

hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into

the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut

himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.



Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been

walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember.

Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the

sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion....



It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a

scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears,

blows and curses he had never heard.



He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he

sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing

and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement

he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and

wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make

out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be

beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of

her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost

a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly

and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov

trembled; he recognised the voice--it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch.

Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her,

banging her head against the steps--that’s clear, that can be told

from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world

topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys

and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors

banging. “But why, why, and how could it be?” he repeated, thinking

seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And

they would come to him then next, “for no doubt... it’s all about

that... about yesterday.... Good God!” He would have fastened his door

with the latch, but he could not lift his hand... besides, it would

be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed

him.... But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes,

began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya

Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses.... But at last he,

too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. “Can he have

gone away? Good Lord!” Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still

weeping and moaning... and then her door slammed.... Now the crowd was

going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling

to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a

whisper. There must have been numbers of them--almost all the inmates

of the block. “But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come

here!”



Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He

lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of

infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright

light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate

of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not

asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she

had brought--bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.



“You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You’ve been trudging

about all day, and you’re shaking with fever.”



“Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?”



She looked intently at him.



“Who beat the landlady?”



“Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant

superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he ill-treating her like that,

and... why was he here?”



Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a

long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.



“Nastasya, why don’t you speak?” he said timidly at last in a weak

voice.



“It’s the blood,” she answered at last softly, as though speaking to

herself.



“Blood? What blood?” he muttered, growing white and turning towards the

wall.



Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.



“Nobody has been beating the landlady,” she declared at last in a firm,

resolute voice.



He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.



“I heard it myself.... I was not asleep... I was sitting up,” he

said still more timidly. “I listened a long while. The assistant

superintendent came.... Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the

flats.”



“No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your ears. When

there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying

things.... Will you eat something?”



He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.



“Give me something to drink... Nastasya.”



She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water.

He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling

some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.







CHAPTER III



He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he

was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious.

He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though

there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away

somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about

him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid

of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him;

they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked

at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished

another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could

not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry.

Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at other times

it all seemed part of the same day. But of _that_--of _that_ he had

no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten

something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying

to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable

terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone

always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and

forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness.



It happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone

into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right

wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him

with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him

very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full,

short-waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was

peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.



“Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the young man.



“I say, he’s himself again!” she said.



“He is himself,” echoed the man.



Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the

door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or

discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat

and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and

laziness, and absurdly bashful.



“Who... are you?” he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment

the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall,

Razumihin came in.



“What a cabin it is!” he cried. “I am always knocking my head. You call

this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I’ve just heard the news

from Pashenka.”



“He has just come to,” said Nastasya.



“Just come to,” echoed the man again, with a smile.



“And who are you?” Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. “My name is

Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but

Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are

you?”



“I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and

I’ve come on business.”



“Please sit down.” Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the

table. “It’s a good thing you’ve come to, brother,” he went on to

Raskolnikov. “For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk

anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see

you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at

once it was nothing serious--something seemed to have gone to your head.

Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not

had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you

will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite a

name. Come, I won’t keep you,” he said, addressing the man again. “Will

you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time

they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I

talked to him. Who was it came before?”



“That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please,

sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too.”



“He was more intelligent than you, don’t you think so?”



“Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.”



“Quite so; go on.”



“At your mamma’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of whom

I presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent to you

from our office,” the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. “If you are in

an intelligible condition, I’ve thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as

Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma’s

request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you

know him, sir?”



“Yes, I remember... Vahrushin,” Raskolnikov said dreamily.



“You hear, he knows Vahrushin,” cried Razumihin. “He is in ‘an

intelligible condition’! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well,

it’s always pleasant to hear words of wisdom.”



“That’s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the request

of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in the

same manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and sent

instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you

thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come.”



“That ‘hoping for better to come’ is the best thing you’ve said, though

‘your mamma’ is not bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is he fully

conscious, eh?”



“That’s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.”



“He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?”



“Yes, here’s the book.”



“Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take the pen and

scribble ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. For just now, brother, money is sweeter

to us than treacle.”



“I don’t want it,” said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.



“Not want it?”



“I won’t sign it.”



“How the devil can you do without signing it?”



“I don’t want... the money.”



“Don’t want the money! Come, brother, that’s nonsense, I bear witness.

Don’t trouble, please, it’s only that he is on his travels again. But

that’s pretty common with him at all times though.... You are a man of

judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his

hand and he will sign it. Here.”



“But I can come another time.”



“No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment.... Now,

Rodya, don’t keep your visitor, you see he is waiting,” and he made

ready to hold Raskolnikov’s hand in earnest.



“Stop, I’ll do it alone,” said the latter, taking the pen and signing

his name.



The messenger took out the money and went away.



“Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?”



“Yes,” answered Raskolnikov.



“Is there any soup?”



“Some of yesterday’s,” answered Nastasya, who was still standing there.



“With potatoes and rice in it?”



“Yes.”



“I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.”



“Very well.”



Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull,

unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what

would happen. “I believe I am not wandering. I believe it’s reality,” he

thought.



In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced

that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two

spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The

table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.



“It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us

up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them.”



“Well, you are a cool hand,” muttered Nastasya, and she departed to

carry out his orders.



Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile

Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his

left arm round Raskolnikov’s head, although he was able to sit up, and

with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that

it might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov

swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after

giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and

said that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more.



Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.



“And will you have tea?”



“Yes.”



“Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture on

without the faculty. But here is the beer!” He moved back to his chair,

pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he

had not touched food for three days.



“I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now,” he

mumbled with his mouth full of beef, “and it’s all Pashenka, your dear

little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I

don’t ask for it, but, of course, I don’t object. And here’s Nastasya

with the tea. She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won’t you have

some beer?”



“Get along with your nonsense!”



“A cup of tea, then?”



“A cup of tea, maybe.”



“Pour it out. Stay, I’ll pour it out myself. Sit down.”



He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As

before, he put his left arm round the sick man’s head, raised him up

and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and

earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective

means towards his friend’s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made

no resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa

without support and could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but

even perhaps could have walked about. But from some queer, almost

animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying

low for a time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession

of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on.

Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen

spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away

capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real

pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed

that, too, and took note of it.



“Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some

raspberry tea,” said Razumihin, going back to his chair and attacking

his soup and beer again.



“And where is she to get raspberries for you?” asked Nastasya, balancing

a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of

sugar.



“She’ll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of things

have been happening while you have been laid up. When you decamped in

that rascally way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I

resolved to find you out and punish you. I set to work that very day.

How I ran about making inquiries for you! This lodging of yours I had

forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know

it; and as for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the

Five Corners, Harlamov’s house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov’s

house, and afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov’s, but

Buch’s. How one muddles up sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I

went on the chance to the address bureau next day, and only fancy, in

two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there.”



“My name!”



“I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while

I was there. Well, it’s a long story. But as soon as I did land on this

place, I soon got to know all your affairs--all, all, brother, I know

everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of

Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house-porter and Mr.

Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office,

and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here knows....”



“He’s got round her,” Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.



“Why don’t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?”



“You are a one!” Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. “I am

not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,” she added suddenly, recovering from her

mirth.



“I’ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short,

I was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all malignant

influences in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not

expected, brother, to find her so... prepossessing. Eh, what do you

think?”



Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him,

full of alarm.



“And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,” Razumihin went

on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.



“Ah, the sly dog!” Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation afforded

her unspeakable delight.



“It’s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way

at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so

to speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her

character later.... How could you let things come to such a pass that

she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You must have been

mad to sign an I O U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter,

Natalya Yegorovna, was alive?... I know all about it! But I see that’s

a delicate matter and I am an ass; forgive me. But, talking of

foolishness, do you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as

you would think at first sight?”



“No,” mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better

to keep up the conversation.



“She isn’t, is she?” cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out

of him. “But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially,

essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a loss,

I assure you.... She must be forty; she says she is thirty-six, and

of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge her

intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a

sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what not!

I don’t understand it! Well, that’s all nonsense. Only, seeing that you

are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and

that through the young lady’s death she has no need to treat you as

a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and

dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you.

And she’s been cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to lose

the I O U, for you assured her yourself that your mother would pay.”



“It was base of me to say that.... My mother herself is almost

a beggar... and I told a lie to keep my lodging... and be fed,”

 Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.



“Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point

Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have

thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but

the business man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the

question, ‘Is there any hope of realising the I O U?’ Answer: there is,

because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred and

twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister,

too, who would go into bondage for his sake. That’s what he was building

upon.... Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs

now, my dear boy--it’s not for nothing that you were so open with

Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as

a friend.... But I tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive man is

open; and a business man ‘listens and goes on eating’ you up. Well,

then she gave the I O U by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and without

hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this

I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time

harmony reigned between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping

the whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went security for you,

brother. Do you understand? We called Tchebarov, flung him ten

roubles and got the I O U back from him, and here I have the honour of

presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I

have torn it.”



Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and

turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a

twinge.



“I see, brother,” he said a moment later, “that I have been playing the

fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I believe

I have only made you cross.”



“Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?” Raskolnikov

asked, after a moment’s pause without turning his head.



“Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought

Zametov one day.”



“Zametov? The head clerk? What for?” Raskolnikov turned round quickly

and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.



“What’s the matter with you?... What are you upset about? He wanted to

make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about you.... How

could I have found out so much except from him? He is a capital

fellow, brother, first-rate... in his own way, of course. Now we are

friends--see each other almost every day. I have moved into this part,

you know. I have only just moved. I’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna

once or twice.... Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?”



“Did I say anything in delirium?”



“I should think so! You were beside yourself.”



“What did I rave about?”



“What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about.... Well,

brother, now I must not lose time. To work.” He got up from the table

and took up his cap.



“What did I rave about?”



“How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don’t

worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot

about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky

Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the

assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest

to you was your own sock. You whined, ‘Give me my sock.’ Zametov

hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented,

ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you

comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched

thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely

somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so

piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort

of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to business! Here are

thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an account

of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time,

though he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And

you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he

wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted

myself. Good-bye!”



“He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!” said Nastasya as he went

out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist

running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would

say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.



No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the

bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching

impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to

work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.



“Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What

if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up,

and then they will come in and tell me that it’s been discovered long

ago and that they have only... What am I to do now? That’s what I’ve

forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered

a minute ago.”



He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment

about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not

what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to

the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it,

put his hand into the hole, fumbled--but that was not it. He went to the

stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of

his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as

he had thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock

about which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on

the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that

Zametov could not have seen anything on it.



“Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police

office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I

looked at my sock then, too, but now... now I have been ill. But

what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?” he muttered,

helplessly sitting on the sofa again. “What does it mean? Am I still in

delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real.... Ah, I remember; I must

escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes... but

where? And where are my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away!

They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat--they passed that

over! And here is money on the table, thank God! And here’s the I O U...

I’ll take the money and go and take another lodging. They won’t find

me!... Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find me, Razumihin will find

me. Better escape altogether... far away... to America, and let them

do their worst! And take the I O U... it would be of use there.... What

else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can walk,

ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If

only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch

there--policemen! What’s this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a

bottle, cold!”



He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and

gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his breast.

But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and

even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the

quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more

disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With

a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more

closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old,

ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing

sleep.



He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw

Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or

not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though

trying to recall something.



“Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!”

 Razumihin shouted down the stairs. “You shall have the account

directly.”



“What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.



“Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening, it will be six

o’clock directly. You have slept more than six hours.”



“Good heavens! Have I?”



“And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry? A tryst, is it?

We’ve all time before us. I’ve been waiting for the last three hours for

you; I’ve been up twice and found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov

twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And

I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been moving to-day,

moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that’s

no matter, to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it

directly. And how do you feel now, brother?”



“I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?”



“I tell you I’ve been waiting for the last three hours.”



“No, before.”



“How do you mean?”



“How long have you been coming here?”



“Why I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you remember?”



Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could

not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.



“Hm!” said the latter, “he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were

not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep.... You really

look much better. First-rate! Well, to business. Look here, my dear

boy.”



He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.



“Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For we

must make a man of you. Let’s begin from the top. Do you see this

cap?” he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and

ordinary cap. “Let me try it on.”



“Presently, afterwards,” said Raskolnikov, waving it off pettishly.



“Come, Rodya, my boy, don’t oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and

I shan’t sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without measure.

Just right!” he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, “just your size! A

proper head-covering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in

its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off

his pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other

people wear their hats or caps. People think he does it from slavish

politeness, but it’s simply because he is ashamed of his bird’s nest;

he is such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens of

headgear: this Palmerston”--he took from the corner Raskolnikov’s old,

battered hat, which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston--“or

this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it,

Nastasya!” he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not

speak.



“Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,” answered Nastasya.



“Twenty copecks, silly!” he cried, offended. “Why, nowadays you would

cost more than that--eighty copecks! And that only because it has been

worn. And it’s bought on condition that when’s it’s worn out, they will

give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to

the United States of America, as they called them at school. I assure

you I am proud of these breeches,” and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a

pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen material. “No holes, no

spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat

to match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn really is an

improvement, it’s softer, smoother.... You see, Rodya, to my thinking,

the great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the

seasons; if you don’t insist on having asparagus in January, you keep

your money in your purse; and it’s the same with this purchase. It’s

summer now, so I’ve been buying summer things--warmer materials will be

wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any case...

especially as they will be done for by then from their own lack of

coherence if not your higher standard of luxury. Come, price them! What

do you say? Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And remember the condition:

if you wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only

do business on that system at Fedyaev’s; if you’ve bought a thing once,

you are satisfied for life, for you will never go there again of your

own free will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You see that they are

a bit worn, but they’ll last a couple of months, for it’s foreign work

and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last

week--he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of cash.

Price--a rouble and a half. A bargain?”



“But perhaps they won’t fit,” observed Nastasya.



“Not fit? Just look!” and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov’s

old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. “I did not go

empty-handed--they took the size from this monster. We all did our best.

And as to your linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin

with are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front.... Well

now then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the

suit--together three roubles five copecks--a rouble and a half for the

boots--for, you see, they are very good--and that makes four roubles

fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes--they were

bought in the lot--which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks.

Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya,

you are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will

serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from getting one’s

clothes from Sharmer’s! As for your socks and other things, I leave them

to you; we’ve twenty-five roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying

for your lodging, don’t you worry. I tell you she’ll trust you for

anything. And now, brother, let me change your linen, for I daresay you

will throw off your illness with your shirt.”



“Let me be! I don’t want to!” Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened

with disgust to Razumihin’s efforts to be playful about his purchases.



“Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging around for nothing,”

 Razumihin insisted. “Nastasya, don’t be bashful, but help me--that’s

it,” and in spite of Raskolnikov’s resistance he changed his linen. The

latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.



“It will be long before I get rid of them,” he thought. “What money was

all that bought with?” he asked at last, gazing at the wall.



“Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your

mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?”



“I remember now,” said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence.

Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.



The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar

to Raskolnikov came in.







CHAPTER IV



Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, clean-shaven face

and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on

his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable

loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose,

fashionable and spick and span; his linen was irreproachable, his

watch-chain was massive. In manner he was slow and, as it were,

nonchalant, and at the same time studiously free and easy; he made

efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was apparent at every

instant. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever

at his work.



“I’ve been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he’s come to himself,”

 cried Razumihin.



“I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?” said Zossimov to

Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the

sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could.



“He is still depressed,” Razumihin went on. “We’ve just changed his

linen and he almost cried.”



“That’s very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish

it.... His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?”



“I am well, I am perfectly well!” Raskolnikov declared positively

and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with

glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to

the wall. Zossimov watched him intently.



“Very good.... Going on all right,” he said lazily. “Has he eaten

anything?”



They told him, and asked what he might have.



“He may have anything... soup, tea... mushrooms and cucumbers, of

course, you must not give him; he’d better not have meat either, and...

but no need to tell you that!” Razumihin and he looked at each

other. “No more medicine or anything. I’ll look at him again to-morrow.

Perhaps, to-day even... but never mind...”



“To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk,” said Razumihin. “We are

going to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Cristal.”



“I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don’t know... a little,

maybe... but we’ll see.”



“Ach, what a nuisance! I’ve got a house-warming party to-night; it’s

only a step from here. Couldn’t he come? He could lie on the sofa. You

are coming?” Razumihin said to Zossimov. “Don’t forget, you promised.”



“All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?”



“Oh, nothing--tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie... just our

friends.”



“And who?”



“All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and

he is new too--he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some

business of his. We meet once in five years.”



“What is he?”



“He’s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a

little pension. He is sixty-five--not worth talking about.... But I

am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation

Department here... But you know him.”



“Is he a relation of yours, too?”



“A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled

once, won’t you come then?”



“I don’t care a damn for him.”



“So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a

government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov.”



“Do tell me, please, what you or he”--Zossimov nodded at

Raskolnikov--“can have in common with this Zametov?”



“Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles,

as it were by springs; you won’t venture to turn round on your own

account. If a man is a nice fellow, that’s the only principle I go upon.

Zametov is a delightful person.”



“Though he does take bribes.”



“Well, he does! and what of it? I don’t care if he does take bribes,”

 Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. “I don’t praise him for

taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one

looks at men in all ways--are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure

I shouldn’t be worth a baked onion myself... perhaps with you thrown

in.”



“That’s too little; I’d give two for you.”



“And I wouldn’t give more than one for you. No more of your jokes!

Zametov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him

not repel him. You’ll never improve a man by repelling him, especially

a boy. One has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive

dullards! You don’t understand. You harm yourselves running another man

down.... But if you want to know, we really have something in common.”



“I should like to know what.”



“Why, it’s all about a house-painter.... We are getting him out of

a mess! Though indeed there’s nothing to fear now. The matter is

absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam.”



“A painter?”



“Why, haven’t I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then

about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is mixed

up in it...”



“Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it...

partly... for one reason.... I read about it in the papers, too....”



“Lizaveta was murdered, too,” Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing

Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door

listening.



“Lizaveta,” murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.



“Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn’t you know her? She used to come

here. She mended a shirt for you, too.”



Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he

picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began

examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the

petals and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless

as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared

obstinately at the flower.



“But what about the painter?” Zossimov interrupted Nastasya’s chatter

with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.



“Why, he was accused of the murder,” Razumihin went on hotly.



“Was there evidence against him then?”



“Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that’s what we

have to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and

Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it’s all done, it makes one

sick, though it’s not one’s business! Pestryakov may be coming

to-night.... By the way, Rodya, you’ve heard about the business already;

it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the

police office while they were talking about it.”



Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir.



“But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!”

 Zossimov observed.



“Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,” shouted Razumihin,

bringing his fist down on the table. “What’s the most offensive is not

their lying--one can always forgive lying--lying is a delightful thing,

for it leads to truth--what is offensive is that they lie and worship

their own lying.... I respect Porfiry, but... What threw them out at

first? The door was locked, and when they came back with the porter

it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestryakov were the

murderers--that was their logic!”



“But don’t excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not

help that.... And, by the way, I’ve met that man Koch. He used to buy

unredeemed pledges from the old woman? Eh?”



“Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession

of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It’s their

sickening rotten, petrified routine.... And this case might be the means

of introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data

alone how to get on the track of the real man. ‘We have facts,’ they

say. But facts are not everything--at least half the business lies in

how you interpret them!”



“Can you interpret them, then?”



“Anyway, one can’t hold one’s tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible

feeling, that one might be a help if only.... Eh! Do you know the

details of the case?”



“I am waiting to hear about the painter.”



“Oh, yes! Well, here’s the story. Early on the third day after the

murder, when they were still dandling Koch and Pestryakov--though they

accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaff--an

unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a

dram-shop facing the house, brought to the police office a jeweller’s

case containing some gold ear-rings, and told a long rigamarole. ‘The

day before yesterday, just after eight o’clock’--mark the day and the

hour!--‘a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see me

already that day, brought me this box of gold ear-rings and stones, and

asked me to give him two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got

them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him

anything more.’ I am telling you Dushkin’s story. ‘I gave him a note’--a

rouble that is--‘for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would

with another. It would all come to the same thing--he’d spend it on

drink, so the thing had better be with me. The further you hide it

the quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any

rumours, I’ll take it to the police.’ Of course, that’s all taradiddle;

he lies like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker and

a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolay out of a

thirty-rouble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply

afraid. But no matter, to return to Dushkin’s story. ‘I’ve known

this peasant, Nikolay Dementyev, from a child; he comes from the same

province and district of Zaraïsk, we are both Ryazan men. And though

Nikolay is not a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he had a job in that

house, painting work with Dmitri, who comes from the same village, too.

As soon as he got the rouble he changed it, had a couple of glasses,

took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then.

And the next day I heard that someone had murdered Alyona Ivanovna and

her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt

suspicious about the ear-rings at once, for I knew the murdered woman

lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and began to make careful

inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of all I asked, “Is

Nikolay here?” Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off on the spree; he

had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the house about ten minutes,

and went out again. Dmitri didn’t see him again and is finishing the

job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the murder, on

the second floor. When I heard all that I did not say a word to

anyone’--that’s Dushkin’s tale--‘but I found out what I could about

the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight

o’clock this morning’--that was the third day, you understand--‘I saw

Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not to say very drunk--he could

understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and did not

speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep

on a bench and our two boys. “Have you seen Dmitri?” said I. “No, I

haven’t,” said he. “And you’ve not been here either?” “Not since the day

before yesterday,” said he. “And where did you sleep last night?”

 “In Peski, with the Kolomensky men.” “And where did you get those

ear-rings?” I asked. “I found them in the street,” and the way he said

it was a bit queer; he did not look at me. “Did you hear what happened

that very evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase?” said I.

“No,” said he, “I had not heard,” and all the while he was listening,

his eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I

told him all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted

to keep him. “Wait a bit, Nikolay,” said I, “won’t you have a drink?”

 And I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the

bar; but he darted out and down the street to the turning at a run.

I have not seen him since. Then my doubts were at an end--it was his

doing, as clear as could be....’”



“I should think so,” said Zossimov.



“Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay;

they detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested;

the Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before

yesterday they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He

had gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a dram

for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went

to the cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable

adjoining he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a

block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman

screeched her hardest; people ran in. ‘So that’s what you are up to!’

‘Take me,’ he says, ‘to such-and-such a police officer; I’ll confess

everything.’ Well, they took him to that police station--that is

here--with a suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old

he is, ‘twenty-two,’ and so on. At the question, ‘When you were working

with Dmitri, didn’t you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a

time?’--answer: ‘To be sure folks may have gone up and down, but I did

not notice them.’ ‘And didn’t you hear anything, any noise, and so on?’

‘We heard nothing special.’ ‘And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same

day Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?’ ‘I

never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was from Afanasy

Pavlovitch the day before yesterday.’ ‘And where did you find the

ear-rings?’ ‘I found them on the pavement.’ ‘Why didn’t you go to work

with Dmitri the other day?’ ‘Because I was drinking.’ ‘And where were

you drinking?’ ‘Oh, in such-and-such a place.’ ‘Why did you run away

from Dushkin’s?’ ‘Because I was awfully frightened.’ ‘What were

you frightened of?’ ‘That I should be accused.’ ‘How could you be

frightened, if you felt free from guilt?’ Now, Zossimov, you may not

believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I know it

for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to that?”



“Well, anyway, there’s the evidence.”



“I am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about that question,

of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed

him and he confessed: ‘I did not find it in the street, but in the flat

where I was painting with Dmitri.’ ‘And how was that?’ ‘Why, Dmitri and

I were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and

Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him.

I ran after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I

ran right against the porter and some gentlemen--and how many gentlemen

were there I don’t remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other

porter swore, too, and the porter’s wife came out, and swore at us, too;

and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us,

too, for Dmitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri’s

hair and knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, caught

me by the hair and began beating me. But we did it all not for temper

but in a friendly way, for sport. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into

the street, and I ran after him; but I did not catch him, and went back

to the flat alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them

together, expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the

corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped

up in paper. I took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them,

and in the box were the ear-rings....’”



“Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?” Raskolnikov

cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he

slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand.



“Yes... why? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Razumihin, too, got up

from his seat.



“Nothing,” Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. All were

silent for a while.



“He must have waked from a dream,” Razumihin said at last, looking

inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly shook his head.



“Well, go on,” said Zossimov. “What next?”



“What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting Dmitri and

everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got

a rouble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and

went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder:

‘I know nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yesterday.’

‘And why didn’t you come to the police till now?’ ‘I was frightened.’

‘And why did you try to hang yourself?’ ‘From anxiety.’ ‘What anxiety?’

‘That I should be accused of it.’ Well, that’s the whole story. And now

what do you suppose they deduced from that?”



“Why, there’s no supposing. There’s a clue, such as it is, a fact. You

wouldn’t have your painter set free?”



“Now they’ve simply taken him for the murderer. They haven’t a shadow of

doubt.”



“That’s nonsense. You are excited. But what about the ear-rings? You

must admit that, if on the very same day and hour ear-rings from the old

woman’s box have come into Nikolay’s hands, they must have come there

somehow. That’s a good deal in such a case.”



“How did they get there? How did they get there?” cried Razumihin.

“How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more

opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature--how can you fail

to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don’t you see at

once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy

truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us--he stepped

on the box and picked it up.”



“The holy truth! But didn’t he own himself that he told a lie at first?”



“Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and Pestryakov

and the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who

was sitting in the porter’s lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got

out of a cab at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his

arm, that is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on

the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his

hair, beating him, too. They lay right across the way, blocking the

thoroughfare. They were sworn at on all sides while they ‘like children’

(the very words of the witnesses) were falling over one another,

squealing, fighting and laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing

one another like children, they ran into the street. Now take careful

note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm when they

found them! If they, or Nikolay alone, had murdered them and broken open

the boxes, or simply taken part in the robbery, allow me to ask you one

question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and childish

scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning,

robbery? They’d just killed them, not five or ten minutes before, for

the bodies were still warm, and at once, leaving the flat open, knowing

that people would go there at once, flinging away their booty, they

rolled about like children, laughing and attracting general attention.

And there are a dozen witnesses to swear to that!”



“Of course it is strange! It’s impossible, indeed, but...”



“No, brother, no _buts_. And if the ear-rings being found in Nikolay’s

hands at the very day and hour of the murder constitutes an important

piece of circumstantial evidence against him--although the explanation

given by him accounts for it, and therefore it does not tell seriously

against him--one must take into consideration the facts which prove him

innocent, especially as they are facts that _cannot be denied_. And

do you suppose, from the character of our legal system, that they will

accept, or that they are in a position to accept, this fact--resting

simply on a psychological impossibility--as irrefutable and conclusively

breaking down the circumstantial evidence for the prosecution? No, they

won’t accept it, they certainly won’t, because they found the jewel-case

and the man tried to hang himself, ‘which he could not have done if he

hadn’t felt guilty.’ That’s the point, that’s what excites me, you must

understand!”



“Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof

is there that the box came from the old woman?”



“That’s been proved,” said Razumihin with apparent reluctance, frowning.

“Koch recognised the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner, who

proved conclusively that it was his.”



“That’s bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolay at the time

that Koch and Pestryakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no

evidence about that?”



“Nobody did see him,” Razumihin answered with vexation. “That’s the

worst of it. Even Koch and Pestryakov did not notice them on their way

upstairs, though, indeed, their evidence could not have been worth much.

They said they saw the flat was open, and that there must be work going

on in it, but they took no special notice and could not remember whether

there actually were men at work in it.”



“Hm!... So the only evidence for the defence is that they were beating

one another and laughing. That constitutes a strong presumption, but...

How do you explain the facts yourself?”



“How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It’s clear. At any

rate, the direction in which explanation is to be sought is clear, and

the jewel-case points to it. The real murderer dropped those ear-rings.

The murderer was upstairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestryakov knocked

at the door. Koch, like an ass, did not stay at the door; so the

murderer popped out and ran down, too; for he had no other way of

escape. He hid from Koch, Pestryakov and the porter in the flat when

Nikolay and Dmitri had just run out of it. He stopped there while the

porter and others were going upstairs, waited till they were out of

hearing, and then went calmly downstairs at the very minute when Dmitri

and Nikolay ran out into the street and there was no one in the entry;

possibly he was seen, but not noticed. There are lots of people going

in and out. He must have dropped the ear-rings out of his pocket when

he stood behind the door, and did not notice he dropped them, because he

had other things to think of. The jewel-case is a conclusive proof that

he did stand there.... That’s how I explain it.”



“Too clever! No, my boy, you’re too clever. That beats everything.”



“But, why, why?”



“Why, because everything fits too well... it’s too melodramatic.”



“A-ach!” Razumihin was exclaiming, but at that moment the door opened

and a personage came in who was a stranger to all present.







CHAPTER V



This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance,

and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the

doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment,

as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to.

Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being alarmed and almost

affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov’s low and narrow “cabin.” With the

same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled,

unwashed, on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with

the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and

unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the

face without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a

couple of minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting

took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs,

that he would get nothing in this “cabin” by attempting to overawe them,

the gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly, though with some severity,

emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov:



“Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?”



Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not

Razumihin anticipated him.



“Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?”



This familiar “what do you want” seemed to cut the ground from the

feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked

himself in time and turned to Zossimov again.



“This is Raskolnikov,” mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he

gave a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he

lazily put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold

watch in a round hunter’s case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly

and lazily proceeded to put it back.



Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing

persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that

his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it

was extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just

undergone an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But

the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder,

then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said “This is Raskolnikov”

 he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but

weak and breaking, voice articulated:



“Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?”



The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively:



“Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name

is not wholly unknown to you?”



But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed

blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he heard the

name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time.



“Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no

information?” asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted.



In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands

behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into

Luzhin’s face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively

than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment.



“I had presumed and calculated,” he faltered, “that a letter posted more

than ten days, if not a fortnight ago...”



“I say, why are you standing in the doorway?” Razumihin interrupted

suddenly. “If you’ve something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so

crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here’s a chair, thread your way in!”



He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the

table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the

visitor to “thread his way in.” The minute was so chosen that it was

impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying

and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at

Razumihin.



“No need to be nervous,” the latter blurted out. “Rodya has been ill for

the last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and

has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him.

I am a comrade of Rodya’s, like him, formerly a student, and now I am

nursing him; so don’t you take any notice of us, but go on with your

business.”



“Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and

conversation?” Pyotr Petrovitch asked of Zossimov.



“N-no,” mumbled Zossimov; “you may amuse him.” He yawned again.



“He has been conscious a long time, since the morning,” went on

Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good-nature

that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps,

because this shabby and impudent person had introduced himself as a

student.



“Your mamma,” began Luzhin.



“Hm!” Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him

inquiringly.



“That’s all right, go on.”



Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.



“Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in

her neighbourhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to

elapse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully

assured that you were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my

astonishment...”



“I know, I know!” Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation.

“So you are the _fiancé_? I know, and that’s enough!”



There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch’s being offended this time,

but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all

meant. There was a moment’s silence.



Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he

answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as

though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something

new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at

him. There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch’s whole

appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of “fiancé” so

unceremoniously applied to him. In the first place, it was evident, far

too much so indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few

days in the capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation

of his betrothed--a perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding,

indeed. Even his own, perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the

agreeable improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such

circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the rôle of

fiancé. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor’s and were all

right, except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even

the stylish new round hat had the same significance. Pyotr Petrovitch

treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The

exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale,

if only from the fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in

his hand for show. Light and youthful colours predominated in Pyotr

Petrovitch’s attire. He wore a charming summer jacket of a fawn shade,

light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same, new and fine linen, a

cravat of the lightest cambric with pink stripes on it, and the best

of it was, this all suited Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even

handsome face looked younger than his forty-five years at all times.

His dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting on both sides,

growing thickly upon his shining, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair,

touched here and there with grey, though it had been combed and curled

at a hairdresser’s, did not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair

usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day.

If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather

good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other

causes. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov smiled

malignantly, sank back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as

before.



But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no

notice of their oddities.



“I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation,” he began,

again breaking the silence with an effort. “If I had been aware of your

illness I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I

have, too, a very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention

other preoccupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting your

mamma and sister any minute.”



Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed

some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but as nothing

followed, he went on:



“... Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival.”



“Where?” asked Raskolnikov weakly.



“Very near here, in Bakaleyev’s house.”



“That’s in Voskresensky,” put in Razumihin. “There are two storeys of

rooms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I’ve been there.”



“Yes, rooms...”



“A disgusting place--filthy, stinking and, what’s more, of doubtful

character. Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer

people living there. And I went there about a scandalous business. It’s

cheap, though...”



“I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger

in Petersburg myself,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. “However, the

two rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time...

I have already taken a permanent, that is, our future flat,” he said,

addressing Raskolnikov, “and I am having it done up. And meanwhile I am

myself cramped for room in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch

Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lippevechsel; it was he who told me

of Bakaleyev’s house, too...”



“Lebeziatnikov?” said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something.



“Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you

know him?”



“Yes... no,” Raskolnikov answered.



“Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian....

A very nice young man and advanced. I like to meet young people: one

learns new things from them.” Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all.



“How do you mean?” asked Razumihin.



“In the most serious and essential matters,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied,

as though delighted at the question. “You see, it’s ten years since I

visited Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in

the provinces, but to see it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg.

And it’s my notion that you observe and learn most by watching the

younger generation. And I confess I am delighted...”



“At what?”



“Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find

clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more practicality...”



“That’s true,” Zossimov let drop.



“Nonsense! There’s no practicality.” Razumihin flew at him.

“Practicality is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from

heaven. And for the last two hundred years we have been divorced from

all practical life. Ideas, if you like, are fermenting,” he said to

Pyotr Petrovitch, “and desire for good exists, though it’s in a childish

form, and honesty you may find, although there are crowds of brigands.

Anyway, there’s no practicality. Practicality goes well shod.”



“I don’t agree with you,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident

enjoyment. “Of course, people do get carried away and make mistakes,

but one must have indulgence; those mistakes are merely evidence of

enthusiasm for the cause and of abnormal external environment. If little

has been done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak.

It’s my personal view, if you care to know, that something has been

accomplished already. New valuable ideas, new valuable works are

circulating in the place of our old dreamy and romantic authors.

Literature is taking a maturer form, many injurious prejudices have been

rooted up and turned into ridicule.... In a word, we have cut ourselves

off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great

thing...”



“He’s learnt it by heart to show off!” Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly.



“What?” asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; but he received

no reply.



“That’s all true,” Zossimov hastened to interpose.



“Isn’t it so?” Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov.

“You must admit,” he went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of

triumph and superciliousness--he almost added “young man”--“that there

is an advance, or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and

economic truth...”



“A commonplace.”



“No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance, if I were told, ‘love

thy neighbour,’ what came of it?” Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps with

excessive haste. “It came to my tearing my coat in half to share with my

neighbour and we both were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has

it, ‘Catch several hares and you won’t catch one.’ Science now tells

us, love yourself before all men, for everything in the world rests on

self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly

and your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private

affairs are organised in society--the more whole coats, so to say--the

firmer are its foundations and the better is the common welfare

organised too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for

myself, I am acquiring, so to speak, for all, and helping to bring to

pass my neighbour’s getting a little more than a torn coat; and that not

from private, personal liberality, but as a consequence of the general

advance. The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time

reaching us, being hindered by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it

would seem to want very little wit to perceive it...”



“Excuse me, I’ve very little wit myself,” Razumihin cut in sharply,

“and so let us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I’ve

grown so sick during the last three years of this chattering to amuse

oneself, of this incessant flow of commonplaces, always the same, that,

by Jove, I blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a

hurry, no doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and I don’t blame you,

that’s quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you

are, for so many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive

cause of late and have so distorted in their own interests everything

they touched, that the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That’s

enough!”



“Excuse me, sir,” said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive

dignity. “Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I too...”



“Oh, my dear sir... how could I?... Come, that’s enough,” Razumihin

concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous

conversation.



Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up

his mind to take leave in another minute or two.



“I trust our acquaintance,” he said, addressing Raskolnikov, “may, upon

your recovery and in view of the circumstances of which you are aware,

become closer... Above all, I hope for your return to health...”



Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began getting

up from his chair.



“One of her customers must have killed her,” Zossimov declared

positively.



“Not a doubt of it,” replied Razumihin. “Porfiry doesn’t give his

opinion, but is examining all who have left pledges with her there.”



“Examining them?” Raskolnikov asked aloud.



“Yes. What then?”



“Nothing.”



“How does he get hold of them?” asked Zossimov.



“Koch has given the names of some of them, other names are on the

wrappers of the pledges and some have come forward of themselves.”



“It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it!

The coolness!”



“That’s just what it wasn’t!” interposed Razumihin. “That’s what throws

you all off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, not

practised, and probably this was his first crime! The supposition that

it was a calculated crime and a cunning criminal doesn’t work. Suppose

him to have been inexperienced, and it’s clear that it was only a chance

that saved him--and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee

obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth

ten or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the

old woman’s trunks, her rags--and they found fifteen hundred roubles,

besides notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know

how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first crime, I assure you,

his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good

counsel!”



“You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?” Pyotr

Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves

in hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more

intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favourable

impression and his vanity overcame his prudence.



“Yes. You’ve heard of it?”



“Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood.”



“Do you know the details?”



“I can’t say that; but another circumstance interests me in the

case--the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime

has been greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last

five years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere,

what strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes,

too, crime is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a

student’s robbing the mail on the high road; in another place people of

good social position forge false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole

gang has been captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of

the ringleaders was a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary

abroad was murdered from some obscure motive of gain.... And if this old

woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered by someone of a higher class

in society--for peasants don’t pawn gold trinkets--how are we to explain

this demoralisation of the civilised part of our society?”



“There are many economic changes,” put in Zossimov.



“How are we to explain it?” Razumihin caught him up. “It might be

explained by our inveterate impracticality.”



“How do you mean?”



“What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he

was forging notes? ‘Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I

want to make haste to get rich too.’ I don’t remember the exact words,

but the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or

working! We’ve grown used to having everything ready-made, to walking

on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour

struck,[*] and every man showed himself in his true colours.”



     [*] The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.

     --TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.



“But morality? And so to speak, principles...”



“But why do you worry about it?” Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. “It’s

in accordance with your theory!”



“In accordance with my theory?”



“Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and

it follows that people may be killed...”



“Upon my word!” cried Luzhin.



“No, that’s not so,” put in Zossimov.



Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing

painfully.



“There’s a measure in all things,” Luzhin went on superciliously.

“Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and one has but to

suppose...”



“And is it true,” Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a

voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, “is it true that

you told your _fiancée_... within an hour of her acceptance, that what

pleased you most... was that she was a beggar... because it was better

to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have complete control over

her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?”



“Upon my word,” Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with

confusion, “to distort my words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to

assure you that the report which has reached you, or rather, let me say,

has been conveyed to you, has no foundation in truth, and I... suspect

who... in a word... this arrow... in a word, your mamma... She seemed

to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat

high-flown and romantic way of thinking.... But I was a thousand miles

from supposing that she would misunderstand and misrepresent things in

so fanciful a way.... And indeed... indeed...”



“I tell you what,” cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and

fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, “I tell you what.”



“What?” Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face.

Silence lasted for some seconds.



“Why, if ever again... you dare to mention a single word... about my

mother... I shall send you flying downstairs!”



“What’s the matter with you?” cried Razumihin.



“So that’s how it is?” Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. “Let me tell

you, sir,” he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself

but breathing hard, “at the first moment I saw you you were ill-disposed

to me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive

a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you... never after

this...”



“I am not ill,” cried Raskolnikov.



“So much the worse...”



“Go to hell!”



But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing

between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him

pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who

had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone,

he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid

crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of

his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received.



“How could you--how could you!” Razumihin said, shaking his head in

perplexity.



“Let me alone--let me alone all of you!” Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy.

“Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am

not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone,

alone, alone!”



“Come along,” said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.



“But we can’t leave him like this!”



“Come along,” Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin

thought a minute and ran to overtake him.



“It might be worse not to obey him,” said Zossimov on the stairs. “He

mustn’t be irritated.”



“What’s the matter with him?”



“If only he could get some favourable shock, that’s what would do it! At

first he was better.... You know he has got something on his mind! Some

fixed idea weighing on him.... I am very much afraid so; he must have!”



“Perhaps it’s that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation

I gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a

letter about it just before his illness....”



“Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case altogether. But have

you noticed, he takes no interest in anything, he does not respond to

anything except one point on which he seems excited--that’s the murder?”



“Yes, yes,” Razumihin agreed, “I noticed that, too. He is interested,

frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police

office; he fainted.”



“Tell me more about that this evening and I’ll tell you something

afterwards. He interests me very much! In half an hour I’ll go and see

him again.... There’ll be no inflammation though.”



“Thanks! And I’ll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him

through Nastasya....”



Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya,

but she still lingered.



“Won’t you have some tea now?” she asked.



“Later! I am sleepy! Leave me.”



He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out.







CHAPTER VI



But as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the

parcel which Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up again

and began dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have become

perfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium nor of the panic

fear that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strange

sudden calm. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was

evident in them. “To-day, to-day,” he muttered to himself. He understood

that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him

strength and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not

fall down in the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he

looked at the money lying on the table, and after a moment’s thought

put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took also all the

copper change from the ten roubles spent by Razumihin on the clothes.

Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs and

glanced in at the open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back

to him, blowing up the landlady’s samovar. She heard nothing. Who would

have dreamed of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the

street.



It was nearly eight o’clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as

before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head

felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his

feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and

did not think where he was going, he had one thought only: “that all

_this_ must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he would

not return home without it, because he _would not go on living like

that_.” How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it,

he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought

tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be

changed “one way or another,” he repeated with desperate and immovable

self-confidence and determination.



From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay

Market. A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in

the road in front of a little general shop and was grinding out a very

sentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood

on the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a

mantle and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very

old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and

coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from

the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five

copeck piece and put it in the girl’s hand. She broke off abruptly on a

sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder “Come on,”

 and both moved on to the next shop.



“Do you like street music?” said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged

man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering.



“I love to hear singing to a street organ,” said Raskolnikov, and his

manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--“I like it

on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all the

passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet

snow is falling straight down, when there’s no wind--you know what I

mean?--and the street lamps shine through 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. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round

and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a

corn chandler’s shop.



“Isn’t there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?”



“All sorts of people keep booths here,” answered the young man, glancing

superciliously at Raskolnikov.



“What’s his name?”



“What he was christened.”



“Aren’t you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which province?”



The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.



“It’s not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously

forgive me, your excellency!”



“Is that a tavern at the top there?”



“Yes, it’s an eating-house and there’s a billiard-room and you’ll find

princesses there too.... La-la!”



Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd

of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking

at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into

conversation with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they

were all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little and

took a turning to the right in the direction of V.



He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading

from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn

to wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might

feel more so.



Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great

block of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating-houses;

women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in their

indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement,

especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in

the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the

tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street.

A crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the

steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken

soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road,

swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had

forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man dead

drunk was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of

women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore

cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some

not more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes.



He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and

uproar in the saloon below.... someone could be heard within dancing

frantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar

and of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently,

gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping

inquisitively in from the pavement.



  “Oh, my handsome soldier

   Don’t beat me for nothing,”



trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to

make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that.



“Shall I go in?” he thought. “They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get

drunk?”



“Won’t you come in?” one of the women asked him. Her voice was

still musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not

repulsive--the only one of the group.



“Why, she’s pretty,” he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.



She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.



“You’re very nice looking yourself,” she said.



“Isn’t he thin though!” observed another woman in a deep bass. “Have you

just come out of a hospital?”



“They’re all generals’ daughters, it seems, but they have all snub

noses,” interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing

a loose coat. “See how jolly they are.”



“Go along with you!”



“I’ll go, sweetie!”



And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.



“I say, sir,” the girl shouted after him.



“What is it?”



She hesitated.



“I’ll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but

now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there’s a nice young

man!”



Raskolnikov gave her what came first--fifteen copecks.



“Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!”



“What’s your name?”



“Ask for Duclida.”



“Well, that’s too much,” one of the women observed, shaking her head

at Duclida. “I don’t know how you can ask like that. I believe I should

drop with shame....”



Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench

of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made

her criticism quietly and earnestly. “Where is it,” thought Raskolnikov.

“Where is it I’ve read that someone condemned to death says or thinks,

an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock,

on such a narrow ledge that he’d only room to stand, and the ocean,

everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around

him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his

life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die

at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!...

How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature!... And vile

is he who calls him vile for that,” he added a moment later.



He went into another street. “Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin

was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it

I wanted? Yes, the newspapers.... Zossimov said he’d read it in the

papers. Have you the papers?” he asked, going into a very spacious and

positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were,

however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a

room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov

fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that

distance. “What if it is?” he thought.



“Will you have vodka?” asked the waiter.



“Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last

five days, and I’ll give you something.”



“Yes, sir, here’s to-day’s. No vodka?”



The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and

began to look through them.



“Oh, damn... these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a

staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire

in Peski... a fire in the Petersburg quarter... another fire in the

Petersburg quarter... and another fire in the Petersburg quarter....

Ah, here it is!” He found at last what he was seeking and began to

read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began

eagerly seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands

shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone

sat down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerk

Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the

watch-chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with the

smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good

humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His dark

face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk.



“What, you here?” he began in surprise, speaking as though he’d known

him all his life. “Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you were

unconscious. How strange! And do you know I’ve been to see you?”



Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and

turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of

irritable impatience was apparent in that smile.



“I know you have,” he answered. “I’ve heard it. You looked for my

sock.... And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says

you’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna’s--you know, the woman you tried

to befriend, for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he

would not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to

understand--it was quite clear, wasn’t it?”



“What a hot head he is!”



“The explosive one?”



“No, your friend Razumihin.”



“You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most

agreeable places. Who’s been pouring champagne into you just now?”



“We’ve just been... having a drink together.... You talk about pouring

it into me!”



“By way of a fee! You profit by everything!” Raskolnikov laughed, “it’s

all right, my dear boy,” he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. “I

am not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that

workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of

the old woman....”



“How do you know about it?”



“Perhaps I know more about it than you do.”



“How strange you are.... I am sure you are still very unwell. You

oughtn’t to have come out.”



“Oh, do I seem strange to you?”



“Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?”



“Yes.”



“There’s a lot about the fires.”



“No, I am not reading about the fires.” Here he looked mysteriously at

Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. “No, I am not

reading about the fires,” he went on, winking at Zametov. “But confess

now, my dear fellow, you’re awfully anxious to know what I am reading

about?”



“I am not in the least. Mayn’t I ask a question? Why do you keep

on...?”



“Listen, you are a man of culture and education?”



“I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium,” said Zametov with some

dignity.



“Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your parting and your rings--you

are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!” Here Raskolnikov

broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov’s face. The latter drew

back, more amazed than offended.



“Foo! how strange you are!” Zametov repeated very seriously. “I can’t

help thinking you are still delirious.”



“I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You

find me curious, do you?”



“Yes, curious.”



“Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See

what a lot of papers I’ve made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?”



“Well, what is it?”



“You prick up your ears?”



“How do you mean--‘prick up my ears’?”



“I’ll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare to you... no,

better ‘I confess’... No, that’s not right either; ‘I make a deposition

and you take it.’ I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and

searching....” he screwed up his eyes and paused. “I was searching--and

came here on purpose to do it--for news of the murder of the old

pawnbroker woman,” he articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing

his face exceedingly close to the face of Zametov. Zametov looked at him

steadily, without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov

afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for

exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while.



“What if you have been reading about it?” he cried at last, perplexed

and impatient. “That’s no business of mine! What of it?”



“The same old woman,” Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper, not

heeding Zametov’s explanation, “about whom you were talking in the

police-office, you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand

now?”



“What do you mean? Understand... what?” Zametov brought out, almost

alarmed.



Raskolnikov’s set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he

suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as though

utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with

extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, that

moment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch

trembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden

desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at

them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh!



“You are either mad, or...” began Zametov, and he broke off, as though

stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind.



“Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!”



“Nothing,” said Zametov, getting angry, “it’s all nonsense!”



Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Raskolnikov became

suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table and

leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten

Zametov. The silence lasted for some time.



“Why don’t you drink your tea? It’s getting cold,” said Zametov.



“What! Tea? Oh, yes....” Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel of

bread in his mouth and, suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to remember

everything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his face

resumed its original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea.



“There have been a great many of these crimes lately,” said Zametov.

“Only the other day I read in the _Moscow News_ that a whole gang of

false coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They

used to forge tickets!”



“Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago,”

 Raskolnikov answered calmly. “So you consider them criminals?” he added,

smiling.



“Of course they are criminals.”



“They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Why, half a hundred

people meeting for such an object--what an idea! Three would be too

many, and then they want to have more faith in one another than in

themselves! One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses.

Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes--what

a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that these

simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and what follows for the

rest of their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of his

life! Better hang oneself at once! And they did not know how to change

the notes either; the man who changed the notes took five thousand

roubles, and his hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand,

but did not count the fifth thousand--he was in such a hurry to get the

money into his pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. And

the whole thing came to a crash through one fool! Is it possible?”



“That his hands trembled?” observed Zametov, “yes, that’s quite

possible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can’t

stand things.”



“Can’t stand that?”



“Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn’t. For the sake of a hundred

roubles to face such a terrible experience? To go with false notes

into a bank where it’s their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I

should not have the face to do it. Would you?”



Raskolnikov had an intense desire again “to put his tongue out.” Shivers

kept running down his spine.



“I should do it quite differently,” Raskolnikov began. “This is how I

would change the notes: I’d count the first thousand three or four times

backwards and forwards, looking at every note and then I’d set to the

second thousand; I’d count that half-way through and then hold some

fifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light

again--to see whether it was a good one. ‘I am afraid,’ I would say, ‘a

relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the other day through a

false note,’ and then I’d tell them the whole story. And after I began

counting the third, ‘No, excuse me,’ I would say, ‘I fancy I made a

mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.’

And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to the second and

so on to the end. And when I had finished, I’d pick out one from the

fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light

and ask again, ‘Change them, please,’ and put the clerk into such a stew

that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I’d finished and had

gone out, I’d come back, ‘No, excuse me,’ and ask for some explanation.

That’s how I’d do it.”



“Foo! what terrible things you say!” said Zametov, laughing. “But all

that is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you’d make a slip.

I believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon on

himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home--that old

woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a

desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by

a miracle--but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the

place, he couldn’t stand it. That was clear from the...”



Raskolnikov seemed offended.



“Clear? Why don’t you catch him then?” he cried, maliciously gibing at

Zametov.



“Well, they will catch him.”



“Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? You’ve a tough job! A

great point for you is whether a man is spending money or not. If he had

no money and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any

child can mislead you.”



“The fact is they always do that, though,” answered Zametov. “A man will

commit a clever murder at the risk of his life and then at once he goes

drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all

as cunning as you are. You wouldn’t go to a tavern, of course?”



Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov.



“You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should

behave in that case, too?” he asked with displeasure.



“I should like to,” Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too

much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks.



“Very much?”



“Very much!”



“All right then. This is how I should behave,” Raskolnikov began, again

bringing his face close to Zametov’s, again staring at him and speaking

in a whisper, so that the latter positively shuddered. “This is what

I should have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should

have walked out of there and have gone straight to some deserted place

with fences round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen garden

or place of that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some stone

weighing a hundredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from

the time the house was built. I would lift that stone--there would sure

to be a hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that

hole. Then I’d roll the stone back so that it would look as before,

would press it down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two,

three maybe, I would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There’d

be no trace.”



“You are a madman,” said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a

whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He

had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering.

He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to move

without uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew what he

was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on

his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break

out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out.



“And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?” he said

suddenly and--realised what he had done.



Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His

face wore a contorted smile.



“But is it possible?” he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked

wrathfully at him.



“Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?”



“Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now,” Zametov cried

hastily.



“I’ve caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you

believe less than ever?”



“Not at all,” cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. “Have you been

frightening me so as to lead up to this?”



“You don’t believe it then? What were you talking about behind my

back when I went out of the police-office? And why did the explosive

lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there,” he shouted to the

waiter, getting up and taking his cap, “how much?”



“Thirty copecks,” the latter replied, running up.



“And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!” he

held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. “Red notes and

blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new

clothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You’ve cross-examined my

landlady, I’ll be bound.... Well, that’s enough! _Assez causé!_ Till we

meet again!”



He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical

sensation, in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet he

was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit.

His fatigue increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation

stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as

quickly when the stimulus was removed.



Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in

thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on

a certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively.



“Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead,” he decided.



Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he

stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other

till they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood

looking each other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then

anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes.



“So here you are!” he shouted at the top of his voice--“you ran away

from your bed! And here I’ve been looking for you under the sofa! We

went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here

he is after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole

truth! Confess! Do you hear?”



“It means that I’m sick to death of you all and I want to be alone,”

 Raskolnikov answered calmly.



“Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a

sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot!... What have you been doing

in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!”



“Let me go!” said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much

for Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder.



“Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I’ll do

with you directly? I’ll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you

home under my arm and lock you up!”



“Listen, Razumihin,” Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm--“can’t

you see that I don’t want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to

shower benefits on a man who... curses them, who feels them a burden in

fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I

was very glad to die. Didn’t I tell you plainly enough to-day that

you were torturing me, that I was... sick of you! You seem to want to

torture people! I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my

recovery, because it’s continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov

went away just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for

goodness’ sake! What right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don’t

you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now? How, how can

I persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I may be

ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God’s sake, let me be!

Let me be, let me be!”



He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was

about to utter, but finished, panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he had

been with Luzhin.



Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop.



“Well, go to hell then,” he said gently and thoughtfully. “Stay,” he

roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. “Listen to me. Let me tell

you, that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you’ve any

little trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are

plagiarists even in that! There isn’t a sign of independent life in

you! You are made of spermaceti ointment and you’ve lymph in your veins

instead of blood. I don’t believe in anyone of you! In any circumstances

the first thing for all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!” he

cried with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making

a movement--“hear me out! You know I’m having a house-warming this

evening, I dare say they’ve arrived by now, but I left my uncle there--I

just ran in--to receive the guests. And if you weren’t a fool, a common

fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of a translation...

you see, Rodya, I recognise you’re a clever fellow, but you’re a

fool!--and if you weren’t a fool you’d come round to me this evening

instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you have gone

out, there’s no help for it! I’d give you a snug easy chair, my landlady

has one... a cup of tea, company.... Or you could lie on the sofa--any

way you would be with us.... Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?”



“No.”



“R-rubbish!” Razumihin shouted, out of patience. “How do you know?

You can’t answer for yourself! You don’t know anything about it....

Thousands of times I’ve fought tooth and nail with people and run back

to them afterwards.... One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So

remember, Potchinkov’s house on the third storey....”



“Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you’d let anybody beat you from sheer

benevolence.”



“Beat? Whom? Me? I’d twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov’s

house, 47, Babushkin’s flat....”



“I shall not come, Razumihin.” Raskolnikov turned and walked away.



“I bet you will,” Razumihin shouted after him. “I refuse to know you if

you don’t! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?”



“Yes.”



“Did you see him?”



“Yes.”



“Talked to him?”



“Yes.”



“What about? Confound you, don’t tell me then. Potchinkov’s house, 47,

Babushkin’s flat, remember!”



Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy Street.

Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he

went into the house but stopped short of the stairs.



“Confound it,” he went on almost aloud. “He talked sensibly but yet...

I am a fool! As if madmen didn’t talk sensibly! And this was just what

Zossimov seemed afraid of.” He struck his finger on his forehead. “What

if... how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself.... Ach,

what a blunder! I can’t.” And he ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, but

there was no trace of him. With a curse he returned with rapid steps to

the Palais de Cristal to question Zametov.



Raskolnikov walked straight to X---- Bridge, stood in the middle, and

leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On parting

with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely reach this

place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending

over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of the

sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight, at

one distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire in

the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal,

and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed

before his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal

banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started,

saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He

became aware of someone standing on the right side of him; he looked

and saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow,

wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but

obviously she saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned her

right hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, then

her left and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and

swallowed up its victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning

woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head

and legs in the water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.



“A woman drowning! A woman drowning!” shouted dozens of voices; people

ran up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people

crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him.



“Mercy on it! it’s our Afrosinya!” a woman cried tearfully close by.

“Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!”



“A boat, a boat!” was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a

boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his great

coat and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her:

she floated within a couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of

her clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a

comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They

laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered

consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing,

stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.



“She’s drunk herself out of her senses,” the same woman’s voice wailed

at her side. “Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang

herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little

girl to look after her--and here she’s in trouble again! A neighbour,

gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end,

see yonder....”



The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someone

mentioned the police station.... Raskolnikov looked on with a strange

sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. “No, that’s

loathsome... water... it’s not good enough,” he muttered to himself.

“Nothing will come of it,” he added, “no use to wait. What about the

police office...? And why isn’t Zametov at the police office? The police

office is open till ten o’clock....” He turned his back to the railing

and looked about him.



“Very well then!” he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and

walked in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and

empty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, there

was not a trace now of the energy with which he had set out “to make an

end of it all.” Complete apathy had succeeded to it.



“Well, it’s a way out of it,” he thought, walking slowly and listlessly

along the canal bank. “Anyway, I’ll make an end, for I want to.... But

is it a way out? What does it matter! There’ll be the square yard of

space--ha! But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or

not? Ah... damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or lie

down soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don’t

care about that either! What idiotic ideas come into one’s head.”



To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the

second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the

first turning he stopped and, after a minute’s thought, turned into a

side street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any

object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking

at the ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he lifted

his head and saw that he was standing at the very gate of _the_ house.

He had not passed it, he had not been near it since _that_ evening.

An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the

house, passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the

right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth storey.

The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing

and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework

of the window had been taken out. “That wasn’t so then,” he thought.

Here was the flat on the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been

working. “It’s shut up and the door newly painted. So it’s to let.” Then

the third storey and the fourth. “Here!” He was perplexed to find the

door of the flat wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices;

he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last

stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done up; there were

workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; he somehow fancied that he

would find everything as he left it, even perhaps the corpses in the

same places on the floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it seemed

strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the window-sill. There

were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much younger than the

other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper covered with

lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for

some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper

with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed.

The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were

hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They took

no notice of Raskolnikov’s coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov

folded his arms and listened.



“She comes to me in the morning,” said the elder to the younger, “very

early, all dressed up. ‘Why are you preening and prinking?’ says I. ‘I

am ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!’ That’s a way of

going on! And she dressed up like a regular fashion book!”



“And what is a fashion book?” the younger one asked. He obviously

regarded the other as an authority.



“A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to the

tailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show folks how

to dress, the male sex as well as the female. They’re pictures. The

gentlemen are generally wearing fur coats and for the ladies’ fluffles,

they’re beyond anything you can fancy.”



“There’s nothing you can’t find in Petersburg,” the younger cried

enthusiastically, “except father and mother, there’s everything!”



“Except them, there’s everything to be found, my boy,” the elder

declared sententiously.



Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strong box,

the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to him very

tiny without furniture in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the

corner showed where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at it and

went to the window. The elder workman looked at him askance.



“What do you want?” he asked suddenly.



Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the

bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and

a third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly

fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more

vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more

satisfaction.



“Well, what do you want? Who are you?” the workman shouted, going out to

him. Raskolnikov went inside again.



“I want to take a flat,” he said. “I am looking round.”



“It’s not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up

with the porter.”



“The floors have been washed, will they be painted?” Raskolnikov went

on. “Is there no blood?”



“What blood?”



“Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a

perfect pool there.”



“But who are you?” the workman cried, uneasy.



“Who am I?”



“Yes.”



“You want to know? Come to the police station, I’ll tell you.”



The workmen looked at him in amazement.



“It’s time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock

up,” said the elder workman.



“Very well, come along,” said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going

out first, he went slowly downstairs. “Hey, porter,” he cried in the

gateway.



At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers-by;

the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others.

Raskolnikov went straight up to them.



“What do you want?” asked one of the porters.



“Have you been to the police office?”



“I’ve just been there. What do you want?”



“Is it open?”



“Of course.”



“Is the assistant there?”



“He was there for a time. What do you want?”



Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.



“He’s been to look at the flat,” said the elder workman, coming forward.



“Which flat?”



“Where we are at work. ‘Why have you washed away the blood?’ says he.

‘There has been a murder here,’ says he, ‘and I’ve come to take it.’

And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. ‘Come to the police

station,’ says he. ‘I’ll tell you everything there.’ He wouldn’t leave

us.”



The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.



“Who are you?” he shouted as impressively as he could.



“I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in

Shil’s house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he

knows me.” Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not

turning round, but looking intently into the darkening street.



“Why have you been to the flat?”



“To look at it.”



“What is there to look at?”



“Take him straight to the police station,” the man in the long coat

jerked in abruptly.



Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the

same slow, lazy tones:



“Come along.”



“Yes, take him,” the man went on more confidently. “Why was he going

into _that_, what’s in his mind, eh?”



“He’s not drunk, but God knows what’s the matter with him,” muttered the

workman.



“But what do you want?” the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry

in earnest--“Why are you hanging about?”



“You funk the police station then?” said Raskolnikov jeeringly.



“How funk it? Why are you hanging about?”



“He’s a rogue!” shouted the peasant woman.



“Why waste time talking to him?” cried the other porter, a huge peasant

in a full open coat and with keys on his belt. “Get along! He is a rogue

and no mistake. Get along!”



And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. He

lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators in

silence and walked away.



“Strange man!” observed the workman.



“There are strange folks about nowadays,” said the woman.



“You should have taken him to the police station all the same,” said the

man in the long coat.



“Better have nothing to do with him,” decided the big porter. “A regular

rogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you

won’t get rid of him.... We know the sort!”



“Shall I go there or not?” thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle

of the thoroughfare at the cross-roads, and he looked about him, as

though expecting from someone a decisive word. But no sound came, all

was dead and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to

him alone.... All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yards

away, in the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and shouts.

In the middle of the crowd stood a carriage.... A light gleamed in the

middle of the street. “What is it?” Raskolnikov turned to the right

and went up to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled

coldly when he recognised it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to

the police station and knew that it would all soon be over.







CHAPTER VII



An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of

spirited grey horses; there was no one in it, and the coachman had got

off his box and stood by; the horses were being held by the bridle....

A mass of people had gathered round, the police standing in front. One

of them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on something lying

close to the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming; the

coachman seemed at a loss and kept repeating:



“What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!”



Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last

in seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a

man who had been run over lay apparently unconscious, and covered with

blood; he was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was

flowing from his head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated and

disfigured. He was evidently badly injured.



“Merciful heaven!” wailed the coachman, “what more could I do? If I’d

been driving fast or had not shouted to him, but I was going quietly,

not in a hurry. Everyone could see I was going along just like everybody

else. A drunken man can’t walk straight, we all know.... I saw him

crossing the street, staggering and almost falling. I shouted again

and a second and a third time, then I held the horses in, but he fell

straight under their feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was very

tipsy.... The horses are young and ready to take fright... they started,

he screamed... that made them worse. That’s how it happened!”



“That’s just how it was,” a voice in the crowd confirmed.



“He shouted, that’s true, he shouted three times,” another voice

declared.



“Three times it was, we all heard it,” shouted a third.



But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was

evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who

was awaiting it somewhere; the police, of course, were in no little

anxiety to avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to

take the injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one knew

his name.



Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The

lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate man’s face. He recognised

him.



“I know him! I know him!” he shouted, pushing to the front. “It’s a

government clerk retired from the service, Marmeladov. He lives close

by in Kozel’s house.... Make haste for a doctor! I will pay, see?” He

pulled money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in

violent agitation.



The police were glad that they had found out who the man was.

Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and, as earnestly as if it

had been his father, he besought the police to carry the unconscious

Marmeladov to his lodging at once.



“Just here, three houses away,” he said eagerly, “the house belongs to

Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him,

he is a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife, children, he has one

daughter.... It will take time to take him to the hospital, and there is

sure to be a doctor in the house. I’ll pay, I’ll pay! At least he will

be looked after at home... they will help him at once. But he’ll die

before you get him to the hospital.” He managed to slip something

unseen into the policeman’s hand. But the thing was straightforward

and legitimate, and in any case help was closer here. They raised the

injured man; people volunteered to help.



Kozel’s house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind,

carefully holding Marmeladov’s head and showing the way.



“This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head foremost. Turn

round! I’ll pay, I’ll make it worth your while,” he muttered.



Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free

moment, walking to and fro in her little room from window to stove and

back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself

and coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest

girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did not

understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so

always watched her with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost

to appear to understand. This time Polenka was undressing her little

brother, who had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was

waiting for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at night.

He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a silent,

serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before him--heels

together and toes turned out.



He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting

perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, just as all good

little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little

girl, still younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen,

waiting for her turn. The door on to the stairs was open to relieve

them a little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the

other rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in the poor,

consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner

during that week and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than

ever.



“You wouldn’t believe, you can’t imagine, Polenka,” she said, walking

about the room, “what a happy luxurious life we had in my papa’s house

and how this drunkard has brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin!

Papa was a civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; so that

everyone who came to see him said, ‘We look upon you, Ivan Mihailovitch,

as our governor!’ When I... when...” she coughed violently, “oh, cursed

life,” she cried, clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her

breast, “when I... when at the last ball... at the marshal’s...

Princess Bezzemelny saw me--who gave me the blessing when your father

and I were married, Polenka--she asked at once ‘Isn’t that the pretty

girl who danced the shawl dance at the breaking-up?’ (You must mend

that tear, you must take your needle and darn it as I showed you, or

to-morrow--cough, cough, cough--he will make the hole bigger,” she

articulated with effort.) “Prince Schegolskoy, a kammerjunker, had just

come from Petersburg then... he danced the mazurka with me and wanted to

make me an offer next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions

and told him that my heart had long been another’s. That other was your

father, Polya; papa was fearfully angry.... Is the water ready? Give me

the shirt, and the stockings! Lida,” said she to the youngest one, “you

must manage without your chemise to-night... and lay your stockings out

with it... I’ll wash them together.... How is it that drunken vagabond

doesn’t come in? He has worn his shirt till it looks like a dish-clout,

he has torn it to rags! I’d do it all together, so as not to have to

work two nights running! Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again!

What’s this?” she cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the men,

who were pushing into her room, carrying a burden. “What is it? What are

they bringing? Mercy on us!”



“Where are we to put him?” asked the policeman, looking round when

Marmeladov, unconscious and covered with blood, had been carried in.



“On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way,”

 Raskolnikov showed him.



“Run over in the road! Drunk!” someone shouted in the passage.



Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The

children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka and

clutched at her, trembling all over.



Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew to Katerina Ivanovna.



“For God’s sake be calm, don’t be frightened!” he said, speaking

quickly, “he was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage, don’t

be frightened, he will come to, I told them bring him here... I’ve been

here already, you remember? He will come to; I’ll pay!”



“He’s done it this time!” Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly and she

rushed to her husband.



Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who

swoon easily. She instantly placed under the luckless man’s head a

pillow, which no one had thought of and began undressing and examining

him. She kept her head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips

and stifling the screams which were ready to break from her.



Raskolnikov meanwhile induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a

doctor, it appeared, next door but one.



“I’ve sent for a doctor,” he kept assuring Katerina Ivanovna, “don’t be

uneasy, I’ll pay. Haven’t you water?... and give me a napkin or a towel,

anything, as quick as you can.... He is injured, but not killed, believe

me.... We shall see what the doctor says!”



Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken chair in the

corner, a large earthenware basin full of water had been stood, in

readiness for washing her children’s and husband’s linen that night.

This washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a

week, if not oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they

were practically without change of linen, and Katerina Ivanovna could

not endure uncleanliness and, rather than see dirt in the house, she

preferred to wear herself out at night, working beyond her strength when

the rest were asleep, so as to get the wet linen hung on a line and dry

by the morning. She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov’s request,

but almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already

succeeded in finding a towel, wetted it and began washing the blood off

Marmeladov’s face.



Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully and pressing her hands

to her breast. She was in need of attention herself. Raskolnikov began

to realise that he might have made a mistake in having the injured man

brought here. The policeman, too, stood in hesitation.



“Polenka,” cried Katerina Ivanovna, “run to Sonia, make haste. If you

don’t find her at home, leave word that her father has been run over

and that she is to come here at once... when she comes in. Run, Polenka!

there, put on the shawl.”



“Run your fastest!” cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after

which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his

heels thrust forward and his toes spread out.



Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you couldn’t have

dropped a pin. The policemen left, all except one, who remained for a

time, trying to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost

all Madame Lippevechsel’s lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms

of the flat; at first they were squeezed together in the doorway, but

afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a

fury.



“You might let him die in peace, at least,” she shouted at the crowd,

“is it a spectacle for you to gape at? With cigarettes! (Cough, cough,

cough!) You might as well keep your hats on.... And there is one in his

hat!... Get away! You should respect the dead, at least!”



Her cough choked her--but her reproaches were not without result. They

evidently stood in some awe of Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after

another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner feeling

of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a sudden

accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which

no living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest sympathy and

compassion.



Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital and saying

that they’d no business to make a disturbance here.



“No business to die!” cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to

the door to vent her wrath upon them, but in the doorway came face to

face with Madame Lippevechsel who had only just heard of the accident

and ran in to restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and

irresponsible German.



“Ah, my God!” she cried, clasping her hands, “your husband drunken

horses have trampled! To the hospital with him! I am the landlady!”



“Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are saying,”

 Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she always took a haughty tone with

the landlady that she might “remember her place” and even now could not

deny herself this satisfaction). “Amalia Ludwigovna...”



“I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may

not dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna.”



“You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and as I am not

one of your despicable flatterers like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who’s laughing

behind the door at this moment (a laugh and a cry of ‘they are at it

again’ was in fact audible at the door) so I shall always call you

Amalia Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike that

name. You can see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zaharovitch;

he is dying. I beg you to close that door at once and to admit no one.

Let him at least die in peace! Or I warn you the Governor-General,

himself, shall be informed of your conduct to-morrow. The prince knew

me as a girl; he remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well and has often been

a benefactor to him. Everyone knows that Semyon Zaharovitch had many

friends and protectors, whom he abandoned himself from an honourable

pride, knowing his unhappy weakness, but now (she pointed to

Raskolnikov) a generous young man has come to our assistance, who has

wealth and connections and whom Semyon Zaharovitch has known from a

child. You may rest assured, Amalia Ludwigovna...”



All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker,

but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivanovna’s eloquence. At that

instant the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan; she

ran to him. The injured man opened his eyes and without recognition or

understanding gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him. He drew

deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the corners of his mouth

and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognising

Raskolnikov, he began looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked

at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes.



“My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding,” she said

in despair. “We must take off his clothes. Turn a little, Semyon

Zaharovitch, if you can,” she cried to him.



Marmeladov recognised her.



“A priest,” he articulated huskily.



Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window

frame and exclaimed in despair:



“Oh, cursed life!”



“A priest,” the dying man said again after a moment’s silence.



“They’ve gone for him,” Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him, he obeyed her

shout and was silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her; she

returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little easier but not for

long.



Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favourite, who was shaking in

the corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring at him with her

wondering childish eyes.



“A-ah,” he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something.



“What now?” cried Katerina Ivanovna.



“Barefoot, barefoot!” he muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the

child’s bare feet.



“Be silent,” Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, “you know why she is

barefooted.”



“Thank God, the doctor,” exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved.



The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking about

him mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefully

felt his head and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the

blood-stained shirt, and bared the injured man’s chest. It was gashed,

crushed and fractured, several ribs on the right side were broken.

On the left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking

yellowish-black bruise--a cruel kick from the horse’s hoof. The doctor

frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel and

turned round with it for thirty yards on the road.



“It’s wonderful that he has recovered consciousness,” the doctor

whispered softly to Raskolnikov.



“What do you think of him?” he asked.



“He will die immediately.”



“Is there really no hope?”



“Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp.... His head is badly injured,

too... Hm... I could bleed him if you like, but... it would be useless.

He is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes.”



“Better bleed him then.”



“If you like.... But I warn you it will be perfectly useless.”



At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted,

and the priest, a little, grey old man, appeared in the doorway bearing

the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident.

The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glances with him.

Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He shrugged his

shoulders and remained.



All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably

understood little; he could only utter indistinct broken sounds.

Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt

down in the corner by the stove and made the children kneel in front of

her. The little girl was still trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his

little bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with

precision and bowed down, touching the floor with his forehead, which

seemed to afford him especial satisfaction. Katerina Ivanovna bit her

lips and held back her tears; she prayed, too, now and then pulling

straight the boy’s shirt, and managed to cover the girl’s bare shoulders

with a kerchief, which she took from the chest without rising from her

knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile the door from the inner rooms was

opened inquisitively again. In the passage the crowd of spectators from

all the flats on the staircase grew denser and denser, but they did not

venture beyond the threshold. A single candle-end lighted up the scene.



At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She

came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for

her mother, went up to her and said, “She’s coming, I met her in the

street.” Her mother made her kneel beside her.



Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through the crowd,

and strange was her appearance in that room, in the midst of want, rags,

death and despair. She, too, was in rags, her attire was all of

the cheapest, but decked out in gutter finery of a special stamp,

unmistakably betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the

doorway and looked about her bewildered, unconscious of everything.

She forgot her fourth-hand, gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with

its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline that filled up the

whole doorway, and her light-coloured shoes, and the parasol she brought

with her, though it was no use at night, and the absurd round straw hat

with its flaring flame-coloured feather. Under this rakishly-tilted hat

was a pale, frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in

terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of eighteen with fair hair, rather

pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the bed and the

priest; she too was out of breath with running. At last whispers, some

words in the crowd probably, reached her. She looked down and took a

step forward into the room, still keeping close to the door.



The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband again.

The priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of admonition and

consolation to Katerina Ivanovna on leaving.



“What am I to do with these?” she interrupted sharply and irritably,

pointing to the little ones.



“God is merciful; look to the Most High for succour,” the priest began.



“Ach! He is merciful, but not to us.”



“That’s a sin, a sin, madam,” observed the priest, shaking his head.



“And isn’t that a sin?” cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying

man.



“Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to

compensate you, at least for the loss of his earnings.”



“You don’t understand!” cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily waving her hand.

“And why should they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and threw himself

under the horses! What earnings? He brought us in nothing but misery.

He drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get drink, he

wasted their lives and mine for drink! And thank God he’s dying! One

less to keep!”



“You must forgive in the hour of death, that’s a sin, madam, such

feelings are a great sin.”



Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was giving him water,

wiping the blood and sweat from his head, setting his pillow straight,

and had only turned now and then for a moment to address the priest. Now

she flew at him almost in a frenzy.



“Ah, father! That’s words and only words! Forgive! If he’d not been run

over, he’d have come home to-day drunk and his only shirt dirty and

in rags and he’d have fallen asleep like a log, and I should have been

sousing and rinsing till daybreak, washing his rags and the children’s

and then drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight I

should have been darning them. That’s how I spend my nights!... What’s

the use of talking of forgiveness! I have forgiven as it is!”



A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief

to her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her

aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed

his head and said nothing.



Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not take his eyes off the face

of Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending over him again. He kept trying

to say something to her; he began moving his tongue with difficulty and

articulating indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he

wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to him:



“Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!” And the sick man

was silent, but at the same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the

doorway and he saw Sonia.



Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the shadow in a

corner.



“Who’s that? Who’s that?” he said suddenly in a thick gasping voice,

in agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his

daughter was standing, and trying to sit up.



“Lie down! Lie do-own!” cried Katerina Ivanovna.



With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his

elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly for some time on his daughter, as

though not recognising her. He had never seen her before in such attire.

Suddenly he recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and

gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to her dying

father. His face showed intense suffering.



“Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!” he cried, and he tried to hold out his hand

to her, but losing his balance, he fell off the sofa, face downwards on

the floor. They rushed to pick him up, they put him on the sofa; but he

was dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so

without moving. He died in her arms.



“He’s got what he wanted,” Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband’s

dead body. “Well, what’s to be done now? How am I to bury him! What can

I give them to-morrow to eat?”



Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna.



