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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 hardworking
and deeply religious peoplebut 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 childrengenerally 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 workPoor Folk.

This story was published by the poet Nekrassov in his review and was
received with acclamations. The shyunknown youth found himself
instantly something of a celebrity. A brilliant and successful career
seemed to open before himbut 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 censorshipof reading a letter from
Byelinsky to Gogoland 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 headsand they
made us put on the white shirts worn by persons condemned to death.
Thereupon we were bound in threes to stakesto suffer execution.
Being the third in the rowI 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 Dourovwho were next to meand to bid them
farewell. Suddenly the troops beat a tattoowe were unboundbrought
back upon the scaffoldand informed that his Majesty had spared us
our lives." The sentence was commuted to hard labour.

One of the prisonersGrigoryevwent 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 casehe 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
servitudespent in the company of common criminals in Siberiawhere
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 criticwho seeks to explain the feeling
inspired by Dostoevsky: "He was one of ourselvesa man of our blood
and our bonebut 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 naturethis 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 slowlyas though
in hesitationtowards K. bridge.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His
garret was under the roof of a highfive-storied house and was more
like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with
garretdinnersand attendancelived on the floor belowand every
time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchenthe door of which
invariably stood open. And each time he passedthe young man had a
sickfrightened feelingwhich made him scowl and feel ashamed. He
was hopelessly in debt to his landladyand was afraid of meeting her.


This was not because he was cowardly and abjectquite the contrary;
but for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable
conditionverging on hypochondria. He had become so completely
absorbed in himselfand isolated from his fellows that he dreaded
meetingnot only his landladybut anyone at all. He was crushed by
povertybut 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 trivialirrelevant gossipto pestering
demands for paymentthreats and complaintsand to rack his brains
for excusesto prevaricateto lie--norather than thathe would
creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.

This eveninghoweveron coming out into the streethe became
acutely aware of his fears.

I want to attempt a thing /like that/ and am frightened by these
trifles,he thoughtwith an odd smile. "Hm . . . yesall is in a
man's hands and he lets it all slip from cowardicethat's an axiom.
It would be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of.
Taking a new steputtering 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 monthlying 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! Yesmaybe it is a plaything."

The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessnessthe bustle
and the plasterscaffoldingbricksand dust all about himand that
special Petersburg stenchso 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 pothouses
which are particularly numerous in that part of the townand
the drunken men whom he met continuallyalthough it was a working
daycompleted the revolting misery of the picture. An expression of
the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man's
refined face. He wasby the wayexceptionally handsomeabove the
average in heightslimwell-builtwith beautiful dark eyes and dark
brown hair. Soon he sank into deep thoughtor 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 timehe would mutter somethingfrom the habit of talking to
himselfto 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 townhoweverscarcely any shortcoming in dress would
have created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Marketthe
number of establishments of bad characterthe preponderance of the
trading and working class population crowded in these streets and
alleys in the heart of Petersburgtypes so various were to be seen in
the streets that no figurehowever queerwould have caused surprise.
But there was such accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young
man's heartthatin spite of all the fastidiousness of youthhe
minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a different matter
when he met with acquaintances or with former fellow studentswhom
indeedhe disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken man
whofor some unknown reasonwas being taken somewhere in a huge
waggon dragged by a heavy dray horsesuddenly shouted at him as he


drove past: "Hey thereGerman 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'sbut
completely worn outrusty with ageall torn and bespattered
brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not shame
howeverbut quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken him.

I knew it,he muttered in confusionI 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. Nowa month laterhe had begun to
look upon them differentlyandin spite of the monologues in which
he jeered at his own impotence and indecisionhe 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 projectand at every step his
excitement grew more and more violent.

With a sinking heart and a nervous tremorhe went up to a huge house
which on one side looked on to the canaland on the other into the
street. This house was let out in tiny tenements and was inhabited by
working people of all kinds--tailorslocksmithscooksGermans of
sortsgirls picking up a living as best they couldpetty 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
themand at once slipped unnoticed through the door on the rightand
up the staircase. It was a back staircasedark and narrowbut he was
familiar with it alreadyand knew his wayand 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
serviceand his family. This German was moving out thenand 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.

Raskolnikova studentI 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 remembermy good sirI 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 thoughonly 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 inmy good sir."

The little room into which the young man walkedwith yellow paper on
the wallsgeraniums and muslin curtains in the windowswas 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 mindand with a rapid glance he scanned
everything in the roomtrying as far as possible to notice and
remember its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the room.
The furnitureall very old and of yellow woodconsisted of a sofa
with a huge bent wooden backan oval table in front of the sofaa
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
framesrepresenting 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 againand he stole a curious glance
at the cotton curtain over the door leading into another tiny roomin
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 severelycoming into the room
andas beforestanding 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 watchon 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 itand was so angry that he was on the point of going
away; but checked himself at onceremembering that there was nowhere
else he could goand that he had had another object also in coming.

Hand it over,he said roughly.

The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keysand disappeared
behind the curtain into the other room. The young manleft standing
alone in the middle of the roomlistened inquisitivelythinking. 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 therethree times as big as all the otherswith 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 womanand was in no hurry to get awayas though there was still
something he wanted to say or to dobut 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 stairshe even stopped short
two or three timesas though suddenly struck by some thought. When he
was in the street he cried outOh, 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. Yesfilthy above
alldisgustingloathsomeloathsome!--and for a whole month I've
been. . . ." But no wordsno exclamationscould express his
agitation. The feeling of intense repulsionwhich had begun to
oppress and torture his heart while he was on his way to the old
womanhad 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-byand jostling against themand only came
to his senses when he was in the next street. Looking roundhe
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 doorand abusing and supporting one
anotherthey mounted the steps. Without stopping to think
Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Till that moment he had never
been into a tavernbut now he felt giddy and was tormented by a
burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beerand 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 beerand eagerly drank
off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his thoughts
became clear.

All that's nonsense,he said hopefullyand 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 reflectionhe 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 stepsa 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 artisandrunkbut not
extremely sositting before a pot of beerand his companiona huge
stout man with a grey beardin a short full-skirted coat. He was very
drunk: and had dropped asleep on the bench; every now and thenhe
began as though in his sleepcracking his fingerswith his arms wide
apart and the upper part of his body bounding about on the bench
while he hummed some meaningless refraintrying 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 apartnow and then sipping from his pot and
looking round at the company. Hetooappeared to be in some
agitation.

CHAPTER II

Raskolnikov was not used to crowdsandas we said beforehe avoided
society of every sortmore 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 himand 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 restif only for
a momentin some other worldwhatever it might be; andin spite of
the filthiness of the surroundingshe was glad now to stay in the
tavern.

The master of the establishment was in another roombut he frequently
came down some steps into the main roomhis jauntytarred 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
waistcoatwith no cravatand his whole face seemed smeared with oil
like an iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteenand
there was another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted.
On the counter lay some sliced cucumbersome pieces of dried black
breadand some fishchopped up smallall smelling very bad. It was
insufferably closeand 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 momentbefore a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on
Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from himwho
looked like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this
impression afterwardsand even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked
repeatedly at the clerkpartly no doubt because the latter was
staring persistently at himobviously anxious to enter into
conversation. At the other persons in the roomincluding the tavernkeeper
the clerk looked as though he were used to their companyand
weary of itshowing a shade of condescending contempt for them as
persons of station and culture inferior to his ownwith whom it would
be useless for him to converse. He was a man over fiftybald and
grizzledof medium heightand stoutly built. His facebloated from
continual drinkingwas of a yelloweven greenishtingewith
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 intelligencebut at the same time there was a gleam of
something like madness. He was wearing an old and hopelessly ragged
black dress coatwith all its buttons missing except oneand that
one he had buttonedevidently clinging to this last trace of
respectability. A crumpled shirt frontcovered with spots and stains
protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerkhe wore no beard
nor moustachebut 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 Raskolnikovand 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 mansomewhat 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 sorton 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 experienceimmense experiencesir 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 upstaggeredtook up his jug and glassand sat down
beside the young manfacing him a little sideways. He was drunkbut
spoke fluently and boldlyonly 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 solemnitypoverty 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 glassemptied 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 handsparticularlywere filthy. They were fat and
redwith 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 roomapparently on purpose to listen to the "funny
fellow" and sat down at a little distanceyawning lazilybut with
dignity. Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure hereand 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
drunkardsand 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 workwhy
aren't you at your dutyif you are in the service?"

Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir,Marmeladov went on
addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikovas 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 handsand I lay drunkdidn't
I suffer? Excuse meyoung manhas it ever happened to you . . . hm
. . . wellto 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 parenthesislooking with a certain uneasiness
at the young man. "No mattersirno matter!" he went on hurriedly
and with apparent composure when both the boys at the counter guffawed
and even the innkeeper smiled--"No matterI am not confounded by the
wagging of their heads; for everyone knows everything about it
alreadyand all that is secret is made open. And I accept it allnot
with contemptbut with humility. So be it! So be it! 'Behold the
man!' Excuse meyoung mancan you. . . . Noto put it more strongly
and more distinctly; not /can/ you but /dare/ youlooking 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
dignityafter waiting for the laughter in the room to subside. "Well
so be itI am a pigbut she is a lady! I have the semblance of a
beastbut Katerina Ivanovnamy spouseis a person of education and
an officer's daughter. GrantedgrantedI am a scoundrelbut she is
a woman of a noble heartfull of sentimentsrefined by education.
And yet . . . ohif only she felt for me! Honoured sirhonoured sir
you know every man ought to have at least one place where people feel
for him! But Katerina Ivanovnathough she is magnanimousshe is
unjust. . . . And yetalthough I realise that when she pulls my hair
she only does it out of pity--for I repeat without being ashamedshe
pulls my hairyoung man he declared with redoubled dignity, hearing
the sniggering again--butmy Godif she would but once. . . . But
nono! It's all in vain and it's no use talking! No use talking! For
more than oncemy 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 onraising his head againin 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 shortas though his voice had failed him. Then he
hurriedly filled his glassdrankand cleared his throat.

Since then, sir,he went on after a brief pause--"Since thenowing
to an unfortunate occurrence and through information given by evilintentioned
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
ticketand owing to that she is unable to go on living with us. For
our landladyAmalia 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 passshe stood up for her
. . . and so that's how it happened. And Sonia comes to us nowmostly
after dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and gives her all she can.
. . . She has a room at the Kapernaumovs' the tailorsshe lodges with
them; Kapernaumov is a lame man with a cleft palate and all of his
numerous family have cleft palates too. And his wifetoohas a cleft
palate. They all live in one roombut Sonia has her ownpartitioned
off. . . . Hm . . . yes . . . very poor people and all with cleft
palates . . . yes. Then I got up in the morningand put on my rags
lifted up my hands to heaven and set off to his excellency Ivan
Afanasyvitch. His excellency Ivan Afanasyvitchdo you know him? No?
Wellthenit'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. 'Marmeladovonce 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 onlyfor in
reality he would not have allowed me to do itbeing a statesman and a
man of modern political and enlightened ideas. I returned homeand
when I announced that I'd been taken back into the service and should
receive a salaryheavenswhat 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 streetand 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 weakbut as
he became more and more drunkhe became more and more talkative. The
recollection of his recent success in getting the situation seemed to
revive himand 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 shirtfronts--
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 offtried to smilebut suddenly his chin began to
twitch. He controlled himself however. The tavernthe degraded
appearance of the manthe five nights in the hay bargeand the pot
of spiritsand 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-"
Ohsirperhaps all this seems a laughing matter to youas it does
to othersand perhaps I am only worrying you with the stupidity of
all the trivial details of my home lifebut 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 alland how I would dress
all the childrenand how I should give her restand how I should
rescue my own daughter from dishonour and restore her to the bosom of
her family. . . . And a great deal more. . . . Quite excusablesir.
Wellthensir" (Marmeladov suddenly gave a sort of startraised his
head and gazed intently at his listener) "wellon the very next day
after all those dreamsthat is to sayexactly five days agoin the
eveningby a cunning tricklike a thief in the nightI stole from
Katerina Ivanovna the key of her boxtook out what was left of my
earningshow much it was I have forgottenand now look at meall of
you! It's the fifth day since I left homeand they are looking for me
there and it's the end of my employmentand 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 fistclenched 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 bravadohe glanced at Raskolnikovlaughed


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 handsher lastall she hadas I saw. . . . She
said nothingshe only looked at me without a word. . . . Not on
earthbut up yonder . . . they grieve over menthey weepbut they
don't blame themthey don't blame them! But it hurts moreit hurts
more when they don't blame! Thirty copecks yes! And maybe she needs
them noweh? What do you thinkmy dear sir? For now she's got to
keep up her appearance. It costs moneythat smartnessthat special
smartnessyou know? Do you understand? And there's pomatumtooyou
seeshe must have things; petticoatsstarched onesshoestooreal
jaunty ones to show off her foot when she has to step over a puddle.
Do you understandsirdo you understand what all that smartness
means? And here Iher own fatherhere I took thirty copecks of that
money for a drink! And I am drinking it! And I have already drunk it!
Comewho will have pity on a man like meeh? Are you sorry for me
siror not? Tell mesirare you sorry or not? He-he-he!"