“Katerina Ivanovna,” he began, “last week your husband told me all his

life and circumstances.... Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate

reverence. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted he was to you

all and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna,

in spite of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we became

friends.... Allow me now... to do something... to repay my debt to my

dead friend. Here are twenty roubles, I think--and if that can be of any

assistance to you, then... I... in short, I will come again, I will

be sure to come again... I shall, perhaps, come again to-morrow....

Good-bye!”



And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd

to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against Nikodim

Fomitch, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions

in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but

Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.



“Ah, is that you?” he asked him.



“He’s dead,” answered Raskolnikov. “The doctor and the priest have been,

all as it should have been. Don’t worry the poor woman too much, she is

in consumption as it is. Try and cheer her up, if possible... you are a

kind-hearted man, I know...” he added with a smile, looking straight in

his face.



“But you are spattered with blood,” observed Nikodim Fomitch, noticing

in the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov’s waistcoat.



“Yes... I’m covered with blood,” Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air;

then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.



He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious

of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and

strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be

compared to that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been

pardoned. Halfway down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on

his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting

with him. He was just descending the last steps when he heard rapid

footsteps behind him. Someone overtook him; it was Polenka. She was

running after him, calling “Wait! wait!”



He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped

short a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Raskolnikov

could distinguish the child’s thin but pretty little face, looking at

him with a bright childish smile. She had run after him with a message

which she was evidently glad to give.



“Tell me, what is your name?... and where do you live?” she said

hurriedly in a breathless voice.



He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a sort of

rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her, he could not have said

why.



“Who sent you?”



“Sister Sonia sent me,” answered the girl, smiling still more brightly.



“I knew it was sister Sonia sent you.”



“Mamma sent me, too... when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma came up,

too, and said ‘Run fast, Polenka.’”



“Do you love sister Sonia?”



“I love her more than anyone,” Polenka answered with a peculiar

earnestness, and her smile became graver.



“And will you love me?”



By way of answer he saw the little girl’s face approaching him, her full

lips naïvely held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks

held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder and the little girl

wept softly, pressing her face against him.



“I am sorry for father,” she said a moment later, raising her

tear-stained face and brushing away the tears with her hands. “It’s

nothing but misfortunes now,” she added suddenly with that peculiarly

sedate air which children try hard to assume when they want to speak

like grown-up people.



“Did your father love you?”



“He loved Lida most,” she went on very seriously without a smile,

exactly like grown-up people, “he loved her because she is little and

because she is ill, too. And he always used to bring her presents. But

he taught us to read and me grammar and scripture, too,” she added with

dignity. “And mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she

liked it and father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach me French,

for it’s time my education began.”



“And do you know your prayers?”



“Of course, we do! We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself

as I am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida say them aloud with mother.

First they repeat the ‘Ave Maria’ and then another prayer: ‘Lord,

forgive and bless sister Sonia,’ and then another, ‘Lord, forgive and

bless our second father.’ For our elder father is dead and this is

another one, but we do pray for the other as well.”



“Polenka, my name is Rodion. 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. It was past

ten when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on

the bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in.



“Enough,” he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. “I’ve done with

fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! Life is real! haven’t I lived

just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman! The Kingdom of

Heaven to her--and now enough, madam, leave me in peace! Now for the

reign of reason and light... and of will, and of strength... and now

we will see! We will try our strength!” he added defiantly, as though

challenging some power of darkness. “And I was ready to consent to live

in a square of space!



“I am very weak at this moment, but... I believe my illness is all over.

I knew it would be over when I went out. By the way, Potchinkov’s house

is only a few steps away. I certainly must go to Razumihin even if

it were not close by... let him win his bet! Let us give him some

satisfaction, too--no matter! Strength, strength is what one wants, you

can get nothing without it, and strength must be won by strength--that’s

what they don’t know,” he added proudly and self-confidently and

he walked with flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and

self-confidence grew continually stronger in him; he was becoming

a different man every moment. What was it had happened to work this

revolution in him? He did not know himself; like a man catching at a

straw, he suddenly felt that he, too, ‘could live, that there was still

life for him, that his life had not died with the old woman.’ Perhaps he

was in too great a hurry with his conclusions, but he did not think of

that.



“But I did ask her to remember ‘Thy servant Rodion’ in her prayers,” the

idea struck him. “Well, that was... in case of emergency,” he added and

laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits.



He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already known at

Potchinkov’s and the porter at once showed him the way. Half-way

upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big

gathering of people. The door was wide open on the stairs; he could

hear exclamations and discussion. Razumihin’s room was fairly large; the

company consisted of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entry,

where two of the landlady’s servants were busy behind a screen with two

samovars, bottles, plates and dishes of pie and savouries, brought up

from the landlady’s kitchen. Raskolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran

out delighted. At the first glance it was apparent that he had had a

great deal to drink and, though no amount of liquor made Razumihin quite

drunk, this time he was perceptibly affected by it.



“Listen,” Raskolnikov hastened to say, “I’ve only just come to tell you

you’ve won your bet and that no one really knows what may not happen to

him. I can’t come in; I am so weak that I shall fall down directly. And

so good evening and good-bye! Come and see me to-morrow.”



“Do you know what? I’ll see you home. If you say you’re weak yourself,

you must...”



“And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has just peeped

out?”



“He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle’s, I expect, or perhaps

he has come without being invited... I’ll leave uncle with them, he

is an invaluable person, pity I can’t introduce you to him now. But

confound them all now! They won’t notice me, and I need a little fresh

air, for you’ve come just in the nick of time--another two minutes and I

should have come to blows! They are talking such a lot of wild stuff...

you simply can’t imagine what men will say! Though why shouldn’t you

imagine? Don’t we talk nonsense ourselves? And let them... that’s the

way to learn not to!... Wait a minute, I’ll fetch Zossimov.”



Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily; he showed a special

interest in him; soon his face brightened.



“You must go to bed at once,” he pronounced, examining the patient as

far as he could, “and take something for the night. Will you take it? I

got it ready some time ago... a powder.”



“Two, if you like,” answered Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at once.



“It’s a good thing you are taking him home,” observed Zossimov to

Razumihin--“we shall see how he is to-morrow, to-day he’s not at all

amiss--a considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn...”



“Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were coming out?”

 Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they were in the street. “I won’t tell

you everything, brother, because they are such fools. Zossimov told me

to talk freely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and

afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he’s got a notion in his head

that you are... mad or close on it. Only fancy! In the first place,

you’ve three times the brains he has; in the second, if you are not mad,

you needn’t care a hang that he has got such a wild idea; and thirdly,

that piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental

diseases, and what’s brought him to this conclusion about you was your

conversation to-day with Zametov.”



“Zametov told you all about it?”



“Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does

Zametov.... Well, the fact is, Rodya... the point is... I am a little

drunk now.... But that’s... no matter... the point is that this

idea... you understand? was just being hatched in their brains... you

understand? That is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the idea

is too absurd and especially since the arrest of that painter, that

bubble’s burst and gone for ever. But why are they such fools? I gave

Zametov a bit of a thrashing at the time--that’s between ourselves,

brother; please don’t let out a hint that you know of it; I’ve noticed

he is a ticklish subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna’s. But to-day, to-day

it’s all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! He

took advantage of your fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed

of it himself now; I know that...”



Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk enough to talk too

freely.



“I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of paint,” said

Raskolnikov.



“No need to explain that! And it wasn’t the paint only: the fever had

been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how crushed

that boy is now, you wouldn’t believe! ‘I am not worth his little

finger,’ he says. Yours, he means. He has good feelings at times,

brother. But the lesson, the lesson you gave him to-day in the Palais

de Cristal, that was too good for anything! You frightened him at first,

you know, he nearly went into convulsions! You almost convinced

him again of the truth of all that hideous nonsense, and then you

suddenly--put out your tongue at him: ‘There now, what do you make of

it?’ It was perfect! He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, by

Jove, it’s what they deserve! Ah, that I wasn’t there! He was hoping to

see you awfully. Porfiry, too, wants to make your acquaintance...”



“Ah!... he too... but why did they put me down as mad?”



“Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother.... What struck him,

you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it’s

clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances... and

how that irritated you and worked in with your illness... I am a little

drunk, brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own... I

tell you, he’s mad on mental diseases. But don’t you mind him...”



For half a minute both were silent.



“Listen, Razumihin,” began Raskolnikov, “I want to tell you plainly:

I’ve just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died... I gave them all my

money... and besides I’ve just been kissed by someone who, if I had

killed anyone, would just the same... in fact I saw someone else

there... with a flame-coloured feather... but I am talking nonsense; I

am very weak, support me... we shall be at the stairs directly...”



“What’s the matter? What’s the matter with you?” Razumihin asked

anxiously.



“I am a little giddy, but that’s not the point, I am so sad, so sad...

like a woman. Look, what’s that? Look, look!”



“What is it?”



“Don’t you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack...”



They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level

of the landlady’s door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that

there was a light in Raskolnikov’s garret.



“Queer! Nastasya, perhaps,” observed Razumihin.



“She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago,

but... I don’t care! Good-bye!”



“What do you mean? I am coming with you, we’ll come in together!”



“I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say

good-bye to you here. So give me your hand, good-bye!”



“What’s the matter with you, Rodya?”



“Nothing... come along... you shall be witness.”



They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that

perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. “Ah, I’ve upset him with my

chatter!” he muttered to himself.



When they reached the door they heard voices in the room.



“What is it?” cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the

door; he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered.



His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an

hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of

them, though the news that they had started, were on their way and would

arrive immediately, had been repeated to him only that day? They had

spent that hour and a half plying Nastasya with questions. She was

standing before them and had told them everything by now. They were

beside themselves with alarm when they heard of his “running away”

 to-day, ill and, as they understood from her story, delirious! “Good

Heavens, what had become of him?” Both had been weeping, both had been

in anguish for that hour and a half.



A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov’s entrance. Both rushed to

him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden intolerable sensation struck

him like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them, he

could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him,

laughed and cried. He took a step, tottered and fell to the ground,

fainting.



Anxiety, cries of horror, moans... Razumihin who was standing in the

doorway flew into the room, seized the sick man in his strong arms and

in a moment had him on the sofa.



“It’s nothing, nothing!” he cried to the mother and sister--“it’s only a

faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was much better,

that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming to himself, he is

all right again!”



And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated it, he made

her bend down to see that “he is all right again.” The mother and sister

looked on him with emotion and gratitude, as their Providence. They

had heard already from Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya

during his illness, by this “very competent young man,” as Pulcheria

Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with

Dounia.









PART III







CHAPTER I



Raskolnikov got up, and sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly

to Razumihin to cut short the flow of warm and incoherent consolations

he was addressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand

and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking.

His mother was alarmed by his expression. It revealed an emotion

agonisingly poignant, and at the same time something immovable, almost

insane. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.



Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother’s.



“Go home... with him,” he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumihin,

“good-bye till to-morrow; to-morrow everything... Is it long since you

arrived?”



“This evening, Rodya,” answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “the train was

awfully late. But, Rodya, nothing would induce me to leave you now! I

will spend the night here, near you...”



“Don’t torture me!” he said with a gesture of irritation.



“I will stay with him,” cried Razumihin, “I won’t leave him for a

moment. Bother all my visitors! Let them rage to their hearts’ content!

My uncle is presiding there.”



“How, how can I thank you!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning, once

more pressing Razumihin’s hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her again.



“I can’t have it! I can’t have it!” he repeated irritably, “don’t worry

me! Enough, go away... I can’t stand it!”



“Come, mamma, come out of the room at least for a minute,” Dounia

whispered in dismay; “we are distressing him, that’s evident.”



“Mayn’t I look at him after three years?” wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



“Stay,” he stopped them again, “you keep interrupting me, and my ideas

get muddled.... Have you seen Luzhin?”



“No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya,

that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit you today,” Pulcheria

Alexandrovna added somewhat timidly.



“Yes... he was so kind... Dounia, I promised Luzhin I’d throw him

downstairs and told him to go to hell....”



“Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don’t mean to tell us...”

 Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at

Dounia.



Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her brother, waiting

for what would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from

Nastasya, so far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting it,

and were in painful perplexity and suspense.



“Dounia,” Raskolnikov continued with an effort, “I don’t want that

marriage, so at the first opportunity to-morrow you must refuse Luzhin,

so that we may never hear his name again.”



“Good Heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



“Brother, think what you are saying!” Avdotya Romanovna began

impetuously, but immediately checked herself. “You are not fit to talk

now, perhaps; you are tired,” she added gently.



“You think I am delirious? No... You are marrying Luzhin for _my_

sake. But I won’t accept the sacrifice. And so write a letter before

to-morrow, to refuse him... Let me read it in the morning and that will

be the end of it!”



“That I can’t do!” the girl cried, offended, “what right have you...”



“Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to-morrow... Don’t you see...”

 the mother interposed in dismay. “Better come away!”



“He is raving,” Razumihin cried tipsily, “or how would he dare!

To-morrow all this nonsense will be over... to-day he certainly did

drive him away. That was so. And Luzhin got angry, too.... He made

speeches here, wanted to show off his learning and he went out

crest-fallen....”



“Then it’s true?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



“Good-bye till to-morrow, brother,” said Dounia compassionately--“let us

go, mother... Good-bye, Rodya.”



“Do you hear, sister,” he repeated after them, making a last effort,

“I am not delirious; this marriage is--an infamy. Let me act like

a scoundrel, but you mustn’t... one is enough... and though I am a

scoundrel, I wouldn’t own such a sister. It’s me or Luzhin! Go now....”



“But you’re out of your mind! Despot!” roared Razumihin; but Raskolnikov

did not and perhaps could not answer. He lay down on the sofa, and

turned to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with

interest at Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively

started at her glance.



Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed.



“Nothing would induce me to go,” she whispered in despair to Razumihin.

“I will stay somewhere here... escort Dounia home.”



“You’ll spoil everything,” Razumihin answered in the same whisper,

losing patience--“come out on to the stairs, anyway. Nastasya, show a

light! I assure you,” he went on in a half whisper on the stairs--“that

he was almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you

understand? The doctor himself! Even he gave way and left him, so as not

to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once

and slipped off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him, at this

time of night, and will do himself some mischief....”



“What are you saying?”



“And Avdotya Romanovna can’t possibly be left in those lodgings without

you. Just think where you are staying! That blackguard Pyotr Petrovitch

couldn’t find you better lodgings... But you know I’ve had a little to

drink, and that’s what makes me... swear; don’t mind it....”



“But I’ll go to the landlady here,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted,

“I’ll beseech her to find some corner for Dounia and me for the night. I

can’t leave him like that, I cannot!”



This conversation took place on the landing just before the landlady’s

door. Nastasya lighted them from a step below. Razumihin was in

extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earlier, while he was bringing

Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of

it himself, and his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities he

had imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he

had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with

the two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading them, and giving

them reasons with astonishing plainness of speech, and at almost every

word he uttered, probably to emphasise his arguments, he squeezed their

hands painfully as in a vise. He stared at Avdotya Romanovna without the

least regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of

his huge bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew

them all the closer to him. If they’d told him to jump head foremost

from the staircase, he would have done it without thought or hesitation

in their service. Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man

was really too eccentric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety

over her Rodya she looked on his presence as providential, and was

unwilling to notice all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya Romanovna

shared her anxiety, and was not of timorous disposition, she could not

see the glowing light in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. It

was only the unbounded confidence inspired by Nastasya’s account of her

brother’s queer friend, which prevented her from trying to run away from

him, and to persuade her mother to do the same. She realised, too,

that even running away was perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later,

however, she was considerably reassured; it was characteristic of

Razumihin that he showed his true nature at once, whatever mood he might

be in, so that people quickly saw the sort of man they had to deal with.



“You can’t go to the landlady, that’s perfect nonsense!” he cried. “If

you stay, though you are his mother, you’ll drive him to a frenzy, and

then goodness knows what will happen! Listen, I’ll tell you what I’ll

do: Nastasya will stay with him now, and I’ll conduct you both home, you

can’t be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that

way.... But no matter! Then I’ll run straight back here and a quarter of

an hour later, on my word of honour, I’ll bring you news how he is,

whether he is asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I’ll run home in

a twinkling--I’ve a lot of friends there, all drunk--I’ll fetch

Zossimov--that’s the doctor who is looking after him, he is there, too,

but he is not drunk; he is not drunk, he is never drunk! I’ll drag him

to Rodya, and then to you, so that you’ll get two reports in the

hour--from the doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself, that’s a

very different thing from my account of him! If there’s anything wrong,

I swear I’ll bring you here myself, but, if it’s all right, you go to

bed. And I’ll spend the night here, in the passage, he won’t hear me,

and I’ll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady’s, to be at hand. Which

is better for him: you or the doctor? So come home then! But the

landlady is out of the question; it’s all right for me, but it’s out of

the question for you: she wouldn’t take you, for she’s... for she’s a

fool... She’d be jealous on my account of Avdotya Romanovna and of you,

too, if you want to know... of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She is an

absolutely, absolutely unaccountable character! But I am a fool, too!...

No matter! Come along! Do you trust me? Come, do you trust me or not?”



“Let us go, mother,” said Avdotya Romanovna, “he will certainly do what

he has promised. He has saved Rodya already, and if the doctor really

will consent to spend the night here, what could be better?”



“You see, you... you... understand me, because you are an angel!”

 Razumihin cried in ecstasy, “let us go! Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit

with him with a light; I’ll come in a quarter of an hour.”



Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly convinced, she made no

further resistance. Razumihin gave an arm to each and drew them down

the stairs. He still made her uneasy, as though he was competent and

good-natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed in

such a condition....



“Ah, I see you think I am in such a condition!” Razumihin broke in upon

her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled along the pavement with huge

steps, so that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him, a fact he

did not observe, however. “Nonsense! That is... I am drunk like a fool,

but that’s not it; I am not drunk from wine. It’s seeing you has turned

my head... But don’t mind me! Don’t take any notice: I am talking

nonsense, I am not worthy of you.... I am utterly unworthy of you! The

minute I’ve taken you home, I’ll pour a couple of pailfuls of water over

my head in the gutter here, and then I shall be all right.... If only

you knew how I love you both! Don’t laugh, and don’t be angry! You may

be angry with anyone, but not with me! I am his friend, and therefore I

am your friend, too, I want to be... I had a presentiment... Last year

there was a moment... though it wasn’t a presentiment really, for

you seem to have fallen from heaven. And I expect I shan’t sleep all

night... Zossimov was afraid a little time ago that he would go mad...

that’s why he mustn’t be irritated.”



“What do you say?” cried the mother.



“Did the doctor really say that?” asked Avdotya Romanovna, alarmed.



“Yes, but it’s not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a

powder, I saw it, and then your coming here.... Ah! It would have been

better if you had come to-morrow. It’s a good thing we went away. And in

an hour Zossimov himself will report to you about everything. He is not

drunk! And I shan’t be drunk.... And what made me get so tight? Because

they got me into an argument, damn them! I’ve sworn never to argue! They

talk such trash! I almost came to blows! I’ve left my uncle to preside.

Would you believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism

and that’s just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as unlike

themselves as they can. That’s what they regard as the highest point of

progress. If only their nonsense were their own, but as it is...”



“Listen!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only added

fuel to the flames.



“What do you think?” shouted Razumihin, louder than ever, “you think I

am attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk

nonsense. That’s man’s one privilege over all creation. Through error

you come to the truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any

truth without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a hundred and

fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way; but we can’t even make

mistakes on our own account! Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense,

and I’ll kiss you for it. To go wrong in one’s own way is better than

to go right in someone else’s. In the first case you are a man, in the

second you’re no better than a bird. Truth won’t escape you, but life

can be cramped. There have been examples. And what are we doing now?

In science, development, thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism,

judgment, experience and everything, everything, everything, we are

still in the preparatory class at school. We prefer to live on other

people’s ideas, it’s what we are used to! Am I right, am I right?” cried

Razumihin, pressing and shaking the two ladies’ hands.



“Oh, mercy, I do not know,” cried poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



“Yes, yes... though I don’t agree with you in everything,” added Avdotya

Romanovna earnestly and at once uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand

so painfully.



“Yes, you say yes... well after that you... you...” he cried in

a transport, “you are a fount of goodness, purity, sense... and

perfection. Give me your hand... you give me yours, too! I want to kiss

your hands here at once, on my knees...” and he fell on his knees on the

pavement, fortunately at that time deserted.



“Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna

cried, greatly distressed.



“Get up, get up!” said Dounia laughing, though she, too, was upset.



“Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That’s it! Enough! I

get up and we’ll go on! I am a luckless fool, I am unworthy of you and

drunk... and I am ashamed.... I am not worthy to love you, but to do

homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And

I’ve done homage.... Here are your lodgings, and for that alone Rodya

was right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch away.... How dare he! how

dare he put you in such lodgings! It’s a scandal! Do you know the

sort of people they take in here? And you his betrothed! You are

his betrothed? Yes? Well, then, I’ll tell you, your _fiancé_ is a

scoundrel.”



“Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting...” Pulcheria Alexandrovna

was beginning.



“Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of it,”

 Razumihin made haste to apologise. “But... but you can’t be angry with

me for speaking so! For I speak sincerely and not because... hm, hm!

That would be disgraceful; in fact not because I’m in... hm! Well,

anyway, I won’t say why, I daren’t.... But we all saw to-day when he

came in that that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair

curled at the barber’s, not because he was in such a hurry to show his

wit, but because he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a skin-flint

and a buffoon. That’s evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a

fool, a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see,

ladies?” he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to their rooms, “though

all my friends there are drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we

do talk a lot of trash, and I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the

truth at last, for we are on the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch...

is not on the right path. Though I’ve been calling them all sorts of

names just now, I do respect them all... though I don’t respect Zametov,

I like him, for he is a puppy, and that bullock Zossimov, because he

is an honest man and knows his work. But enough, it’s all said and

forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let’s go on. I know this corridor,

I’ve been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3.... Where are you

here? Which number? eight? Well, lock yourselves in for the night, then.

Don’t let anybody in. In a quarter of an hour I’ll come back with news,

and half an hour later I’ll bring Zossimov, you’ll see! Good-bye, I’ll

run.”



“Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?” said Pulcheria

Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay.



“Don’t worry yourself, mother,” said Dounia, taking off her hat and

cape. “God has sent this gentleman to our aid, though he has come from a

drinking party. We can depend on him, I assure you. And all that he has

done for Rodya....”



“Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring

myself to leave Rodya?... And how different, how different I had fancied

our meeting! How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us....”



Tears came into her eyes.



“No, it’s not that, mother. You didn’t see, you were crying all the

time. He is quite unhinged by serious illness--that’s the reason.”



“Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? And how he talked

to you, Dounia!” said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter,

trying to read her thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia’s

standing up for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven

him. “I am sure he will think better of it to-morrow,” she added,

probing her further.



“And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow... about that,”

 Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going

beyond that, for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was

afraid to discuss. Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter

warmly embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait

anxiously for Razumihin’s return, timidly watching her daughter who

walked up and down the room with her arms folded, lost in thought.

This walking up and down when she was thinking was a habit of Avdotya

Romanovna’s and the mother was always afraid to break in on her

daughter’s mood at such moments.



Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken infatuation

for Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric condition, many

people would have thought it justified if they had seen Avdotya

Romanovna, especially at that moment when she was walking to and

fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya Romanovna was

remarkably good-looking; she was tall, strikingly well-proportioned,

strong and self-reliant--the latter quality was apparent in every

gesture, though it did not in the least detract from the grace and

softness of her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she

might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a

little lighter than her brother’s; there was a proud light in her almost

black eyes and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was

pale, but it was a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness

and vigour. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected

a little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her beautiful

face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and almost haughty

expression. Her face was always more serious and thoughtful than gay;

but how well smiles, how well youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible,

laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a warm, open,

simple-hearted, honest giant like Razumihin, who had never seen anyone

like her and was not quite sober at the time, should lose his head

immediately. Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Dounia for the

first time transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at

meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with indignation

at her brother’s insolent, cruel and ungrateful words--and his fate was

sealed.



He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his drunken

talk on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna, Raskolnikov’s eccentric

landlady, would be jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of

Avdotya Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was

forty-three, her face still retained traces of her former beauty; she

looked much younger than her age, indeed, which is almost always the

case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure

sincere warmth of heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis that to

preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to old age. Her

hair had begun to grow grey and thin, there had long been little crow’s

foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from

anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia

over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and

yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a

great deal even of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a

certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions

which nothing would induce her to cross.



Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin’s departure, there came two

subdued but hurried knocks at the door: he had come back.



“I won’t come in, I haven’t time,” he hastened to say when the door was

opened. “He sleeps like a top, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may

sleep ten hours. Nastasya’s with him; I told her not to leave till I

came. Now I am fetching Zossimov, he will report to you and then you’d

better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do anything....”



And he ran off down the corridor.



“What a very competent and... devoted young man!” cried Pulcheria

Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted.



“He seems a splendid person!” Avdotya Romanovna replied with some

warmth, resuming her walk up and down the room.



It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor

and another knock at the door. Both women waited this time completely

relying on Razumihin’s promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing

Zossimov. Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to

go to Raskolnikov’s, but he came reluctantly and with the greatest

suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting Razumihin in his exhilarated

condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw

that they were really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten

minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria

Alexandrovna. He spoke with marked sympathy, but with the reserve and

extreme seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation.

He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not display the

slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two

ladies. Remarking at his first entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya

Romanovna, he endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and

addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him

extraordinary inward satisfaction. He declared that he thought the

invalid at this moment going on very satisfactorily. According to his

observations the patient’s illness was due partly to his unfortunate

material surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly also

a moral origin, “was, so to speak, the product of several material and

moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas...

and so on.” Noticing stealthily that Avdotya Romanovna was following his

words with close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this

theme. On Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s anxiously and timidly inquiring as

to “some suspicion of insanity,” he replied with a composed and candid

smile that his words had been exaggerated; that certainly the patient

had some fixed idea, something approaching a monomania--he, Zossimov,

was now particularly studying this interesting branch of medicine--but

that it must be recollected that until to-day the patient had been in

delirium and... and that no doubt the presence of his family would have

a favourable effect on his recovery and distract his mind, “if only all

fresh shocks can be avoided,” he added significantly. Then he got up,

took leave with an impressive and affable bow, while blessings, warm

gratitude, and entreaties were showered upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna

spontaneously offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased

with his visit and still more so with himself.



“We’ll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!” Razumihin said in conclusion,

following Zossimov out. “I’ll be with you to-morrow morning as early as

possible with my report.”



“That’s a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna,” remarked Zossimov,

almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street.



“Fetching? You said fetching?” roared Razumihin and he flew at Zossimov

and seized him by the throat. “If you ever dare.... Do you understand?

Do you understand?” he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing

him against the wall. “Do you hear?”



“Let me go, you drunken devil,” said Zossimov, struggling and when he

had let him go, he stared at him and went off into a sudden guffaw.

Razumihin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection.



“Of course, I am an ass,” he observed, sombre as a storm cloud, “but

still... you are another.”



“No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming of any folly.”



They walked along in silence and only when they were close to

Raskolnikov’s lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence in considerable

anxiety.



“Listen,” he said, “you’re a first-rate fellow, but among your other

failings, you’re a loose fish, that I know, and a dirty one, too. You

are a feeble, nervous wretch, and a mass of whims, you’re getting fat

and lazy and can’t deny yourself anything--and I call that dirty because

it leads one straight into the dirt. You’ve let yourself get so slack

that I don’t know how it is you are still a good, even a devoted doctor.

You--a doctor--sleep on a feather bed and get up at night to your

patients! In another three or four years you won’t get up for your

patients... But hang it all, that’s not the point!... You are going

to spend to-night in the landlady’s flat here. (Hard work I’ve had to

persuade her!) And I’ll be in the kitchen. So here’s a chance for you to

get to know her better.... It’s not as you think! There’s not a trace of

anything of the sort, brother...!”



“But I don’t think!”



“Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage

virtue... and yet she’s sighing and melting like wax, simply melting!

Save me from her, by all that’s unholy! She’s most prepossessing... I’ll

repay you, I’ll do anything....”



Zossimov laughed more violently than ever.



“Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?”



“It won’t be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her,

as long as you sit by her and talk. You’re a doctor, too; try curing

her of something. I swear you won’t regret it. She has a piano, and you

know, I strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: ‘I

shed hot tears.’ She likes the genuine article--and well, it all

began with that song; Now you’re a regular performer, a _maître_, a

Rubinstein.... I assure you, you won’t regret it!”



“But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of

marriage, perhaps?”



“Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! Besides she is not

that sort at all.... Tchebarov tried that....”



“Well then, drop her!”



“But I can’t drop her like that!”



“Why can’t you?”



“Well, I can’t, that’s all about it! There’s an element of attraction

here, brother.”



“Then why have you fascinated her?”



“I haven’t fascinated her; perhaps I was fascinated myself in my folly.

But she won’t care a straw whether it’s you or I, so long as somebody

sits beside her, sighing.... I can’t explain the position, brother...

look here, you are good at mathematics, and working at it now... begin

teaching her the integral calculus; upon my soul, I’m not joking, I’m

in earnest, it’ll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh

for a whole year together. I talked to her once for two days at a time

about the Prussian House of Lords (for one must talk of something)--she

just sighed and perspired! And you mustn’t talk of love--she’s bashful

to hysterics--but just let her see you can’t tear yourself away--that’s

enough. It’s fearfully comfortable; you’re quite at home, you can

read, sit, lie about, write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you’re

careful.”



“But what do I want with her?”



“Ach, I can’t make you understand! You see, you are made for each other!

I have often been reminded of you!... You’ll come to it in the end! So

does it matter whether it’s sooner or later? There’s the feather-bed

element here, brother--ach! and not only that! There’s an attraction

here--here you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven,

the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the

world, the essence of pancakes, of savoury fish-pies, of the evening

samovar, of soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on--as

snug as though you were dead, and yet you’re alive--the advantages

of both at once! Well, hang it, brother, what stuff I’m talking, it’s

bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up at night; so I’ll go in and look at

him. But there’s no need, it’s all right. Don’t you worry yourself,

yet if you like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice

anything--delirium or fever--wake me at once. But there can’t be....”







CHAPTER II



Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o’clock, troubled and serious.

He found himself confronted with many new and unlooked-for perplexities.

He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He

remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly

novel experience had befallen him, that he had received an impression

unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognised

clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly

unattainable--so unattainable that he felt positively ashamed of it, and

he hastened to pass to the other more practical cares and difficulties

bequeathed him by that “thrice accursed yesterday.”



The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had shown

himself “base and mean,” not only because he had been drunk, but

because he had taken advantage of the young girl’s position to abuse

her _fiancé_ in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual

relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And

what right had he to criticise him in that hasty and unguarded manner?

Who had asked for his opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as

Avdotya Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there

must be something in him. The lodgings? But after all how could he know

the character of the lodgings? He was furnishing a flat... Foo! how

despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he was drunk?

Such a stupid excuse was even more degrading! In wine is truth, and the

truth had all come out, “that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse

and envious heart”! And would such a dream ever be permissible to

him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl--he, the drunken noisy

braggart of last night? Was it possible to imagine so absurd and cynical

a juxtaposition? Razumihin blushed desperately at the very idea and

suddenly the recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had

said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be jealous of

Avdotya Romanovna... that was simply intolerable. He brought his fist

down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the

bricks flying.



“Of course,” he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of

self-abasement, “of course, all these infamies can never be wiped out or

smoothed over... and so it’s useless even to think of it, and I must

go to them in silence and do my duty... in silence, too... and not ask

forgiveness, and say nothing... for all is lost now!”



And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more carefully than usual.

He hadn’t another suit--if he had had, perhaps he wouldn’t have put it

on. “I would have made a point of not putting it on.” But in any case he

could not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no right to offend

the feelings of others, especially when they were in need of his

assistance and asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully.

His linen was always decent; in that respect he was especially clean.



He washed that morning scrupulously--he got some soap from Nastasya--he

washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to the

question whether to shave his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya Pavlovna

had capital razors that had been left by her late husband), the question

was angrily answered in the negative. “Let it stay as it is! What if

they think that I shaved on purpose to...? They certainly would think

so! Not on any account!”



“And... the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the

manners of a pothouse; and... and even admitting that he knew he had

some of the essentials of a gentleman... what was there in that to be

proud of? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that... and all

the same (he remembered) he, too, had done little things... not exactly

dishonest, and yet.... And what thoughts he sometimes had; hm... and to

set all that beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he’d

make a point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and he

wouldn’t care! He’d be worse!”



He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night

in Praskovya Pavlovna’s parlour, came in.



He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first.

Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse.

Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn’t wake him and promised to see

him again about eleven.



“If he is still at home,” he added. “Damn it all! If one can’t control

one’s patients, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether _he_ will

go to them, or whether _they_ are coming here?”



“They are coming, I think,” said Razumihin, understanding the object

of the question, “and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt.

I’ll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I.”



“But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I’ve plenty

to do besides looking after them.”



“One thing worries me,” interposed Razumihin, frowning. “On the way home

I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him... all sorts of things... and

amongst them that you were afraid that he... might become insane.”



“You told the ladies so, too.”



“I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so

seriously?”



“That’s nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously? You,

yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to

him... and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with

your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was,

perhaps, mad on that very point! If only I’d known what happened then

at the police station and that some wretch... had insulted him with this

suspicion! Hm... I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday.

These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a mole-hill... and

see their fancies as solid realities.... As far as I remember, it was

Zametov’s story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I

know one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat

of a little boy of eight, because he couldn’t endure the jokes he made

every day at table! And in this case his rags, the insolent police

officer, the fever and this suspicion! All that working upon a man half

frantic with hypochondria, and with his morbid exceptional vanity! That

may well have been the starting-point of illness. Well, bother it

all!... And, by the way, that Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but

hm... he shouldn’t have told all that last night. He is an awful

chatterbox!”



“But whom did he tell it to? You and me?”



“And Porfiry.”



“What does that matter?”



“And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his mother and sister?

Tell them to be more careful with him to-day....”



“They’ll get on all right!” Razumihin answered reluctantly.



“Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn’t

seem to dislike him... and they haven’t a farthing, I suppose? eh?”



“But what business is it of yours?” Razumihin cried with annoyance. “How

can I tell whether they’ve a farthing? Ask them yourself and perhaps

you’ll find out....”



“Foo! what an ass you are sometimes! Last night’s wine has not gone off

yet.... Good-bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna from me for my night’s

lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my _bonjour_ through

the door; she was up at seven o’clock, the samovar was taken into her

from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal interview....”



At nine o’clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev’s

house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They

had risen at seven o’clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as

night, bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He

had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna fairly rushed at

him, seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced

timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore at that

moment an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such

complete and unlooked-for respect (in place of the sneering looks and

ill-disguised contempt he had expected), that it threw him into greater

confusion than if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a

subject for conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it.



Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet waked,

Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it, because

“she had something which it was very, very necessary to talk over

beforehand.” Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation

to have it with them; they had waited to have it with him. Avdotya

Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and

they asked him to bring tea which was served at last, but in such

a dirty and disorderly way that the ladies were ashamed. Razumihin

vigorously attacked the lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped

in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s

questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him.



He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted

by their questions, and succeeded in describing to them all the

most important facts he knew of the last year of Raskolnikov’s life,

concluding with a circumstantial account of his illness. He omitted,

however, many things, which were better omitted, including the scene at

the police station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly

to his story, and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied his

listeners, he found that they considered he had hardly begun.



“Tell me, tell me! What do you think...? Excuse me, I still don’t know

your name!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in hastily.



“Dmitri Prokofitch.”



“I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch... how he

looks... on things in general now, that is, how can I explain, what are

his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can,

what are his hopes and, so to say, his dreams? Under what influences is

he now? In a word, I should like...”



“Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?” observed Dounia.



“Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this,

Dmitri Prokofitch!”



“Naturally,” answered Razumihin. “I have no mother, but my uncle comes

every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise me, even in

appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years’ separation

means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion for

a year and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and haughty, and of

late--and perhaps for a long time before--he has been suspicious and

fanciful. He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like

showing his feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his

heart freely. Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply

cold and inhumanly callous; it’s as though he were alternating between

two characters. Sometimes he is fearfully reserved! He says he is

so busy that everything is a hindrance, and yet he lies in bed doing

nothing. He doesn’t jeer at things, not because he hasn’t the wit, but

as though he hadn’t time to waste on such trifles. He never listens

to what is said to him. He is never interested in what interests other

people at any given moment. He thinks very highly of himself and perhaps

he is right. Well, what more? I think your arrival will have a most

beneficial influence upon him.”



“God grant it may,” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, distressed by

Razumihin’s account of her Rodya.



And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna at last.

He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a moment and

looked away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the table, listening

attentively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with her

arms folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting in a question,

without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not listening to

what was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a

white transparent scarf round her neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of

extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed

like a queen, he felt that he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps

just because she was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the misery

of her surroundings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be

afraid of every word he uttered, every gesture he made, which was very

trying for a man who already felt diffident.



“You’ve told us a great deal that is interesting about my brother’s

character... and have told it impartially. I am glad. I thought that you

were too uncritically devoted to him,” observed Avdotya Romanovna with

a smile. “I think you are right that he needs a woman’s care,” she added

thoughtfully.



“I didn’t say so; but I daresay you are right, only...”



“What?”



“He loves no one and perhaps he never will,” Razumihin declared

decisively.



“You mean he is not capable of love?”



“Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully like your brother, in

everything, indeed!” he blurted out suddenly to his own surprise, but

remembering at once what he had just before said of her brother,

he turned as red as a crab and was overcome with confusion. Avdotya

Romanovna couldn’t help laughing when she looked at him.



“You may both be mistaken about Rodya,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked,

slightly piqued. “I am not talking of our present difficulty, Dounia.

What Pyotr Petrovitch writes in this letter and what you and I have

supposed may be mistaken, but you can’t imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch, how

moody and, so to say, capricious he is. I never could depend on what

he would do when he was only fifteen. And I am sure that he might

do something now that nobody else would think of doing... Well, for

instance, do you know how a year and a half ago he astounded me and gave

me a shock that nearly killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that

girl--what was her name--his landlady’s daughter?”



“Did you hear about that affair?” asked Avdotya Romanovna.



“Do you suppose----” Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly. “Do you

suppose that my tears, my entreaties, my illness, my possible death from

grief, our poverty would have made him pause? No, he would calmly have

disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn’t that he doesn’t love us!”



“He has never spoken a word of that affair to me,” Razumihin answered

cautiously. “But I did hear something from Praskovya Pavlovna herself,

though she is by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was

rather strange.”



“And what did you hear?” both the ladies asked at once.



“Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, which

only failed to take place through the girl’s death, was not at all to

Praskovya Pavlovna’s liking. They say, too, the girl was not at all

pretty, in fact I am told positively ugly... and such an invalid... and

queer. But she seems to have had some good qualities. She must have

had some good qualities or it’s quite inexplicable.... She had no money

either and he wouldn’t have considered her money.... But it’s always

difficult to judge in such matters.”



“I am sure she was a good girl,” Avdotya Romanovna observed briefly.



“God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I don’t know

which of them would have caused most misery to the other--he to her

or she to him,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began

tentatively questioning him about the scene on the previous day with

Luzhin, hesitating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to

the latter’s annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently

caused her uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin described it in

detail again, but this time he added his own conclusions: he openly

blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not

seeking to excuse him on the score of his illness.



“He had planned it before his illness,” he added.



“I think so, too,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air.

But she was very much surprised at hearing Razumihin express himself

so carefully and even with a certain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch.

Avdotya Romanovna, too, was struck by it.



“So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovitch?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna

could not resist asking.



“I can have no other opinion of your daughter’s future husband,”

 Razumihin answered firmly and with warmth, “and I don’t say it simply

from vulgar politeness, but because... simply because Avdotya Romanovna

has of her own free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so

rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and...

mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head completely... and this

morning I am ashamed of it.”



He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not

break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment they began

to speak of Luzhin.



Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did not know what

to do. At last, faltering and continually glancing at her daughter, she

confessed that she was exceedingly worried by one circumstance.



“You see, Dmitri Prokofitch,” she began. “I’ll be perfectly open with

Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?”



“Of course, mother,” said Avdotya Romanovna emphatically.



“This is what it is,” she began in haste, as though the permission to

speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her mind. “Very early this

morning we got a note from Pyotr Petrovitch in reply to our letter

announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station, you

know; instead of that he sent a servant to bring us the address of these

lodgings and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would

be here himself this morning. But this morning this note came from him.

You’d better read it yourself; there is one point in it which worries me

very much... you will soon see what that is, and... tell me your candid

opinion, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya’s character better than

anyone and no one can advise us better than you can. Dounia, I must tell

you, made her decision at once, but I still don’t feel sure how to act

and I... I’ve been waiting for your opinion.”



Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous evening and read

as follows:



“Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to inform you

that owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered unable to meet you at

the railway station; I sent a very competent person with the same object

in view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honour of an interview with

you to-morrow morning by business in the Senate that does not admit of

delay, and also that I may not intrude on your family circle while you

are meeting your son, and Avdotya Romanovna her brother. I shall have

the honour of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings

not later than to-morrow evening at eight o’clock precisely, and

herewith I venture to present my earnest and, I may add, imperative

request that Rodion Romanovitch may not be present at our interview--as

he offered me a gross and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my

visit to him in his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire

from you personally an indispensable and circumstantial explanation

upon a certain point, in regard to which I wish to learn your own

interpretation. I have the honour to inform you, in anticipation,

that if, in spite of my request, I meet Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be

compelled to withdraw immediately and then you have only yourself to

blame. I write on the assumption that Rodion Romanovitch who appeared so

ill at my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later and so, being able

to leave the house, may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief

by the testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of a drunken man who

was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a young woman of

notorious behaviour, he gave twenty-five roubles on the pretext of the

funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what pains you were at to

raise that sum. Herewith expressing my special respect to your estimable

daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectful homage

of



“Your humble servant,



“P. LUZHIN.”





“What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?” began Pulcheria Alexandrovna,

almost weeping. “How can I ask Rodya not to come? Yesterday he insisted

so earnestly on our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch and now we are ordered not

to receive Rodya! He will come on purpose if he knows, and... what will

happen then?”



“Act on Avdotya Romanovna’s decision,” Razumihin answered calmly at

once.



“Oh, dear me! She says... goodness knows what she says, she doesn’t

explain her object! She says that it would be best, at least, not that

it would be best, but that it’s absolutely necessary that Rodya should

make a point of being here at eight o’clock and that they must meet....

I didn’t want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him

from coming by some stratagem with your help... because he is so

irritable.... Besides I don’t understand about that drunkard who died

and that daughter, and how he could have given the daughter all the

money... which...”



“Which cost you such sacrifice, mother,” put in Avdotya Romanovna.



“He was not himself yesterday,” Razumihin said thoughtfully, “if you

only knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there

was sense in it too.... Hm! He did say something, as we were going home

yesterday evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I didn’t understand

a word.... But last night, I myself...”



“The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him ourselves and

there I assure you we shall see at once what’s to be done. Besides,

it’s getting late--good heavens, it’s past ten,” she cried looking at

a splendid gold enamelled watch which hung round her neck on a thin

Venetian chain, and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her

dress. “A present from her _fiancé_,” thought Razumihin.



“We must start, Dounia, we must start,” her mother cried in a flutter.

“He will be thinking we are still angry after yesterday, from our coming

so late. Merciful heavens!”



While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle;

Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as Razumihin noticed, were

not merely shabby but had holes in them, and yet this evident poverty

gave the two ladies an air of special dignity, which is always found in

people who know how to wear poor clothes. Razumihin looked reverently

at Dounia and felt proud of escorting her. “The queen who mended her

stockings in prison,” he thought, “must have looked then every inch a

queen and even more a queen than at sumptuous banquets and levées.”



“My God!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “little did I think that I

should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodya! I am afraid,

Dmitri Prokofitch,” she added, glancing at him timidly.



“Don’t be afraid, mother,” said Dounia, kissing her, “better have faith

in him.”



“Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven’t slept all night,”

 exclaimed the poor woman.



They came out into the street.



“Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of

Marfa Petrovna... she was all in white... she came up to me, took

my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly as though she were

blaming me.... Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don’t know, Dmitri

Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna’s dead!”



“No, I didn’t know; who is Marfa Petrovna?”



“She died suddenly; and only fancy...”



“Afterwards, mamma,” put in Dounia. “He doesn’t know who Marfa Petrovna

is.”



“Ah, you don’t know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us.

Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don’t know what I am thinking about

these last few days. I look upon you really as a providence for us, and

so I took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a

relation.... Don’t be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what’s the

matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?”



“Yes, I bruised it,” muttered Razumihin overjoyed.



“I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds fault

with me.... But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether

he is awake? Does this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen,

you say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy

him with my... weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri Prokofitch, how am I to

treat him? I feel quite distracted, you know.”



“Don’t question him too much about anything if you see him frown; don’t

ask him too much about his health; he doesn’t like that.”



“Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here are the

stairs.... What an awful staircase!”



“Mother, you are quite pale, don’t distress yourself, darling,” said

Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes she added: “He ought to be

happy at seeing you, and you are tormenting yourself so.”



“Wait, I’ll peep in and see whether he has waked up.”



The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, and when they

reached the landlady’s door on the fourth storey, they noticed that her

door was a tiny crack open and that two keen black eyes were watching

them from the darkness within. When their eyes met, the door was

suddenly shut with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried

out.







CHAPTER III



“He is well, quite well!” Zossimov cried cheerfully as they entered.



He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place

as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner,

fully dressed and carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for

some time past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed

to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen.



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.



“Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well,” said Raskolnikov,

giving his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which made Pulcheria

Alexandrovna radiant at once. “And I don’t say this _as I did

yesterday_,” he said, addressing Razumihin, with a friendly pressure of

his hand.



“Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day,” began Zossimov, much

delighted at the ladies’ entrance, for he had not succeeded in keeping

up a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. “In another three or

four days, if he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is,

as he was a month ago, or two... or perhaps even three. This has been

coming on for a long while.... eh? Confess, now, that it has been

perhaps your own fault?” he added, with a tentative smile, as though

still afraid of irritating him.



“It is very possible,” answered Raskolnikov coldly.



“I should say, too,” continued Zossimov with zest, “that your complete

recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you,

I should like to impress upon you that it is essential to avoid the

elementary, so to speak, fundamental causes tending to produce your

morbid condition: in that case you will be cured, if not, it will go

from bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don’t know, but they must

be known to you. You are an intelligent man, and must have observed

yourself, of course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement

coincides with your leaving the university. You must not be left without

occupation, and so, work and a definite aim set before you might, I

fancy, be very beneficial.”



“Yes, yes; you are perfectly right.... I will make haste and return to

the university: and then everything will go smoothly....”



Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before

the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified, when, glancing at his

patient, he observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted

an instant, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking

Zossimov, especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night.



“What! he saw you last night?” Raskolnikov asked, as though startled.

“Then you have not slept either after your journey.”



“Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o’clock. Dounia and I never go to

bed before two at home.”



“I don’t know how to thank him either,” Raskolnikov went on,

suddenly frowning and looking down. “Setting aside the question of

payment--forgive me for referring to it (he turned to Zossimov)--I

really don’t know what I have done to deserve such special attention

from you! I simply don’t understand it... and... and... it weighs upon

me, indeed, because I don’t understand it. I tell you so candidly.”



“Don’t be irritated.” Zossimov forced himself to laugh. “Assume that you

are my first patient--well--we fellows just beginning to practise love

our first patients as if they were our children, and some almost fall in

love with them. And, of course, I am not rich in patients.”



“I say nothing about him,” added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin,

“though he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble.”



“What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood to-day,

are you?” shouted Razumihin.



If he had had more penetration he would have seen that there was no

trace of sentimentality in him, but something indeed quite the opposite.

But Avdotya Romanovna noticed it. She was intently and uneasily watching

her brother.



“As for you, mother, I don’t dare to speak,” he went on, as though

repeating a lesson learned by heart. “It is only to-day that I have

been able to realise a little how distressed you must have been here

yesterday, waiting for me to come back.”



When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister,

smiling without a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real

unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at once, and warmly pressed his

hand, overjoyed and thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her

since their dispute the previous day. The mother’s face lighted up

with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken

reconciliation. “Yes, that is what I love him for,” Razumihin,

exaggerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in his

chair. “He has these movements.”



“And how well he does it all,” the mother was thinking to herself. “What

generous impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he put an end

to all the misunderstanding with his sister--simply by holding out his

hand at the right minute and looking at her like that.... And what

fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is!... He is even better

looking than Dounia.... But, good heavens, what a suit--how terribly

he’s dressed!... Vasya, the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanitch’s shop, is

better dressed! I could rush at him and hug him... weep over him--but

I am afraid.... Oh, dear, he’s so strange! He’s talking kindly, but I’m

afraid! Why, what am I afraid of?...”



“Oh, Rodya, you wouldn’t believe,” she began suddenly, in haste to

answer his words to her, “how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now

that it’s all over and done with and we are quite happy again--I can

tell you. Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace

you and that woman--ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya!... She told

us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had just run away

from the doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the

streets. You can’t imagine how we felt! I couldn’t help thinking of the

tragic end of Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father’s--you

can’t remember him, Rodya--who ran out in the same way in a high fever

and fell into the well in the court-yard and they couldn’t pull him out

till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We were on the point of

rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask him to help.... Because we were

alone, utterly alone,” she said plaintively and stopped short,

suddenly, recollecting it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr

Petrovitch, although “we are quite happy again.”



“Yes, yes.... Of course it’s very annoying....” Raskolnikov muttered in

reply, but with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Dounia gazed

at him in perplexity.



“What else was it I wanted to say?” He went on trying to recollect. “Oh,

yes; mother, and you too, Dounia, please don’t think that I didn’t mean

to come and see you to-day and was waiting for you to come first.”



“What are you saying, Rodya?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too,

was surprised.



“Is he answering us as a duty?” Dounia wondered. “Is he being reconciled

and asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating

a lesson?”



“I’ve only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing

to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her... Nastasya... to wash out

the blood... I’ve only just dressed.”



“Blood! What blood?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm.



“Oh, nothing--don’t be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about

yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced upon a man who had been run

over... a clerk...”



“Delirious? But you remember everything!” Razumihin interrupted.



“That’s true,” Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. “I

remember everything even to the slightest detail, and yet--why I did

that and went there and said that, I can’t clearly explain now.”



“A familiar phenomenon,” interposed Zossimov, “actions are sometimes

performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the

actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions--it’s

like a dream.”



“Perhaps it’s a good thing really that he should think me almost a

madman,” thought Raskolnikov.



“Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too,” observed

Dounia, looking uneasily at Zossimov.



“There is some truth in your observation,” the latter replied. “In that

sense we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen, but with the

slight difference that the deranged are somewhat madder, for we

must draw a line. A normal man, it is true, hardly exists. Among

dozens--perhaps hundreds of thousands--hardly one is to be met with.”



At the word “madman,” carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter on

his favourite subject, everyone frowned.



Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a

strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something.



“Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!”

 Razumihin cried hastily.



“What?” Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. “Oh... I got spattered with

blood helping to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mamma, I did an

unpardonable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave

away all the money you sent me... to his wife for the funeral. She’s

a widow now, in consumption, a poor creature... three little children,

starving... nothing in the house... there’s a daughter, too... perhaps

you’d have given it yourself if you’d seen them. But I had no right to

do it I admit, especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself.

To help others one must have the right to do it, or else _Crevez,

chiens, si vous n’êtes pas contents_.” He laughed, “That’s right, isn’t

it, Dounia?”



“No, it’s not,” answered Dounia firmly.



“Bah! you, too, have ideals,” he muttered, looking at her almost with

hatred, and smiling sarcastically. “I ought to have considered that....

Well, that’s praiseworthy, and it’s better for you... and if you reach a

line you won’t overstep, you will be unhappy... and if you overstep it,

maybe you will be still unhappier.... But all that’s nonsense,” he added

irritably, vexed at being carried away. “I only meant to say that I beg

your forgiveness, mother,” he concluded, shortly and abruptly.



“That’s enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good,”

 said his mother, delighted.



“Don’t be too sure,” he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile.



A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all this

conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the

forgiveness, and all were feeling it.



“It is as though they were afraid of me,” Raskolnikov was thinking

to himself, looking askance at his mother and sister. Pulcheria

Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the longer she kept silent.



“Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much,” flashed through

his mind.



“Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna

suddenly blurted out.



“What Marfa Petrovna?”



“Oh, mercy on us--Marfa Petrovna Svidrigaïlov. I wrote you so much about

her.”



“A-a-h! Yes, I remember.... So she’s dead! Oh, really?” he roused

himself suddenly, as if waking up. “What did she die of?”



“Only imagine, quite suddenly,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered

hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. “On the very day I was sending

you that letter! Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been

the cause of her death. They say he beat her dreadfully.”



“Why, were they on such bad terms?” he asked, addressing his sister.



“Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was always very

patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven years of their

married life he gave way to her, too much so indeed, in many cases. All

of a sudden he seems to have lost patience.”



“Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven

years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?”



“No, no, he’s an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!” Dounia

answered, almost with a shudder, knitting her brows, and sinking into

thought.



“That had happened in the morning,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on

hurriedly. “And directly afterwards she ordered the horses to be

harnessed to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used

to drive to the town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am

told....”



“After the beating?”



“That was always her... habit; and immediately after dinner, so as not

to be late in starting, she went to the bath-house.... You see, she was

undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and

she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got

into the water when she suddenly had a stroke!”



“I should think so,” said Zossimov.



“And did he beat her badly?”



“What does that matter!” put in Dounia.



“H’m! But I don’t know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother,”

 said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite of himself.



“Ah, my dear, I don’t know what to talk about,” broke from Pulcheria

Alexandrovna.



“Why, are you all afraid of me?” he asked, with a constrained smile.



“That’s certainly true,” said Dounia, looking directly and sternly at

her brother. “Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the

stairs.”



His face worked, as though in convulsion.



“Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don’t be angry, please, Rodya....

Why did you say that, Dounia?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began,

overwhelmed--“You see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the

train, how we should meet, how we should talk over everything

together.... And I was so happy, I did not notice the journey! But what

am I saying? I am happy now.... You should not, Dounia.... I am happy

now--simply in seeing you, Rodya....”



“Hush, mother,” he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but

pressing her hand. “We shall have time to speak freely of everything!”



As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned

pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly

chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to

him that he had just told a fearful lie--that he would never now be

able to speak freely of everything--that he would never again be able to

_speak_ of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that

for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not

looking at anyone walked towards the door.



“What are you about?” cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm.



He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. They were

all looking at him in perplexity.



“But what are you all so dull for?” he shouted, suddenly and quite

unexpectedly. “Do say something! What’s the use of sitting like this?

Come, do speak. Let us talk.... We meet together and sit in silence....

Come, anything!”



“Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning

again,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.



“What is the matter, Rodya?” asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully.



“Oh, nothing! I remembered something,” he answered, and suddenly

laughed.



“Well, if you remembered something; that’s all right!... I was beginning

to think...” muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. “It is time

for me to be off. I will look in again perhaps... if I can...” He made

his bows, and went out.



“What an excellent man!” observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



“Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent,” Raskolnikov

began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he

had not shown till then. “I can’t remember where I met him before my

illness.... I believe I have met him somewhere----... And this is a good

man, too,” he nodded at Razumihin. “Do you like him, Dounia?” he asked

her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed.



“Very much,” answered Dounia.



“Foo!--what a pig you are!” Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible

confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled

faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud.



“Where are you off to?”



“I must go.”



“You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don’t go.

What’s the time? Is it twelve o’clock? What a pretty watch you have got,

Dounia. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking.”



“It was a present from Marfa Petrovna,” answered Dounia.



“And a very expensive one!” added Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



“A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady’s.”



“I like that sort,” said Dounia.



“So it is not a present from her _fiancé_,” thought Razumihin, and was

unreasonably delighted.



“I thought it was Luzhin’s present,” observed Raskolnikov.



“No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet.”



“A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and wanted to get

married?” he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted

by the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke of it.



“Oh, yes, my dear.”



Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia and Razumihin.



“H’m, yes. What shall I tell you? I don’t remember much indeed. She was

such a sickly girl,” he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again.

“Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was

always dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she

began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very

well. She was an ugly little thing. I really don’t know what drew me

to her then--I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been

lame or hunchback, I believe I should have liked her better still,” he

smiled dreamily. “Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium.”



“No, it was not only spring delirium,” said Dounia, with warm feeling.



He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not hear or did

not understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up,

went up to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place and sat down.



“You love her even now?” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched.



“Her? Now? Oh, yes.... You ask about her? No... that’s all now, as

it were, in another world... and so long ago. And indeed everything

happening here seems somehow far away.” He looked attentively at them.

“You, now... I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away...

but, goodness knows why we are talking of that! And what’s the use of

asking about it?” he added with annoyance, and biting his nails, fell

into dreamy silence again.



“What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It’s like a tomb,” said

Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. “I

am sure it’s quite half through your lodging you have become so

melancholy.”



“My lodging,” he answered, listlessly. “Yes, the lodging had a great

deal to do with it.... I thought that, too.... If only you knew, though,

what a strange thing you said just now, mother,” he said, laughing

strangely.



A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister,

with him after three years’ absence, this intimate tone of conversation,

in face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything,

would have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent

matter which must be settled one way or the other that day--so he had

decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, as a means of

escape.



“Listen, Dounia,” he began, gravely and drily, “of course I beg your

pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to tell you again that

I do not withdraw from my chief point. It is me or Luzhin. If I am a

scoundrel, you must not be. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease

at once to look on you as a sister.”



“Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again,” Pulcheria

Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. “And why do you call yourself a

scoundrel? I can’t bear it. You said the same yesterday.”



“Brother,” Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. “In all

this there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at night,

and found out the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am

sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That is not the case at

all. I am simply marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for

me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to

my family. But that is not the chief motive for my decision....”



“She is lying,” he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively.

“Proud creature! She won’t admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too

haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate.... Oh,

how I... hate them all!”



“In fact,” continued Dounia, “I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because of

two evils I choose the less. I intend to do honestly all he expects of

me, so I am not deceiving him.... Why did you smile just now?” She, too,

flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes.



“All?” he asked, with a malignant grin.



“Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovitch’s

courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too

well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too.... Why are you laughing

again?”



“And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. You are

intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold your

own against me.... You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked

with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you

are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush for it.”



“It is not true. I am not lying,” cried Dounia, losing her composure.

“I would not marry him if I were not convinced that he esteems me

and thinks highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly

convinced that I can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing

proof of it this very day... and such a marriage is not a vileness, as

you say! And even if you were right, if I really had determined on a

vile action, is it not merciless on your part to speak to me like that?

Why do you demand of me a heroism that perhaps you have not either? It

is despotism; it is tyranny. If I ruin anyone, it is only myself.... I

am not committing a murder. Why do you look at me like that? Why are you

so pale? Rodya, darling, what’s the matter?”



“Good heavens! You have made him faint,” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



“No, no, nonsense! It’s nothing. A little giddiness--not fainting. You

have fainting on the brain. H’m, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In

what way will you get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him,

and that he... esteems you, as you said. I think you said to-day?”



“Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch’s letter,” said Dounia.



With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He

took it with great interest, but, before opening it, he suddenly looked

with a sort of wonder at Dounia.



“It is strange,” he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. “What

am I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like!”



He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for

some time at his sister, as though puzzled. He opened the letter at

last, still with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then,

slowly and attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected

something particular.



“What surprises me,” he began, after a short pause, handing the letter

to his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, “is that he is a

business man, a lawyer, and his conversation is pretentious indeed, and

yet he writes such an uneducated letter.”



They all started. They had expected something quite different.



“But they all write like that, you know,” Razumihin observed, abruptly.



“Have you read it?”



“Yes.”



“We showed him, Rodya. We... consulted him just now,” Pulcheria

Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.



“That’s just the jargon of the courts,” Razumihin put in. “Legal

documents are written like that to this day.”



“Legal? Yes, it’s just legal--business language--not so very uneducated,

and not quite educated--business language!”



“Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap

education, he is proud indeed of having made his own way,” Avdotya

Romanovna observed, somewhat offended by her brother’s tone.



“Well, if he’s proud of it, he has reason, I don’t deny it. You seem to

be offended, sister, at my making only such a frivolous criticism on the

letter, and to think that I speak of such trifling matters on purpose to

annoy you. It is quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style

occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things stand. There

is one expression, ‘blame yourselves’, put in very significantly and

plainly, and there is besides a threat that he will go away at once if I

am present. That threat to go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon

you both if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after summoning

you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can one resent such an

expression from Luzhin, as we should if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had

written it, or Zossimov, or one of us?”



“N-no,” answered Dounia, with more animation. “I saw clearly that it

was too naïvely expressed, and that perhaps he simply has no skill

in writing... that is a true criticism, brother. I did not expect,

indeed...”



“It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than perhaps he

intended. But I must disillusion you a little. There is one expression

in the letter, one slander about me, and rather a contemptible one. I

gave the money last night to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed

with trouble, and not ‘on the pretext of the funeral,’ but simply to pay

for the funeral, and not to the daughter--a young woman, as he writes,

of notorious behaviour (whom I saw last night for the first time in my

life)--but to the widow. In all this I see a too hasty desire to slander

me and to raise dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal

jargon, that is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and

with a very naïve eagerness. He is a man of intelligence, but to act

sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all shows the man and... I

don’t think he has a great esteem for you. I tell you this simply to

warn you, because I sincerely wish for your good...”



Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only

awaiting the evening.



“Then what is your decision, Rodya?” asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who

was more uneasy than ever at the sudden, new businesslike tone of his

talk.



“What decision?”



“You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be with us this

evening, and that he will go away if you come. So will you... come?”



“That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you first, if you are

not offended by such a request; and secondly, by Dounia, if she, too, is

not offended. I will do what you think best,” he added, drily.



“Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her,” Pulcheria

Alexandrovna hastened to declare.



“I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to be with us at

this interview,” said Dounia. “Will you come?”



“Yes.”



“I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o’clock,” she said,

addressing Razumihin. “Mother, I am inviting him, too.”



“Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided,” added Pulcheria

Alexandrovna, “so be it. I shall feel easier myself. I do not like

concealment and deception. Better let us have the whole truth.... Pyotr

Petrovitch may be angry or not, now!”







CHAPTER IV



At that moment the door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into

the room, looking timidly about her. Everyone turned towards her with

surprise and curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognise

her. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her yesterday for

the first time, but at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such

a dress, that his memory retained a very different image of her. Now she

was a modestly and poorly-dressed young girl, very young, indeed,

almost like a child, with a modest and refined manner, with a candid but

somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wearing a very plain indoor

dress, and had on a shabby old-fashioned hat, but she still carried a

parasol. Unexpectedly finding the room full of people, she was not so

much embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like a

little child. She was even about to retreat. “Oh... it’s you!” said

Raskolnikov, extremely astonished, and he, too, was confused. He at once

recollected that his mother and sister knew through Luzhin’s letter

of “some young woman of notorious behaviour.” He had only just been

protesting against Luzhin’s calumny and declaring that he had seen the

girl last night for the first time, and suddenly she had walked in. He

remembered, too, that he had not protested against the expression “of

notorious behaviour.” All this passed vaguely and fleetingly through

his brain, but looking at her more intently, he saw that the humiliated

creature was so humiliated that he felt suddenly sorry for her. When she

made a movement to retreat in terror, it sent a pang to his heart.



“I did not expect you,” he said, hurriedly, with a look that made her

stop. “Please sit down. You come, no doubt, from Katerina Ivanovna.

Allow me--not there. Sit here....”



At Sonia’s entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on one of

Raskolnikov’s three chairs, close to the door, got up to allow her to

enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa where

Zossimov had been sitting, but feeling that the sofa which served him

as a bed, was too _familiar_ a place, he hurriedly motioned her to

Razumihin’s chair.



“You sit here,” he said to Razumihin, putting him on the sofa.



Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked timidly at the

two ladies. It was evidently almost inconceivable to herself that she

could sit down beside them. At the thought of it, she was so frightened

that she hurriedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed

Raskolnikov.



“I... I... have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you,” she

began falteringly. “I come from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to

send. Katerina Ivanovna told me to beg you... to be at the service... in

the morning... at Mitrofanievsky... and then... to us... to her...

to do her the honour... she told me to beg you...” Sonia stammered and

ceased speaking.



“I will try, certainly, most certainly,” answered Raskolnikov. He,

too, stood up, and he, too, faltered and could not finish his sentence.

“Please sit down,” he said, suddenly. “I want to talk to you. You are

perhaps in a hurry, but please, be so kind, spare me two minutes,” and

he drew up a chair for her.



Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried, frightened

look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes. Raskolnikov’s pale face

flushed, a shudder passed over him, his eyes glowed.



“Mother,” he said, firmly and insistently, “this is Sofya Semyonovna

Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was run

over yesterday before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling you.”



Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly screwed up

her eyes. In spite of her embarrassment before Rodya’s urgent and

challenging look, she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dounia

gazed gravely and intently into the poor girl’s face, and scrutinised

her with perplexity. Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise

her eyes again, but was more embarrassed than ever.



“I wanted to ask you,” said Raskolnikov, hastily, “how things were

arranged yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance?”



“No, that was all right... it was too evident, the cause of death...

they did not worry us... only the lodgers are angry.”



“Why?”



“At the body’s remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that,

to-day, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until

to-morrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees

herself that it’s necessary...”



“To-day, then?”



“She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church to-morrow for the

service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch.”



“She is giving a funeral lunch?”



“Yes... just a little.... She told me to thank you very much for helping

us yesterday. But for you, we should have had nothing for the funeral.”



All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with an effort, she

controlled herself, looking down again.



During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her carefully. She had a

thin, very thin, pale little face, rather irregular and angular, with a

sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called pretty, but

her blue eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such

a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help

being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had another

peculiar characteristic. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked

almost a little girl--almost a child. And in some of her gestures, this

childishness seemed almost absurd.



“But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such small means?

Does she even mean to have a funeral lunch?” Raskolnikov asked,

persistently keeping up the conversation.



“The coffin will be plain, of course... and everything will be plain, so

it won’t cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it all out, so

that there will be enough left... and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious

it should be so. You know one can’t... it’s a comfort to her... she is

like that, you know....”



“I understand, I understand... of course... why do you look at my room

like that? My mother has just said it is like a tomb.”



“You gave us everything yesterday,” Sonia said suddenly, in reply, in a

loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down in confusion. Her lips

and chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once

by Raskolnikov’s poor surroundings, and now these words broke out

spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Dounia’s eyes,

and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia.



“Rodya,” she said, getting up, “we shall have dinner together, of

course. Come, Dounia.... And you, Rodya, had better go for a little

walk, and then rest and lie down before you come to see us.... I am

afraid we have exhausted you....”



“Yes, yes, I’ll come,” he answered, getting up fussily. “But I have

something to see to.”



“But surely you will have dinner together?” cried Razumihin, looking in

surprise at Raskolnikov. “What do you mean?”



“Yes, yes, I am coming... of course, of course! And you stay a minute.

You do not want him just now, do you, mother? Or perhaps I am taking him

from you?”



“Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of dining

with us?”



“Please do,” added Dounia.



Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all

strangely embarrassed.



“Good-bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like saying good-bye.

Good-bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said good-bye again.”



Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it somehow failed

to come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room.



But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and following her mother

out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave

a hurried, frightened curtsy. There was a look of poignant discomfort

in her face, as though Avdotya Romanovna’s courtesy and attention were

oppressive and painful to her.



“Dounia, good-bye,” called Raskolnikov, in the passage. “Give me your

hand.”



“Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?” said Dounia, turning

warmly and awkwardly to him.



“Never mind, give it to me again.” And he squeezed her fingers warmly.



Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went off quite happy.



“Come, that’s capital,” he said to Sonia, going back and looking

brightly at her. “God give peace to the dead, the living have still to

live. That is right, isn’t it?”



Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his face. He looked

at her for some moments in silence. The whole history of the dead father

floated before his memory in those moments....



*****



“Heavens, Dounia,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they were in

the street, “I really feel relieved myself at coming away--more at ease.

How little did I think yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad

of that.”



“I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don’t you see it?

Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be patient, and much, much

can be forgiven.”



“Well, you were not very patient!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up,

hotly and jealously. “Do you know, Dounia, I was looking at you two. You

are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You

are both melancholy, both morose and hot-tempered, both haughty and both

generous.... Surely he can’t be an egoist, Dounia. Eh? When I think of

what is in store for us this evening, my heart sinks!”



“Don’t be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be.”



“Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr Petrovitch

breaks it off?” poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously.



“He won’t be worth much if he does,” answered Dounia, sharply and

contemptuously.



“We did well to come away,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in.

“He was in a hurry about some business or other. If he gets out and has

a breath of air... it is fearfully close in his room.... But where is

one to get a breath of air here? The very streets here feel like shut-up

rooms. Good heavens! what a town!... stay... this side... they will

crush you--carrying something. Why, it is a piano they have got, I

declare... how they push!... I am very much afraid of that young woman,

too.”



“What young woman, mother?”



“Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just now.”



“Why?”



“I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it or not, but

as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief

cause of the trouble....”



“Nothing of the sort!” cried Dounia, in vexation. “What nonsense, with

your presentiments, mother! He only made her acquaintance the evening

before, and he did not know her when she came in.”



“Well, you will see.... She worries me; but you will see, you will

see! I was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes. I could

scarcely sit still in my chair when he began introducing her, do you

remember? It seems so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like that

about her, and he introduces her to us--to you! So he must think a great

deal of her.”



“People will write anything. We were talked about and written about,

too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she is a good girl, and that it

is all nonsense.”



“God grant it may be!”



“And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer,” Dounia snapped out,

suddenly.



Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not resumed.



*****



“I will tell you what I want with you,” said Raskolnikov, drawing

Razumihin to the window.



“Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming,” Sonia said

hurriedly, preparing to depart.



“One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets. You are not in our

way. I want to have another word or two with you. Listen!” he turned

suddenly to Razumihin again. “You know that... what’s his name...

Porfiry Petrovitch?”



“I should think so! He is a relation. Why?” added the latter, with

interest.



“Is not he managing that case... you know, about that murder?... You

were speaking about it yesterday.”



“Yes... well?” Razumihin’s eyes opened wide.



“He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have some

pledges there, too--trifles--a ring my sister gave me as a keepsake when

I left home, and my father’s silver watch--they are only worth five or

six roubles altogether... but I value them. So what am I to do now? I

do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was quaking just

now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, when we spoke of Dounia’s

watch. It is the only thing of father’s left us. She would be ill if

it were lost. You know what women are. So tell me what to do. I know I

ought to have given notice at the police station, but would it not be

better to go straight to Porfiry? Eh? What do you think? The matter

might be settled more quickly. You see, mother may ask for it before

dinner.”



“Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry,” Razumihin

shouted in extraordinary excitement. “Well, how glad I am. Let us go at

once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find him.”



“Very well, let us go.”



“And he will be very, very glad to make your acquaintance. I have

often talked to him of you at different times. I was speaking of you

yesterday. Let us go. So you knew the old woman? So that’s it! It is all

turning out splendidly.... Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna...”



“Sofya Semyonovna,” corrected Raskolnikov. “Sofya Semyonovna, this is my

friend Razumihin, and he is a good man.”



“If you have to go now,” Sonia was beginning, not looking at Razumihin

at all, and still more embarrassed.



“Let us go,” decided Raskolnikov. “I will come to you to-day, Sofya

Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live.”



He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and avoided her

eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed as she did so. They all went

out together.



“Don’t you lock up?” asked Razumihin, following him on to the stairs.



“Never,” answered Raskolnikov. “I have been meaning to buy a lock for

these two years. People are happy who have no need of locks,” he said,

laughing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway.



“Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did you find me, by the

way?” he added, as though he wanted to say something quite different. He

wanted to look at her soft clear eyes, but this was not easy.



“Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday.”



“Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is your sister?

Did I give her the address?”



“Why, had you forgotten?”



“No, I remember.”



“I had heard my father speak of you... only I did not know your name,

and he did not know it. And now I came... and as I had learnt your name,

I asked to-day, ‘Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?’ I did not know you

had only a room too.... Good-bye, I will tell Katerina Ivanovna.”



She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away looking down,

hurrying to get out of sight as soon as possible, to walk the twenty

steps to the turning on the right and to be at last alone, and then

moving rapidly along, looking at no one, noticing nothing, to think, to

remember, to meditate on every word, every detail. Never, never had she

felt anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a whole new world was

opening before her. She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to

come to her that day, perhaps at once!



“Only not to-day, please, not to-day!” she kept muttering with a sinking

heart, as though entreating someone, like a frightened child. “Mercy! to

me... to that room... he will see... oh, dear!”



She was not capable at that instant of noticing an unknown gentleman who

was watching her and following at her heels. He had accompanied her from

the gateway. At the moment when Razumihin, Raskolnikov, and she stood

still at parting on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing,

started on hearing Sonia’s words: “and I asked where Mr. Raskolnikov

lived?” He turned a rapid but attentive look upon all three, especially

upon Raskolnikov, to whom Sonia was speaking; then looked back and noted

the house. All this was done in an instant as he passed, and trying not

to betray his interest, he walked on more slowly as though waiting for

something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were parting, and

that Sonia was going home.



“Home? Where? I’ve seen that face somewhere,” he thought. “I must find

out.”



At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw Sonia coming the

same way, noticing nothing. She turned the corner. He followed her on

the other side. After about fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook

her and kept two or three yards behind her.



He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad high

shoulders which made him look as though he stooped a little. He wore

good and fashionable clothes, and looked like a gentleman of position.

He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement at each

step; his gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather pleasant face

with high cheek-bones and a fresh colour, not often seen in Petersburg.

His flaxen hair was still abundant, and only touched here and there with

grey, and his thick square beard was even lighter than his hair.

His eyes were blue and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips were

crimson. He was a remarkedly well-preserved man and looked much younger

than his years.



When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the only two persons on

the pavement. He observed her dreaminess and preoccupation. On reaching

the house where she lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed

her, seeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right

corner. “Bah!” muttered the unknown gentleman, and mounted the stairs

behind her. Only then Sonia noticed him. She reached the third storey,

turned down the passage, and rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed

in chalk, “Kapernaumov, Tailor.” “Bah!” the stranger repeated again,

wondering at the strange coincidence, and he rang next door, at No. 8.

The doors were two or three yards apart.



“You lodge at Kapernaumov’s,” he said, looking at Sonia and laughing.

“He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close here at

Madame Resslich’s. How odd!” Sonia looked at him attentively.



“We are neighbours,” he went on gaily. “I only came to town the day

before yesterday. Good-bye for the present.”



Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt for

some reason ashamed and uneasy.



*****



On the way to Porfiry’s, Razumihin was obviously excited.



“That’s capital, brother,” he repeated several times, “and I am glad! I

am glad!”



“What are you glad about?” Raskolnikov thought to himself.



“I didn’t know that you pledged things at the old woman’s, too. And...

was it long ago? I mean, was it long since you were there?”



“What a simple-hearted fool he is!”



“When was it?” Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. “Two or three

days before her death it must have been. But I am not going to redeem

the things now,” he put in with a sort of hurried and conspicuous

solicitude about the things. “I’ve not more than a silver rouble

left... after last night’s accursed delirium!”



He laid special emphasis on the delirium.



“Yes, yes,” Razumihin hastened to agree--with what was not clear. “Then

that’s why you... were stuck... partly... you know in your delirium you

were continually mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes... that’s

clear, it’s all clear now.”



“Hullo! How that idea must have got about among them. Here this man will

go to the stake for me, and I find him delighted at having it _cleared

up_ why I spoke of rings in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have

on all of them!”



“Shall we find him?” he asked suddenly.



“Oh, yes,” Razumihin answered quickly. “He is a nice fellow, you will

see, brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say, he is a man of polished

manners, but I mean clumsy in a different sense. He is an intelligent

fellow, very much so indeed, but he has his own range of ideas.... He

is incredulous, sceptical, cynical... he likes to impose on people, or

rather to make fun of them. His is the old, circumstantial method....