He would have filled his glassbut 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 outstretchedas 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 exhaustedand helplesslooking at no oneapparently
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 onand so on.

Let us go, sir,said Marmeladov all at onceraising 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 itthat's not what I am afraid of . . . it's
her eyes I am afraid of . . . yesher eyes . . . the red on her
cheekstoofrightens 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 cryingtoo. . . . 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. . . . Knowsirthat such
blows are not a pain to mebut even an enjoyment. In fact I can't get
on without it. . . . It's better so. Let her strike meit relieves
her heart . . . it's better so . . . There is the house. The house of
Kozelthe cabinet-maker . . . a Germanwell-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 nightyet 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 sortsespecially 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 leatherfull of holesbefore which
stood an old deal kitchen-tableunpainted 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 themselvesnot part of a
roombut their room was practically a passage. The door leading to
the other roomsor rather cupboardsinto which Amalia Lippevechsel's


flat was divided stood half openand there was shoutinguproar 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
tallslim and graceful womanterribly emaciatedwith magnificent
dark brown hair and with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing
up and down in her little roompressing 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 thoughthearing and
seeing nothing. The room was closebut she had not opened the window;
a stench rose from the staircasebut the door on to the stairs was
not closed. From the inner rooms clouds of tobacco smoke floated in
she kept coughingbut did not close the door. The youngest childa
girl of sixwas asleepsitting curled up on the floor with her head
on the sofa. A boy a year older stood crying and shaking in the
cornerprobably he had just had a beating. Beside him stood a girl of
nine years oldtall and thinwearing a thin and ragged chemise with
an ancient cashmere pelisse flung over her bare shoulderslong
outgrown and barely reaching her knees. Her armas thin as a stick
was round her brother's neck. She was trying to comfort him
whispering something to himand doing all she could to keep him from
whimpering again. At the same time her large dark eyeswhich looked
larger still from the thinness of her frightened facewere watching
her mother with alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the doorbut dropped
on his knees in the very doorwaypushing Raskolnikov in front of him.
The woman seeing a stranger stopped indifferently facing himcoming
to herself for a moment and apparently wondering what he had come for.
But evidently she decided that he was going into the next roomas he
had to pass through hers to get there. Taking no further notice of
himshe 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 frenzyhe 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 uscan 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 outshaken to and
fro by his hair and even once striking the ground with his forehead.
The child asleep on the floor woke upand began to cry. The boy in
the corner losing all control began trembling and screaming and rushed
to his sister in violent terroralmost 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 hungryhungry!"--and
wringing her hands she pointed to the children. "Ohaccursed life!
And youare you not ashamed?"--she pounced all at once upon


Raskolnikov--"from the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You
have been drinking with himtoo! 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 openin costumes of unseemly scantinesssome
of them with cards in their hands. They were particularly diverted
when Marmeladovdragged about by his hairshouted 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 outRaskolnikov 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
stairshe changed his mind and would have gone back.

What a stupid thing I've done,he thought to himselfthey 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 ithe 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-dayfor there is
always a riskhunting 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! Yesthey are making the most of it! They've wept over it and
grown used to it. Man grows used to everythingthe 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 biliousirritableill-temperedand
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 wallsand 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 chintzbut was now in rags and served Raskolnikov as a
bed. Often he went to sleep on itas he waswithout undressing
without sheetswrapped in his old student's overcoatwith his head
on one little pillowunder which he heaped up all the linen he had
clean and dirtyby 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 disorderbut
to Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this was positively
agreeable. He had got completely away from everyonelike a tortoise
in its shelland 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 mealsand he had not yet
thought of expostulating with herthough he went without his dinner.
Nastasyathe cook and only servantwas 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 nineI
have brought you some tea; will you have a cup? I should think you're
fairly starving?"

Raskolnikov opened his eyesstarted and recognised Nastasya.

From the landlady, eh?he askedslowly 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 saidfumbling 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 sausagethe cheapestat 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 broughtand he had begun upon itNastasya 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 mutteredgrinding 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 hershe 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
answeredreluctantlyas 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 firmlyafter 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
motherfrom the province of R----. He turned pale when he took it. It
was a long while since he had received a letterbut 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 outhe lifted it quickly to his lips and kissed it;
then he gazed intently at the addressthe smallsloping handwriting
so dear and familiarof 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 letterweighing 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 nightthinking. 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 toDounia and Iyou are our allour one hope
our one stay. What a grief it was to me when I heard that you had
given up the university some months agofor 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
borrowedas you knowon security of my pensionfrom 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 pensionI had to wait till the debt was
paid off and that is only just doneso that I've been unable to
send you anything all this time. But nowthank GodI believe I
shall be able to send you something more and in fact we may
congratulate ourselves on our good fortune nowof which I hasten
to inform you. In the first placewould you have guesseddear
Rodyathat your sister has been living with me for the last six
weeks and we shall not be separated in the future. Thank Godher
sufferings are overbut I will tell you everything in orderso
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 Svidrigraïlovs' housewhen 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 youI dare say you would have
thrown up everything and have come to useven if you had to walk
all the wayfor I know your character and your feelingsand you
would not let your sister be insulted. I was in despair myself
but what could I do? AndbesidesI 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 familyon condition of part of her salary
being deducted every monthand so it was impossible to throw up
the situation without repaying the debt. This sum (now I can
explain it all to youmy precious Rodya) she took chiefly in
order to send you sixty roubleswhich 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 savingsbut that was
not soand now I tell you all about itbecausethank God
things have suddenly changed for the betterand 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 detailsso as not to worry you for
nothing when it is now all over. In shortin spite of the kind
and generous behaviour of Marfa PetrovnaMr. Svidrigaïlov's wife
and all the rest of the householdDounia had a very hard time
especially when Mr. Svidrigaïlovrelapsing into his old
regimental habitswas 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
beginningbut had concealed it under a show of rudeness and
contempt. Possibly he was ashamed and horrified himself at his own
flighty hopesconsidering his years and his being the father of a
family; and that made him angry with Dounia. And possiblytoohe
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 proposalpromising her all sorts of
inducements and offeringbesidesto throw up everything and take
her to another estate of hisor even abroad. You can imagine all
she went through! To leave her situation at once was impossible
not only on account of the money debtbut also to spare the
feelings of Marfa Petrovnawhose 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 Douniaof 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 mealthough we were
constantly in communication. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa
Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband imploring Dounia in
the gardenandputting quite a wrong interpretation on the
positionthrew the blame upon herbelieving 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 cartinto which they flung all her
thingsher linen and her clothesall pell-mellwithout folding
it up and packing it. And a heavy shower of rain came ontooand
Douniainsulted and put to shamehad 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
unhappymortified and indignantand yet what could you do? You
could only perhaps ruin yourselfandbesidesDounia would not
allow it; and fill up my letter with trifles when my heart was so
full of sorrowI could not. For a whole month the town was full
of gossip about this scandaland it came to such a pass that
Dounia and I dared not even go to church on account of the
contemptuous lookswhispersand even remarks made aloud about
us. All our acquaintances avoided usnobody even bowed to us in
the streetand I learnt that some shopmen and clerks were
intending to insult us in a shameful waysmearing the gates of
our house with pitchso 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 neighbourhoodand that month she was continually
coming into the townand 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 townbut
over the whole surrounding district. It made me illbut Dounia
bore it better than I didand 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 mercyour sufferings were cut short: Mr.
Svidrigaïlov returned to his senses and repented andprobably
feeling sorry for Douniahe laid before Marfa Petrovna a complete
and unmistakable proof of Dounia's innocencein the form of a
letter Dounia had been forced to write and give to himbefore
Marfa Petrovna came upon them in the garden. This letterwhich
remained in Mr. Svidrigaïlov's hands after her departureshe had
written to refuse personal explanations and secret interviewsfor
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 Petrovnareminding 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 girlunhappy enough
already. Indeeddear Rodyathe letter was so nobly and
touchingly written that I sobbed when I read it and to this day I
cannot read it without tears. Moreoverthe evidence of the
servantstoocleared 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 abackand 'again crushed' as she said herself to


usbut she was completely convinced of Dounia's innocence. The
very next daybeing Sundayshe 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 ustold us the whole storywept bitterly
andfully penitentshe embraced Dounia and besought her to
forgive her. The same morning without any delayshe went round to
all the houses in the town and everywhereshedding tearsshe
asserted in the most flattering terms Dounia's innocence and the
nobility of her feelings and her behavior. What was moreshe
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 turnsso
that in every house she was expected before she arrivedand
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 iteven many who had heard it several times
already both in their own houses and in other people's. In my
opinion a great deala 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 husbandas the only person to blameso 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 familiesbut 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 whichone may sayour whole fortunes are now
transformed. You must knowdear Rodyathat Dounia has a suitor
and that she has already consented to marry him. I hasten to tell
you all about the matterand though it has been arranged without
asking your consentI think you will not be aggrieved with me or
with your sister on that accountfor 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
counsellorPyotr Petrovitch Luzhinand is distantly related to
Marfa Petrovnawho 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 receiveddrank 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
Petersburgso that every moment is precious to him. At firstof
coursewe were greatly surprisedas it had all happened so
quickly and unexpectedly. We thought and talked it over the whole
day. He is a well-to-do manto be depended uponhe has two posts
in the government and has already made his fortune. It is true
that he is forty-five years oldbut he is of a fairly
prepossessing appearance and might still be thought attractive by
womenand he is altogether a very respectable and presentable
manonly he seems a little morose and somewhat conceited. But
possibly that may only be the impression he makes at first sight.
And bewaredear Rodyawhen he comes to Petersburgas he shortly
will dobeware of judging him too hastily and severelyas your
way isif there is anything you do not like in him at first
sight. I give you this warningalthough I feel sure that he will
make a favourable impression upon you. Moreoverin order to
understand any man one must be deliberate and careful to avoid
forming prejudices and mistaken ideaswhich are very difficult to
correct and get over afterwards. And Pyotr Petrovitchjudging by


many indicationsis a thoroughly estimable man. At his first
visitindeedhe told us that he was a practical manbut still
he sharesas he expressed itmany of the convictions 'of our
most rising generation' and he is an opponent of all prejudices.
He said a good deal morefor he seems a little conceited and
likes to be listened tobut this is scarcely a vice. Iof
courseunderstood very little of itbut Dounia explained to me
thatthough he is not a man of great educationhe is clever and
seems to be good-natured. You know your sister's characterRodya.
She is a resolutesensiblepatient and generous girlbut she
has a passionate heartas I know very well. Of coursethere is
no great love either on his sideor on hersbut Dounia is a
clever girl and has the heart of an angeland 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 seeto
be sureof himselfthat his own happiness will be the more
securethe happier Dounia is with him. And as for some defects of
characterfor some habits and even certain differences of opinion
--which indeed are inevitable even in the happiest marriages-Dounia
has said thatas regards all thatshe relies on herself
that there is nothing to be uneasy aboutand that she is ready to
put up with a great dealif only their future relationship can be
an honourable and straightforward one. He struck mefor instance
at firstas rather abruptbut that may well come from his being
an outspoken manand that is no doubt how it is. For instanceat
his second visitafter he had received Dounia's consentin the
course of conversationhe declared that before making Dounia's
acquaintancehe had made up his mind to marry a girl of good
reputationwithout dowry andabove allone who had experienced
povertybecauseas he explaineda man ought not to be indebted
to his wifebut 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 donefor I have forgotten his
actual phrases and only remember the meaning. Andbesidesit was
obviously not said of designbut slipped out in the heat of
conversationso that he tried afterwards to correct himself and
smooth it overbut all the same it did strike me as somewhat
rudeand I said so afterwards to Dounia. But Dounia was vexed
and answered that 'words are not deeds' and thatof courseis
perfectly true. Dounia did not sleep all night before she made up
her mindandthinking that I was asleepshe 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 oldwomanish,
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-inlaw,
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 firstwhile he read the letterRaskolnikov's face
was wet with tears; but when he finished ithis face was pale and
distorted and a bitterwrathful 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 violentlyand 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 outthis time without
dread of meeting anyone; he had forgotten his dread. He turned in the
direction of the Vassilyevsky Ostrovwalking along Vassilyevsky
Prospectas though hastening on some businessbut he walkedas his
habit waswithout noticing his waymuttering and even speaking aloud
to himselfto 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 himbut as regards the
chief fact in ithe had felt not one moment's hesitationeven whilst
he was reading the letter. The essential question was settledand
irrevocably settledin 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. NomothernoDouniayou 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-hastealmost by express.' NoDouniaI see
it all and I know what you want to say to me; and I know too what you
were thinking aboutwhen you walked up and down all nightand 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 manAvdotya Romanovnaone who has a fortune (has /already/
made his fortunethat is so much more solid and impressive) a man who
holds two government posts and who shares the ideas of our most rising
generationas mother writesand who /seems/ to be kindas 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 intenseand if he had happened to
meet Mr. Luzhin at the momenthe might have murdered him.

Hm . . . yes, that's true,he continuedpursuing the whirling ideas
that chased each other in his brainit 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 atit's like herGod bless her
but how could Dounia? Dounia darlingas 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 agoand for the last two
and a half years I have been thinking about itthinking 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 itshe 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. Luzhinwho propounds the theory of the
superiority of wives raised from destitution and owing everything to
their husband's bounty--who propounds ittooalmost at the first
interview. Granted that he 'let it slip' though he is a sensible man
(yet maybe it was not a slip at allbut he meant to make himself
clear as soon as possible) but DouniaDounia? She understands the
manof coursebut she will have to live with the man. Why! she'd
live on black bread and watershe would not sell her soulshe would
not barter her moral freedom for comfort; she would not barter it for
all Schleswig-Holsteinmuch less Mr. Luzhin's money. NoDounia was
not that sort when I knew her and . . . she is still the sameof
course! Yesthere's no denyingthe Svidrigaïlovs are a bitter pill!
It's a bitter thing to spend one's life a governess in the provinces
for two hundred roublesbut I know she would rather be a nigger on a
plantation or a Lett with a German master than degrade her souland
her moral dignityby 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 goldor one huge
diamondshe 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 herselffor her comfortto save her life she
would not sell herselfbut for someone else she is doing it! For one
she lovesfor one she adoresshe will sell herself! That's what it
all amounts to; for her brotherfor her mothershe will sell
herself! She will sell everything! In such cases'we overcome our
moral feeling if necessary' freedompeaceconscience evenallall
are brought into the market. Let my life goif only my dear ones may
be happy! More than thatwe become casuistswe learn to be
Jesuitical and for a time maybe we can soothe ourselveswe can
persuade ourselves that it is one's duty for a good object. That's
just like usit's as clear as daylight. It's clear that Rodion


Romanovitch Raskolnikov is the central figure in the businessand no
one else. Ohyesshe can ensure his happinesskeep him in the
universitymake him a partner in the officemake his whole future
secure; perhaps he may even be a rich man later onprosperous
respectedand may even end his life a famous man! But my mother? It's
all Rodyaprecious Rodyaher first born! For such a son who would
not sacrifice such a daughter! Ohlovingover-partial hearts! Why
for his sake we would not shrink even from Sonia's fate. SoniaSonia
Marmeladovthe eternal victim so long as the world lasts. Have you
taken the measure of your sacrificeboth of you? Is it right? Can you
bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in it? And let me tell you
DouniaSonia'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 eitherif on the contrary there is aversioncontempt
repulsionwhat 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 worsevilerbaserbecause in your caseDounia
it's a bargain for luxuriesafter allbut with Sonia it's simply a
question of starvation. It has to be paid forit has to be paid for
Douniathis smartness. And what if it's more than you can bear
afterwardsif you regret it? The bitternessthe miserythe curses
the tears hidden from all the worldfor you are not a Marfa Petrovna.
And how will your mother feel then? Even now she is uneasyshe is
worriedbut thenwhen she sees it all clearly? And I? Yesindeed
what have you taken me for? I won't have your sacrificeDouniaI
won't have itmother! It shall not beso long as I am aliveit
shall notit 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 himselffretting himself with such questionsand
finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions were
not new ones suddenly confronting himthey were old familiar aches.
It was long since they had first begun to grip and rend his heart.
Longlong ago his present anguish had its first beginnings; it had
waxed and gathered strengthit had matured and concentrateduntil it
had taken the form of a fearfulfrenzied and fantastic question
which tortured his heart and mindclamouring 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 passivelyworrying himself
over unsolved questionsbut that he must do somethingdo it at once
and do it quickly. Anyway he must decide on somethingor else . . .

Or throw up life altogether!he cried suddenlyin a frenzy--"accept
one's lot humbly as it isonce for all and stifle everything in
oneselfgiving up all claim to activitylife 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 mindfor every man must have somewhere to turn. . . .

He gave a sudden start; another thoughtthat he had had yesterday
slipped back into his mind. But he did not start at the thought
recurring to himfor he knewhe had /felt beforehand/that it must
come backhe was expecting it; besides it was not only yesterday's
thought. The difference was that a month agoyesterday eventhe
thought was a mere dream: but now . . . now it appeared not a dream at
allit had taken a new menacing and quite unfamiliar shapeand he
suddenly became aware of this himself. . . . He felt a hammering in
his headand there was a darkness before his eyes.

He looked round hurriedlyhe 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
seathe had noticed a woman walking some twenty paces in front of
himbut 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 goingand he was accustomed to
walk like that. But there was at first sight something so strange
about the woman in front of himthat gradually his attention was
riveted upon herat first reluctantly andas it wereresentfully
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 youngand she was walking in the
great heat bareheaded and with no parasol or gloveswaving her arms
about in an absurd way. She had on a dress of some light silky
materialbut put on strangely awrynot properly hooked upand torn
open at the top of the skirtclose to the waist: a great piece was
rent and hanging loose. A little kerchief was flung about her bare
throatbut lay slanting on one side. The girl was walking unsteadily
toostumbling and staggering from side to side. She drew
Raskolnikov's whole attention at last. He overtook the girl at the
seatbuton reaching itshe dropped down on itin the corner; she
let her head sink on the back of the seat and closed her eyes
apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her closelyhe 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 youngfair-haired girl--sixteenperhaps not
more than fifteenyears oldpretty little facebut flushed and
heavy looking andas it wereswollen. The girl seemed hardly to know
what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the otherlifting it
indecorouslyand showed every sign of being unconscious that she was
in the street.

Raskolnikov did not sit downbut he felt unwilling to leave herand
stood facing her in perplexity. This boulevard was never much
frequented; and nowat two o'clockin the stifling heatit was
quite deserted. And yet on the further side of the boulevardabout
fifteen paces awaya gentleman was standing on the edge of the
pavement. Hetoowould apparently have liked to approach the girl
with some object of his own. Hetoohad probably seen her in the
distance and had followed herbut found Raskolnikov in his way. He
looked angrily at himthough he tried to escape his noticeand stood
impatiently biding his timetill the unwelcome man in rags should
have moved away. His intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a
plumpthickly-set manabout thirtyfashionably dressedwith a high
colourred 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 shoutedclenching
his fists and laughingspluttering with rage.

What do you mean?the gentleman asked sternlyscowling 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 fistswithout
reflecting that the stout gentleman was a match for two men like
himself. But at that instant someone seized him from behindand 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 sternlynoticing
his rags.

Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight-forward
sensiblesoldierly facewith grey moustaches and whiskers.

You are just the man I want,Raskolnikov criedcatching at his arm.
I am a student, Raskolnikov. . . . You may as well know that too,he
addedaddressing the gentlemancome 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
understandhe turned to consider the girl. The policeman bent over to
examine her more closelyand his face worked with genuine compassion.

Ah, what a pity!he saidshaking his head--"whyshe is quite a
child! She has been deceivedyou can see that at once. Listenlady
he began addressing her, where do you live?" The girl opened her
weary and sleepy-looking eyesgazed blankly at the speaker and waved
her hand.

Here,said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and finding twenty
copeckshere, 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 againtaking the money. "I'll
fetch you a cab and take you home myself. Where shall I take youeh?


Where do you live?"

Go away! They won't let me alone,the girl mutteredand once more
waved her hand.

Ach, ach, how shocking! It's shameful, missy, it's a shame!He shook
his head againshockedsympathetic and indignant.

It's a difficult job,the policeman said to Raskolnikovand as he
did sohe looked him up and down in a rapid glance. Hetoomust
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 thatlooking like ladies
and refinedwith pretensions to gentility and smartness. . . .

The chief thing is,Raskolnikov persistedto 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 againbut 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 suddenlooked at him intentlyas
though realising somethinggot up from the seat and walked away in
the direction from which she had come. "Oh shameful wretchesthey
won't let me alone!" she saidwaving her hand again. She walked
quicklythough staggering as before. The dandy followed herbut
along another avenuekeeping his eye on her.

Don't be anxious, I won't let him have her,the policeman said
resolutelyand he set off after them.

Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!he repeated aloudsighing.

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 dandyWhat is it to do with you?


The policeman was bewilderedand stared at him open-eyed. Raskolnikov
laughed.

Well!ejaculated the policemanwith a gesture of contemptand he
walked after the dandy and the girlprobably taking Raskolnikov for a
madman or something even worse.

He has carried off my twenty copecks,Raskolnikov murmured angrily
when he was left alone. "Welllet 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 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 altogetherto forget everythingand then to wake up and
begin life anew. . . .

Poor girl!he saidlooking at the empty corner where she had sat-"
She will come to herself and weepand then her mother will find out.
. . . She will give her a beatinga horribleshameful beating and
then maybeturn her out of doors. . . . And even if she does notthe
Darya Frantsovnas will get wind of itand 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 motherswho go wrong on the sly) and then . . . again the
hospital . . . drink . . . the taverns . . . and more hospitalin two
or three years--a wreckand her life over at eighteen or nineteen.
. . . Have not I seen cases like that? And how have they been brought
to it? Whythey've all come to it like that. Ugh! But what does it
matter? That's as it should bethey tell us. A certain percentage
they tell usmust every year go . . . that way . . . to the devilI
supposeso that the rest may remain chasteand not be interfered
with. A percentage! What splendid words they have; they are so
scientificso 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. "StrangeI came out for
something. As soon as I had read the letter I came out. . . . I was
going to Vassilyevsky Ostrovto Razumihin. That's what it was . . .
now I remember. What forthough? 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 everyonewent to see no one
and did not welcome anyone who came to see himand indeed everyone
soon gave him up. He took no part in the students' gatherings
amusements or conversations. He worked with great intensity without
sparing himselfand he was respected for thisbut no one liked him.
He was very poorand there was a sort of haughty pride and reserve
about himas though he were keeping something to himself. He seemed
to some of his comrades to look down upon them all as childrenas
though he were superior in developmentknowledge and convictionsas
though their beliefs and interests were beneath him.

With Razumihin he had got onorat leasthe 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
youthgood-natured to the point of simplicitythough both depth and


dignity lay concealed under that simplicity. The better of his
comrades understood thisand all were fond of him. He was extremely
intelligentthough he was certainly rather a simpleton at times. He
was of striking appearance--tallthinblackhaired and always badly
shaved. He was sometimes uproarious and was reputed to be of great
physical strength. One nightwhen out in a festive companyhe had
with one blow laid a gigantic policeman on his back. There was no
limit to his drinking powersbut 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 Razumihinno
failure distressed himand it seemed as though no unfavourable
circumstances could crush him. He could lodge anywhereand bear the
extremes of cold and hunger. He was very poorand 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 stoveand used to declare that he liked
it betterbecause one slept more soundly in the cold. For the present
hetoohad been obliged to give up the universitybut it was only
for a timeand 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 monthsand Razumihin did not even know his address.
About two months beforethey had met in the streetbut Raskolnikov
had turned away and even crossed to the other side that he might not
be observed. And though Razumihin noticed himhe passed him byas 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
thoughtbut 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 foreheadandstrange to sayafter long
musingsuddenlyas if it were spontaneously and by chancea
fantastic thought came into his head.

Hm . . . to Razumihin's,he said all at oncecalmlyas though he
had reached a final determination. "I shall go to Razumihin's of
coursebut . . . not now. I shall go to him . . . on the next day
after Itwhen It will be over and everything will begin
afresh. . . ."

And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.