But he understands his work... thoroughly.... Last year he cleared up a

case of murder in which the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very

anxious to make your acquaintance!”



“On what grounds is he so anxious?”



“Oh, it’s not exactly... you see, since you’ve been ill I happen to have

mentioned you several times.... So, when he heard about you... about

your being a law student and not able to finish your studies, he said,

‘What a pity!’ And so I concluded... from everything together, not only

that; yesterday Zametov... you know, Rodya, I talked some nonsense on

the way home to you yesterday, when I was drunk... I am afraid, brother,

of your exaggerating it, you see.”



“What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right,” he said

with a constrained smile.



“Yes, yes.... That is, pooh, no!... But all that I said (and there was

something else too) it was all nonsense, drunken nonsense.”



“But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!” Raskolnikov cried

with exaggerated irritability. It was partly assumed, however.



“I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. One’s ashamed

to speak of it.”



“If you are ashamed, then don’t speak of it.”



Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and Raskolnikov

perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by what Razumihin had

just said about Porfiry.



“I shall have to pull a long face with him too,” he thought, with a

beating heart, and he turned white, “and do it naturally, too. But the

most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do nothing

at all! No, _carefully_ would not be natural again.... Oh, well, we

shall see how it turns out.... We shall see... directly. Is it a good

thing to go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is

beating, that’s what’s bad!”



“In this grey house,” said Razumihin.



“The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was at the old

hag’s flat yesterday... and asked about the blood? I must find that out

instantly, as soon as I go in, find out from his face; otherwise... I’ll

find out, if it’s my ruin.”



“I say, brother,” he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin, with a sly

smile, “I have been noticing all day that you seem to be curiously

excited. Isn’t it so?”



“Excited? Not a bit of it,” said Razumihin, stung to the quick.



“Yes, brother, I assure you it’s noticeable. Why, you sat on your chair

in a way you never do sit, on the edge somehow, and you seemed to be

writhing all the time. You kept jumping up for nothing. One moment you

were angry, and the next your face looked like a sweetmeat. You even

blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed

awfully.”



“Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?”



“But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? By Jove, there

he’s blushing again.”



“What a pig you are!”



“But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I’ll tell of you

to-day. Ha-ha-ha! I’ll make mother laugh, and someone else, too...”



“Listen, listen, listen, this is serious.... What next, you fiend!”

 Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror. “What will

you tell them? Come, brother... foo! what a pig you are!”



“You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew how it suits you; a

Romeo over six foot high! And how you’ve washed to-day--you cleaned your

nails, I declare. Eh? That’s something unheard of! Why, I do believe

you’ve got pomatum on your hair! Bend down.”



“Pig!”



Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain himself. So

laughing, they entered Porfiry Petrovitch’s flat. This is what

Raskolnikov wanted: from within they could be heard laughing as they

came in, still guffawing in the passage.



“Not a word here or I’ll... brain you!” Razumihin whispered furiously,

seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.







CHAPTER V



Raskolnikov was already entering the room. He came in looking as though

he had the utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing again. Behind him

Razumihin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as a peony,

with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and

whole figure really were ridiculous at that moment and amply justified

Raskolnikov’s laughter. Raskolnikov, not waiting for an introduction,

bowed to Porfiry Petrovitch, who stood in the middle of the room

looking inquiringly at them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still

apparently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few

words to introduce himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming

a serious air and muttering something when he suddenly glanced again as

though accidentally at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself:

his stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried

to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with which Razumihin received

this “spontaneous” mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most

genuine fun and naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as

though on purpose.



“Fool! You fiend,” he roared, waving his arm which at once struck a

little round table with an empty tea-glass on it. Everything was sent

flying and crashing.



“But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it’s a loss to the Crown,”

 Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily.



Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry Petrovitch’s,

but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment to put a natural

end to it. Razumihin, completely put to confusion by upsetting the table

and smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and

turned sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his back

to the company with a fiercely scowling countenance, seeing nothing.

Porfiry Petrovitch laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but

obviously looked for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the

corner, but he rose at the visitors’ entrance and was standing in

expectation with a smile on his lips, though he looked with surprise and

even it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at Raskolnikov with a

certain embarrassment. Zametov’s unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov

unpleasantly.



“I’ve got to think of that,” he thought. “Excuse me, please,” he began,

affecting extreme embarrassment. “Raskolnikov.”



“Not at all, very pleasant to see you... and how pleasantly you’ve come

in.... Why, won’t he even say good-morning?” Porfiry Petrovitch nodded

at Razumihin.



“Upon my honour I don’t know why he is in such a rage with me. I only

told him as we came along that he was like Romeo... and proved it. And

that was all, I think!”



“Pig!” ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round.



“There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he is so furious at

the word,” Porfiry laughed.



“Oh, you sharp lawyer!... Damn you all!” snapped Razumihin, and suddenly

bursting out laughing himself, he went up to Porfiry with a more

cheerful face as though nothing had happened. “That’ll do! We are

all fools. To come to business. 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.



“Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday,” he said easily.



“Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me

to introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other out

without me. Where is your tobacco?”



Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very clean linen, and

trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short,

stout even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short

and had a large round head, particularly prominent at the back. His

soft, round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish colour,

but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been

good-natured except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery,

mawkish light under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression

of those eyes was strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish

figure, and gave it something far more serious than could be guessed at

first sight.



As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a little matter

of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and sat down

himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with

that careful and over-serious attention which is at once oppressive and

embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are

discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such

exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Raskolnikov

explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so well satisfied

with himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry.

Porfiry Petrovitch did not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin,

sitting opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently,

looking from one to the other every moment with rather excessive

interest.



“Fool,” Raskolnikov swore to himself.



“You have to give information to the police,” Porfiry replied, with a

most businesslike air, “that having learnt of this incident, that is of

the murder, you beg to inform the lawyer in charge of the case that such

and such things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem them...

or... but they will write to you.”



“That’s just the point, that at the present moment,” Raskolnikov tried

his utmost to feign embarrassment, “I am not quite in funds... and

even this trifling sum is beyond me... I only wanted, you see, for

the present to declare that the things are mine, and that when I have

money....”



“That’s no matter,” answered Porfiry Petrovitch, receiving his

explanation of his pecuniary position coldly, “but you can, if you

prefer, write straight to me, to say, that having been informed of the

matter, and claiming such and such as your property, you beg...”



“On an ordinary sheet of paper?” Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again

interested in the financial side of the question.



“Oh, the most ordinary,” and suddenly Porfiry Petrovitch looked with

obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and, as it were, winking at

him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov’s fancy, for it all lasted but a

moment. There was certainly something of the sort, Raskolnikov could

have sworn he winked at him, goodness knows why.



“He knows,” flashed through his mind like lightning.



“Forgive my troubling you about such trifles,” he went on, a little

disconcerted, “the things are only worth five roubles, but I prize them

particularly for the sake of those from whom they came to me, and I must

confess that I was alarmed when I heard...”



“That’s why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zossimov that

Porfiry was inquiring for everyone who had pledges!” Razumihin put in

with obvious intention.



This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him

with a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately

recollected himself.



“You seem to be jeering at me, brother?” he said to him, with a

well-feigned irritability. “I dare say I do seem to you absurdly anxious

about such trash; but you mustn’t think me selfish or grasping for that,

and these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you

just now that the silver watch, though it’s not worth a cent, is the

only thing left us of my father’s. You may laugh at me, but my mother is

here,” he turned suddenly to Porfiry, “and if she knew,” he turned again

hurriedly to Razumihin, carefully making his voice tremble, “that the

watch was lost, she would be in despair! You know what women are!”



“Not a bit of it! I didn’t mean that at all! Quite the contrary!”

 shouted Razumihin distressed.



“Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?” Raskolnikov asked

himself in a tremor. “Why did I say that about women?”



“Oh, your mother is with you?” Porfiry Petrovitch inquired.



“Yes.”



“When did she come?”



“Last night.”



Porfiry paused as though reflecting.



“Your things would not in any case be lost,” he went on calmly and

coldly. “I have been expecting you here for some time.”



And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered

the ash-tray to Razumihin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash

over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be

looking at him, and was still concerned with Razumihin’s cigarette.



“What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges _there_?”

 cried Razumihin.



Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov.



“Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on

the paper your name was legibly written in pencil, together with the

date on which you left them with her...”



“How observant you are!” Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, doing his very

utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed, and suddenly

added:



“I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges... that it

must be difficult to remember them all.... But you remember them all so

clearly, and... and...”



“Stupid! Feeble!” he thought. “Why did I add that?”



“But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who hasn’t

come forward,” Porfiry answered with hardly perceptible irony.



“I haven’t been quite well.”



“I heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in great distress

about something. You look pale still.”



“I am not pale at all.... No, I am quite well,” Raskolnikov snapped

out rudely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was

mounting, he could not repress it. “And in my anger I shall betray

myself,” flashed through his mind again. “Why are they torturing me?”



“Not quite well!” Razumihin caught him up. “What next! He was

unconscious and delirious all yesterday. Would you believe, Porfiry, as

soon as our backs were turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand,

and gave us the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight,

delirious all the time! Would you believe it! Extraordinary!”



“Really delirious? You don’t say so!” Porfiry shook his head in a

womanish way.



“Nonsense! Don’t you believe it! But you don’t believe it anyway,”

 Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovitch did not seem

to catch those strange words.



“But how could you have gone out if you hadn’t been delirious?”

 Razumihin got hot suddenly. “What did you go out for? What was the

object of it? And why on the sly? Were you in your senses when you did

it? Now that all danger is over I can speak plainly.”



“I was awfully sick of them yesterday.” Raskolnikov addressed Porfiry

suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance, “I ran away from them to

take lodgings where they wouldn’t find me, and took a lot of money with

me. Mr. Zametov there saw it. I say, Mr. Zametov, was I sensible or

delirious yesterday; settle our dispute.”



He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hateful were his

expression and his silence to him.



“In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, but you were

extremely irritable,” Zametov pronounced dryly.



“And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to-day,” put in Porfiry Petrovitch,

“that he met you very late last night in the lodging of a man who had

been run over.”



“And there,” said Razumihin, “weren’t you mad then? You gave your last

penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen

or twenty even, but keep three roubles for yourself at least, but he

flung away all the twenty-five at once!”



“Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So

that’s why I was liberal yesterday.... Mr. Zametov knows I’ve found a

treasure! Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour

with such trivialities,” he said, turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with

trembling lips. “We are boring you, aren’t we?”



“Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how you

interest me! It’s interesting to look on and listen... and I am really

glad you have come forward at last.”



“But you might give us some tea! My throat’s dry,” cried Razumihin.



“Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn’t you

like... something more essential before tea?”



“Get along with you!”



Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea.



Raskolnikov’s thoughts were in a whirl. He was in terrible exasperation.



“The worst of it is they don’t disguise it; they don’t care to stand on

ceremony! And how if you didn’t know me at all, did you come to talk

to Nikodim Fomitch about me? So they don’t care to hide that they are

tracking me like a pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face.” He was

shaking with rage. “Come, strike me openly, don’t play with me like a

cat with a mouse. It’s hardly civil, Porfiry Petrovitch, but perhaps I

won’t allow it! I shall get up and throw the whole truth in your ugly

faces, and you’ll see how I despise you.” He could hardly breathe.

“And what if it’s only my fancy? What if I am mistaken, and through

inexperience I get angry and don’t keep up my nasty part? Perhaps it’s

all unintentional. All their phrases are the usual ones, but there is

something about them.... It all might be said, but there is something.

Why did he say bluntly, ‘With her’? Why did Zametov add that I spoke

artfully? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes, the tone.... Razumihin

is sitting here, why does he see nothing? That innocent blockhead never

does see anything! Feverish again! Did Porfiry wink at me just now? Of

course it’s nonsense! What could he wink for? Are they trying to upset

my nerves or are they teasing me? Either it’s ill fancy or they know!

Even Zametov is rude.... Is Zametov rude? Zametov has changed his mind.

I foresaw he would change his mind! He is at home here, while it’s my

first visit. Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits with his back

to him. They’re as thick as thieves, no doubt, over me! Not a doubt they

were talking about me before we came. Do they know about the flat? If

only they’d make haste! When I said that I ran away to take a flat he

let it pass.... I put that in cleverly about a flat, it may be of use

afterwards.... Delirious, indeed... ha-ha-ha! He knows all about last

night! He didn’t know of my mother’s arrival! The hag had written the

date on in pencil! You are wrong, you won’t catch me! There are no

facts... it’s all supposition! You produce facts! The flat even isn’t a

fact but delirium. I know what to say to them.... Do they know about the

flat? I won’t go without finding out. What did I come for? But my being

angry now, maybe is a fact! Fool, how irritable I am! Perhaps that’s

right; to play the invalid.... He is feeling me. He will try to catch

me. Why did I come?”



All this flashed like lightning through his mind.



Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial.



“Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather.... And I am out

of sorts altogether,” he began in quite a different tone, laughing to

Razumihin.



“Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point.

Who got the best of it?”



“Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated

off into space.”



“Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is such a

thing as crime. I told you that we talked our heads off.”



“What is there strange? It’s an everyday social question,” Raskolnikov

answered casually.



“The question wasn’t put quite like that,” observed Porfiry.



“Not quite, that’s true,” Razumihin agreed at once, getting warm and

hurried as usual. “Listen, Rodion, and tell us your opinion, I want to

hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them and wanted you to

help me. I told them you were coming.... It began with the socialist

doctrine. You know their doctrine; crime is a protest against the

abnormality of the social organisation and nothing more, and nothing

more; no other causes admitted!...”



“You are wrong there,” cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was noticeably

animated and kept laughing as he looked at Razumihin, which made him

more excited than ever.



“Nothing is admitted,” Razumihin interrupted with heat.



“I am not wrong. I’ll show you their pamphlets. Everything with them

is ‘the influence of environment,’ and nothing else. Their favourite

phrase! From which it follows that, if society is normally organised,

all crime will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest

against and all men will become righteous in one instant. Human nature

is not taken into account, it is excluded, it’s not supposed to exist!

They don’t recognise that humanity, developing by a historical living

process, will become at last a normal society, but they believe that a

social system that has come out of some mathematical brain is going

to organise all humanity at once and make it just and sinless in an

instant, quicker than any living process! That’s why they instinctively

dislike history, ‘nothing but ugliness and stupidity in it,’ and they

explain it all as stupidity! That’s why they so dislike the _living_

process of life; they don’t want a _living soul_! The living soul

demands life, the soul won’t obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an

object of suspicion, the soul is retrograde! But what they want though

it smells of death and can be made of India-rubber, at least is not

alive, has no will, is servile and won’t revolt! And it comes in the end

to their reducing everything to the building of walls and the planning

of rooms and passages in a phalanstery! The phalanstery is ready,

indeed, but your human nature is not ready for the phalanstery--it

wants life, it hasn’t completed its vital process, it’s too soon for the

graveyard! You can’t skip over nature by logic. Logic presupposes three

possibilities, but there are millions! Cut away a million, and reduce

it all to the question of comfort! That’s the easiest solution of the

problem! It’s seductively clear and you musn’t think about it. That’s

the great thing, you mustn’t think! The whole secret of life in two

pages of print!”



“Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, do!” laughed

Porfiry. “Can you imagine,” he turned to Raskolnikov, “six people

holding forth like that last night, in one room, with punch as a

preliminary! No, brother, you are wrong, environment accounts for a

great deal in crime; I can assure you of that.”



“Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty violates a child

of ten; was it environment drove him to it?”



“Well, strictly speaking, it did,” Porfiry observed with noteworthy

gravity; “a crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the

influence of environment.”



Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. “Oh, if you like,” he roared. “I’ll

prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed to the

Church of Ivan the Great’s being two hundred and fifty feet high, and I

will prove it clearly, exactly, progressively, and even with a Liberal

tendency! I undertake to! Will you bet on it?”



“Done! Let’s hear, please, how he will prove it!”



“He is always humbugging, confound him,” cried Razumihin, jumping up and

gesticulating. “What’s the use of talking to you? He does all that

on purpose; you don’t know him, Rodion! He took their side yesterday,

simply to make fools of them. And the things he said yesterday! And they

were delighted! He can keep it up for a fortnight together. Last year he

persuaded us that he was going into a monastery: he stuck to it for two

months. Not long ago he took it into his head to declare he was going

to get married, that he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered

new clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no

bride, nothing, all pure fantasy!”



“Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes in

fact that made me think of taking you in.”



“Are you such a good dissembler?” Raskolnikov asked carelessly.



“You wouldn’t have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in,

too. Ha-ha-ha! No, I’ll tell you the truth. All these questions about

crime, environment, children, recall to my mind an article of yours

which interested me at the time. ‘On Crime’... or something of the

sort, I forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months ago in the

_Periodical Review_.”



“My article? In the _Periodical Review_?” Raskolnikov asked in

astonishment. “I certainly did write an article upon a book six months

ago when I left the university, but I sent it to the _Weekly Review_.”



“But it came out in the _Periodical_.”



“And the _Weekly Review_ ceased to exist, so that’s why it wasn’t

printed at the time.”



“That’s true; but when it ceased to exist, the _Weekly Review_ was

amalgamated with the _Periodical_, and so your article appeared two

months ago in the latter. Didn’t you know?”



Raskolnikov had not known.



“Why, you might get some money out of them for the article! What a

strange person you are! You lead such a solitary life that you know

nothing of matters that concern you directly. It’s a fact, I assure

you.”



“Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!” cried Razumihin. “I’ll

run to-day to the reading-room and ask for the number. Two months ago?

What was the date? It doesn’t matter though, I will find it. Think of

not telling us!”



“How did you find out that the article was mine? It’s only signed with

an initial.”



“I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the editor; I know

him.... I was very much interested.”



“I analysed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and

after the crime.”



“Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime is always

accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but... it was not that part

of your article that interested me so much, but an idea at the end of

the article which I regret to say you merely suggested without working

it out clearly. There is, if you recollect, a suggestion that there are

certain persons who can... that is, not precisely are able to, but have

a perfect right to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the

law is not for them.”



Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his

idea.



“What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the

influence of environment?” Razumihin inquired with some alarm even.



“No, not exactly because of it,” answered Porfiry. “In his article all

men are divided into ‘ordinary’ and ‘extraordinary.’ Ordinary men have

to live in submission, have no right to transgress the law, because,

don’t you see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right to

commit any crime and to transgress the law in any way, just because they

are extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken?”



“What do you mean? That can’t be right?” Razumihin muttered in

bewilderment.



Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they

wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge.



“That wasn’t quite my contention,” he began simply and modestly. “Yet

I admit that you have stated it almost correctly; perhaps, if you like,

perfectly so.” (It almost gave him pleasure to admit this.) “The only

difference is that I don’t contend that extraordinary people are always

bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt

whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an

‘extraordinary’ man has the right... that is not an official right, but

an inner right to decide in his own conscience to overstep... certain

obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfilment

of his idea (sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity).

You say that my article isn’t definite; I am ready to make it as clear

as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to; very well. I

maintain that if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have

been made known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a

hundred, or more men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have

been in duty-bound... to _eliminate_ the dozen or the hundred men for

the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But

it does not follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people

right and left and to steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I

maintain in my article that all... well, legislators and leaders of men,

such as Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so on, were all without

exception criminals, from the very fact that, making a new law, they

transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held

sacred by the people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either,

if that bloodshed--often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defence

of ancient law--were of use to their cause. It’s remarkable, in fact,

that the majority, indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity

were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men

or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving

some new word, must from their very nature be criminals--more or less,

of course. Otherwise it’s hard for them to get out of the common rut;

and to remain in the common rut is what they can’t submit to, from their

very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to

it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The

same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my

division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that

it’s somewhat arbitrary, but I don’t insist upon exact numbers. I only

believe in my leading idea that men are _in general_ divided by a law

of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say,

material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have

the gift or the talent to utter _a new word_. There are, of course,

innumerable sub-divisions, but the distinguishing features of both

categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally

speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live

under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty

to be controlled, because that’s their vocation, and there is nothing

humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the

law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their

capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied;

for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the

present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the

sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I

maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading

through blood--that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that.

It’s only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article

(you remember it began with the legal question). There’s no need for

such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right,

they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so fulfil

quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these

criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or

less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second

the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the

second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal

right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me--and _vive la

guerre éternelle_--till the New Jerusalem, of course!”



“Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?”



“I do,” Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during

the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet.



“And... and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity.”



“I do,” repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry.



“And... do you believe in Lazarus’ rising from the dead?”



“I... I do. Why do you ask all this?”



“You believe it literally?”



“Literally.”



“You don’t say so.... I asked from curiosity. Excuse me. But let us

go back to the question; they are not always executed. Some, on the

contrary...”



“Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in this

life, and then...”



“They begin executing other people?”



“If it’s necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your remark is

very witty.”



“Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish those extraordinary

people from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel

there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the

natural anxiety of a practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn’t they

adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn’t they wear something, be

branded in some way? For you know if confusion arises and a member of

one category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to ‘eliminate

obstacles’ as you so happily expressed it, then...”



“Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than the other.”



“Thank you.”



“No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only arise in

the first category, that is among the ordinary people (as I perhaps

unfortunately called them). In spite of their predisposition to

obedience very many of them, through a playfulness of nature, sometimes

vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves advanced people,

‘destroyers,’ and to push themselves into the ‘new movement,’ and

this quite sincerely. Meanwhile the really _new_ people are very often

unobserved by them, or even despised as reactionaries of grovelling

tendencies. But I don’t think there is any considerable danger here,

and you really need not be uneasy for they never go very far. Of course,

they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their fancy run away

with them and to teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even

this isn’t necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very

conscientious: some perform this service for one another and others

chastise themselves with their own hands.... They will impose various

public acts of penitence upon themselves with a beautiful and edifying

effect; in fact you’ve nothing to be uneasy about.... It’s a law of

nature.”



“Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score; but

there’s another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there many people

who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary people? I am

ready to bow down to them, of course, but you must admit it’s alarming

if there are a great many of them, eh?”



“Oh, you needn’t worry about that either,” Raskolnikov went on in the

same tone. “People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for

saying something _new_, are extremely few in number, extraordinarily

so in fact. One thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these

grades and sub-divisions of men must follow with unfailing regularity

some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present, but I am

convinced that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of

mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort,

by some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and

stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a

thousand with a spark of independence. One in ten thousand perhaps--I

speak roughly, approximately--is born with some independence, and with

still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius

is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity,

appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have

not peeped into the retort in which all this takes place. But there

certainly is and must be a definite law, it cannot be a matter of

chance.”



“Why, are you both joking?” Razumihin cried at last. “There you sit,

making fun of one another. Are you serious, Rodya?”



Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no reply.

And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and _discourteous_ sarcasm of

Porfiry seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful face.



“Well, brother, if you are really serious... You are right, of course,

in saying that it’s not new, that it’s like what we’ve read and heard a

thousand times already; but what is really original in all this, and is

exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed

_in the name of conscience_, and, excuse my saying so, with such

fanaticism.... That, I take it, is the point of your article. But that

sanction of bloodshed _by conscience_ is to my mind... more terrible

than the official, legal sanction of bloodshed....”



“You are quite right, it is more terrible,” Porfiry agreed.



“Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read it.

You can’t think that! I shall read it.”



“All that is not in the article, there’s only a hint of it,” said

Raskolnikov.



“Yes, yes.” Porfiry couldn’t sit still. “Your attitude to crime is

pretty clear to me now, but... excuse me for my impertinence (I am

really ashamed to be worrying you like this), you see, you’ve removed

my anxiety as to the two grades getting mixed, but... there are various

practical possibilities that make me uneasy! What if some man or youth

imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahomet--a future one of course--and

suppose he begins to remove all obstacles.... He has some great

enterprise before him and needs money for it... and tries to get it...

do you see?”



Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even

raise his eyes to him.



“I must admit,” he went on calmly, “that such cases certainly must

arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that

snare; young people especially.”



“Yes, you see. Well then?”



“What then?” Raskolnikov smiled in reply; “that’s not my fault. So it is

and so it always will be. He said just now (he nodded at Razumihin)

that I sanction bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons,

banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There’s no need to

be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief.”



“And what if we do catch him?”



“Then he gets what he deserves.”



“You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?”



“Why do you care about that?”



“Simply from humanity.”



“If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his

punishment--as well as the prison.”



“But the real geniuses,” asked Razumihin frowning, “those who have

the right to murder? Oughtn’t they to suffer at all even for the blood

they’ve shed?”



“Why the word _ought_? It’s not a matter of permission or prohibition.

He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are

always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The

really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth,” he added

dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation.



He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled, and took his

cap. He was too quiet by comparison with his manner at his entrance, and

he felt this. Everyone got up.



“Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like,” Porfiry

Petrovitch began again, “but I can’t resist. Allow me one little

question (I know I am troubling you). There is just one little notion I

want to express, simply that I may not forget it.”



“Very good, tell me your little notion,” Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale

and grave before him.



“Well, you see... I really don’t know how to express it properly....

It’s a playful, psychological idea.... When you were writing your

article, surely you couldn’t have helped, he-he! fancying yourself...

just a little, an ‘extraordinary’ man, uttering a _new word_ in your

sense.... That’s so, isn’t it?”



“Quite possibly,” Raskolnikov answered contemptuously.



Razumihin made a movement.



“And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties

and hardship or for some service to humanity--to overstep obstacles?...

For instance, to rob and murder?”



And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly just as

before.



“If I did I certainly should not tell you,” Raskolnikov answered with

defiant and haughty contempt.



“No, I was only interested on account of your article, from a literary

point of view...”



“Foo! how obvious and insolent that is!” Raskolnikov thought with

repulsion.



“Allow me to observe,” he answered dryly, “that I don’t consider myself

a Mahomet or a Napoleon, nor any personage of that kind, and not being

one of them I cannot tell you how I should act.”



“Oh, come, don’t we all think ourselves Napoleons now in Russia?”

 Porfiry Petrovitch said with alarming familiarity.



Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice.



“Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona

Ivanovna last week?” Zametov blurted out from the corner.



Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Porfiry.

Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing

something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy

silence. Raskolnikov turned to go.



“Are you going already?” Porfiry said amiably, holding out his hand with

excessive politeness. “Very, very glad of your acquaintance. As for your

request, have no uneasiness, write just as I told you, or, better still,

come to me there yourself in a day or two... to-morrow, indeed. I shall

be there at eleven o’clock for certain. We’ll arrange it all; we’ll have

a talk. As one of the last to be _there_, you might perhaps be able to

tell us something,” he added with a most good-natured expression.



“You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?” Raskolnikov asked

sharply.



“Oh, why? That’s not necessary for the present. You misunderstand me.

I lose no opportunity, you see, and... I’ve talked with all who had

pledges.... I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the

last.... Yes, by the way,” he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted, “I

just remember, what was I thinking of?” he turned to Razumihin, “you

were talking my ears off about that Nikolay... of course, I know, I know

very well,” he turned to Raskolnikov, “that the fellow is innocent, but

what is one to do? We had to trouble Dmitri too.... This is the point,

this is all: when you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn’t it?”



“Yes,” answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very

moment he spoke that he need not have said it.



“Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn’t you see in

a flat that stood open on a second storey, do you remember? two workmen

or at least one of them? They were painting there, didn’t you notice

them? It’s very, very important for them.”



“Painters? No, I didn’t see them,” Raskolnikov answered slowly, as

though ransacking his memory, while at the same instant he was racking

every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety to conjecture as quickly as

possible where the trap lay and not to overlook anything. “No, I didn’t

see them, and I don’t think I noticed a flat like that open.... But on

the fourth storey” (he had mastered the trap now and was triumphant)

“I remember now that someone was moving out of the flat opposite Alyona

Ivanovna’s.... I remember... I remember it clearly. Some porters

were carrying out a sofa and they squeezed me against the wall. But

painters... no, I don’t remember that there were any painters, and I

don’t think that there was a flat open anywhere, no, there wasn’t.”



“What do you mean?” Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had

reflected and realised. “Why, it was on the day of the murder the

painters were at work, and he was there three days before? What are you

asking?”



“Foo! I have muddled it!” Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead.

“Deuce take it! This business is turning my brain!” he addressed

Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. “It would be such a great thing for

us to find out whether anyone had seen them between seven and eight at

the flat, so I fancied you could perhaps have told us something.... I

quite muddled it.”



“Then you should be more careful,” Razumihin observed grimly.



The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry Petrovitch saw them

to the door with excessive politeness.



They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some steps they

did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath.







CHAPTER VI



“I don’t believe it, I can’t believe it!” repeated Razumihin, trying in

perplexity to refute Raskolnikov’s arguments.



They were by now approaching Bakaleyev’s lodgings, where Pulcheria

Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while. Razumihin

kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited

by the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about

_it_.



“Don’t believe it, then!” answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless

smile. “You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every

word.”



“You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words... h’m...

certainly, I agree, Porfiry’s tone was rather strange, and still

more that wretch Zametov!... You are right, there was something about

him--but why? Why?”



“He has changed his mind since last night.”



“Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would do

their utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch you

afterwards.... But it was all impudent and careless.”



“If they had had facts--I mean, real facts--or at least grounds for

suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game,

in the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long ago

besides). But they have no facts, not one. It is all mirage--all

ambiguous. Simply a floating idea. So they try to throw me out by

impudence. And perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted

it out in his vexation--or perhaps he has some plan... he seems an

intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to

know. They have a psychology of their own, brother. But it is loathsome

explaining it all. Stop!”



“And it’s insulting, insulting! I understand you. But... since we have

spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last--I

am glad) I will own now frankly that I noticed it in them long ago,

this idea. Of course the merest hint only--an insinuation--but why an

insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they? If only you

knew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a poor student,

unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious

illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul to

speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to

face some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; and

the unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U. presented

by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a stifling

atmosphere, a crowd of people, the talk about the murder of a person

where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach--he

might well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they found it

all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is, but in your place,

Rodya, I would laugh at them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces,

and spit a dozen times in all directions. I’d hit out in all

directions, neatly too, and so I’d put an end to it. Damn them! Don’t be

downhearted. It’s a shame!”



“He really has put it well, though,” Raskolnikov thought.



“Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?” he said with

bitterness. “Must I really enter into explanations with them? I feel

vexed as it is, that I condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in the

restaurant....”



“Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, as

one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! And

as for Zametov...”



“At last he sees through him!” thought Raskolnikov.



“Stay!” cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. “Stay! you

were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wrong! How was that a trap?

You say that the question about the workmen was a trap. But if you had

done _that_, could you have said you had seen them painting the flat...

and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if

you had seen it. Who would own it against himself?”



“If I had done _that thing_, I should certainly have said that I had

seen the workmen and the flat,” Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance

and obvious disgust.



“But why speak against yourself?”



“Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny

everything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little developed

and experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts

that can’t be avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, will

introduce some special, unexpected turn, that will give them another

significance and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon

that I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give an

air of truth, and then make some explanation.”



“But he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have been

there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on

the day of the murder at eight o’clock. And so he would have caught you

over a detail.”



“Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time to

reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and

so would forget that the workmen could not have been there two days

before.”



“But how could you forget it?”



“Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are most

easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he

will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simpler

the trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you

think....”



“He is a knave then, if that is so!”



Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he was

struck by the strangeness of his own frankness, and the eagerness

with which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the

preceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive,

from necessity.



“I am getting a relish for certain aspects!” he thought to himself.

But almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy, as though an

unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on

increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev’s.



“Go in alone!” said Raskolnikov suddenly. “I will be back directly.”



“Where are you going? Why, we are just here.”



“I can’t help it.... I will come in half an hour. Tell them.”



“Say what you like, I will come with you.”



“You, too, want to torture me!” he screamed, with such bitter

irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin’s hands dropped.

He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov

striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting

his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry

like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria

Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence.



When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was

breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his

unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror

he rushed to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put

the things; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in the

hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up

and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev’s, he

suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper

in which they had been wrapped with the old woman’s handwriting on it,

might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then

might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him.



He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half

senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last and went

quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamily

through the gateway.



“Here he is himself,” shouted a loud voice.



He raised his head.



The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing

him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coat

and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He

stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled

flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and

they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.



“What is it?” Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.



The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him

attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out of the

gate into the street without saying a word.



“What is it?” cried Raskolnikov.



“Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your

name and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out and

he went away. It’s funny.”



The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after

wondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room.



Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of

him walking along the other side of the street with the same even,

deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in

meditation. He soon overtook him, but for some time walked behind him.

At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man

noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again;

and so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a word.



“You were inquiring for me... of the porter?” Raskolnikov said at last,

but in a curiously quiet voice.



The man made no answer; he didn’t even look at him. Again they were both

silent.



“Why do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing.... What’s the

meaning of it?”



Raskolnikov’s voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words

clearly.



The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at

Raskolnikov.



“Murderer!” he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice.



Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a

cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for

a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So

they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.



The man did not look at him.



“What do you mean... what is.... Who is a murderer?” muttered

Raskolnikov hardly audibly.



“_You_ are a murderer,” the man answered still more articulately and

emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked

straight into Raskolnikov’s pale face and stricken eyes.



They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the left

without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after

him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still

standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that

he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph.



With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way

back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap

and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving.

Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he

stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour.



He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some

images without order or coherence floated before his mind--faces of

people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would

never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table

in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars

in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite

dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the

Sunday bells floating in from somewhere.... The images followed one

another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried

to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppression

within him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even

pleasant.... The slight shivering still persisted, but that too

was an almost pleasant sensation.



He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and

pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some

time in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into

the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya’s

whisper:



“Don’t disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later.”



“Quite so,” answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the

door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on

his back again, clasping his hands behind his head.



“Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he,

what did he see? He has seen it all, that’s clear. Where was he then?

And from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth?

And how could he see? Is it possible? Hm...” continued Raskolnikov,

turning cold and shivering, “and the jewel case Nikolay found behind the

door--was that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you

can build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it

possible?” He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he

had become. “I ought to have known it,” he thought with a bitter smile.

“And how dared I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an

axe and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand.... Ah, but I did

know!” he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some

thought.



“No, those men are not made so. The real _Master_ to whom all is

permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, _forgets_ an army in

Egypt, _wastes_ half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off

with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death, and

so _all_ is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of flesh but

of bronze!”



One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the

pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with

a red trunk under her bed--it’s a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to

digest! How can they digest it! It’s too inartistic. “A Napoleon creep

under an old woman’s bed! Ugh, how loathsome!”



At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish

excitement. “The old woman is of no consequence,” he thought, hotly and

incoherently. “The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not

what matters! The old woman was only an illness.... I was in a hurry to

overstep.... I didn’t kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the

principle, but I didn’t overstep, I stopped on this side.... I was

only capable of killing. And it seems I wasn’t even capable of that...

Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They are

industrious, commercial people; ‘the happiness of all’ is their case.

No, life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I

don’t want to wait for ‘the happiness of all.’ I want to live myself,

or else better not live at all. I simply couldn’t pass by my mother

starving, keeping my rouble in my pocket while I waited for the

‘happiness of all.’ I am putting my little brick into the happiness of

all and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only

live once, I too want.... Ech, I am an æsthetic louse and nothing

more,” he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. “Yes, I am certainly a

louse,” he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing

with it with vindictive pleasure. “In the first place, because I can

reason that I am one, and secondly, because for a month past I have been

troubling benevolent Providence, calling it to witness that not for

my own fleshly lusts did I undertake it, but with a grand and noble

object--ha-ha! Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as

possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked

out the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I

needed for the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone

to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I

am utterly a louse,” he added, grinding his teeth, “is that I am

perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and _I felt

beforehand_ that I should tell myself so _after_ killing her. Can

anything be compared with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The

abjectness! I understand the ‘prophet’ with his sabre, on his steed:

Allah commands and ‘trembling’ creation must obey! The ‘prophet’ is

right, he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows up

the innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain! It’s for you to

obey, trembling creation, and not _to have desires_, for that’s not for

you!... I shall never, never forgive the old woman!”



His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his

eyes were fixed on the ceiling.



“Mother, sister--how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate

them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can’t bear them near me....

I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember.... To embrace her

and think if she only knew... shall I tell her then? That’s just what

I might do.... _She_ must be the same as I am,” he added, straining

himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. “Ah, how I hate

the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life!

Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in?... It’s strange though, why is it

I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn’t killed her? Lizaveta!

Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes.... Dear women! Why don’t

they weep? Why don’t they moan? They give up everything... their eyes

are soft and gentle.... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!”



He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn’t remember

how he got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight had fallen

and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a

peculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the

street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other

people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and

stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was

distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do

something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he

stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street,

beckoning to him. He crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and

walked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to

him. “Stay, did he really beckon?” Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried

to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognised him and

was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long

coat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating;

they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. “Does he

know I am following him?” thought Raskolnikov. The man went into the

gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in

to see whether he would look round and sign to him. In the court-yard

the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov at

once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have

gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard

slow measured steps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangely

familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moon shone

through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he

reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters were

at work... but how was it he did not recognise it at once? The steps

of the man above had died away. “So he must have stopped or hidden

somewhere.” He reached the third storey, should he go on? There was a

stillness that was dreadful.... But he went on. The sound of his own

footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be

hiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he

hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as

though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour

which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the

chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the

frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows.

“It’s the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery,” thought

Raskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more

silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was

painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp

crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A fly

flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. At

that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little

cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. “Why is that cloak

here?” he thought, “it wasn’t there before....” He went up to it quietly

and felt that there was someone hiding behind it. He cautiously moved

the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent

double so that he couldn’t see her face; but it was she. He stood over

her. “She is afraid,” he thought. He stealthily took the axe from the

noose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange

to say she did not stir, as though she were made of wood. He was

frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too,

bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped up

into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with horror: the old

woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing

her utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door

from the bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and

whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting the

old woman on the head with all his force, but at every blow of the axe

the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the old

woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the

passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open and on the

landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows of

heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation.

Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, they

would not move.... He tried to scream and woke up.



He drew a deep breath--but his dream seemed strangely to persist:

his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the

doorway watching him intently.



Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them

again. He lay on his back without stirring.



“Is it still a dream?” he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly

perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching

him.



He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after

him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on

Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he

put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane

and his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait

indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen

glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost

whitish beard.



Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There

was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs.

Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was

unbearable at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.



“Come, tell me what you want.”



“I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,” the stranger answered

oddly, laughing calmly. “Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, allow me to

introduce myself....”









PART IV







CHAPTER I



“Can this be still a dream?” Raskolnikov thought once more.



He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor.



“Svidrigaïlov! What nonsense! It can’t be!” he said at last aloud in

bewilderment.



His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation.



“I’ve come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I wanted to make

your personal acquaintance, as I have already heard a great deal about

you that is interesting and flattering; secondly, I cherish the hope

that you may not refuse to assist me in a matter directly concerning the

welfare of your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. For without your support she

might not let me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against me,

but with your assistance I reckon on...”



“You reckon wrongly,” interrupted Raskolnikov.



“They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?”



Raskolnikov made no reply.



“It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well,

let me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, I don’t consider it necessary

to justify myself, but kindly tell me what was there particularly

criminal on my part in all this business, speaking without prejudice,

with common sense?”



Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence.



“That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and ‘insulted her

with my infamous proposals’--is that it? (I am anticipating you.) But

you’ve only to assume that I, too, am a man _et nihil humanum_... in a

word, that I am capable of being attracted and falling in love (which

does not depend on our will), then everything can be explained in the

most natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I myself

a victim? And what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my

passion to elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished

the deepest respect for her and may have thought that I was promoting

our mutual happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why,

probably, I was doing more harm to myself than anyone!”



“But that’s not the point,” Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. “It’s

simply that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We don’t

want to have anything to do with you. We show you the door. Go out!”



Svidrigaïlov broke into a sudden laugh.



“But you’re... but there’s no getting round you,” he said, laughing in

the frankest way. “I hoped to get round you, but you took up the right

line at once!”



“But you are trying to get round me still!”



“What of it? What of it?” cried Svidrigaïlov, laughing openly. “But this

is what the French call _bonne guerre_, and the most innocent form of

deception!... But still you have interrupted me; one way or another, I

repeat again: there would never have been any unpleasantness except for

what happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna...”



“You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?” Raskolnikov

interrupted rudely.



“Oh, you’ve heard that, too, then? You’d be sure to, though.... But

as for your question, I really don’t know what to say, though my own

conscience is quite at rest on that score. Don’t suppose that I am in

any apprehension about it. All was regular and in order; the medical

inquiry diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy

dinner and a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing

else. But I’ll tell you what I have been thinking to myself of late, on

my way here in the train, especially: didn’t I contribute to all that...

calamity, morally, in a way, by irritation or something of the

sort. But I came to the conclusion that that, too, was quite out of the

question.”



Raskolnikov laughed.



“I wonder you trouble yourself about it!”



“But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice

with a switch--there were no marks even... don’t regard me as a cynic,

please; I am perfectly aware how atrocious it was of me and all that;

but I know for certain, too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased

at my, so to say, warmth. The story of your sister had been wrung out to

the last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna had been forced to

sit at home; she had nothing to show herself with in the town. Besides,

she had bored them so with that letter (you heard about her reading the

letter). And all of a sudden those two switches fell from heaven! Her

first act was to order the carriage to be got out.... Not to speak

of the fact that there are cases when women are very, very glad to be

insulted in spite of all their show of indignation. There are instances

of it with everyone; human beings in general, indeed, greatly love to

be insulted, have you noticed that? But it’s particularly so with women.

One might even say it’s their only amusement.”



At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and so

finishing the interview. But some curiosity and even a sort of prudence

made him linger for a moment.



“You are fond of fighting?” he asked carelessly.



“No, not very,” Svidrigaïlov answered, calmly. “And Marfa Petrovna and

I scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was always

pleased with me. I only used the whip twice in all our seven years (not

counting a third occasion of a very ambiguous character). The first

time, two months after our marriage, immediately after we arrived in the

country, and the last time was that of which we are speaking. Did you

suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary, such a slave driver?

Ha, ha! By the way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovitch, how a few years

ago, in those days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman, I’ve forgotten

his name, was put to shame everywhere, in all the papers, for having

thrashed a German woman in the railway train. You remember? It was in

those days, that very year I believe, the ‘disgraceful action of the

_Age_’ took place (you know, ‘The Egyptian Nights,’ that public reading,

you remember? The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden days of our youth,

where are they?). Well, as for the gentleman who thrashed the German,

I feel no sympathy with him, because after all what need is there

for sympathy? But I must say that there are sometimes such provoking

‘Germans’ that I don’t believe there is a progressive who could quite

answer for himself. No one looked at the subject from that point of view

then, but that’s the truly humane point of view, I assure you.”



After saying this, Svidrigaïlov broke into a sudden laugh again.

Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a firm purpose in his

mind and able to keep it to himself.



“I expect you’ve not talked to anyone for some days?” he asked.



“Scarcely anyone. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an

adaptable man?”



“No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a man.”



“Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your questions? Is that

it? But why take offence? As you asked, so I answered,” he replied,

with a surprising expression of simplicity. “You know, there’s

hardly anything I take interest in,” he went on, as it were dreamily,

“especially now, I’ve nothing to do.... You are quite at liberty to

imagine though that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as

I told you I want to see your sister about something. But I’ll confess

frankly, I am very much bored. The last three days especially, so I am

delighted to see you.... Don’t be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you

seem to be somehow awfully strange yourself. Say what you like, there’s

something wrong with you, and now, too... not this very minute, I mean,

but now, generally.... Well, well, I won’t, I won’t, don’t scowl! I am

not such a bear, you know, as you think.”



Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him.



“You are not a bear, perhaps, at all,” he said. “I fancy indeed that

you are a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on occasion to

behave like one.”



“I am not particularly interested in anyone’s opinion,” Svidrigaïlov

answered, dryly and even with a shade of haughtiness, “and therefore why

not be vulgar at times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our

climate... and especially if one has a natural propensity that way,” he

added, laughing again.



“But I’ve heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, ‘not

without connections.’ What can you want with me, then, unless you’ve

some special object?”



“That’s true that I have friends here,” Svidrigaïlov admitted, not

replying to the chief point. “I’ve met some already. I’ve been lounging

about for the last three days, and I’ve seen them, or they’ve seen me.

That’s a matter of course. I am well dressed and reckoned not a poor

man; the emancipation of the serfs hasn’t affected me; my property

consists chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue has not

fallen off; but... I am not going to see them, I was sick of them long

ago. I’ve been here three days and have called on no one.... What a town

it is! How has it come into existence among us, tell me that? A town of

officials and students of all sorts. Yes, there’s a great deal I didn’t

notice when I was here eight years ago, kicking up my heels.... My only

hope now is in anatomy, by Jove, it is!”



“Anatomy?”



“But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed,

maybe--well, all that can go on without me,” he went on, again without

noticing the question. “Besides, who wants to be a card-sharper?”



“Why, have you been a card-sharper then?”



“How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the best

society, eight years ago; we had a fine time. And all men of breeding,

you know, poets, men of property. And indeed as a rule in our Russian

society the best manners are found among those who’ve been thrashed,

have you noticed that? I’ve deteriorated in the country. But I did get

into prison for debt, through a low Greek who came from Nezhin. Then

Marfa Petrovna turned up; she bargained with him and bought me off for

thirty thousand silver pieces (I owed seventy thousand). We were united

in lawful wedlock and she bore me off into the country like a treasure.

You know she was five years older than I. She was very fond of me. For

seven years I never left the country. And, take note, that all my life

she held a document over me, the IOU for thirty thousand roubles, so

if I were to elect to be restive about anything I should be trapped at

once! And she would have done it! Women find nothing incompatible in

that.”



“If it hadn’t been for that, would you have given her the slip?”



“I don’t know what to say. It was scarcely the document restrained me. I

didn’t want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go

abroad, seeing I was bored, but I’ve been abroad before, and always

felt sick there. For no reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the

sea--you look at them and it makes you sad. What’s most revolting is

that one is really sad! No, it’s better at home. Here at least one

blames others for everything and excuses oneself. I should have gone

perhaps on an expedition to the North Pole, because _j’ai le vin

mauvais_ and hate drinking, and there’s nothing left but wine. I have

tried it. But, I say, I’ve been told Berg is going up in a great balloon

next Sunday from the Yusupov Garden and will take up passengers at a

fee. Is it true?”



“Why, would you go up?”



“I... No, oh, no,” muttered Svidrigaïlov really seeming to be deep in

thought.



“What does he mean? Is he in earnest?” Raskolnikov wondered.



“No, the document didn’t restrain me,” Svidrigaïlov went on,

meditatively. “It was my own doing, not leaving the country, and nearly

a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back the document on my name-day

and made me a present of a considerable sum of money, too. She had a

fortune, you know. ‘You see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovitch’--that

was actually her expression. You don’t believe she used it? But do

you know I managed the estate quite decently, they know me in the

neighbourhood. I ordered books, too. Marfa Petrovna at first approved,

but afterwards she was afraid of my over-studying.”



“You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?”



“Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you

believe in ghosts?”



“What ghosts?”



“Why, ordinary ghosts.”



“Do you believe in them?”



“Perhaps not, _pour vous plaire_.... I wouldn’t say no exactly.”



“Do you see them, then?”



Svidrigaïlov looked at him rather oddly.



“Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me,” he said, twisting his mouth

into a strange smile.



“How do you mean ‘she is pleased to visit you’?”



“She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the

funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to

come here. The second time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on

the journey at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was two

hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was alone.”



“Were you awake?”



“Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for

a minute and goes out at the door--always at the door. I can almost hear

her.”



“What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to

you?” Raskolnikov said suddenly.



At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much

excited.



“What! Did you think so?” Svidrigaïlov asked in astonishment. “Did you

really? Didn’t I say that there was something in common between us, eh?”



“You never said so!” Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat.



“Didn’t I?”



“No!”



“I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut,

pretending, I said to myself at once, ‘Here’s the man.’”



“What do you mean by ‘the man?’ What are you talking about?” cried

Raskolnikov.



“What do I mean? I really don’t know....” Svidrigaïlov muttered

ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled.



For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other’s faces.



“That’s all nonsense!” Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. “What does she

say when she comes to you?”



“She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and--man

is a strange creature--it makes me angry. The first time she came in (I

was tired you know: the funeral service, the funeral ceremony, the lunch

afterwards. At last I was left alone in my study. I lighted a cigar and

began to think), she came in at the door. ‘You’ve been so busy to-day,

Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the dining-room clock,’

she said. All those seven years I’ve wound that clock every week, and if

I forgot it she would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way

here. I got out at the station at daybreak; I’d been asleep, tired out,

with my eyes half open, I was drinking some coffee. I looked up and

there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting beside me with a pack of

cards in her hands. ‘Shall I tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady

Ivanovitch?’ She was a great hand at telling fortunes. I shall never

forgive myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and,

besides, the bell rang. I was sitting to-day, feeling very heavy after a

miserable dinner from a cookshop; I was sitting smoking, all of a sudden

Marfa Petrovna again. She came in very smart in a new green silk dress

with a long train. ‘Good day, Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like my

dress? Aniska can’t make like this.’ (Aniska was a dressmaker in the

country, one of our former serf girls who had been trained in Moscow, a

pretty wench.) She stood turning round before me. I looked at the dress,

and then I looked carefully, very carefully, at her face. ‘I wonder

you trouble to come to me about such trifles, Marfa Petrovna.’ ‘Good

gracious, you won’t let one disturb you about anything!’ To tease her

I said, ‘I want to get married, Marfa Petrovna.’ ‘That’s just like you,

Arkady Ivanovitch; it does you very little credit to come looking for a

bride when you’ve hardly buried your wife. And if you could make a good

choice, at least, but I know it won’t be for your happiness or hers, you

will only be a laughing-stock to all good people.’ Then she went out and

her train seemed to rustle. Isn’t it nonsense, eh?”



“But perhaps you are telling lies?” Raskolnikov put in.



“I rarely lie,” answered Svidrigaïlov thoughtfully, apparently not

noticing the rudeness of the question.



“And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?”



“Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had

a serf, Filka; just after his burial I called out forgetting ‘Filka, my

pipe!’ He came in and went to the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat

still and thought ‘he is doing it out of revenge,’ because we had a

violent quarrel just before his death. ‘How dare you come in with a hole

in your elbow?’ I said. ‘Go away, you scamp!’ He turned and went out,

and never came again. I didn’t tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted

to have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed.”



“You should go to a doctor.”



“I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don’t know

what’s wrong; I believe I am five times as strong as you are. I didn’t

ask you whether you believe that ghosts are seen, but whether you

believe that they exist.”



“No, I won’t believe it!” Raskolnikov cried, with positive anger.



“What do people generally say?” muttered Svidrigaïlov, as though

speaking to himself, looking aside and bowing his head. “They say, ‘You

are ill, so what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.’ But that’s not

strictly logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to the sick, but that

only proves that they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that

they don’t exist.”



“Nothing of the sort,” Raskolnikov insisted irritably.



“No? You don’t think so?” Svidrigaïlov went on, looking at him

deliberately. “But what do you say to this argument (help me with

it): ghosts are, as it were, shreds and fragments of other worlds, the

beginning of them. A man in health has, of course, no reason to see

them, because he is above all a man of this earth and is bound for the

sake of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon

as one is ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is

broken, one begins to realise the possibility of another world; and the

more seriously ill one is, the closer becomes one’s contact with that

other world, so that as soon as the man dies he steps straight into that

world. I thought of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you

could believe in that, too.”



“I don’t believe in a future life,” said Raskolnikov.



Svidrigaïlov sat lost in thought.



“And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort,”

 he said suddenly.



“He is a madman,” thought Raskolnikov.



“We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception,

something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what

if it’s one little room, like a bath house in the country, black

and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that’s all eternity is? I

sometimes fancy it like that.”



“Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting than

that?” Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of anguish.



“Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you know

it’s what I would certainly have made it,” answered Svidrigaïlov, with a

vague smile.



This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov. Svidrigaïlov

raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly began laughing.



“Only think,” he cried, “half an hour ago we had never seen each other,

we regarded each other as enemies; there is a matter unsettled between

us; we’ve thrown it aside, and away we’ve gone into the abstract! Wasn’t

I right in saying that we were birds of a feather?”



“Kindly allow me,” Raskolnikov went on irritably, “to ask you to explain

why you have honoured me with your visit... and... and I am in a hurry,

I have no time to waste. I want to go out.”



“By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to

be married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovitch?”



“Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from mentioning

her name? I can’t understand how you dare utter her name in my presence,

if you really are Svidrigaïlov.”



“Why, but I’ve come here to speak about her; how can I avoid mentioning

her?”



“Very good, speak, but make haste.”



“I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr.

Luzhin, who is a connection of mine through my wife, if you have only

seen him for half an hour, or heard any facts about him. He is no

match for Avdotya Romanovna. I believe Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing

herself generously and imprudently for the sake of... for the sake of

her family. I fancied from all I had heard of you that you would be very

glad if the match could be broken off without the sacrifice of worldly

advantages. Now I know you personally, I am convinced of it.”



“All this is very naïve... excuse me, I should have said impudent on

your part,” said Raskolnikov.



“You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don’t be uneasy, Rodion

Romanovitch, if I were working for my own advantage, I would not have

spoken out so directly. I am not quite a fool. I will confess something

psychologically curious about that: just now, defending my love for

Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well, let me tell you

that I’ve no feeling of love now, not the slightest, so that I wonder

myself indeed, for I really did feel something...”



“Through idleness and depravity,” Raskolnikov put in.



“I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such qualities

that even I could not help being impressed by them. But that’s all

nonsense, as I see myself now.”



“Have you seen that long?”



“I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it the

day before yesterday, almost at the moment I arrived in Petersburg. I

still fancied in Moscow, though, that I was coming to try to get Avdotya

Romanovna’s hand and to cut out Mr. Luzhin.”



“Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and come to the object

of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want to go out...”



“With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here and determining on a

certain... journey, I should like to make some necessary preliminary

arrangements. I left my children with an aunt; they are well provided

for; and they have no need of me personally. And a nice father I should

make, too! I have taken nothing but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year

ago. That’s enough for me. Excuse me, I am just coming to the point.

Before the journey which may come off, I want to settle Mr. Luzhin, too.

It’s not that I detest him so much, but it was through him I quarrelled

with Marfa Petrovna when I learned that she had dished up this marriage.

I want now to see Avdotya Romanovna through your mediation, and if you

like in your presence, to explain to her that in the first place she

will never gain anything but harm from Mr. Luzhin. Then, begging

her pardon for all past unpleasantness, to make her a present of ten

thousand roubles and so assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to

which I believe she is herself not disinclined, if she could see the way

to it.”



“You are certainly mad,” cried Raskolnikov not so much angered as

astonished. “How dare you talk like that!”



“I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, though I am not

rich, this ten thousand roubles is perfectly free; I have absolutely no

need for it. If Avdotya Romanovna does not accept it, I shall waste

it in some more foolish way. That’s the first thing. Secondly, my

conscience is perfectly easy; I make the offer with no ulterior motive.

You may not believe it, but in the end Avdotya Romanovna and you will

know. The point is, that I did actually cause your sister, whom I

greatly respect, some trouble and unpleasantness, and so, sincerely

regretting it, I want--not to compensate, not to repay her for the

unpleasantness, but simply to do something to her advantage, to show

that I am not, after all, privileged to do nothing but harm. If there

were a millionth fraction of self-interest in my offer, I should not

have made it so openly; and I should not have offered her ten thousand

only, when five weeks ago I offered her more, Besides, I may, perhaps,

very soon marry a young lady, and that alone ought to prevent suspicion

of any design on Avdotya Romanovna. In conclusion, let me say that

in marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is taking money just the same, only from

another man. Don’t be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, think it over coolly

and quietly.”



Svidrigaïlov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he was saying

this.



“I beg you to say no more,” said Raskolnikov. “In any case this is

unpardonable impertinence.”



“Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm to his neighbour

in this world, and is prevented from doing the tiniest bit of good

by trivial conventional formalities. That’s absurd. If I died, for

instance, and left that sum to your sister in my will, surely she

wouldn’t refuse it?”



“Very likely she would.”



“Oh, no, indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be it, though ten

thousand roubles is a capital thing to have on occasion. In any case I

beg you to repeat what I have said to Avdotya Romanovna.”



“No, I won’t.”



“In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to try and see her

myself and worry her by doing so.”



“And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?”



“I don’t know really what to say. I should like very much to see her

once more.”



“Don’t hope for it.”



“I’m sorry. But you don’t know me. Perhaps we may become better

friends.”



“You think we may become friends?”



“And why not?” Svidrigaïlov said, smiling. He stood up and took his hat.

“I didn’t quite intend to disturb you and I came here without reckoning

on it... though I was very much struck by your face this morning.”



“Where did you see me this morning?” Raskolnikov asked uneasily.



“I saw you by chance.... I kept fancying there is something about you

like me.... But don’t be uneasy. I am not intrusive; I used to get on

all right with card-sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great

personage who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about

Raphael’s _Madonna_ in Madam Prilukov’s album, and I never left Marfa

Petrovna’s side for seven years, and I used to stay the night at

Viazemsky’s house in the Hay Market in the old days, and I may go up in

a balloon with Berg, perhaps.”



“Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, may I ask?”



“What travels?”



“Why, on that ‘journey’; you spoke of it yourself.”



“A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well, that’s a wide

subject.... if only you knew what you are asking,” he added, and gave

a sudden, loud, short laugh. “Perhaps I’ll get married instead of the

journey. They’re making a match for me.”



“Here?”



“Yes.”



“How have you had time for that?”



“But I am very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once. I earnestly beg

it. Well, good-bye for the present. Oh, yes. I have forgotten something.

Tell your sister, Rodion Romanovitch, that Marfa Petrovna remembered

her in her will and left her three thousand roubles. That’s absolutely

certain. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, and it was

done in my presence. Avdotya Romanovna will be able to receive the money

in two or three weeks.”



“Are you telling the truth?”



“Yes, tell her. Well, your servant. I am staying very near you.”



As he went out, Svidrigaïlov ran up against Razumihin in the doorway.







CHAPTER II



It was nearly eight o’clock. The two young men hurried to Bakaleyev’s,

to arrive before Luzhin.



“Why, who was that?” asked Razumihin, as soon as they were in the

street.



“It was Svidrigaïlov, that landowner in whose house my sister was

insulted when she was their governess. Through his persecuting her with

his attentions, she was turned out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. This

Marfa Petrovna begged Dounia’s forgiveness afterwards, and she’s just

died suddenly. It was of her we were talking this morning. I don’t

know why I’m afraid of that man. He came here at once after his wife’s

funeral. He is very strange, and is determined on doing something.... We

must guard Dounia from him... that’s what I wanted to tell you, do you

hear?”



“Guard her! What can he do to harm Avdotya Romanovna? Thank you, Rodya,

for speaking to me like that.... We will, we will guard her. Where does

he live?”



“I don’t know.”



“Why didn’t you ask? What a pity! I’ll find out, though.”



“Did you see him?” asked Raskolnikov after a pause.



“Yes, I noticed him, I noticed him well.”



“You did really see him? You saw him clearly?” Raskolnikov insisted.



“Yes, I remember him perfectly, I should know him in a thousand; I have

a good memory for faces.”



They were silent again.



“Hm!... that’s all right,” muttered Raskolnikov. “Do you know, I

fancied... I keep thinking that it may have been an hallucination.”



“What do you mean? I don’t understand you.”



“Well, you all say,” Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a

smile, “that I am mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am mad,

and have only seen a phantom.”



“What do you mean?”



“Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps everything that

happened all these days may be only imagination.”



“Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again!... But what did he say, what did

he come for?”



Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute.



“Now let me tell you my story,” he began, “I came to you, you were

asleep. Then we had dinner and then I went to Porfiry’s, Zametov was

still with him. I tried to begin, but it was no use. I couldn’t speak in

the right way. They don’t seem to understand and can’t understand, but

are not a bit ashamed. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking

to him, but it was still no use. He looked away and I looked away. At

last I shook my fist in his ugly face, and told him as a cousin I’d

brain him. He merely looked at me, I cursed and came away. That was

all. It was very stupid. To Zametov I didn’t say a word. But, you see, I

thought I’d made a mess of it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea

struck me: why should we trouble? Of course if you were in any danger

or anything, but why need you care? You needn’t care a hang for them. We

shall have a laugh at them afterwards, and if I were in your place I’d

mystify them more than ever. How ashamed they’ll be afterwards! Hang

them! We can thrash them afterwards, but let’s laugh at them now!”



“To be sure,” answered Raskolnikov. “But what will you say to-morrow?”

 he thought to himself. Strange to say, till that moment it had never

occurred to him to wonder what Razumihin would think when he knew. As he

thought it, Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumihin’s account of his visit

to Porfiry had very little interest for him, so much had come and gone

since then.



In the corridor they came upon Luzhin; he had arrived punctually

at eight, and was looking for the number, so that all three went in

together without greeting or looking at one another. The young men

walked in first, while Pyotr Petrovitch, for good manners, lingered a

little in the passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna came

forward at once to greet him in the doorway, Dounia was welcoming her

brother. Pyotr Petrovitch walked in and quite amiably, though with

redoubled dignity, bowed to the ladies. He looked, however, as though

he were a little put out and could not yet recover himself. Pulcheria

Alexandrovna, who seemed also a little embarrassed, hastened to make

them all sit down at the round table where a samovar was boiling. Dounia

and Luzhin were facing one another on opposite sides of the table.

Razumihin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna, Razumihin

was next to Luzhin and Raskolnikov was beside his sister.



A moment’s silence followed. Pyotr Petrovitch deliberately drew out a

cambric handkerchief reeking of scent and blew his nose with an air of

a benevolent man who felt himself slighted, and was firmly resolved to

insist on an explanation. In the passage the idea had occurred to him to

keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so give the two ladies a sharp

and emphatic lesson and make them feel the gravity of the position.

But he could not bring himself to do this. Besides, he could not endure

uncertainty, and he wanted an explanation: if his request had been so

openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that case it was

better to find it out beforehand; it rested with him to punish them and

there would always be time for that.



“I trust you had a favourable journey,” he inquired officially of

Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



“Oh, very, Pyotr Petrovitch.”



“I am gratified to hear it. And Avdotya Romanovna is not over-fatigued

either?”



“I am young and strong, I don’t get tired, but it was a great strain for

mother,” answered Dounia.



“That’s unavoidable! our national railways are of terrible length.

‘Mother Russia,’ as they say, is a vast country.... In spite of all my

desire to do so, I was unable to meet you yesterday. But I trust all

passed off without inconvenience?”



“Oh, no, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was all terribly disheartening,” Pulcheria

Alexandrovna hastened to declare with peculiar intonation, “and if

Dmitri Prokofitch had not been sent us, I really believe by God Himself,

we should have been utterly lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofitch

Razumihin,” she added, introducing him to Luzhin.



“I had the pleasure... yesterday,” muttered Pyotr Petrovitch with a

hostile glance sidelong at Razumihin; then he scowled and was silent.



Pyotr Petrovitch belonged to that class of persons, on the surface very

polite in society, who make a great point of punctiliousness, but who,

directly they are crossed in anything, are completely disconcerted, and

become more like sacks of flour than elegant and lively men of society.

Again all was silent; Raskolnikov was obstinately mute, Avdotya

Romanovna was unwilling to open the conversation too soon. Razumihin had

nothing to say, so Pulcheria Alexandrovna was anxious again.



“Marfa Petrovna is dead, have you heard?” she began having recourse to

her leading item of conversation.



“To be sure, I heard so. I was immediately informed, and I have come to

make you acquainted with the fact that Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov

set off in haste for Petersburg immediately after his wife’s funeral. So

at least I have excellent authority for believing.”



“To Petersburg? here?” Dounia asked in alarm and looked at her mother.



“Yes, indeed, and doubtless not without some design, having in view the

rapidity of his departure, and all the circumstances preceding it.”



“Good heavens! won’t he leave Dounia in peace even here?” cried

Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



“I imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna have any grounds for

uneasiness, unless, of course, you are yourselves desirous of getting

into communication with him. For my part I am on my guard, and am now

discovering where he is lodging.”



“Oh, Pyotr Petrovitch, you would not believe what a fright you have

given me,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on: “I’ve only seen him twice,

but I thought him terrible, terrible! I am convinced that he was the

cause of Marfa Petrovna’s death.”



“It’s impossible to be certain about that. I have precise information. I

do not dispute that he may have contributed to accelerate the course of

events by the moral influence, so to say, of the affront; but as to the

general conduct and moral characteristics of that personage, I am

in agreement with you. I do not know whether he is well off now, and

precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; this will be known to me within

a very short period; but no doubt here in Petersburg, if he has any

pecuniary resources, he will relapse at once into his old ways. He is

the most depraved, and abjectly vicious specimen of that class of men.

I have considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna, who was so

unfortunate as to fall in love with him and to pay his debts eight years

ago, was of service to him also in another way. Solely by her exertions

and sacrifices, a criminal charge, involving an element of fantastic

and homicidal brutality for which he might well have been sentenced to

Siberia, was hushed up. That’s the sort of man he is, if you care to

know.”



“Good heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov listened

attentively.



“Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good evidence of

this?” Dounia asked sternly and emphatically.



“I only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa Petrovna. I must

observe that from the legal point of view the case was far from clear.

There was, and I believe still is, living here a woman called Resslich,

a foreigner, who lent small sums of money at interest, and did other

commissions, and with this woman Svidrigaïlov had for a long while close

and mysterious relations. She had a relation, a niece I believe, living

with her, a deaf and dumb girl of fifteen, or perhaps not more than

fourteen. Resslich hated this girl, and grudged her every crust; she

used to beat her mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging in

the garret. At the inquest the verdict was suicide. After the usual

proceedings the matter ended, but, later on, information was given that

the child had been... cruelly outraged by Svidrigaïlov. It is true, this

was not clearly established, the information was given by another German

woman of loose character whose word could not be trusted; no statement

was actually made to the police, thanks to Marfa Petrovna’s money and

exertions; it did not get beyond gossip. And yet the story is a very

significant one. You heard, no doubt, Avdotya Romanovna, when you were

with them the story of the servant Philip who died of ill treatment he

received six years ago, before the abolition of serfdom.”



“I heard, on the contrary, that this Philip hanged himself.”



“Quite so, but what drove him, or rather perhaps disposed him,

to suicide was the systematic persecution and severity of Mr.

Svidrigaïlov.”



“I don’t know that,” answered Dounia, dryly. “I only heard a queer story

that Philip was a sort of hypochondriac, a sort of domestic philosopher,

the servants used to say, ‘he read himself silly,’ and that he hanged

himself partly on account of Mr. Svidrigaïlov’s mockery of him and not

his blows. When I was there he behaved well to the servants, and they

were actually fond of him, though they certainly did blame him for

Philip’s death.”



“I perceive, Avdotya Romanovna, that you seem disposed to undertake his

defence all of a sudden,” Luzhin observed, twisting his lips into

an ambiguous smile, “there’s no doubt that he is an astute man, and

insinuating where ladies are concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has

died so strangely, is a terrible instance. My only desire has been to be

of service to you and your mother with my advice, in view of the renewed

efforts which may certainly be anticipated from him. For my part it’s

my firm conviction, that he will end in a debtor’s prison again.

Marfa Petrovna had not the slightest intention of settling anything

substantial on him, having regard for his children’s interests, and,

if she left him anything, it would only be the merest sufficiency,

something insignificant and ephemeral, which would not last a year for a

man of his habits.”



“Pyotr Petrovitch, I beg you,” said Dounia, “say no more of Mr.

Svidrigaïlov. It makes me miserable.”



“He has just been to see me,” said Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for

the first time.



There were exclamations from all, and they all turned to him. Even Pyotr

Petrovitch was roused.



“An hour and a half ago, he came in when I was asleep, waked me, and

introduced himself,” Raskolnikov continued. “He was fairly cheerful

and at ease, and quite hopes that we shall become friends. He is

particularly anxious, by the way, Dounia, for an interview with you, at

which he asked me to assist. He has a proposition to make to you, and

he told me about it. He told me, too, that a week before her death Marfa

Petrovna left you three thousand roubles in her will, Dounia, and that

you can receive the money very shortly.”



“Thank God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. “Pray for

her soul, Dounia!”



“It’s a fact!” broke from Luzhin.



“Tell us, what more?” Dounia urged Raskolnikov.



“Then he said that he wasn’t rich and all the estate was left to his

children who are now with an aunt, then that he was staying somewhere

not far from me, but where, I don’t know, I didn’t ask....”



“But what, what does he want to propose to Dounia?” cried Pulcheria

Alexandrovna in a fright. “Did he tell you?”



“Yes.”



“What was it?”



“I’ll tell you afterwards.”



Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention to his tea.



Pyotr Petrovitch looked at his watch.



“I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be in

your way,” he added with an air of some pique and he began getting up.



“Don’t go, Pyotr Petrovitch,” said Dounia, “you intended to spend

the evening. Besides, you wrote yourself that you wanted to have an

explanation with mother.”



“Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna,” Pyotr Petrovitch answered

impressively, sitting down again, but still holding his hat. “I

certainly desired an explanation with you and your honoured mother upon

a very important point indeed. But as your brother cannot speak openly

in my presence of some proposals of Mr. Svidrigaïlov, I, too, do not

desire and am not able to speak openly... in the presence of others...

of certain matters of the greatest gravity. Moreover, my most weighty

and urgent request has been disregarded....”



Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin relapsed into dignified silence.



“Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting was

disregarded solely at my insistence,” said Dounia. “You wrote that you

had been insulted by my brother; I think that this must be explained at

once, and you must be reconciled. And if Rodya really has insulted you,

then he _should_ and _will_ apologise.”



Pyotr Petrovitch took a stronger line.



“There are insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which no goodwill can make us

forget. There is a line in everything which it is dangerous to overstep;

and when it has been overstepped, there is no return.”



“That wasn’t what I was speaking of exactly, Pyotr Petrovitch,” Dounia

interrupted with some impatience. “Please understand that our whole

future depends now on whether all this is explained and set right as

soon as possible. I tell you frankly at the start that I cannot look at

it in any other light, and if you have the least regard for me, all this

business must be ended to-day, however hard that may be. I repeat that

if my brother is to blame he will ask your forgiveness.”



“I am surprised at your putting the question like that,” said Luzhin,

getting more and more irritated. “Esteeming, and so to say, adoring you,

I may at the same time, very well indeed, be able to dislike some member

of your family. Though I lay claim to the happiness of your hand, I

cannot accept duties incompatible with...”



“Ah, don’t be so ready to take offence, Pyotr Petrovitch,” Dounia

interrupted with feeling, “and be the sensible and generous man I have

always considered, and wish to consider, you to be. I’ve given you a

great promise, I am your betrothed. Trust me in this matter and, believe

me, I shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming the part of

judge is as much a surprise for my brother as for you. When I insisted

on his coming to our interview to-day after your letter, I told

him nothing of what I meant to do. Understand that, if you are not

reconciled, I must choose between you--it must be either you or he. That

is how the question rests on your side and on his. I don’t want to be

mistaken in my choice, and I must not be. For your sake I must break off

with my brother, for my brother’s sake I must break off with you. I can

find out for certain now whether he is a brother to me, and I want to

know it; and of you, whether I am dear to you, whether you esteem me,

whether you are the husband for me.”



“Avdotya Romanovna,” Luzhin declared huffily, “your words are of too

much consequence to me; I will say more, they are offensive in view

of the position I have the honour to occupy in relation to you. To say

nothing of your strange and offensive setting me on a level with an

impertinent boy, you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to

me. You say ‘you or he,’ showing thereby of how little consequence I

am in your eyes... I cannot let this pass considering the relationship

and... the obligations existing between us.”



“What!” cried Dounia, flushing. “I set your interest beside all that has

hitherto been most precious in my life, what has made up the _whole_ of

my life, and here you are offended at my making too _little_ account of

you.”



Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumihin fidgeted, but Pyotr

Petrovitch did not accept the reproof; on the contrary, at every word he

became more persistent and irritable, as though he relished it.



“Love for the future partner of your life, for your husband, ought to

outweigh your love for your brother,” he pronounced sententiously, “and

in any case I cannot be put on the same level.... Although I said so

emphatically that I would not speak openly in your brother’s presence,

nevertheless, I intend now to ask your honoured mother for a necessary

explanation on a point of great importance closely affecting my dignity.

Your son,” he turned to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “yesterday in the

presence of Mr. Razsudkin (or... I think that’s it? excuse me, I have

forgotten your surname”) (he bowed politely to Razumihin), “insulted me

by misrepresenting the idea I expressed to you in a private

conversation, drinking coffee, that is, that marriage with a poor girl

who has had experience of trouble is more advantageous from the conjugal

point of view than with one who has lived in luxury, since it is more

profitable for the moral character. Your son intentionally exaggerated

the significance of my words and made them ridiculous, accusing me of

malicious intentions, and, as far as I could see, relied upon your

correspondence with him. I shall consider myself happy, Pulcheria

Alexandrovna, if it is possible for you to convince me of an opposite

conclusion, and thereby considerately reassure me. Kindly let me know

in what terms precisely you repeated my words in your letter to Rodion

Romanovitch.”



“I don’t remember,” faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I repeated them as

I understood them. I don’t know how Rodya repeated them to you, perhaps

he exaggerated.”



“He could not have exaggerated them, except at your instigation.”



“Pyotr Petrovitch,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity, “the

proof that Dounia and I did not take your words in a very bad sense is

the fact that we are here.”



“Good, mother,” said Dounia approvingly.



“Then this is my fault again,” said Luzhin, aggrieved.



“Well, Pyotr Petrovitch, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself have

just written what was false about him,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added,

gaining courage.



“I don’t remember writing anything false.”



“You wrote,” Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin, “that I

gave money yesterday not to the widow of the man who was killed, as was

the fact, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen till yesterday).

You wrote this to make dissension between me and my family, and for that

object added coarse expressions about the conduct of a girl whom you

don’t know. All that is mean slander.”



“Excuse me, sir,” said Luzhin, quivering with fury. “I enlarged upon

your qualities and conduct in my letter solely in response to your

sister’s and mother’s inquiries, how I found you, and what impression

you made on me. As for what you’ve alluded to in my letter, be so good

as to point out one word of falsehood, show, that is, that you didn’t

throw away your money, and that there are not worthless persons in that

family, however unfortunate.”



“To my thinking, you, with all your virtues, are not worth the little

finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you throw stones.”



“Would you go so far then as to let her associate with your mother and

sister?”



“I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down to-day

with mother and Dounia.”



“Rodya!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dounia crimsoned, Razumihin

knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm.



“You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,” he said, “whether it is

possible for us to agree. I hope now that this question is at an end,

once and for all. I will withdraw, that I may not hinder the pleasures

of family intimacy, and the discussion of secrets.” He got up from his

chair and took his hat. “But in withdrawing, I venture to request

that for the future I may be spared similar meetings, and, so to

say, compromises. I appeal particularly to you, honoured Pulcheria

Alexandrovna, on this subject, the more as my letter was addressed to

you and to no one else.”



Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended.



“You seem to think we are completely under your authority, Pyotr

Petrovitch. Dounia has told you the reason your desire was disregarded,

she had the best intentions. And indeed you write as though you were

laying commands upon me. Are we to consider every desire of yours as

a command? Let me tell you on the contrary that you ought to show

particular delicacy and consideration for us now, because we have thrown

up everything, and have come here relying on you, and so we are in any

case in a sense in your hands.”



“That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at the

present moment, when the news has come of Marfa Petrovna’s legacy, which

seems indeed very apropos, judging from the new tone you take to me,” he

added sarcastically.



“Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that you were

reckoning on our helplessness,” Dounia observed irritably.



“But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I particularly desire

not to hinder your discussion of the secret proposals of Arkady

Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, which he has entrusted to your brother and

which have, I perceive, a great and possibly a very agreeable interest

for you.”



“Good heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



Razumihin could not sit still on his chair.



“Aren’t you ashamed now, sister?” asked Raskolnikov.



“I am ashamed, Rodya,” said Dounia. “Pyotr Petrovitch, go away,” she

turned to him, white with anger.



Pyotr Petrovitch had apparently not at all expected such a conclusion.

He had too much confidence in himself, in his power and in the

helplessness of his victims. He could not believe it even now. He turned

pale, and his lips quivered.



“Avdotya Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after such a

dismissal, then, you may reckon on it, I will never come back. Consider

what you are doing. My word is not to be shaken.”



“What insolence!” cried Dounia, springing up from her seat. “I don’t

want you to come back again.”



“What! So that’s how it stands!” cried Luzhin, utterly unable to the

last moment to believe in the rupture and so completely thrown out of

his reckoning now. “So that’s how it stands! But do you know, Avdotya

Romanovna, that I might protest?”



“What right have you to speak to her like that?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna

intervened hotly. “And what can you protest about? What rights have you?

Am I to give my Dounia to a man like you? Go away, leave us altogether!

We are to blame for having agreed to a wrong action, and I above

all....”



“But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna,” Luzhin stormed in a

frenzy, “by your promise, and now you deny it and... besides... I have

been led on account of that into expenses....”



This last complaint was so characteristic of Pyotr Petrovitch, that

Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the effort of restraining it,

could not help breaking into laughter. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna was

furious.



“Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of our trunk? But the

conductor brought it for nothing for you. Mercy on us, we have bound

you! What are you thinking about, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was you bound us,

hand and foot, not we!”



“Enough, mother, no more please,” Avdotya Romanovna implored. “Pyotr

Petrovitch, do be kind and go!”



“I am going, but one last word,” he said, quite unable to control

himself. “Your mamma seems to have entirely forgotten that I made up my

mind to take you, so to speak, after the gossip of the town had spread

all over the district in regard to your reputation. Disregarding public

opinion for your sake and reinstating your reputation, I certainly

might very well reckon on a fitting return, and might indeed look for

gratitude on your part. And my eyes have only now been opened! I see

myself that I may have acted very, very recklessly in disregarding the

universal verdict....”



“Does the fellow want his head smashed?” cried Razumihin, jumping up.



“You are a mean and spiteful man!” cried Dounia.



“Not a word! Not a movement!” cried Raskolnikov, holding Razumihin back;

then going close up to Luzhin, “Kindly leave the room!” he said quietly

and distinctly, “and not a word more or...”



Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face that

worked with anger, then he turned, went out, and rarely has any man

carried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against

Raskolnikov. Him, and him alone, he blamed for everything. It is

noteworthy that as he went downstairs he still imagined that his case

was perhaps not utterly lost, and that, so far as the ladies were

concerned, all might “very well indeed” be set right again.







CHAPTER III



The fact was that up to the last moment he had never expected such an

ending; he had been overbearing to the last degree, never dreaming that

two destitute and defenceless women could escape from his control. This

conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit to

the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, who had made his way up from

insignificance, was morbidly given to self-admiration, had the highest

opinion of his intelligence and capacities, and sometimes even gloated

in solitude over his image in the glass. But what he loved and valued

above all was the money he had amassed by his labour, and by all sorts

of devices: that money made him the equal of all who had been his

superiors.



When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he had decided to take her in

spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch had spoken with perfect sincerity

and had, indeed, felt genuinely indignant at such “black ingratitude.”

 And yet, when he made Dounia his offer, he was fully aware of the

groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had been everywhere

contradicted by Marfa Petrovna, and was by then disbelieved by all the

townspeople, who were warm in Dounia’s defence. And he would not have

denied that he knew all that at the time. Yet he still thought highly

of his own resolution in lifting Dounia to his level and regarded it as

something heroic. In speaking of it to Dounia, he had let out the secret

feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not understand that

others should fail to admire it too. He had called on Raskolnikov with

the feelings of a benefactor who is about to reap the fruits of his good

deeds and to hear agreeable flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he

considered himself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised.



Dounia was simply essential to him; to do without her was unthinkable.

For many years he had had voluptuous dreams of marriage, but he had

gone on waiting and amassing money. He brooded with relish, in profound

secret, over the image of a girl--virtuous, poor (she must be poor),

very young, very pretty, of good birth and education, very timid, one

who had suffered much, and was completely humbled before him, one who

would all her life look on him as her saviour, worship him, admire him

and only him. How many scenes, how many amorous episodes he had imagined

on this seductive and playful theme, when his work was over! And,

behold, the dream of so many years was all but realised; the beauty and

education of Avdotya Romanovna had impressed him; her helpless position

had been a great allurement; in her he had found even more than he

dreamed of. Here was a girl of pride, character, virtue, of education

and breeding superior to his own (he felt that), and this creature would

be slavishly grateful all her life for his heroic condescension, and

would humble herself in the dust before him, and he would have absolute,

unbounded power over her!... Not long before, he had, too, after long

reflection and hesitation, made an important change in his career and

was now entering on a wider circle of business. With this change his

cherished dreams of rising into a higher class of society seemed likely

to be realised.... He was, in fact, determined to try his fortune

in Petersburg. He knew that women could do a very great deal. The

fascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated woman might make

his way easier, might do wonders in attracting people to him, throwing

an aureole round him, and now everything was in ruins! This sudden

horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it was like a

hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit masterful,

had not even time to speak out, had simply made a joke, been carried

away--and it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love

Dounia in his own way; he already possessed her in his dreams--and all

at once! No! The next day, the very next day, it must all be set right,

smoothed over, settled. Above all he must crush that conceited milksop

who was the cause of it all. With a sick feeling he could not help

recalling Razumihin too, but, he soon reassured himself on that score;

as though a fellow like that could be put on a level with him! The man

he really dreaded in earnest was Svidrigaïlov.... He had, in short, a

great deal to attend to....



*****



“No, I, I am more to blame than anyone!” said Dounia, kissing and

embracing her mother. “I was tempted by his money, but on my honour,

brother, I had no idea he was such a base man. If I had seen through him

before, nothing would have tempted me! Don’t blame me, brother!”



“God has delivered us! God has delivered us!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna

muttered, but half consciously, as though scarcely able to realise what

had happened.



They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only now

and then Dounia turned white and frowned, remembering what had passed.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad:

she had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terrible

misfortune. Razumihin was delighted. He did not yet dare to express his

joy fully, but he was in a fever of excitement as though a ton-weight

had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to devote his life to

them, to serve them.... Anything might happen now! But he felt afraid to

think of further possibilities and dared not let his imagination

range. But Raskolnikov sat still in the same place, almost sullen and

indifferent. Though he had been the most insistent on getting rid of

Luzhin, he seemed now the least concerned at what had happened. Dounia

could not help thinking that he was still angry with her, and Pulcheria

Alexandrovna watched him timidly.



“What did Svidrigaïlov say to you?” said Dounia, approaching him.



“Yes, yes!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.



Raskolnikov raised his head.



“He wants to make you a present of ten thousand roubles and he desires

to see you once in my presence.”



“See her! On no account!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “And how dare he

offer her money!”



Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather dryly) his conversation with

Svidrigaïlov, omitting his account of the ghostly visitations of Marfa

Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk.



“What answer did you give him?” asked Dounia.



“At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that

he would do his utmost to obtain an interview with you without my help.

He assured me that his passion for you was a passing infatuation, now he

has no feeling for you. He doesn’t want you to marry Luzhin.... His talk

was altogether rather muddled.”



“How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you?”



“I must confess I don’t quite understand him. He offers you ten

thousand, and yet says he is not well off. He says he is going away, and

in ten minutes he forgets he has said it. Then he says he is going to be

married and has already fixed on the girl.... No doubt he has a motive,

and probably a bad one. But it’s odd that he should be so clumsy about

it if he had any designs against you.... Of course, I refused this

money on your account, once for all. Altogether, I thought him very

strange.... One might almost think he was mad. But I may be mistaken;

that may only be the part he assumes. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems

to have made a great impression on him.”



“God rest her soul,” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I shall always,

always pray for her! Where should we be now, Dounia, without this three

thousand! It’s as though it had fallen from heaven! Why, Rodya, this

morning we had only three roubles in our pocket and Dounia and I were

just planning to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowing from that man

until he offered help.”



Dounia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigaïlov’s offer. She still

stood meditating.



“He has got some terrible plan,” she said in a half whisper to herself,

almost shuddering.



Raskolnikov noticed this disproportionate terror.



“I fancy I shall have to see him more than once again,” he said to

Dounia.



“We will watch him! I will track him out!” cried Razumihin, vigorously.

“I won’t lose sight of him. Rodya has given me leave. He said to me

himself just now. ‘Take care of my sister.’ Will you give me leave, too,

Avdotya Romanovna?”



Dounia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of anxiety did not

leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna gazed at her timidly, but the

three thousand roubles had obviously a soothing effect on her.



A quarter of an hour later, they were all engaged in a lively

conversation. Even Raskolnikov listened attentively for some time,

though he did not talk. Razumihin was the speaker.



“And why, why should you go away?” he flowed on ecstatically. “And what

are you to do in a little town? The great thing is, you are all here

together and you need one another--you do need one another, believe me.

For a time, anyway.... Take me into partnership, and I assure you we’ll

plan a capital enterprise. Listen! I’ll explain it all in detail to

you, the whole project! It all flashed into my head this morning,

before anything had happened... I tell you what; I have an uncle, I must

introduce him to you (a most accommodating and respectable old man).

This uncle has got a capital of a thousand roubles, and he lives on his

pension and has no need of that money. For the last two years he has

been bothering me to borrow it from him and pay him six per cent

interest. I know what that means; he simply wants to help me. Last year

I had no need of it, but this year I resolved to borrow it as soon as

he arrived. Then you lend me another thousand of your three and we have

enough for a start, so we’ll go into partnership, and what are we going

to do?”



Then Razumihin began to unfold his project, and he explained at length

that almost all our publishers and booksellers know nothing at all

of what they are selling, and for that reason they are usually bad

publishers, and that any decent publications pay as a rule and give

a profit, sometimes a considerable one. Razumihin had, indeed, been

dreaming of setting up as a publisher. For the last two years he had

been working in publishers’ offices, and knew three European languages

well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days before that he was

“schwach” in German with an object of persuading him to take half his

translation and half the payment for it. He had told a lie then, and

Raskolnikov knew he was lying.



“Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the chief

means of success--money of our own!” cried Razumihin warmly. “Of course

there will be a lot of work, but we will work, you, Avdotya Romanovna,

I, Rodion.... You get a splendid profit on some books nowadays! And

the great point of the business is that we shall know just what wants

translating, and we shall be translating, publishing, learning all at

once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two years

I’ve been scuttling about among the publishers, and now I know every

detail of their business. You need not be a saint to make pots, believe

me! And why, why should we let our chance slip! Why, I know--and I kept

the secret--two or three books which one might get a hundred roubles

simply for thinking of translating and publishing. Indeed, and I would

not take five hundred for the very idea of one of them. And what do you

think? If I were to tell a publisher, I dare say he’d hesitate--they are

such blockheads! And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling,

you trust to me, I know my way about. We’ll begin in a small way and go

on to a large. In any case it will get us our living and we shall get

back our capital.”



Dounia’s eyes shone.



“I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!” she said.



“I know nothing about it, of course,” put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna,

“it may be a good idea, but again God knows. It’s new and untried. Of

course, we must remain here at least for a time.” She looked at Rodya.



“What do you think, brother?” said Dounia.



“I think he’s got a very good idea,” he answered. “Of course, it’s too

soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bring out

five or six books and be sure of success. I know of one book myself

which would be sure to go well. And as for his being able to manage it,

there’s no doubt about that either. He knows the business.... But we can

talk it over later....”



“Hurrah!” cried Razumihin. “Now, stay, there’s a flat here in this

house, belonging to the same owner. It’s a special flat apart, not

communicating with these lodgings. It’s furnished, rent moderate,

three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I’ll pawn your watch

to-morrow and bring you the money, and everything can be arranged then.

You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you. But where

are you off to, Rodya?”



“What, Rodya, you are going already?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in

dismay.



“At such a minute?” cried Razumihin.



Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held his cap in

his hand, he was preparing to leave them.



“One would think you were burying me or saying good-bye for ever,” he

said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did not turn out a

smile. “But who knows, perhaps it is the last time we shall see each

other...” he let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and it

somehow was uttered aloud.



“What is the matter with you?” cried his mother.



“Where are you going, Rodya?” asked Dounia rather strangely.



“Oh, I’m quite obliged to...” he answered vaguely, as though hesitating

what he would say. But there was a look of sharp determination in his

white face.



“I meant to say... as I was coming here... I meant to tell you, mother,

and you, Dounia, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I

feel ill, I am not at peace.... I will come afterwards, I will come of

myself... when it’s possible. I remember you and love you.... Leave me,

leave me alone. I decided this even before... I’m absolutely resolved on

it. Whatever may come to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be

alone. Forget me altogether, it’s better. Don’t inquire about me. When

I can, I’ll come of myself or... I’ll send for you. Perhaps it will all

come back, but now if you love me, give me up... else I shall begin to

hate you, I feel it.... Good-bye!”



“Good God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and his sister

were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was also.



“Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be as before!” cried his

poor mother.



He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Dounia

overtook him.



“Brother, what are you doing to mother?” she whispered, her eyes

flashing with indignation.



He looked dully at her.



“No matter, I shall come.... I’m coming,” he muttered in an undertone,

as though not fully conscious of what he was saying, and he went out of

the room.



“Wicked, heartless egoist!” cried Dounia.



“He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don’t you see it? You’re

heartless after that!” Razumihin whispered in her ear, squeezing

her hand tightly. “I shall be back directly,” he shouted to the

horror-stricken mother, and he ran out of the room.



Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage.



“I knew you would run after me,” he said. “Go back to them--be with

them... be with them to-morrow and always.... I... perhaps I shall

come... if I can. Good-bye.”



And without holding out his hand he walked away.



“But where are you going? What are you doing? What’s the matter with

you? How can you go on like this?” Razumihin muttered, at his wits’ end.



Raskolnikov stopped once more.



“Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tell you.

Don’t come to see me. Maybe I’ll come here.... Leave me, but _don’t

leave_ them. Do you understand me?”



It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the lamp. For a

minute they were looking at one another in silence. Razumihin remembered

that minute all his life. Raskolnikov’s burning and intent eyes

grew more penetrating every moment, piercing into his soul, into his

consciousness. Suddenly Razumihin started. Something strange, as it

were, passed between them.... Some idea, some hint, as it were, slipped,

something awful, hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides....

Razumihin turned pale.



“Do you understand now?” said Raskolnikov, his face twitching nervously.

“Go back, go to them,” he said suddenly, and turning quickly, he went

out of the house.



I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back to the ladies,

how he soothed them, how he protested that Rodya needed rest in his

illness, protested that Rodya was sure to come, that he would come every

day, that he was very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated,

that he, Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the

best doctor, a consultation.... In fact from that evening Razumihin took

his place with them as a son and a brother.







CHAPTER IV



Raskolnikov went straight to the house on the canal bank where Sonia

lived. It was an old green house of three storeys. He found the

porter and obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts of

Kapernaumov, the tailor. Having found in the corner of the courtyard

the entrance to the dark and narrow staircase, he mounted to the second

floor and came out into a gallery that ran round the whole second storey

over the yard. While he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where

to turn for Kapernaumov’s door, a door opened three paces from him; he

mechanically took hold of it.



“Who is there?” a woman’s voice asked uneasily.



“It’s I... come to see you,” answered Raskolnikov, and he walked into

the tiny entry.



On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper candlestick.



“It’s you! Good heavens!” cried Sonia weakly, and she stood rooted to

the spot.



“Which is your room? This way?” and Raskolnikov, trying not to look at

her, hastened in.



A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set down the

candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood before him inexpressibly

agitated and apparently frightened by his unexpected visit. The colour

rushed suddenly to her pale face and tears came into her eyes... She

felt sick and ashamed and happy, too.... Raskolnikov turned away quickly

and sat on a chair by the table. He scanned the room in a rapid glance.



It was a large but exceedingly low-pitched room, the only one let by the

Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door led in the wall on the left.

In the opposite side on the right hand wall was another door, always

kept locked. That led to the next flat, which formed a separate lodging.

Sonia’s room looked like a barn; it was a very irregular quadrangle and

this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three windows looking

out on to the canal ran aslant so that one corner formed a very acute

angle, and it was difficult to see in it without very strong light.

The other corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any

furniture in the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead,

beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal table covered by a

blue cloth stood against the same wall, close to the door into the other

flat. Two rush-bottom chairs stood by the table. On the opposite

wall near the acute angle stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers

looking, as it were, lost in a desert. That was all there was in the

room. The yellow, scratched and shabby wall-paper was black in the

corners. It must have been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There

was every sign of poverty; even the bedstead had no curtain.



Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so attentively and

unceremoniously scrutinising her room, and even began at last to tremble

with terror, as though she was standing before her judge and the arbiter

of her destinies.



“I am late.... It’s eleven, isn’t it?” he asked, still not lifting his

eyes.



“Yes,” muttered Sonia, “oh yes, it is,” she added, hastily, as though in

that lay her means of escape. “My landlady’s clock has just struck... I

heard it myself....”



“I’ve come to you for the last time,” Raskolnikov went on gloomily,

although this was the first time. “I may perhaps not see you again...”



“Are you... going away?”



“I don’t know... to-morrow....”



“Then you are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna to-morrow?” Sonia’s voice

shook.



“I don’t know. I shall know to-morrow morning.... Never mind that: I’ve

come to say one word....”



He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was

sitting down while she was all the while standing before him.



“Why are you standing? Sit down,” he said in a changed voice, gentle and

friendly.



She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compassionately at her.



“How thin you are! What a hand! Quite transparent, like a dead hand.”



He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly.



“I have always been like that,” she said.



“Even when you lived at home?”



“Yes.”



“Of course, you were,” he added abruptly and the expression of his face

and the sound of his voice changed again suddenly.



He looked round him once more.



“You rent this room from the Kapernaumovs?”



“Yes....”



“They live there, through that door?”



“Yes.... They have another room like this.”



“All in one room?”



“Yes.”



“I should be afraid in your room at night,” he observed gloomily.



“They are very good people, very kind,” answered Sonia, who still seemed

bewildered, “and all the furniture, everything... everything is theirs.

And they are very kind and the children, too, often come to see me.”



“They all stammer, don’t they?”



“Yes.... He stammers and he’s lame. And his wife, too.... It’s not

exactly that she stammers, but she can’t speak plainly. She is a very

kind woman. And he used to be a house serf. And there are seven

children... and it’s only the eldest one that stammers and the others

are simply ill... but they don’t stammer.... But where did you hear

about them?” she added with some surprise.



“Your father told me, then. He told me all about you.... And how you

went out at six o’clock and came back at nine and how Katerina Ivanovna

knelt down by your bed.”



Sonia was confused.



“I fancied I saw him to-day,” she whispered hesitatingly.



“Whom?”



“Father. I was walking in the street, out there at the corner, about ten

o’clock and he seemed to be walking in front. It looked just like him. I

wanted to go to Katerina Ivanovna....”



“You were walking in the streets?”



“Yes,” Sonia whispered abruptly, again overcome with confusion and

looking down.



“Katerina Ivanovna used to beat you, I dare say?”



“Oh no, what are you saying? No!” Sonia looked at him almost with

dismay.



“You love her, then?”



“Love her? Of course!” said Sonia with plaintive emphasis, and she

clasped her hands in distress. “Ah, you don’t.... If you only knew!

You see, she is quite like a child.... Her mind is quite unhinged, you

see... from sorrow. And how clever she used to be... how generous... how

kind! Ah, you don’t understand, you don’t understand!”



Sonia said this as though in despair, wringing her hands in excitement

and distress. Her pale cheeks flushed, there was a look of anguish in

her eyes. It was clear that she was stirred to the very depths, that

she was longing to speak, to champion, to express something. A sort

of _insatiable_ compassion, if one may so express it, was reflected in

every feature of her face.



“Beat me! how can you? Good heavens, beat me! And if she did beat me,

what then? What of it? You know nothing, nothing about it.... She is so

unhappy... ah, how unhappy! And ill.... She is seeking righteousness,

she is pure. She has such faith that there must be righteousness

everywhere and she expects it.... And if you were to torture her, she

wouldn’t do wrong. She doesn’t see that it’s impossible for people to

be righteous and she is angry at it. Like a child, like a child. She is

good!”



“And what will happen to you?”



Sonia looked at him inquiringly.



“They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on your hands

before, though.... And your father came to you to beg for drink. Well,

how will it be now?”



“I don’t know,” Sonia articulated mournfully.



“Will they stay there?”



“I don’t know.... They are in debt for the lodging, but the landlady,

I hear, said to-day that she wanted to get rid of them, and Katerina

Ivanovna says that she won’t stay another minute.”



“How is it she is so bold? She relies upon you?”



“Oh, no, don’t talk like that.... We are one, we live like one.” Sonia

was agitated again and even angry, as though a canary or some other

little bird were to be angry. “And what could she do? What, what could

she do?” she persisted, getting hot and excited. “And how she cried

to-day! Her mind is unhinged, haven’t you noticed it? At one minute she

is worrying like a child that everything should be right to-morrow, the

lunch and all that.... Then she is wringing her hands, spitting blood,

weeping, and all at once she will begin knocking her head against the

wall, in despair. Then she will be comforted again. She builds all her

hopes on you; she says that you will help her now and that she will

borrow a little money somewhere and go to her native town with me and

set up a boarding school for the daughters of gentlemen and take me to

superintend it, and we will begin a new splendid life. And she kisses

and hugs me, comforts me, and you know she has such faith, such faith in

her fancies! One can’t contradict her. And all the day long she has been

washing, cleaning, mending. She dragged the wash tub into the room with

her feeble hands and sank on the bed, gasping for breath. We went this

morning to the shops to buy shoes for Polenka and Lida for theirs are

quite worn out. Only the money we’d reckoned wasn’t enough, not nearly

enough. And she picked out such dear little boots, for she has taste,

you don’t know. And there in the shop she burst out crying before the

shopmen because she hadn’t enough.... Ah, it was sad to see her....”



“Well, after that I can understand your living like this,” Raskolnikov

said with a bitter smile.



“And aren’t you sorry for them? Aren’t you sorry?” Sonia flew at him

again. “Why, I know, you gave your last penny yourself, though you’d

seen nothing of it, and if you’d seen everything, oh dear! And how

often, how often I’ve brought her to tears! Only last week! Yes, I! Only

a week before his death. I was cruel! And how often I’ve done it! Ah,

I’ve been wretched at the thought of it all day!”



Sonia wrung her hands as she spoke at the pain of remembering it.



“You were cruel?”



“Yes, I--I. I went to see them,” she went on, weeping, “and father said,

‘read me something, Sonia, my head aches, read to me, here’s a book.’ He

had a book he had got from Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, he lives

there, he always used to get hold of such funny books. And I said, ‘I

can’t stay,’ as I didn’t want to read, and I’d gone in chiefly to show

Katerina Ivanovna some collars. Lizaveta, the pedlar, sold me some

collars and cuffs cheap, pretty, new, embroidered ones. Katerina

Ivanovna liked them very much; she put them on and looked at herself

in the glass and was delighted with them. ‘Make me a present of them,

Sonia,’ she said, ‘please do.’ ‘_Please do_,’ she said, she wanted them

so much. And when could she wear them? They just reminded her of her old

happy days. She looked at herself in the glass, admired herself, and she

has no clothes at all, no things of her own, hasn’t had all these years!

And she never asks anyone for anything; she is proud, she’d sooner give

away everything. And these she asked for, she liked them so much. And I

was sorry to give them. ‘What use are they to you, Katerina Ivanovna?’ I

said. I spoke like that to her, I ought not to have said that! She gave

me such a look. And she was so grieved, so grieved at my refusing her.

And it was so sad to see.... And she was not grieved for the collars,

but for my refusing, I saw that. Ah, if only I could bring it all back,

change it, take back those words! Ah, if I... but it’s nothing to you!”



“Did you know Lizaveta, the pedlar?”



“Yes.... Did you know her?” Sonia asked with some surprise.



“Katerina Ivanovna is in consumption, rapid consumption; she will soon

die,” said Raskolnikov after a pause, without answering her question.



“Oh, no, no, no!”



And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his hands, as though imploring

that she should not.



“But it will be better if she does die.”



“No, not better, not at all better!” Sonia unconsciously repeated in

dismay.



“And the children? What can you do except take them to live with you?”



“Oh, I don’t know,” cried Sonia, almost in despair, and she put her

hands to her head.



It was evident that that idea had very often occurred to her before and

he had only roused it again.



“And, what, if even now, while Katerina Ivanovna is alive, you get ill

and are taken to the hospital, what will happen then?” he persisted

pitilessly.



“How can you? That cannot be!”



And Sonia’s face worked with awful terror.



“Cannot be?” Raskolnikov went on with a harsh smile. “You are not

insured against it, are you? What will happen to them then? They will

be in the street, all of them, she will cough and beg and knock her head

against some wall, as she did to-day, and the children will cry....

Then she will fall down, be taken to the police station and to the

hospital, she will die, and the children...”



“Oh, no.... God will not let it be!” broke at last from Sonia’s

overburdened bosom.



She listened, looking imploringly at him, clasping her hands in dumb

entreaty, as though it all depended upon him.



Raskolnikov got up and began to walk about the room. A minute passed.

Sonia was standing with her hands and her head hanging in terrible

dejection.



“And can’t you save? Put by for a rainy day?” he asked, stopping

suddenly before her.



“No,” whispered Sonia.



“Of course not. Have you tried?” he added almost ironically.



“Yes.”



“And it didn’t come off! Of course not! No need to ask.”



And again he paced the room. Another minute passed.



“You don’t get money every day?”



Sonia was more confused than ever and colour rushed into her face again.



“No,” she whispered with a painful effort.



“It will be the same with Polenka, no doubt,” he said suddenly.



“No, no! It can’t be, no!” Sonia cried aloud in desperation, as though

she had been stabbed. “God would not allow anything so awful!”



“He lets others come to it.”



“No, no! God will protect her, God!” she repeated beside herself.



“But, perhaps, there is no God at all,” Raskolnikov answered with a sort

of malignance, laughed and looked at her.



Sonia’s face suddenly changed; a tremor passed over it. She looked at

him with unutterable reproach, tried to say something, but could not

speak and broke into bitter, bitter sobs, hiding her face in her hands.



“You say Katerina Ivanovna’s mind is unhinged; your own mind is

unhinged,” he said after a brief silence.



Five minutes passed. He still paced up and down the room in silence, not

looking at her. At last he went up to her; his eyes glittered. He put

his two hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her tearful

face. His eyes were hard, feverish and piercing, his lips were

twitching. All at once he bent down quickly and dropping to the

ground, kissed her foot. Sonia drew back from him as from a madman. And

certainly he looked like a madman.



“What are you doing to me?” she muttered, turning pale, and a sudden

anguish clutched at her heart.



He stood up at once.



“I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffering of

humanity,” he said wildly and walked away to the window. “Listen,” he

added, turning to her a minute later. “I said just now to an insolent

man that he was not worth your little finger... and that I did my sister

honour making her sit beside you.”



“Ach, you said that to them! And in her presence?” cried Sonia,

frightened. “Sit down with me! An honour! Why, I’m... dishonourable....

Ah, why did you say that?”



“It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said that of you,

but because of your great suffering. But you are a great sinner, that’s

true,” he added almost solemnly, “and your worst sin is that you have

destroyed and betrayed yourself _for nothing_. Isn’t that fearful? Isn’t

it fearful that you are living in this filth which you loathe so, and at

the same time you know yourself (you’ve only to open your eyes) that you

are not helping anyone by it, not saving anyone from anything? Tell me,”

 he went on almost in a frenzy, “how this shame and degradation can exist

in you side by side with other, opposite, holy feelings? It would be

better, a thousand times better and wiser to leap into the water and end

it all!”



“But what would become of them?” Sonia asked faintly, gazing at him with

eyes of anguish, but not seeming surprised at his suggestion.



Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her face; so she

must have had that thought already, perhaps many times, and earnestly

she had thought out in her despair how to end it and so earnestly, that

now she scarcely wondered at his suggestion. She had not even noticed

the cruelty of his words. (The significance of his reproaches and his

peculiar attitude to her shame she had, of course, not noticed either,

and that, too, was clear to him.) But he saw how monstrously the thought

of her disgraceful, shameful position was torturing her and had long

tortured her. “What, what,” he thought, “could hitherto have hindered

her from putting an end to it?” Only then he realised what those poor

little orphan children and that pitiful half-crazy Katerina Ivanovna,

knocking her head against the wall in her consumption, meant for Sonia.



But, nevertheless, it was clear to him again that with her character and

the amount of education she had after all received, she could not in any

case remain so. He was still confronted by the question, how could she

have remained so long in that position without going out of her mind,

since she could not bring herself to jump into the water? Of course he

knew that Sonia’s position was an exceptional case, though unhappily not

unique and not infrequent, indeed; but that very exceptionalness, her

tinge of education, her previous life might, one would have thought,

have killed her at the first step on that revolting path. What held her

up--surely not depravity? All that infamy had obviously only touched

her mechanically, not one drop of real depravity had penetrated to her

heart; he saw that. He saw through her as she stood before him....



“There are three ways before her,” he thought, “the canal, the madhouse,

or... at last to sink into depravity which obscures the mind and turns

the heart to stone.”



The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a sceptic, he was

young, abstract, and therefore cruel, and so he could not help believing

that the last end was the most likely.



“But can that be true?” he cried to himself. “Can that creature who has

still preserved the purity of her spirit be consciously drawn at last

into that sink of filth and iniquity? Can the process already have

begun? Can it be that she has only been able to bear it till now,

because vice has begun to be less loathsome to her? No, no, that cannot

be!” he cried, as Sonia had just before. “No, what has kept her from the

canal till now is the idea of sin and they, the children.... And if she

has not gone out of her mind... but who says she has not gone out of her

mind? Is she in her senses? Can one talk, can one reason as she does?

How can she sit on the edge of the abyss of loathsomeness into which she

is slipping and refuse to listen when she is told of danger? Does she

expect a miracle? No doubt she does. Doesn’t that all mean madness?”



He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that explanation indeed

better than any other. He began looking more intently at her.



“So you pray to God a great deal, Sonia?” he asked her.



Sonia did not speak; he stood beside her waiting for an answer.



“What should I be without God?” she whispered rapidly, forcibly,

glancing at him with suddenly flashing eyes, and squeezing his hand.



“Ah, so that is it!” he thought.



“And what does God do for you?” he asked, probing her further.



Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not answer. Her weak

chest kept heaving with emotion.



“Be silent! Don’t ask! You don’t deserve!” she cried suddenly, looking

sternly and wrathfully at him.



“That’s it, that’s it,” he repeated to himself.



“He does everything,” she whispered quickly, looking down again.



“That’s the way out! That’s the explanation,” he decided, scrutinising

her with eager curiosity, with a new, strange, almost morbid feeling.

He gazed at that pale, thin, irregular, angular little face, those soft

blue eyes, which could flash with such fire, such stern energy, that

little body still shaking with indignation and anger--and it all seemed

to him more and more strange, almost impossible. “She is a religious

maniac!” he repeated to himself.



There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had noticed it every

time he paced up and down the room. Now he took it up and looked at it.

It was the New Testament in the Russian translation. It was bound in

leather, old and worn.



“Where did you get that?” he called to her across the room.



She was still standing in the same place, three steps from the table.



“It was brought me,” she answered, as it were unwillingly, not looking

at him.



“Who brought it?”



“Lizaveta, I asked her for it.”



“Lizaveta! strange!” he thought.



Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more wonderful every

moment. He carried the book to the candle and began to turn over the

pages.



“Where is the story of Lazarus?” he asked suddenly.



Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not answer. She was

standing sideways to the table.



“Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia.”



She stole a glance at him.



“You are not looking in the right place.... It’s in the fourth gospel,”

 she whispered sternly, without looking at him.



“Find it and read it to me,” he said. He sat down with his elbow on the

table, leaned his head on his hand and looked away sullenly, prepared to

listen.



“In three weeks’ time they’ll welcome me in the madhouse! I shall be

there if I am not in a worse place,” he muttered to himself.



Sonia heard Raskolnikov’s request distrustfully and moved hesitatingly

to the table. She took the book however.



“Haven’t you read it?” she asked, looking up at him across the table.



Her voice became sterner and sterner.



“Long ago.... When I was at school. Read!”



“And haven’t you heard it in church?”



“I... haven’t been. Do you often go?”



“N-no,” whispered Sonia.



Raskolnikov smiled.



“I understand.... And you won’t go to your father’s funeral to-morrow?”



“Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too... I had a requiem

service.”



“For whom?”



“For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe.”



His nerves were more and more strained. His head began to go round.



“Were you friends with Lizaveta?”



“Yes.... She was good... she used to come... not often... she

couldn’t.... We used to read together and... talk. She will see God.”



The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was something new

again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta and both of them--religious

maniacs.



“I shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It’s infectious!”



“Read!” he cried irritably and insistently.



Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly dared to read

to him. He looked almost with exasperation at the “unhappy lunatic.”



“What for? You don’t believe?...” she whispered softly and as it were

breathlessly.



“Read! I want you to,” he persisted. “You used to read to Lizaveta.”



Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands were shaking, her

voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin and could not bring out the

first syllable.



“Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany...” she forced

herself at last to read, but at the third word her voice broke like an

overstrained string. There was a catch in her breath.



Raskolnikov saw in part why Sonia could not bring herself to read to him

and the more he saw this, the more roughly and irritably he insisted on

her doing so. He understood only too well how painful it was for her

to betray and unveil all that was her _own_. He understood that these

feelings really were her _secret treasure_, which she had kept perhaps

for years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived with an unhappy

father and a distracted stepmother crazed by grief, in the midst of

starving children and unseemly abuse and reproaches. But at the same

time he knew now and knew for certain that, although it filled her with

dread and suffering, yet she had a tormenting desire to read and to read

to _him_ that he might hear it, and to read _now_ whatever might come of

it!... He read this in her eyes, he could see it in her intense emotion.

She mastered herself, controlled the spasm in her throat and went on

reading the eleventh chapter of St. John. She went on to the nineteenth

verse:



“And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to comfort them concerning

their brother.



“Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming went and met

Him: but Mary sat still in the house.



“Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother

had not died.



“But I know that even now whatsoever Thou wilt ask of God, God will give

it Thee....”



Then she stopped again with a shamefaced feeling that her voice would

quiver and break again.



“Jesus said unto her, thy brother shall rise again.



“Martha saith unto Him, I know that he shall rise again in the

resurrection, at the last day.



“Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that

believeth in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live.



“And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die. Believest

thou this?



“She saith unto Him,”



(And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and forcibly as

though she were making a public confession of faith.)



“Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of God Which

should come into the world.”



She stopped and looked up quickly at him, but controlling herself went

on reading. Raskolnikov sat without moving, his elbows on the table and

his eyes turned away. She read to the thirty-second verse.



“Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell down at

His feet, saying unto Him, Lord if Thou hadst been here, my brother had

not died.



“When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which

came with her, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled,



“And said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto Him, Lord, come and

see.



“Jesus wept.



“Then said the Jews, behold how He loved him!



“And some of them said, could not this Man which opened the eyes of the

blind, have caused that even this man should not have died?”



Raskolnikov turned and looked at her with emotion. Yes, he had known it!

She was trembling in a real physical fever. He had expected it. She was

getting near the story of the greatest miracle and a feeling of immense

triumph came over her. Her voice rang out like a bell; triumph and joy

gave it power. The lines danced before her eyes, but she knew what she

was reading by heart. At the last verse “Could not this Man which opened

the eyes of the blind...” dropping her voice she passionately reproduced

the doubt, the reproach and censure of the blind disbelieving Jews, who

in another moment would fall at His feet as though struck by

thunder, sobbing and believing.... “And _he, he_--too, is blinded and

unbelieving, he, too, will hear, he, too, will believe, yes, yes! At

once, now,” was what she was dreaming, and she was quivering with happy

anticipation.



“Jesus therefore again groaning in Himself cometh to the grave. It was a

cave, and a stone lay upon it.



“Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was

dead, saith unto Him, Lord by this time he stinketh: for he hath been

dead four days.”



She laid emphasis on the word _four_.



“Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldest

believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?



“Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid.

And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, Father, I thank Thee that Thou

hast heard Me.



“And I knew that Thou hearest Me always; but because of the people which

stand by I said it, that they may believe that Thou hast sent Me.



“And when He thus had spoken, He cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come

forth.



“And he that was dead came forth.”



(She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as though she were

seeing it before her eyes.)



“Bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about

with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him and let him go.



“Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen the things which

Jesus did believed on Him.”



She could read no more, closed the book and got up from her chair

quickly.



“That is all about the raising of Lazarus,” she whispered severely and

abruptly, and turning away she stood motionless, not daring to raise

her eyes to him. She still trembled feverishly. The candle-end was

flickering out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the

poverty-stricken room the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely

been reading together the eternal book. Five minutes or more passed.



“I came to speak of something,” Raskolnikov said aloud, frowning. He got

up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes to him in silence. His face

was particularly stern and there was a sort of savage determination in

it.



“I have abandoned my family to-day,” he said, “my mother and sister. I

am not going to see them. I’ve broken with them completely.”



“What for?” asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting with his mother and

sister had left a great impression which she could not analyse. She

heard his news almost with horror.



“I have only you now,” he added. “Let us go together.... I’ve come to

you, we are both accursed, let us go our way together!”



His eyes glittered “as though he were mad,” Sonia thought, in her turn.



“Go where?” she asked in alarm and she involuntarily stepped back.



“How do I know? I only know it’s the same road, I know that and nothing

more. It’s the same goal!”



She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only that he was

terribly, infinitely unhappy.



“No one of them will understand, if you tell them, but I have

understood. I need you, that is why I have come to you.”



“I don’t understand,” whispered Sonia.



“You’ll understand later. Haven’t you done the same? You, too, have

transgressed... have had the strength to transgress. You have laid

hands on yourself, you have destroyed a life... _your own_ (it’s all the

same!). You might have lived in spirit and understanding, but you’ll

end in the Hay Market.... But you won’t be able to stand it, and if

you remain alone you’ll go out of your mind like me. You are like a mad

creature already. So we must go together on the same road! Let us go!”



“What for? What’s all this for?” said Sonia, strangely and violently

agitated by his words.



“What for? Because you can’t remain like this, that’s why! You must look

things straight in the face at last, and not weep like a child and cry

that God won’t allow it. What will happen, if you should really be taken

to the hospital to-morrow? She is mad and in consumption, she’ll soon

die and the children? Do you mean to tell me Polenka won’t come to

grief? Haven’t you seen children here at the street corners sent out

by their mothers to beg? I’ve found out where those mothers live and in

what surroundings. Children can’t remain children there! At seven the

child is vicious and a thief. Yet children, you know, are the image of

Christ: ‘theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.’ He bade us honour and love

them, they are the humanity of the future....”



“What’s to be done, what’s to be done?” repeated Sonia, weeping

hysterically and wringing her hands.



“What’s to be done? Break what must be broken, once for all, that’s all,

and take the suffering on oneself. What, you don’t understand? You’ll

understand later.... Freedom and power, and above all, power! Over all

trembling creation and all the ant-heap!... That’s the goal, remember

that! That’s my farewell message. Perhaps it’s the last time I shall

speak to you. If I don’t come to-morrow, you’ll hear of it all, and then

remember these words. And some day later on, in years to come, you’ll

understand perhaps what they meant. If I come to-morrow, I’ll tell you

who killed Lizaveta.... Good-bye.”



Sonia started with terror.



“Why, do you know who killed her?” she asked, chilled with horror,

looking wildly at him.



“I know and will tell... you, only you. I have chosen you out. I’m not

coming to you to ask forgiveness, but simply to tell you. I chose you

out long ago to hear this, when your father talked of you and when

Lizaveta was alive, I thought of it. Good-bye, don’t shake hands.

To-morrow!”



He went out. Sonia gazed at him as at a madman. But she herself was like

one insane and felt it. Her head was going round.



“Good heavens, how does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those

words mean? It’s awful!” But at the same time _the idea_ did not enter

her head, not for a moment! “Oh, he must be terribly unhappy!... He has

abandoned his mother and sister.... What for? What has happened? And

what had he in his mind? What did he say to her? He had kissed her foot

and said... said (yes, he had said it clearly) that he could not live

without her.... Oh, merciful heavens!”



Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She jumped up from

time to time, wept and wrung her hands, then sank again into feverish

sleep and dreamt of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna and Lizaveta, of reading

the gospel and him... him with pale face, with burning eyes... kissing

her feet, weeping.



On the other side of the door on the right, which divided Sonia’s room

from Madame Resslich’s flat, was a room which had long stood empty. A

card was fixed on the gate and a notice stuck in the windows over the

canal advertising it to let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the

room’s being uninhabited. But all that time Mr. Svidrigaïlov had been

standing, listening at the door of the empty room. When Raskolnikov went

out he stood still, thought a moment, went on tiptoe to his own room

which adjoined the empty one, brought a chair and noiselessly carried it

to the door that led to Sonia’s room. The conversation had struck him

as interesting and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed it--so much so

that he brought a chair that he might not in the future, to-morrow, for

instance, have to endure the inconvenience of standing a whole hour, but

might listen in comfort.







CHAPTER V



When next morning at eleven o’clock punctually Raskolnikov went into the

department of the investigation of criminal causes and sent his name in

to Porfiry Petrovitch, he was surprised at being kept waiting so long:

it was at least ten minutes before he was summoned. He had expected

that they would pounce upon him. But he stood in the waiting-room, and

people, who apparently had nothing to do with him, were continually

passing to and fro before him. In the next room which looked like an

office, several clerks were sitting writing and obviously they had

no notion who or what Raskolnikov might be. He looked uneasily and

suspiciously about him to see whether there was not some guard, some

mysterious watch being kept on him to prevent his escape. But there was

nothing of the sort: he saw only the faces of clerks absorbed in petty

details, then other people, no one seemed to have any concern with him.

He might go where he liked for them. The conviction grew stronger in him

that if that enigmatic man of yesterday, that phantom sprung out of the

earth, had seen everything, they would not have let him stand and wait

like that. And would they have waited till he elected to appear at

eleven? Either the man had not yet given information, or... or simply

he knew nothing, had seen nothing (and how could he have seen anything?)

and so all that had happened to him the day before was again a phantom

exaggerated by his sick and overstrained imagination. This conjecture

had begun to grow strong the day before, in the midst of all his

alarm and despair. Thinking it all over now and preparing for a fresh

conflict, he was suddenly aware that he was trembling--and he felt a

rush of indignation at the thought that he was trembling with fear at

facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovitch. What he dreaded above all was

meeting that man again; he hated him with an intense, unmitigated hatred

and was afraid his hatred might betray him. His indignation was such

that he ceased trembling at once; he made ready to go in with a cold and

arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep as silent as possible,

to watch and listen and for once at least to control his overstrained

nerves. At that moment he was summoned to Porfiry Petrovitch.



He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study. His study was a room

neither large nor small, furnished with a large writing-table, that

stood before a sofa, upholstered in checked material, a bureau, a

bookcase in the corner and several chairs--all government furniture,

of polished yellow wood. In the further wall there was a closed door,

beyond it there were no doubt other rooms. On Raskolnikov’s entrance

Porfiry Petrovitch had at once closed the door by which he had come in

and they remained alone. He met his visitor with an apparently genial

and good-tempered air, and it was only after a few minutes that

Raskolnikov saw signs of a certain awkwardness in him, as though he had

been thrown out of his reckoning or caught in something very secret.



“Ah, my dear fellow! Here you are... in our domain”... began Porfiry,

holding out both hands to him. “Come, sit down, old man... or perhaps

you don’t like to be called ‘my dear fellow’ and ‘old man!’--_tout

court_? Please don’t think it too familiar.... Here, on the sofa.”



Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. “In our domain,”

 the apologies for familiarity, the French phrase _tout court_, were all

characteristic signs.



“He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one--he drew it

back in time,” struck him suspiciously. Both were watching each other,

but when their eyes met, quick as lightning they looked away.



“I brought you this paper... about the watch. Here it is. Is it all

right or shall I copy it again?”



“What? A paper? Yes, yes, don’t be uneasy, it’s all right,” Porfiry

Petrovitch said as though in haste, and after he had said it he took the

paper and looked at it. “Yes, it’s all right. Nothing more is needed,”

 he declared with the same rapidity and he laid the paper on the table.



A minute later when he was talking of something else he took it from the

table and put it on his bureau.



“I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me...

formally... about my acquaintance with the murdered woman?” Raskolnikov

was beginning again. “Why did I put in ‘I believe’” passed through

his mind in a flash. “Why am I so uneasy at having put in that ‘_I

believe_’?” came in a second flash. And he suddenly felt that his

uneasiness at the mere contact with Porfiry, at the first words, at the

first looks, had grown in an instant to monstrous proportions, and that

this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quivering, his emotion was

increasing. “It’s bad, it’s bad! I shall say too much again.”



“Yes, yes, yes! There’s no hurry, there’s no hurry,” muttered Porfiry

Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the table without any apparent aim,

as it were making dashes towards the window, the bureau and the table,

at one moment avoiding Raskolnikov’s suspicious glance, then again

standing still and looking him straight in the face.



His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball rolling

from one side to the other and rebounding back.



“We’ve plenty of time. Do you smoke? have you your own? Here, a

cigarette!” he went on, offering his visitor a cigarette. “You know I am

receiving you here, but my own quarters are through there, you know, my

government quarters. But I am living outside for the time, I had to

have some repairs done here. It’s almost finished now.... Government

quarters, you know, are a capital thing. Eh, what do you think?”



“Yes, a capital thing,” answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost

ironically.



“A capital thing, a capital thing,” repeated Porfiry Petrovitch, as

though he had just thought of something quite different. “Yes, a capital

thing,” he almost shouted at last, suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and

stopping short two steps from him.



This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its ineptitude with the

serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned upon his visitor.



But this stirred Raskolnikov’s spleen more than ever and he could not

resist an ironical and rather incautious challenge.



“Tell me, please,” he asked suddenly, looking almost insolently at him

and taking a kind of pleasure in his own insolence. “I believe it’s a

sort of legal rule, a sort of legal tradition--for all investigating

lawyers--to begin their attack from afar, with a trivial, or at least

an irrelevant subject, so as to encourage, or rather, to divert the man

they are cross-examining, to disarm his caution and then all at once to

give him an unexpected knock-down blow with some fatal question. Isn’t

that so? It’s a sacred tradition, mentioned, I fancy, in all the manuals

of the art?”



“Yes, yes.... Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke about government

quarters... eh?”



And as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch screwed up his eyes and winked;

a good-humoured, crafty look passed over his face. The wrinkles on his

forehead were smoothed out, his eyes contracted, his features broadened

and he suddenly went off into a nervous prolonged laugh, shaking all

over and looking Raskolnikov straight in the face. The latter forced

himself to laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing,

broke into such a guffaw that he turned almost crimson, Raskolnikov’s

repulsion overcame all precaution; he left off laughing, scowled and

stared with hatred at Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his

intentionally prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on

both sides, however, for Porfiry Petrovitch seemed to be laughing in

his visitor’s face and to be very little disturbed at the annoyance with

which the visitor received it. The latter fact was very significant

in Raskolnikov’s eyes: he saw that Porfiry Petrovitch had not been

embarrassed just before either, but that he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps

fallen into a trap; that there must be something, some motive here

unknown to him; that, perhaps, everything was in readiness and in

another moment would break upon him...



He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat and took his

cap.



“Porfiry Petrovitch,” he began resolutely, though with considerable

irritation, “yesterday you expressed a desire that I should come to you

for some inquiries” (he laid special stress on the word “inquiries”). “I

have come and if you have anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow

me to withdraw. I have no time to spare.... I have to be at the funeral

of that man who was run over, of whom you... know also,” he added,

feeling angry at once at having made this addition and more irritated at

his anger. “I am sick of it all, do you hear? and have long been. It’s

partly what made me ill. In short,” he shouted, feeling that the phrase

about his illness was still more out of place, “in short, kindly examine

me or let me go, at once. And if you must examine me, do so in the

proper form! I will not allow you to do so otherwise, and so meanwhile,

good-bye, as we have evidently nothing to keep us now.”



“Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I question you about?”

 cackled Porfiry Petrovitch with a change of tone, instantly leaving off

laughing. “Please don’t disturb yourself,” he began fidgeting from place

to place and fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. “There’s no hurry,

there’s no hurry, it’s all nonsense. Oh, no, I’m very glad you’ve come

to see me at last... I look upon you simply as a visitor. And as for

my confounded laughter, please excuse it, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion

Romanovitch? That is your name?... It’s my nerves, you tickled me

so with your witty observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake with

laughter like an india-rubber ball for half an hour at a time.... I’m

often afraid of an attack of paralysis. Do sit down. Please do, or I

shall think you are angry...”



Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still frowning

angrily. He did sit down, but still held his cap.



“I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion Romanovitch,”

 Porfiry Petrovitch continued, moving about the room and again avoiding

his visitor’s eyes. “You see, I’m a bachelor, a man of no consequence

and not used to society; besides, I have nothing before me, I’m set, I’m

running to seed and... and have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that in

our Petersburg circles, if two clever men meet who are not intimate, but

respect each other, like you and me, it takes them half an hour before

they can find a subject for conversation--they are dumb, they sit

opposite each other and feel awkward. Everyone has subjects of

conversation, ladies for instance... people in high society always have

their subjects of conversation, _c’est de rigueur_, but people of the

middle sort like us, thinking people that is, are always tongue-tied

and awkward. What is the reason of it? Whether it is the lack of public

interest, or whether it is we are so honest we don’t want to deceive one

another, I don’t know. What do you think? Do put down your cap, it

looks as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfortable... I am so

delighted...”



Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in silence with

a serious frowning face to the vague and empty chatter of Porfiry

Petrovitch. “Does he really want to distract my attention with his silly

babble?”



“I can’t offer you coffee here; but why not spend five minutes with a

friend?” Porfiry pattered on, “and you know all these official

duties... please don’t mind my running up and down, excuse it, my dear

fellow, I am very much afraid of offending you, but exercise is

absolutely indispensable for me. I’m always sitting and so glad to be

moving about for five minutes... I suffer from my sedentary life... I

always intend to join a gymnasium; they say that officials of all ranks,

even Privy Councillors, may be seen skipping gaily there; there you have

it, modern science... yes, yes.... But as for my duties here, inquiries

and all such formalities... you mentioned inquiries yourself just now...

I assure you these interrogations are sometimes more embarrassing for

the interrogator than for the interrogated.... You made the observation

yourself just now very aptly and wittily.” (Raskolnikov had made no

observation of the kind.) “One gets into a muddle! A regular muddle! One

keeps harping on the same note, like a drum! There is to be a reform and

we shall be called by a different name, at least, he-he-he! And as for

our legal tradition, as you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree

with you. Every prisoner on trial, even the rudest peasant, knows that

they begin by disarming him with irrelevant questions (as you so happily

put it) and then deal him a knock-down blow, he-he-he!--your felicitous

comparison, he-he! So you really imagined that I meant by ‘government

quarters’... he-he! You are an ironical person. Come. I won’t go on! Ah,

by the way, yes! One word leads to another. You spoke of formality just

now, apropos of the inquiry, you know. But what’s the use of formality?

In many cases it’s nonsense. Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets

a good deal more out of it. One can always fall back on formality, allow

me to assure you. And after all, what does it amount to? An examining

lawyer cannot be bounded by formality at every step. The work of

investigation is, so to speak, a free art in its own way, he-he-he!”



Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He had simply babbled on

uttering empty phrases, letting slip a few enigmatic words and again

reverting to incoherence. He was almost running about the room, moving

his fat little legs quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his

right hand behind his back, while with his left making gesticulations

that were extraordinarily incongruous with his words. Raskolnikov

suddenly noticed that as he ran about the room he seemed twice to stop

for a moment near the door, as though he were listening.



“Is he expecting anything?”



“You are certainly quite right about it,” Porfiry began gaily, looking

with extraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov (which startled him and

instantly put him on his guard); “certainly quite right in laughing so

wittily at our legal forms, he-he! Some of these elaborate psychological

methods are exceedingly ridiculous and perhaps useless, if one adheres

too closely to the forms. Yes... I am talking of forms again. Well, if

I recognise, or more strictly speaking, if I suspect someone or other to

be a criminal in any case entrusted to me... you’re reading for the law,

of course, Rodion Romanovitch?”



“Yes, I was...”



“Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future--though don’t

suppose I should venture to instruct you after the articles you publish

about crime! No, I simply make bold to state it by way of fact, if I

took this man or that for a criminal, why, I ask, should I worry him

prematurely, even though I had evidence against him? In one case I may

be bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another may be in

quite a different position, you know, so why shouldn’t I let him walk

about the town a bit? he-he-he! But I see you don’t quite understand, so

I’ll give you a clearer example. If I put him in prison too soon, I

may very likely give him, so to speak, moral support, he-he! You’re

laughing?”



Raskolnikov had no idea of laughing. He was sitting with compressed

lips, his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry Petrovitch’s.



“Yet that is the case, with some types especially, for men are so

different. You say ‘evidence’. Well, there may be evidence. But

evidence, you know, can generally be taken two ways. I am an examining

lawyer and a weak man, I confess it. I should like to make a proof, so

to say, mathematically clear. I should like to make a chain of evidence

such as twice two are four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable proof!

And if I shut him up too soon--even though I might be convinced _he_

was the man, I should very likely be depriving myself of the means of

getting further evidence against him. And how? By giving him, so to

speak, a definite position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his

mind at rest, so that he will retreat into his shell. They say that at

Sevastopol, soon after Alma, the clever people were in a terrible fright

that the enemy would attack openly and take Sevastopol at once. But when

they saw that the enemy preferred a regular siege, they were delighted,

I am told and reassured, for the thing would drag on for two months at

least. You’re laughing, you don’t believe me again? Of course, you’re

right, too. You’re right, you’re right. These are special cases, I

admit. But you must observe this, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, the

general case, the case for which all legal forms and rules are intended,

for which they are calculated and laid down in books, does not exist at

all, for the reason that every case, every crime, for instance, so soon

as it actually occurs, at once becomes a thoroughly special case and

sometimes a case unlike any that’s gone before. Very comic cases of that

sort sometimes occur. If I leave one man quite alone, if I don’t touch

him and don’t worry him, but let him know or at least suspect every

moment that I know all about it and am watching him day and night, and

if he is in continual suspicion and terror, he’ll be bound to lose his

head. He’ll come of himself, or maybe do something which will make it as

plain as twice two are four--it’s delightful. It may be so with a simple

peasant, but with one of our sort, an intelligent man cultivated on a

certain side, it’s a dead certainty. For, my dear fellow, it’s a very

important matter to know on what side a man is cultivated. And then

there are nerves, there are nerves, you have overlooked them! Why, they

are all sick, nervous and irritable!... And then how they all suffer

from spleen! That I assure you is a regular gold-mine for us. And it’s

no anxiety to me, his running about the town free! Let him, let him walk

about for a bit! I know well enough that I’ve caught him and that he

won’t escape me. Where could he escape to, he-he? Abroad, perhaps? A

Pole will escape abroad, but not here, especially as I am watching

and have taken measures. Will he escape into the depths of the country

perhaps? But you know, peasants live there, real rude Russian peasants.

A modern cultivated man would prefer prison to living with such

strangers as our peasants. He-he! But that’s all nonsense, and on

the surface. It’s not merely that he has nowhere to run to, he is

_psychologically_ unable to escape me, he-he! What an expression!

Through a law of nature he can’t escape me if he had anywhere to go.

Have you seen a butterfly round a candle? That’s how he will keep

circling and circling round me. Freedom will lose its attractions. He’ll

begin to brood, he’ll weave a tangle round himself, he’ll worry himself

to death! What’s more, he will provide me with a mathematical proof--if

I only give him long enough interval.... And he’ll keep circling round

me, getting nearer and nearer and then--flop! He’ll fly straight into my

mouth and I’ll swallow him, and that will be very amusing, he-he-he! You

don’t believe me?”



Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, still gazing with

the same intensity into Porfiry’s face.



“It’s a lesson,” he thought, turning cold. “This is beyond the cat

playing with a mouse, like yesterday. He can’t be showing off his power

with no motive... prompting me; he is far too clever for that... he must

have another object. What is it? It’s all nonsense, my friend, you are

pretending, to scare me! You’ve no proofs and the man I saw had no

real existence. You simply want to make me lose my head, to work me up

beforehand and so to crush me. But you are wrong, you won’t do it! But

why give me such a hint? Is he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my

friend, you are wrong, you won’t do it even though you have some trap

for me... let us see what you have in store for me.”



And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown ordeal. At times

he longed to fall on Porfiry and strangle him. This anger was what he

dreaded from the beginning. He felt that his parched lips were flecked

with foam, his heart was throbbing. But he was still determined not to

speak till the right moment. He realised that this was the best

policy in his position, because instead of saying too much he would be

irritating his enemy by his silence and provoking him into speaking too

freely. Anyhow, this was what he hoped for.



“No, I see you don’t believe me, you think I am playing a harmless joke

on you,” Porfiry began again, getting more and more lively, chuckling

at every instant and again pacing round the room. “And to be sure you’re

right: God has given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in

other people; a buffoon; but let me tell you, and I repeat it, excuse

an old man, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, you are a man still young, so to

say, in your first youth and so you put intellect above everything, like

all young people. Playful wit and abstract arguments fascinate you and

that’s for all the world like the old Austrian _Hof-kriegsrath_, as

far as I can judge of military matters, that is: on paper they’d beaten

Napoleon and taken him prisoner, and there in their study they worked it

all out in the cleverest fashion, but look you, General Mack surrendered

with all his army, he-he-he! I see, I see, Rodion Romanovitch, you are

laughing at a civilian like me, taking examples out of military history!

But I can’t help it, it’s my weakness. I am fond of military science.

And I’m ever so fond of reading all military histories. I’ve certainly

missed my proper career. I ought to have been in the army, upon my

word I ought. I shouldn’t have been a Napoleon, but I might have been a

major, he-he! Well, I’ll tell you the whole truth, my dear fellow, about

this _special case_, I mean: actual fact and a man’s temperament, my

dear sir, are weighty matters and it’s astonishing how they sometimes

deceive the sharpest calculation! I--listen to an old man--am speaking

seriously, Rodion Romanovitch” (as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch, who

was scarcely five-and-thirty, actually seemed to have grown old; even

his voice changed and he seemed to shrink together) “Moreover, I’m

a candid man... am I a candid man or not? What do you say? I fancy I

really am: I tell you these things for nothing and don’t even expect a

reward for it, he-he! Well, to proceed, wit in my opinion is a splendid

thing, it is, so to say, an adornment of nature and a consolation of

life, and what tricks it can play! So that it sometimes is hard for a

poor examining lawyer to know where he is, especially when he’s liable

to be carried away by his own fancy, too, for you know he is a man after

all! But the poor fellow is saved by the criminal’s temperament, worse

luck for him! But young people carried away by their own wit don’t think

of that ‘when they overstep all obstacles,’ as you wittily and cleverly

expressed it yesterday. He will lie--that is, the man who is a _special

case_, the incognito, and he will lie well, in the cleverest fashion;

you might think he would triumph and enjoy the fruits of his wit, but at

the most interesting, the most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course

there may be illness and a stuffy room as well, but anyway! Anyway he’s

given us the idea! He lied incomparably, but he didn’t reckon on his

temperament. That’s what betrays him! Another time he will be carried

away by his playful wit into making fun of the man who suspects him, he

will turn pale as it were on purpose to mislead, but his paleness will

be _too natural_, too much like the real thing, again he has given us

an idea! Though his questioner may be deceived at first, he will think

differently next day if he is not a fool, and, of course, it is like

that at every step! He puts himself forward where he is not wanted,

speaks continually when he ought to keep silent, brings in all sorts of

allegorical allusions, he-he! Comes and asks why didn’t you take me long

ago? he-he-he! And that can happen, you know, with the cleverest man,

the psychologist, the literary man. The temperament reflects everything

like a mirror! Gaze into it and admire what you see! But why are you so

pale, Rodion Romanovitch? Is the room stuffy? Shall I open the window?”



“Oh, don’t trouble, please,” cried Raskolnikov and he suddenly broke

into a laugh. “Please don’t trouble.”



Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly he too laughed.

Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly checking his hysterical

laughter.



“Porfiry Petrovitch,” he began, speaking loudly and distinctly, though

his legs trembled and he could scarcely stand. “I see clearly at last

that you actually suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister

Lizaveta. Let me tell you for my part that I am sick of this. If you

find that you have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then

prosecute me, arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered at to my

face and worried...”



His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could not restrain

his voice.



“I won’t allow it!” he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. “Do

you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won’t allow it.”



“Good heavens! What does it mean?” cried Porfiry Petrovitch, apparently

quite frightened. “Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, what is the

matter with you?”



“I won’t allow it,” Raskolnikov shouted again.



“Hush, my dear man! They’ll hear and come in. Just think, what could we

say to them?” Porfiry Petrovitch whispered in horror, bringing his face

close to Raskolnikov’s.



“I won’t allow it, I won’t allow it,” Raskolnikov repeated mechanically,

but he too spoke in a sudden whisper.



Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window.



“Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my dear fellow. You’re

ill!” and he was running to the door to call for some when he found a

decanter of water in the corner. “Come, drink a little,” he whispered,

rushing up to him with the decanter. “It will be sure to do you good.”



Porfiry Petrovitch’s alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov

was silent and began looking at him with wild curiosity. He did not take

the water, however.



“Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you’ll drive yourself out of your

mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some water, do drink a little.”



He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to

his lips, but set it on the table again with disgust.



“Yes, you’ve had a little attack! You’ll bring back your illness again,

my dear fellow,” Porfiry Petrovitch cackled with friendly sympathy,

though he still looked rather disconcerted. “Good heavens, you must

take more care of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me

yesterday--I know, I know, I’ve a nasty, ironical temper, but what they

made of it!... Good heavens, he came yesterday after you’d been. We

dined and he talked and talked away, and I could only throw up my hands

in despair! Did he come from you? But do sit down, for mercy’s sake, sit

down!”



“No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went,”

 Raskolnikov answered sharply.



“You knew?”



“I knew. What of it?”



“Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than that about you;

I know about everything. I know how you went _to take a flat_ at night

when it was dark and how you rang the bell and asked about the blood, so

that the workmen and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I

understand your state of mind at that time... but you’ll drive yourself

mad like that, upon my word! You’ll lose your head! You’re full of

generous indignation at the wrongs you’ve received, first from destiny,

and then from the police officers, and so you rush from one thing to

another to force them to speak out and make an end of it all, because

you are sick of all this suspicion and foolishness. That’s so, isn’t

it? I have guessed how you feel, haven’t I? Only in that way you’ll

lose your head and Razumihin’s, too; he’s too _good_ a man for such

a position, you must know that. You are ill and he is good and your

illness is infectious for him... I’ll tell you about it when you are

more yourself.... But do sit down, for goodness’ sake. Please rest, you

look shocking, do sit down.”



Raskolnikov sat down; he no longer shivered, he was hot all over. In

amazement he listened with strained attention to Porfiry Petrovitch who

still seemed frightened as he looked after him with friendly solicitude.

But he did not believe a word he said, though he felt a strange

inclination to believe. Porfiry’s unexpected words about the flat had

utterly overwhelmed him. “How can it be, he knows about the flat then,”

 he thought suddenly, “and he tells it me himself!”



“Yes, in our legal practice there was a case almost exactly similar, a

case of morbid psychology,” Porfiry went on quickly. “A man confessed to

murder and how he kept it up! It was a regular hallucination; he brought

forward facts, he imposed upon everyone and why? He had been partly, but

only partly, unintentionally the cause of a murder and when he knew that

he had given the murderers the opportunity, he sank into dejection, it

got on his mind and turned his brain, he began imagining things and he

persuaded himself that he was the murderer. But at last the High Court

of Appeal went into it and the poor fellow was acquitted and put under

proper care. Thanks to the Court of Appeal! Tut-tut-tut! Why, my dear

fellow, you may drive yourself into delirium if you have the impulse

to work upon your nerves, to go ringing bells at night and asking about

blood! I’ve studied all this morbid psychology in my practice. A man

is sometimes tempted to jump out of a window or from a belfry. Just the

same with bell-ringing.... It’s all illness, Rodion Romanovitch! You

have begun to neglect your illness. You should consult an experienced

doctor, what’s the good of that fat fellow? You are lightheaded! You

were delirious when you did all this!”



For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything going round.



“Is it possible, is it possible,” flashed through his mind, “that he is

still lying? He can’t be, he can’t be.” He rejected that idea, feeling

to what a degree of fury it might drive him, feeling that that fury

might drive him mad.



“I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing,” he cried, straining

every faculty to penetrate Porfiry’s game, “I was quite myself, do you

hear?”



“Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday you were not delirious,

you were particularly emphatic about it! I understand all you can tell

me! A-ach!... Listen, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow. If you were

actually a criminal, or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business,

would you insist that you were not delirious but in full possession

of your faculties? And so emphatically and persistently? Would it be

possible? Quite impossible, to my thinking. If you had anything on

your conscience, you certainly ought to insist that you were delirious.

That’s so, isn’t it?”



There was a note of slyness in this inquiry. Raskolnikov drew back on

the sofa as Porfiry bent over him and stared in silent perplexity at

him.



“Another thing about Razumihin--you certainly ought to have said that he

came of his own accord, to have concealed your part in it! But you don’t

conceal it! You lay stress on his coming at your instigation.”



Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his back.



“You keep telling lies,” he said slowly and weakly, twisting his lips

into a sickly smile, “you are trying again to show that you know all

my game, that you know all I shall say beforehand,” he said, conscious

himself that he was not weighing his words as he ought. “You want to

frighten me... or you are simply laughing at me...”



He still stared at him as he said this and again there was a light of

intense hatred in his eyes.



“You keep lying,” he said. “You know perfectly well that the best

policy for the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly as possible... to

conceal as little as possible. I don’t believe you!”



“What a wily person you are!” Porfiry tittered, “there’s no catching

you; you’ve a perfect monomania. So you don’t believe me? But still you

do believe me, you believe a quarter; I’ll soon make you believe the

whole, because I have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you

good.”



Raskolnikov’s lips trembled.



“Yes, I do,” went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov’s arm genially, “you

must take care of your illness. Besides, your mother and sister are here

now; you must think of them. You must soothe and comfort them and you do

nothing but frighten them...”



“What has that to do with you? How do you know it? What concern is it of

yours? You are keeping watch on me and want to let me know it?”



“Good heavens! Why, I learnt it all from you yourself! You don’t

notice that in your excitement you tell me and others everything. From

Razumihin, too, I learnt a number of interesting details yesterday. No,

you interrupted me, but I must tell you that, for all your wit, your

suspiciousness makes you lose the common-sense view of things. To return

to bell-ringing, for instance. I, an examining lawyer, have betrayed a

precious thing like that, a real fact (for it is a fact worth having),

and you see nothing in it! Why, if I had the slightest suspicion of you,

should I have acted like that? No, I should first have disarmed your

suspicions and not let you see I knew of that fact, should have diverted

your attention and suddenly have dealt you a knock-down blow (your

expression) saying: ‘And what were you doing, sir, pray, at ten or

nearly eleven at the murdered woman’s flat and why did you ring the bell

and why did you ask about blood? And why did you invite the porters

to go with you to the police station, to the lieutenant?’ That’s how

I ought to have acted if I had a grain of suspicion of you. I ought to

have taken your evidence in due form, searched your lodging and perhaps

have arrested you, too... so I have no suspicion of you, since I have

not done that! But you can’t look at it normally and you see nothing, I

say again.”



Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovitch could not fail to

perceive it.



“You are lying all the while,” he cried, “I don’t know your object,

but you are lying. You did not speak like that just now and I cannot be

mistaken!”



“I am lying?” Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but preserving

a good-humoured and ironical face, as though he were not in the least

concerned at Raskolnikov’s opinion of him. “I am lying... but how did

I treat you just now, I, the examining lawyer? Prompting you and giving

you every means for your defence; illness, I said, delirium, injury,

melancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it? Ah! He-he-he!

Though, indeed, all those psychological means of defence are not very

reliable and cut both ways: illness, delirium, I don’t remember--that’s

all right, but why, my good sir, in your illness and in your delirium

were you haunted by just those delusions and not by any others? There

may have been others, eh? He-he-he!”



Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at him.



“Briefly,” he said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet and in so

doing pushing Porfiry back a little, “briefly, I want to know, do you

acknowledge me perfectly free from suspicion or not? Tell me, Porfiry

Petrovitch, tell me once for all and make haste!”



“What a business I’m having with you!” cried Porfiry with a perfectly

good-humoured, sly and composed face. “And why do you want to know, why

do you want to know so much, since they haven’t begun to worry you? Why,

you are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so uneasy? Why

do you force yourself upon us, eh? He-he-he!”



“I repeat,” Raskolnikov cried furiously, “that I can’t put up with it!”



“With what? Uncertainty?” interrupted Porfiry.



“Don’t jeer at me! I won’t have it! I tell you I won’t have it. I can’t

and I won’t, do you hear, do you hear?” he shouted, bringing his fist

down on the table again.



“Hush! Hush! They’ll overhear! I warn you seriously, take care of

yourself. I am not joking,” Porfiry whispered, but this time there was

not the look of old womanish good nature and alarm in his face. Now

he was peremptory, stern, frowning and for once laying aside all

mystification.



But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered, suddenly fell

into actual frenzy, but, strange to say, he again obeyed the command to

speak quietly, though he was in a perfect paroxysm of fury.



“I will not allow myself to be tortured,” he whispered, instantly

recognising with hatred that he could not help obeying the command and

driven to even greater fury by the thought. “Arrest me, search me, but

kindly act in due form and don’t play with me! Don’t dare!”



“Don’t worry about the form,” Porfiry interrupted with the same sly

smile, as it were, gloating with enjoyment over Raskolnikov. “I invited

you to see me quite in a friendly way.”



“I don’t want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you hear? And, here,

I take my cap and go. What will you say now if you mean to arrest me?”



He took up his cap and went to the door.



“And won’t you see my little surprise?” chuckled Porfiry, again taking

him by the arm and stopping him at the door.



He seemed to become more playful and good-humoured, which maddened

Raskolnikov.



“What surprise?” he asked, standing still and looking at Porfiry in

alarm.



“My little surprise, it’s sitting there behind the door, he-he-he!”

 (He pointed to the locked door.) “I locked him in that he should not

escape.”



“What is it? Where? What?...”



Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened it, but it was

locked.



“It’s locked, here is the key!”



And he brought a key out of his pocket.



“You are lying,” roared Raskolnikov without restraint, “you lie, you

damned punchinello!” and he rushed at Porfiry who retreated to the other

door, not at all alarmed.



“I understand it all! You are lying and mocking so that I may betray

myself to you...”



“Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear Rodion

Romanovitch. You are in a passion. Don’t shout, I shall call the

clerks.”



“You are lying! Call the clerks! You knew I was ill and tried to work

me into a frenzy to make me betray myself, that was your object! Produce

your facts! I understand it all. You’ve no evidence, you have only

wretched rubbishly suspicions like Zametov’s! You knew my character, you

wanted to drive me to fury and then to knock me down with priests and

deputies.... Are you waiting for them? eh! What are you waiting for?

Where are they? Produce them?”



“Why deputies, my good man? What things people will imagine! And to do

so would not be acting in form as you say, you don’t know the business,

my dear fellow.... And there’s no escaping form, as you see,” Porfiry

muttered, listening at the door through which a noise could be heard.



“Ah, they’re coming,” cried Raskolnikov. “You’ve sent for them! You

expected them! Well, produce them all: your deputies, your witnesses,

what you like!... I am ready!”



But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected

that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovitch could have looked for

such a conclusion to their interview.







CHAPTER VI



When he remembered the scene afterwards, this is how Raskolnikov saw it.



The noise behind the door increased, and suddenly the door was opened a

little.



“What is it?” cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. “Why, I gave orders...”



For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident that there were

several persons at the door, and that they were apparently pushing

somebody back.



“What is it?” Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily.



“The prisoner Nikolay has been brought,” someone answered.



“He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! What’s he doing here?

How irregular!” cried Porfiry, rushing to the door.



“But he...” began the same voice, and suddenly ceased.



Two seconds, not more, were spent in actual struggle, then someone gave

a violent shove, and then a man, very pale, strode into the room.



This man’s appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared

straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined

gleam in his eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his

face, as though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were

faintly twitching.



He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young,

slim, his hair cut in round crop, with thin spare features. The man whom

he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing

him by the shoulder; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away.



Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them

tried to get in. All this took place almost instantaneously.



“Go away, it’s too soon! Wait till you are sent for!... Why have you

brought him so soon?” Porfiry Petrovitch muttered, extremely annoyed,

and as it were thrown out of his reckoning.



But Nikolay suddenly knelt down.



“What’s the matter?” cried Porfiry, surprised.



“I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer,” Nikolay articulated

suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking fairly loudly.



For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been struck dumb;

even the warder stepped back, mechanically retreated to the door, and

stood immovable.



“What is it?” cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his momentary

stupefaction.



“I... am the murderer,” repeated Nikolay, after a brief pause.



“What... you... what... whom did you kill?” Porfiry Petrovitch was

obviously bewildered.



Nikolay again was silent for a moment.



“Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I... killed... with

an axe. Darkness came over me,” he added suddenly, and was again silent.



He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood for some

moments as though meditating, but suddenly roused himself and waved back

the uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the door.

Then he looked towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner,

staring wildly at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short,

looked from Nikolay to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and

seeming unable to restrain himself darted at the latter.



“You’re in too great a hurry,” he shouted at him, almost angrily. “I

didn’t ask you what came over you.... Speak, did you kill them?”



“I am the murderer.... I want to give evidence,” Nikolay pronounced.



“Ach! What did you kill them with?”



“An axe. I had it ready.”



“Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?”



Nikolay did not understand the question.



“Did you do it alone?”



“Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it.”



“Don’t be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it you ran downstairs

like that at the time? The porters met you both!”



“It was to put them off the scent... I ran after Mitka,” Nikolay replied

hurriedly, as though he had prepared the answer.



“I knew it!” cried Porfiry, with vexation. “It’s not his own tale he is

telling,” he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested

on Raskolnikov again.



He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had

forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback.



“My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!” he flew up to him, “this won’t

do; I’m afraid you must go... it’s no good your staying... I will...

you see, what a surprise!... Good-bye!”



And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door.



“I suppose you didn’t expect it?” said Raskolnikov who, though he had

not yet fully grasped the situation, had regained his courage.



“You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is

trembling! He-he!”



“You’re trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch!”



“Yes, I am; I didn’t expect it.”



They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to

be gone.



“And your little surprise, aren’t you going to show it to me?”

 Raskolnikov said, sarcastically.



“Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You are an ironical

person! Come, till we meet!”



“I believe we can say _good-bye_!”



“That’s in God’s hands,” muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile.



As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people

were looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from _the_ house,

whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there

waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of

Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running

after him, out of breath.



“One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it’s in God’s hands,

but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask

you... so we shall meet again, shan’t we?”



And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.



“Shan’t we?” he added again.



He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out.



“You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I

lost my temper,” began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage

that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness.



“Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” Porfiry replied, almost gleefully.

“I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet

again. If it’s God’s will, we may see a great deal of one another.”



“And will get to know each other through and through?” added

Raskolnikov.



“Yes; know each other through and through,” assented Porfiry Petrovitch,

and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. “Now

you’re going to a birthday party?”



“To a funeral.”



“Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well.”



“I don’t know what to wish you,” said Raskolnikov, who had begun to

descend the stairs, but looked back again. “I should like to wish you

success, but your office is such a comical one.”



“Why comical?” Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to

prick up his ears at this.



“Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay

psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have

been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and

now that he has confessed, you’ll begin vivisecting him again. ‘You are

lying,’ you’ll say. ‘You are not the murderer! You can’t be! It’s not

your own tale you are telling!’ You must admit it’s a comical business!”



“He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was

not his own tale he was telling?”



“How could I help noticing it!”



“He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You’ve really a

playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say

that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers.”