After It,he shoutedjumping up from the seatbut is It really
going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?He left the
seatand went off almost at a run; he meant to turn backhomewards
but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with intense
loathing; in that holein that awful little cupboard of hisall
/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 unconsciouslyfrom some inner cravingto stare at all
the objects before himas though looking for something to distract
his attention; but he did not succeedand kept dropping every moment
into brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and looked
roundhe forgot at once what he had just been thinking about and even
where he was going. In this way he walked right across Vassilyevsky
Ostrovcame out on to the Lesser Nevacrossed 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 tavernsno
stifling closenessno stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations
passed into morbid irritability. Sometimes he stood still before a
brightly painted summer villa standing among green foliagehe gazed
through the fencehe saw in the distance smartly dressed women on the
verandahs and balconiesand children running in the gardens. The
flowers especially caught his attention; he gazed at them longer than
at anything. He was mettooby 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
policemanthree to Nastasya for the letterso 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 truthlike 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 carthorses,
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 inget in!" shouted one of thema young thick-necked peasant
with a fleshy face red as a carrot. "I'll take you allget 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 againleaping first into
the cartseizing the reins and standing straight up in front. "The
bay has gone with Matvey he shouted from the cart--and this brute
matesis just breaking my heartI feel as if I could kill her. She's
just eating her head off. Get inI tell you! I'll make her gallop!
She'll gallop!" and he picked up the whippreparing himself with
relish to flog the little mare.

Get in! Come along!The crowd laughed. "D'you hearshe'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 cartlaughing 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 cottonin a pointed
beaded headdress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and
laughing. The crowd round them was laughing too and indeedhow 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 intoomates shouted a young man in the crowd whose
appetite was aroused.

Get inall get in cried Mikolka, she will draw you all. I'll beat
her to death!" And he thrashed and thrashed at the marebeside
himself with fury.

Father, father,he criedfather, what are they doing? Father, they
are beating the poor horse!

Come along, come along!said his father. "They are drunken and
foolishthey are in fun; come awaydon't look!" and he tried to draw
him awaybut he tore himself away from his handandbeside himself
with horrorran to the horse. The poor beast was in a bad way. She
was gaspingstanding stillthen tugging again and almost falling.

Beat her to death,cried Mikolkait'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
mareroused by the shower of blowsbegan 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 songjingling a tambourine and
whistling. The woman went on cracking nuts and laughing.

. . . He ran beside the mareran in front of hersaw her being
whipped across the eyesright in the eyes! He was cryinghe felt


chokinghis tears were streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with
the whip across the facehe did not feel it. Wringing his hands and
screaminghe rushed up to the grey-headed old man with the grey
beardwho was shaking his head in disapproval. One woman seized him
by the hand and would have taken him awaybut he tore himself from
her and ran back to the mare. She was almost at the last gaspbut
began kicking once more.

I'll teach you to kick,Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw down
the whipbent forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a
longthick shafthe 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 haunchesbut
lurched forward and tugged forward with all her forcetugged first on
one side and then on the othertrying to move the cart. But the six
whips were attacking her in all directionsand the shaft was raised
again and fell upon her a third timethen a fourthwith 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 shaftstooped 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 Mikolkawith bloodshot eyesbrandishing 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 boybeside himselfmade his wayscreamingthrough the
crowd to the sorrel nagput his arms round her bleeding dead head and


kissed itkissed 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 fatherwho had been running after himsnatched 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 sobbedbut
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 breathto cry out--and woke up.

He waked upgasping for breathhis hair soaked with perspiration
and stood up in terror.

Thank God, that was only a dream,he saidsitting 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 criedcan 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 continuedsitting up againas
it were in profound amazement. "I knew that I could never bring myself
to itso what have I been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday
yesterdaywhen I went to make that . . . /experiment/yesterday I
realised completely that I could never bear to do it. . . . Why am I
going over it againthen? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the
stairs yesterdayI said myself that it was baseloathsomevile
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 feetlooked round in wonder as though surprised at
finding himself in this placeand went towards the bridge. He was
palehis eyes glowedhe was exhausted in every limbbut he seemed
suddenly to breathe more easily. He felt he had cast off that fearful
burden that had so long been weighing upon himand 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 bridgehe gazed quietly and calmly at the Nevaat 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.
Freedomfreedom! He was free from that spellthat sorcerythat
obsession!

Later onwhen he recalled that time and all that happened to him


during those daysminute by minutepoint by pointhe was
superstitiously impressed by one circumstancewhichthough in
itself not very exceptionalalways seemed to him afterwards the
predestined turning-point of his fate. He could never understand and
explain to himself whywhen he was tired and worn outwhen it
would have been more convenient for him to go home by the shortest and
most direct wayhe 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
whyhe was always asking himselfwhy had such an importantsuch 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 hourthe 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 barrowsat the booths and the shopsall the market
people were closing their establishments or clearing away and packing
up their wares andlike their customerswere 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 alleyswhen he
wandered aimlessly in the streets. Here his rags did not attract
contemptuous attentionand 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 tapesthreadcotton handkerchiefsetc.
Theytoohad got up to go homebut were lingering in conversation
with a friendwho had just come up to them. This friend was Lizaveta
Ivanovnaoras everyone called herLizavetathe younger sister of
the old pawnbrokerAlyona Ivanovnawhom 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-fivetallclumsytimidsubmissive
and almost idiotic. She was a complete slave and went in fear and
trembling of her sisterwho made her work day and nightand even
beat her. She was standing with a bundle before the huckster and his
wifelistening earnestly and doubtfully. They were talking of
something with special warmth. The moment Raskolnikov caught sight of
herhe was overcome by a strange sensation as it were of intense
astonishmentthough 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 thoughtfullyas though unable
to make up her mind.

Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna,gabbled
the huckster's wifea lively little woman. "I look at youyou 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 advicebut 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 Lizavetastill ponderingand she began
slowly moving away.

Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly
unnoticedtrying not to miss a word. His first amazement was followed
by a thrill of horrorlike a shiver running down his spine. He had
learnthe had suddenly quite unexpectedly learntthat the next day
at seven o'clock Lizavetathe 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 thoughtno willand that everything was suddenly and
irrevocably decided.

Certainlyif 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 caseit would
have been difficult to find out beforehand and with certaintywith
greater exactness and less riskand without dangerous inquiries and
investigationsthat next day at a certain time an old womanon whose
life an attempt was contemplatedwould 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
clothesall women's things. As the things would have fetched little
in the marketthey were looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta's
business. She undertook such jobs and was frequently employedas she
was very honest and always fixed a fair price and stuck to it. She
spoke as a rule little andas we have said alreadyshe was very
submissive and timid.

But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The traces of
superstition remained in him long afterand were almost ineradicable.
And in all this he was always afterwards disposed to see something
strange and mysteriousas it werethe presence of some peculiar
influences and coincidences. In the previous winter a student he knew
called Pokorevwho had left for Harkovhad chanced in conversation
to give him the address of Alyona Ivanovnathe old pawnbrokerin
case he might want to pawn anything. For a long while he did not go to
herfor 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 stonesa 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 glancethough 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 teasat down
and sank into deep thought. A strange idea was pecking at his brain
like a chicken in the eggand veryvery much absorbed him.

Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a studentwhom


he did not know and had never seenand 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 chancebut he could not shake off a very
extraordinary impressionand 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 Jewshe 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 washow 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 onsaying that
she had a sister Lizavetawhom the wretched little creature was
continually beatingand 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 sisterand besides doing the cooking and the
washingshe 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
willand Lizaveta knew of itand by this will she would not get a
farthing; nothing but the movableschairs 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
sisterunmarried and awfully uncouth in appearanceremarkably tall
with long feet that looked as if they were bent outwards. She always
wore battered goatskin shoesand 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 coursebut look here; on one side we have a
stupidsenselessworthlessspitefulailinghorrid old womannot


simply useless but doing actual mischiefwho has not an idea what she
is living for herselfand who will die in a day or two in any case.
You understand? You understand?"

Yes, yes, I understand,answered the officerwatching 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 officerbut
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 courseit was all ordinary
youthful talk and thoughtsuch 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 whyjust
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 preordainedsome 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 andindeedit 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 shiveringand
he realised with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon
heavyleaden sleep came over himas it were crushing him.

He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya
coming into his room at ten o'clock the next morninghad 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 achedhe stood uptook a turn in
his garret and sank back on the sofa again.

Going to sleep again,cried Nastasya. "Are you illeh?"

He made no reply.

Do you want some tea?

Afterwards,he said with an effortclosing his eyes again and
turning to the wall.

Nastasya stood over him.

Perhaps he really is ill,she saidturned 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 shoutedlooking at him with
repulsion.

He got upand sat down againbut 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 longerlooked at him with compassion and went
out.

A few minutes afterwardshe raised his eyes and looked for a long
while at the tea and the soup. Then he took the breadtook up a spoon
and began to eat.

He ate a littlethree or four spoonfulswithout appetiteas it
were mechanically. His head ached less. After his meal he stretched
himself on the sofa againbut now he could not sleep; he lay
without stirringwith his face in the pillow. He was haunted by
day-dreams and such strange day-dreams; in onethat kept recurring
he fancied that he was in Africain Egyptin some sort of oasis. The
caravan was restingthe 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 coolit was wonderfulwonderful
bluecold 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 startedroused himselfraised
his headlooked out of the windowand 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 doorstealthily 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 nothinghad prepared nothing
yet. . . . And meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his drowsiness
and stupefaction were followed by an extraordinaryfeverishas 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 ita worn outold unwashed
shirt. From its rags he tore a long stripa couple of inches wide and
about sixteen inches long. He folded this strip in twotook off his
widestrong 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 sewedbut 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 nooseit 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 handwhich would have been noticeable. Now he had only to
put the head of the axe in the nooseand it would hang quietly under
his arm on the inside. Putting his hand in his coat pockethe could
hold the end of the handle all the wayso that it did not swing; and
as the coat was very fulla regular sack in factit could not be
seen from outside that he was holding something with the hand that was
in the pocket. This noosetoohe had designed a fortnight before.

When he had finished with thishe thrust his hand into a little
opening between his sofa and the floorfumbled in the left corner and
drew out the /pledge/which he had got ready long before and hidden
there. This pledge washoweveronly 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 ironwhich 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 woodhe fastened them very firmlycrossing 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 timewhile she was trying to undo the knotand
so to gain a moment. The iron strip was added to give weightso 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 doorlistenedcaught up his hat and began to
descend his thirteen steps cautiouslynoiselesslylike 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-knifebut he could not rely on the
knife and still less on his own strengthand so resolved finally on
the axe. We may note in passingone peculiarity in regard to all the
final resolutions taken by him in the matter; they had one strange
characteristic: the more final they werethe more hideous and the
more absurd they at once became in his eyes. In spite of all his
agonising inward strugglehe never for a single instant all that time
could believe in the carrying out of his plans.

Andindeedif it had ever happened that everything to the least
point could have been considered and finally settledand no
uncertainty of any kind had remainedhe wouldit seemshave
renounced it all as something absurdmonstrous and impossible. But a
whole mass of unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for
getting the axethat trifling business cost him no anxietyfor
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
shopand always left the door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady
was always scolding her about. And sowhen the time camehe would
only have to go quietly into the kitchen and to take the axeand 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 backand 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 axelook for itmake 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 pointand put
off trifling detailsuntil /he could believe in it all/. But that
seemed utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at least. He
could not imaginefor instancethat he would sometime leave off
thinkingget 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 experimentfar from being the real thingas
though one should say "comelet us go and try it--why dream about
it!"--and at once he had broken down and had run away cursingin a
frenzy with himself. Meanwhile it would seemas regards the moral
questionthat his analysis was complete; his casuistry had become
keen as a razorand he could not find rational objections in himself.
But in the last resort he simply ceased to believe in himselfand
doggedlyslavishly sought arguments in all directionsfumbling for
themas 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
detectedand why almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He
had come gradually to many different and curious conclusionsand in
his opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the material
impossibility of concealing the crimeas in the criminal himself.
Almost every criminal is subject to a failure of will and reasoning
power by a childish and phenomenal heedlessnessat 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 diseasedeveloped gradually and reached its highest point just
before the perpetration of the crimecontinued with equal violence at
the moment of the crime and for longer or shorter time after
according to the individual caseand then passed off like any other
disease. The question whether the disease gives rise to the crimeor
whether the crime from its own peculiar nature is always accompanied
by something of the nature of diseasehe did not yet feel able to
decide.

When he reached these conclusionshe decided that in his own case


there could not be such a morbid reactionthat his reason and will
would remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out his designfor
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 practicalpurely 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 themand 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
leastand when the hour struckit all came to pass quite
differentlyas it were accidentally and unexpectedly.

One trifling circumstance upset his calculationsbefore he had even
left the staircase. When he reached the landlady's kitchenthe door
of which was open as usualhe glanced cautiously in to see whether
in Nastasya's absencethe landlady herself was thereor if not
whether the door to her own room was closedso 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 kitchenbut
was occupied theretaking linen out of a basket and hanging it on a
line. Seeing himshe left off hanging the clothesturned 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 reflectedas 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 streetto go a
walk for appearance' sake was revolting; to go back to his roomeven
more revolting. "And what a chance I have lost for ever!" he muttered
standing aimlessly in the gatewayjust opposite the porter's little
dark roomwhich was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter's
roomtwo paces away from himsomething shining under the bench to
the right caught his eye. . . . He looked about him--nobody. He
approached the room on tiptoewent down two steps into it and in a
faint voice called the porter. "Yesnot at home! Somewhere near
thoughin the yardfor the door is wide open." He dashed to the axe
(it was an axe) and pulled it out from under the benchwhere it lay
between two chunks of wood; at oncebefore going outhe made it fast
in the noosehe thrust both hands into his pockets and went out of
the room; no one had noticed him! "When reason failsthe devil
helps!" he thought with a strange grin. This chance raised his spirits
extraordinarily.

He walked along quietly and sedatelywithout hurryto avoid
awakening suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passers-bytried to
escape looking at their faces at alland 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 shophe 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 roundso as to approach the house
from the other side. . . .

When he had happened to imagine all this beforehandhe had sometimes


thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much
afraid nowwas not afraid at allindeed. His mind was even occupied
by irrelevant mattersbut by nothing for long. As he passed the
Yusupov gardenhe was deeply absorbed in considering the building of
great fountainsand 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 Marsand perhaps joined
to the garden of the Mihailovsky Palaceit 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
necessitybut 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 mindand for a moment he waked up to
reality. "What nonsense!" he thoughtbetter 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 mindbut simply flashed
like lightning; he made haste to dismiss this thought. . . . And by
now he was near; here was the househere was the gate. Suddenly a
clock somewhere struck once. "What! can it be half-past seven?
Impossibleit must be fast!"

Luckily for himeverything went well again at the gates. At that very
momentas though expressly for his benefita huge waggon of hay had
just driven in at the gatecompletely screening him as he passed
under the gatewayand the waggon had scarcely had time to drive
through into the yardbefore 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 momentbut
he did not raise his head--he had not the strength to. The staircase
leading to the old woman's room was close byjust on the right of the
gateway. He was already on the stairs. . . .

Drawing a breathpressing his hand against his throbbing heartand
once more feeling for the axe and setting it straighthe began softly
and cautiously ascending the stairslistening every minute. But the
stairstoowere 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 itbut 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 herebut . . . it's two storeys above them."

And there was the fourth storeyhere was the doorhere was the flat
oppositethe 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 doora dead
silence. Then he listened again on the staircaselistened long and
intently . . . then looked about him for the last timepulled himself
togetherdrew himself upand 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 contraryas though to spite
himit 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 againmore loudly.

No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old


woman wasof courseat homebut 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 withinand 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 hidingthen rang a third time
but quietlysoberlyand without impatienceRecalling it afterwards
that moment stood out in his mind vividlydistinctlyfor ever; he
could not make out how he had had such cunningfor 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 crackand 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 aloneand
not hoping that the sight of him would disarm her suspicionshe 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
backbut 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 passhe advanced straight upon her. She
stepped back in alarmtried to say somethingbut seemed unable to
speak and stared with open eyes at him.

Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna,he begantrying to speak easilybut
his voice would not obey himit broke and shook. "I have come . . . I
have brought something . . . but we'd better come in . . . to the
light. . . ."

And leaving herhe 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 pledgebut at once stared
in the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked intentlymaliciously
and mistrustfully. A minute passed; he even fancied something like a
sneer in her eyesas though she had already guessed everything. He
felt that he was losing his headthat he was almost frightenedso
frightened that if she were to look like that and not say a word for
another half minutehe thought he would have run away from her.

Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?he said
suddenlyalso with malice. "Take it if you likeif not I'll go
elsewhereI am in a hurry."

He had not even thought of saying thisbut it was suddenly said of
itself. The old woman recovered herselfand 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 morescanning Raskolnikov intentlyand
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 windowto the light
(all her windows were shutin 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 noosebut did not yet
take it out altogethersimply holding it in his right hand under the
coat. His hands were fearfully weakhe 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 outswung
it with both armsscarcely conscious of himselfand almost without
effortalmost mechanicallybrought 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 downhis strength returned to him.

The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thinlight hairstreaked
with greythickly smeared with greasewas 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 shortthe blow fell on the very top of her skull.
She cried outbut very faintlyand suddenly sank all of a heap on
the floorraising 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 glassthe body fell back. He stepped backlet it fall
and at once bent over her face; she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be
starting out of their socketsthe 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 facultiesfree from confusion or giddiness
but his hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he
had been particularly collected and carefultrying all the time not
to get smeared with blood. . . . He pulled out the keys at oncethey
were allas beforein 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 bedvery clean and
covered with a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a
chest of drawers. Strange to sayso soon as he began to fit the keys
into the chestso soon as he heard their jinglinga 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 himselfwhen 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 chesthe ran back to the bodysnatched up the axe and
lifted it once more over the old womanbut did not bring it down.
There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and examining her
again more closelyhe saw clearly that the skull was broken and even
battered in on one side. He was about to feel it with his fingerbut
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 itbut the string was strong and did not snap
and besidesit was soaked with blood. He tried to pull it out from
the front of the dressbut something held it and prevented its
coming. In his impatience he raised the axe again to cut the string
from above on the bodybut did not dareand with difficulty
smearing his hand and the axe in the bloodafter two minutes' hurried
efforthe 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 crossesone of Cyprus wood and one of copperand an image in
silver filigreeand 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 itflung the
crosses on the old woman's body and rushed back into the bedroomthis
time taking the axe with him.

He was in terrible hastehe snatched the keysand began trying them
again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It
was not so much that his hands were shakingbut that he kept making
mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one
and would not fitstill he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered
and realised that the big key with the deep notcheswhich 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
boxand that everything perhaps was hidden in that box. He left the
chest of drawersand at once felt under the bedsteadknowing that
old women usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there
was a good-sized box under the bedat least a yard in lengthwith an
arched lid covered with red leather and studded with steel nails. The
notched key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the topunder a white
sheetwas a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin; under it was a
silk dressthen a shawl and it seemed as though there was nothing
below but clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his bloodstained
hands on the red brocade. "It's redand on red blood will be
less noticeable the thought passed through his mind; then he
suddenly came to himself. Good Godam 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 pledgesunredeemed or waiting to be redeemed--braceletschains
ear-ringspins and such things. Some were in casesothers simply
wrapped in newspapercarefully and exactly foldedand tied round
with tape. Without any delayhe 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 quietso it must
have been his fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cryas
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 upseized 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 sisterwhite as
a sheet and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him
run out of the bedroomshe began faintly quivering all overlike a
leafa shudder ran down her face; she lifted her handopened her
mouthbut still did not scream. She began slowly backing away from
him into the cornerstaring intentlypersistently at himbut still
uttered no soundas though she could not get breath to scream. He
rushed at her with the axe; her mouth twitched piteouslyas one sees
babies' mouthswhen they begin to be frightenedstare 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 facethough
that was the most necessary and natural action at the momentfor the
axe was raised over her face. She only put up her empty left handbut
not to her faceslowly 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 headsnatching up her bundledropped
it again and ran into the entry.

Fear gained more and more mastery over himespecially after this
secondquite 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 correctlyif he had been able to realise
all the difficulties of his positionthe hopelessnessthe
hideousness and the absurdity of itif he could have understood how
many obstacles andperhapscrimes he had still to overcome or to
committo get out of that place and to make his way homeit is very
possible that he would have flung up everythingand would have gone
to give himself upand not from fearbut 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 blanknesseven dreaminesshad begun by degrees to take
possession of him; at moments he forgot himselfor ratherforgot
what was of importanceand caught at trifles. Glancinghoweverinto
the kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a benchhe
bethought him of washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky
with blood. He dropped the axe with the blade in the watersnatched a
piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the windowand began
washing his hands in the bucket. When they were cleanhe took out the
axewashed the blade and spent a long timeabout 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 itonly
the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in the noose under
his coat. Then as far as was possiblein the dim light in the
kitchenhe looked over his overcoathis 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
thoroughlythat there might be something quite noticeable that he was
overlooking. He stood in the middle of the roomlost in thought. Dark
agonising ideas rose in his mind--the idea that he was mad and that at
that moment he was incapable of reasoningof protecting himselfthat


he ought perhaps to be doing something utterly different from what he
was now doing. "Good God!" he muttered "I must flyfly 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 nothe wrong thing again! I must get awayget away. . . ."

He unfastened the latchopened the door and began listening on the
staircase.

He listened a long time. Somewhere far awayit might be in the
gatewaytwo voices were loudly and shrilly shoutingquarrelling
and scolding. "What are they about?" He waited patiently. At last
all was stillas though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He
was meaning to go outbut suddenlyon the floor belowa 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 stillnot a
soul stirring. He was just taking a step towards the stairs when he
heard fresh footsteps.

The steps sounded very far offat the very bottom of the stairsbut
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 floorto the old woman. Why? Were the sounds
somehow peculiarsignificant? The steps were heavyeven and
unhurried. Now /he/ had passed the first floornow he was mounting
higherit 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 stonethat it was
like a dream in which one is being pursuednearly caught and will be
killedand is rooted to the spot and cannot even move one's arms.

At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floorhe suddenly
startedand succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the
flat and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook and
softlynoiselesslyfixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When
he had done thishe crouched holding his breathby the door. The
unknown visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing
opposite one anotheras he had just before been standing with the old
womanwhen the door divided them and he was listening.

The visitor panted several times. "He must be a bigfat 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 mindbut 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 voiceHey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey,
my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?

And againenragedhe 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 offon 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
cheerfulringing voiceaddressing the first visitorwho still went
on pulling the bell. "Good eveningKoch."

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 Kochastonished. "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. . . . Hereyou'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 hotlyand he ran
downstairs.

Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell which gave one
tinklethen gentlyas though reflecting and looking about himbegan
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 togetherthe 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 themto 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 passingone minute
and another--no one came. Koch began to be restless.

What the devil?he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his
sentry dutyhetoowent downhurrying and thumping with his heavy
boots on the stairs. The steps died away.

Good heavens! What am I to do?

Raskolnikov unfastened the hookopened the door--there was no sound.


Abruptlywithout any thought at allhe went outclosing the door as
thoroughly as he couldand 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 belowshoutingand rather fell than
ran down the stairsbawling 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. "They!"

Filled with despair he went straight to meet themfeeling "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 rightthere was an empty flat with the door wide
openthe flat on the second floor where the painters had been at
workand whichas though for his benefitthey had just left. It was
theyno doubtwho had just run downshouting. The floor had only
just been paintedin 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 floortalking loudly. He waitedwent out on tiptoe and
ran down the stairs.

No one was on the stairsnor in the gateway. He passed quickly
through the gateway and turned to the left in the street.

He knewhe knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the
flatthat they were greatly astonished at finding it unlockedas the
door had just been fastenedthat by now they were looking at the
bodiesthat before another minute had passed they would guess and
completely realise that the murderer had just been thereand had
succeeded in hiding somewhereslipping by them and escaping. They
would guess most likely that he had been in the empty flatwhile 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?
Nohopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a cab?
Hopelesshopeless!"

At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than
alive. Here he was half way to safetyand he understood it; it was
less risky because there was a great crowd of peopleand 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 wordhe has been going it!" someone
shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank.

He was only dimly conscious of himself nowand the farther he went
the worse it was. He remembered howeverthat on coming out on to the
canal bankhe was alarmed at finding few people there and so being
more conspicuousand he had thought of turning back. Though he was
almost falling from fatiguehe 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 himto 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 allbut to drop it later on in somebody's yard.
But it all happened fortunatelythe door of the porter's room was
closed but not lockedso 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 himWhat do you want?he would perhaps have simply handed him
the axe. But again the porter was not at homeand he succeeded in
putting the axe back under the benchand even covering it with the
chunk of wood as before. He met no onenot a soulafterwards on the
way to his room; the landlady's door was shut. When he was in his
roomhe 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
thenhe would have jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and shreds
of thoughts were simply swarming in his brainbut he could not catch
at onehe could not rest on onein spite of all his efforts. . . .

PART II

CHAPTER I

So he lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed to wake upand at
such moments he noticed that it was far into the nightbut 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 backstill dazed from his recent
oblivion. Fearfuldespairing cries rose shrilly from the street
sounds which he heard every nightindeedunder his window after two
o'clock. They woke him up now.

Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns,he thoughtit's
past two o'clock,and at once he leaped upas 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
oncein one flashhe 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 doorand 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 enoughand he began
hurriedly looking himself all over from head to footall his clothes;


were there no traces? But there was no doing it like that; shivering
with coldhe began taking off everything and looking over again. He
turned everything over to the last threads and ragsand mistrusting
himselfwent through his search three times.