“Yes, of Gogol.”



“Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you.”



“So shall I.”



Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that

on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to

collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he

was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable,

amazing--something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay’s confession

was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at

once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they

would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do

something for himself, for the danger was imminent.



But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him.

Remembering, sketchily, the main outlines of his recent scene with

Porfiry, he could not help shuddering again with horror. Of course,

he did not yet know all Porfiry’s aims, he could not see into all his

calculations. But he had already partly shown his hand, and no one knew

better than Raskolnikov how terrible Porfiry’s “lead” had been for

him. A little more and he _might_ have given himself away completely,

circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament and from the first

glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though playing a bold game, was

bound to win. There’s no denying that Raskolnikov had compromised

himself seriously, but no _facts_ had come to light as yet; there was

nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn’t

he mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had he really some

surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really been expecting

something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been for the

unexpected appearance of Nikolay?



Porfiry had shown almost all his cards--of course, he had risked

something in showing them--and if he had really had anything up his

sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would have shown that, too. What was

that “surprise”? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have

concealed anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His

yesterday’s visitor? What had become of him? Where was he to-day? If

Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be connected with him....



He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in

his hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his

cap, thought a minute, and went to the door.



He had a sort of presentiment that for to-day, at least, he might

consider himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense almost of joy; he

wanted to make haste to Katerina Ivanovna’s. He would be too late for

the funeral, of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner,

and there at once he would see Sonia.



He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile came for a

moment on to his lips.



“To-day! To-day,” he repeated to himself. “Yes, to-day! So it must

be....”



But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of itself. He

started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly, and there

suddenly appeared a figure--yesterday’s visitor _from underground_.



The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without speaking,

and took a step forward into the room. He was exactly the same as

yesterday; the same figure, the same dress, but there was a great change

in his face; he looked dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put

his hand up to his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have

looked exactly like a peasant woman.



“What do you want?” asked Raskolnikov, numb with terror. The man was

still silent, but suddenly he bowed down almost to the ground, touching

it with his finger.



“What is it?” cried Raskolnikov.



“I have sinned,” the man articulated softly.



“How?”



“By evil thoughts.”



They looked at one another.



“I was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and bade the porters go

to the police station and asked about the blood, I was vexed that they

let you go and took you for drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my

sleep. And remembering the address we came here yesterday and asked for

you....”



“Who came?” Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to recollect.



“I did, I’ve wronged you.”



“Then you come from that house?”



“I was standing at the gate with them... don’t you remember? We have

carried on our trade in that house for years past. We cure and prepare

hides, we take work home... most of all I was vexed....”



And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the gateway came

clearly before Raskolnikov’s mind; he recollected that there had

been several people there besides the porters, women among them.

He remembered one voice had suggested taking him straight to the

police-station. He could not recall the face of the speaker, and even

now he did not recognise it, but he remembered that he had turned round

and made him some answer....



So this was the solution of yesterday’s horror. The most awful thought

was that he had been actually almost lost, had almost done for himself

on account of such a _trivial_ circumstance. So this man could tell

nothing except his asking about the flat and the blood stains. So

Porfiry, too, had nothing but that _delirium_, no facts but this

_psychology_ which _cuts both ways_, nothing positive. So if no more

facts come to light (and they must not, they must not!) then... then

what can they do to him? How can they convict him, even if they arrest

him? And Porfiry then had only just heard about the flat and had not

known about it before.



“Was it you who told Porfiry... that I’d been there?” he cried, struck

by a sudden idea.



“What Porfiry?”



“The head of the detective department?”



“Yes. The porters did not go there, but I went.”



“To-day?”



“I got there two minutes before you. And I heard, I heard it all, how he

worried you.”



“Where? What? When?”



“Why, in the next room. I was sitting there all the time.”



“What? Why, then you were the surprise? But how could it happen? Upon my

word!”



“I saw that the porters did not want to do what I said,” began the man;

“for it’s too late, said they, and maybe he’ll be angry that we did not

come at the time. I was vexed and I lost my sleep, and I began making

inquiries. And finding out yesterday where to go, I went to-day. The

first time I went he wasn’t there, when I came an hour later he couldn’t

see me. I went the third time, and they showed me in. I informed him of

everything, just as it happened, and he began skipping about the room

and punching himself on the chest. ‘What do you scoundrels mean by it?

If I’d known about it I should have arrested him!’ Then he ran out,

called somebody and began talking to him in the corner, then he turned

to me, scolding and questioning me. He scolded me a great deal; and I

told him everything, and I told him that you didn’t dare to say a word

in answer to me yesterday and that you didn’t recognise me. And he

fell to running about again and kept hitting himself on the chest, and

getting angry and running about, and when you were announced he told

me to go into the next room. ‘Sit there a bit,’ he said. ‘Don’t move,

whatever you may hear.’ And he set a chair there for me and locked

me in. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I may call you.’ And when Nikolay’d been

brought he let me out as soon as you were gone. ‘I shall send for you

again and question you,’ he said.”



“And did he question Nikolay while you were there?”



“He got rid of me as he did of you, before he spoke to Nikolay.”



The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed down, touching the ground

with his finger.



“Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander.”



“May God forgive you,” answered Raskolnikov.



And as he said this, the man bowed down again, but not to the ground,

turned slowly and went out of the room.



“It all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways,” repeated

Raskolnikov, and he went out more confident than ever.



“Now we’ll make a fight for it,” he said, with a malicious smile, as he

went down the stairs. His malice was aimed at himself; with shame and

contempt he recollected his “cowardice.”









PART V







CHAPTER I



The morning that followed the fateful interview with Dounia and

her mother brought sobering influences to bear on Pyotr Petrovitch.

Intensely unpleasant as it was, he was forced little by little to accept

as a fact beyond recall what had seemed to him only the day before

fantastic and incredible. The black snake of wounded vanity had been

gnawing at his heart all night. When he got out of bed, Pyotr Petrovitch

immediately looked in the looking-glass. He was afraid that he had

jaundice. However his health seemed unimpaired so far, and looking at

his noble, clear-skinned countenance which had grown fattish of

late, Pyotr Petrovitch for an instant was positively comforted in the

conviction that he would find another bride and, perhaps, even a better

one. But coming back to the sense of his present position, he turned

aside and spat vigorously, which excited a sarcastic smile in Andrey

Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, the young friend with whom he was staying.

That smile Pyotr Petrovitch noticed, and at once set it down against his

young friend’s account. He had set down a good many points against him

of late. His anger was redoubled when he reflected that he ought not to

have told Andrey Semyonovitch about the result of yesterday’s interview.

That was the second mistake he had made in temper, through impulsiveness

and irritability.... Moreover, all that morning one unpleasantness

followed another. He even found a hitch awaiting him in his legal case

in the senate. He was particularly irritated by the owner of the flat

which had been taken in view of his approaching marriage and was being

redecorated at his own expense; the owner, a rich German tradesman,

would not entertain the idea of breaking the contract which had just

been signed and insisted on the full forfeit money, though Pyotr

Petrovitch would be giving him back the flat practically redecorated. In

the same way the upholsterers refused to return a single rouble of the

instalment paid for the furniture purchased but not yet removed to the

flat.



“Am I to get married simply for the sake of the furniture?” Pyotr

Petrovitch ground his teeth and at the same time once more he had a

gleam of desperate hope. “Can all that be really so irrevocably over?

Is it no use to make another effort?” The thought of Dounia sent a

voluptuous pang through his heart. He endured anguish at that moment,

and if it had been possible to slay Raskolnikov instantly by wishing it,

Pyotr Petrovitch would promptly have uttered the wish.



“It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money,” he thought, as

he returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov’s room, “and why on earth was I

such a Jew? It was false economy! I meant to keep them without a penny

so that they should turn to me as their providence, and look at them!

foo! If I’d spent some fifteen hundred roubles on them for the trousseau

and presents, on knick-knacks, dressing-cases, jewellery, materials, and

all that sort of trash from Knopp’s and the English shop, my position

would have been better and... stronger! They could not have refused me

so easily! They are the sort of people that would feel bound to return

money and presents if they broke it off; and they would find it hard to

do it! And their conscience would prick them: how can we dismiss a man

who has hitherto been so generous and delicate?.... H’m! I’ve made a

blunder.”



And grinding his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovitch called himself a

fool--but not aloud, of course.



He returned home, twice as irritated and angry as before. The

preparations for the funeral dinner at Katerina Ivanovna’s excited

his curiosity as he passed. He had heard about it the day before; he

fancied, indeed, that he had been invited, but absorbed in his own cares

he had paid no attention. Inquiring of Madame Lippevechsel who was busy

laying the table while Katerina Ivanovna was away at the cemetery, he

heard that the entertainment was to be a great affair, that all the

lodgers had been invited, among them some who had not known the dead

man, that even Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov was invited in spite of

his previous quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna, that he, Pyotr Petrovitch,

was not only invited, but was eagerly expected as he was the most

important of the lodgers. Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with

great ceremony in spite of the recent unpleasantness, and so she was

very busy with preparations and was taking a positive pleasure in them;

she was moreover dressed up to the nines, all in new black silk, and she

was proud of it. All this suggested an idea to Pyotr Petrovitch and he

went into his room, or rather Lebeziatnikov’s, somewhat thoughtful. He

had learnt that Raskolnikov was to be one of the guests.



Andrey Semyonovitch had been at home all the morning. The attitude of

Pyotr Petrovitch to this gentleman was strange, though perhaps natural.

Pyotr Petrovitch had despised and hated him from the day he came to stay

with him and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. He

had not come to stay with him on his arrival in Petersburg simply from

parsimony, though that had been perhaps his chief object. He had heard

of Andrey Semyonovitch, who had once been his ward, as a leading young

progressive who was taking an important part in certain interesting

circles, the doings of which were a legend in the provinces. It had

impressed Pyotr Petrovitch. These powerful omniscient circles who

despised everyone and showed everyone up had long inspired in him a

peculiar but quite vague alarm. He had not, of course, been able to form

even an approximate notion of what they meant. He, like everyone, had

heard that there were, especially in Petersburg, progressives of some

sort, nihilists and so on, and, like many people, he exaggerated and

distorted the significance of those words to an absurd degree. What for

many years past he had feared more than anything was _being shown

up_ and this was the chief ground for his continual uneasiness at the

thought of transferring his business to Petersburg. He was afraid of

this as little children are sometimes panic-stricken. Some years before,

when he was just entering on his own career, he had come upon two cases

in which rather important personages in the province, patrons of his,

had been cruelly shown up. One instance had ended in great scandal

for the person attacked and the other had very nearly ended in serious

trouble. For this reason Pyotr Petrovitch intended to go into the

subject as soon as he reached Petersburg and, if necessary, to

anticipate contingencies by seeking the favour of “our younger

generation.” He relied on Andrey Semyonovitch for this and before

his visit to Raskolnikov he had succeeded in picking up some current

phrases. He soon discovered that Andrey Semyonovitch was a commonplace

simpleton, but that by no means reassured Pyotr Petrovitch. Even if he

had been certain that all the progressives were fools like him, it

would not have allayed his uneasiness. All the doctrines, the ideas, the

systems, with which Andrey Semyonovitch pestered him had no interest for

him. He had his own object--he simply wanted to find out at once what

was happening _here_. Had these people any power or not? Had he anything

to fear from them? Would they expose any enterprise of his? And what

precisely was now the object of their attacks? Could he somehow make up

to them and get round them if they really were powerful? Was this the

thing to do or not? Couldn’t he gain something through them? In fact

hundreds of questions presented themselves.



Andrey Semyonovitch was an anæmic, scrofulous little man, with strangely

flaxen mutton-chop whiskers of which he was very proud. He was a clerk

and had almost always something wrong with his eyes. He was rather

soft-hearted, but self-confident and sometimes extremely conceited in

speech, which had an absurd effect, incongruous with his little figure.

He was one of the lodgers most respected by Amalia Ivanovna, for he did

not get drunk and paid regularly for his lodgings. Andrey Semyonovitch

really was rather stupid; he attached himself to the cause of progress

and “our younger generation” from enthusiasm. He was one of the numerous

and varied legion of dullards, of half-animate abortions, conceited,

half-educated coxcombs, who attach themselves to the idea most in

fashion only to vulgarise it and who caricature every cause they serve,

however sincerely.



Though Lebeziatnikov was so good-natured, he, too, was beginning to

dislike Pyotr Petrovitch. This happened on both sides unconsciously.

However simple Andrey Semyonovitch might be, he began to see that Pyotr

Petrovitch was duping him and secretly despising him, and that “he was

not the right sort of man.” He had tried expounding to him the system of

Fourier and the Darwinian theory, but of late Pyotr Petrovitch began to

listen too sarcastically and even to be rude. The fact was he had begun

instinctively to guess that Lebeziatnikov was not merely a commonplace

simpleton, but, perhaps, a liar, too, and that he had no connections of

any consequence even in his own circle, but had simply picked things up

third-hand; and that very likely he did not even know much about his own

work of propaganda, for he was in too great a muddle. A fine person he

would be to show anyone up! It must be noted, by the way, that Pyotr

Petrovitch had during those ten days eagerly accepted the strangest

praise from Andrey Semyonovitch; he had not protested, for instance,

when Andrey Semyonovitch belauded him for being ready to contribute to

the establishment of the new “commune,” or to abstain from christening

his future children, or to acquiesce if Dounia were to take a lover a

month after marriage, and so on. Pyotr Petrovitch so enjoyed hearing

his own praises that he did not disdain even such virtues when they were

attributed to him.



Pyotr Petrovitch had had occasion that morning to realise some

five-per-cent bonds and now he sat down to the table and counted over

bundles of notes. Andrey Semyonovitch who hardly ever had any money

walked about the room pretending to himself to look at all those bank

notes with indifference and even contempt. Nothing would have convinced

Pyotr Petrovitch that Andrey Semyonovitch could really look on the money

unmoved, and the latter, on his side, kept thinking bitterly that Pyotr

Petrovitch was capable of entertaining such an idea about him and

was, perhaps, glad of the opportunity of teasing his young friend by

reminding him of his inferiority and the great difference between them.



He found him incredibly inattentive and irritable, though he, Andrey

Semyonovitch, began enlarging on his favourite subject, the foundation

of a new special “commune.” The brief remarks that dropped from Pyotr

Petrovitch between the clicking of the beads on the reckoning frame

betrayed unmistakable and discourteous irony. But the “humane” Andrey

Semyonovitch ascribed Pyotr Petrovitch’s ill-humour to his recent breach

with Dounia and he was burning with impatience to discourse on that

theme. He had something progressive to say on the subject which

might console his worthy friend and “could not fail” to promote his

development.



“There is some sort of festivity being prepared at that... at the

widow’s, isn’t there?” Pyotr Petrovitch asked suddenly, interrupting

Andrey Semyonovitch at the most interesting passage.



“Why, don’t you know? Why, I was telling you last night what I think

about all such ceremonies. And she invited you too, I heard. You were

talking to her yesterday...”



“I should never have expected that beggarly fool would have spent on

this feast all the money she got from that other fool, Raskolnikov. I

was surprised just now as I came through at the preparations there, the

wines! Several people are invited. It’s beyond everything!” continued

Pyotr Petrovitch, who seemed to have some object in pursuing the

conversation. “What? You say I am asked too? When was that? I don’t

remember. But I shan’t go. Why should I? I only said a word to her in

passing yesterday of the possibility of her obtaining a year’s salary as

a destitute widow of a government clerk. I suppose she has invited me on

that account, hasn’t she? He-he-he!”



“I don’t intend to go either,” said Lebeziatnikov.



“I should think not, after giving her a thrashing! You might well

hesitate, he-he!”



“Who thrashed? Whom?” cried Lebeziatnikov, flustered and blushing.



“Why, you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna a month ago. I heard so

yesterday... so that’s what your convictions amount to... and the woman

question, too, wasn’t quite sound, he-he-he!” and Pyotr Petrovitch, as

though comforted, went back to clicking his beads.



“It’s all slander and nonsense!” cried Lebeziatnikov, who was always

afraid of allusions to the subject. “It was not like that at all, it

was quite different. You’ve heard it wrong; it’s a libel. I was simply

defending myself. She rushed at me first with her nails, she pulled

out all my whiskers.... It’s permissable for anyone, I should hope,

to defend himself and I never allow anyone to use violence to me on

principle, for it’s an act of despotism. What was I to do? I simply

pushed her back.”



“He-he-he!” Luzhin went on laughing maliciously.



“You keep on like that because you are out of humour yourself.... But

that’s nonsense and it has nothing, nothing whatever to do with the

woman question! You don’t understand; I used to think, indeed, that

if women are equal to men in all respects, even in strength (as is

maintained now) there ought to be equality in that, too. Of course, I

reflected afterwards that such a question ought not really to arise,

for there ought not to be fighting and in the future society fighting is

unthinkable... and that it would be a queer thing to seek for equality

in fighting. I am not so stupid... though, of course, there is

fighting... there won’t be later, but at present there is... confound

it! How muddled one gets with you! It’s not on that account that I

am not going. I am not going on principle, not to take part in the

revolting convention of memorial dinners, that’s why! Though, of course,

one might go to laugh at it.... I am sorry there won’t be any priests at

it. I should certainly go if there were.”



“Then you would sit down at another man’s table and insult it and those

who invited you. Eh?”



“Certainly not insult, but protest. I should do it with a good object. I

might indirectly assist the cause of enlightenment and propaganda. It’s

a duty of every man to work for enlightenment and propaganda and the

more harshly, perhaps, the better. I might drop a seed, an idea.... And

something might grow up from that seed. How should I be insulting them?

They might be offended at first, but afterwards they’d see I’d done them

a service. You know, Terebyeva (who is in the community now) was blamed

because when she left her family and... devoted... herself, she wrote to

her father and mother that she wouldn’t go on living conventionally and

was entering on a free marriage and it was said that that was too harsh,

that she might have spared them and have written more kindly. I think

that’s all nonsense and there’s no need of softness; on the contrary,

what’s wanted is protest. Varents had been married seven years, she

abandoned her two children, she told her husband straight out in a

letter: ‘I have realised that I cannot be happy with you. I can never

forgive you that you have deceived me by concealing from me that there

is another organisation of society by means of the communities. I have

only lately learned it from a great-hearted man to whom I have given

myself and with whom I am establishing a community. I speak plainly

because I consider it dishonest to deceive you. Do as you think best.

Do not hope to get me back, you are too late. I hope you will be happy.’

That’s how letters like that ought to be written!”



“Is that Terebyeva the one you said had made a third free marriage?”



“No, it’s only the second, really! But what if it were the fourth, what

if it were the fifteenth, that’s all nonsense! And if ever I regretted

the death of my father and mother, it is now, and I sometimes think

if my parents were living what a protest I would have aimed at them! I

would have done something on purpose... I would have shown them! I would

have astonished them! I am really sorry there is no one!”



“To surprise! He-he! Well, be that as you will,” Pyotr Petrovitch

interrupted, “but tell me this; do you know the dead man’s daughter, the

delicate-looking little thing? It’s true what they say about her, isn’t

it?”



“What of it? I think, that is, it is my own personal conviction that

this is the normal condition of women. Why not? I mean, _distinguons_.

In our present society it is not altogether normal, because it is

compulsory, but in the future society it will be perfectly normal,

because it will be voluntary. Even as it is, she was quite right: she

was suffering and that was her asset, so to speak, her capital which

she had a perfect right to dispose of. Of course, in the future

society there will be no need of assets, but her part will have another

significance, rational and in harmony with her environment. As to Sofya

Semyonovna personally, I regard her action as a vigorous protest against

the organisation of society, and I respect her deeply for it; I rejoice

indeed when I look at her!”



“I was told that you got her turned out of these lodgings.”



Lebeziatnikov was enraged.



“That’s another slander,” he yelled. “It was not so at all! That was all

Katerina Ivanovna’s invention, for she did not understand! And I never

made love to Sofya Semyonovna! I was simply developing her, entirely

disinterestedly, trying to rouse her to protest.... All I wanted was her

protest and Sofya Semyonovna could not have remained here anyway!”



“Have you asked her to join your community?”



“You keep on laughing and very inappropriately, allow me to tell

you. You don’t understand! There is no such rôle in a community. The

community is established that there should be no such rôles. In a

community, such a rôle is essentially transformed and what is stupid

here is sensible there, what, under present conditions, is unnatural

becomes perfectly natural in the community. It all depends on the

environment. It’s all the environment and man himself is nothing. And

I am on good terms with Sofya Semyonovna to this day, which is a proof

that she never regarded me as having wronged her. I am trying now to

attract her to the community, but on quite, quite a different footing.

What are you laughing at? We are trying to establish a community of

our own, a special one, on a broader basis. We have gone further in our

convictions. We reject more! And meanwhile I’m still developing Sofya

Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful character!”



“And you take advantage of her fine character, eh? He-he!”



“No, no! Oh, no! On the contrary.”



“Oh, on the contrary! He-he-he! A queer thing to say!”



“Believe me! Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel it strange myself

how timid, chaste and modern she is with me!”



“And you, of course, are developing her... he-he! trying to prove to her

that all that modesty is nonsense?”



“Not at all, not at all! How coarsely, how stupidly--excuse me saying

so--you misunderstand the word development! Good heavens, how... crude

you still are! We are striving for the freedom of women and you have

only one idea in your head.... Setting aside the general question

of chastity and feminine modesty as useless in themselves and indeed

prejudices, I fully accept her chastity with me, because that’s for her

to decide. Of course if she were to tell me herself that she wanted me,

I should think myself very lucky, because I like the girl very much; but

as it is, no one has ever treated her more courteously than I, with more

respect for her dignity... I wait in hopes, that’s all!”



“You had much better make her a present of something. I bet you never

thought of that.”



“You don’t understand, as I’ve told you already! Of course, she is in

such a position, but it’s another question. Quite another question!

You simply despise her. Seeing a fact which you mistakenly consider

deserving of contempt, you refuse to take a humane view of a fellow

creature. You don’t know what a character she is! I am only sorry that

of late she has quite given up reading and borrowing books. I used

to lend them to her. I am sorry, too, that with all the energy and

resolution in protesting--which she has already shown once--she has

little self-reliance, little, so to say, independence, so as to

break free from certain prejudices and certain foolish ideas. Yet she

thoroughly understands some questions, for instance about kissing of

hands, that is, that it’s an insult to a woman for a man to kiss her

hand, because it’s a sign of inequality. We had a debate about it and

I described it to her. She listened attentively to an account of the

workmen’s associations in France, too. Now I am explaining the question

of coming into the room in the future society.”



“And what’s that, pray?”



“We had a debate lately on the question: Has a member of the community

the right to enter another member’s room, whether man or woman, at any

time... and we decided that he has!”



“It might be at an inconvenient moment, he-he!”



Lebeziatnikov was really angry.



“You are always thinking of something unpleasant,” he cried with

aversion. “Tfoo! How vexed I am that when I was expounding our system, I

referred prematurely to the question of personal privacy! It’s always

a stumbling-block to people like you, they turn it into ridicule before

they understand it. And how proud they are of it, too! Tfoo! I’ve often

maintained that that question should not be approached by a novice till

he has a firm faith in the system. And tell me, please, what do you

find so shameful even in cesspools? I should be the first to be ready

to clean out any cesspool you like. And it’s not a question of

self-sacrifice, it’s simply work, honourable, useful work which is

as good as any other and much better than the work of a Raphael and a

Pushkin, because it is more useful.”



“And more honourable, more honourable, he-he-he!”



“What do you mean by ‘more honourable’? I don’t understand such

expressions to describe human activity. ‘More honourable,’ ‘nobler’--all

those are old-fashioned prejudices which I reject. Everything which is

_of use_ to mankind is honourable. I only understand one word: _useful_!

You can snigger as much as you like, but that’s so!”



Pyotr Petrovitch laughed heartily. He had finished counting the money

and was putting it away. But some of the notes he left on the table. The

“cesspool question” had already been a subject of dispute between them.

What was absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov really angry, while it

amused Luzhin and at that moment he particularly wanted to anger his

young friend.



“It’s your ill-luck yesterday that makes you so ill-humoured and

annoying,” blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who in spite of his “independence”

 and his “protests” did not venture to oppose Pyotr Petrovitch and still

behaved to him with some of the respect habitual in earlier years.



“You’d better tell me this,” Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted with haughty

displeasure, “can you... or rather are you really friendly enough with

that young person to ask her to step in here for a minute? I think

they’ve all come back from the cemetery... I heard the sound of

steps... I want to see her, that young person.”



“What for?” Lebeziatnikov asked with surprise.



“Oh, I want to. I am leaving here to-day or to-morrow and therefore I

wanted to speak to her about... However, you may be present during the

interview. It’s better you should be, indeed. For there’s no knowing

what you might imagine.”



“I shan’t imagine anything. I only asked and, if you’ve anything to say

to her, nothing is easier than to call her in. I’ll go directly and you

may be sure I won’t be in your way.”



Five minutes later Lebeziatnikov came in with Sonia. She came in very

much surprised and overcome with shyness as usual. She was always shy in

such circumstances and was always afraid of new people, she had been as

a child and was even more so now.... Pyotr Petrovitch met her “politely

and affably,” but with a certain shade of bantering familiarity which in

his opinion was suitable for a man of his respectability and weight

in dealing with a creature so young and so _interesting_ as she. He

hastened to “reassure” her and made her sit down facing him at the

table. Sonia sat down, looked about her--at Lebeziatnikov, at the notes

lying on the table and then again at Pyotr Petrovitch and her eyes

remained riveted on him. Lebeziatnikov was moving to the door. Pyotr

Petrovitch signed to Sonia to remain seated and stopped Lebeziatnikov.



“Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come?” he asked him in a whisper.



“Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him just come in....

Why?”



“Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and not to leave

me alone with this... young woman. I only want a few words with her,

but God knows what they may make of it. I shouldn’t like Raskolnikov to

repeat anything.... You understand what I mean?”



“I understand!” Lebeziatnikov saw the point. “Yes, you are right.... Of

course, I am convinced personally that you have no reason to be uneasy,

but... still, you are right. Certainly I’ll stay. I’ll stand here at the

window and not be in your way... I think you are right...”



Pyotr Petrovitch returned to the sofa, sat down opposite Sonia, looked

attentively at her and assumed an extremely dignified, even severe

expression, as much as to say, “don’t you make any mistake, madam.”

 Sonia was overwhelmed with embarrassment.



“In the first place, Sofya Semyonovna, will you make my excuses to your

respected mamma.... That’s right, isn’t it? Katerina Ivanovna stands

in the place of a mother to you?” Pyotr Petrovitch began with great

dignity, though affably.



It was evident that his intentions were friendly.



“Quite so, yes; the place of a mother,” Sonia answered, timidly and

hurriedly.



“Then will you make my apologies to her? Through inevitable

circumstances I am forced to be absent and shall not be at the dinner in

spite of your mamma’s kind invitation.”



“Yes... I’ll tell her... at once.”



And Sonia hastily jumped up from her seat.



“Wait, that’s not all,” Pyotr Petrovitch detained her, smiling at her

simplicity and ignorance of good manners, “and you know me little, my

dear Sofya Semyonovna, if you suppose I would have ventured to trouble

a person like you for a matter of so little consequence affecting myself

only. I have another object.”



Sonia sat down hurriedly. Her eyes rested again for an instant on the

grey-and-rainbow-coloured notes that remained on the table, but she

quickly looked away and fixed her eyes on Pyotr Petrovitch. She felt it

horribly indecorous, especially for _her_, to look at another person’s

money. She stared at the gold eye-glass which Pyotr Petrovitch held

in his left hand and at the massive and extremely handsome ring with a

yellow stone on his middle finger. But suddenly she looked away and, not

knowing where to turn, ended by staring Pyotr Petrovitch again straight

in the face. After a pause of still greater dignity he continued.



“I chanced yesterday in passing to exchange a couple of words with

Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. That was sufficient to enable me to

ascertain that she is in a position--preternatural, if one may so

express it.”



“Yes... preternatural...” Sonia hurriedly assented.



“Or it would be simpler and more comprehensible to say, ill.”



“Yes, simpler and more comprehen... yes, ill.”



“Quite so. So then from a feeling of humanity and so to speak

compassion, I should be glad to be of service to her in any way,

foreseeing her unfortunate position. I believe the whole of this

poverty-stricken family depends now entirely on you?”



“Allow me to ask,” Sonia rose to her feet, “did you say something to her

yesterday of the possibility of a pension? Because she told me you had

undertaken to get her one. Was that true?”



“Not in the slightest, and indeed it’s an absurdity! I merely hinted at

her obtaining temporary assistance as the widow of an official who had

died in the service--if only she has patronage... but apparently your

late parent had not served his full term and had not indeed been in the

service at all of late. In fact, if there could be any hope, it would be

very ephemeral, because there would be no claim for assistance in

that case, far from it.... And she is dreaming of a pension already,

he-he-he!... A go-ahead lady!”



“Yes, she is. For she is credulous and good-hearted, and she believes

everything from the goodness of her heart and... and... and she is like

that... yes... You must excuse her,” said Sonia, and again she got up to

go.



“But you haven’t heard what I have to say.”



“No, I haven’t heard,” muttered Sonia.



“Then sit down.” She was terribly confused; she sat down again a third

time.



“Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I should be glad,

as I have said before, so far as lies in my power, to be of service,

that is, so far as is in my power, not more. One might for instance get

up a subscription for her, or a lottery, something of the sort, such as

is always arranged in such cases by friends or even outsiders desirous

of assisting people. It was of that I intended to speak to you; it might

be done.”



“Yes, yes... God will repay you for it,” faltered Sonia, gazing intently

at Pyotr Petrovitch.



“It might be, but we will talk of it later. We might begin it to-day, we

will talk it over this evening and lay the foundation so to speak. Come

to me at seven o’clock. Mr. Lebeziatnikov, I hope, will assist us. But

there is one circumstance of which I ought to warn you beforehand and

for which I venture to trouble you, Sofya Semyonovna, to come here. In

my opinion money cannot be, indeed it’s unsafe to put it into Katerina

Ivanovna’s own hands. The dinner to-day is a proof of that. Though she

has not, so to speak, a crust of bread for to-morrow and... well, boots

or shoes, or anything; she has bought to-day Jamaica rum, and even,

I believe, Madeira and... and coffee. I saw it as I passed through.

To-morrow it will all fall upon you again, they won’t have a crust of

bread. It’s absurd, really, and so, to my thinking, a subscription ought

to be raised so that the unhappy widow should not know of the money, but

only you, for instance. Am I right?”



“I don’t know... this is only to-day, once in her life.... She was

so anxious to do honour, to celebrate the memory.... And she is very

sensible... but just as you think and I shall be very, very... they will

all be... and God will reward... and the orphans...”



Sonia burst into tears.



“Very well, then, keep it in mind; and now will you accept for the

benefit of your relation the small sum that I am able to spare, from me

personally. I am very anxious that my name should not be mentioned in

connection with it. Here... having so to speak anxieties of my own, I

cannot do more...”



And Pyotr Petrovitch held out to Sonia a ten-rouble note carefully

unfolded. Sonia took it, flushed crimson, jumped up, muttered something

and began taking leave. Pyotr Petrovitch accompanied her ceremoniously

to the door. She got out of the room at last, agitated and distressed,

and returned to Katerina Ivanovna, overwhelmed with confusion.



All this time Lebeziatnikov had stood at the window or walked about the

room, anxious not to interrupt the conversation; when Sonia had gone he

walked up to Pyotr Petrovitch and solemnly held out his hand.



“I heard and _saw_ everything,” he said, laying stress on the last verb.

“That is honourable, I mean to say, it’s humane! You wanted to avoid

gratitude, I saw! And although I cannot, I confess, in principle

sympathise with private charity, for it not only fails to eradicate the

evil but even promotes it, yet I must admit that I saw your action with

pleasure--yes, yes, I like it.”



“That’s all nonsense,” muttered Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted,

looking carefully at Lebeziatnikov.



“No, it’s not nonsense! A man who has suffered distress and annoyance as

you did yesterday and who yet can sympathise with the misery of others,

such a man... even though he is making a social mistake--is still

deserving of respect! I did not expect it indeed of you, Pyotr

Petrovitch, especially as according to your ideas... oh, what a drawback

your ideas are to you! How distressed you are for instance by your

ill-luck yesterday,” cried the simple-hearted Lebeziatnikov, who felt

a return of affection for Pyotr Petrovitch. “And, what do you want with

marriage, with _legal_ marriage, my dear, noble Pyotr Petrovitch? Why do

you cling to this _legality_ of marriage? Well, you may beat me if you

like, but I am glad, positively glad it hasn’t come off, that you are

free, that you are not quite lost for humanity.... you see, I’ve spoken

my mind!”



“Because I don’t want in your free marriage to be made a fool of and

to bring up another man’s children, that’s why I want legal marriage,”

 Luzhin replied in order to make some answer.



He seemed preoccupied by something.



“Children? You referred to children,” Lebeziatnikov started off like

a warhorse at the trumpet call. “Children are a social question and a

question of first importance, I agree; but the question of children has

another solution. Some refuse to have children altogether, because they

suggest the institution of the family. We’ll speak of children later,

but now as to the question of honour, I confess that’s my weak point.

That horrid, military, Pushkin expression is unthinkable in the

dictionary of the future. What does it mean indeed? It’s nonsense,

there will be no deception in a free marriage! That is only the natural

consequence of a legal marriage, so to say, its corrective, a protest.

So that indeed it’s not humiliating... and if I ever, to suppose an

absurdity, were to be legally married, I should be positively glad of

it. I should say to my wife: ‘My dear, hitherto I have loved you, now

I respect you, for you’ve shown you can protest!’ You laugh! That’s

because you are incapable of getting away from prejudices. Confound

it all! I understand now where the unpleasantness is of being deceived

in a legal marriage, but it’s simply a despicable consequence of a

despicable position in which both are humiliated. When the deception is

open, as in a free marriage, then it does not exist, it’s unthinkable.

Your wife will only prove how she respects you by considering you

incapable of opposing her happiness and avenging yourself on her for

her new husband. Damn it all! I sometimes dream if I were to be married,

pfoo! I mean if I were to marry, legally or not, it’s just the same,

I should present my wife with a lover if she had not found one for

herself. ‘My dear,’ I should say, ‘I love you, but even more than that I

desire you to respect me. See!’ Am I not right?”



Pyotr Petrovitch sniggered as he listened, but without much merriment.

He hardly heard it indeed. He was preoccupied with something else and

even Lebeziatnikov at last noticed it. Pyotr Petrovitch seemed excited

and rubbed his hands. Lebeziatnikov remembered all this and reflected

upon it afterwards.







CHAPTER II



It would be difficult to explain exactly what could have originated the

idea of that senseless dinner in Katerina Ivanovna’s disordered brain.

Nearly ten of the twenty roubles, given by Raskolnikov for Marmeladov’s

funeral, were wasted upon it. Possibly Katerina Ivanovna felt obliged to

honour the memory of the deceased “suitably,” that all the lodgers,

and still more Amalia Ivanovna, might know “that he was in no way their

inferior, and perhaps very much their superior,” and that no one had the

right “to turn up his nose at him.” Perhaps the chief element was that

peculiar “poor man’s pride,” which compels many poor people to spend

their last savings on some traditional social ceremony, simply in order

to do “like other people,” and not to “be looked down upon.” It is very

probable, too, that Katerina Ivanovna longed on this occasion, at

the moment when she seemed to be abandoned by everyone, to show those

“wretched contemptible lodgers” that she knew “how to do things, how

to entertain” and that she had been brought up “in a genteel, she might

almost say aristocratic colonel’s family” and had not been meant for

sweeping floors and washing the children’s rags at night. Even the

poorest and most broken-spirited people are sometimes liable to these

paroxysms of pride and vanity which take the form of an irresistible

nervous craving. And Katerina Ivanovna was not broken-spirited; she

might have been killed by circumstance, but her spirit could not have

been broken, that is, she could not have been intimidated, her will

could not be crushed. Moreover Sonia had said with good reason that her

mind was unhinged. She could not be said to be insane, but for a year

past she had been so harassed that her mind might well be overstrained.

The later stages of consumption are apt, doctors tell us, to affect the

intellect.



There was no great variety of wines, nor was there Madeira; but wine

there was. There was vodka, rum and Lisbon wine, all of the poorest

quality but in sufficient quantity. Besides the traditional rice and

honey, there were three or four dishes, one of which consisted of

pancakes, all prepared in Amalia Ivanovna’s kitchen. Two samovars were

boiling, that tea and punch might be offered after dinner. Katerina

Ivanovna had herself seen to purchasing the provisions, with the help

of one of the lodgers, an unfortunate little Pole who had somehow been

stranded at Madame Lippevechsel’s. He promptly put himself at Katerina

Ivanovna’s disposal and had been all that morning and all the day before

running about as fast as his legs could carry him, and very anxious

that everyone should be aware of it. For every trifle he ran to Katerina

Ivanovna, even hunting her out at the bazaar, at every instant called

her “_Pani_.” She was heartily sick of him before the end, though

she had declared at first that she could not have got on without this

“serviceable and magnanimous man.” It was one of Katerina Ivanovna’s

characteristics to paint everyone she met in the most glowing colours.

Her praises were so exaggerated as sometimes to be embarrassing; she

would invent various circumstances to the credit of her new acquaintance

and quite genuinely believe in their reality. Then all of a sudden she

would be disillusioned and would rudely and contemptuously repulse the

person she had only a few hours before been literally adoring. She

was naturally of a gay, lively and peace-loving disposition, but from

continual failures and misfortunes she had come to desire so _keenly_

that all should live in peace and joy and should not _dare_ to break the

peace, that the slightest jar, the smallest disaster reduced her almost

to frenzy, and she would pass in an instant from the brightest hopes and

fancies to cursing her fate and raving, and knocking her head against

the wall.



Amalia Ivanovna, too, suddenly acquired extraordinary importance in

Katerina Ivanovna’s eyes and was treated by her with extraordinary

respect, probably only because Amalia Ivanovna had thrown herself heart

and soul into the preparations. She had undertaken to lay the table,

to provide the linen, crockery, etc., and to cook the dishes in her

kitchen, and Katerina Ivanovna had left it all in her hands and gone

herself to the cemetery. Everything had been well done. Even the

table-cloth was nearly clean; the crockery, knives, forks and glasses

were, of course, of all shapes and patterns, lent by different lodgers,

but the table was properly laid at the time fixed, and Amalia Ivanovna,

feeling she had done her work well, had put on a black silk dress and

a cap with new mourning ribbons and met the returning party with some

pride. This pride, though justifiable, displeased Katerina Ivanovna for

some reason: “as though the table could not have been laid except by

Amalia Ivanovna!” She disliked the cap with new ribbons, too. “Could she

be stuck up, the stupid German, because she was mistress of the house,

and had consented as a favour to help her poor lodgers! As a favour!

Fancy that! Katerina Ivanovna’s father who had been a colonel and almost

a governor had sometimes had the table set for forty persons, and then

anyone like Amalia Ivanovna, or rather Ludwigovna, would not have been

allowed into the kitchen.”



Katerina Ivanovna, however, put off expressing her feelings for the

time and contented herself with treating her coldly, though she decided

inwardly that she would certainly have to put Amalia Ivanovna down

and set her in her proper place, for goodness only knew what she was

fancying herself. Katerina Ivanovna was irritated too by the fact that

hardly any of the lodgers invited had come to the funeral, except

the Pole who had just managed to run into the cemetery, while to the

memorial dinner the poorest and most insignificant of them had turned

up, the wretched creatures, many of them not quite sober. The older

and more respectable of them all, as if by common consent, stayed away.

Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, for instance, who might be said to be the most

respectable of all the lodgers, did not appear, though Katerina Ivanovna

had the evening before told all the world, that is Amalia Ivanovna,

Polenka, Sonia and the Pole, that he was the most generous,

noble-hearted man with a large property and vast connections, who had

been a friend of her first husband’s, and a guest in her father’s

house, and that he had promised to use all his influence to secure her

a considerable pension. It must be noted that when Katerina Ivanovna

exalted anyone’s connections and fortune, it was without any ulterior

motive, quite disinterestedly, for the mere pleasure of adding to

the consequence of the person praised. Probably “taking his cue” from

Luzhin, “that contemptible wretch Lebeziatnikov had not turned up

either. What did he fancy himself? He was only asked out of kindness

and because he was sharing the same room with Pyotr Petrovitch and was a

friend of his, so that it would have been awkward not to invite him.”



Among those who failed to appear were “the genteel lady and her

old-maidish daughter,” who had only been lodgers in the house for the

last fortnight, but had several times complained of the noise and uproar

in Katerina Ivanovna’s room, especially when Marmeladov had come

back drunk. Katerina Ivanovna heard this from Amalia Ivanovna who,

quarrelling with Katerina Ivanovna, and threatening to turn the whole

family out of doors, had shouted at her that they “were not worth the

foot” of the honourable lodgers whom they were disturbing. Katerina

Ivanovna determined now to invite this lady and her daughter, “whose

foot she was not worth,” and who had turned away haughtily when she

casually met them, so that they might know that “she was more noble in

her thoughts and feelings and did not harbour malice,” and might see

that she was not accustomed to her way of living. She had proposed to

make this clear to them at dinner with allusions to her late father’s

governorship, and also at the same time to hint that it was exceedingly

stupid of them to turn away on meeting her. The fat colonel-major (he

was really a discharged officer of low rank) was also absent, but it

appeared that he had been “not himself” for the last two days. The party

consisted of the Pole, a wretched looking clerk with a spotty face and

a greasy coat, who had not a word to say for himself, and smelt

abominably, a deaf and almost blind old man who had once been in the

post office and who had been from immemorial ages maintained by someone

at Amalia Ivanovna’s.



A retired clerk of the commissariat department came, too; he was

drunk, had a loud and most unseemly laugh and only fancy--was without

a waistcoat! One of the visitors sat straight down to the table without

even greeting Katerina Ivanovna. Finally one person having no suit

appeared in his dressing-gown, but this was too much, and the efforts of

Amalia Ivanovna and the Pole succeeded in removing him. The Pole brought

with him, however, two other Poles who did not live at Amalia Ivanovna’s

and whom no one had seen here before. All this irritated Katerina

Ivanovna intensely. “For whom had they made all these preparations

then?” To make room for the visitors the children had not even been laid

for at the table; but the two little ones were sitting on a bench in the

furthest corner with their dinner laid on a box, while Polenka as a big

girl had to look after them, feed them, and keep their noses wiped like

well-bred children’s.



Katerina Ivanovna, in fact, could hardly help meeting her guests with

increased dignity, and even haughtiness. She stared at some of them with

special severity, and loftily invited them to take their seats. Rushing

to the conclusion that Amalia Ivanovna must be responsible for those who

were absent, she began treating her with extreme nonchalance, which the

latter promptly observed and resented. Such a beginning was no good omen

for the end. All were seated at last.



Raskolnikov came in almost at the moment of their return from the

cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly delighted to see him, in the

first place, because he was the one “educated visitor, and, as everyone

knew, was in two years to take a professorship in the university,” and

secondly because he immediately and respectfully apologised for having

been unable to be at the funeral. She positively pounced upon him, and

made him sit on her left hand (Amalia Ivanovna was on her right). In

spite of her continual anxiety that the dishes should be passed round

correctly and that everyone should taste them, in spite of the agonising

cough which interrupted her every minute and seemed to have grown worse

during the last few days, she hastened to pour out in a half whisper to

Raskolnikov all her suppressed feelings and her just indignation at

the failure of the dinner, interspersing her remarks with lively and

uncontrollable laughter at the expense of her visitors and especially of

her landlady.



“It’s all that cuckoo’s fault! You know whom I mean? Her, her!” Katerina

Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady. “Look at her, she’s making round

eyes, she feels that we are talking about her and can’t understand.

Pfoo, the owl! Ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) And what does she put on that

cap for? (Cough-cough-cough.) Have you noticed that she wants everyone

to consider that she is patronising me and doing me an honour by being

here? I asked her like a sensible woman to invite people, especially

those who knew my late husband, and look at the set of fools she has

brought! The sweeps! Look at that one with the spotty face. And those

wretched Poles, ha-ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) Not one of them has ever

poked his nose in here, I’ve never set eyes on them. What have they come

here for, I ask you? There they sit in a row. Hey, _pan_!” she cried

suddenly to one of them, “have you tasted the pancakes? Take some more!

Have some beer! Won’t you have some vodka? Look, he’s jumped up and is

making his bows, they must be quite starved, poor things. Never mind,

let them eat! They don’t make a noise, anyway, though I’m really afraid

for our landlady’s silver spoons... Amalia Ivanovna!” she addressed her

suddenly, almost aloud, “if your spoons should happen to be stolen,

I won’t be responsible, I warn you! Ha-ha-ha!” She laughed turning to

Raskolnikov, and again nodding towards the landlady, in high glee at her

sally. “She didn’t understand, she didn’t understand again! Look how

she sits with her mouth open! An owl, a real owl! An owl in new ribbons,

ha-ha-ha!”



Here her laugh turned again to an insufferable fit of coughing that

lasted five minutes. Drops of perspiration stood out on her forehead

and her handkerchief was stained with blood. She showed Raskolnikov

the blood in silence, and as soon as she could get her breath began

whispering to him again with extreme animation and a hectic flush on her

cheeks.



“Do you know, I gave her the most delicate instructions, so to speak,

for inviting that lady and her daughter, you understand of whom I am

speaking? It needed the utmost delicacy, the greatest nicety, but she

has managed things so that that fool, that conceited baggage, that

provincial nonentity, simply because she is the widow of a major, and

has come to try and get a pension and to fray out her skirts in the

government offices, because at fifty she paints her face (everybody

knows it)... a creature like that did not think fit to come, and has

not even answered the invitation, which the most ordinary good manners

required! I can’t understand why Pyotr Petrovitch has not come? But

where’s Sonia? Where has she gone? Ah, there she is at last! what is it,

Sonia, where have you been? It’s odd that even at your father’s funeral

you should be so unpunctual. Rodion Romanovitch, make room for her

beside you. That’s your place, Sonia... take what you like. Have some of

the cold entrée with jelly, that’s the best. They’ll bring the pancakes

directly. Have they given the children some? Polenka, have you got

everything? (Cough-cough-cough.) That’s all right. Be a good girl, Lida,

and, Kolya, don’t fidget with your feet; sit like a little gentleman.

What are you saying, Sonia?”



Sonia hastened to give her Pyotr Petrovitch’s apologies, trying to

speak loud enough for everyone to hear and carefully choosing the most

respectful phrases which she attributed to Pyotr Petrovitch. She added

that Pyotr Petrovitch had particularly told her to say that, as soon as

he possibly could, he would come immediately to discuss _business_ alone

with her and to consider what could be done for her, etc., etc.



Sonia knew that this would comfort Katerina Ivanovna, would flatter her

and gratify her pride. She sat down beside Raskolnikov; she made him a

hurried bow, glancing curiously at him. But for the rest of the time

she seemed to avoid looking at him or speaking to him. She seemed

absent-minded, though she kept looking at Katerina Ivanovna, trying

to please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna had been able to get

mourning; Sonia was wearing dark brown, and Katerina Ivanovna had on her

only dress, a dark striped cotton one.



The message from Pyotr Petrovitch was very successful. Listening to

Sonia with dignity, Katerina Ivanovna inquired with equal dignity how

Pyotr Petrovitch was, then at once whispered almost aloud to

Raskolnikov that it certainly would have been strange for a man of

Pyotr Petrovitch’s position and standing to find himself in such

“extraordinary company,” in spite of his devotion to her family and his

old friendship with her father.



“That’s why I am so grateful to you, Rodion Romanovitch, that you have

not disdained my hospitality, even in such surroundings,” she added

almost aloud. “But I am sure that it was only your special affection for

my poor husband that has made you keep your promise.”



Then once more with pride and dignity she scanned her visitors, and

suddenly inquired aloud across the table of the deaf man: “Wouldn’t he

have some more meat, and had he been given some wine?” The old man made

no answer and for a long while could not understand what he was asked,

though his neighbours amused themselves by poking and shaking him. He

simply gazed about him with his mouth open, which only increased the

general mirth.



“What an imbecile! Look, look! Why was he brought? But as to Pyotr

Petrovitch, I always had confidence in him,” Katerina Ivanovna

continued, “and, of course, he is not like...” with an extremely stern

face she addressed Amalia Ivanovna so sharply and loudly that the latter

was quite disconcerted, “not like your dressed up draggletails whom

my father would not have taken as cooks into his kitchen, and my late

husband would have done them honour if he had invited them in the

goodness of his heart.”



“Yes, he was fond of drink, he was fond of it, he did drink!” cried the

commissariat clerk, gulping down his twelfth glass of vodka.



“My late husband certainly had that weakness, and everyone knows

it,” Katerina Ivanovna attacked him at once, “but he was a kind and

honourable man, who loved and respected his family. The worst of it was

his good nature made him trust all sorts of disreputable people, and he

drank with fellows who were not worth the sole of his shoe. Would you

believe it, Rodion Romanovitch, they found a gingerbread cock in his

pocket; he was dead drunk, but he did not forget the children!”



“A cock? Did you say a cock?” shouted the commissariat clerk.



Katerina Ivanovna did not vouchsafe a reply. She sighed, lost in

thought.



“No doubt you think, like everyone, that I was too severe with him,” she

went on, addressing Raskolnikov. “But that’s not so! He respected me, he

respected me very much! He was a kind-hearted man! And how sorry I was

for him sometimes! He would sit in a corner and look at me, I used to

feel so sorry for him, I used to want to be kind to him and then would

think to myself: ‘Be kind to him and he will drink again,’ it was only

by severity that you could keep him within bounds.”



“Yes, he used to get his hair pulled pretty often,” roared the

commissariat clerk again, swallowing another glass of vodka.



“Some fools would be the better for a good drubbing, as well as having

their hair pulled. I am not talking of my late husband now!” Katerina

Ivanovna snapped at him.



The flush on her cheeks grew more and more marked, her chest heaved. In

another minute she would have been ready to make a scene. Many of the

visitors were sniggering, evidently delighted. They began poking the

commissariat clerk and whispering something to him. They were evidently

trying to egg him on.



“Allow me to ask what are you alluding to,” began the clerk, “that is

to say, whose... about whom... did you say just now... But I don’t care!

That’s nonsense! Widow! I forgive you.... Pass!”



And he took another drink of vodka.



Raskolnikov sat in silence, listening with disgust. He only ate from

politeness, just tasting the food that Katerina Ivanovna was continually

putting on his plate, to avoid hurting her feelings. He watched Sonia

intently. But Sonia became more and more anxious and distressed; she,

too, foresaw that the dinner would not end peaceably, and saw with

terror Katerina Ivanovna’s growing irritation. She knew that she, Sonia,

was the chief reason for the ‘genteel’ ladies’ contemptuous treatment of

Katerina Ivanovna’s invitation. She had heard from Amalia Ivanovna that

the mother was positively offended at the invitation and had asked the

question: “How could she let her daughter sit down beside _that young

person_?” Sonia had a feeling that Katerina Ivanovna had already heard

this and an insult to Sonia meant more to Katerina Ivanovna than an

insult to herself, her children, or her father. Sonia knew that

Katerina Ivanovna would not be satisfied now, “till she had shown those

draggletails that they were both...” To make matters worse someone

passed Sonia, from the other end of the table, a plate with two hearts

pierced with an arrow, cut out of black bread. Katerina Ivanovna flushed

crimson and at once said aloud across the table that the man who sent it

was “a drunken ass!”



Amalia Ivanovna was foreseeing something amiss, and at the same time

deeply wounded by Katerina Ivanovna’s haughtiness, and to restore the

good-humour of the company and raise herself in their esteem she began,

apropos of nothing, telling a story about an acquaintance of hers “Karl

from the chemist’s,” who was driving one night in a cab, and that “the

cabman wanted him to kill, and Karl very much begged him not to kill,

and wept and clasped hands, and frightened and from fear pierced his

heart.” Though Katerina Ivanovna smiled, she observed at once that

Amalia Ivanovna ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian; the latter was

still more offended, and she retorted that her “_Vater aus Berlin_ was a

very important man, and always went with his hands in pockets.” Katerina

Ivanovna could not restrain herself and laughed so much that Amalia

Ivanovna lost patience and could scarcely control herself.



“Listen to the owl!” Katerina Ivanovna whispered at once, her

good-humour almost restored, “she meant to say he kept his hands in

his pockets, but she said he put his hands in people’s pockets.

(Cough-cough.) And have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that all these

Petersburg foreigners, the Germans especially, are all stupider than

we! Can you fancy anyone of us telling how ‘Karl from the chemist’s’

‘pierced his heart from fear’ and that the idiot, instead of punishing

the cabman, ‘clasped his hands and wept, and much begged.’ Ah, the fool!

And you know she fancies it’s very touching and does not suspect how

stupid she is! To my thinking that drunken commissariat clerk is a great

deal cleverer, anyway one can see that he has addled his brains with

drink, but you know, these foreigners are always so well behaved

and serious.... Look how she sits glaring! She is angry, ha-ha!

(Cough-cough-cough.)”



Regaining her good-humour, Katerina Ivanovna began at once telling

Raskolnikov that when she had obtained her pension, she intended to open

a school for the daughters of gentlemen in her native town T----.

This was the first time she had spoken to him of the project, and she

launched out into the most alluring details. It suddenly appeared that

Katerina Ivanovna had in her hands the very certificate of honour of

which Marmeladov had spoken to Raskolnikov in the tavern, when he told

him that Katerina Ivanovna, his wife, had danced the shawl dance

before the governor and other great personages on leaving school. This

certificate of honour was obviously intended now to prove Katerina

Ivanovna’s right to open a boarding-school; but she had armed herself

with it chiefly with the object of overwhelming “those two stuck-up

draggletails” if they came to the dinner, and proving incontestably

that Katerina Ivanovna was of the most noble, “she might even say

aristocratic family, a colonel’s daughter and was far superior to

certain adventuresses who have been so much to the fore of late.” The

certificate of honour immediately passed into the hands of the drunken

guests, and Katerina Ivanovna did not try to retain it, for it actually

contained the statement _en toutes lettres_, that her father was of the

rank of a major, and also a companion of an order, so that she really

was almost the daughter of a colonel.



Warming up, Katerina Ivanovna proceeded to enlarge on the peaceful and

happy life they would lead in T----, on the gymnasium teachers whom

she would engage to give lessons in her boarding-school, one a most

respectable old Frenchman, one Mangot, who had taught Katerina Ivanovna

herself in old days and was still living in T----, and would no doubt

teach in her school on moderate terms. Next she spoke of Sonia who would

go with her to T---- and help her in all her plans. At this someone at

the further end of the table gave a sudden guffaw.



Though Katerina Ivanovna tried to appear to be disdainfully unaware of

it, she raised her voice and began at once speaking with conviction of

Sonia’s undoubted ability to assist her, of “her gentleness, patience,

devotion, generosity and good education,” tapping Sonia on the cheek and

kissing her warmly twice. Sonia flushed crimson, and Katerina Ivanovna

suddenly burst into tears, immediately observing that she was “nervous

and silly, that she was too much upset, that it was time to finish, and

as the dinner was over, it was time to hand round the tea.”



At that moment, Amalia Ivanovna, deeply aggrieved at taking no part in

the conversation, and not being listened to, made one last effort,

and with secret misgivings ventured on an exceedingly deep and weighty

observation, that “in the future boarding-school she would have to pay

particular attention to _die Wäsche_, and that there certainly must be a

good _dame_ to look after the linen, and secondly that the young ladies

must not novels at night read.”



Katerina Ivanovna, who certainly was upset and very tired, as well as

heartily sick of the dinner, at once cut short Amalia Ivanovna, saying

“she knew nothing about it and was talking nonsense, that it was the

business of the laundry maid, and not of the directress of a high-class

boarding-school to look after _die Wäsche_, and as for novel-reading,

that was simply rudeness, and she begged her to be silent.” Amalia

Ivanovna fired up and getting angry observed that she only “meant her

good,” and that “she had meant her very good,” and that “it was long

since she had paid her _gold_ for the lodgings.”



Katerina Ivanovna at once “set her down,” saying that it was a lie to

say she wished her good, because only yesterday when her dead husband

was lying on the table, she had worried her about the lodgings. To this

Amalia Ivanovna very appropriately observed that she had invited those

ladies, but “those ladies had not come, because those ladies _are_

ladies and cannot come to a lady who is not a lady.” Katerina Ivanovna

at once pointed out to her, that as she was a slut she could not judge

what made one really a lady. Amalia Ivanovna at once declared that her

“_Vater aus Berlin_ was a very, very important man, and both hands in

pockets went, and always used to say: ‘Poof! poof!’” and she leapt

up from the table to represent her father, sticking her hands in her

pockets, puffing her cheeks, and uttering vague sounds resembling “poof!

poof!” amid loud laughter from all the lodgers, who purposely encouraged

Amalia Ivanovna, hoping for a fight.



But this was too much for Katerina Ivanovna, and she at once declared,

so that all could hear, that Amalia Ivanovna probably never had a

father, but was simply a drunken Petersburg Finn, and had certainly once

been a cook and probably something worse. Amalia Ivanovna turned as red

as a lobster and squealed that perhaps Katerina Ivanovna never had a

father, “but she had a _Vater aus Berlin_ and that he wore a long coat

and always said poof-poof-poof!”



Katerina Ivanovna observed contemptuously that all knew what her family

was and that on that very certificate of honour it was stated in print

that her father was a colonel, while Amalia Ivanovna’s father--if she

really had one--was probably some Finnish milkman, but that probably she

never had a father at all, since it was still uncertain whether her name

was Amalia Ivanovna or Amalia Ludwigovna.



At this Amalia Ivanovna, lashed to fury, struck the table with her fist,

and shrieked that she was Amalia Ivanovna, and not Ludwigovna, “that

her _Vater_ was named Johann and that he was a burgomeister, and that

Katerina Ivanovna’s _Vater_ was quite never a burgomeister.” Katerina

Ivanovna rose from her chair, and with a stern and apparently calm voice

(though she was pale and her chest was heaving) observed that “if she

dared for one moment to set her contemptible wretch of a father on a

level with her papa, she, Katerina Ivanovna, would tear her cap off her

head and trample it under foot.” Amalia Ivanovna ran about the room,

shouting at the top of her voice, that she was mistress of the house and

that Katerina Ivanovna should leave the lodgings that minute; then she

rushed for some reason to collect the silver spoons from the table.

There was a great outcry and uproar, the children began crying. Sonia

ran to restrain Katerina Ivanovna, but when Amalia Ivanovna shouted

something about “the yellow ticket,” Katerina Ivanovna pushed Sonia

away, and rushed at the landlady to carry out her threat.



At that minute the door opened, and Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin appeared

on the threshold. He stood scanning the party with severe and vigilant

eyes. Katerina Ivanovna rushed to him.







CHAPTER III



“Pyotr Petrovitch,” she cried, “protect me... you at least! Make this

foolish woman understand that she can’t behave like this to a lady in

misfortune... that there is a law for such things.... I’ll go to the

governor-general himself.... She shall answer for it.... Remembering my

father’s hospitality protect these orphans.”



“Allow me, madam.... Allow me.” Pyotr Petrovitch waved her off. “Your

papa as you are well aware I had not the honour of knowing” (someone

laughed aloud) “and I do not intend to take part in your everlasting

squabbles with Amalia Ivanovna.... I have come here to speak of my own

affairs... and I want to have a word with your stepdaughter, Sofya...

Ivanovna, I think it is? Allow me to pass.”



Pyotr Petrovitch, edging by her, went to the opposite corner where Sonia

was.



Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she was, as though

thunderstruck. She could not understand how Pyotr Petrovitch could deny

having enjoyed her father’s hospitality. Though she had invented it

herself, she believed in it firmly by this time. She was struck too

by the businesslike, dry and even contemptuous menacing tone of Pyotr

Petrovitch. All the clamour gradually died away at his entrance. Not

only was this “serious business man” strikingly incongruous with the

rest of the party, but it was evident, too, that he had come upon some

matter of consequence, that some exceptional cause must have brought him

and that therefore something was going to happen. Raskolnikov, standing

beside Sonia, moved aside to let him pass; Pyotr Petrovitch did not

seem to notice him. A minute later Lebeziatnikov, too, appeared in the

doorway; he did not come in, but stood still, listening with marked

interest, almost wonder, and seemed for a time perplexed.



“Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it’s a matter of

some importance,” Pyotr Petrovitch observed, addressing the company

generally. “I am glad indeed to find other persons present. Amalia

Ivanovna, I humbly beg you as mistress of the house to pay careful

attention to what I have to say to Sofya Ivanovna. Sofya Ivanovna,”

 he went on, addressing Sonia, who was very much surprised and already

alarmed, “immediately after your visit I found that a hundred-rouble

note was missing from my table, in the room of my friend Mr.

Lebeziatnikov. If in any way whatever you know and will tell us where

it is now, I assure you on my word of honour and call all present to

witness that the matter shall end there. In the opposite case I shall be

compelled to have recourse to very serious measures and then... you must

blame yourself.”



Complete silence reigned in the room. Even the crying children were

still. Sonia stood deadly pale, staring at Luzhin and unable to say a

word. She seemed not to understand. Some seconds passed.



“Well, how is it to be then?” asked Luzhin, looking intently at her.



“I don’t know.... I know nothing about it,” Sonia articulated faintly at

last.



“No, you know nothing?” Luzhin repeated and again he paused for some

seconds. “Think a moment, mademoiselle,” he began severely, but still,

as it were, admonishing her. “Reflect, I am prepared to give you time

for consideration. Kindly observe this: if I were not so entirely

convinced I should not, you may be sure, with my experience venture to

accuse you so directly. Seeing that for such direct accusation before

witnesses, if false or even mistaken, I should myself in a certain sense

be made responsible, I am aware of that. This morning I changed for

my own purposes several five-per-cent securities for the sum of

approximately three thousand roubles. The account is noted down in my

pocket-book. On my return home I proceeded to count the money--as Mr.

Lebeziatnikov will bear witness--and after counting two thousand three

hundred roubles I put the rest in my pocket-book in my coat pocket.

About five hundred roubles remained on the table and among them three

notes of a hundred roubles each. At that moment you entered (at my

invitation)--and all the time you were present you were exceedingly

embarrassed; so that three times you jumped up in the middle of the

conversation and tried to make off. Mr. Lebeziatnikov can bear witness

to this. You yourself, mademoiselle, probably will not refuse to confirm

my statement that I invited you through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, solely in

order to discuss with you the hopeless and destitute position of your

relative, Katerina Ivanovna (whose dinner I was unable to attend),

and the advisability of getting up something of the nature of a

subscription, lottery or the like, for her benefit. You thanked me and

even shed tears. I describe all this as it took place, primarily to

recall it to your mind and secondly to show you that not the slightest

detail has escaped my recollection. Then I took a ten-rouble note from

the table and handed it to you by way of first instalment on my part

for the benefit of your relative. Mr. Lebeziatnikov saw all this. Then

I accompanied you to the door--you being still in the same state of

embarrassment--after which, being left alone with Mr. Lebeziatnikov I

talked to him for ten minutes--then Mr. Lebeziatnikov went out and I

returned to the table with the money lying on it, intending to count

it and to put it aside, as I proposed doing before. To my surprise one

hundred-rouble note had disappeared. Kindly consider the position.

Mr. Lebeziatnikov I cannot suspect. I am ashamed to allude to such

a supposition. I cannot have made a mistake in my reckoning, for the

minute before your entrance I had finished my accounts and found the

total correct. You will admit that recollecting your embarrassment, your

eagerness to get away and the fact that you kept your hands for some

time on the table, and taking into consideration your social position

and the habits associated with it, I was, so to say, with horror and

positively against my will, _compelled_ to entertain a suspicion--a

cruel, but justifiable suspicion! I will add further and repeat that in

spite of my positive conviction, I realise that I run a certain risk in

making this accusation, but as you see, I could not let it pass. I have

taken action and I will tell you why: solely, madam, solely owing

to your black ingratitude! Why! I invite you for the benefit of your

destitute relative, I present you with my donation of ten roubles and

you, on the spot, repay me for all that with such an action. It is too

bad! You need a lesson. Reflect! Moreover, like a true friend I beg

you--and you could have no better friend at this moment--think what you

are doing, otherwise I shall be immovable! Well, what do you say?”



“I have taken nothing,” Sonia whispered in terror, “you gave me ten

roubles, here it is, take it.”



Sonia pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, untied a corner of it,

took out the ten-rouble note and gave it to Luzhin.



“And the hundred roubles you do not confess to taking?” he insisted

reproachfully, not taking the note.



Sonia looked about her. All were looking at her with such awful, stern,

ironical, hostile eyes. She looked at Raskolnikov... he stood against

the wall, with his arms crossed, looking at her with glowing eyes.



“Good God!” broke from Sonia.



“Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to send word to the police and therefore

I humbly beg you meanwhile to send for the house porter,” Luzhin said

softly and even kindly.



“_Gott der Barmherzige!_ I knew she was the thief,” cried Amalia

Ivanovna, throwing up her hands.



“You knew it?” Luzhin caught her up, “then I suppose you had some reason

before this for thinking so. I beg you, worthy Amalia Ivanovna, to

remember your words which have been uttered before witnesses.”



There was a buzz of loud conversation on all sides. All were in

movement.



“What!” cried Katerina Ivanovna, suddenly realising the position, and

she rushed at Luzhin. “What! You accuse her of stealing? Sonia? Ah, the

wretches, the wretches!”



And running to Sonia she flung her wasted arms round her and held her as

in a vise.



“Sonia! how dared you take ten roubles from him? Foolish girl! Give it

to me! Give me the ten roubles at once--here!”



And snatching the note from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it up and

flung it straight into Luzhin’s face. It hit him in the eye and fell

on the ground. Amalia Ivanovna hastened to pick it up. Pyotr Petrovitch

lost his temper.



“Hold that mad woman!” he shouted.



At that moment several other persons, besides Lebeziatnikov, appeared in

the doorway, among them the two ladies.



“What! Mad? Am I mad? Idiot!” shrieked Katerina Ivanovna. “You are an

idiot yourself, pettifogging lawyer, base man! Sonia, Sonia take his

money! Sonia a thief! Why, she’d give away her last penny!” and Katerina

Ivanovna broke into hysterical laughter. “Did you ever see such an

idiot?” she turned from side to side. “And you too?” she suddenly saw

the landlady, “and you too, sausage eater, you declare that she is a

thief, you trashy Prussian hen’s leg in a crinoline! She hasn’t been

out of this room: she came straight from you, you wretch, and sat down

beside me, everyone saw her. She sat here, by Rodion Romanovitch. Search

her! Since she’s not left the room, the money would have to be on her!

Search her, search her! But if you don’t find it, then excuse me, my

dear fellow, you’ll answer for it! I’ll go to our Sovereign, to our

Sovereign, to our gracious Tsar himself, and throw myself at his feet,

to-day, this minute! I am alone in the world! They would let me in! Do

you think they wouldn’t? You’re wrong, I will get in! I will get in!

You reckoned on her meekness! You relied upon that! But I am not so

submissive, let me tell you! You’ve gone too far yourself. Search her,

search her!”



And Katerina Ivanovna in a frenzy shook Luzhin and dragged him towards

Sonia.



“I am ready, I’ll be responsible... but calm yourself, madam, calm

yourself. I see that you are not so submissive!... Well, well, but as to

that...” Luzhin muttered, “that ought to be before the police... though

indeed there are witnesses enough as it is.... I am ready.... But in

any case it’s difficult for a man... on account of her sex.... But with

the help of Amalia Ivanovna... though, of course, it’s not the way to do

things.... How is it to be done?”



“As you will! Let anyone who likes search her!” cried Katerina Ivanovna.

“Sonia, turn out your pockets! See! Look, monster, the pocket is empty,

here was her handkerchief! Here is the other pocket, look! D’you see,

d’you see?”



And Katerina Ivanovna turned--or rather snatched--both pockets inside

out. But from the right pocket a piece of paper flew out and describing

a parabola in the air fell at Luzhin’s feet. Everyone saw it, several

cried out. Pyotr Petrovitch stooped down, picked up the paper in two

fingers, lifted it where all could see it and opened it. It was a

hundred-rouble note folded in eight. Pyotr Petrovitch held up the note

showing it to everyone.



“Thief! Out of my lodging. Police, police!” yelled Amalia Ivanovna.

“They must to Siberia be sent! Away!”



Exclamations arose on all sides. Raskolnikov was silent, keeping his

eyes fixed on Sonia, except for an occasional rapid glance at Luzhin.

Sonia stood still, as though unconscious. She was hardly able to feel

surprise. Suddenly the colour rushed to her cheeks; she uttered a cry

and hid her face in her hands.



“No, it wasn’t I! I didn’t take it! I know nothing about it,” she cried

with a heartrending wail, and she ran to Katerina Ivanovna, who clasped

her tightly in her arms, as though she would shelter her from all the

world.



“Sonia! Sonia! I don’t believe it! You see, I don’t believe it!” she

cried in the face of the obvious fact, swaying her to and fro in her

arms like a baby, kissing her face continually, then snatching at her

hands and kissing them, too, “you took it! How stupid these people are!

Oh dear! You are fools, fools,” she cried, addressing the whole room,

“you don’t know, you don’t know what a heart she has, what a girl she

is! She take it, she? She’d sell her last rag, she’d go barefoot to help

you if you needed it, that’s what she is! She has the yellow passport

because my children were starving, she sold herself for us! Ah, husband,

husband! Do you see? Do you see? What a memorial dinner for you!

Merciful heavens! Defend her, why are you all standing still? Rodion

Romanovitch, why don’t you stand up for her? Do you believe it, too? You

are not worth her little finger, all of you together! Good God! Defend

her now, at least!”



The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed to produce a

great effect on her audience. The agonised, wasted, consumptive face,

the parched blood-stained lips, the hoarse voice, the tears unrestrained

as a child’s, the trustful, childish and yet despairing prayer for help

were so piteous that everyone seemed to feel for her. Pyotr Petrovitch

at any rate was at once moved to _compassion_.



“Madam, madam, this incident does not reflect upon you!” he cried

impressively, “no one would take upon himself to accuse you of being an

instigator or even an accomplice in it, especially as you have proved

her guilt by turning out her pockets, showing that you had no previous

idea of it. I am most ready, most ready to show compassion, if poverty,

so to speak, drove Sofya Semyonovna to it, but why did you refuse to

confess, mademoiselle? Were you afraid of the disgrace? The first step?

You lost your head, perhaps? One can quite understand it.... But how

could you have lowered yourself to such an action? Gentlemen,” he

addressed the whole company, “gentlemen! Compassionate and, so to say,

commiserating these people, I am ready to overlook it even now in spite

of the personal insult lavished upon me! And may this disgrace be a

lesson to you for the future,” he said, addressing Sonia, “and I will

carry the matter no further. Enough!”



Pyotr Petrovitch stole a glance at Raskolnikov. Their eyes met, and the

fire in Raskolnikov’s seemed ready to reduce him to ashes. Meanwhile

Katerina Ivanovna apparently heard nothing. She was kissing and hugging

Sonia like a madwoman. The children, too, were embracing Sonia on

all sides, and Polenka--though she did not fully understand what was

wrong--was drowned in tears and shaking with sobs, as she hid her pretty

little face, swollen with weeping, on Sonia’s shoulder.



“How vile!” a loud voice cried suddenly in the doorway.



Pyotr Petrovitch looked round quickly.



“What vileness!” Lebeziatnikov repeated, staring him straight in the

face.



Pyotr Petrovitch gave a positive start--all noticed it and recalled it

afterwards. Lebeziatnikov strode into the room.



“And you dared to call me as witness?” he said, going up to Pyotr

Petrovitch.



“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” muttered Luzhin.



“I mean that you... are a slanderer, that’s what my words mean!”

 Lebeziatnikov said hotly, looking sternly at him with his short-sighted

eyes.



He was extremely angry. Raskolnikov gazed intently at him, as though

seizing and weighing each word. Again there was a silence. Pyotr

Petrovitch indeed seemed almost dumbfounded for the first moment.



“If you mean that for me,...” he began, stammering. “But what’s the

matter with you? Are you out of your mind?”



“I’m in my mind, but you are a scoundrel! Ah, how vile! I have heard

everything. I kept waiting on purpose to understand it, for I must own

even now it is not quite logical.... What you have done it all for I

can’t understand.”



“Why, what have I done then? Give over talking in your nonsensical

riddles! Or maybe you are drunk!”



“You may be a drunkard, perhaps, vile man, but I am not! I never touch

vodka, for it’s against my convictions. Would you believe it, he, he

himself, with his own hands gave Sofya Semyonovna that hundred-rouble

note--I saw it, I was a witness, I’ll take my oath! He did it, he!”

 repeated Lebeziatnikov, addressing all.



“Are you crazy, milksop?” squealed Luzhin. “She is herself before

you--she herself here declared just now before everyone that I gave her

only ten roubles. How could I have given it to her?”



“I saw it, I saw it,” Lebeziatnikov repeated, “and though it is against

my principles, I am ready this very minute to take any oath you like

before the court, for I saw how you slipped it in her pocket. Only

like a fool I thought you did it out of kindness! When you were saying

good-bye to her at the door, while you held her hand in one hand, with

the other, the left, you slipped the note into her pocket. I saw it, I

saw it!”



Luzhin turned pale.



“What lies!” he cried impudently, “why, how could you, standing by the

window, see the note? You fancied it with your short-sighted eyes. You

are raving!”



“No, I didn’t fancy it. And though I was standing some way off, I saw

it all. And though it certainly would be hard to distinguish a note from

the window--that’s true--I knew for certain that it was a hundred-rouble

note, because, when you were going to give Sofya Semyonovna ten roubles,

you took up from the table a hundred-rouble note (I saw it because I

was standing near then, and an idea struck me at once, so that I did not

forget you had it in your hand). You folded it and kept it in your hand

all the time. I didn’t think of it again until, when you were getting

up, you changed it from your right hand to your left and nearly dropped

it! I noticed it because the same idea struck me again, that you meant

to do her a kindness without my seeing. You can fancy how I watched you

and I saw how you succeeded in slipping it into her pocket. I saw it, I

saw it, I’ll take my oath.”



Lebeziatnikov was almost breathless. Exclamations arose on all hands

chiefly expressive of wonder, but some were menacing in tone. They all

crowded round Pyotr Petrovitch. Katerina Ivanovna flew to Lebeziatnikov.



“I was mistaken in you! Protect her! You are the only one to take her

part! She is an orphan. God has sent you!”



Katerina Ivanovna, hardly knowing what she was doing, sank on her knees

before him.



“A pack of nonsense!” yelled Luzhin, roused to fury, “it’s all nonsense

you’ve been talking! ‘An idea struck you, you didn’t think, you

noticed’--what does it amount to? So I gave it to her on the sly on

purpose? What for? With what object? What have I to do with this...?”



“What for? That’s what I can’t understand, but that what I am telling

you is the fact, that’s certain! So far from my being mistaken, you

infamous criminal man, I remember how, on account of it, a question

occurred to me at once, just when I was thanking you and pressing

your hand. What made you put it secretly in her pocket? Why you did it

secretly, I mean? Could it be simply to conceal it from me, knowing that

my convictions are opposed to yours and that I do not approve of private

benevolence, which effects no radical cure? Well, I decided that you

really were ashamed of giving such a large sum before me. Perhaps,

too, I thought, he wants to give her a surprise, when she finds a whole

hundred-rouble note in her pocket. (For I know, some benevolent people

are very fond of decking out their charitable actions in that way.) Then

the idea struck me, too, that you wanted to test her, to see whether,

when she found it, she would come to thank you. Then, too, that you

wanted to avoid thanks and that, as the saying is, your right hand

should not know... something of that sort, in fact. I thought of so

many possibilities that I put off considering it, but still thought it

indelicate to show you that I knew your secret. But another idea struck

me again that Sofya Semyonovna might easily lose the money before she

noticed it, that was why I decided to come in here to call her out of

the room and to tell her that you put a hundred roubles in her pocket.