But there seemed to be nothingno traceexcept in one placewhere
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 everythingand turned the pocket inside out to be sure
there was nothing lefthe 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
gleefullygetting 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
moneyand so had not prepared a hiding-place.

But now, now, what am I glad of?he thoughtIs 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 coatwhich was still warm though
almost in ragscovered 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 noosehurriedly 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 repeatedstanding in the middle
of the roomand with painful concentration he fell to gazing about
him againat the floor and everywheretrying to make sure he had not
forgotten anything. The conviction that all his facultieseven
memoryand the simplest power of reflection were failing himbegan
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 roomwhere anyone coming in would see
them!

What is the matter with me!he cried againlike one distraught.


Then a strange idea entered his head; thatperhapsall his clothes
were covered with bloodthatperhapsthere were a great many
stainsbut that he did not see themdid not notice them because his
perceptions were failingwere 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 toofor I put
the wet purse in my pocket!"

In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out andyes!--there were
tracesstains 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 fevera
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 repeatedsitting down on the sofa againand 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 whilefor some hourshe 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 sofabut 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
Nastasyabanging 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! Openyou stupid
wake up!"

What do they want? Why the porter? All's discovered. Resist or open?
Come what may! . . .

He half rosestooped 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 porterwho without a word held out a grey folded
paper sealed with bottle-wax.

A notice from the office,he announcedas 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 attentivelylooked round the room and turned to
go away.

He's downright ill!observed Nastasyanot 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
trousersthe sockand the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep
with them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon ithe remembered
that half waking up in his feverhe 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 momenthe 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 mutteredgetting 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 readingbefore 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 Godonly get it over soon!"

He was flinging himself on his knees to praybut broke into laughter
--not at the idea of prayerbut at himself.

He beganhurriedly dressing. "If I'm lostI am lostI don't care!
Shall I put the sock on?" he suddenly wonderedit 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 offbut reflecting that he had no other
sockshe 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 flashbut only on the top surface of his
mindwhile he was shuddering all overthere, 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 walland very likely, it's on purpose
to search when I'm out,he thoughtand stopped short. But he was
possessed by such despairsuch cynicism of miseryif one may so call
itthat 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 dustbricks and mortaragain the stench
from the shops and pot-housesagain the drunken menthe Finnish
pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes
so that it hurt him to look out of themand 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/ streetin 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 thoughtas 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 gatewayhe saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant
was mounting with a book in his hand. "A house-porterno doubt; so
thenthe office is here and he began ascending the stairs on the
chance. He did not want to ask questions of anyone.

I'll go infall on my kneesand confess everything . . ." he
thoughtas he reached the fourth floor.

The staircase was steepnarrow 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 armspolicemenand persons of all sorts and both sexes. The
door of the officetoostood wide open. Peasants stood waiting
within. Theretoothe heat was stifling and there was a sickening
smell of fresh paint and stale oil from the newly decorated rooms.

After waiting a littlehe 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 writingdressed hardly better than he wasand 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 askedglancing at the notice.

Yes, formerly a student.

The clerk looked at himbut 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 clerkpointing towards the
furthest room.

He went into that room--the fourth in order; it was a small room and
packed full of peoplerather better dressed than in the outer rooms.
Among them were two ladies. Onepoorly dressed in mourningsat at
the table opposite the chief clerkwriting something at his
dictation. The othera very stoutbuxom woman with a purplish-red
blotchy faceexcessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom
as big as a saucerwas standing on one sideapparently waiting for
something. Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The
latter glanced at itsaid: "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 confidencehe 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 addedit'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
itsomething quite irrelevantbut he could not succeed in this at
all. Yet the head clerk greatly interested himhe kept hoping to see
through him and guess something from his face.

He was a very young manabout two and twentywith a dark mobile face
that looked older than his years. He was fashionably dressed and
foppishwith his hair parted in the middlewell 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 roomand said them fairly correctly.


Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down,he said casually to the gailydressed
purple-faced ladywho was still standing as though not
venturing to sit downthough there was a chair beside her.

Ich danke,said the latterand softlywith 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 cringingit betrayed evident uneasiness.

The lady in mourning had done at lastand got up. All at oncewith
some noisean officer walked in very jauntilywith 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 himand fell to curtsying in a sort of ecstasy;
but the officer took not the smallest notice of herand 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 faceand extremely small featuresexpressive of
nothing much except a certain insolence. He looked askance and rather
indignantly at Raskolnikov; he was so very badly dressedand in spite
of his humiliating positionhis bearing was by no means in keeping
with his clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily fixed a very long and
direct look on himso that he felt positively affronted.

What do you want?he shoutedapparently 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 hurriedlytearing himself from his papers. "Here!" and he
flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. "Read that!"

Money? What money?thought Raskolnikovbut . . . 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 superintendentseeming for some unknown reason more and
more aggrieved. "You are told to come at nineand 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 hetoogrew
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 Raskolnikovand 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
paperin haste to find an explanation. He read it onceand a second
timeand 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 triumphas at a novice under fire
for the first time--as though he would say: "Wellhow do you feel
now?" But what did he care now for an I O Ufor a writ of recovery!
Was that worth worrying about nowwas it worth attention even! He
stoodhe readhe listenedhe answeredhe even asked questions
himselfbut all mechanically. The triumphant sense of securityof
deliverance from overwhelming dangerthat was what filled his whole
soul that moment without thought for the futurewithout analysis
without suppositions or surmiseswithout doubts and without
questioning. It was an instant of fulldirectpurely instinctive
joy. But at that very moment something like a thunderstorm took place
in the office. The assistant superintendentstill shaken by
Raskolnikov's disrespectstill fuming and obviously anxious to keep
up his wounded dignitypounced on the unfortunate smart ladywho 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 againyou're a scandal to the whole
street. Fighting and drinking again. Do you want the house of
correction? WhyI have warned you ten times over that I would not let
you off the eleventh! And here you are againagainyou . . .
you . . . !"

The paper fell out of Raskolnikov's handsand he looked wildly at the
smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw what it


meantand at once began to find positive amusement in the scandal. He
listened with pleasureso that he longed to laugh and laugh . . . all
his nerves were on edge.

Ilya Petrovitch!the head clerk was beginning anxiouslybut stopped
shortfor he knew from experience that the enraged assistant could
not be stopped except by force.

As for the smart ladyat first she positively trembled before the
storm. Butstrange to saythe more numerous and violent the terms of
abuse becamethe more amiable she lookedand the more seductive the
smiles she lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasilyand
curtsied incessantlywaiting 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 oncelike peas droppingspeaking Russian
confidentlythough with a strong German accentand 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 againI will put you yourself
in the lock-upas it is called in polite society. Do you hear? So a
literary manan author took five roubles for his coat-tail in an
'honourable house'? A nice setthese authors!"

And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. "There was a scandal
the other day in a restauranttoo. 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 councillorhis wife and


daughter. And there was one of them turned out of a confectioner's
shop the other day. They are like thatauthorsliterary men
studentstown-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 deferenceLuise Ivanovna fell to curtsying in all
directionsand so curtsied herself to the door. But at the doorshe
stumbled backwards against a good-looking officer with a freshopen
face and splendid thick fair whiskers. This was the superintendent of
the district himselfNikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna made haste to
curtsy almost to the groundand with mincing little stepsshe
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 tablewith a
jaunty swing of his shoulders at each step. "Hereif you will kindly
look: an authoror a studenthas been one at leastdoes not pay his
debtshas given an I O Uwon't clear out of his roomand complaints
are constantly being lodged against himand here he has been pleased
to make a protest against my smoking in his presence! He behaves like
a cad himselfand just look at himplease. Here's the gentlemanand
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 Fomitchturning affably to
Raskolnikov. "But you were wrong there; he is a capital fellowI
assure youbut explosiveexplosive! He gets hotfires upboils
overand 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 Petrovitchmuch
gratified at this agreeable banterthough still sulky.

Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say something exceptionally
pleasant to them all. "Excuse meCaptain he began easily, suddenly
addressing Nikodim Fomitch, will you enter into my position? . . . I
am ready to ask pardonif I have been ill-mannered. I am a poor
studentsick and shattered (shattered was the word he used) by
poverty. I am not studyingbecause I cannot keep myself nowbut I
shall get money. . . . I have a mother and sister in the province of

X. They will send it to meand I will pay. My landlady is a goodhearted
womanbut she is so exasperated at my having lost my lessons
and not paying her for the last four monthsthat 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 againstill addressing Nikodim Fomitchbut trying
his best to address Ilya Petrovitch alsothough 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 itat the very beginning I
promised to marry her daughterit was a verbal promisefreely given


. . . she was a girl . . . indeedI liked herthough I was not in
love with her . . . a youthful affair in fact . . . that isI mean to
saythat my landlady gave me credit freely in those daysand 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 hotlythough 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 eventswe have nothing to do
with that."

Come now . . . you are harsh,muttered Nikodim Fomitchsitting 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 askedgruffly.

I will dictate to you.

Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually and
contemptuously after his speechbut strange to say he suddenly felt
completely indifferent to anyone's opinionand this revulsion took
place in a flashin 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 beforeforcing his feelings upon them. And where
had those feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled
not with police officersbut with those nearest and dearest to him
he would not have found one human word for themso empty was his
heart. A gloomy sensation of agonisingeverlasting solitude and
remotenesstook conscious form in his soul. It was not the meanness
of his sentimental effusions before Ilya Petrovitchnor the meanness
of the latter's triumph over him that had caused this sudden revulsion
in his heart. Ohwhat had he to do now with his own basenesswith
all these petty vanitiesofficersGerman womendebtspoliceoffices?
If he had been sentenced to be burnt at that momenthe would
not have stirredwould hardly have heard the sentence to the end.
Something was happening to him entirely newsudden and unknown. It
was not that he understoodbut 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 outburstor
with anything whatever; and that if they had been his own brothers and
sisters and not police-officersit 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 ideaa direct
sensationthe 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 paythat he undertook to do so at a future date
that he would not leave the townnor sell his propertyand so on.

But you can't write, you can hardly hold the pen,observed the head
clerklooking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. "Are you ill?"

Yes, I am giddy. Go on!

That's all. Sign it.

The head clerk took the paperand turned to attend to others.

Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going
awayhe 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 himto get up at onceto go up to
Nikodim Fomitchand 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. "Nobetter cast off the burden without thinking."
But all at once he stood stillrooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch
was talking eagerly with Ilya Petrovitchand 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 clerkwho 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 doorbut he did
not reach it. . . .


When he recovered consciousnesshe found himself sitting in a chair
supported by someone on the right sidewhile someone else was
standing on the leftholding a yellowish glass filled with yellow
waterand Nikodim Fomitch standing before himlooking intently at
him. He got up from the chair.

What's this? Are you ill?Nikodim Fomitch askedrather sharply.

He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing,said the head
clerksettling back in his placeand taking up his work again.

Have you been ill long?cried Ilya Petrovitch from his placewhere
hetoowas looking through papers. He hadof coursecome to look
at the sick man when he faintedbut 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, my I ask?

Along the street.

Short and clear.

Raskolnikovwhite as a handkerchiefhad answered sharplyjerkily
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 protestbut glancing at
the head clerk who was looking very hard at himhe did not speak.
There was a sudden silence. It was strange.

Very well, then,concluded Ilya Petrovitchwe will not detain
you.

Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on his
departureand above the rest rose the questioning voice of Nikodim
Fomitch. In the streethis 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 cornerslipped his hand under the paperpulled 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 sorthe
hardly looked to see; then four small leather cases. There was a
chaintoomerely wrapped in newspaper and something else in
newspaperthat looked like a decoration. . . . He put them all in the
different pockets of his overcoatand the remaining pocket of his
trouserstrying to conceal them as much as possible. He took the
pursetoo. Then he went out of his roomleaving the door open. He
walked quickly and resolutelyand though he felt shatteredhe had
his senses about him. He was afraid of pursuithe was afraid that in
another half-houranother quarter of an hour perhapsinstructions
would be issued for his pursuitand so at all costshe must hide all
traces before then. He must clear everything up while he still had
some strengthsome reasoning power left him. . . . Where was he to
go?

That had long been settled: "Fling them into the canaland all traces
hidden in the waterthe 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 awayto make hasteand get rid of it all. But to
get rid of itturned 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 waterbut he
could not think of carrying out his plan; either rafts stood at the
steps' edgeand women were washing clothes on themor boats were
moored thereand 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 purposestopand throw something
into the water. And what if the boxes were to float instead of
sinking? And of course they would. Even as it waseveryone he met
seemed to stare and look roundas if they had nothing to do but to
watch him. "Why is itor 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 therehe would be less observed
and it would be more convenient in every wayabove all it was further
off. He wondered how he could have been wandering for a good halfhour
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---- Prospectbut on the way
another idea struck him. "Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to
go somewhere far offto the Islands againand there hide the things
in some solitary placein a wood or under a bushand mark the spot
perhaps?" And though he felt incapable of clear judgmentthe idea
seemed to him a sound one. But he was not destined to go there. For
coming out of V---- Prospect towards the squarehe saw on the left a
passage leading between two blank walls to a courtyard. On the right
handthe blank unwhitewashed wall of a four-storied house stretched
far into the court; on the lefta wooden hoarding ran parallel with
it for twenty paces into the courtand 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 courtthe corner of a lowsmutty
stone shedapparently part of some workshoppeeped 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 ithe thought. Not seeing anyone in the yard
he slipped inand at once saw near the gate a sinksuch 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
witticismStanding here strictly forbidden.This was all the
betterfor there would be nothing suspicious about his going in.
Here I could throw it all in a heap and get away!

Looking round once morewith his hand already in his pockethe
noticed against the outer wallbetween the entrance and the sinka
big unhewn stoneweighing perhaps sixty pounds. The other side of the
wall was a street. He could hear passers-byalways numerous in that
partbut he could not be seen from the entranceunless someone came
in from the streetwhich might well happen indeedso there was need
of haste.

He bent down over the stoneseized the top of it firmly in both
handsand using all his strength turned it over. Under the stone was
a small hollow in the groundand he immediately emptied his pocket
into it. The purse lay at the topand 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 againthough 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 outand turned into the square. Again an intensealmost
unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an instantas it had in the
police-office. "I have buried my tracks! And whowho can think of
looking under that stone? It has been lying there most likely ever
since the house was builtand will lie as many years more. And if it
were foundwho would think of me? It is all over! No clue!" And he
laughed. Yeshe remembered that he began laughing a thinnervous
noiseless laughand 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 girlhis 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 gonehe had sat and
ponderedand that it would be hatefultooto meet that whiskered
policeman to whom he had given the twenty copecks: "Damn him!"

He walkedlooking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas
now seemed to be circling round some single pointand he felt that
there really was such a pointand that nownowhe was left facing
that point--and for the first timeindeedduring the last two
months.

Damn it all!he thought suddenlyin a fit of ungovernable fury. "If
it has begunthen it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lordhow
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 alland 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?

Yesthat was sothat was all so. Yet he had known it all beforeand
it was not a new question for himeven when it was decided in the
night without hesitation and considerationas though so it must be
as though it could not possibly be otherwise. . . . Yeshe had known
it alland 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. . . . Yesso it was.

It is because I am very ill,he decided grimly at lastI 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
distractionbut he did not know what to dowhat to attempt. A new
overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him
every moment; this was an immeasurablealmost physicalrepulsion for
everything surrounding himan obstinatemalignant feeling of hatred.
All who met him were loathsome to him--he loathed their facestheir
movementstheir gestures. If anyone had addressed himhe felt that
he might have spat at him or bitten him. . . .

He stopped suddenlyon coming out on the bank of the Little Neva
near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. "Whyhe lives herein that
house he thought, whyI have not come to Razumihin of my own
accord! Here it's the same thing over again. . . . Very interesting to
knowthough; have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by
chance? Never mindI said the day before yesterday that I would go
and see him the day /after/; welland 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 garretbusily 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-gownwith
slippers on his bare feetunkemptunshaven and unwashed. His face
showed surprise.

Is it you?he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a
brief pausehe whistled. "As hard up as all that! Whybrother
you've cut me out!" he addedlooking at Raskolnikov's rags. "Come sit
downyou are tiredI'll be bound."

And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofawhich was in
even worse condition than his ownRazumihin 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 saidI 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 observedwatching
him carefully.

No, I am not.


Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to
Razumihin'she had not realised that he would be meeting his friend
face to face. Nowin a flashhe knewthat 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 abruptlyand walked to the door.

Stop, stop! You queer fish.

I don't want to,said the otheragain 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 silencetook the three roubles
and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in
astonishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the next streethe turned
backmounted the stairs to Razumihin's again and laying on the table
the German article and the three roubleswent out againstill


without uttering a word.

Are you raving, or what?Razumihin shoutedroused 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 coachmanafter shouting at him two or three
timesgave him a violent lash on the back with his whipfor 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 laughterof 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 railingstill looking angry and bewildered
after the retreating carriageand rubbing his backhe suddenly felt
someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman
in a kerchief and goatskin shoeswith a girlprobably her daughter
wearing a hatand 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 streetsand the gift of the twenty copecks he
doubtless owed to the blowwhich made them feel sorry for him.

He closed his hand on the twenty copeckswalked on for ten pacesand
turned facing the Nevalooking towards the palace. The sky was
without a cloud and the water was almost bright bluewhich is so rare
in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedralwhich is seen at its best
from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapelglittered in the
sunlightand in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly
distinguished. The pain from the lash went offand Raskolnikov forgot
about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now
completely. He stood stilland gazed long and intently into the
distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was
attending the universityhe had hundreds of times--generally on his
way home--stood still on this spotgazed 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 andmistrusting himselfput off
finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts
and perplexitiesand it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that
he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesquethat he
should have stopped at the same spot as beforeas though he actually
imagined he could think the same thoughtsbe interested in the same
theories and pictures that had interested him . . . so short a time
ago. He felt it almost amusingand yet it wrung his heart. Deep down
hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now--all his old
pasthis old thoughtshis old problems and theorieshis old
impressions and that picture and himself and allall. . . . He felt
as though he were flying upwardsand everything were vanishing from
his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his handhe suddenly
became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his hand
stared at the coinand with a sweep of his arm flung it into the
water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to himhe had cut
himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.

Evening was coming on when he reached homeso that he must have been
walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not
remember. Undressingand quivering like an overdriven horsehe lay
down on the sofadrew his greatcoat over himand at once sank into
oblivion. . . .

It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good Godwhat a
scream! Such unnatural soundssuch howlingwailinggrindingtears
blows and curses he had never heard.

He could never have imagined such brutalitysuch frenzy. In terror he
sat up in bedalmost swooning with agony. But the fightingwailing
and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement
he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howlingshrieking and
wailingrapidlyhurriedlyincoherentlyso that he could not make
out what she was talking about; she was beseechingno doubtnot to
be beatenfor 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 hetoowas saying somethingand just as quickly
and indistinctlyhurrying 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 herbanging her head against the steps--that's clearthat
can be told from the soundsfrom 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 voicesexclamations
knockingdoors banging. "But whywhyand how could it be?" he
repeatedthinking seriously that he had gone mad. But nohe heard
too distinctly! And they would come to him then nextfor no doubt
. . . it's all about that . . . about yesterday. . . . Good God!He
would have fastened his door with the latchbut he could not lift his
hand . . . besidesit would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like
icetortured him and numbed him. . . . But at last all this uproar
after continuing about ten minutesbegan gradually to subside. The
landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering
threats and curses. . . . But at last hetooseemed to be silent
and now he could not be heard. "Can he have gone away? Good Lord!"
Yesand now the landlady is going toostill weeping and moaning
. . . and then her door slammed. . . . Now the crowd was going from
the stairs to their roomsexclaimingdisputingcalling to one
anotherraising their voices to a shoutdropping them to a whisper.
There must have been numbers of them--almost all the inmates of the
block. "Butgood Godhow could it be! And whywhy had he come
here!"

Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofabut could not close his eyes.


He lay for half an hour in such anguishsuch 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 asleepshe set the candle on the table and began to lay out what
she had brought--breadsalta platea 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 himsilent and frowningand her scrutiny lasted
a long time. He felt uneasyeven 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 softlyas though speaking to
herself.

Blood? What blood?he mutteredgrowing 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
firmresolute voice.

He gazed at herhardly 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 himwatching 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 unconscioushoweverall the time he was ill;
he was in a feverish statesometimes delirioussometimes 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 somewherethere 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 himand only now and then opened the door a crack
to look at him; they threatened himplotted something together
laughedand mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his
bedside; he distinguished another persontoowhom he seemed to know
very wellthough he could not remember who he wasand this fretted
himeven 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 recollectionand yet every minute he felt
that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and
tormented himself trying to remembermoanedflew into a rageor
sank into awfulintolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up
would have run awaybut someone always prevented him by forceand
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 hourthrowing a streak of light on the right
wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him
with another persona complete strangerwho was looking at him very
inquisitively. He was a young man with a beardwearing a fullshortwaisted
coatand looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in
at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.

Who is this, Nastasya?he askedpointing 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 sensesthe landlady closed the
door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or
discussions. She was a woman of fortynot at all bad-lookingfat and
buxomwith black eyes and eyebrowsgood-natured from fatness and
lazinessand absurdly bashful.

Who . . . are you?he went onaddressing the man. But at that
moment the door was flung openandstooping a littleas he was so
tallRazumihin came in.

What a cabin it is!he cried. "I am always knocking my head. You
call this a lodging! So you are consciousbrother? I've just heard
the news from Pashenka."

He has just come to,said Nastasya.

Just come to,echoed the man againwith a smile.

And who are you?Razumihin askedsuddenly addressing him. "My name
is Vrazumihinat your service; not Razumihinas I am always called
but Vrazumihina 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 tobrother 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 nonsensethe result of bad feedinghe says


you have not had enough beer and radishbut it's nothing muchit
will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow!
He is making quite a name. ComeI won't keep you he said,
addressing the man again. Will you explain what you want? You must
knowRodyathis is the second time they have sent from the office;
but it was another man last timeand 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 beganaddressing Raskolnikov. "If you
are in an intelligible conditionI've thirty-five roubles to remit to
youas Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at
your mamma's request instructions to that effectas on previous
occasions. Do you know himsir?"

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.
Wellit'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 Raskolnikovpushing 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 lattertaking 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 Nastasyawho 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 amissNastasyaif Praskovya Pavlovna were to send
us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them."

Well, you are a cool hand,muttered Nastasyaand she departed to
carry out his orders.

Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile
Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside himas clumsily as a bear put
his left arm round Raskolnikov's headalthough he was able to sit up
and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soupblowing on it
that it might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm.
Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedilythen a secondthen a
third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soupRazumihin
suddenly stoppedand 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
chairpulled the soup and meat in front of himand 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 beefand 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 cupsleft his dinnerand sat on the sofa again. As
beforehe put his left arm round the sick man's headraised him up
and gave him tea in spoonfulsagain blowing each spoonful steadily
and earnestlyas though this process was the principal and most
effective means towards his friend's recovery. Raskolnikov said
nothing and made no resistancethough he felt quite strong enough to
sit up on the sofa without support and could not merely have held a
cup or a spoonbut even perhaps could have walked about. But from
some queeralmost animalcunning he conceived the idea of hiding his
strength and lying low for a timepretending if necessary not to be
yet in full possession of his facultiesand meanwhile listening to
find out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of
repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of teahe suddenly
released his headpushed the spoon away capriciouslyand sank back
on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his head now
down pillows in clean caseshe observed thattooand took note of
it.

Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some
raspberry tea,said Razumihingoing 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 houseporter
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 murmuredsmiling slyly.

Why don't you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?

You are a one!Nastasya cried suddenlygoing off into a giggle. "I
am not Nikiforovnabut Petrovna she added suddenly, recovering from
her mirth.

I'll make a note of it. Wellbrotherto make a long story shortI
was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all malignant
influences in the localitybut Pashenka won the day. I had not
expectedbrotherto find her so . . . prepossessing. Ehwhat do you
think?"

Raskolnikov did not speakbut he still kept his eyes fixed upon him
full of alarm.

And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,Razumihin
went onnot 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 Raskolnikovlooking awaybut feeling that it was
better to keep up the conversation.

She isn't, is she?cried Razumihindelighted to get an answer out
of him. "But she is not very clever eithereh? She is essentially
essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a
lossI assure you. . . . She must be forty; she says she is thirtysix
and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge
her intellectuallysimply from the metaphysical point of view; there
is a sort of symbolism sprung up between usa sort of algebra or what
not! I don't understand it! Wellthat's all nonsense. Onlyseeing
that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your
clothesand that through the young lady's death she has no need to
treat you as a relationshe suddenly took fright; and as you hid in
your den and dropped all your old relations with hershe planned to
get rid of you. And she's been cherishing that design a long timebut
was sorry to lose the I O Ufor 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 laterthat 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
askedafter 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 listeningbut 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 burningtwitching
impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to
work. But to what work? Nowas though to spite himit 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 dooropened itlistened; but that was
not what he wanted. Suddenlyas though recalling somethinghe rushed
to the corner where there was a hole under the paperbegan examining
itput his hand into the holefumbled--but that was not it. He went
to the stoveopened 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 lookedthen! Then he
remembered the sock about which Razumihin had just been telling him.
Yesthere it lay on the sofa under the quiltbut 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 deliriumor is it real? I believe it is real. . . . AhI
remember; I must escape! Make haste to escape. YesI mustI 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! Ahhere
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! . . . Yesbut the address
bureau? They'll find meRazumihin will find me. Better escape
altogether . . . far away . . . to Americaand 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
walkha-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? Ahand here is beer lefthalf a
bottlecold!"