But on my way I went first to Madame Kobilatnikov’s to take them the

‘General Treatise on the Positive Method’ and especially to recommend

Piderit’s article (and also Wagner’s); then I come on here and what a

state of things I find! Now could I, could I, have all these ideas and

reflections if I had not seen you put the hundred-rouble note in her

pocket?”



When Lebeziatnikov finished his long-winded harangue with the logical

deduction at the end, he was quite tired, and the perspiration streamed

from his face. He could not, alas, even express himself correctly

in Russian, though he knew no other language, so that he was quite

exhausted, almost emaciated after this heroic exploit. But his speech

produced a powerful effect. He had spoken with such vehemence, with such

conviction that everyone obviously believed him. Pyotr Petrovitch felt

that things were going badly with him.



“What is it to do with me if silly ideas did occur to you?” he shouted,

“that’s no evidence. You may have dreamt it, that’s all! And I tell you,

you are lying, sir. You are lying and slandering from some spite against

me, simply from pique, because I did not agree with your free-thinking,

godless, social propositions!”



But this retort did not benefit Pyotr Petrovitch. Murmurs of disapproval

were heard on all sides.



“Ah, that’s your line now, is it!” cried Lebeziatnikov, “that’s

nonsense! Call the police and I’ll take my oath! There’s only one thing

I can’t understand: what made him risk such a contemptible action. Oh,

pitiful, despicable man!”



“I can explain why he risked such an action, and if necessary, I, too,

will swear to it,” Raskolnikov said at last in a firm voice, and he

stepped forward.



He appeared to be firm and composed. Everyone felt clearly, from the

very look of him that he really knew about it and that the mystery would

be solved.



“Now I can explain it all to myself,” said Raskolnikov, addressing

Lebeziatnikov. “From the very beginning of the business, I suspected

that there was some scoundrelly intrigue at the bottom of it. I began

to suspect it from some special circumstances known to me only, which

I will explain at once to everyone: they account for everything. Your

valuable evidence has finally made everything clear to me. I beg all,

all to listen. This gentleman (he pointed to Luzhin) was recently

engaged to be married to a young lady--my sister, Avdotya Romanovna

Raskolnikov. But coming to Petersburg he quarrelled with me, the day

before yesterday, at our first meeting and I drove him out of my room--I

have two witnesses to prove it. He is a very spiteful man.... The day

before yesterday I did not know that he was staying here, in your room,

and that consequently on the very day we quarrelled--the day before

yesterday--he saw me give Katerina Ivanovna some money for the funeral,

as a friend of the late Mr. Marmeladov. He at once wrote a note to

my mother and informed her that I had given away all my money, not

to Katerina Ivanovna but to Sofya Semyonovna, and referred in a most

contemptible way to the... character of Sofya Semyonovna, that is,

hinted at the character of my attitude to Sofya Semyonovna. All this you

understand was with the object of dividing me from my mother and sister,

by insinuating that I was squandering on unworthy objects the money

which they had sent me and which was all they had. Yesterday evening,

before my mother and sister and in his presence, I declared that I had

given the money to Katerina Ivanovna for the funeral and not to Sofya

Semyonovna and that I had no acquaintance with Sofya Semyonovna and had

never seen her before, indeed. At the same time I added that he,

Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, with all his virtues, was not worth Sofya

Semyonovna’s little finger, though he spoke so ill of her. To his

question--would I let Sofya Semyonovna sit down beside my sister, I

answered that I had already done so that day. Irritated that my mother

and sister were unwilling to quarrel with me at his insinuations, he

gradually began being unpardonably rude to them. A final rupture took

place and he was turned out of the house. All this happened yesterday

evening. Now I beg your special attention: consider: if he had now

succeeded in proving that Sofya Semyonovna was a thief, he would

have shown to my mother and sister that he was almost right in his

suspicions, that he had reason to be angry at my putting my sister on

a level with Sofya Semyonovna, that, in attacking me, he was protecting

and preserving the honour of my sister, his betrothed. In fact he might

even, through all this, have been able to estrange me from my family,

and no doubt he hoped to be restored to favour with them; to say nothing

of revenging himself on me personally, for he has grounds for supposing

that the honour and happiness of Sofya Semyonovna are very precious to

me. That was what he was working for! That’s how I understand it. That’s

the whole reason for it and there can be no other!”



It was like this, or somewhat like this, that Raskolnikov wound up his

speech which was followed very attentively, though often interrupted by

exclamations from his audience. But in spite of interruptions he spoke

clearly, calmly, exactly, firmly. His decisive voice, his tone of

conviction and his stern face made a great impression on everyone.



“Yes, yes, that’s it,” Lebeziatnikov assented gleefully, “that must be

it, for he asked me, as soon as Sofya Semyonovna came into our room,

whether you were here, whether I had seen you among Katerina Ivanovna’s

guests. He called me aside to the window and asked me in secret. It was

essential for him that you should be here! That’s it, that’s it!”



Luzhin smiled contemptuously and did not speak. But he was very pale. He

seemed to be deliberating on some means of escape. Perhaps he would have

been glad to give up everything and get away, but at the moment this

was scarcely possible. It would have implied admitting the truth of

the accusations brought against him. Moreover, the company, which had

already been excited by drink, was now too much stirred to allow it. The

commissariat clerk, though indeed he had not grasped the whole position,

was shouting louder than anyone and was making some suggestions very

unpleasant to Luzhin. But not all those present were drunk; lodgers came

in from all the rooms. The three Poles were tremendously excited

and were continually shouting at him: “The _pan_ is a _lajdak_!” and

muttering threats in Polish. Sonia had been listening with strained

attention, though she too seemed unable to grasp it all; she seemed as

though she had just returned to consciousness. She did not take her

eyes off Raskolnikov, feeling that all her safety lay in him. Katerina

Ivanovna breathed hard and painfully and seemed fearfully exhausted.

Amalia Ivanovna stood looking more stupid than anyone, with her mouth

wide open, unable to make out what had happened. She only saw that Pyotr

Petrovitch had somehow come to grief.



Raskolnikov was attempting to speak again, but they did not let him.

Everyone was crowding round Luzhin with threats and shouts of abuse.

But Pyotr Petrovitch was not intimidated. Seeing that his accusation of

Sonia had completely failed, he had recourse to insolence:



“Allow me, gentlemen, allow me! Don’t squeeze, let me pass!” he said,

making his way through the crowd. “And no threats, if you please! I

assure you it will be useless, you will gain nothing by it. On the

contrary, you’ll have to answer, gentlemen, for violently obstructing

the course of justice. The thief has been more than unmasked, and I

shall prosecute. Our judges are not so blind and... not so drunk, and

will not believe the testimony of two notorious infidels, agitators, and

atheists, who accuse me from motives of personal revenge which they are

foolish enough to admit.... Yes, allow me to pass!”



“Don’t let me find a trace of you in my room! Kindly leave at once, and

everything is at an end between us! When I think of the trouble I’ve

been taking, the way I’ve been expounding... all this fortnight!”



“I told you myself to-day that I was going, when you tried to keep me;

now I will simply add that you are a fool. I advise you to see a doctor

for your brains and your short sight. Let me pass, gentlemen!”



He forced his way through. But the commissariat clerk was unwilling to

let him off so easily: he picked up a glass from the table, brandished

it in the air and flung it at Pyotr Petrovitch; but the glass flew

straight at Amalia Ivanovna. She screamed, and the clerk, overbalancing,

fell heavily under the table. Pyotr Petrovitch made his way to his room

and half an hour later had left the house. Sonia, timid by nature, had

felt before that day that she could be ill-treated more easily than

anyone, and that she could be wronged with impunity. Yet till that

moment she had fancied that she might escape misfortune by care,

gentleness and submissiveness before everyone. Her disappointment was

too great. She could, of course, bear with patience and almost without

murmur anything, even this. But for the first minute she felt it too

bitter. In spite of her triumph and her justification--when her first

terror and stupefaction had passed and she could understand it all

clearly--the feeling of her helplessness and of the wrong done to her

made her heart throb with anguish and she was overcome with hysterical

weeping. At last, unable to bear any more, she rushed out of the room

and ran home, almost immediately after Luzhin’s departure. When amidst

loud laughter the glass flew at Amalia Ivanovna, it was more than the

landlady could endure. With a shriek she rushed like a fury at Katerina

Ivanovna, considering her to blame for everything.



“Out of my lodgings! At once! Quick march!”



And with these words she began snatching up everything she could lay

her hands on that belonged to Katerina Ivanovna, and throwing it on the

floor. Katerina Ivanovna, pale, almost fainting, and gasping for breath,

jumped up from the bed where she had sunk in exhaustion and darted at

Amalia Ivanovna. But the battle was too unequal: the landlady waved her

away like a feather.



“What! As though that godless calumny was not enough--this vile creature

attacks me! What! On the day of my husband’s funeral I am turned out of

my lodging! After eating my bread and salt she turns me into the street,

with my orphans! Where am I to go?” wailed the poor woman, sobbing and

gasping. “Good God!” she cried with flashing eyes, “is there no justice

upon earth? Whom should you protect if not us orphans? We shall see!

There is law and justice on earth, there is, I will find it! Wait a bit,

godless creature! Polenka, stay with the children, I’ll come back. Wait

for me, if you have to wait in the street. We will see whether there is

justice on earth!”



And throwing over her head that green shawl which Marmeladov had

mentioned to Raskolnikov, Katerina Ivanovna squeezed her way through the

disorderly and drunken crowd of lodgers who still filled the room, and,

wailing and tearful, she ran into the street--with a vague intention

of going at once somewhere to find justice. Polenka with the two little

ones in her arms crouched, terrified, on the trunk in the corner of the

room, where she waited trembling for her mother to come back. Amalia

Ivanovna raged about the room, shrieking, lamenting and throwing

everything she came across on the floor. The lodgers talked

incoherently, some commented to the best of their ability on what had

happened, others quarrelled and swore at one another, while others

struck up a song....



“Now it’s time for me to go,” thought Raskolnikov. “Well, Sofya

Semyonovna, we shall see what you’ll say now!”



And he set off in the direction of Sonia’s lodgings.







CHAPTER IV



Raskolnikov had been a vigorous and active champion of Sonia against

Luzhin, although he had such a load of horror and anguish in his own

heart. But having gone through so much in the morning, he found a sort

of relief in a change of sensations, apart from the strong personal

feeling which impelled him to defend Sonia. He was agitated too,

especially at some moments, by the thought of his approaching interview

with Sonia: he _had_ to tell her who had killed Lizaveta. He knew the

terrible suffering it would be to him and, as it were, brushed away the

thought of it. So when he cried as he left Katerina Ivanovna’s, “Well,

Sofya Semyonovna, we shall see what you’ll say now!” he was still

superficially excited, still vigorous and defiant from his triumph over

Luzhin. But, strange to say, by the time he reached Sonia’s lodging, he

felt a sudden impotence and fear. He stood still in hesitation at the

door, asking himself the strange question: “Must he tell her who killed

Lizaveta?” It was a strange question because he felt at the very time

not only that he could not help telling her, but also that he could

not put off the telling. He did not yet know why it must be so, he

only _felt_ it, and the agonising sense of his impotence before

the inevitable almost crushed him. To cut short his hesitation and

suffering, he quickly opened the door and looked at Sonia from the

doorway. She was sitting with her elbows on the table and her face in

her hands, but seeing Raskolnikov she got up at once and came to meet

him as though she were expecting him.



“What would have become of me but for you?” she said quickly, meeting

him in the middle of the room.



Evidently she was in haste to say this to him. It was what she had been

waiting for.



Raskolnikov went to the table and sat down on the chair from which she

had only just risen. She stood facing him, two steps away, just as she

had done the day before.



“Well, Sonia?” he said, and felt that his voice was trembling, “it was

all due to ‘your social position and the habits associated with it.’ Did

you understand that just now?”



Her face showed her distress.



“Only don’t talk to me as you did yesterday,” she interrupted him.

“Please don’t begin it. There is misery enough without that.”



She made haste to smile, afraid that he might not like the reproach.



“I was silly to come away from there. What is happening there now? I

wanted to go back directly, but I kept thinking that... you would come.”



He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was turning them out of their lodging

and that Katerina Ivanovna had run off somewhere “to seek justice.”



“My God!” cried Sonia, “let’s go at once....”



And she snatched up her cape.



“It’s everlastingly the same thing!” said Raskolnikov, irritably.

“You’ve no thought except for them! Stay a little with me.”



“But... Katerina Ivanovna?”



“You won’t lose Katerina Ivanovna, you may be sure, she’ll come to you

herself since she has run out,” he added peevishly. “If she doesn’t find

you here, you’ll be blamed for it....”



Sonia sat down in painful suspense. Raskolnikov was silent, gazing at

the floor and deliberating.



“This time Luzhin did not want to prosecute you,” he began, not looking

at Sonia, “but if he had wanted to, if it had suited his plans, he would

have sent you to prison if it had not been for Lebeziatnikov and me.

Ah?”



“Yes,” she assented in a faint voice. “Yes,” she repeated, preoccupied

and distressed.



“But I might easily not have been there. And it was quite an accident

Lebeziatnikov’s turning up.”



Sonia was silent.



“And if you’d gone to prison, what then? Do you remember what I said

yesterday?”



Again she did not answer. He waited.



“I thought you would cry out again ‘don’t speak of it, leave off.’”

 Raskolnikov gave a laugh, but rather a forced one. “What, silence

again?” he asked a minute later. “We must talk about something, you

know. It would be interesting for me to know how you would decide a

certain ‘problem’ as Lebeziatnikov would say.” (He was beginning to lose

the thread.) “No, really, I am serious. Imagine, Sonia, that you had

known all Luzhin’s intentions beforehand. Known, that is, for a fact,

that they would be the ruin of Katerina Ivanovna and the children and

yourself thrown in--since you don’t count yourself for anything--Polenka

too... for she’ll go the same way. Well, if suddenly it all depended on

your decision whether he or they should go on living, that is whether

Luzhin should go on living and doing wicked things, or Katerina Ivanovna

should die? How would you decide which of them was to die? I ask you?”



Sonia looked uneasily at him. There was something peculiar in this

hesitating question, which seemed approaching something in a roundabout

way.



“I felt that you were going to ask some question like that,” she said,

looking inquisitively at him.



“I dare say you did. But how is it to be answered?”



“Why do you ask about what could not happen?” said Sonia reluctantly.



“Then it would be better for Luzhin to go on living and doing wicked

things? You haven’t dared to decide even that!”



“But I can’t know the Divine Providence.... And why do you ask what

can’t be answered? What’s the use of such foolish questions? How could

it happen that it should depend on my decision--who has made me a judge

to decide who is to live and who is not to live?”



“Oh, if the Divine Providence is to be mixed up in it, there is no doing

anything,” Raskolnikov grumbled morosely.



“You’d better say straight out what you want!” Sonia cried in distress.

“You are leading up to something again.... Can you have come simply to

torture me?”



She could not control herself and began crying bitterly. He looked at

her in gloomy misery. Five minutes passed.



“Of course you’re right, Sonia,” he said softly at last. He was suddenly

changed. His tone of assumed arrogance and helpless defiance was gone.

Even his voice was suddenly weak. “I told you yesterday that I was not

coming to ask forgiveness and almost the first thing I’ve said is to ask

forgiveness.... I said that about Luzhin and Providence for my own sake.

I was asking forgiveness, Sonia....”



He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and incomplete in

his pale smile. He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands.



And suddenly a strange, surprising sensation of a sort of bitter hatred

for Sonia passed through his heart. As it were wondering and frightened

of this sensation, he raised his head and looked intently at her; but he

met her uneasy and painfully anxious eyes fixed on him; there was

love in them; his hatred vanished like a phantom. It was not the real

feeling; he had taken the one feeling for the other. It only meant that

_that_ minute had come.



He hid his face in his hands again and bowed his head. Suddenly he

turned pale, got up from his chair, looked at Sonia, and without

uttering a word sat down mechanically on her bed.



His sensations that moment were terribly like the moment when he had

stood over the old woman with the axe in his hand and felt that “he must

not lose another minute.”



“What’s the matter?” asked Sonia, dreadfully frightened.



He could not utter a word. This was not at all, not at all the way he

had intended to “tell” and he did not understand what was happening to

him now. She went up to him, softly, sat down on the bed beside him and

waited, not taking her eyes off him. Her heart throbbed and sank. It

was unendurable; he turned his deadly pale face to her. His lips worked,

helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang of terror passed

through Sonia’s heart.



“What’s the matter?” she repeated, drawing a little away from him.



“Nothing, Sonia, don’t be frightened.... It’s nonsense. It really is

nonsense, if you think of it,” he muttered, like a man in delirium. “Why

have I come to torture you?” he added suddenly, looking at her. “Why,

really? I keep asking myself that question, Sonia....”



He had perhaps been asking himself that question a quarter of an hour

before, but now he spoke helplessly, hardly knowing what he said and

feeling a continual tremor all over.



“Oh, how you are suffering!” she muttered in distress, looking intently

at him.



“It’s all nonsense.... Listen, Sonia.” He suddenly smiled, a pale

helpless smile for two seconds. “You remember what I meant to tell you

yesterday?”



Sonia waited uneasily.



“I said as I went away that perhaps I was saying good-bye for ever, but

that if I came to-day I would tell you who... who killed Lizaveta.”



She began trembling all over.



“Well, here I’ve come to tell you.”



“Then you really meant it yesterday?” she whispered with difficulty.

“How do you know?” she asked quickly, as though suddenly regaining her

reason.



Sonia’s face grew paler and paler, and she breathed painfully.



“I know.”



She paused a minute.



“Have they found him?” she asked timidly.



“No.”



“Then how do you know about _it_?” she asked again, hardly audibly and

again after a minute’s pause.



He turned to her and looked very intently at her.



“Guess,” he said, with the same distorted helpless smile.



A shudder passed over her.



“But you... why do you frighten me like this?” she said, smiling like a

child.



“I must be a great friend of _his_... since I know,” Raskolnikov went

on, still gazing into her face, as though he could not turn his eyes

away. “He... did not mean to kill that Lizaveta... he... killed her

accidentally.... He meant to kill the old woman when she was alone and

he went there... and then Lizaveta came in... he killed her too.”



Another awful moment passed. Both still gazed at one another.



“You can’t guess, then?” he asked suddenly, feeling as though he were

flinging himself down from a steeple.



“N-no...” whispered Sonia.



“Take a good look.”



As soon as he had said this again, the same familiar sensation froze his

heart. He looked at her and all at once seemed to see in her face the

face of Lizaveta. He remembered clearly the expression in Lizaveta’s

face, when he approached her with the axe and she stepped back to the

wall, putting out her hand, with childish terror in her face, looking

as little children do when they begin to be frightened of something,

looking intently and uneasily at what frightens them, shrinking back and

holding out their little hands on the point of crying. Almost the same

thing happened now to Sonia. With the same helplessness and the same

terror, she looked at him for a while and, suddenly putting out her left

hand, pressed her fingers faintly against his breast and slowly began to

get up from the bed, moving further from him and keeping her eyes fixed

even more immovably on him. Her terror infected him. The same fear

showed itself on his face. In the same way he stared at her and almost

with the same _childish_ smile.



“Have you guessed?” he whispered at last.



“Good God!” broke in an awful wail from her bosom.



She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in the pillows, but a

moment later she got up, moved quickly to him, seized both his hands

and, gripping them tight in her thin fingers, began looking into his

face again with the same intent stare. In this last desperate look she

tried to look into him and catch some last hope. But there was no hope;

there was no doubt remaining; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when

she recalled that moment, she thought it strange and wondered why she

had seen at once that there was no doubt. She could not have said, for

instance, that she had foreseen something of the sort--and yet now, as

soon as he told her, she suddenly fancied that she had really foreseen

this very thing.



“Stop, Sonia, enough! don’t torture me,” he begged her miserably.



It was not at all, not at all like this he had thought of telling her,

but this is how it happened.



She jumped up, seeming not to know what she was doing, and, wringing her

hands, walked into the middle of the room; but quickly went back and sat

down again beside him, her shoulder almost touching his. All of a sudden

she started as though she had been stabbed, uttered a cry and fell on

her knees before him, she did not know why.



“What have you done--what have you done to yourself?” she said in

despair, and, jumping up, she flung herself on his neck, threw her arms

round him, and held him tightly.



Raskolnikov drew back and looked at her with a mournful smile.



“You are a strange girl, Sonia--you kiss me and hug me when I tell you

about that.... You don’t think what you are doing.”



“There is no one--no one in the whole world now so unhappy as you!” she

cried in a frenzy, not hearing what he said, and she suddenly broke into

violent hysterical weeping.



A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his heart and softened it at

once. He did not struggle against it. Two tears started into his eyes

and hung on his eyelashes.



“Then you won’t leave me, Sonia?” he said, looking at her almost with

hope.



“No, no, never, nowhere!” cried Sonia. “I will follow you, I will follow

you everywhere. Oh, my God! Oh, how miserable I am!... Why, why didn’t I

know you before! Why didn’t you come before? Oh, dear!”



“Here I have come.”



“Yes, now! What’s to be done now?... Together, together!” she repeated

as it were unconsciously, and she hugged him again. “I’ll follow you to

Siberia!”



He recoiled at this, and the same hostile, almost haughty smile came to

his lips.



“Perhaps I don’t want to go to Siberia yet, Sonia,” he said.



Sonia looked at him quickly.



Again after her first passionate, agonising sympathy for the unhappy man

the terrible idea of the murder overwhelmed her. In his changed tone she

seemed to hear the murderer speaking. She looked at him bewildered. She

knew nothing as yet, why, how, with what object it had been. Now all

these questions rushed at once into her mind. And again she could not

believe it: “He, he is a murderer! Could it be true?”



“What’s the meaning of it? Where am I?” she said in complete

bewilderment, as though still unable to recover herself. “How could you,

you, a man like you.... How could you bring yourself to it?... What does

it mean?”



“Oh, well--to plunder. Leave off, Sonia,” he answered wearily, almost

with vexation.



Sonia stood as though struck dumb, but suddenly she cried:



“You were hungry! It was... to help your mother? Yes?”



“No, Sonia, no,” he muttered, turning away and hanging his head. “I was

not so hungry.... I certainly did want to help my mother, but... that’s

not the real thing either.... Don’t torture me, Sonia.”



Sonia clasped her hands.



“Could it, could it all be true? Good God, what a truth! Who could

believe it? And how could you give away your last farthing and yet

rob and murder! Ah,” she cried suddenly, “that money you gave Katerina

Ivanovna... that money.... Can that money...”



“No, Sonia,” he broke in hurriedly, “that money was not it. Don’t worry

yourself! That money my mother sent me and it came when I was ill, the

day I gave it to you.... Razumihin saw it... he received it for me....

That money was mine--my own.”



Sonia listened to him in bewilderment and did her utmost to comprehend.



“And _that_ money.... I don’t even know really whether there was any

money,” he added softly, as though reflecting. “I took a purse off her

neck, made of chamois leather... a purse stuffed full of something...

but I didn’t look in it; I suppose I hadn’t time.... And the

things--chains and trinkets--I buried under a stone with the purse next

morning in a yard off the V---- Prospect. They are all there now....”



Sonia strained every nerve to listen.



“Then why... why, you said you did it to rob, but you took nothing?” she

asked quickly, catching at a straw.



“I don’t know.... I haven’t yet decided whether to take that money or

not,” he said, musing again; and, seeming to wake up with a start, he

gave a brief ironical smile. “Ach, what silly stuff I am talking, eh?”



The thought flashed through Sonia’s mind, wasn’t he mad? But she

dismissed it at once. “No, it was something else.” She could make

nothing of it, nothing.



“Do you know, Sonia,” he said suddenly with conviction, “let me tell

you: if I’d simply killed because I was hungry,” laying stress on

every word and looking enigmatically but sincerely at her, “I should

be _happy_ now. You must believe that! What would it matter to you,” he

cried a moment later with a sort of despair, “what would it matter to

you if I were to confess that I did wrong? What do you gain by such

a stupid triumph over me? Ah, Sonia, was it for that I’ve come to you

to-day?”



Again Sonia tried to say something, but did not speak.



“I asked you to go with me yesterday because you are all I have left.”



“Go where?” asked Sonia timidly.



“Not to steal and not to murder, don’t be anxious,” he smiled bitterly.

“We are so different.... And you know, Sonia, it’s only now, only this

moment that I understand _where_ I asked you to go with me yesterday!

Yesterday when I said it I did not know where. I asked you for one

thing, I came to you for one thing--not to leave me. You won’t leave me,

Sonia?”



She squeezed his hand.



“And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?” he cried a minute

later in despair, looking with infinite anguish at her. “Here you expect

an explanation from me, Sonia; you are sitting and waiting for it, I see

that. But what can I tell you? You won’t understand and will only suffer

misery... on my account! Well, you are crying and embracing me again.

Why do you do it? Because I couldn’t bear my burden and have come to

throw it on another: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can

you love such a mean wretch?”



“But aren’t you suffering, too?” cried Sonia.



Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an

instant softened it.



“Sonia, I have a bad heart, take note of that. It may explain a great

deal. I have come because I am bad. There are men who wouldn’t have

come. But I am a coward and... a mean wretch. But... never mind! That’s

not the point. I must speak now, but I don’t know how to begin.”



He paused and sank into thought.



“Ach, we are so different,” he cried again, “we are not alike. And why,

why did I come? I shall never forgive myself that.”



“No, no, it was a good thing you came,” cried Sonia. “It’s better I

should know, far better!”



He looked at her with anguish.



“What if it were really that?” he said, as though reaching a conclusion.

“Yes, that’s what it was! I wanted to become a Napoleon, that is why I

killed her.... Do you understand now?”



“N-no,” Sonia whispered naïvely and timidly. “Only speak, speak, I shall

understand, I shall understand _in myself_!” she kept begging him.



“You’ll understand? Very well, we shall see!” He paused and was for some

time lost in meditation.



“It was like this: I asked myself one day this question--what if

Napoleon, for instance, had happened to be in my place, and if he had

not had Toulon nor Egypt nor the passage of Mont Blanc to begin his

career with, but instead of all those picturesque and monumental things,

there had simply been some ridiculous old hag, a pawnbroker, who had

to be murdered too to get money from her trunk (for his career, you

understand). Well, would he have brought himself to that if there had

been no other means? Wouldn’t he have felt a pang at its being so far

from monumental and... and sinful, too? Well, I must tell you that I

worried myself fearfully over that ‘question’ so that I was awfully

ashamed when I guessed at last (all of a sudden, somehow) that it would

not have given him the least pang, that it would not even have struck

him that it was not monumental... that he would not have seen that there

was anything in it to pause over, and that, if he had had no other way,

he would have strangled her in a minute without thinking about it!

Well, I too... left off thinking about it... murdered her, following

his example. And that’s exactly how it was! Do you think it funny? Yes,

Sonia, the funniest thing of all is that perhaps that’s just how it

was.”



Sonia did not think it at all funny.



“You had better tell me straight out... without examples,” she begged,

still more timidly and scarcely audibly.



He turned to her, looked sadly at her and took her hands.



“You are right again, Sonia. Of course that’s all nonsense, it’s almost

all talk! You see, you know of course that my mother has scarcely

anything, my sister happened to have a good education and was condemned

to drudge as a governess. All their hopes were centered on me. I was a

student, but I couldn’t keep myself at the university and was forced

for a time to leave it. Even if I had lingered on like that, in ten

or twelve years I might (with luck) hope to be some sort of teacher or

clerk with a salary of a thousand roubles” (he repeated it as though it

were a lesson) “and by that time my mother would be worn out with grief

and anxiety and I could not succeed in keeping her in comfort while my

sister... well, my sister might well have fared worse! And it’s a hard

thing to pass everything by all one’s life, to turn one’s back upon

everything, to forget one’s mother and decorously accept the insults

inflicted on one’s sister. Why should one? When one has buried them to

burden oneself with others--wife and children--and to leave them again

without a farthing? So I resolved to gain possession of the old woman’s

money and to use it for my first years without worrying my mother,

to keep myself at the university and for a little while after leaving

it--and to do this all on a broad, thorough scale, so as to build up

a completely new career and enter upon a new life of independence....

Well... that’s all.... Well, of course in killing the old woman I did

wrong.... Well, that’s enough.”



He struggled to the end of his speech in exhaustion and let his head

sink.



“Oh, that’s not it, that’s not it,” Sonia cried in distress. “How could

one... no, that’s not right, not right.”



“You see yourself that it’s not right. But I’ve spoken truly, it’s the

truth.”



“As though that could be the truth! Good God!”



“I’ve only killed a louse, Sonia, a useless, loathsome, harmful

creature.”



“A human being--a louse!”



“I too know it wasn’t a louse,” he answered, looking strangely at

her. “But I am talking nonsense, Sonia,” he added. “I’ve been talking

nonsense a long time.... That’s not it, you are right there. There were

quite, quite other causes for it! I haven’t talked to anyone for so

long, Sonia.... My head aches dreadfully now.”



His eyes shone with feverish brilliance. He was almost delirious; an

uneasy smile strayed on his lips. His terrible exhaustion could be seen

through his excitement. Sonia saw how he was suffering. She too

was growing dizzy. And he talked so strangely; it seemed somehow

comprehensible, but yet... “But how, how! Good God!” And she wrung her

hands in despair.



“No, Sonia, that’s not it,” he began again suddenly, raising his head,

as though a new and sudden train of thought had struck and as it were

roused him--“that’s not it! Better... imagine--yes, it’s certainly

better--imagine that I am vain, envious, malicious, base, vindictive

and... well, perhaps with a tendency to insanity. (Let’s have it all out

at once! They’ve talked of madness already, I noticed.) I told you just

now I could not keep myself at the university. But do you know that

perhaps I might have done? My mother would have sent me what I needed

for the fees and I could have earned enough for clothes, boots and food,

no doubt. Lessons had turned up at half a rouble. Razumihin works! But I

turned sulky and wouldn’t. (Yes, sulkiness, that’s the right word for

it!) I sat in my room like a spider. You’ve been in my den, you’ve seen

it.... And do you know, Sonia, that low ceilings and tiny rooms cramp

the soul and the mind? Ah, how I hated that garret! And yet I wouldn’t

go out of it! I wouldn’t on purpose! I didn’t go out for days together,

and I wouldn’t work, I wouldn’t even eat, I just lay there doing

nothing. If Nastasya brought me anything, I ate it, if she didn’t, I

went all day without; I wouldn’t ask, on purpose, from sulkiness! At

night I had no light, I lay in the dark and I wouldn’t earn money for

candles. I ought to have studied, but I sold my books; and the dust lies

an inch thick on the notebooks on my table. I preferred lying still and

thinking. And I kept thinking.... And I had dreams all the time, strange

dreams of all sorts, no need to describe! Only then I began to fancy

that... No, that’s not it! Again I am telling you wrong! You see I kept

asking myself then: why am I so stupid that if others are stupid--and I

know they are--yet I won’t be wiser? Then I saw, Sonia, that if one

waits for everyone to get wiser it will take too long.... Afterwards I

understood that that would never come to pass, that men won’t change and

that nobody can alter it and that it’s not worth wasting effort over it.

Yes, that’s so. That’s the law of their nature, Sonia,... that’s so!...

And I know now, Sonia, that whoever is strong in mind and spirit will

have power over them. Anyone who is greatly daring is right in their

eyes. He who despises most things will be a lawgiver among them and he

who dares most of all will be most in the right! So it has been till now

and so it will always be. A man must be blind not to see it!”



Though Raskolnikov looked at Sonia as he said this, he no longer cared

whether she understood or not. The fever had complete hold of him; he

was in a sort of gloomy ecstasy (he certainly had been too long without

talking to anyone). Sonia felt that his gloomy creed had become his

faith and code.



“I divined then, Sonia,” he went on eagerly, “that power is only

vouchsafed to the man who dares to stoop and pick it up. There is only

one thing, one thing needful: one has only to dare! Then for the first

time in my life an idea took shape in my mind which no one had ever

thought of before me, no one! I saw clear as daylight how strange it is

that not a single person living in this mad world has had the daring to

go straight for it all and send it flying to the devil! I... I wanted

_to have the daring_... and I killed her. I only wanted to have the

daring, Sonia! That was the whole cause of it!”



“Oh hush, hush,” cried Sonia, clasping her hands. “You turned away from

God and God has smitten you, has given you over to the devil!”



“Then Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and all this became

clear to me, was it a temptation of the devil, eh?”



“Hush, don’t laugh, blasphemer! You don’t understand, you don’t

understand! Oh God! He won’t understand!”



“Hush, Sonia! I am not laughing. I know myself that it was the devil

leading me. Hush, Sonia, hush!” he repeated with gloomy insistence. “I

know it all, I have thought it all over and over and whispered it all

over to myself, lying there in the dark.... I’ve argued it all over with

myself, every point of it, and I know it all, all! And how sick, how

sick I was then of going over it all! I have kept wanting to forget it

and make a new beginning, Sonia, and leave off thinking. And you don’t

suppose that I went into it headlong like a fool? I went into it like a

wise man, and that was just my destruction. And you mustn’t suppose that

I didn’t know, for instance, that if I began to question myself whether

I had the right to gain power--I certainly hadn’t the right--or that if

I asked myself whether a human being is a louse it proved that it wasn’t

so for me, though it might be for a man who would go straight to his

goal without asking questions.... If I worried myself all those days,

wondering whether Napoleon would have done it or not, I felt clearly

of course that I wasn’t Napoleon. I had to endure all the agony of that

battle of ideas, Sonia, and I longed to throw it off: I wanted to murder

without casuistry, to murder for my own sake, for myself alone! I didn’t

want to lie about it even to myself. It wasn’t to help my mother I did

the murder--that’s nonsense--I didn’t do the murder to gain wealth and

power and to become a benefactor of mankind. Nonsense! I simply did it;

I did the murder for myself, for myself alone, and whether I became a

benefactor to others, or spent my life like a spider catching men in

my web and sucking the life out of men, I couldn’t have cared at that

moment.... And it was not the money I wanted, Sonia, when I did it. It

was not so much the money I wanted, but something else.... I know it all

now.... Understand me! Perhaps I should never have committed a murder

again. I wanted to find out something else; it was something else led

me on. I wanted to find out then and quickly whether I was a louse

like everybody else or a man. Whether I can step over barriers or

not, whether I dare stoop to pick up or not, whether I am a trembling

creature or whether I have the _right_...”



“To kill? Have the right to kill?” Sonia clasped her hands.



“Ach, Sonia!” he cried irritably and seemed about to make some retort,

but was contemptuously silent. “Don’t interrupt me, Sonia. I want to

prove one thing only, that the devil led me on then and he has shown me

since that I had not the right to take that path, because I am just such

a louse as all the rest. He was mocking me and here I’ve come to you

now! Welcome your guest! If I were not a louse, should I have come to

you? Listen: when I went then to the old woman’s I only went to

_try_.... You may be sure of that!”



“And you murdered her!”



“But how did I murder her? Is that how men do murders? Do men go to

commit a murder as I went then? I will tell you some day how I went!

Did I murder the old woman? I murdered myself, not her! I crushed myself

once for all, for ever.... But it was the devil that killed that old

woman, not I. Enough, enough, Sonia, enough! Let me be!” he cried in a

sudden spasm of agony, “let me be!”



He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head in his hands as

in a vise.



“What suffering!” A wail of anguish broke from Sonia.



“Well, what am I to do now?” he asked, suddenly raising his head and

looking at her with a face hideously distorted by despair.



“What are you to do?” she cried, jumping up, and her eyes that had been

full of tears suddenly began to shine. “Stand up!” (She seized him by

the shoulder, he got up, looking at her almost bewildered.) “Go at once,

this very minute, stand at the cross-roads, bow down, first kiss the

earth which you have defiled and then bow down to all the world and say

to all men aloud, ‘I am a murderer!’ Then God will send you life again.

Will you go, will you go?” she asked him, trembling all over, snatching

his two hands, squeezing them tight in hers and gazing at him with eyes

full of fire.



He was amazed at her sudden ecstasy.



“You mean Siberia, Sonia? I must give myself up?” he asked gloomily.



“Suffer and expiate your sin by it, that’s what you must do.”



“No! I am not going to them, Sonia!”



“But how will you go on living? What will you live for?” cried Sonia,

“how is it possible now? Why, how can you talk to your mother? (Oh, what

will become of them now?) But what am I saying? You have abandoned your

mother and your sister already. He has abandoned them already! Oh,

God!” she cried, “why, he knows it all himself. How, how can he live by

himself! What will become of you now?”



“Don’t be a child, Sonia,” he said softly. “What wrong have I done

them? Why should I go to them? What should I say to them? That’s only a

phantom.... They destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a

virtue. They are knaves and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not going to them.

And what should I say to them--that I murdered her, but did not dare to

take the money and hid it under a stone?” he added with a bitter smile.

“Why, they would laugh at me, and would call me a fool for not getting

it. A coward and a fool! They wouldn’t understand and they don’t deserve

to understand. Why should I go to them? I won’t. Don’t be a child,

Sonia....”



“It will be too much for you to bear, too much!” she repeated, holding

out her hands in despairing supplication.



“Perhaps I’ve been unfair to myself,” he observed gloomily, pondering,

“perhaps after all I am a man and not a louse and I’ve been in too great

a hurry to condemn myself. I’ll make another fight for it.”



A haughty smile appeared on his lips.



“What a burden to bear! And your whole life, your whole life!”



“I shall get used to it,” he said grimly and thoughtfully. “Listen,” he

began a minute later, “stop crying, it’s time to talk of the facts: I’ve

come to tell you that the police are after me, on my track....”



“Ach!” Sonia cried in terror.



“Well, why do you cry out? You want me to go to Siberia and now you are

frightened? But let me tell you: I shall not give myself up. I shall

make a struggle for it and they won’t do anything to me. They’ve no real

evidence. Yesterday I was in great danger and believed I was lost; but

to-day things are going better. All the facts they know can be explained

two ways, that’s to say I can turn their accusations to my credit, do

you understand? And I shall, for I’ve learnt my lesson. But they will

certainly arrest me. If it had not been for something that happened,

they would have done so to-day for certain; perhaps even now they will

arrest me to-day.... But that’s no matter, Sonia; they’ll let me out

again... for there isn’t any real proof against me, and there won’t be,

I give you my word for it. And they can’t convict a man on what they

have against me. Enough.... I only tell you that you may know.... I will

try to manage somehow to put it to my mother and sister so that they

won’t be frightened.... My sister’s future is secure, however, now, I

believe... and my mother’s must be too.... Well, that’s all. Be careful,

though. Will you come and see me in prison when I am there?”



“Oh, I will, I will.”



They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had

been cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at

Sonia and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he

felt it suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a

strange and awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that

all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part

of his suffering, and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he

suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than before.



“Sonia,” he said, “you’d better not come and see me when I am in

prison.”



Sonia did not answer, she was crying. Several minutes passed.



“Have you a cross on you?” she asked, as though suddenly thinking of it.



He did not at first understand the question.



“No, of course not. Here, take this one, of cypress wood. I have

another, a copper one that belonged to Lizaveta. I changed with

Lizaveta: she gave me her cross and I gave her my little ikon. I will

wear Lizaveta’s now and give you this. Take it... it’s mine! It’s mine,

you know,” she begged him. “We will go to suffer together, and together

we will bear our cross!”



“Give it me,” said Raskolnikov.



He did not want to hurt her feelings. But immediately he drew back the

hand he held out for the cross.



“Not now, Sonia. Better later,” he added to comfort her.



“Yes, yes, better,” she repeated with conviction, “when you go to meet

your suffering, then put it on. You will come to me, I’ll put it on you,

we will pray and go together.”



At that moment someone knocked three times at the door.



“Sofya Semyonovna, may I come in?” they heard in a very familiar and

polite voice.



Sonia rushed to the door in a fright. The flaxen head of Mr.

Lebeziatnikov appeared at the door.







CHAPTER V



Lebeziatnikov looked perturbed.



“I’ve come to you, Sofya Semyonovna,” he began. “Excuse me... I thought

I should find you,” he said, addressing Raskolnikov suddenly, “that is,

I didn’t mean anything... of that sort... But I just thought... Katerina

Ivanovna has gone out of her mind,” he blurted out suddenly, turning

from Raskolnikov to Sonia.



Sonia screamed.



“At least it seems so. But... we don’t know what to do, you see! She

came back--she seems to have been turned out somewhere, perhaps

beaten.... So it seems at least.... She had run to your father’s former

chief, she didn’t find him at home: he was dining at some other

general’s.... Only fancy, she rushed off there, to the other general’s,

and, imagine, she was so persistent that she managed to get the chief to

see her, had him fetched out from dinner, it seems. You can imagine what

happened. She was turned out, of course; but, according to her own

story, she abused him and threw something at him. One may well believe

it.... How it is she wasn’t taken up, I can’t understand! Now she is

telling everyone, including Amalia Ivanovna; but it’s difficult to

understand her, she is screaming and flinging herself about.... Oh yes,

she shouts that since everyone has abandoned her, she will take the

children and go into the street with a barrel-organ, and the children

will sing and dance, and she too, and collect money, and will go every

day under the general’s window... ‘to let everyone see well-born

children, whose father was an official, begging in the street.’ She

keeps beating the children and they are all crying. She is teaching Lida

to sing ‘My Village,’ the boy to dance, Polenka the same. She is tearing

up all the clothes, and making them little caps like actors; she means

to carry a tin basin and make it tinkle, instead of music.... She won’t

listen to anything.... Imagine the state of things! It’s beyond

anything!”



Lebeziatnikov would have gone on, but Sonia, who had heard him almost

breathless, snatched up her cloak and hat, and ran out of the room,

putting on her things as she went. Raskolnikov followed her and

Lebeziatnikov came after him.



“She has certainly gone mad!” he said to Raskolnikov, as they went out

into the street. “I didn’t want to frighten Sofya Semyonovna, so I said

‘it seemed like it,’ but there isn’t a doubt of it. They say that in

consumption the tubercles sometimes occur in the brain; it’s a pity I

know nothing of medicine. I did try to persuade her, but she wouldn’t

listen.”



“Did you talk to her about the tubercles?”



“Not precisely of the tubercles. Besides, she wouldn’t have understood!

But what I say is, that if you convince a person logically that he

has nothing to cry about, he’ll stop crying. That’s clear. Is it your

conviction that he won’t?”



“Life would be too easy if it were so,” answered Raskolnikov.



“Excuse me, excuse me; of course it would be rather difficult for

Katerina Ivanovna to understand, but do you know that in Paris they have

been conducting serious experiments as to the possibility of curing the

insane, simply by logical argument? One professor there, a scientific

man of standing, lately dead, believed in the possibility of such

treatment. His idea was that there’s nothing really wrong with the

physical organism of the insane, and that insanity is, so to say, a

logical mistake, an error of judgment, an incorrect view of things. He

gradually showed the madman his error and, would you believe it, they

say he was successful? But as he made use of douches too, how far

success was due to that treatment remains uncertain.... So it seems at

least.”



Raskolnikov had long ceased to listen. Reaching the house where he

lived, he nodded to Lebeziatnikov and went in at the gate. Lebeziatnikov

woke up with a start, looked about him and hurried on.



Raskolnikov went into his little room and stood still in the middle

of it. Why had he come back here? He looked at the yellow and tattered

paper, at the dust, at his sofa.... From the yard came a loud continuous

knocking; someone seemed to be hammering... He went to the window, rose

on tiptoe and looked out into the yard for a long time with an air of

absorbed attention. But the yard was empty and he could not see who was

hammering. In the house on the left he saw some open windows; on the

window-sills were pots of sickly-looking geraniums. Linen was hung out

of the windows... He knew it all by heart. He turned away and sat down

on the sofa.



Never, never had he felt himself so fearfully alone!



Yes, he felt once more that he would perhaps come to hate Sonia, now

that he had made her more miserable.



“Why had he gone to her to beg for her tears? What need had he to poison

her life? Oh, the meanness of it!”



“I will remain alone,” he said resolutely, “and she shall not come to

the prison!”



Five minutes later he raised his head with a strange smile. That was a

strange thought.



“Perhaps it really would be better in Siberia,” he thought suddenly.



He could not have said how long he sat there with vague thoughts surging

through his mind. All at once the door opened and Dounia came in. At

first she stood still and looked at him from the doorway, just as he

had done at Sonia; then she came in and sat down in the same place

as yesterday, on the chair facing him. He looked silently and almost

vacantly at her.



“Don’t be angry, brother; I’ve only come for one minute,” said Dounia.



Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were bright and soft.

He saw that she too had come to him with love.



“Brother, now I know all, _all_. Dmitri Prokofitch has explained and

told me everything. They are worrying and persecuting you through a

stupid and contemptible suspicion.... Dmitri Prokofitch told me that

there is no danger, and that you are wrong in looking upon it with such

horror. I don’t think so, and I fully understand how indignant you must

be, and that that indignation may have a permanent effect on you. That’s

what I am afraid of. As for your cutting yourself off from us, I don’t

judge you, I don’t venture to judge you, and forgive me for having

blamed you for it. I feel that I too, if I had so great a trouble,

should keep away from everyone. I shall tell mother nothing _of this_,

but I shall talk about you continually and shall tell her from you that

you will come very soon. Don’t worry about her; _I_ will set her mind at

rest; but don’t you try her too much--come once at least; remember that

she is your mother. And now I have come simply to say” (Dounia began

to get up) “that if you should need me or should need... all my life or

anything... call me, and I’ll come. Good-bye!”



She turned abruptly and went towards the door.



“Dounia!” Raskolnikov stopped her and went towards her. “That Razumihin,

Dmitri Prokofitch, is a very good fellow.”



Dounia flushed slightly.



“Well?” she asked, waiting a moment.



“He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real love....

Good-bye, Dounia.”



Dounia flushed crimson, then suddenly she took alarm.



“But what does it mean, brother? Are we really parting for ever that

you... give me such a parting message?”



“Never mind.... Good-bye.”



He turned away, and walked to the window. She stood a moment, looked at

him uneasily, and went out troubled.



No, he was not cold to her. There was an instant (the very last one)

when he had longed to take her in his arms and _say good-bye_ to her,

and even _to tell_ her, but he had not dared even to touch her hand.



“Afterwards she may shudder when she remembers that I embraced her, and

will feel that I stole her kiss.”



“And would _she_ stand that test?” he went on a few minutes later to

himself. “No, she wouldn’t; girls like that can’t stand things! They

never do.”



And he thought of Sonia.



There was a breath of fresh air from the window. The daylight was

fading. He took up his cap and went out.



He could not, of course, and would not consider how ill he was. But all

this continual anxiety and agony of mind could not but affect him. And

if he were not lying in high fever it was perhaps just because this

continual inner strain helped to keep him on his legs and in possession

of his faculties. But this artificial excitement could not last long.



He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A special form of misery had

begun to oppress him of late. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute

about it; but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about it;

it brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a

foretaste of an eternity “on a square yard of space.” Towards evening

this sensation usually began to weigh on him more heavily.



“With this idiotic, purely physical weakness, depending on the sunset or

something, one can’t help doing something stupid! You’ll go to Dounia,

as well as to Sonia,” he muttered bitterly.



He heard his name called. He looked round. Lebeziatnikov rushed up to

him.



“Only fancy, I’ve been to your room looking for you. Only fancy, she’s

carried out her plan, and taken away the children. Sofya Semyonovna and

I have had a job to find them. She is rapping on a frying-pan and making

the children dance. The children are crying. They keep stopping at the

cross-roads and in front of shops; there’s a crowd of fools running

after them. Come along!”



“And Sonia?” Raskolnikov asked anxiously, hurrying after Lebeziatnikov.



“Simply frantic. That is, it’s not Sofya Semyonovna’s frantic, but

Katerina Ivanovna, though Sofya Semyonova’s frantic too. But Katerina

Ivanovna is absolutely frantic. I tell you she is quite mad. They’ll be

taken to the police. You can fancy what an effect that will have....

They are on the canal bank, near the bridge now, not far from Sofya

Semyonovna’s, quite close.”



On the canal bank near the bridge and not two houses away from the one

where Sonia lodged, there was a crowd of people, consisting principally

of gutter children. The hoarse broken voice of Katerina Ivanovna could

be heard from the bridge, and it certainly was a strange spectacle

likely to attract a street crowd. Katerina Ivanovna in her old dress

with the green shawl, wearing a torn straw hat, crushed in a hideous way

on one side, was really frantic. She was exhausted and breathless. Her

wasted consumptive face looked more suffering than ever, and indeed out

of doors in the sunshine a consumptive always looks worse than at home.

But her excitement did not flag, and every moment her irritation grew

more intense. She rushed at the children, shouted at them, coaxed

them, told them before the crowd how to dance and what to sing, began

explaining to them why it was necessary, and driven to desperation by

their not understanding, beat them.... Then she would make a rush at the

crowd; if she noticed any decently dressed person stopping to look, she

immediately appealed to him to see what these children “from a genteel,

one may say aristocratic, house” had been brought to. If she heard

laughter or jeering in the crowd, she would rush at once at the scoffers

and begin squabbling with them. Some people laughed, others shook their

heads, but everyone felt curious at the sight of the madwoman with the

frightened children. The frying-pan of which Lebeziatnikov had spoken

was not there, at least Raskolnikov did not see it. But instead of

rapping on the pan, Katerina Ivanovna began clapping her wasted hands,

when she made Lida and Kolya dance and Polenka sing. She too joined in

the singing, but broke down at the second note with a fearful cough,

which made her curse in despair and even shed tears. What made her most

furious was the weeping and terror of Kolya and Lida. Some effort had

been made to dress the children up as street singers are dressed. The

boy had on a turban made of something red and white to look like a Turk.

There had been no costume for Lida; she simply had a red knitted cap,

or rather a night cap that had belonged to Marmeladov, decorated with

a broken piece of white ostrich feather, which had been Katerina

Ivanovna’s grandmother’s and had been preserved as a family possession.

Polenka was in her everyday dress; she looked in timid perplexity at her

mother, and kept at her side, hiding her tears. She dimly realised her

mother’s condition, and looked uneasily about her. She was terribly

frightened of the street and the crowd. Sonia followed Katerina

Ivanovna, weeping and beseeching her to return home, but Katerina

Ivanovna was not to be persuaded.



“Leave off, Sonia, leave off,” she shouted, speaking fast, panting and

coughing. “You don’t know what you ask; you are like a child! I’ve

told you before that I am not coming back to that drunken German. Let

everyone, let all Petersburg see the children begging in the streets,

though their father was an honourable man who served all his life in

truth and fidelity, and one may say died in the service.” (Katerina

Ivanovna had by now invented this fantastic story and thoroughly

believed it.) “Let that wretch of a general see it! And you are silly,

Sonia: what have we to eat? Tell me that. We have worried you enough, I

won’t go on so! Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, is that you?” she cried, seeing

Raskolnikov and rushing up to him. “Explain to this silly girl, please,

that nothing better could be done! Even organ-grinders earn their

living, and everyone will see at once that we are different, that we are

an honourable and bereaved family reduced to beggary. And that general

will lose his post, you’ll see! We shall perform under his windows every

day, and if the Tsar drives by, I’ll fall on my knees, put the children

before me, show them to him, and say ‘Defend us father.’ He is the

father of the fatherless, he is merciful, he’ll protect us, you’ll

see, and that wretch of a general.... Lida, _tenez vous droite_! Kolya,

you’ll dance again. Why are you whimpering? Whimpering again! What

are you afraid of, stupid? Goodness, what am I to do with them, Rodion

Romanovitch? If you only knew how stupid they are! What’s one to do with

such children?”



And she, almost crying herself--which did not stop her uninterrupted,

rapid flow of talk--pointed to the crying children. Raskolnikov tried

to persuade her to go home, and even said, hoping to work on her vanity,

that it was unseemly for her to be wandering about the streets like

an organ-grinder, as she was intending to become the principal of a

boarding-school.



“A boarding-school, ha-ha-ha! A castle in the air,” cried Katerina

Ivanovna, her laugh ending in a cough. “No, Rodion Romanovitch, that

dream is over! All have forsaken us!... And that general.... You know,

Rodion Romanovitch, I threw an inkpot at him--it happened to be standing

in the waiting-room by the paper where you sign your name. I wrote my

name, threw it at him and ran away. Oh, the scoundrels, the scoundrels!

But enough of them, now I’ll provide for the children myself, I won’t

bow down to anybody! She has had to bear enough for us!” she pointed

to Sonia. “Polenka, how much have you got? Show me! What, only two

farthings! Oh, the mean wretches! They give us nothing, only run after

us, putting their tongues out. There, what is that blockhead laughing

at?” (She pointed to a man in the crowd.) “It’s all because Kolya here

is so stupid; I have such a bother with him. What do you want, Polenka?

Tell me in French, _parlez-moi français_. Why, I’ve taught you, you know

some phrases. Else how are you to show that you are of good family, well

brought-up children, and not at all like other organ-grinders? We aren’t

going to have a Punch and Judy show in the street, but to sing a genteel

song.... Ah, yes,... What are we to sing? You keep putting me out,

but we... you see, we are standing here, Rodion Romanovitch, to find

something to sing and get money, something Kolya can dance to.... For,

as you can fancy, our performance is all impromptu.... We must talk it

over and rehearse it all thoroughly, and then we shall go to Nevsky,

where there are far more people of good society, and we shall be noticed

at once. Lida knows ‘My Village’ only, nothing but ‘My Village,’ and

everyone sings that. We must sing something far more genteel.... Well,

have you thought of anything, Polenka? If only you’d help your mother!

My memory’s quite gone, or I should have thought of something. We really

can’t sing ‘An Hussar.’ Ah, let us sing in French, ‘Cinq sous,’ I have

taught it you, I have taught it you. And as it is in French, people will

see at once that you are children of good family, and that will be much

more touching.... You might sing ‘Marlborough s’en va-t-en guerre,’

for that’s quite a child’s song and is sung as a lullaby in all the

aristocratic houses.



“_Marlborough s’en va-t-en guerre Ne sait quand reviendra_...”

 she began singing. “But no, better sing ‘Cinq sous.’ Now, Kolya, your

hands on your hips, make haste, and you, Lida, keep turning the other

way, and Polenka and I will sing and clap our hands!



“_Cinq sous, cinq sous Pour monter notre menage_.”



(Cough-cough-cough!) “Set your dress straight, Polenka, it’s slipped

down on your shoulders,” she observed, panting from coughing. “Now it’s

particularly necessary to behave nicely and genteelly, that all may

see that you are well-born children. I said at the time that the bodice

should be cut longer, and made of two widths. It was your fault, Sonia,

with your advice to make it shorter, and now you see the child is quite

deformed by it.... Why, you’re all crying again! What’s the matter,

stupids? Come, Kolya, begin. Make haste, make haste! Oh, what an

unbearable child!



“Cinq sous, cinq sous.



“A policeman again! What do you want?”



A policeman was indeed forcing his way through the crowd. But at that

moment a gentleman in civilian uniform and an overcoat--a solid-looking

official of about fifty with a decoration on his neck (which delighted

Katerina Ivanovna and had its effect on the policeman)--approached and

without a word handed her a green three-rouble note. His face wore

a look of genuine sympathy. Katerina Ivanovna took it and gave him a

polite, even ceremonious, bow.



“I thank you, honoured sir,” she began loftily. “The causes that have

induced us (take the money, Polenka: you see there are generous and

honourable people who are ready to help a poor gentlewoman in distress).

You see, honoured sir, these orphans of good family--I might even say of

aristocratic connections--and that wretch of a general sat eating

grouse... and stamped at my disturbing him. ‘Your excellency,’ I said,

‘protect the orphans, for you knew my late husband, Semyon Zaharovitch,

and on the very day of his death the basest of scoundrels slandered his

only daughter.’... That policeman again! Protect me,” she cried to the

official. “Why is that policeman edging up to me? We have only just run

away from one of them. What do you want, fool?”



“It’s forbidden in the streets. You mustn’t make a disturbance.”



“It’s you’re making a disturbance. It’s just the same as if I were

grinding an organ. What business is it of yours?”



“You have to get a licence for an organ, and you haven’t got one, and in

that way you collect a crowd. Where do you lodge?”



“What, a license?” wailed Katerina Ivanovna. “I buried my husband

to-day. What need of a license?”



“Calm yourself, madam, calm yourself,” began the official. “Come along;

I will escort you.... This is no place for you in the crowd. You are

ill.”



“Honoured sir, honoured sir, you don’t know,” screamed Katerina

Ivanovna. “We are going to the Nevsky.... Sonia, Sonia! Where is she?

She is crying too! What’s the matter with you all? Kolya, Lida, where

are you going?” she cried suddenly in alarm. “Oh, silly children! Kolya,

Lida, where are they off to?...”



Kolya and Lida, scared out of their wits by the crowd, and their

mother’s mad pranks, suddenly seized each other by the hand, and ran off

at the sight of the policeman who wanted to take them away somewhere.

Weeping and wailing, poor Katerina Ivanovna ran after them. She was

a piteous and unseemly spectacle, as she ran, weeping and panting for

breath. Sonia and Polenka rushed after them.



“Bring them back, bring them back, Sonia! Oh stupid, ungrateful

children!... Polenka! catch them.... It’s for your sakes I...”



She stumbled as she ran and fell down.



“She’s cut herself, she’s bleeding! Oh, dear!” cried Sonia, bending over

her.



All ran up and crowded around. Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov were the

first at her side, the official too hastened up, and behind him the

policeman who muttered, “Bother!” with a gesture of impatience, feeling

that the job was going to be a troublesome one.



“Pass on! Pass on!” he said to the crowd that pressed forward.



“She’s dying,” someone shouted.



“She’s gone out of her mind,” said another.



“Lord have mercy upon us,” said a woman, crossing herself. “Have they

caught the little girl and the boy? They’re being brought back, the

elder one’s got them.... Ah, the naughty imps!”



When they examined Katerina Ivanovna carefully, they saw that she had

not cut herself against a stone, as Sonia thought, but that the blood

that stained the pavement red was from her chest.



“I’ve seen that before,” muttered the official to Raskolnikov and

Lebeziatnikov; “that’s consumption; the blood flows and chokes the

patient. I saw the same thing with a relative of my own not long ago...

nearly a pint of blood, all in a minute.... What’s to be done though?

She is dying.”



“This way, this way, to my room!” Sonia implored. “I live here!... See,

that house, the second from here.... Come to me, make haste,” she turned

from one to the other. “Send for the doctor! Oh, dear!”



Thanks to the official’s efforts, this plan was adopted, the policeman

even helping to carry Katerina Ivanovna. She was carried to Sonia’s

room, almost unconscious, and laid on the bed. The blood was still

flowing, but she seemed to be coming to herself. Raskolnikov,

Lebeziatnikov, and the official accompanied Sonia into the room and were

followed by the policeman, who first drove back the crowd which followed

to the very door. Polenka came in holding Kolya and Lida, who

were trembling and weeping. Several persons came in too from the

Kapernaumovs’ room; the landlord, a lame one-eyed man of strange

appearance with whiskers and hair that stood up like a brush, his

wife, a woman with an everlastingly scared expression, and several

open-mouthed children with wonder-struck faces. Among these,

Svidrigaïlov suddenly made his appearance. Raskolnikov looked at him

with surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not having

noticed him in the crowd. A doctor and priest were spoken of. The

official whispered to Raskolnikov that he thought it was too late now

for the doctor, but he ordered him to be sent for. Kapernaumov ran

himself.



Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna had regained her breath. The bleeding ceased

for a time. She looked with sick but intent and penetrating eyes at

Sonia, who stood pale and trembling, wiping the sweat from her brow with

a handkerchief. At last she asked to be raised. They sat her up on the

bed, supporting her on both sides.



“Where are the children?” she said in a faint voice. “You’ve brought

them, Polenka? Oh the sillies! Why did you run away.... Och!”



Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She moved her eyes,

looking about her.



“So that’s how you live, Sonia! Never once have I been in your room.”



She looked at her with a face of suffering.



“We have been your ruin, Sonia. Polenka, Lida, Kolya, come here! Well,

here they are, Sonia, take them all! I hand them over to you, I’ve had

enough! The ball is over.” (Cough!) “Lay me down, let me die in peace.”



They laid her back on the pillow.



“What, the priest? I don’t want him. You haven’t got a rouble to spare.

I have no sins. God must forgive me without that. He knows how I have

suffered.... And if He won’t forgive me, I don’t care!”



She sank more and more into uneasy delirium. At times she shuddered,

turned her eyes from side to side, recognised everyone for a minute,

but at once sank into delirium again. Her breathing was hoarse and

difficult, there was a sort of rattle in her throat.



“I said to him, your excellency,” she ejaculated, gasping after each

word. “That Amalia Ludwigovna, ah! Lida, Kolya, hands on your hips,

make haste! _Glissez, glissez! pas de basque!_ Tap with your heels, be a

graceful child!



“_Du hast Diamanten und Perlen_



“What next? That’s the thing to sing.



“_Du hast die schönsten Augen Mädchen, was willst du mehr?_



“What an idea! _Was willst du mehr?_ What things the fool invents! Ah,

yes!



“In the heat of midday in the vale of Dagestan.



“Ah, how I loved it! I loved that song to distraction, Polenka! Your

father, you know, used to sing it when we were engaged.... Oh, those

days! Oh, that’s the thing for us to sing! How does it go? I’ve

forgotten. Remind me! How was it?”



She was violently excited and tried to sit up. At last, in a horribly

hoarse, broken voice, she began, shrieking and gasping at every word,

with a look of growing terror.



“In the heat of midday!... in the vale!... of Dagestan!... With lead in

my breast!...”



“Your excellency!” she wailed suddenly with a heart-rending scream and

a flood of tears, “protect the orphans! You have been their father’s

guest... one may say aristocratic....” She started, regaining

consciousness, and gazed at all with a sort of terror, but at once

recognised Sonia.



“Sonia, Sonia!” she articulated softly and caressingly, as though

surprised to find her there. “Sonia darling, are you here, too?”



They lifted her up again.



“Enough! It’s over! Farewell, poor thing! I am done for! I am broken!”

 she cried with vindictive despair, and her head fell heavily back on the

pillow.



She sank into unconsciousness again, but this time it did not last long.

Her pale, yellow, wasted face dropped back, her mouth fell open, her leg

moved convulsively, she gave a deep, deep sigh and died.



Sonia fell upon her, flung her arms about her, and remained motionless

with her head pressed to the dead woman’s wasted bosom. Polenka threw

herself at her mother’s feet, kissing them and weeping violently. Though

Kolya and Lida did not understand what had happened, they had a feeling

that it was something terrible; they put their hands on each other’s

little shoulders, stared straight at one another and both at once opened

their mouths and began screaming. They were both still in their fancy

dress; one in a turban, the other in the cap with the ostrich feather.



And how did “the certificate of merit” come to be on the bed beside

Katerina Ivanovna? It lay there by the pillow; Raskolnikov saw it.



He walked away to the window. Lebeziatnikov skipped up to him.



“She is dead,” he said.



“Rodion Romanovitch, I must have two words with you,” said Svidrigaïlov,

coming up to them.



Lebeziatnikov at once made room for him and delicately withdrew.

Svidrigaïlov drew Raskolnikov further away.



“I will undertake all the arrangements, the funeral and that. You know

it’s a question of money and, as I told you, I have plenty to spare. I

will put those two little ones and Polenka into some good orphan asylum,

and I will settle fifteen hundred roubles to be paid to each on coming

of age, so that Sofya Semyonovna need have no anxiety about them. And I

will pull her out of the mud too, for she is a good girl, isn’t she? So

tell Avdotya Romanovna that that is how I am spending her ten thousand.”



“What is your motive for such benevolence?” asked Raskolnikov.



“Ah! you sceptical person!” laughed Svidrigaïlov. “I told you I had no

need of that money. Won’t you admit that it’s simply done from humanity?

She wasn’t ‘a louse,’ you know” (he pointed to the corner where the

dead woman lay), “was she, like some old pawnbroker woman? Come, you’ll

agree, is Luzhin to go on living, and doing wicked things or is she to

die? And if I didn’t help them, Polenka would go the same way.”



He said this with an air of a sort of gay winking slyness, keeping his

eyes fixed on Raskolnikov, who turned white and cold, hearing his own

phrases, spoken to Sonia. He quickly stepped back and looked wildly at

Svidrigaïlov.



“How do you know?” he whispered, hardly able to breathe.



“Why, I lodge here at Madame Resslich’s, the other side of the wall.

Here is Kapernaumov, and there lives Madame Resslich, an old and devoted

friend of mine. I am a neighbour.”



“You?”



“Yes,” continued Svidrigaïlov, shaking with laughter. “I assure you

on my honour, dear Rodion Romanovitch, that you have interested me

enormously. I told you we should become friends, I foretold it. Well,

here we have. And you will see what an accommodating person I am. You’ll

see that you can get on with me!”









PART VI







CHAPTER I



A strange period began for Raskolnikov: it was as though a fog had

fallen upon him and wrapped him in a dreary solitude from which there

was no escape. Recalling that period long after, he believed that his

mind had been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with

intervals, till the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had been

mistaken about many things at that time, for instance as to the date

of certain events. Anyway, when he tried later on to piece his

recollections together, he learnt a great deal about himself from what

other people told him. He had mixed up incidents and had explained

events as due to circumstances which existed only in his imagination. At

times he was a prey to agonies of morbid uneasiness, amounting sometimes

to panic. But he remembered, too, moments, hours, perhaps whole days,

of complete apathy, which came upon him as a reaction from his previous

terror and might be compared with the abnormal insensibility, sometimes

seen in the dying. He seemed to be trying in that latter stage to escape

from a full and clear understanding of his position. Certain essential

facts which required immediate consideration were particularly irksome

to him. How glad he would have been to be free from some cares, the

neglect of which would have threatened him with complete, inevitable

ruin.



He was particularly worried about Svidrigaïlov, he might be said to be

permanently thinking of Svidrigaïlov. From the time of Svidrigaïlov’s

too menacing and unmistakable words in Sonia’s room at the moment of

Katerina Ivanovna’s death, the normal working of his mind seemed to

break down. But although this new fact caused him extreme uneasiness,

Raskolnikov was in no hurry for an explanation of it. At times, finding

himself in a solitary and remote part of the town, in some wretched

eating-house, sitting alone lost in thought, hardly knowing how he had

come there, he suddenly thought of Svidrigaïlov. He recognised

suddenly, clearly, and with dismay that he ought at once to come to an

understanding with that man and to make what terms he could. Walking

outside the city gates one day, he positively fancied that they had

fixed a meeting there, that he was waiting for Svidrigaïlov. Another

time he woke up before daybreak lying on the ground under some bushes

and could not at first understand how he had come there.



But during the two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna’s death, he

had two or three times met Svidrigaïlov at Sonia’s lodging, where he

had gone aimlessly for a moment. They exchanged a few words and made no

reference to the vital subject, as though they were tacitly agreed not

to speak of it for a time.



Katerina Ivanovna’s body was still lying in the coffin, Svidrigaïlov was

busy making arrangements for the funeral. Sonia too was very busy. At

their last meeting Svidrigaïlov informed Raskolnikov that he had made

an arrangement, and a very satisfactory one, for Katerina Ivanovna’s

children; that he had, through certain connections, succeeded in getting

hold of certain personages by whose help the three orphans could be at

once placed in very suitable institutions; that the money he had settled

on them had been of great assistance, as it is much easier to place

orphans with some property than destitute ones. He said something

too about Sonia and promised to come himself in a day or two to see

Raskolnikov, mentioning that “he would like to consult with him, that

there were things they must talk over....”



This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs. Svidrigaïlov

looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly, after a brief pause,

dropping his voice, asked: “But how is it, Rodion Romanovitch; you

don’t seem yourself? You look and you listen, but you don’t seem to

understand. Cheer up! We’ll talk things over; I am only sorry, I’ve

so much to do of my own business and other people’s. Ah, Rodion

Romanovitch,” he added suddenly, “what all men need is fresh air, fresh

air... more than anything!”



He moved to one side to make way for the priest and server, who

were coming up the stairs. They had come for the requiem service. By

Svidrigaïlov’s orders it was sung twice a day punctually. Svidrigaïlov

went his way. Raskolnikov stood still a moment, thought, and followed

the priest into Sonia’s room. He stood at the door. They began quietly,

slowly and mournfully singing the service. From his childhood the

thought of death and the presence of death had something oppressive

and mysteriously awful; and it was long since he had heard the requiem

service. And there was something else here as well, too awful and

disturbing. He looked at the children: they were all kneeling by the

coffin; Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia prayed, softly and, as it

were, timidly weeping.



“These last two days she hasn’t said a word to me, she hasn’t glanced at

me,” Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The sunlight was bright in the room;

the incense rose in clouds; the priest read, “Give rest, oh Lord....”

 Raskolnikov stayed all through the service. As he blessed them and

took his leave, the priest looked round strangely. After the service,

Raskolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his hands and let her

head sink on his shoulder. This slight friendly gesture bewildered

Raskolnikov. It seemed strange to him that there was no trace of

repugnance, no trace of disgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the

furthest limit of self-abnegation, at least so he interpreted it.



Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt

very miserable. If it had been possible to escape to some solitude, he

would have thought himself lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life

there. But although he had almost always been by himself of late, he had

never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out of the town on to

the high road, once he had even reached a little wood, but the lonelier

the place was, the more he seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near

him. It did not frighten him, but greatly annoyed him, so that he

made haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to enter

restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thoroughfares. There he felt

easier and even more solitary. One day at dusk he sat for an hour

listening to songs in a tavern and he remembered that he positively

enjoyed it. But at last he had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again,

as though his conscience smote him. “Here I sit listening to singing,

is that what I ought to be doing?” he thought. Yet he felt at once

that that was not the only cause of his uneasiness; there was something

requiring immediate decision, but it was something he could not clearly

understand or put into words. It was a hopeless tangle. “No, better the

struggle again! Better Porfiry again... or Svidrigaïlov.... Better some

challenge again... some attack. Yes, yes!” he thought. He went out of

the tavern and rushed away almost at a run. The thought of Dounia and

his mother suddenly reduced him almost to a panic. That night he woke

up before morning among some bushes in Krestovsky Island, trembling

all over with fever; he walked home, and it was early morning when he

arrived. After some hours’ sleep the fever left him, but he woke up

late, two o’clock in the afternoon.



He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna’s funeral had been fixed for that

day, and was glad that he was not present at it. Nastasya brought him

some food; he ate and drank with appetite, almost with greediness. His

head was fresher and he was calmer than he had been for the last three

days. He even felt a passing wonder at his previous attacks of panic.



The door opened and Razumihin came in.



“Ah, he’s eating, then he’s not ill,” said Razumihin. He took a chair

and sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov.



He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with evident

annoyance, but without hurry or raising his voice. He looked as though

he had some special fixed determination.



“Listen,” he began resolutely. “As far as I am concerned, you may all go

to hell, but from what I see, it’s clear to me that I can’t make head or

tail of it; please don’t think I’ve come to ask you questions. I don’t

want to know, hang it! If you begin telling me your secrets, I dare say

I shouldn’t stay to listen, I should go away cursing. I have only come

to find out once for all whether it’s a fact that you are mad? There is

a conviction in the air that you are mad or very nearly so. I admit

I’ve been disposed to that opinion myself, judging from your stupid,

repulsive and quite inexplicable actions, and from your recent behavior

to your mother and sister. Only a monster or a madman could treat them

as you have; so you must be mad.”



“When did you see them last?”



“Just now. Haven’t you seen them since then? What have you been doing

with yourself? Tell me, please. I’ve been to you three times already.

Your mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She had made up

her mind to come to you; Avdotya Romanovna tried to prevent her; she

wouldn’t hear a word. ‘If he is ill, if his mind is giving way, who can

look after him like his mother?’ she said. We all came here together, we

couldn’t let her come alone all the way. We kept begging her to be calm.

We came in, you weren’t here; she sat down, and stayed ten minutes,

while we stood waiting in silence. She got up and said: ‘If he’s

gone out, that is, if he is well, and has forgotten his mother, it’s

humiliating and unseemly for his mother to stand at his door begging for

kindness.’ She returned home and took to her bed; now she is in a fever.

‘I see,’ she said, ‘that he has time for _his girl_.’ She means by _your

girl_ Sofya Semyonovna, your betrothed or your mistress, I don’t know. I

went at once to Sofya Semyonovna’s, for I wanted to know what was going

on. I looked round, I saw the coffin, the children crying, and

Sofya Semyonovna trying them on mourning dresses. No sign of you. I

apologised, came away, and reported to Avdotya Romanovna. So that’s all

nonsense and you haven’t got a girl; the most likely thing is that you

are mad. But here you sit, guzzling boiled beef as though you’d not had

a bite for three days. Though as far as that goes, madmen eat too, but

though you have not said a word to me yet... you are not mad! That I’d

swear! Above all, you are not mad! So you may go to hell, all of you,

for there’s some mystery, some secret about it, and I don’t intend to

worry my brains over your secrets. So I’ve simply come to swear at you,”

 he finished, getting up, “to relieve my mind. And I know what to do

now.”



“What do you mean to do now?”



“What business is it of yours what I mean to do?”



“You are going in for a drinking bout.”



“How... how did you know?”



“Why, it’s pretty plain.”



Razumihin paused for a minute.



“You always have been a very rational person and you’ve never been mad,

never,” he observed suddenly with warmth. “You’re right: I shall drink.

Good-bye!”



And he moved to go out.



“I was talking with my sister--the day before yesterday, I think it

was--about you, Razumihin.”



“About me! But... where can you have seen her the day before yesterday?”

 Razumihin stopped short and even turned a little pale.



One could see that his heart was throbbing slowly and violently.



“She came here by herself, sat there and talked to me.”



“She did!”



“Yes.”



“What did you say to her... I mean, about me?”



“I told her you were a very good, honest, and industrious man. I didn’t

tell her you love her, because she knows that herself.”



“She knows that herself?”



“Well, it’s pretty plain. Wherever I might go, whatever happened to me,

you would remain to look after them. I, so to speak, give them into your

keeping, Razumihin. I say this because I know quite well how you love

her, and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I know that she too

may love you and perhaps does love you already. Now decide for yourself,

as you know best, whether you need go in for a drinking bout or not.”



“Rodya! You see... well.... Ach, damn it! But where do you mean to go?

Of course, if it’s all a secret, never mind.... But I... I shall find

out the secret... and I am sure that it must be some ridiculous nonsense

and that you’ve made it all up. Anyway you are a capital fellow, a

capital fellow!...”



“That was just what I wanted to add, only you interrupted, that that was

a very good decision of yours not to find out these secrets. Leave it to

time, don’t worry about it. You’ll know it all in time when it must be.

Yesterday a man said to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh

air, fresh air. I mean to go to him directly to find out what he meant

by that.”



Razumihin stood lost in thought and excitement, making a silent

conclusion.



“He’s a political conspirator! He must be. And he’s on the eve of some

desperate step, that’s certain. It can only be that! And... and Dounia

knows,” he thought suddenly.



“So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you,” he said, weighing each

syllable, “and you’re going to see a man who says we need more air, and

so of course that letter... that too must have something to do with it,”

 he concluded to himself.



“What letter?”



“She got a letter to-day. It upset her very much--very much indeed. Too

much so. I began speaking of you, she begged me not to. Then... then

she said that perhaps we should very soon have to part... then she began

warmly thanking me for something; then she went to her room and locked

herself in.”



“She got a letter?” Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully.



“Yes, and you didn’t know? hm...”



They were both silent.



“Good-bye, Rodion. There was a time, brother, when I.... Never mind,

good-bye. You see, there was a time.... Well, good-bye! I must be off

too. I am not going to drink. There’s no need now.... That’s all stuff!”



He hurried out; but when he had almost closed the door behind him, he

suddenly opened it again, and said, looking away:



“Oh, by the way, do you remember that murder, you know Porfiry’s, that

old woman? Do you know the murderer has been found, he has confessed

and given the proofs. It’s one of those very workmen, the painter, only

fancy! Do you remember I defended them here? Would you believe it, all

that scene of fighting and laughing with his companions on the stairs

while the porter and the two witnesses were going up, he got up on

purpose to disarm suspicion. The cunning, the presence of mind of the

young dog! One can hardly credit it; but it’s his own explanation, he

has confessed it all. And what a fool I was about it! Well, he’s simply

a genius of hypocrisy and resourcefulness in disarming the suspicions of

the lawyers--so there’s nothing much to wonder at, I suppose! Of course

people like that are always possible. And the fact that he couldn’t keep

up the character, but confessed, makes him easier to believe in. But

what a fool I was! I was frantic on their side!”



“Tell me, please, from whom did you hear that, and why does it interest

you so?” Raskolnikov asked with unmistakable agitation.



“What next? You ask me why it interests me!... Well, I heard it from

Porfiry, among others... It was from him I heard almost all about it.”



“From Porfiry?”



“From Porfiry.”



“What... what did he say?” Raskolnikov asked in dismay.



“He gave me a capital explanation of it. Psychologically, after his

fashion.”



“He explained it? Explained it himself?”



“Yes, yes; good-bye. I’ll tell you all about it another time, but now

I’m busy. There was a time when I fancied... But no matter, another

time!... What need is there for me to drink now? You have made me drunk

without wine. I am drunk, Rodya! Good-bye, I’m going. I’ll come again

very soon.”



He went out.



“He’s a political conspirator, there’s not a doubt about it,” Razumihin

decided, as he slowly descended the stairs. “And he’s drawn his sister

in; that’s quite, quite in keeping with Avdotya Romanovna’s character.

There are interviews between them!... She hinted at it too... So many of

her words.... and hints... bear that meaning! And how else can all this

tangle be explained? Hm! And I was almost thinking... Good heavens,

what I thought! Yes, I took leave of my senses and I wronged him! It was

his doing, under the lamp in the corridor that day. Pfoo! What a crude,

nasty, vile idea on my part! Nikolay is a brick, for confessing.... And

how clear it all is now! His illness then, all his strange actions...

before this, in the university, how morose he used to be, how gloomy....

But what’s the meaning now of that letter? There’s something in that,

too, perhaps. Whom was it from? I suspect...! No, I must find out!”



He thought of Dounia, realising all he had heard and his heart throbbed,

and he suddenly broke into a run.



As soon as Razumihin went out, Raskolnikov got up, turned to the window,

walked into one corner and then into another, as though forgetting the

smallness of his room, and sat down again on the sofa. He felt, so to

speak, renewed; again the struggle, so a means of escape had come.



“Yes, a means of escape had come! It had been too stifling, too

cramping, the burden had been too agonising. A lethargy had come upon

him at times. From the moment of the scene with Nikolay at Porfiry’s he

had been suffocating, penned in without hope of escape. After Nikolay’s

confession, on that very day had come the scene with Sonia; his

behaviour and his last words had been utterly unlike anything he

could have imagined beforehand; he had grown feebler, instantly and

fundamentally! And he had agreed at the time with Sonia, he had agreed

in his heart he could not go on living alone with such a thing on his

mind!



“And Svidrigaïlov was a riddle... He worried him, that was true, but

somehow not on the same point. He might still have a struggle to come

with Svidrigaïlov. Svidrigaïlov, too, might be a means of escape; but

Porfiry was a different matter.



“And so Porfiry himself had explained it to Razumihin, had explained it

_psychologically_. He had begun bringing in his damned psychology again!

Porfiry? But to think that Porfiry should for one moment believe that

Nikolay was guilty, after what had passed between them before Nikolay’s

appearance, after that tête-à-tête interview, which could have only

_one_ explanation? (During those days Raskolnikov had often recalled

passages in that scene with Porfiry; he could not bear to let his mind

rest on it.) Such words, such gestures had passed between them, they

had exchanged such glances, things had been said in such a tone and had

reached such a pass, that Nikolay, whom Porfiry had seen through at the

first word, at the first gesture, could not have shaken his conviction.



“And to think that even Razumihin had begun to suspect! The scene in the

corridor under the lamp had produced its effect then. He had rushed to

Porfiry.... But what had induced the latter to receive him like that?

What had been his object in putting Razumihin off with Nikolay? He must

have some plan; there was some design, but what was it? It was true that

a long time had passed since that morning--too long a time--and no sight

nor sound of Porfiry. Well, that was a bad sign....”



Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the room, still pondering. It

was the first time for a long while that he had felt clear in his mind,

at least. “I must settle Svidrigaïlov,” he thought, “and as soon as

possible; he, too, seems to be waiting for me to come to him of my own

accord.” And at that moment there was such a rush of hate in his

weary heart that he might have killed either of those two--Porfiry or

Svidrigaïlov. At least he felt that he would be capable of doing it

later, if not now.



“We shall see, we shall see,” he repeated to himself.



But no sooner had he opened the door than he stumbled upon Porfiry

himself in the passage. He was coming in to see him. Raskolnikov was

dumbfounded for a minute, but only for one minute. Strange to say, he

was not very much astonished at seeing Porfiry and scarcely afraid of

him. He was simply startled, but was quickly, instantly, on his guard.

“Perhaps this will mean the end? But how could Porfiry have approached

so quietly, like a cat, so that he had heard nothing? Could he have been

listening at the door?”



“You didn’t expect a visitor, Rodion Romanovitch,” Porfiry explained,

laughing. “I’ve been meaning to look in a long time; I was passing by

and thought why not go in for five minutes. Are you going out? I won’t

keep you long. Just let me have one cigarette.”



“Sit down, Porfiry Petrovitch, sit down.” Raskolnikov gave his visitor

a seat with so pleased and friendly an expression that he would have

marvelled at himself, if he could have seen it.



The last moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man

will sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand,

yet when the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear.



Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and looked at him

without flinching. Porfiry screwed up his eyes and began lighting a

cigarette.



“Speak, speak,” seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov’s

heart. “Come, why don’t you speak?”







CHAPTER II



“Ah these cigarettes!” Porfiry Petrovitch ejaculated at last, having

lighted one. “They are pernicious, positively pernicious, and yet I

can’t give them up! I cough, I begin to have tickling in my throat and

a difficulty in breathing. You know I am a coward, I went lately to

Dr. B----n; he always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He

positively laughed looking at me; he sounded me: ‘Tobacco’s bad for

you,’ he said, ‘your lungs are affected.’ But how am I to give it up?

What is there to take its place? I don’t drink, that’s the mischief,

he-he-he, that I don’t. Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovitch,

everything is relative!”



“Why, he’s playing his professional tricks again,” Raskolnikov thought

with disgust. All the circumstances of their last interview suddenly

came back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that had come upon

him then.



“I came to see you the day before yesterday, in the evening; you didn’t

know?” Porfiry Petrovitch went on, looking round the room. “I came into

this very room. I was passing by, just as I did to-day, and I thought

I’d return your call. I walked in as your door was wide open, I looked

round, waited and went out without leaving my name with your servant.

Don’t you lock your door?”



Raskolnikov’s face grew more and more gloomy. Porfiry seemed to guess

his state of mind.



“I’ve come to have it out with you, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow!

I owe you an explanation and must give it to you,” he continued with a

slight smile, just patting Raskolnikov’s knee.



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! This is the point: I have perhaps acted unfairly to you;

I feel it. Do you remember how we parted? Your nerves were unhinged and

your knees were shaking and so were mine. And, you know, our behaviour

was unseemly, even ungentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, above all,

in any case, gentlemen; that must be understood. Do you remember what we

came to?... and it was quite indecorous.”



“What is he up to, what does he take me for?” Raskolnikov asked himself

in amazement, raising his head and looking with open eyes on Porfiry.



“I’ve decided openness is better between us,” Porfiry Petrovitch went

on, turning his head away and dropping his eyes, as though unwilling to

disconcert his former victim and as though disdaining his former wiles.

“Yes, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Nikolay

put a stop to it, or I don’t know what we might not have come to. That

damned workman was sitting at the time in the next room--can you realise

that? You know that, of course; and I am aware that he came to you

afterwards. But what you supposed then was not true: I had not sent for

anyone, I had made no kind of arrangements. You ask why I hadn’t? What

shall I say to you? it had all come upon me so suddenly. I had scarcely

sent for the porters (you noticed them as you went out, I dare say).

An idea flashed upon me; I was firmly convinced at the time, you see,

Rodion Romanovitch. Come, I thought--even if I let one thing slip for

a time, I shall get hold of something else--I shan’t lose what I want,

anyway. You are nervously irritable, Rodion Romanovitch, by temperament;

it’s out of proportion with other qualities of your heart and character,

which I flatter myself I have to some extent divined. Of course I did

reflect even then that it does not always happen that a man gets up and

blurts out his whole story. It does happen sometimes, if you make a

man lose all patience, though even then it’s rare. I was capable of

realising that. If I only had a fact, I thought, the least little fact

to go upon, something I could lay hold of, something tangible, not

merely psychological. For if a man is guilty, you must be able to get

something substantial out of him; one may reckon upon most surprising

results indeed. I was reckoning on your temperament, Rodion Romanovitch,

on your temperament above all things! I had great hopes of you at that

time.”



“But what are you driving at now?” Raskolnikov muttered at last, asking

the question without thinking.



“What is he talking about?” he wondered distractedly, “does he really

take me to be innocent?”



“What am I driving at? I’ve come to explain myself, I consider it my

duty, so to speak. I want to make clear to you how the whole business,

the whole misunderstanding arose. I’ve caused you a great deal of

suffering, Rodion Romanovitch. I am not a monster. I understand what

it must mean for a man who has been unfortunate, but who is proud,

imperious and above all, impatient, to have to bear such treatment!

I regard you in any case as a man of noble character and not without

elements of magnanimity, though I don’t agree with all your convictions.

I wanted to tell you this first, frankly and quite sincerely, for above

all I don’t want to deceive you. When I made your acquaintance, I felt

attracted by you. Perhaps you will laugh at my saying so. You have a

right to. I know you disliked me from the first and indeed you’ve no

reason to like me. You may think what you like, but I desire now to do

all I can to efface that impression and to show that I am a man of heart

and conscience. I speak sincerely.”



Porfiry Petrovitch made a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a rush of

renewed alarm. The thought that Porfiry believed him to be innocent

began to make him uneasy.



“It’s scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail,” Porfiry

Petrovitch went on. “Indeed, I could scarcely attempt it. To begin with

there were rumours. Through whom, how, and when those rumours came to

me... and how they affected you, I need not go into. My suspicions

were aroused by a complete accident, which might just as easily not have

happened. What was it? Hm! I believe there is no need to go into that

either. Those rumours and that accident led to one idea in my mind. I

admit it openly--for one may as well make a clean breast of it--I was

the first to pitch on you. The old woman’s notes on the pledges and

the rest of it--that all came to nothing. Yours was one of a hundred.

I happened, too, to hear of the scene at the office, from a man who

described it capitally, unconsciously reproducing the scene with great

vividness. It was just one thing after another, Rodion Romanovitch, my

dear fellow! How could I avoid being brought to certain ideas? From a

hundred rabbits you can’t make a horse, a hundred suspicions don’t make

a proof, as the English proverb says, but that’s only from the rational

point of view--you can’t help being partial, for after all a lawyer

is only human. I thought, too, of your article in that journal, do you

remember, on your first visit we talked of it? I jeered at you at the

time, but that was only to lead you on. I repeat, Rodion Romanovitch,

you are ill and impatient. That you were bold, headstrong, in earnest

and... had felt a great deal I recognised long before. I, too, have felt

the same, so that your article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived

on sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and suppressed

enthusiasm. And that proud suppressed enthusiasm in young people is

dangerous! I jeered at you then, but let me tell you that, as a literary

amateur, I am awfully fond of such first essays, full of the heat of

youth. There is a mistiness and a chord vibrating in the mist. Your

article is absurd and fantastic, but there’s a transparent sincerity,

a youthful incorruptible pride and the daring of despair in it. It’s a

gloomy article, but that’s what’s fine in it. I read your article and

put it aside, thinking as I did so ‘that man won’t go the common way.’

Well, I ask you, after that as a preliminary, how could I help being

carried away by what followed? Oh, dear, I am not saying anything, I

am not making any statement now. I simply noted it at the time. What is

there in it? I reflected. There’s nothing in it, that is really nothing

and perhaps absolutely nothing. And it’s not at all the thing for

the prosecutor to let himself be carried away by notions: here I have

Nikolay on my hands with actual evidence against him--you may think what

you like of it, but it’s evidence. He brings in his psychology, too; one

has to consider him, too, for it’s a matter of life and death. Why am

I explaining this to you? That you may understand, and not blame my

malicious behaviour on that occasion. It was not malicious, I assure

you, he-he! Do you suppose I didn’t come to search your room at the

time? I did, I did, he-he! I was here when you were lying ill in bed,

not officially, not in my own person, but I was here. Your room was

searched to the last thread at the first suspicion; but _umsonst_! I

thought to myself, now that man will come, will come of himself and

quickly, too; if he’s guilty, he’s sure to come. Another man wouldn’t,

but he will. And you remember how Mr. Razumihin began discussing the

subject with you? We arranged that to excite you, so we purposely spread

rumours, that he might discuss the case with you, and Razumihin is not a

man to restrain his indignation. Mr. Zametov was tremendously struck by

your anger and your open daring. Think of blurting out in a restaurant

‘I killed her.’ It was too daring, too reckless. I thought so myself, if

he is guilty he will be a formidable opponent. That was what I thought

at the time. I was expecting you. But you simply bowled Zametov over

and... well, you see, it all lies in this--that this damnable psychology

can be taken two ways! Well, I kept expecting you, and so it was, you

came! My heart was fairly throbbing. Ach!



“Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in, do you

remember? I saw it all plain as daylight, but if I hadn’t expected you

so specially, I should not have noticed anything in your laughter. You

see what influence a mood has! Mr. Razumihin then--ah, that stone, that

stone under which the things were hidden! I seem to see it somewhere

in a kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden, you told Zametov and

afterwards you repeated that in my office? And when we began picking

your article to pieces, how you explained it! One could take every word

of yours in two senses, as though there were another meaning hidden.



“So in this way, Rodion Romanovitch, I reached the furthest limit, and

knocking my head against a post, I pulled myself up, asking myself what

I was about. After all, I said, you can take it all in another sense if

you like, and it’s more natural so, indeed. I couldn’t help admitting

it was more natural. I was bothered! ‘No, I’d better get hold of some

little fact’ I said. So when I heard of the bell-ringing, I held my

breath and was all in a tremor. ‘Here is my little fact,’ thought I, and

I didn’t think it over, I simply wouldn’t. I would have given a thousand

roubles at that minute to have seen you with my own eyes, when you

walked a hundred paces beside that workman, after he had called you

murderer to your face, and you did not dare to ask him a question

all the way. And then what about your trembling, what about your

bell-ringing in your illness, in semi-delirium?



“And so, Rodion Romanovitch, can you wonder that I played such pranks on

you? And what made you come at that very minute? Someone seemed to

have sent you, by Jove! And if Nikolay had not parted us... and do you

remember Nikolay at the time? Do you remember him clearly? It was a

thunderbolt, a regular thunderbolt! And how I met him! I didn’t believe

in the thunderbolt, not for a minute. You could see it for yourself;

and how could I? Even afterwards, when you had gone and he began making

very, very plausible answers on certain points, so that I was surprised

at him myself, even then I didn’t believe his story! You see what it is

to be as firm as a rock! No, thought I, _Morgenfrüh_. What has Nikolay

got to do with it!”



“Razumihin told me just now that you think Nikolay guilty and had

yourself assured him of it....”



His voice failed him, and he broke off. He had been listening in

indescribable agitation, as this man who had seen through and through

him, went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it and did not

believe it. In those still ambiguous words he kept eagerly looking for

something more definite and conclusive.



“Mr. Razumihin!” cried Porfiry Petrovitch, seeming glad of a question

from Raskolnikov, who had till then been silent. “He-he-he! But I had to

put Mr. Razumihin off; two is company, three is none. Mr. Razumihin is

not the right man, besides he is an outsider. He came running to me

with a pale face.... But never mind him, why bring him in? To return

to Nikolay, would you like to know what sort of a type he is, how I

understand him, that is? To begin with, he is still a child and not

exactly a coward, but something by way of an artist. Really, don’t laugh

at my describing him so. He is innocent and responsive to influence. He

has a heart, and is a fantastic fellow. He sings and dances, he tells

stories, they say, so that people come from other villages to hear him.

He attends school too, and laughs till he cries if you hold up a finger

to him; he will drink himself senseless--not as a regular vice, but at

times, when people treat him, like a child. And he stole, too, then,

without knowing it himself, for ‘How can it be stealing, if one picks it

up?’ And do you know he is an Old Believer, or rather a dissenter? There

have been Wanderers[*] in his family, and he was for two years in his

village under the spiritual guidance of a certain elder. I learnt all

this from Nikolay and from his fellow villagers. And what’s more, he

wanted to run into the wilderness! He was full of fervour, prayed at

night, read the old books, ‘the true’ ones, and read himself crazy.



     [*] A religious sect.--TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.



“Petersburg had a great effect upon him, especially the women and the

wine. He responds to everything and he forgot the elder and all that. I

learnt that an artist here took a fancy to him, and used to go and see

him, and now this business came upon him.



“Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He ran away! How can

one get over the idea the people have of Russian legal proceedings? The

very word ‘trial’ frightens some of them. Whose fault is it? We shall

see what the new juries will do. God grant they do good! Well, in

prison, it seems, he remembered the venerable elder; the Bible, too,

made its appearance again. Do you know, Rodion Romanovitch, the force of

the word ‘suffering’ among some of these people! It’s not a question of

suffering for someone’s benefit, but simply, ‘one must suffer.’ If they

suffer at the hands of the authorities, so much the better. In my time

there was a very meek and mild prisoner who spent a whole year in prison

always reading his Bible on the stove at night and he read himself

crazy, and so crazy, do you know, that one day, apropos of nothing, he

seized a brick and flung it at the governor; though he had done him

no harm. And the way he threw it too: aimed it a yard on one side

on purpose, for fear of hurting him. Well, we know what happens to

a prisoner who assaults an officer with a weapon. So ‘he took his

suffering.’



“So I suspect now that Nikolay wants to take his suffering or something

of the sort. I know it for certain from facts, indeed. Only he doesn’t

know that I know. What, you don’t admit that there are such fantastic

people among the peasants? Lots of them. The elder now has begun

influencing him, especially since he tried to hang himself. But he’ll

come and tell me all himself. You think he’ll hold out? Wait a bit,

he’ll take his words back. I am waiting from hour to hour for him to

come and abjure his evidence. I have come to like that Nikolay and am

studying him in detail. And what do you think? He-he! He answered me

very plausibly on some points, he obviously had collected some evidence

and prepared himself cleverly. But on other points he is simply at sea,

knows nothing and doesn’t even suspect that he doesn’t know!



“No, Rodion Romanovitch, Nikolay doesn’t come in! This is a fantastic,

gloomy business, a modern case, an incident of to-day when the heart

of man is troubled, when the phrase is quoted that blood ‘renews,’ when

comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish dreams, a

heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the first stage,

but resolution of a special kind: he resolved to do it like jumping over

a precipice or from a bell tower and his legs shook as he went to the

crime. He forgot to shut the door after him, and murdered two people for

a theory. He committed the murder and couldn’t take the money, and what

he did manage to snatch up he hid under a stone. It wasn’t enough for

him to suffer agony behind the door while they battered at the door and

rung the bell, no, he had to go to the empty lodging, half delirious, to

recall the bell-ringing, he wanted to feel the cold shiver over again....

Well, that we grant, was through illness, but consider this: he is

a murderer, but looks upon himself as an honest man, despises others,

poses as injured innocence. No, that’s not the work of a Nikolay, my

dear Rodion Romanovitch!”



All that had been said before had sounded so like a recantation that

these words were too great a shock. Raskolnikov shuddered as though he

had been stabbed.



“Then... who then... is the murderer?” he asked in a breathless voice,

unable to restrain himself.



Porfiry Petrovitch sank back in his chair, as though he were amazed at

the question.



“Who is the murderer?” he repeated, as though unable to believe his

ears. “Why, _you_, Rodion Romanovitch! You are the murderer,” he added,

almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction.



Raskolnikov leapt from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds and sat down

again without uttering a word. His face twitched convulsively.



“Your lip is twitching just as it did before,” Porfiry Petrovitch

observed almost sympathetically. “You’ve been misunderstanding me, I

think, Rodion Romanovitch,” he added after a brief pause, “that’s why

you are so surprised. I came on purpose to tell you everything and deal

openly with you.”



“It was not I murdered her,” Raskolnikov whispered like a frightened

child caught in the act.



“No, it was you, you Rodion Romanovitch, and no one else,” Porfiry

whispered sternly, with conviction.



They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten

minutes. Raskolnikov put his elbow on the table and passed his fingers

through his hair. Porfiry Petrovitch sat quietly waiting. Suddenly

Raskolnikov looked scornfully at Porfiry.



“You are at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovitch! Your old method

again. I wonder you don’t get sick of it!”



“Oh, stop that, what does that matter now? It would be a different

matter if there were witnesses present, but we are whispering alone. You

see yourself that I have not come to chase and capture you like a hare.

Whether you confess it or not is nothing to me now; for myself, I am

convinced without it.”



“If so, what did you come for?” Raskolnikov asked irritably. “I ask you

the same question again: if you consider me guilty, why don’t you take

me to prison?”



“Oh, that’s your question! I will answer you, point for point. In the

first place, to arrest you so directly is not to my interest.”



“How so? If you are convinced you ought....”



“Ach, what if I am convinced? That’s only my dream for the time. Why

should I put you in safety? You know that’s it, since you ask me to do

it. If I confront you with that workman for instance and you say to him

‘were you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I simply took you to be

drunk, and you were drunk, too.’ Well, what could I answer, especially

as your story is a more likely one than his? for there’s nothing but

psychology to support his evidence--that’s almost unseemly with his ugly

mug, while you hit the mark exactly, for the rascal is an inveterate

drunkard and notoriously so. And I have myself admitted candidly several

times already that that psychology can be taken in two ways and that the

second way is stronger and looks far more probable, and that apart from

that I have as yet nothing against you. And though I shall put you in

prison and indeed have come--quite contrary to etiquette--to inform you

of it beforehand, yet I tell you frankly, also contrary to etiquette,

that it won’t be to my advantage. Well, secondly, I’ve come to you

because...”



“Yes, yes, secondly?” Raskolnikov was listening breathless.



“Because, as I told you just now, I consider I owe you an explanation. I

don’t want you to look upon me as a monster, as I have a genuine liking

for you, you may believe me or not. And in the third place I’ve come to

you with a direct and open proposition--that you should surrender

and confess. It will be infinitely more to your advantage and to my

advantage too, for my task will be done. Well, is this open on my part

or not?”



Raskolnikov thought a minute.



“Listen, Porfiry Petrovitch. You said just now you have nothing but

psychology to go on, yet now you’ve gone on mathematics. Well, what if

you are mistaken yourself, now?”



“No, Rodion Romanovitch, I am not mistaken. I have a little fact even

then, Providence sent it me.”



“What little fact?”



“I won’t tell you what, Rodion Romanovitch. 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. Why, even if I

were guilty, which I don’t admit, what reason should I have to confess,

when you tell me yourself that I shall be in greater safety in prison?”



“Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, don’t put too much faith in words, perhaps

prison will not be altogether a restful place. That’s only theory and

my theory, and what authority am I for you? Perhaps, too, even now I am

hiding something from you? I can’t lay bare everything, he-he! And how

can you ask what advantage? Don’t you know how it would lessen your

sentence? You would be confessing at a moment when another man has taken

the crime on himself and so has muddled the whole case. Consider that! I

swear before God that I will so arrange that your confession shall

come as a complete surprise. We will make a clean sweep of all these

psychological points, of a suspicion against you, so that your crime

will appear to have been something like an aberration, for in truth it

was an aberration. I am an honest man, Rodion Romanovitch, and will keep

my word.”



Raskolnikov maintained a mournful silence and let his head sink

dejectedly. He pondered a long while and at last smiled again, but his

smile was sad and gentle.



“No!” he said, apparently abandoning all attempt to keep up appearances

with Porfiry, “it’s not worth it, I don’t care about lessening the

sentence!”



“That’s just what I was afraid of!” Porfiry cried warmly and, as it

seemed, involuntarily. “That’s just what I feared, that you wouldn’t

care about the mitigation of sentence.”



Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him.



“Ah, don’t disdain life!” Porfiry went on. “You have a great deal of

it still before you. How can you say you don’t want a mitigation of

sentence? You are an impatient fellow!”



“A great deal of what lies before me?”



“Of life. What sort of prophet are you, do you know much about it? Seek

and ye shall find. This may be God’s means for bringing you to Him. And

it’s not for ever, the bondage....”



“The time will be shortened,” laughed Raskolnikov.



“Why, is it the bourgeois disgrace you are afraid of? It may be that you

are afraid of it without knowing it, because you are young! But anyway

_you_ shouldn’t be afraid of giving yourself up and confessing.”



“Ach, hang it!” Raskolnikov whispered with loathing and contempt, as

though he did not want to speak aloud.



He got up again as though he meant to go away, but sat down again in

evident despair.



“Hang it, if you like! You’ve lost faith and you think that I am

grossly flattering you; but how long has your life been? How much do

you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it broke

down and turned out to be not at all original! It turned out something

base, that’s true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base!

At least you didn’t deceive yourself for long, you went straight to the

furthest point at one bound. How do I regard you? I regard you as one

of those men who would stand and smile at their torturer while he cuts

their entrails out, if only they have found faith or God. Find it and

you will live. You have long needed a change of air. Suffering, too,

is a good thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolay is right in wanting to suffer.

I know you don’t believe in it--but don’t be over-wise; fling yourself

straight into life, without deliberation; don’t be afraid--the flood

will bear you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again. What

bank? How can I tell? I only believe that you have long life before

you. I know that you take all my words now for a set speech prepared

beforehand, but maybe you will remember them after. They may be of use

some time. That’s why I speak. It’s as well that you only killed the

old woman. If you’d invented another theory you might perhaps have

done something a thousand times more hideous. You ought to thank God,

perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God is saving you for something.

But keep a good heart and have less fear! Are you afraid of the great

expiation before you? No, it would be shameful to be afraid of it. Since

you have taken such a step, you must harden your heart. There is justice

in it. You must fulfil the demands of justice. I know that you don’t

believe it, but indeed, life will bring you through. You will live it

down in time. What you need now is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air!”



Raskolnikov positively started.



“But who are you? what prophet are you? From the height of what majestic

calm do you proclaim these words of wisdom?”



“Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that’s all. A man

perhaps of feeling and sympathy, maybe of some knowledge too, but my day

is over. But you are a different matter, there is life waiting for you.

Though, who knows? maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke and come

to nothing. Come, what does it matter, that you will pass into another

class of men? It’s not comfort you regret, with your heart! What of

it that perhaps no one will see you for so long? It’s not time, but

yourself that will decide that. Be the sun and all will see you. The

sun has before all to be the sun. Why are you smiling again? At my being

such a Schiller? I bet you’re imagining that I am trying to get round

you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am, he-he-he! Perhaps you’d better not

believe my word, perhaps you’d better never believe it altogether--I’m

made that way, I confess it. But let me add, you can judge for yourself,

I think, how far I am a base sort of man and how far I am honest.”



“When do you mean to arrest me?”



“Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over, my

dear fellow, and pray to God. It’s more in your interest, believe me.”



“And what if I run away?” asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile.



“No, you won’t run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable

dissenter would run away, the flunkey of another man’s thought, for

you’ve only to show him the end of your little finger and he’ll be ready

to believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you’ve ceased to

believe in your theory already, what will you run away with? And what

would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for you, and

what you need more than anything in life is a definite position, an

atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere would you have? If

you ran away, you’d come back of yourself. _You can’t get on without

us._ And if I put you in prison--say you’ve been there a month, or two,

or three--remember my word, you’ll confess of yourself and perhaps to

your own surprise. You won’t know an hour beforehand that you are coming

with a confession. I am convinced that you will decide, ‘to take your

suffering.’ You don’t believe my words now, but you’ll come to it of

yourself. For suffering, Rodion Romanovitch, is a great thing. Never

mind my having grown fat, I know all the same. Don’t laugh at it,

there’s an idea in suffering, Nikolay is right. No, you won’t run away,

Rodion Romanovitch.”



Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovitch also rose.



“Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine, if only we don’t

have a storm. Though it would be a good thing to freshen the air.”



He, too, took his cap.



“Porfiry Petrovitch, please don’t take up the notion that I have

confessed to you to-day,” Raskolnikov pronounced with sullen insistence.

“You’re a strange man and I have listened to you from simple curiosity.

But I have admitted nothing, remember that!”



“Oh, I know that, I’ll remember. Look at him, he’s trembling! Don’t

be uneasy, my dear fellow, have it your own way. Walk about a bit, you

won’t be able to walk too far. If anything happens, I have one request

to make of you,” he added, dropping his voice. “It’s an awkward one, but

important. If anything were to happen (though indeed I don’t believe

in it and think you quite incapable of it), yet in case you were taken

during these forty or fifty hours with the notion of putting an end to

the business in some other way, in some fantastic fashion--laying hands

on yourself--(it’s an absurd proposition, but you must forgive me for

it) do leave a brief but precise note, only two lines, and mention the

stone. It will be more generous. Come, till we meet! Good thoughts and

sound decisions to you!”



Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Raskolnikov. The

latter went to the window and waited with irritable impatience till he

calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away. Then he

too went hurriedly out of the room.







CHAPTER III



He hurried to Svidrigaïlov’s. What he had to hope from that man he

did not know. But that man had some hidden power over him. Having once

recognised this, he could not rest, and now the time had come.



On the way, one question particularly worried him: had Svidrigaïlov been

to Porfiry’s?



As far as he could judge, he would swear to it, that he had not. He

pondered again and again, went over Porfiry’s visit; no, he hadn’t been,

of course he hadn’t.



But if he had not been yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for the present he

fancied he couldn’t. Why? He could not have explained, but if he could,

he would not have wasted much thought over it at the moment. It all

worried him and at the same time he could not attend to it. Strange to

say, none would have believed it perhaps, but he only felt a faint vague

anxiety about his immediate future. Another, much more important anxiety

tormented him--it concerned himself, but in a different, more vital way.

Moreover, he was conscious of immense moral fatigue, though his mind was

working better that morning than it had done of late.



And was it worth while, after all that had happened, to contend with

these new trivial difficulties? Was it worth while, for instance, to

manoeuvre that Svidrigaïlov should not go to Porfiry’s? Was it worth

while to investigate, to ascertain the facts, to waste time over anyone

like Svidrigaïlov?



Oh, how sick he was of it all!



And yet he was hastening to Svidrigaïlov; could he be expecting

something _new_ from him, information, or means of escape? Men will

catch at straws! Was it destiny or some instinct bringing them together?

Perhaps it was only fatigue, despair; perhaps it was not Svidrigaïlov

but some other whom he needed, and Svidrigaïlov had simply presented

himself by chance. Sonia? But what should he go to Sonia for now? To beg

her tears again? He was afraid of Sonia, too. Sonia stood before him as

an irrevocable sentence. He must go his own way or hers. At that moment

especially he did not feel equal to seeing her. No, would it not be

better to try Svidrigaïlov? And he could not help inwardly owning that

he had long felt that he must see him for some reason.



But what could they have in common? Their very evil-doing could not

be of the same kind. The man, moreover, was very unpleasant, evidently

depraved, undoubtedly cunning and deceitful, possibly malignant. Such

stories were told about him. It is true he was befriending Katerina

Ivanovna’s children, but who could tell with what motive and what it

meant? The man always had some design, some project.



There was another thought which had been continually hovering of late

about Raskolnikov’s mind, and causing him great uneasiness. It was so

painful that he made distinct efforts to get rid of it. He sometimes

thought that Svidrigaïlov was dogging his footsteps. Svidrigaïlov had

found out his secret and had had designs on Dounia. What if he had them

still? Wasn’t it practically certain that he had? And what if, having

learnt his secret and so having gained power over him, he were to use it

as a weapon against Dounia?



This idea sometimes even tormented his dreams, but it had never

presented itself so vividly to him as on his way to Svidrigaïlov.

The very thought moved him to gloomy rage. To begin with, this would

transform everything, even his own position; he would have at once to

confess his secret to Dounia. Would he have to give himself up perhaps

to prevent Dounia from taking some rash step? The letter? This morning

Dounia had received a letter. From whom could she get letters in

Petersburg? Luzhin, perhaps? It’s true Razumihin was there to protect

her, but Razumihin knew nothing of the position. Perhaps it was his duty

to tell Razumihin? He thought of it with repugnance.



In any case he must see Svidrigaïlov as soon as possible, he decided

finally. Thank God, the details of the interview were of little

consequence, if only he could get at the root of the matter; but

if Svidrigaïlov were capable... if he were intriguing against

Dounia--then...



Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had passed through that month

that he could only decide such questions in one way; “then I shall kill

him,” he thought in cold despair.



A sudden anguish oppressed his heart, he stood still in the middle of

the street and began looking about to see where he was and which way he

was going. He found himself in X. Prospect, thirty or forty paces from

the Hay Market, through which he had come. The whole second storey of

the house on the left was used as a tavern. All the windows were wide

open; judging from the figures moving at the windows, the rooms were

full to overflowing. There were sounds of singing, of clarionet and

violin, and the boom of a Turkish drum. He could hear women shrieking.

He was about to turn back wondering why he had come to the X. Prospect,

when suddenly at one of the end windows he saw Svidrigaïlov, sitting

at a tea-table right in the open window with a pipe in his mouth.

Raskolnikov was dreadfully taken aback, almost terrified. Svidrigaïlov

was silently watching and scrutinising him and, what struck Raskolnikov

at once, seemed to be meaning to get up and slip away unobserved.

Raskolnikov at once pretended not to have seen him, but to be looking

absent-mindedly away, while he watched him out of the corner of his eye.

His heart was beating violently. Yet, it was evident that Svidrigaïlov

did not want to be seen. He took the pipe out of his mouth and was on

the point of concealing himself, but as he got up and moved back his

chair, he seemed to have become suddenly aware that Raskolnikov had seen

him, and was watching him. What had passed between them was much the

same as what happened at their first meeting in Raskolnikov’s room. A

sly smile came into Svidrigaïlov’s face and grew broader and

broader. Each knew that he was seen and watched by the other. At last

Svidrigaïlov broke into a loud laugh.



“Well, well, come in if you want me; I am here!” he shouted from the

window.



Raskolnikov went up into the tavern. He found Svidrigaïlov in a tiny

back room, adjoining the saloon in which merchants, clerks and numbers

of people of all sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables to the

desperate bawling of a chorus of singers. The click of billiard balls

could be heard in the distance. On the table before Svidrigaïlov stood

an open bottle and a glass half full of champagne. In the room he found

also a boy with a little hand organ, a healthy-looking red-cheeked girl

of eighteen, wearing a tucked-up striped skirt, and a Tyrolese hat with

ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other room, she was singing some

servants’ hall song in a rather husky contralto, to the accompaniment of

the organ.



“Come, that’s enough,” Svidrigaïlov stopped her at Raskolnikov’s

entrance. The girl at once broke off and stood waiting respectfully.

She had sung her guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful

expression in her face.



“Hey, Philip, a glass!” shouted Svidrigaïlov.



“I won’t drink anything,” said Raskolnikov.



“As you like, I didn’t mean it for you. Drink, Katia! I don’t want

anything more to-day, you can go.” He poured her out a full glass, and

laid down a yellow note.



Katia drank off her glass of wine, as women do, without putting it down,

in twenty gulps, took the note and kissed Svidrigaïlov’s hand, which he

allowed quite seriously. She went out of the room and the boy trailed

after her with the organ. Both had been brought in from the street.

Svidrigaïlov had not been a week in Petersburg, but everything about him

was already, so to speak, on a patriarchal footing; the waiter, Philip,

was by now an old friend and very obsequious.



The door leading to the saloon had a lock on it. Svidrigaïlov was at

home in this room and perhaps spent whole days in it. The tavern was

dirty and wretched, not even second-rate.



“I was going to see you and looking for you,” Raskolnikov began, “but

I don’t know what made me turn from the Hay Market into the X. Prospect

just now. I never take this turning. I turn to the right from the Hay

Market. And this isn’t the way to you. I simply turned and here you are.

It is strange!”



“Why don’t you say at once ‘it’s a miracle’?”



“Because it may be only chance.”



“Oh, that’s the way with all you folk,” laughed Svidrigaïlov. “You won’t

admit it, even if you do inwardly believe it a miracle! Here you say

that it may be only chance. And what cowards they all are here, about

having an opinion of their own, you can’t fancy, Rodion Romanovitch. I

don’t mean you, you have an opinion of your own and are not afraid to

have it. That’s how it was you attracted my curiosity.”



“Nothing else?”



“Well, that’s enough, you know,” Svidrigaïlov was obviously exhilarated,

but only slightly so, he had not had more than half a glass of wine.



“I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of having

what you call an opinion of my own,” observed Raskolnikov.



“Oh, well, it was a different matter. Everyone has his own plans. And

apropos of the miracle let me tell you that I think you have been asleep

for the last two or three days. I told you of this tavern myself, there

is no miracle in your coming straight here. I explained the way myself,

told you where it was, and the hours you could find me here. Do you

remember?”



“I don’t remember,” answered Raskolnikov with surprise.



“I believe you. I told you twice. The address has been stamped

mechanically on your memory. You turned this way mechanically and yet

precisely according to the direction, though you are not aware of

it. When I told you then, I hardly hoped you understood me. You give

yourself away too much, Rodion Romanovitch. And another thing, I’m

convinced there are lots of people in Petersburg who talk to themselves

as they walk. This is a town of crazy people. If only we had scientific

men, doctors, lawyers and philosophers might make most valuable

investigations in Petersburg each in his own line. There are few places

where there are so many gloomy, strong and queer influences on the soul

of man as in Petersburg. The mere influences of climate mean so much.

And it’s the administrative centre of all Russia and its character must

be reflected on the whole country. But that is neither here nor there

now. The point is that I have several times watched you. You walk out

of your house--holding your head high--twenty paces from home you let it

sink, and fold your hands behind your back. You look and evidently see

nothing before nor beside you. At last you begin moving your lips and

talking to yourself, and sometimes you wave one hand and declaim, and at

last stand still in the middle of the road. That’s not at all the thing.

Someone may be watching you besides me, and it won’t do you any good.

It’s nothing really to do with me and I can’t cure you, but, of course,

you understand me.”



“Do you know that I am being followed?” asked Raskolnikov, looking

inquisitively at him.



“No, I know nothing about it,” said Svidrigaïlov, seeming surprised.



“Well, then, let us leave me alone,” Raskolnikov muttered, frowning.



“Very good, let us leave you alone.”



“You had better tell me, if you come here to drink, and directed me

twice to come here to you, why did you hide, and try to get away just

now when I looked at the window from the street? I saw it.”



“He-he! And why was it you lay on your sofa with closed eyes and

pretended to be asleep, though you were wide awake while I stood in your

doorway? I saw it.”



“I may have had... reasons. You know that yourself.”



“And I may have had my reasons, though you don’t know them.”



Raskolnikov dropped his right elbow on the table, leaned his chin in the

fingers of his right hand, and stared intently at Svidrigaïlov. For a

full minute he scrutinised his face, which had impressed him before. It

was a strange face, like a mask; white and red, with bright red lips,

with a flaxen beard, and still thick flaxen hair. His eyes were somehow

too blue and their expression somehow too heavy and fixed. There was

something awfully unpleasant in that handsome face, which looked so

wonderfully young for his age. Svidrigaïlov was smartly dressed in light

summer clothes and was particularly dainty in his linen. He wore a huge

ring with a precious stone in it.



“Have I got to bother myself about you, too, now?” said Raskolnikov

suddenly, coming with nervous impatience straight to the point. “Even

though perhaps you are the most dangerous man if you care to injure me,

I don’t want to put myself out any more. I will show you at once that I

don’t prize myself as you probably think I do. I’ve come to tell you at

once that if you keep to your former intentions with regard to my sister

and if you think to derive any benefit in that direction from what has

been discovered of late, I will kill you before you get me locked up.

You can reckon on my word. You know that I can keep it. And in the

second place if you want to tell me anything--for I keep fancying all

this time that you have something to tell me--make haste and tell it,

for time is precious and very likely it will soon be too late.”



“Why in such haste?” asked Svidrigaïlov, looking at him curiously.



“Everyone has his plans,” Raskolnikov answered gloomily and impatiently.



“You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at the first question

you refuse to answer,” Svidrigaïlov observed with a smile. “You

keep fancying that I have aims of my own and so you look at me with

suspicion. Of course it’s perfectly natural in your position. But

though I should like to be friends with you, I shan’t trouble myself

to convince you of the contrary. The game isn’t worth the candle and I

wasn’t intending to talk to you about anything special.”



“What did you want me for, then? It was you who came hanging about me.”



“Why, simply as an interesting subject for observation. I liked the

fantastic nature of your position--that’s what it was! Besides, you are

the brother of a person who greatly interested me, and from that person

I had in the past heard a very great deal about you, from which I

gathered that you had a great influence over her; isn’t that enough?

Ha-ha-ha! Still I must admit that your question is rather complex, and

is difficult for me to answer. Here, you, for instance, have come to me

not only for a definite object, but for the sake of hearing something

new. Isn’t that so? Isn’t that so?” persisted Svidrigaïlov with a sly

smile. “Well, can’t you fancy then that I, too, on my way here in the

train was reckoning on you, on your telling me something new, and on my

making some profit out of you! You see what rich men we are!”



“What profit could you make?”



“How can I tell you? How do I know? You see in what a tavern I spend all

my time and it’s my enjoyment, that’s to say it’s no great enjoyment,

but one must sit somewhere; that poor Katia now--you saw her?... If only

I had been a glutton now, a club gourmand, but you see I can eat this.”



He pointed to a little table in the corner where the remnants of a

terrible-looking beef-steak and potatoes lay on a tin dish.



“Have you dined, by the way? I’ve had something and want nothing more.

I don’t drink, for instance, at all. Except for champagne I never touch

anything, and not more than a glass of that all the evening, and even

that is enough to make my head ache. I ordered it just now to wind

myself up, for I am just going off somewhere and you see me in a

peculiar state of mind. That was why I hid myself just now like a

schoolboy, for I was afraid you would hinder me. But I believe,” he

pulled out his watch, “I can spend an hour with you. It’s half-past

four now. If only I’d been something, a landowner, a father, a cavalry

officer, a photographer, a journalist... I am nothing, no specialty,

and sometimes I am positively bored. I really thought you would tell me

something new.”



“But what are you, and why have you come here?”



“What am I? You know, a gentleman, I served for two years in the

cavalry, then I knocked about here in Petersburg, then I married Marfa

Petrovna and lived in the country. There you have my biography!”



“You are a gambler, I believe?”



“No, a poor sort of gambler. A card-sharper--not a gambler.”



“You have been a card-sharper then?”



“Yes, I’ve been a card-sharper too.”



“Didn’t you get thrashed sometimes?”



“It did happen. Why?”



“Why, you might have challenged them... altogether it must have been

lively.”



“I won’t contradict you, and besides I am no hand at philosophy. I

confess that I hastened here for the sake of the women.”



“As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna?”



“Quite so,” Svidrigaïlov smiled with engaging candour. “What of it? You

seem to find something wrong in my speaking like that about women?”



“You ask whether I find anything wrong in vice?”



“Vice! Oh, that’s what you are after! But I’ll answer you in order,

first about women in general; you know I am fond of talking. Tell me,

what should I restrain myself for? Why should I give up women, since I

have a passion for them? It’s an occupation, anyway.”



“So you hope for nothing here but vice?”



“Oh, very well, for vice then. You insist on its being vice. But anyway

I like a direct question. In this vice at least there is something

permanent, founded indeed upon nature and not dependent on fantasy,

something present in the blood like an ever-burning ember, for ever

setting one on fire and, maybe, not to be quickly extinguished, even

with years. You’ll agree it’s an occupation of a sort.”



“That’s nothing to rejoice at, it’s a disease and a dangerous one.”



“Oh, that’s what you think, is it! I agree, that it is a disease like

everything that exceeds moderation. And, of course, in this one must

exceed moderation. But in the first place, everybody does so in one way

or another, and in the second place, of course, one ought to be moderate

and prudent, however mean it may be, but what am I to do? If I hadn’t

this, I might have to shoot myself. I am ready to admit that a decent

man ought to put up with being bored, but yet...”



“And could you shoot yourself?”



“Oh, come!” Svidrigaïlov parried with disgust. “Please don’t speak of

it,” he added hurriedly and with none of the bragging tone he had shown

in all the previous conversation. His face quite changed. “I admit it’s

an unpardonable weakness, but I can’t help it. I am afraid of death and

I dislike its being talked of. Do you know that I am to a certain extent

a mystic?”



“Ah, the apparitions of Marfa Petrovna! Do they still go on visiting

you?”



“Oh, don’t talk of them; there have been no more in Petersburg, confound

them!” he cried with an air of irritation. “Let’s rather talk of that...

though... H’m! I have not much time, and can’t stay long with you,

it’s a pity! I should have found plenty to tell you.”



“What’s your engagement, a woman?”



“Yes, a woman, a casual incident.... No, that’s not what I want to talk

of.”



“And the hideousness, the filthiness of all your surroundings, doesn’t

that affect you? Have you lost the strength to stop yourself?”



“And do you pretend to strength, too? He-he-he! You surprised me just

now, Rodion Romanovitch, though I knew beforehand it would be so.

You preach to me about vice and æsthetics! You--a Schiller, you--an

idealist! Of course that’s all as it should be and it would be

surprising if it were not so, yet it is strange in reality.... Ah,

what a pity I have no time, for you’re a most interesting type! And,

by-the-way, are you fond of Schiller? I am awfully fond of him.”



“But what a braggart you are,” Raskolnikov said with some disgust.



“Upon my word, I am not,” answered Svidrigaïlov laughing. “However, I

won’t dispute it, let me be a braggart, why not brag, if it hurts no

one? I spent seven years in the country with Marfa Petrovna, so now when

I come across an intelligent person like you--intelligent and highly

interesting--I am simply glad to talk and, besides, I’ve drunk that

half-glass of champagne and it’s gone to my head a little. And besides,

there’s a certain fact that has wound me up tremendously, but about that

I... will keep quiet. Where are you off to?” he asked in alarm.



Raskolnikov had begun getting up. He felt oppressed and stifled and,

as it were, ill at ease at having come here. He felt convinced that

Svidrigaïlov was the most worthless scoundrel on the face of the earth.



“A-ach! Sit down, stay a little!” Svidrigaïlov begged. “Let them bring

you some tea, anyway. Stay a little, I won’t talk nonsense, about

myself, I mean. I’ll tell you something. If you like I’ll tell you how a

woman tried ‘to save’ me, as you would call it? It will be an answer to

your first question indeed, for the woman was your sister. May I tell

you? It will help to spend the time.”



“Tell me, but I trust that you...”



“Oh, don’t be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low fellow like me,

Avdotya Romanovna can only excite the deepest respect.”







CHAPTER IV



“You know perhaps--yes, I told you myself,” began Svidrigaïlov, “that

I was in the debtors’ prison here, for an immense sum, and had not

any expectation of being able to pay it. There’s no need to go into

particulars how Marfa Petrovna bought me out; do you know to what a

point of insanity a woman can sometimes love? She was an honest woman,

and very sensible, although completely uneducated. Would you believe

that this honest and jealous woman, after many scenes of hysterics and

reproaches, condescended to enter into a kind of contract with me which

she kept throughout our married life? She was considerably older than

I, and besides, she always kept a clove or something in her mouth. There

was so much swinishness in my soul and honesty too, of a sort, as to

tell her straight out that I couldn’t be absolutely faithful to her.

This confession drove her to frenzy, but yet she seems in a way to have

liked my brutal frankness. She thought it showed I was unwilling to

deceive her if I warned her like this beforehand and for a jealous

woman, you know, that’s the first consideration. After many tears an

unwritten contract was drawn up between us: first, that I would never

leave Marfa Petrovna and would always be her husband; secondly, that I

would never absent myself without her permission; thirdly, that I would

never set up a permanent mistress; fourthly, in return for this, Marfa

Petrovna gave me a free hand with the maidservants, but only with her

secret knowledge; fifthly, God forbid my falling in love with a woman of

our class; sixthly, in case I--which God forbid--should be visited by

a great serious passion I was bound to reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. On

this last score, however, Marfa Petrovna was fairly at ease. She was a

sensible woman and so she could not help looking upon me as a dissolute

profligate incapable of real love. But a sensible woman and a jealous

woman are two very different things, and that’s where the trouble

came in. But to judge some people impartially we must renounce certain

preconceived opinions and our habitual attitude to the ordinary people

about us. I have reason to have faith in your judgment rather than

in anyone’s. Perhaps you have already heard a great deal that was

ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. She certainly had some very

ridiculous ways, but I tell you frankly that I feel really sorry for the

innumerable woes of which I was the cause. Well, and that’s enough, I

think, by way of a decorous _oraison funèbre_ for the most tender wife

of a most tender husband. When we quarrelled, I usually held my tongue

and did not irritate her and that gentlemanly conduct rarely failed to

attain its object, it influenced her, it pleased her, indeed. These were

times when she was positively proud of me. But your sister she couldn’t

put up with, anyway. And however she came to risk taking such a

beautiful creature into her house as a governess. My explanation is that

Marfa Petrovna was an ardent and impressionable woman and simply fell

in love herself--literally fell in love--with your sister. Well, little

wonder--look at Avdotya Romanovna! I saw the danger at the first glance

and what do you think, I resolved not to look at her even. But Avdotya

Romanovna herself made the first step, would you believe it? Would you

believe it too that Marfa Petrovna was positively angry with me at first

for my persistent silence about your sister, for my careless reception

of her continual adoring praises of Avdotya Romanovna. I don’t know

what it was she wanted! Well, of course, Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya

Romanovna every detail about me. She had the unfortunate habit of

telling literally everyone all our family secrets and continually

complaining of me; how could she fail to confide in such a delightful

new friend? I expect they talked of nothing else but me and no doubt

Avdotya Romanovna heard all those dark mysterious rumours that were

current about me.... I don’t mind betting that you too have heard

something of the sort already?”



“I have. Luzhin charged you with having caused the death of a child. Is

that true?”



“Don’t refer to those vulgar tales, I beg,” said Svidrigaïlov with

disgust and annoyance. “If you insist on wanting to know about all that

idiocy, I will tell you one day, but now...”



“I was told too about some footman of yours in the country whom you

treated badly.”



“I beg you to drop the subject,” Svidrigaïlov interrupted again with

obvious impatience.



“Was that the footman who came to you after death to fill your pipe?...

you told me about it yourself.” Raskolnikov felt more and more

irritated.



Svidrigaïlov looked at him attentively and Raskolnikov fancied he caught

a flash of spiteful mockery in that look. But Svidrigaïlov restrained

himself and answered very civilly:



“Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested and shall

feel it my duty to satisfy your curiosity at the first opportunity. Upon

my soul! I see that I really might pass for a romantic figure with

some people. Judge how grateful I must be to Marfa Petrovna for having

repeated to Avdotya Romanovna such mysterious and interesting gossip

about me. I dare not guess what impression it made on her, but in any

case it worked in my interests. With all Avdotya Romanovna’s natural

aversion and in spite of my invariably gloomy and repellent aspect--she

did at least feel pity for me, pity for a lost soul. And if once a

girl’s heart is moved to _pity_, it’s more dangerous than anything. She

is bound to want to ‘save him,’ to bring him to his senses, and lift

him up and draw him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and

usefulness--well, we all know how far such dreams can go. I saw at once

that the bird was flying into the cage of herself. And I too made ready.

I think you are frowning, Rodion Romanovitch? There’s no need. As you

know, it all ended in smoke. (Hang it all, what a lot I am drinking!)

Do you know, I always, from the very beginning, regretted that it wasn’t

your sister’s fate to be born in the second or third century A.D., as

the daughter of a reigning prince or some governor or pro-consul in Asia

Minor. She would undoubtedly have been one of those who would endure

martyrdom and would have smiled when they branded her bosom with hot

pincers. And she would have gone to it of herself. And in the fourth or

fifth century she would have walked away into the Egyptian desert and

would have stayed there thirty years living on roots and ecstasies and

visions. She is simply thirsting to face some torture for someone, and

if she can’t get her torture, she’ll throw herself out of a window. I’ve

heard something of a Mr. Razumihin--he’s said to be a sensible fellow;

his surname suggests it, indeed. He’s probably a divinity student. Well,

he’d better look after your sister! I believe I understand her, and I am

proud of it. But at the beginning of an acquaintance, as you know, one

is apt to be more heedless and stupid. One doesn’t see clearly. Hang it

all, why is she so handsome? It’s not my fault. In fact, it began on

my side with a most irresistible physical desire. Avdotya Romanovna is

awfully chaste, incredibly and phenomenally so. Take note, I tell you

this about your sister as a fact. She is almost morbidly chaste, in

spite of her broad intelligence, and it will stand in her way. There

happened to be a girl in the house then, Parasha, a black-eyed

wench, whom I had never seen before--she had just come from another

village--very pretty, but incredibly stupid: she burst into tears,

wailed so that she could be heard all over the place and caused scandal.

One day after dinner Avdotya Romanovna followed me into an avenue in

the garden and with flashing eyes _insisted_ on my leaving poor Parasha

alone. It was almost our first conversation by ourselves. I, of course,

was only too pleased to obey her wishes, tried to appear disconcerted,

embarrassed, in fact played my part not badly. Then came interviews,

mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties, supplications, even

tears--would you believe it, even tears? Think what the passion for

propaganda will bring some girls to! I, of course, threw it all on

my destiny, posed as hungering and thirsting for light, and finally

resorted to the most powerful weapon in the subjection of the

female heart, a weapon which never fails one. It’s the well-known

resource--flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than speaking the

truth and nothing easier than flattery. If there’s the hundredth part

of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that

leads to trouble. But if all, to the last note, is false in flattery, it

is just as agreeable, and is heard not without satisfaction. It may be

a coarse satisfaction, but still a satisfaction. And however coarse the

flattery, at least half will be sure to seem true. That’s so for all

stages of development and classes of society. A vestal virgin might be

seduced by flattery. I can never remember without laughter how I once

seduced a lady who was devoted to her husband, her children, and her

principles. What fun it was and how little trouble! And the lady really

had principles--of her own, anyway. All my tactics lay in simply being

utterly annihilated and prostrate before her purity. I flattered her

shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in getting a pressure of

the hand, even a glance from her, I would reproach myself for having

snatched it by force, and would declare that she had resisted, so that

I could never have gained anything but for my being so unprincipled.

I maintained that she was so innocent that she could not foresee my

treachery, and yielded to me unconsciously, unawares, and so on. In

fact, I triumphed, while my lady remained firmly convinced that she was

innocent, chaste, and faithful to all her duties and obligations and

had succumbed quite by accident. And how angry she was with me when I

explained to her at last that it was my sincere conviction that she was

just as eager as I. Poor Marfa Petrovna was awfully weak on the side of

flattery, and if I had only cared to, I might have had all her property

settled on me during her lifetime. (I am drinking an awful lot of wine

now and talking too much.) I hope you won’t be angry if I mention now

that I was beginning to produce the same effect on Avdotya Romanovna.

But I was stupid and impatient and spoiled it all. Avdotya Romanovna had

several times--and one time in particular--been greatly displeased by

the expression of my eyes, would you believe it? There was sometimes a

light in them which frightened her and grew stronger and stronger and

more unguarded till it was hateful to her. No need to go into detail,

but we parted. There I acted stupidly again. I fell to jeering in the

coarsest way at all such propaganda and efforts to convert me; Parasha

came on to the scene again, and not she alone; in fact there was a

tremendous to-do. Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, if you could only see how your

sister’s eyes can flash sometimes! Never mind my being drunk at this

moment and having had a whole glass of wine. I am speaking the truth.

I assure you that this glance has haunted my dreams; the very rustle of

her dress was more than I could stand at last. I really began to think

that I might become epileptic. I could never have believed that I could

be moved to such a frenzy. It was essential, indeed, to be reconciled,

but by then it was impossible. And imagine what I did then! To what

a pitch of stupidity a man can be brought by frenzy! Never undertake

anything in a frenzy, Rodion Romanovitch. I reflected that Avdotya

Romanovna was after all a beggar (ach, excuse me, that’s not the word...

but does it matter if it expresses the meaning?), that she lived by

her work, that she had her mother and you to keep (ach, hang it, you

are frowning again), and I resolved to offer her all my money--thirty

thousand roubles I could have realised then--if she would run away with

me here, to Petersburg. Of course I should have vowed eternal love,

rapture, and so on. Do you know, I was so wild about her at that time

that if she had told me to poison Marfa Petrovna or to cut her throat

and to marry herself, it would have been done at once! But it ended in

the catastrophe of which you know already. You can fancy how frantic I

was when I heard that Marfa Petrovna had got hold of that scoundrelly

attorney, Luzhin, and had almost made a match between them--which would

really have been just the same thing as I was proposing. Wouldn’t it?

Wouldn’t it? I notice that you’ve begun to be very attentive... you

interesting young man....”



Svidrigaïlov struck the table with his fist impatiently. He was flushed.

Raskolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne

that he had sipped almost unconsciously was affecting him--and he

resolved to take advantage of the opportunity. He felt very suspicious

of Svidrigaïlov.



“Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that you have

come to Petersburg with designs on my sister,” he said directly to

Svidrigaïlov, in order to irritate him further.



“Oh, nonsense,” said Svidrigaïlov, seeming to rouse himself. “Why, I

told you... besides your sister can’t endure me.”



“Yes, I am certain that she can’t, but that’s not the point.”



“Are you so sure that she can’t?” Svidrigaïlov screwed up his eyes and

smiled mockingly. “You are right, she doesn’t love me, but you can

never be sure of what has passed between husband and wife or lover and

mistress. There’s always a little corner which remains a secret to

the world and is only known to those two. Will you answer for it that

Avdotya Romanovna regarded me with aversion?”



“From some words you’ve dropped, I notice that you still have

designs--and of course evil ones--on Dounia and mean to carry them out

promptly.”



“What, have I dropped words like that?” Svidrigaïlov asked in naïve

dismay, taking not the slightest notice of the epithet bestowed on his

designs.



“Why, you are dropping them even now. Why are you so frightened? What

are you so afraid of now?”



“Me--afraid? Afraid of you? You have rather to be afraid of me, _cher

ami_. But what nonsense.... I’ve drunk too much though, I see that. I

was almost saying too much again. Damn the wine! Hi! there, water!”



He snatched up the champagne bottle and flung it without ceremony out of

the window. Philip brought the water.



“That’s all nonsense!” said Svidrigaïlov, wetting a towel and putting it

to his head. “But I can answer you in one word and annihilate all your

suspicions. Do you know that I am going to get married?”



“You told me so before.”



“Did I? I’ve forgotten. But I couldn’t have told you so for certain for

I had not even seen my betrothed; I only meant to. But now I really

have a betrothed and it’s a settled thing, and if it weren’t that I have

business that can’t be put off, I would have taken you to see them

at once, for I should like to ask your advice. Ach, hang it, only ten

minutes left! See, look at the watch. But I must tell you, for it’s an

interesting story, my marriage, in its own way. Where are you off to?

Going again?”



“No, I’m not going away now.”



“Not at all? We shall see. I’ll take you there, I’ll show you my

betrothed, only not now. For you’ll soon have to be off. You have to go

to the right and I to the left. Do you know that Madame Resslich, the

woman I am lodging with now, eh? I know what you’re thinking, that she’s

the woman whose girl they say drowned herself in the winter. Come, are

you listening? She arranged it all for me. You’re bored, she said,

you want something to fill up your time. For, you know, I am a gloomy,

depressed person. Do you think I’m light-hearted? No, I’m gloomy. I do

no harm, but sit in a corner without speaking a word for three days at a

time. And that Resslich is a sly hussy, I tell you. I know what she has

got in her mind; she thinks I shall get sick of it, abandon my wife and

depart, and she’ll get hold of her and make a profit out of her--in our

class, of course, or higher. She told me the father was a broken-down

retired official, who has been sitting in a chair for the last three

years with his legs paralysed. The mamma, she said, was a sensible

woman. There is a son serving in the provinces, but he doesn’t help;

there is a daughter, who is married, but she doesn’t visit them. And

they’ve two little nephews on their hands, as though their own children

were not enough, and they’ve taken from school their youngest daughter,

a girl who’ll be sixteen in another month, so that then she can be

married. She was for me. We went there. How funny it was! I present

myself--a landowner, a widower, of a well-known name, with connections,

with a fortune. What if I am fifty and she is not sixteen? Who thinks

of that? But it’s fascinating, isn’t it? It is fascinating, ha-ha! You

should have seen how I talked to the papa and mamma. It was worth paying

to have seen me at that moment. She comes in, curtseys, you can fancy,

still in a short frock--an unopened bud! Flushing like a sunset--she had

been told, no doubt. I don’t know how you feel about female faces, but

to my mind these sixteen years, these childish eyes, shyness and tears

of bashfulness are better than beauty; and she is a perfect little

picture, too. Fair hair in little curls, like a lamb’s, full little rosy

lips, tiny feet, a charmer!... Well, we made friends. I told them I was

in a hurry owing to domestic circumstances, and the next day, that is

the day before yesterday, we were betrothed. When I go now I take her on

my knee at once and keep her there.... Well, she flushes like a sunset

and I kiss her every minute. Her mamma of course impresses on her that

this is her husband and that this must be so. It’s simply delicious! The

present betrothed condition is perhaps better than marriage. Here you

have what is called _la nature et la vérité_, ha-ha! I’ve talked to her

twice, she is far from a fool. Sometimes she steals a look at me that

positively scorches me. Her face is like Raphael’s Madonna. You know,

the Sistine Madonna’s face has something fantastic in it, the face

of mournful religious ecstasy. Haven’t you noticed it? Well, she’s

something in that line. The day after we’d been betrothed, I bought her

presents to the value of fifteen hundred roubles--a set of diamonds and

another of pearls and a silver dressing-case as large as this, with all

sorts of things in it, so that even my Madonna’s face glowed. I sat her

on my knee, yesterday, and I suppose rather too unceremoniously--she

flushed crimson and the tears started, but she didn’t want to show it.

We were left alone, she suddenly flung herself on my neck (for the first

time of her own accord), put her little arms round me, kissed me, and

vowed that she would be an obedient, faithful, and good wife, would make

me happy, would devote all her life, every minute of her life, would

sacrifice everything, everything, and that all she asks in return is

my _respect_, and that she wants ‘nothing, nothing more from me, no

presents.’ You’ll admit that to hear such a confession, alone, from an

angel of sixteen in a muslin frock, with little curls, with a flush

of maiden shyness in her cheeks and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes is

rather fascinating! Isn’t it fascinating? It’s worth paying for, isn’t

it? Well... listen, we’ll go to see my betrothed, only not just now!”



“The fact is this monstrous difference in age and development excites

your sensuality! Will you really make such a marriage?”



“Why, of course. Everyone thinks of himself, and he lives most gaily who

knows best how to deceive himself. Ha-ha! But why are you so keen about

virtue? Have mercy on me, my good friend. I am a sinful man. Ha-ha-ha!”



“But you have provided for the children of Katerina Ivanovna. Though...

though you had your own reasons.... I understand it all now.”



“I am always fond of children, very fond of them,” laughed Svidrigaïlov.

“I can tell you one curious instance of it. The first day I came here I

visited various haunts, after seven years I simply rushed at them. You

probably notice that I am not in a hurry to renew acquaintance with my

old friends. I shall do without them as long as I can. Do you know, when

I was with Marfa Petrovna in the country, I was haunted by the thought

of these places where anyone who knows his way about can find a great

deal. Yes, upon my soul! The peasants have vodka, the educated young

people, shut out from activity, waste themselves in impossible dreams

and visions and are crippled by theories; Jews have sprung up and are

amassing money, and all the rest give themselves up to debauchery. From

the first hour the town reeked of its familiar odours. I chanced to be

in a frightful den--I like my dens dirty--it was a dance, so called, and

there was a _cancan_ such as I never saw in my day. Yes, there you

have progress. All of a sudden I saw a little girl of thirteen, nicely

dressed, dancing with a specialist in that line, with another one

_vis-à-vis_. Her mother was sitting on a chair by the wall. You can’t

fancy what a _cancan_ that was! The girl was ashamed, blushed, at

last felt insulted, and began to cry. Her partner seized her and began

whirling her round and performing before her; everyone laughed and--I

like your public, even the _cancan_ public--they laughed and shouted,

‘Serves her right--serves her right! Shouldn’t bring children!’ Well,

it’s not my business whether that consoling reflection was logical or

not. I at once fixed on my plan, sat down by the mother, and began by

saying that I too was a stranger and that people here were ill-bred and

that they couldn’t distinguish decent folks and treat them with respect,

gave her to understand that I had plenty of money, offered to take them

home in my carriage. I took them home and got to know them. They were

lodging in a miserable little hole and had only just arrived from the

country. She told me that she and her daughter could only regard my

acquaintance as an honour. I found out that they had nothing of their

own and had come to town upon some legal business. I proffered my

services and money. I learnt that they had gone to the dancing saloon

by mistake, believing that it was a genuine dancing class. I offered to

assist in the young girl’s education in French and dancing. My offer was

accepted with enthusiasm as an honour--and we are still friendly.... If

you like, we’ll go and see them, only not just now.”



“Stop! Enough of your vile, nasty anecdotes, depraved vile, sensual

man!”



“Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! _O la vertu va-t-elle se nicher?_

But you know I shall tell you these things on purpose, for the pleasure

of hearing your outcries!”



“I dare say. I can see I am ridiculous myself,” muttered Raskolnikov

angrily.



Svidrigaïlov laughed heartily; finally he called Philip, paid his bill,

and began getting up.



“I say, but I am drunk, _assez causé_,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure.”



“I should rather think it must be a pleasure!” cried Raskolnikov,

getting up. “No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn-out profligate to

describe such adventures with a monstrous project of the same sort in

his mind--especially under such circumstances and to such a man as

me.... It’s stimulating!”



“Well, if you come to that,” Svidrigaïlov answered, scrutinising

Raskolnikov with some surprise, “if you come to that, you are a thorough

cynic yourself. You’ve plenty to make you so, anyway. You can understand

a great deal... and you can do a great deal too. But enough. I sincerely

regret not having had more talk with you, but I shan’t lose sight of

you.... Only wait a bit.”



Svidrigaïlov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov walked out after

him. Svidrigaïlov was not however very drunk, the wine had affected him

for a moment, but it was passing off every minute. He was preoccupied

with something of importance and was frowning. He was apparently excited

and uneasy in anticipation of something. His manner to Raskolnikov had

changed during the last few minutes, and he was ruder and more sneering

every moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He

became very suspicious of Svidrigaïlov and resolved to follow him.



They came out on to the pavement.



“You go to the right, and I to the left, or if you like, the other way.

Only _adieu, mon plaisir_, may we meet again.”



And he walked to the right towards the Hay Market.







CHAPTER V



Raskolnikov walked after him.



“What’s this?” cried Svidrigaïlov turning round, “I thought I said...”



“It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now.”



“What?”



Both stood still and gazed at one another, as though measuring their

strength.



“From all your half tipsy stories,” Raskolnikov observed harshly, “I am

_positive_ that you have not given up your designs on my sister, but

are pursuing them more actively than ever. I have learnt that my sister

received a letter this morning. You have hardly been able to sit still

all this time.... You may have unearthed a wife on the way, but that

means nothing. I should like to make certain myself.”



Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and of what he

wished to make certain.



“Upon my word! I’ll call the police!”



“Call away!”



Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last Svidrigaïlov’s

face changed. Having satisfied himself that Raskolnikov was not

frightened at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and friendly air.



“What a fellow! I purposely refrained from referring to your affair,

though I am devoured by curiosity. It’s a fantastic affair. I’ve put it

off till another time, but you’re enough to rouse the dead.... Well, let

us go, only I warn you beforehand I am only going home for a moment,

to get some money; then I shall lock up the flat, take a cab and go to

spend the evening at the Islands. Now, now are you going to follow me?”



“I’m coming to your lodgings, not to see you but Sofya Semyonovna, to

say I’m sorry not to have been at the funeral.”



“That’s as you like, but Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. She has taken

the three children to an old lady of high rank, the patroness of some

orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the old lady by

depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the three children of

Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution as well. I told her

too the story of Sofya Semyonovna in full detail, suppressing nothing.

It produced an indescribable effect on her. That’s why Sofya Semyonovna

has been invited to call to-day at the X. Hotel where the lady is

staying for the time.”



“No matter, I’ll come all the same.”



“As you like, it’s nothing to me, but I won’t come with you; here we are

at home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with suspicion

just because I have shown such delicacy and have not so far troubled

you with questions... you understand? It struck you as extraordinary; I

don’t mind betting it’s that. Well, it teaches one to show delicacy!”



“And to listen at doors!”



“Ah, that’s it, is it?” laughed Svidrigaïlov. “Yes, I should have been

surprised if you had let that pass after all that has happened. Ha-ha!

Though I did understand something of the pranks you had been up to and

were telling Sofya Semyonovna about, what was the meaning of it? Perhaps

I am quite behind the times and can’t understand. For goodness’ sake,

explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!”



“You couldn’t have heard anything. You’re making it all up!”



“But I’m not talking about that (though I did hear something). No, I’m

talking of the way you keep sighing and groaning now. The Schiller in

you is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at

doors. If that’s how you feel, go and inform the police that you had

this mischance: you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you are

convinced that one mustn’t listen at doors, but one may murder old women

at one’s pleasure, you’d better be off to America and make haste. Run,

young man! There may still be time. I’m speaking sincerely. Haven’t you

the money? I’ll give you the fare.”



“I’m not thinking of that at all,” Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust.



“I understand (but don’t put yourself out, don’t discuss it if you don’t

want to). I understand the questions you are worrying over--moral ones,

aren’t they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. They are

nothing to you now, ha-ha! You’ll say you are still a man and a citizen.

If so you ought not to have got into this coil. It’s no use taking up a

job you are not fit for. Well, you’d better shoot yourself, or don’t you

want to?”



“You seem trying to enrage me, to make me leave you.”



“What a queer fellow! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You

see, that’s the way to Sofya Semyonovna. Look, there is no one at home.

Don’t you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with him. Here

is Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is rather deaf. Has she

gone out? Where? Did you hear? She is not in and won’t be till late in

the evening probably. Well, come to my room; you wanted to come and see

me, didn’t you? Here we are. Madame Resslich’s not at home. She is a

woman who is always busy, an excellent woman I assure you.... She might

have been of use to you if you had been a little more sensible. Now,

see! I take this five-per-cent bond out of the bureau--see what a lot

I’ve got of them still--this one will be turned into cash to-day. I

mustn’t waste any more time. The bureau is locked, the flat is locked,

and here we are again on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I’m going to

the Islands. Would you like a lift? I’ll take this carriage. Ah, you

refuse? You are tired of it! Come for a drive! I believe it will come on

to rain. Never mind, we’ll put down the hood....”



Svidrigaïlov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his

suspicions were at least for that moment unjust. Without answering a

word he turned and walked back towards the Hay Market. If he had only

turned round on his way he might have seen Svidrigaïlov get out not a

hundred paces off, dismiss the cab and walk along the pavement. But he

had turned the corner and could see nothing. Intense disgust drew him

away from Svidrigaïlov.



“To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that

coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and blackguard!” he cried.



Raskolnikov’s judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there was

something about Svidrigaïlov which gave him a certain original, even a

mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced

that Svidrigaïlov would not leave her in peace. But it was too tiresome

and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this.



When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before he sank, as

usual, into deep thought. On the bridge he stood by the railing and

began gazing at the water. And his sister was standing close by him.



He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by without seeing

her. Dounia had never met him like this in the street before and was

struck with dismay. She stood still and did not know whether to call

to him or not. Suddenly she saw Svidrigaïlov coming quickly from the

direction of the Hay Market.



He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go on to the

bridge, but stood aside on the pavement, doing all he could to avoid

Raskolnikov’s seeing him. He had observed Dounia for some time and had

been making signs to her. She fancied he was signalling to beg her not

to speak to her brother, but to come to him.



That was what Dounia did. She stole by her brother and went up to

Svidrigaïlov.



“Let us make haste away,” Svidrigaïlov whispered to her, “I don’t want

Rodion Romanovitch to know of our meeting. I must tell you I’ve been

sitting with him in the restaurant close by, where he looked me up and

I had great difficulty in getting rid of him. He has somehow heard of

my letter to you and suspects something. It wasn’t you who told him, of

course, but if not you, who then?”



“Well, we’ve turned the corner now,” Dounia interrupted, “and my brother

won’t see us. I have to tell you that I am going no further with you.

Speak to me here. You can tell it all in the street.”



“In the first place, I can’t say it in the street; secondly, you must

hear Sofya Semyonovna too; and, thirdly, I will show you some papers....

Oh well, if you won’t agree to come with me, I shall refuse to give

any explanation and go away at once. But I beg you not to forget that

a very curious secret of your beloved brother’s is entirely in my

keeping.”



Dounia stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigaïlov with

searching eyes.



“What are you afraid of?” he observed quietly. “The town is not the

country. And even in the country you did me more harm than I did you.”



“Have you prepared Sofya Semyonovna?”



“No, I have not said a word to her and am not quite certain whether she

is at home now. But most likely she is. She has buried her stepmother

to-day: she is not likely to go visiting on such a day. For the time I

don’t want to speak to anyone about it and I half regret having spoken

to you. The slightest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal in a thing like

this. I live there in that house, we are coming to it. That’s the porter

of our house--he knows me very well; you see, he’s bowing; he sees I’m

coming with a lady and no doubt he has noticed your face already and you

will be glad of that if you are afraid of me and suspicious. Excuse

my putting things so coarsely. I haven’t a flat to myself; Sofya

Semyonovna’s room is next to mine--she lodges in the next flat. The

whole floor is let out in lodgings. Why are you frightened like a child?

Am I really so terrible?”



Svidrigaïlov’s lips were twisted in a condescending smile; but he was in

no smiling mood. His heart was throbbing and he could scarcely breathe.

He spoke rather loud to cover his growing excitement. But Dounia did not

notice this peculiar excitement, she was so irritated by his remark that

she was frightened of him like a child and that he was so terrible to

her.



“Though I know that you are not a man... of honour, I am not in the

least afraid of you. Lead the way,” she said with apparent composure,

but her face was very pale.



Svidrigaïlov stopped at Sonia’s room.



“Allow me to inquire whether she is at home.... She is not. How

unfortunate! But I know she may come quite soon. If she’s gone out, it

can only be to see a lady about the orphans. Their mother is dead....

I’ve been meddling and making arrangements for them. If Sofya Semyonovna

does not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to you, to-day if

you like. This is my flat. These are my two rooms. Madame Resslich,

my landlady, has the next room. Now, look this way. I will show you

my chief piece of evidence: this door from my bedroom leads into two

perfectly empty rooms, which are to let. Here they are... You must look

into them with some attention.”



Svidrigaïlov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms. Dounia was

looking about her mistrustfully, but saw nothing special in the

furniture or position of the rooms. Yet there was something to observe,

for instance, that Svidrigaïlov’s flat was exactly between two sets of

almost uninhabited apartments. His rooms were not entered directly

from the passage, but through the landlady’s two almost empty rooms.

Unlocking a door leading out of his bedroom, Svidrigaïlov showed Dounia

the two empty rooms that were to let. Dounia stopped in the doorway, not

knowing what she was called to look upon, but Svidrigaïlov hastened to

explain.



“Look here, at this second large room. Notice that door, it’s locked.

By the door stands a chair, the only one in the two rooms. I brought it

from my rooms so as to listen more conveniently. Just the other side of

the door is Sofya Semyonovna’s table; she sat there talking to Rodion

Romanovitch. And I sat here listening on two successive evenings, for

two hours each time--and of course I was able to learn something, what

do you think?”



“You listened?”



“Yes, I did. Now come back to my room; we can’t sit down here.”



He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sitting-room and offered her

a chair. He sat down at the opposite side of the table, at least seven

feet from her, but probably there was the same glow in his eyes which

had once frightened Dounia so much. She shuddered and once more looked

about her distrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture; she evidently

did not wish to betray her uneasiness. But the secluded position of

Svidrigaïlov’s lodging had suddenly struck her. She wanted to ask

whether his landlady at least were at home, but pride kept her from

asking. Moreover, she had another trouble in her heart incomparably

greater than fear for herself. She was in great distress.



“Here is your letter,” she said, laying it on the table. “Can it be true

what you write? You hint at a crime committed, you say, by my brother.

You hint at it too clearly; you daren’t deny it now. I must tell you

that I’d heard of this stupid story before you wrote and don’t believe a

word of it. It’s a disgusting and ridiculous suspicion. I know the story

and why and how it was invented. You can have no proofs. You promised to

prove it. Speak! But let me warn you that I don’t believe you! I don’t

believe you!”



Dounia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the colour

rushed to her face.



“If you didn’t believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my rooms?

Why have you come? Simply from curiosity?”



“Don’t torment me. Speak, speak!”



“There’s no denying that you are a brave girl. Upon my word, I thought

you would have asked Mr. Razumihin to escort you here. But he was not

with you nor anywhere near. I was on the look-out. It’s spirited of

you, it proves you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovitch. But everything

is divine in you.... About your brother, what am I to say to you? You’ve

just seen him yourself. What did you think of him?”



“Surely that’s not the only thing you are building on?”



“No, not on that, but on his own words. He came here on two successive

evenings to see Sofya Semyonovna. I’ve shown you where they sat. He made

a full confession to her. He is a murderer. He killed an old woman, a

pawnbroker, with whom he had pawned things himself. He killed her sister

too, a pedlar woman called Lizaveta, who happened to come in while he

was murdering her sister. He killed them with an axe he brought with

him. He murdered them to rob them and he did rob them. He took money and

various things.... He told all this, word for word, to Sofya Semyonovna,

the only person who knows his secret. But she has had no share by word

or deed in the murder; she was as horrified at it as you are now. Don’t

be anxious, she won’t betray him.”



“It cannot be,” muttered Dounia, with white lips. She gasped for breath.

“It cannot be. There was not the slightest cause, no sort of ground....

It’s a lie, a lie!”



“He robbed her, that was the cause, he took money and things. It’s true

that by his own admission he made no use of the money or things, but hid

them under a stone, where they are now. But that was because he dared

not make use of them.”



“But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it?” cried Dounia,

and she jumped up from the chair. “Why, you know him, and you’ve seen

him, can he be a thief?”



She seemed to be imploring Svidrigaïlov; she had entirely forgotten her

fear.



“There are thousands and millions of combinations and possibilities,

Avdotya Romanovna. A thief steals and knows he is a scoundrel, but I’ve

heard of a gentleman who broke open the mail. Who knows, very likely he

thought he was doing a gentlemanly thing! Of course I should not have

believed it myself if I’d been told of it as you have, but I believe my

own ears. He explained all the causes of it to Sofya Semyonovna too, but

she did not believe her ears at first, yet she believed her own eyes at

last.”



“What... were the causes?”



“It’s a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. Here’s... how shall I tell

you?--A theory of a sort, the same one by which I for instance consider

that a single misdeed is permissible if the principal aim is right, a

solitary wrongdoing and hundreds of good deeds! It’s galling too, of

course, for a young man of gifts and overweening pride to know that if

he had, for instance, a paltry three thousand, his whole career, his

whole future would be differently shaped and yet not to have that three

thousand. Add to that, nervous irritability from hunger, from lodging

in a hole, from rags, from a vivid sense of the charm of his social

position and his sister’s and mother’s position too. Above all, vanity,

pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities

too.... I am not blaming him, please don’t think it; besides, it’s not

my business. A special little theory came in too--a theory of a

sort--dividing mankind, you see, into material and superior persons,

that is persons to whom the law does not apply owing to their

superiority, who make laws for the rest of mankind, the material, that

is. It’s all right as a theory, _une théorie comme une autre_. Napoleon

attracted him tremendously, that is, what affected him was that a

great many men of genius have not hesitated at wrongdoing, but have

overstepped the law without thinking about it. He seems to have fancied

that he was a genius too--that is, he was convinced of it for a time. He

has suffered a great deal and is still suffering from the idea that he

could make a theory, but was incapable of boldly overstepping the law,

and so he is not a man of genius. And that’s humiliating for a young man

of any pride, in our day especially....”



“But remorse? You deny him any moral feeling then? Is he like that?”



“Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, everything is in a muddle now; not that it was

ever in very good order. Russians in general are broad in their ideas,

Avdotya Romanovna, broad like their land and exceedingly disposed to

the fantastic, the chaotic. But it’s a misfortune to be broad without

a special genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk we had together on

this subject, sitting in the evenings on the terrace after supper? Why,

you used to reproach me with breadth! Who knows, perhaps we were talking

at the very time when he was lying here thinking over his plan. There

are no sacred traditions amongst us, especially in the educated class,

Avdotya Romanovna. At the best someone will make them up somehow for

himself out of books or from some old chronicle. But those are for the

most part the learned and all old fogeys, so that it would be almost

ill-bred in a man of society. You know my opinions in general, though. I

never blame anyone. I do nothing at all, I persevere in that. But

we’ve talked of this more than once before. I was so happy indeed as to

interest you in my opinions.... You are very pale, Avdotya Romanovna.”



“I know his theory. I read that article of his about men to whom all is

permitted. Razumihin brought it to me.”



“Mr. Razumihin? Your brother’s article? In a magazine? Is there such an

article? I didn’t know. It must be interesting. But where are you going,

Avdotya Romanovna?”



“I want to see Sofya Semyonovna,” Dounia articulated faintly. “How do I

go to her? She has come in, perhaps. I must see her at once. Perhaps

she...”



Avdotya Romanovna could not finish. Her breath literally failed her.



“Sofya Semyonovna will not be back till night, at least I believe not.

She was to have been back at once, but if not, then she will not be in

till quite late.”



“Ah, then you are lying! I see... you were lying... lying all the

time.... I don’t believe you! I don’t believe you!” cried Dounia,

completely losing her head.



Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair which Svidrigaïlov made haste to

give her.



“Avdotya Romanovna, what is it? Control yourself! Here is some water.

Drink a little....”



He sprinkled some water over her. Dounia shuddered and came to herself.



“It has acted violently,” Svidrigaïlov muttered to himself, frowning.

“Avdotya Romanovna, calm yourself! Believe me, he has friends. We will

save him. Would you like me to take him abroad? I have money, I can get

a ticket in three days. And as for the murder, he will do all sorts of

good deeds yet, to atone for it. Calm yourself. He may become a great

man yet. Well, how are you? How do you feel?”



“Cruel man! To be able to jeer at it! Let me go...”



“Where are you going?”



“To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in

at that door and now it is locked. When did you manage to lock it?”



“We couldn’t be shouting all over the flat on such a subject. I am far

from jeering; it’s simply that I’m sick of talking like this. But how

can you go in such a state? Do you want to betray him? You will drive

him to fury, and he will give himself up. Let me tell you, he is already

being watched; they are already on his track. You will simply be giving

him away. Wait a little: I saw him and was talking to him just now. He

can still be saved. Wait a bit, sit down; let us think it over together.

I asked you to come in order to discuss it alone with you and to

consider it thoroughly. But do sit down!”



“How can you save him? Can he really be saved?”



Dounia sat down. Svidrigaïlov sat down beside her.



“It all depends on you, on you, on you alone,” he began with glowing

eyes, almost in a whisper and hardly able to utter the words for

emotion.



Dounia drew back from him in alarm. He too was trembling all over.



“You... one word from you, and he is saved. I... I’ll save him. I have

money and friends. I’ll send him away at once. I’ll get a passport,

two passports, one for him and one for me. I have friends... capable

people.... If you like, I’ll take a passport for you... for your

mother.... What do you want with Razumihin? I love you too.... I love

you beyond everything.... Let me kiss the hem of your dress, let me, let

me.... The very rustle of it is too much for me. Tell me, ‘do that,’

and I’ll do it. I’ll do everything. I will do the impossible. What you

believe, I will believe. I’ll do anything--anything! Don’t, don’t look

at me like that. Do you know that you are killing me?...”



He was almost beginning to rave.... Something seemed suddenly to go to

his head. Dounia jumped up and rushed to the door.



“Open it! Open it!” she called, shaking the door. “Open it! Is there no

one there?”



Svidrigaïlov got up and came to himself. His still trembling lips slowly

broke into an angry mocking smile.



“There is no one at home,” he said quietly and emphatically. “The

landlady has gone out, and it’s waste of time to shout like that. You

are only exciting yourself uselessly.”



“Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, base man!”



“I have lost the key and cannot find it.”



“This is an outrage,” cried Dounia, turning pale as death. She rushed

to the furthest corner, where she made haste to barricade herself with a

little table.



She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on her tormentor and watched

every movement he made.



Svidrigaïlov remained standing at the other end of the room facing her.

He was positively composed, at least in appearance, but his face was

pale as before. The mocking smile did not leave his face.



“You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna. In that case you

may be sure I’ve taken measures. Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. The

Kapernaumovs are far away--there are five locked rooms between. I am at

least twice as strong as you are and I have nothing to fear, besides.

For you could not complain afterwards. You surely would not be willing

actually to betray your brother? Besides, no one would believe you. How

should a girl have come alone to visit a solitary man in his lodgings?

So that even if you do sacrifice your brother, you could prove nothing.

It is very difficult to prove an assault, Avdotya Romanovna.”



“Scoundrel!” whispered Dounia indignantly.



“As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a general

proposition. It’s my personal conviction that you are perfectly

right--violence is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have

no remorse even if... you were willing to save your brother of your

own accord, as I suggest to you. You would be simply submitting to

circumstances, to violence, in fact, if we must use that word. Think

about it. Your brother’s and your mother’s fate are in your hands. I

will be your slave... all my life... I will wait here.”



Svidrigaïlov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from Dounia. She had

not the slightest doubt now of his unbending determination. Besides, she

knew him. Suddenly she pulled out of her pocket a revolver, cocked it

and laid it in her hand on the table. Svidrigaïlov jumped up.



“Aha! So that’s it, is it?” he cried, surprised but smiling maliciously.

“Well, that completely alters the aspect of affairs. You’ve made things

wonderfully easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna. But where did you get the

revolver? Was it Mr. Razumihin? Why, it’s my revolver, an old friend!

And how I’ve hunted for it! The shooting lessons I’ve given you in the

country have not been thrown away.”



“It’s not your revolver, it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, whom you killed,

wretch! There was nothing of yours in her house. I took it when I began

to suspect what you were capable of. If you dare to advance one step, I

swear I’ll kill you.” She was frantic.



“But your brother? I ask from curiosity,” said Svidrigaïlov, still

standing where he was.



“Inform, if you want to! Don’t stir! Don’t come nearer! I’ll shoot! You

poisoned your wife, I know; you are a murderer yourself!” She held the

revolver ready.



“Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?”



“You did! You hinted it yourself; you talked to me of poison.... I know

you went to get it... you had it in readiness.... It was your doing....

It must have been your doing.... Scoundrel!”



“Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake... you would

have been the cause.”



“You are lying! I hated you always, always....”



“Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened

to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you remember

that moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?”



“That’s a lie,” there was a flash of fury in Dounia’s eyes, “that’s a

lie and a libel!”



“A lie? Well, if you like, it’s a lie. I made it up. Women ought not

to be reminded of such things,” he smiled. “I know you will shoot, you

pretty wild creature. Well, shoot away!”



Dounia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him, measuring the

distance and awaiting the first movement on his part. Her lower lip was

white and quivering and her big black eyes flashed like fire. He had

never seen her so handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment

she raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and there was a pang of

anguish in his heart. He took a step forward and a shot rang out. The

bullet grazed his hair and flew into the wall behind. He stood still and

laughed softly.



“The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head. What’s this?

Blood?” he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood, which flowed

in a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed to have just

grazed the skin.



Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigaïlov not so much in

terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what

she was doing and what was going on.



“Well, you missed! Fire again, I’ll wait,” said Svidrigaïlov softly,

still smiling, but gloomily. “If you go on like that, I shall have time

to seize you before you cock again.”



Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it.



“Let me be,” she cried in despair. “I swear I’ll shoot again. I... I’ll

kill you.”



“Well... at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don’t...

then.” His eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dounia shot

again: it missed fire.



“You haven’t loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge

there. Get it ready, I’ll wait.”



He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild

determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set eyes. Dounia

saw that he would sooner die than let her go. “And... now, of course she

would kill him, at two paces!” Suddenly she flung away the revolver.



“She’s dropped it!” said Svidrigaïlov with surprise, and he drew a deep

breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart--perhaps not only

the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it at that moment.

It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter,

which he could not himself have defined.



He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not

resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with suppliant eyes.

He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to

utter a sound.



“Let me go,” Dounia implored. Svidrigaïlov shuddered. Her voice now was

quite different.



“Then you don’t love me?” he asked softly. Dounia shook her head.



“And... and you can’t? Never?” he whispered in despair.



“Never!”



There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of

Svidrigaïlov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly

he withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it.

Another moment passed.



“Here’s the key.”



He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the table

behind him, without turning or looking at Dounia.



“Take it! Make haste!”



He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dounia went up to the table to

take the key.



“Make haste! Make haste!” repeated Svidrigaïlov, still without turning

or moving. But there seemed a terrible significance in the tone of that

“make haste.”



Dounia understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the door, unlocked it

quickly and rushed out of the room. A minute later, beside herself, she

ran out on to the canal bank in the direction of X. Bridge.



Svidrigaïlov remained three minutes standing at the window. At last he

slowly turned, looked about him and passed his hand over his forehead. A

strange smile contorted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of

despair. The blood, which was already getting dry, smeared his hand.

He looked angrily at it, then wetted a towel and washed his temple.

The revolver which Dounia had flung away lay near the door and suddenly

caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a little pocket

three-barrel revolver of old-fashioned construction. There were still

two charges and one capsule left in it. It could be fired again. He

thought a little, put the revolver in his pocket, took his hat and went

out.







CHAPTER VI



He spent that evening till ten o’clock going from one low haunt to

another. Katia too turned up and sang another gutter song, how a certain

“villain and tyrant”



    “began kissing Katia.”



Svidrigaïlov treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers and

the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to these

clerks by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to the

left and the other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure

garden, where he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky

three-year-old pine-tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a

“Vauxhall,” which was in reality a drinking-bar where tea too was

served, and there were a few green tables and chairs standing round it.

A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken but exceedingly depressed

German clown from Munich with a red nose entertained the public. The

clerks quarrelled with some other clerks and a fight seemed imminent.

Svidrigaïlov was chosen to decide the dispute. He listened to them for

a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that there was no

possibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed certain was

that one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded in

selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with his

companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon

belonging to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the affair began to seem

troublesome. Svidrigaïlov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of

the garden. It was about six o’clock. He had not drunk a drop of wine

all this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than

anything.



It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-clouds came over

the sky about ten o’clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain

came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the

earth in streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and each

flash lasted while one could count five.



Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the

bureau, took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then,

putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes,

but, looking out of the window and listening to the thunder and the

rain, he gave up the idea, took up his hat and went out of the room

without locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at home.



She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. She

was giving them tea. She received Svidrigaïlov in respectful silence,

looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at

once in indescribable terror.



Svidrigaïlov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him.

She timidly prepared to listen.



“I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna,” said Svidrigaïlov, “and

as I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some

arrangements. Well, did you see the lady to-day? I know what she said to

you, you need not tell me.” (Sonia made a movement and blushed.) “Those

people have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and your

brother, they are really provided for and the money assigned to them

I’ve put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgments. You had

better take charge of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here, take

them! Well now, that’s settled. Here are three 5-per-cent bonds to the

value of three thousand roubles. Take those for yourself, entirely for

yourself, and let that be strictly between ourselves, so that no one

knows of it, whatever you hear. You will need the money, for to go on

living in the old way, Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and besides there is no

need for it now.”



“I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and my

stepmother,” said Sonia hurriedly, “and if I’ve said so little... please

don’t consider...”



“That’s enough! that’s enough!”



“But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am very grateful to you,

but I don’t need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don’t think me

ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money....”



“It’s for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please don’t waste words

over it. I haven’t time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovitch

has two alternatives: a bullet in the brain or Siberia.” (Sonia looked

wildly at him, and started.) “Don’t be uneasy, I know all about it from

himself and I am not a gossip; I won’t tell anyone. It was good advice

when you told him to give himself up and confess. It would be much

better for him. Well, if it turns out to be Siberia, he will go and

you will follow him. That’s so, isn’t it? And if so, you’ll need money.

You’ll need it for him, do you understand? Giving it to you is the same

as my giving it to him. Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay

what’s owing. I heard you. How can you undertake such obligations so

heedlessly, Sofya Semyonovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna’s debt and not

yours, so you ought not to have taken any notice of the German woman.

You can’t get through the world like that. If you are ever questioned

about me--to-morrow or the day after you will be asked--don’t say

anything about my coming to see you now and don’t show the money to

anyone or say a word about it. Well, now good-bye.” (He got up.) “My

greetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way, you’d better put the money

for the present in Mr. Razumihin’s keeping. You know Mr. Razumihin? Of

course you do. He’s not a bad fellow. Take it to him to-morrow or...

when the time comes. And till then, hide it carefully.”



Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at Svidrigaïlov.

She longed to speak, to ask a question, but for the first moments she

did not dare and did not know how to begin.



“How can you... how can you be going now, in such rain?”



“Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain! Ha, ha! Good-bye,

Sofya Semyonovna, my dear! Live and live long, you will be of use to

others. By the way... tell Mr. Razumihin I send my greetings to him.

Tell him Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov sends his greetings. Be sure

to.”



He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety and vague

apprehension.



It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven,

he made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still

persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flat where

the parents of his betrothed lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky

Island. He knocked some time before he was admitted, and his visit

at first caused great perturbation; but Svidrigaïlov could be

very fascinating when he liked, so that the first, and indeed very

intelligent surmise of the sensible parents that Svidrigaïlov had

probably had so much to drink that he did not know what he was doing

vanished immediately. The decrepit father was wheeled in to see

Svidrigaïlov by the tender and sensible mother, who as usual began the

conversation with various irrelevant questions. She never asked a direct

question, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands and then, if she

were obliged to ascertain something--for instance, when Svidrigaïlov

would like to have the wedding--she would begin by interested and

almost eager questions about Paris and the court life there, and only

by degrees brought the conversation round to Third Street. On other

occasions this had of course been very impressive, but this time Arkady

Ivanovitch seemed particularly impatient, and insisted on seeing his

betrothed at once, though he had been informed, to begin with, that she

had already gone to bed. The girl of course appeared.



Svidrigaïlov informed her at once that he was obliged by very important

affairs to leave Petersburg for a time, and therefore brought her

fifteen thousand roubles and begged her accept them as a present from

him, as he had long been intending to make her this trifling present

before their wedding. The logical connection of the present with his

immediate departure and the absolute necessity of visiting them for that

purpose in pouring rain at midnight was not made clear. But it all went

off very well; even the inevitable ejaculations of wonder and regret,

the inevitable questions were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the

other hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and was reinforced

by tears from the most sensible of mothers. Svidrigaïlov got up,

laughed, kissed his betrothed, patted her cheek, declared he would soon

come back, and noticing in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, a

sort of earnest dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, though

he felt sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his present would be

immediately locked up in the keeping of the most sensible of mothers. He

went away, leaving them all in a state of extraordinary excitement, but

the tender mamma, speaking quietly in a half whisper, settled some of

the most important of their doubts, concluding that Svidrigaïlov was

a great man, a man of great affairs and connections and of great

wealth--there was no knowing what he had in his mind. He would start

off on a journey and give away money just as the fancy took him, so that

there was nothing surprising about it. Of course it was strange that he

was wet through, but Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric,

and all these people of high society didn’t think of what was said of

them and didn’t stand on ceremony. Possibly, indeed, he came like that

on purpose to show that he was not afraid of anyone. Above all, not a

word should be said about it, for God knows what might come of it, and

the money must be locked up, and it was most fortunate that Fedosya, the

cook, had not left the kitchen. And above all not a word must be said

to that old cat, Madame Resslich, and so on and so on. They sat up

whispering till two o’clock, but the girl went to bed much earlier,

amazed and rather sorrowful.



Svidrigaïlov meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed the bridge on the

way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a roaring

wind. He began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the black

waters of the Little Neva with a look of special interest, even inquiry.

But he soon felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and

went towards Y. Prospect. He walked along that endless street for a long

time, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the

wooden pavement, but continually looking for something on the right side

of the street. He had noticed passing through this street lately that

there was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly

large, and its name he remembered was something like Adrianople. He was

not mistaken: the hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken place

that he could not fail to see it even in the dark. It was a long,

blackened wooden building, and in spite of the late hour there were

lights in the windows and signs of life within. He went in and asked

a ragged fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latter,

scanning Svidrigaïlov, pulled himself together and led him at once to a

close and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under

the stairs. There was no other, all were occupied. The ragged fellow

looked inquiringly.



“Is there tea?” asked Svidrigaïlov.



“Yes, sir.”



“What else is there?”



“Veal, vodka, savouries.”



“Bring me tea and veal.”



“And you want nothing else?” he asked with apparent surprise.



“Nothing, nothing.”



The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.



“It must be a nice place,” thought Svidrigaïlov. “How was it I didn’t

know it? I expect I look as if I came from a café chantant and have

had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stayed

here?”



He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a

room so low-pitched that Svidrigaïlov could only just stand up in it;

it had one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain-stained

chair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they

were made of planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty

that the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general

colour--yellow--could still be made out. One of the walls was cut short

by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an attic but just under

the stairs.



Svidrigaïlov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank into

thought. But a strange persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shout

in the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had not ceased from

the moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding and

almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice.



Svidrigaïlov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he saw

light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The

room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One of

them, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing

in the pose of an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart to

preserve his balance, and smiting himself on the breast. He reproached

the other with being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. He

declared that he had taken the other out of the gutter and he could turn

him out when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees it

all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the

air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze, but can’t. He sometimes

turned sheepish and befogged eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not

the slightest idea what he was talking about and scarcely heard it. A

candle was burning down on the table; there were wine-glasses, a nearly

empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs

of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Svidrigaïlov turned away

indifferently and sat down on the bed.



The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking

him again whether he didn’t want anything more, and again receiving a

negative reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigaïlov made haste to drink a

glass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began

to feel feverish. He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the

blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. “It would have been better

to be well for the occasion,” he thought with a smile. The room was

close, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was roaring outside, he heard

a mouse scratching in the corner and the room smelt of mice and of

leather. He lay in a sort of reverie: one thought followed another. He

felt a longing to fix his imagination on something. “It must be a garden

under the window,” he thought. “There’s a sound of trees. How I dislike

the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark! They give one a

horrid feeling.” He remembered how he had disliked it when he passed

Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge over the Little

Neva and he felt cold again as he had when standing there. “I never have

liked water,” he thought, “even in a landscape,” and he suddenly smiled

again at a strange idea: “Surely now all these questions of taste and

comfort ought not to matter, but I’ve become more particular, like an

animal that picks out a special place... for such an occasion. I ought

to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed dark, cold,

ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant sensations!... By the way, why

haven’t I put out the candle?” he blew it out. “They’ve gone to bed next

door,” he thought, not seeing the light at the crack. “Well, now, Marfa

Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it’s dark, and the very

time and place for you. But now you won’t come!”



He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on

Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin’s

keeping. “I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to

tease myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He’s gone through a

good deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he’s got over

his nonsense. But now he’s _too_ eager for life. These young men

are contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him please

himself, it’s nothing to do with me.”



He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia’s image rose before him,

and a shudder ran over him. “No, I must give up all that now,” he

thought, rousing himself. “I must think of something else. It’s queer

and funny. I never had a great hatred for anyone, I never particularly

desired to avenge myself even, and that’s a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad

sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper--that’s

a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too--Damnation!

But--who knows?--perhaps she would have made a new man of me

somehow....”



He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia’s image

rose before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time,

she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that

he might have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand

to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that

instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his

heart...



“Aïe! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!”



He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly

something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He

started. “Ugh! hang it! I believe it’s a mouse,” he thought, “that’s the

veal I left on the table.” He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the

blanket, get up, get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over

his leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking

with feverish chill he bent down to examine the bed: there was nothing.

He shook the blanket and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet.

He tried to catch it, but the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without

leaving the bed, slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and

suddenly darted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one

instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over his body and down

his back under his shirt. He trembled nervously and woke up.



The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket

as before. The wind was howling under the window. “How disgusting,” he

thought with annoyance.



He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the

window. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided. There was a cold

damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the

blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of

anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another,

incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his

mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or

the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees

roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling

on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright,

warm, almost hot day, a holiday--Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country

cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with

flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was

surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with

rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed

particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant

narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was

reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came

into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere--at the windows,

the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself--were flowers.

The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows

were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were

chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table

covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was

covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of

flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a

white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as

though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was

a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of

her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her

pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal.

Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle

beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself.

She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed

herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish

soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn

from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on

a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled....



Svidrigaïlov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the

window. He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously

into the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with

his shirt, as though with frost. Under the window there must have been

something like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too,

probably there were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of

rain flew in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as

in a cellar, so that he could only just make out some dark blurs of

objects. Svidrigaïlov, bending down with elbows on the window-sill,

gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed

by a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. “Ah, the

signal! The river is overflowing,” he thought. “By morning it will be

swirling down the street in the lower parts, flooding the basements and

cellars. The cellar rats will swim out, and men will curse in the rain

and wind as they drag their rubbish to their upper storeys. What time is

it now?” And he had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on

the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck three.



“Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I’ll go out at once

straight to the park. I’ll choose a great bush there drenched with rain,

so that as soon as one’s shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on

one’s head.”



He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his

waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle,

into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep

somewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay

him for the room and leave the hotel. “It’s the best minute; I couldn’t

choose a better.”



He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without finding

anyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner

between an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange object

which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little

girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her

clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid of

Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her big

black eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have been

crying a long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child’s face

was pale and tired, she was numb with cold. “How can she have come here?

She must have hidden here and not slept all night.” He began questioning

her. The child suddenly becoming animated, chattered away in her baby

language, something about “mammy” and that “mammy would beat her,” and

about some cup that she had “bwoken.” The child chattered on without

stopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was a

neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service

of the hotel, whipped and frightened her; that the child had broken

a cup of her mother’s and was so frightened that she had run away the

evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in the

rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard and

spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness

and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his

arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began undressing

her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were as

wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all night. When he had

undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her in

the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he

sank into dreary musing again.



“What folly to trouble myself,” he decided suddenly with an oppressive

feeling of annoyance. “What idiocy!” In vexation he took up the candle

to go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away.

“Damn the child!” he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again

to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully.

The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket,

and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed

brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. “It’s a flush

of fever,” thought Svidrigaïlov. It was like the flush from drinking, as

though she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were

hot and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long

black eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a

sly crafty eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little

girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in

a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to

control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin,

a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quite

unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the

shameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they

turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited

him.... There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in that

laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. “What,

at five years old?” Svidrigaïlov muttered in genuine horror. “What does

it mean?” And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding

out her arms.... “Accursed child!” Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand

to strike her, but at that moment he woke up.



He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not

been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at the windows.



“I’ve had nightmare all night!” He got up angrily, feeling utterly

shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could

see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up,

put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his

pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his

pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few

lines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his

elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some

flies woke up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on

the table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand began

trying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch it.

At last, realising that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he

started, got up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later he

was in the street.



A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along the

slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing

the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island,

the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the

bush.... He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think

of something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street.

The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with

their closed shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and

he began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and read

each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and

came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with

its tail between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards, dead

drunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower

stood up on the left. “Bah!” he shouted, “here is a place. Why should

it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness

anyway....”



He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where

there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of

the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them,

wrapped in a grey soldier’s coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his

head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His

face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly

printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both,

Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes

without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a man

not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a

word.



“What do you want here?” he said, without moving or changing his

position.



“Nothing, brother, good morning,” answered Svidrigaïlov.



“This isn’t the place.”



“I am going to foreign parts, brother.”



“To foreign parts?”



“To America.”



“America.”



Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his

eyebrows.



“I say, this is not the place for such jokes!”



“Why shouldn’t it be the place?”



“Because it isn’t.”



“Well, brother, I don’t mind that. It’s a good place. When you are

asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.”



He put the revolver to his right temple.



“You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,” cried Achilles, rousing

himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.



Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.







CHAPTER VII



The same day, about seven o’clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on

his way to his mother’s and sister’s lodging--the lodging in Bakaleyev’s

house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from

the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still

hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back:

his decision was taken.



“Besides, it doesn’t matter, they still know nothing,” he thought, “and

they are used to thinking of me as eccentric.”



He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a

night’s rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the

inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all

the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a

decision.



He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dounia was not

at home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria

Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise; then she took him by

the hand and drew him into the room.



“Here you are!” she began, faltering with joy. “Don’t be angry with

me, Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing, not

crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I’ve got

into such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I’ve been like that ever

since your father’s death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you

must be tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are.”



“I was in the rain yesterday, mother....” Raskolnikov began.



“No, no,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, “you thought I

was going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to; don’t be

anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now I’ve learned the ways

here and truly I see for myself that they are better. I’ve made up my

mind once for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to

give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have,

or what ideas you are hatching; so it’s not for me to keep nudging your

elbow, asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why

am I running to and fro as though I were crazy...? I am reading your

article in the magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch

brought it to me. Directly I saw it I cried out to myself: ‘There,

foolish one,’ I thought, ‘that’s what he is busy about; that’s the

solution of the mystery! Learned people are always like that. He may

have some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I

worry him and upset him.’ I read it, my dear, and of course there was a

great deal I did not understand; but that’s only natural--how should I?”



“Show me, mother.”



Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. Incongruous

as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and

bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he

sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only

a moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed

with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding

months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger.



“But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you

will very soon be one of the leading--if not the leading man--in the

world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You

don’t know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures,

how could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but

believing it--what do you say to that? Your father sent twice to

magazines--the first time poems (I’ve got the manuscript and will show

you) and the second time a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it

out) and how we prayed that they should be taken--they weren’t! I was

breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your food and your

clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how foolish

I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and

talent. No doubt you don’t care about that for the present and you are

occupied with much more important matters....”



“Dounia’s not at home, mother?”



“No, Rodya. I often don’t see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri

Prokofitch comes to see me, it’s so good of him, and he always talks

about you. He loves you and respects you, my dear. I don’t say that

Dounia is very wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has

her ways and I have mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and

I never have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia

has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me... but I don’t

know what it will all lead to. You’ve made me so happy by coming now,

Rodya, but she has missed you by going out; when she comes in I’ll tell

her: ‘Your brother came in while you were out. Where have you been all

this time?’ You mustn’t spoil me, Rodya, you know; come when you can,

but if you can’t, it doesn’t matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway,

that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what

you write, I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you’ll

come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you’ve come now to

comfort your mother, I see that.”



Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.



“Here I am again! Don’t mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I

sitting here?” she cried, jumping up. “There is coffee and I don’t offer

you any. Ah, that’s the selfishness of old age. I’ll get it at once!”



“Mother, don’t trouble, I am going at once. I haven’t come for that.

Please listen to me.”



Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.



“Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are

told about me, will you always love me as you do now?” he asked suddenly

from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and

not weighing them.



“Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question?

Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn’t believe

anyone, I should refuse to listen.”



“I’ve come to assure you that I’ve always loved you and I am glad

that we are alone, even glad Dounia is out,” he went on with the same

impulse. “I have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you

must believe that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all

you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn’t care about you, was

all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you.... Well, that’s enough:

I thought I must do this and begin with this....”



Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her

bosom and weeping gently.



“I don’t know what is wrong with you, Rodya,” she said at last. “I’ve

been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now I see

that there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that’s why you are

miserable. I’ve foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking

about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister

lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I

caught something, but I couldn’t make it out. I felt all the morning

as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting

something, and now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You

are going away somewhere?”



“Yes.”



“That’s what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need

me. And Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly--and Sofya

Semyonovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon

her as a daughter even... Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together.

But... where... are you going?”



“Good-bye, mother.”



“What, to-day?” she cried, as though losing him for ever.



“I can’t stay, I must go now....”



“And can’t I come with you?”



“No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer perhaps will

reach Him.”



“Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That’s right, that’s

right. Oh, God, what are we doing?”



Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one there, that

he was alone with his mother. For the first time after all those awful

months his heart was softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her

feet and both wept, embracing. And she was not surprised and did not

question him this time. For some days she had realised that something

awful was happening to her son and that now some terrible minute had

come for him.



“Rodya, my darling, my first born,” she said sobbing, “now you are just

as when you were little. You would run like this to me and hug me and

kiss me. When your father was living and we were poor, you comforted us

simply by being with us and when I buried your father, how often we

wept together at his grave and embraced, as now. And if I’ve been crying

lately, it’s that my mother’s heart had a foreboding of trouble. The

first time I saw you, that evening, you remember, as soon as we arrived

here, I guessed simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and to-day

when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had

come. Rodya, Rodya, you are not going away to-day?”



“No!”



“You’ll come again?”



“Yes... I’ll come.”



“Rodya, don’t be angry, I don’t dare to question you. I know I mustn’t.

Only say two words to me--is it far where you are going?”



“Very far.”



“What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you?”



“What God sends... only pray for me.” Raskolnikov went to the door, but

she clutched him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face worked

with terror.



“Enough, mother,” said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come.



“Not for ever, it’s not yet for ever? You’ll come, you’ll come

to-morrow?”



“I will, I will, good-bye.” He tore himself away at last.



It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in the morning.

Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he made haste. He wanted to finish all

before sunset. He did not want to meet anyone till then. Going up the

stairs he noticed that Nastasya rushed from the samovar to watch him

intently. “Can anyone have come to see me?” he wondered. He had a

disgusted vision of Porfiry. But opening his door he saw Dounia. She

was sitting alone, plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had

been waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway. She rose from

the sofa in dismay and stood up facing him. Her eyes, fixed upon him,

betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at

once that she knew.



“Am I to come in or go away?” he asked uncertainly.



“I’ve been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were both waiting for you.

We thought that you would be sure to come there.”



Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a chair.



“I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have liked at this

moment to be able to control myself.”



He glanced at her mistrustfully.



“Where were you all night?”



“I don’t remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind

once for all, and several times I walked by the Neva, I remember that

I wanted to end it all there, but... I couldn’t make up my mind,” he

whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again.



“Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofya Semyonovna and

I. Then you still have faith in life? Thank God, thank God!”



Raskolnikov smiled bitterly.



“I haven’t faith, but I have just been weeping in mother’s arms; I

haven’t faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me. I don’t know

how it is, Dounia, I don’t understand it.”



“Have you been at mother’s? Have you told her?” cried Dounia,

horror-stricken. “Surely you haven’t done that?”



“No, I didn’t tell her... in words; but she understood a great deal.

She heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it

already. Perhaps I did wrong in going to see her. I don’t know why I did

go. I am a contemptible person, Dounia.”



“A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering! You are, aren’t

you?”



“Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought of

drowning myself, Dounia, but as I looked into the water, I thought that

if I had considered myself strong till now I’d better not be afraid of

disgrace,” he said, hurrying on. “It’s pride, Dounia.”



“Pride, Rodya.”



There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes; he seemed to be glad

to think that he was still proud.



“You don’t think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water?” he

asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile.



“Oh, Rodya, hush!” cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted for two

minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor; Dounia stood at the

other end of the table and looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he got

up.



“It’s late, it’s time to go! I am going at once to give myself up. But I

don’t know why I am going to give myself up.”



Big tears fell down her cheeks.



“You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand to me?”



“You doubted it?”



She threw her arms round him.



“Aren’t you half expiating your crime by facing the suffering?” she

cried, holding him close and kissing him.



“Crime? What crime?” he cried in sudden fury. “That I killed a vile

noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman, of use to no one!... Killing

her was atonement for forty sins. She was sucking the life out of poor

people. Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not thinking

of expiating it, and why are you all rubbing it in on all sides? ‘A

crime! a crime!’ Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my cowardice,

now that I have decided to face this superfluous disgrace. It’s simply

because I am contemptible and have nothing in me that I have decided to,

perhaps too for my advantage, as that... Porfiry... suggested!”



“Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, you have shed blood?” cried

Dounia in despair.



“Which all men shed,” he put in almost frantically, “which flows and has

always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, and for which

men are crowned in the Capitol and are called afterwards benefactors of

mankind. Look into it more carefully and understand it! I too wanted to

do good to men and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds

to make up for that one piece of stupidity, not stupidity even, simply

clumsiness, for the idea was by no means so stupid as it seems now

that it has failed.... (Everything seems stupid when it fails.) By that

stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to

take the first step, to obtain means, and then everything would have

been smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in comparison.... But I...

I couldn’t carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible,

that’s what’s the matter! And yet I won’t look at it as you do. If I had

succeeded I should have been crowned with glory, but now I’m trapped.”



“But that’s not so, not so! Brother, what are you saying?”



“Ah, it’s not picturesque, not æsthetically attractive! I fail to

understand why bombarding people by regular siege is more honourable.

The fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotence. I’ve never,

never recognised this more clearly than now, and I am further than ever

from seeing that what I did was a crime. I’ve never, never been stronger

and more convinced than now.”



The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as he uttered

his last explanation, he happened to meet Dounia’s eyes and he saw such

anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt that he

had, anyway, made these two poor women miserable, that he was, anyway,

the cause...



“Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I cannot be forgiven

if I am guilty). Good-bye! We won’t dispute. It’s time, high time to go.

Don’t follow me, I beseech you, I have somewhere else to go.... But you

go at once and sit with mother. I entreat you to! It’s my last request

of you. Don’t leave her at all; I left her in a state of anxiety, that

she is not fit to bear; she will die or go out of her mind. Be with

her! Razumihin will be with you. I’ve been talking to him.... Don’t cry

about me: I’ll try to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a

murderer. Perhaps I shall some day make a name. I won’t disgrace you,

you will see; I’ll still show.... Now good-bye for the present,” he

concluded hurriedly, noticing again a strange expression in Dounia’s

eyes at his last words and promises. “Why are you crying? Don’t cry,

don’t cry: we are not parting for ever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I’d

forgotten!”



He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it and took

from between the pages a little water-colour portrait on ivory. It was

the portrait of his landlady’s daughter, who had died of fever, that

strange girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the

delicate expressive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait and gave

it to Dounia.



“I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her,” he said

thoughtfully. “To her heart I confided much of what has since been so

hideously realised. Don’t be uneasy,” he returned to Dounia, “she was

as much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great

point is that everything now is going to be different, is going to

be broken in two,” he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection.

“Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself?

They say it is necessary for me to suffer! What’s the object of these

senseless sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when I

am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty

years’ penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I

consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood

looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day!”



At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but she loved him.

She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look

at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned and for

the last time their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him,

he motioned her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the

corner abruptly.



“I am wicked, I see that,” he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a

moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia. “But why are they so fond

of me if I don’t deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved

me and I too had never loved anyone! _Nothing of all this would have

happened._ But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so

meek that I shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word

that I am a criminal? Yes, that’s it, that’s it, that’s what they are

sending me there for, that’s what they want. Look at them running to and

fro about the streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at

heart and, worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they’d be

wild with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!”



He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could

be humbled before all of them, indiscriminately--humbled by conviction.

And yet why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual

bondage crush him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should

he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be

so? It was the hundredth time perhaps that he had asked himself that

question since the previous evening, but still he went.







CHAPTER VIII



When he went into Sonia’s room, it was already getting dark. All day

Sonia had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety. Dounia had been

waiting with her. She had come to her that morning, remembering

Svidrigaïlov’s words that Sonia knew. We will not describe the

conversation and tears of the two girls, and how friendly they became.

Dounia gained one comfort at least from that interview, that her

brother would not be alone. He had gone to her, Sonia, first with his

confession; he had gone to her for human fellowship when he needed it;

she would go with him wherever fate might send him. Dounia did not ask,

but she knew it was so. She looked at Sonia almost with reverence and

at first almost embarrassed her by it. Sonia was almost on the point

of tears. She felt herself, on the contrary, hardly worthy to look at

Dounia. Dounia’s gracious image when she had bowed to her so attentively

and respectfully at their first meeting in Raskolnikov’s room had

remained in her mind as one of the fairest visions of her life.



Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to her

brother’s room to await him there; she kept thinking that he would come

there first. When she had gone, Sonia began to be tortured by the dread

of his committing suicide, and Dounia too feared it. But they had spent

the day trying to persuade each other that that could not be, and both

were less anxious while they were together. As soon as they parted, each

thought of nothing else. Sonia remembered how Svidrigaïlov had said to

her the day before that Raskolnikov had two alternatives--Siberia or...

Besides she knew his vanity, his pride and his lack of faith.



“Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear of death to

make him live?” she thought at last in despair.



Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, looking

intently out of the window, but from it she could see nothing but the

unwhitewashed blank wall of the next house. At last when she began to

feel sure of his death--he walked into the room.



She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face she turned

pale.



“Yes,” said Raskolnikov, smiling. “I have come for your cross, Sonia. It

was you told me to go to the cross-roads; why is it you are frightened

now it’s come to that?”



Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange to her; a cold

shiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and the

words were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoid

meeting her eyes.



“You see, Sonia, I’ve decided that it will be better so. There is one

fact.... But it’s a long story and there’s no need to discuss it. But

do you know what angers me? It annoys me that all those stupid brutish

faces will be gaping at me directly, pestering me with their stupid

questions, which I shall have to answer--they’ll point their fingers at

me.... Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of him. I’d

rather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how I shall surprise

him, what a sensation I shall make! But I must be cooler; I’ve become

too irritable of late. You know I was nearly shaking my fist at my

sister just now, because she turned to take a last look at me. It’s

a brutal state to be in! Ah! what am I coming to! Well, where are the

crosses?”



He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still or

concentrate his attention on anything; his ideas seemed to gallop after

one another, he talked incoherently, his hands trembled slightly.



Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses, one of cypress

wood and one of copper. She made the sign of the cross over herself and

over him, and put the wooden cross on his neck.



“It’s the symbol of my taking up the cross,” he laughed. “As though I

had not suffered much till now! The wooden cross, that is the peasant

one; the copper one, that is Lizaveta’s--you will wear yourself, show

me! So she had it on... at that moment? I remember two things like

these too, a silver one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the old

woman’s neck. Those would be appropriate now, really, those are what I

ought to put on now.... But I am talking nonsense and forgetting what

matters; I’m somehow forgetful.... You see I have come to warn you,

Sonia, so that you might know... that’s all--that’s all I came for. But

I thought I had more to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I

am going to prison and you’ll have your wish. Well, what are you crying

for? You too? Don’t. Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!”



But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked at her. “Why

is she grieving too?” he thought to himself. “What am I to her? Why does

she weep? Why is she looking after me, like my mother or Dounia? She’ll

be my nurse.”



“Cross yourself, say at least one prayer,” Sonia begged in a timid

broken voice.



“Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia, sincerely....”



But he wanted to say something quite different.



He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her shawl and put

it over her head. It was the green _drap de dames_ shawl of which

Marmeladov had spoken, “the family shawl.” Raskolnikov thought of that

looking at it, but he did not ask. He began to feel himself that he

was certainly forgetting things and was disgustingly agitated. He was

frightened at this. He was suddenly struck too by the thought that Sonia

meant to go with him.



“What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I’ll go

alone,” he cried in cowardly vexation, and almost resentful, he moved

towards the door. “What’s the use of going in procession?” he muttered

going out.



Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said

good-bye to her; he had forgotten her. A poignant and rebellious doubt

surged in his heart.



“Was it right, was it right, all this?” he thought again as he went down

the stairs. “Couldn’t he stop and retract it all... and not go?”



But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he mustn’t ask

himself questions. As he turned into the street he remembered that he

had not said good-bye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle of

the room in her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shouted

at her, and he stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, another

thought dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike

him then.



“Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told her--on

business; on what business? I had no sort of business! To tell her I was

_going_; but where was the need? Do I love her? No, no, I drove her away

just now like a dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I’ve sunk! No,

I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heart

ached! I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me, some

friendly face to see! And I dared to believe in myself, to dream of what

I would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretch, contemptible!”



He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. But

on reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along it

went to the Hay Market.



He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object and

could not fix his attention on anything; everything slipped away. “In

another week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this

bridge, how shall I look at the canal then? I should like to remember

this!” slipped into his mind. “Look at this sign! How shall I read those

letters then? It’s written here ‘Campany,’ that’s a thing to remember,

that letter _a_, and to look at it again in a month--how shall I look

at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then?... How trivial

it all must be, what I am fretting about now! Of course it must all be

interesting... in its way... (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) I am

becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I ashamed? Foo! how

people shove! that fat man--a German he must be--who pushed against

me, does he know whom he pushed? There’s a peasant woman with a baby,

begging. It’s curious that she thinks me happier than she is. I might

give her something, for the incongruity of it. Here’s a five copeck

piece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here... take it, my

good woman!”



“God bless you,” the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice.



He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very distasteful to be

in a crowd, but he walked just where he saw most people. He would have

given anything in the world to be alone; but he knew himself that he

would not have remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and

disorderly in the crowd; he kept trying to dance and falling down. There

was a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed his way through the crowd,

stared for some minutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a short

jerky laugh. A minute later he had forgotten him and did not see him,

though he still stared. He moved away at last, not remembering where he

was; but when he got into the middle of the square an emotion suddenly

came over him, overwhelming him body and mind.



He suddenly recalled Sonia’s words, “Go to the cross-roads, bow down to

the people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned against it too, and say

aloud to the whole world, ‘I am a murderer.’” He trembled, remembering

that. And the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especially

of the last hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that he positively

clutched at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensation. It came

over him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and

spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and the

tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot....



He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth, and

kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture. He got up and bowed

down a second time.



“He’s boozed,” a youth near him observed.



There was a roar of laughter.



“He’s going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good-bye to his children

and his country. He’s bowing down to all the world and kissing the great

city of St. Petersburg and its pavement,” added a workman who was a

little drunk.



“Quite a young man, too!” observed a third.



“And a gentleman,” someone observed soberly.



“There’s no knowing who’s a gentleman and who isn’t nowadays.”



These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, “I am

a murderer,” which were perhaps on the point of dropping from his lips,

died away. He bore these remarks quietly, however, and, without looking

round, he turned down a street leading to the police office. He had a

glimpse of something on the way which did not surprise him; he had felt

that it must be so. The second time he bowed down in the Hay Market he

saw, standing fifty paces from him on the left, Sonia. She was hiding

from him behind one of the wooden shanties in the market-place. She had

followed him then on his painful way! Raskolnikov at that moment felt

and knew once for all that Sonia was with him for ever and would follow

him to the ends of the earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung his

heart... but he was just reaching the fatal place.



He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to mount to the third

storey. “I shall be some time going up,” he thought. He felt as though

the fateful moment was still far off, as though he had plenty of time

left for consideration.



Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on the spiral

stairs, again the open doors of the flats, again the same kitchens and

the same fumes and stench coming from them. Raskolnikov had not been

here since that day. His legs were numb and gave way under him, but

still they moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take breath, to

collect himself, so as to enter _like a man_. “But why? what for?” he

wondered, reflecting. “If I must drink the cup what difference does it

make? The more revolting the better.” He imagined for an instant the

figure of the “explosive lieutenant,” Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actually

going to him? Couldn’t he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch?

Couldn’t he turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch’s lodgings?

At least then it would be done privately.... No, no! To the “explosive

lieutenant”! If he must drink it, drink it off at once.



Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office.

There were very few people in it this time--only a house porter and a

peasant. The doorkeeper did not even peep out from behind his screen.

Raskolnikov walked into the next room. “Perhaps I still need not speak,”

 passed through his mind. Some sort of clerk not wearing a uniform was

settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner another clerk was

seating himself. Zametov was not there, nor, of course, Nikodim Fomitch.



“No one in?” Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau.



“Whom do you want?”



“A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I scent the

Russian... how does it go on in the fairy tale... I’ve forgotten! ‘At

your service!’” a familiar voice cried suddenly.



Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. He

had just come in from the third room. “It is the hand of fate,” thought

Raskolnikov. “Why is he here?”



“You’ve come to see us? What about?” cried Ilya Petrovitch. He

was obviously in an exceedingly good humour and perhaps a trifle

exhilarated. “If it’s on business you are rather early.[*] It’s only a

chance that I am here... however I’ll do what I can. I must admit, I...

what is it, what is it? Excuse me....”



     [*] Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that it is after

     sunset, and that the last time Raskolnikov visited the

     police office at two in the afternoon he was reproached for

     coming too late.--TRANSLATOR.



“Raskolnikov.”



“Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn’t imagine I’d forgotten? Don’t think I

am like that... Rodion Ro--Ro--Rodionovitch, that’s it, isn’t it?”



“Rodion Romanovitch.”



“Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovitch! I was just getting at it. I

made many inquiries about you. I assure you I’ve been genuinely grieved

since that... since I behaved like that... it was explained to me

afterwards that you were a literary man... and a learned one too... and

so to say the first steps... Mercy on us! What literary or scientific

man does not begin by some originality of conduct! My wife and I have

the greatest respect for literature, in my wife it’s a genuine passion!

Literature and art! If only a man is a gentleman, all the rest can be

gained by talents, learning, good sense, genius. As for a hat--well,

what does a hat matter? I can buy a hat as easily as I can a bun; but

what’s under the hat, what the hat covers, I can’t buy that! I was even

meaning to come and apologise to you, but thought maybe you’d... But I

am forgetting to ask you, is there anything you want really? I hear your

family have come?”



“Yes, my mother and sister.”



“I’ve even had the honour and happiness of meeting your sister--a highly

cultivated and charming person. I confess I was sorry I got so hot with

you. There it is! But as for my looking suspiciously at your fainting

fit--that affair has been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and fanaticism!

I understand your indignation. Perhaps you are changing your lodging on

account of your family’s arriving?”



“No, I only looked in... I came to ask... I thought that I should find

Zametov here.”



“Oh, yes! Of course, you’ve made friends, I heard. Well, no, Zametov is

not here. Yes, we’ve lost Zametov. He’s not been here since yesterday...

he quarrelled with everyone on leaving... in the rudest way. He is a

feather-headed youngster, that’s all; one might have expected something

from him, but there, you know what they are, our brilliant young men.

He wanted to go in for some examination, but it’s only to talk and

boast about it, it will go no further than that. Of course it’s a very

different matter with you or Mr. Razumihin there, your friend. Your

career is an intellectual one and you won’t be deterred by failure. For

you, one may say, all the attractions of life _nihil est_--you are an

ascetic, a monk, a hermit!... A book, a pen behind your ear, a learned

research--that’s where your spirit soars! I am the same way myself....

Have you read Livingstone’s Travels?”



“No.”



“Oh, I have. There are a great many Nihilists about nowadays, you know,

and indeed it is not to be wondered at. What sort of days are they? I

ask you. But we thought... you are not a Nihilist of course? Answer me

openly, openly!”



“N-no...”



“Believe me, you can speak openly to me as you would to yourself!

Official duty is one thing but... you are thinking I meant to say

_friendship_ is quite another? No, you’re wrong! It’s not friendship,

but the feeling of a man and a citizen, the feeling of humanity and of

love for the Almighty. I may be an official, but I am always bound

to feel myself a man and a citizen.... You were asking about Zametov.

Zametov will make a scandal in the French style in a house of bad

reputation, over a glass of champagne... that’s all your Zametov is good

for! While I’m perhaps, so to speak, burning with devotion and lofty

feelings, and besides I have rank, consequence, a post! I am married and

have children, I fulfil the duties of a man and a citizen, but who is

he, may I ask? I appeal to you as a man ennobled by education... Then

these midwives, too, have become extraordinarily numerous.”



Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The words of Ilya

Petrovitch, who had obviously been dining, were for the most part a

stream of empty sounds for him. But some of them he understood. He

looked at him inquiringly, not knowing how it would end.



“I mean those crop-headed wenches,” the talkative Ilya Petrovitch

continued. “Midwives is my name for them. I think it a very satisfactory

one, ha-ha! They go to the Academy, study anatomy. If I fall ill, am

I to send for a young lady to treat me? What do you say? Ha-ha!” Ilya

Petrovitch laughed, quite pleased with his own wit. “It’s an immoderate

zeal for education, but once you’re educated, that’s enough. Why abuse

it? Why insult honourable people, as that scoundrel Zametov does? Why

did he insult me, I ask you? Look at these suicides, too, how common

they are, you can’t fancy! People spend their last halfpenny and kill

themselves, boys and girls and old people. Only this morning we heard

about a gentleman who had just come to town. Nil Pavlitch, I say, what

was the name of that gentleman who shot himself?”



“Svidrigaïlov,” someone answered from the other room with drowsy

listlessness.



Raskolnikov started.



“Svidrigaïlov! Svidrigaïlov has shot himself!” he cried.



“What, do you know Svidrigaïlov?”



“Yes... I knew him.... He hadn’t been here long.”



“Yes, that’s so. He had lost his wife, was a man of reckless habits and

all of a sudden shot himself, and in such a shocking way.... He left

in his notebook a few words: that he dies in full possession of his

faculties and that no one is to blame for his death. He had money, they

say. How did you come to know him?”



“I... was acquainted... my sister was governess in his family.”



“Bah-bah-bah! Then no doubt you can tell us something about him. You had

no suspicion?”



“I saw him yesterday... he... was drinking wine; I knew nothing.”



Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him and was stifling

him.



“You’ve turned pale again. It’s so stuffy here...”



“Yes, I must go,” muttered Raskolnikov. “Excuse my troubling you....”



“Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It’s a pleasure to see you and I

am glad to say so.”



Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand.



“I only wanted... I came to see Zametov.”



“I understand, I understand, and it’s a pleasure to see you.”



“I... am very glad... good-bye,” Raskolnikov smiled.



He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness and did not know

what he was doing. He began going down the stairs, supporting himself

with his right hand against the wall. He fancied that a porter pushed

past him on his way upstairs to the police office, that a dog in

the lower storey kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung a

rolling-pin at it and shouted. He went down and out into the yard.

There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia, pale and horror-stricken.

She looked wildly at him. He stood still before her. There was a look of

poignant agony, of despair, in her face. She clasped her hands. His lips

worked in an ugly, meaningless smile. He stood still a minute, grinned

and went back to the police office.



Ilya Petrovitch had sat down and was rummaging among some papers. Before

him stood the same peasant who had pushed by on the stairs.



“Hulloa! Back again! have you left something behind? What’s the matter?”



Raskolnikov, with white lips and staring eyes, came slowly nearer.

He walked right to the table, leaned his hand on it, tried to say

something, but could not; only incoherent sounds were audible.



“You are feeling ill, a chair! Here, sit down! Some water!”



Raskolnikov dropped on to a chair, but he kept his eyes fixed on the

face of Ilya Petrovitch, which expressed unpleasant surprise. Both

looked at one another for a minute and waited. Water was brought.



“It was I...” began Raskolnikov.



“Drink some water.”



Raskolnikov refused the water with his hand, and softly and brokenly,

but distinctly said:



“_It was I killed the old pawnbroker woman and her sister Lizaveta with

an axe and robbed them._”



Ilya Petrovitch opened his mouth. People ran up on all sides.



Raskolnikov repeated his statement.







EPILOGUE



I



Siberia. On the banks of a broad solitary river stands a town, one of

the administrative centres of Russia; in the town there is a fortress,

in the fortress there is a prison. In the prison the second-class

convict Rodion Raskolnikov has been confined for nine months. Almost a

year and a half has passed since his crime.



There had been little difficulty about his trial. The criminal adhered

exactly, firmly, and clearly to his statement. He did not confuse nor

misrepresent the facts, nor soften them in his own interest, nor omit

the smallest detail. He explained every incident of the murder, the

secret of _the pledge_ (the piece of wood with a strip of metal) which

was found in the murdered woman’s hand. He described minutely how he

had taken her keys, what they were like, as well as the chest and its

contents; he explained the mystery of Lizaveta’s murder; described how

Koch and, after him, the student knocked, and repeated all they had said

to one another; how he afterwards had run downstairs and heard Nikolay

and Dmitri shouting; how he had hidden in the empty flat and afterwards

gone home. He ended by indicating the stone in the yard off the

Voznesensky Prospect under which the purse and the trinkets were found.

The whole thing, in fact, was perfectly clear. The lawyers and the

judges were very much struck, among other things, by the fact that he

had hidden the trinkets and the purse under a stone, without making

use of them, and that, what was more, he did not now remember what the

trinkets were like, or even how many there were. The fact that he had

never opened the purse and did not even know how much was in it seemed

incredible. There turned out to be in the purse three hundred and

seventeen roubles and sixty copecks. From being so long under the stone,

some of the most valuable notes lying uppermost had suffered from the

damp. They were a long while trying to discover why the accused man

should tell a lie about this, when about everything else he had made

a truthful and straightforward confession. Finally some of the lawyers

more versed in psychology admitted that it was possible he had really

not looked into the purse, and so didn’t know what was in it when he

hid it under the stone. But they immediately drew the deduction that

the crime could only have been committed through temporary mental

derangement, through homicidal mania, without object or the pursuit of

gain. This fell in with the most recent fashionable theory of temporary

insanity, so often applied in our days in criminal cases. Moreover

Raskolnikov’s hypochondriacal condition was proved by many witnesses, by

Dr. Zossimov, his former fellow students, his landlady and her servant.

All this pointed strongly to the conclusion that Raskolnikov was not

quite like an ordinary murderer and robber, but that there was another

element in the case.



To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this opinion, the

criminal scarcely attempted to defend himself. To the decisive question

as to what motive impelled him to the murder and the robbery, he

answered very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was

his miserable position, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to

provide for his first steps in life by the help of the three thousand

roubles he had reckoned on finding. He had been led to the murder

through his shallow and cowardly nature, exasperated moreover by

privation and failure. To the question what led him to confess, he

answered that it was his heartfelt repentance. All this was almost

coarse....



The sentence however was more merciful than could have been expected,

perhaps partly because the criminal had not tried to justify himself,

but had rather shown a desire to exaggerate his guilt. All the strange

and peculiar circumstances of the crime were taken into consideration.

There could be no doubt of the abnormal and poverty-stricken condition

of the criminal at the time. The fact that he had made no use of what he

had stolen was put down partly to the effect of remorse, partly to his

abnormal mental condition at the time of the crime. Incidentally the

murder of Lizaveta served indeed to confirm the last hypothesis: a man

commits two murders and forgets that the door is open! Finally, the

confession, at the very moment when the case was hopelessly muddled by

the false evidence given by Nikolay through melancholy and fanaticism,

and when, moreover, there were no proofs against the real criminal, no

suspicions even (Porfiry Petrovitch fully kept his word)--all this did

much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances, too, in the prisoner’s

favour came out quite unexpectedly. Razumihin somehow discovered and

proved that while Raskolnikov was at the university he had helped a poor

consumptive fellow student and had spent his last penny on supporting

him for six months, and when this student died, leaving a decrepit

old father whom he had maintained almost from his thirteenth year,

Raskolnikov had got the old man into a hospital and paid for his funeral

when he died. Raskolnikov’s landlady bore witness, too, that when they

had lived in another house at Five Corners, Raskolnikov had rescued two

little children from a house on fire and was burnt in doing so. This was

investigated and fairly well confirmed by many witnesses. These facts

made an impression in his favour.



And in the end the criminal was, in consideration of extenuating

circumstances, condemned to penal servitude in the second class for a

term of eight years only.



At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov’s mother fell ill. Dounia

and Razumihin found it possible to get her out of Petersburg during the

trial. Razumihin chose a town on the railway not far from Petersburg, so

as to be able to follow every step of the trial and at the same time

to see Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s

illness was a strange nervous one and was accompanied by a partial

derangement of her intellect.



When Dounia returned from her last interview with her brother, she

had found her mother already ill, in feverish delirium. That evening

Razumihin and she agreed what answers they must make to her mother’s

questions about Raskolnikov and made up a complete story for her

mother’s benefit of his having to go away to a distant part of Russia

on a business commission, which would bring him in the end money and

reputation.



But they were struck by the fact that Pulcheria Alexandrovna never

asked them anything on the subject, neither then nor thereafter. On the

contrary, she had her own version of her son’s sudden departure; she

told them with tears how he had come to say good-bye to her, hinting

that she alone knew many mysterious and important facts, and that Rodya

had many very powerful enemies, so that it was necessary for him to be

in hiding. As for his future career, she had no doubt that it would be

brilliant when certain sinister influences could be removed. She assured

Razumihin that her son would be one day a great statesman, that his

article and brilliant literary talent proved it. This article she was

continually reading, she even read it aloud, almost took it to bed

with her, but scarcely asked where Rodya was, though the subject was

obviously avoided by the others, which might have been enough to awaken

her suspicions.



They began to be frightened at last at Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s strange

silence on certain subjects. She did not, for instance, complain of

getting no letters from him, though in previous years she had only lived

on the hope of letters from her beloved Rodya. This was the cause of

great uneasiness to Dounia; the idea occurred to her that her mother

suspected that there was something terrible in her son’s fate and was

afraid to ask, for fear of hearing something still more awful. In any

case, Dounia saw clearly that her mother was not in full possession of

her faculties.



It happened once or twice, however, that Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave

such a turn to the conversation that it was impossible to answer her

without mentioning where Rodya was, and on receiving unsatisfactory and

suspicious answers she became at once gloomy and silent, and this mood

lasted for a long time. Dounia saw at last that it was hard to deceive

her and came to the conclusion that it was better to be absolutely

silent on certain points; but it became more and more evident that

the poor mother suspected something terrible. Dounia remembered her

brother’s telling her that her mother had overheard her talking in her

sleep on the night after her interview with Svidrigaïlov and before the

fatal day of the confession: had not she made out something from that?

Sometimes days and even weeks of gloomy silence and tears would be

succeeded by a period of hysterical animation, and the invalid would

begin to talk almost incessantly of her son, of her hopes of his

future.... Her fancies were sometimes very strange. They humoured her,

pretended to agree with her (she saw perhaps that they were pretending),

but she still went on talking.



Five months after Raskolnikov’s confession, he was sentenced. Razumihin

and Sonia saw him in prison as often as it was possible. At last

the moment of separation came. Dounia swore to her brother that the

separation should not be for ever, Razumihin did the same. Razumihin, in

his youthful ardour, had firmly resolved to lay the foundations at least

of a secure livelihood during the next three or four years, and saving

up a certain sum, to emigrate to Siberia, a country rich in every

natural resource and in need of workers, active men and capital. There

they would settle in the town where Rodya was and all together would

begin a new life. They all wept at parting.



Raskolnikov had been very dreamy for a few days before. He asked a great

deal about his mother and was constantly anxious about her. He worried

so much about her that it alarmed Dounia. When he heard about his

mother’s illness he became very gloomy. With Sonia he was particularly

reserved all the time. With the help of the money left to her by

Svidrigaïlov, Sonia had long ago made her preparations to follow the

party of convicts in which he was despatched to Siberia. Not a word

passed between Raskolnikov and her on the subject, but both knew it

would be so. At the final leave-taking he smiled strangely at his

sister’s and Razumihin’s fervent anticipations of their happy future

together when he should come out of prison. He predicted that their

mother’s illness would soon have a fatal ending. Sonia and he at last

set off.



Two months later Dounia was married to Razumihin. It was a quiet and

sorrowful wedding; Porfiry Petrovitch and Zossimov were invited however.

During all this period Razumihin wore an air of resolute determination.

Dounia put implicit faith in his carrying out his plans and indeed she

could not but believe in him. He displayed a rare strength of will.

Among other things he began attending university lectures again in order

to take his degree. They were continually making plans for the future;

both counted on settling in Siberia within five years at least. Till

then they rested their hopes on Sonia.



Pulcheria Alexandrovna was delighted to give her blessing to Dounia’s

marriage with Razumihin; but after the marriage she became even more

melancholy and anxious. To give her pleasure Razumihin told her how

Raskolnikov had looked after the poor student and his decrepit father

and how a year ago he had been burnt and injured in rescuing two

little children from a fire. These two pieces of news excited Pulcheria

Alexandrovna’s disordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She was

continually talking about them, even entering into conversation with

strangers in the street, though Dounia always accompanied her. In public

conveyances and shops, wherever she could capture a listener, she would

begin the discourse about her son, his article, how he had helped the

student, how he had been burnt at the fire, and so on! Dounia did

not know how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her morbid

excitement, there was the risk of someone’s recalling Raskolnikov’s name

and speaking of the recent trial. Pulcheria Alexandrovna found out the

address of the mother of the two children her son had saved and insisted

on going to see her.



At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She would sometimes

begin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One

morning she declared that by her reckoning Rodya ought soon to be home,

that she remembered when he said good-bye to her he said that they must

expect him back in nine months. She began to prepare for his coming,

began to do up her room for him, to clean the furniture, to wash and

put up new hangings and so on. Dounia was anxious, but said nothing and

helped her to arrange the room. After a fatiguing day spent in continual

fancies, in joyful day-dreams and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was

taken ill in the night and by morning she was feverish and delirious.

It was brain fever. She died within a fortnight. In her delirium she

dropped words which showed that she knew a great deal more about her

son’s terrible fate than they had supposed.



For a long time Raskolnikov did not know of his mother’s death, though

a regular correspondence had been maintained from the time he reached

Siberia. It was carried on by means of Sonia, who wrote every month

to the Razumihins and received an answer with unfailing regularity. At

first they found Sonia’s letters dry and unsatisfactory, but later on

they came to the conclusion that the letters could not be better, for

from these letters they received a complete picture of their unfortunate

brother’s life. Sonia’s letters were full of the most matter-of-fact

detail, the simplest and clearest description of all Raskolnikov’s

surroundings as a convict. There was no word of her own hopes, no

conjecture as to the future, no description of her feelings. Instead of

any attempt to interpret his state of mind and inner life, she gave the

simple facts--that is, his own words, an exact account of his health,

what he asked for at their interviews, what commission he gave her

and so on. All these facts she gave with extraordinary minuteness. The

picture of their unhappy brother stood out at last with great clearness

and precision. There could be no mistake, because nothing was given but

facts.



But Dounia and her husband could get little comfort out of the news,

especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was constantly sullen and not

ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave

him from their letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother and

that when, seeing that he had guessed the truth, she told him at last

of her death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly

affected by it, not externally at any rate. She told them that, although

he seemed so wrapped up in himself and, as it were, shut himself off

from everyone--he took a very direct and simple view of his new life;

that he understood his position, expected nothing better for the time,

had no ill-founded hopes (as is so common in his position) and scarcely

seemed surprised at anything in his surroundings, so unlike anything he

had known before. She wrote that his health was satisfactory; he did his

work without shirking or seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent

about food, but except on Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that

at last he had been glad to accept some money from her, Sonia, to have

his own tea every day. He begged her not to trouble about anything else,

declaring that all this fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote

further that in prison he shared the same room with the rest, that she

had not seen the inside of their barracks, but concluded that they were

crowded, miserable and unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a

rug under him and was unwilling to make any other arrangement. But that

he lived so poorly and roughly, not from any plan or design, but simply

from inattention and indifference.



Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her visits,

had almost been vexed with her indeed for coming, unwilling to talk and

rude to her. But that in the end these visits had become a habit and

almost a necessity for him, so that he was positively distressed when

she was ill for some days and could not visit him. She used to see him

on holidays at the prison gates or in the guard-room, to which he was

brought for a few minutes to see her. On working days she would go to

see him at work either at the workshops or at the brick kilns, or at the

sheds on the banks of the Irtish.



About herself, Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some

acquaintances in the town, that she did sewing, and, as there

was scarcely a dressmaker in the town, she was looked upon as an

indispensable person in many houses. But she did not mention that the

authorities were, through her, interested in Raskolnikov; that his task

was lightened and so on.



At last the news came (Dounia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and

uneasiness in the preceding letters) that he held aloof from everyone,

that his fellow prisoners did not like him, that he kept silent for days

at a time and was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia wrote

that he had been taken very seriously ill and was in the convict ward of

the hospital.







II



He was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not

the hard labour, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patched clothes

that crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships!

he was even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at

least reckon on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to

him--the thin cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a

student he had often not had even that. His clothes were warm and suited

to his manner of life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed

of his shaven head and parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia?

Sonia was afraid of him, how could he be ashamed before her? And yet he

was ashamed even before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with

his contemptuous rough manner. But it was not his shaven head and his

fetters he was ashamed of: his pride had been stung to the quick. It was

wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he

could have blamed himself! He could have borne anything then, even

shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated

conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, except

a simple _blunder_ which might happen to anyone. He was ashamed just

because he, Raskolnikov, had so hopelessly, stupidly come to grief

through some decree of blind fate, and must humble himself and submit to

“the idiocy” of a sentence, if he were anyhow to be at peace.



Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a

continual sacrifice leading to nothing--that was all that lay before

him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he

would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to

live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live

in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to

give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy.

Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted

more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he

had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others.



And if only fate would have sent him repentance--burning repentance that

would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance, the

awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would

have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been life.

But he did not repent of his crime.



At least he might have found relief in raging at his stupidity, as he

had raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought him to prison.

But now in prison, _in freedom_, he thought over and criticised all his

actions again and by no means found them so blundering and so grotesque

as they had seemed at the fatal time.



“In what way,” he asked himself, “was my theory stupider than others

that have swarmed and clashed from the beginning of the world? One has

only to look at the thing quite independently, broadly, and uninfluenced

by commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem so... strange.

Oh, sceptics and halfpenny philosophers, why do you halt half-way!



“Why does my action strike them as so horrible?” he said to himself. “Is

it because it was a crime? What is meant by crime? My conscience is at

rest. Of course, it was a legal crime, of course, the letter of the law

was broken and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the

law... and that’s enough. Of course, in that case many of the

benefactors of mankind who snatched power for themselves instead of

inheriting it ought to have been punished at their first steps. But

those men succeeded and so _they were right_, and I didn’t, and so I

had no right to have taken that step.”



It was only in that that he recognised his criminality, only in the fact

that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it.



He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed himself? Why

had he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the

desire to live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not

Svidrigaïlov overcome it, although he was afraid of death?



In misery he asked himself this question, and could not understand that,

at the very time he had been standing looking into the river, he had

perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself and

his convictions. He didn’t understand that that consciousness might be

the promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of his future

resurrection.



He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he

could not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at

his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and

prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in

prison than in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of

them, the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for

a ray of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away

in some unseen spot, which the tramp had marked three years before, and

longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the

green grass round it and the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he

saw still more inexplicable examples.



In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not

want to see; he lived as it were with downcast eyes. It was loathsome

and unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was much that

surprised him and he began, as it were involuntarily, to notice much

that he had not suspected before. What surprised him most of all was

the terrible impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest. They

seemed to be a different species, and he looked at them and they at

him with distrust and hostility. He felt and knew the reasons of his

isolation, but he would never have admitted till then that those reasons

were so deep and strong. There were some Polish exiles, political

prisoners, among them. They simply looked down upon all the rest as

ignorant churls; but Raskolnikov could not look upon them like that.

He saw that these ignorant men were in many respects far wiser than the

Poles. There were some Russians who were just as contemptuous, a former

officer and two seminarists. Raskolnikov saw their mistake as clearly.

He was disliked and avoided by everyone; they even began to hate him at

last--why, he could not tell. Men who had been far more guilty despised

and laughed at his crime.



“You’re a gentleman,” they used to say. “You shouldn’t hack about with

an axe; that’s not a gentleman’s work.”



The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacrament with his

gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke out

one day, he did not know how. All fell on him at once in a fury.



“You’re an infidel! You don’t believe in God,” they shouted. “You ought

to be killed.”



He had never talked to them about God nor his belief, but they wanted to

kill him as an infidel. He said nothing. One of the prisoners rushed at

him in a perfect frenzy. Raskolnikov awaited him calmly and silently;

his eyebrows did not quiver, his face did not flinch. The guard

succeeded in intervening between him and his assailant, or there would

have been bloodshed.



There was another question he could not decide: why were they all so

fond of Sonia? She did not try to win their favour; she rarely met

them, sometimes only she came to see him at work for a moment. And yet

everybody knew her, they knew that she had come out to follow _him_,

knew how and where she lived. She never gave them money, did them no

particular services. Only once at Christmas she sent them all presents

of pies and rolls. But by degrees closer relations sprang up between

them and Sonia. She would write and post letters for them to their

relations. Relations of the prisoners who visited the town, at their

instructions, left with Sonia presents and money for them. Their wives

and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited

Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the prisoners on the road, they

all took off their hats to her. “Little mother Sofya Semyonovna, you

are our dear, good little mother,” coarse branded criminals said to that

frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them and everyone was

delighted when she smiled. They even admired her gait and turned round

to watch her walking; they admired her too for being so little, and, in

fact, did not know what to admire her most for. They even came to her

for help in their illnesses.



He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When

he was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish

and delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a

terrible new strange plague that had come to Europe from the depths of

Asia. All were to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some new sorts

of microbes were attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were

endowed with intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became at once

mad and furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual

and so completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never

had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their

moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples

went mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand

one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched

looking at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung

his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what to

consider evil and what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom

to justify. Men killed each other in a sort of senseless spite. They

gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march

the armies would begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken

and the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting

and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing all day long in

the towns; men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was

summoning them no one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned,

because everyone proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they

could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed

on something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something

quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another,

fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All

men and all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread and

moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the whole

world. They were a pure chosen people, destined to found a new race and

a new life, to renew and purify the earth, but no one had seen these

men, no one had heard their words and their voices.



Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory so

miserably, the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so long.

The second week after Easter had come. There were warm bright spring

days; in the prison ward the grating windows under which the sentinel

paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during

his illness; each time she had to obtain permission, and it was

difficult. But she often used to come to the hospital yard, especially

in the evening, sometimes only to stand a minute and look up at the

windows of the ward.



One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. On

waking up he chanced to go to the window, and at once saw Sonia in the

distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone.

Something stabbed him to the heart at that minute. He shuddered and

moved away from the window. Next day Sonia did not come, nor the day

after; he noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last he was

discharged. On reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that

Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go out.



He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that

her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her,

Sonia sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better,

that she had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and

see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.



Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o’clock, he

went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster

and where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only

three of them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the

fortress to fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and

laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river

bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the

wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad landscape opened before

him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank.

In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black

specks, the nomads’ tents. There there was freedom, there other men were

living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand

still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed.

Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed into day-dreams, into

contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited

and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him; she had come up

noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite early; the

morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old burnous and the

green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, it was thinner and

paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand

with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand

to him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would

repel it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always

seemed vexed to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout

her visit. Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply

grieved. But now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance

at her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking. They were

alone, no one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time.



How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to

seize him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms round

her knees. For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she

turned pale. She jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same

moment she understood, and a light of infinite happiness came into her

eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her beyond everything and

that at last the moment had come....



They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They

were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the

dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were

renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the

heart of the other.



They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to

wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before

them! But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his

being, while she--she only lived in his life.



On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked,

Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her. He had even fancied

that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him

differently; he had even entered into talk with them and they answered

him in a friendly way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound

to be so. Wasn’t everything now bound to be changed?



He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her

and wounded her heart. He remembered her pale and thin little face.

But these recollections scarcely troubled him now; he knew with what

infinite love he would now repay all her sufferings. And what were all,

_all_ the agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentence

and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an

external, strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not

think for long together of anything that evening, and he could not have

analysed anything consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped

into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself

out in his mind.



Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically.

The book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the

raising of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry

him about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with

books. But to his great surprise she had not once approached the subject

and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it

himself not long before his illness and she brought him the book without

a word. Till now he had not opened it.



He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: “Can

her convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations at

least....”



She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken

ill again. But she was so happy--and so unexpectedly happy--that she was

almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, _only_ seven years! At

the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready

to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did not

know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he would

have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving, great

suffering.



But that is the beginning of a new story--the story of the gradual

renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing

from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life.

That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is

ended.









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