He snatched up the bottlewhich still contained a glassful of beer
and gulped it down with relishas though quenching a flame in his
breast. But in another minute the beer had gone to his headand 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 disconnectedand soon a lightpleasant drowsiness came upon
him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow
wrapped more closely about him the softwadded quilt which had
replaced the oldragged greatcoatsighed softly and sank into a
deepsoundrefreshing sleep.

He woke uphearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw
Razumihin standing in the doorwayuncertain whether to come in or
not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at himas
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 Raskolnikovlooking 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 aloneand looked inquiringly at Razumihin.

Hm!said the latterhe 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 bundlewhich 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 saidtaking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and


ordinary cap. "Let me try it on."

Presently, afterwards,said Raskolnikovwaving 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 triumphantlyfitting it onjust 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 oldbattered hatwhich for some unknown reason
he called a Palmerston--"or this jewel! Guess the priceRodyawhat
do you suppose I paid for itNastasya!" he saidturning to her
seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.

Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,answered Nastasya.

Twenty copecks, silly!he criedoffended. "Whynowadays 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 outthey
will give you another next year. Yeson my word! Wellnow let us
pass to the United States of Americaas 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 holesno spotsand quite respectablealthough a little worn;
and a waistcoat to matchquite in the fashion. And its being worn
really is an improvementit's softersmoother. . . . You seeRodya
to my thinkingthe great thing for getting on in the world is always
to keep to the seasons; if you don't insist on having asparagus in
Januaryyou keep your money in your purse; and it's the same with
this purchase. It's summer nowso I've been buying summer things-warmer
materials will be wanted for autumnso 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. Comeprice them! What do you say? Two roubles twenty-five
copecks! And remember the condition: if you wear these outyou will
have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at
Fedyaev's; if you've bought a thing onceyou 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 wornbut they'll
last a couple of monthsfor it's foreign work and foreign leather;
the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last week--he had only
worn them six daysbut 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
oldbroken bootstiffly coated with dry mud. "I did not go emptyhanded--
they took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And
as to your linenyour landlady has seen to that. Hereto begin with
are three shirtshempen but with a fashionable front. . . . Well now
theneighty copecks the captwo roubles twenty-five copecks the
suit--together three roubles five copecks--a rouble and a half for the
boots--foryou seethey are very good--and that makes four roubles
fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes--they were
bought in the lo-- which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five
copecks. Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And
soRodyayou are set up with a complete new rig-outfor your
overcoat will serveand even has a style of its own. That comes from


getting one's clothes from Sharmer's! As for your socks and other
thingsI leave them to you; we've twenty-five roubles left. And as
for Pashenka and paying for your lodgingdon't you worry. I tell you
she'll trust you for anything. And nowbrotherlet me change your
linenfor 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. "Nastasyadon't be bashfulbut 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 lastgazing 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 longsullen silence.
Razumihin looked at himfrowning and uneasy.

The door opened and a tallstout man whose appearance seemed familiar
to Raskolnikov came in.

CHAPTER IV

Zossimov was a tallfat man with a puffycolourlessclean-shaven
face and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectaclesand a big gold ring
on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey
fashionable loose coatlight summer trousersand everything about
him loosefashionable and spick and span; his linen was
irreproachablehis watch-chain was massive. In manner he was slow
andas it werenonchalantand at the same time studiously free and
easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importancebut 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
Raskolnikovwatching him carefully andsitting down at the foot of
the sofahe 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 eyesbut 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 himand 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. Perhapsto-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 Crystal."

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 forgetyou 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? WhyI 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 outsuddenly
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 dirtyyellow paper he
picked out one clumsywhite flower with brown lines on it and began
examining how many petals there were in ithow 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


thingfor it leads to truth--what is offensive is that they lie and
worship their own lying. . . . I respect Porfirybut . . . What threw
them out at first? The door was lockedand 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 pikestaffan
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
drunkstayed in the house about ten minutesand 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 murderon 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 murderand went home
feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight o'clock this morning'-that
was the third dayyou understand--'I saw Nikolay coming innot
soberthough 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. "NoI 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 Peskiwith 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 eveningat
that very houron 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 bitNikolay said I, won't you have a drink?" And I signed
to the boy to hold the doorand 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 doingas
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?' 'Ohin 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 frightenedif you felt free from guilt?'
NowZossimovyou may not believe methat question was put literally
in those words. I know it for a factit 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 suddenlystaring with a blank look of terror at Razumihinand
he slowly sat up on the sofaleaning on his hand.

Yes . . . why? What's the matter? What's wrong?Razumihintoogot
up from his seat.

Nothing,Raskolnikov answered faintlyturning to the wall. All were
silent for a while.

He must have waked from a dream,Razumihin said at lastlooking
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
ownerwho 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
upstairsthoughindeedtheir evidence could not have been worth
much. They said they saw the flat was openand that there must be
work going on in itbut 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 exclaimingbut 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 youngof a stiff and portly
appearanceand a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping
short in the doorwaystaring about him with offensive and undisguised
astonishmentas though asking himself what sort of place he had come
to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being alarmed and almost
affrontedhe scanned Raskolnikov's low and narrow "cabin." With the
same amazement he stared at Raskolnikovwho lay undressed
dishevelledunwashedon his miserable dirty sofalooking fixedly at
him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth
unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihinwho looked him boldly
and inquiringly in the face without rising from his seat. A
constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutesand thenas might
be expectedsome scene-shifting took place. Reflectingprobably from
certain fairly unmistakable signsthat he would get nothing in this
cabinby attempting to overawe themthe gentleman softened
somewhatand civillythough with some severityemphasising every
syllable of his questionaddressed Zossimov:

Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?

Zossimov made a slight movementand would have answeredhad 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 Razumihinbut
checked himself in time and turned to Zossimov again.

This is Raskolnikov,mumbled Zossimovnodding towards him. Then he
gave a prolonged yawnopening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he
lazily put his hand into his waistcoat-pocketpulled out a huge gold
watch in a round hunter's caseopened itlooked at it and as slowly
and lazily proceeded to put it back.

Raskolnikov himself lay without speakingon his backgazing


persistentlythough without understandingat the stranger. Now that
his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paperit was
extremely pale and wore a look of anguishas though he had just
undergone an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But
the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attentionthen his
wonderthen suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said "This is
Raskolnikov" he jumped up quicklysat on the sofa and with an almost
defiantbut weak and breakingvoice 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 Raskolnikovwho had expected something quite differentgazed
blankly and dreamily at himmaking no replyas 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 Petrovitchsomewhat disconcerted.

In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillowput 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 everand at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment.

I had presumed and calculated,he falteredthat 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 saysit down. Nastasya and you are
so crowded. Nastasyamake room. Here's a chairthread your way in!"

He moved his chair back from the tablemade a little space between
the table and his kneesand waited in a rather cramped position for
the visitor to "thread his way in." The minute was so chosen that it
was impossible to refuseand the visitor squeezed his way through
hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chairhe sat downlooking
suspiciously at Razumihin.

No need to be nervous,the latter blurted out. "Rodya has been ill
for the last five days and delirious for threebut now he is
recovering and has got an appetite. This is his doctorwho has just
had a look at him. I am a comrade of Rodya'slike himformerly a
studentand 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
Razumihinwhose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected goodnature
that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be more cheerfulpartly
perhapsbecause 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 Raskolnikovwho had turned a little towards him when he
answeredbegan suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity
as though he had not had a good look at him yetor 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 appearancesomething which seemed to justify the
title of "fiancé" so unceremoniously applied to him. In the first
placeit was evidentfar too much so indeedthat 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 proceedingindeed. Even his ownperhaps too
complacentconsciousness of the agreeable improvement in his
appearance might have been forgiven in such circumstancesseeing that
Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the rôle of fiancé. All his clothes were
fresh from the tailor's and were all rightexcept 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
glovesreal Louvaintold the same taleif only from the fact of his
not wearing thembut 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 shadelight thin trousersa
waistcoat of the samenew and fine linena cravat of the lightest
cambric with pink stripes on itand the best of it wasthis all
suited Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face looked
younger than his forty-five years at all times. His darkmutton-chop
whiskers made an agreeable setting on both sidesgrowing thickly
upon his shiningclean-shaven chin. Even his hairtouched here and
there with greythough it had been combed and curled at a
hairdresser'sdid not give him a stupid appearanceas curled hair
usually doesby inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day. If
there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather
good-looking and imposing countenanceit was due to quite other
causes. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniouslyRaskolnikov smiled
malignantlysank 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
beganagain 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 havetooa very important legal affair in the Senatenot 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 pausedwaitedbut as nothing
followedhe 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
roomslet 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 saidaddressing Raskolnikovand 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 slowlyas 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 seeit's ten years since I
visited Petersburg. All the noveltiesreformsideas have reached us
in the provincesbut 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 Petrovitchand 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 repliedwith evident
enjoyment. "Of coursepeople 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 donethe time has been but short; of means I will not
speak. It's my personal viewif you care to knowthat something has
been accomplished already. New valuable ideasnew valuable works are
circulating in the place of our old dreamy and romantic authors.
Literature is taking a maturer formmany injurious prejudice have
been rooted up and turned into ridicule. . . . In a wordwe have cut
ourselves off irrevocably from the pastand thatto my thinkingis
a great thing . . ."

He's learnt it by heart to show off!Raskolnikov pronounced
suddenly.

What?asked Pyotr Petrovitchnot catching his words; but he
received no reply.

That's all true,Zossimov hastened to interpose.

Isn't it so?Pyotr Petrovitch went onglancing affably at Zossimov.
You must admit,he went onaddressing Razumihin with a shade of
triumph and superciliousness--he almost added "young man"--"that there
is an advanceoras they say nowprogress 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 onperhaps
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 uslove yourself before all menfor 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
coatsso to say--the firmer are its foundations and the better is the
common welfare organised too. Thereforein acquiring wealth solely
and exclusively for myselfI am acquiringso to speakfor alland
helping to bring to pass my neighbour's getting a little more than a
torn coat; and that not from privatepersonal liberalitybut as a
consequence of the general advance. The idea is simplebut unhappily
it has been a long time reaching usbeing 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 Luzhinaffrontedand 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 concludedand 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 saidaddressing Raskolnikovmay,
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
opinionbut 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 practisedand 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 inexperiencedand it's clear that it was
only a chance that saved him--and chance may do anything. Whyhe did
not foresee obstaclesperhaps! And how did he set to work? He took
jewels worth ten or twenty roublesstuffing his pockets with them
ransacked the old woman's trunksher rags--and they found fifteen
hundred roublesbesides notesin a box in the top drawer of the
chest! He did not know how to rob; he could only murder. It was his
first crimeI assure youhis 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 inaddressing Zossimov. He was standinghat and
gloves in handbut 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 lipbreathing
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 suddenlyagain in
a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting himis 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 irritablycrimson with


confusionto 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 Raskolnikovraising himself on his pillow
and fixing his piercingglittering eyes upon himI tell you what.

What?Luzhin stood stillwaiting 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 yousir he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain
himself but breathing hard, at the first moment I saw you you were
ill-disposed to mebut I remained here on purpose to find out more. I
could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connectionbut 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 speechsqueezing
between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him
pass. Without glancing at anyoneand not even nodding to Zossimov
who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man
alonehe went outlifting 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 saidshaking 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 anyoneanyone now! Get away from me! I want
to be alonealonealone!"

Come along,said Zossimovnodding to Razumihin.

But we can't leave him like this!

Come along,Zossimov repeated insistentlyand 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 agreedI 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. . . .

Raskolnikovleft alonelooked with impatience and misery at
Nastasyabut 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 outhe got uplatched the doorundid
the parcel which Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up
again and began dressing. Strange to sayhe 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-dayto-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-dayonce for allimmediately; that
he would not return home without itbecause he /would not go on
living like that/." Howwith what to make an end? He had not an idea


about ithe did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought;
thought tortured him. All he knewall 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 Raskolnikovaddressing a middle-aged
man standing idly by him. The man looked at himstartled and
wondering.

I love to hear singing to a street organ,said Raskolnikovand his
manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--"I like it on
colddarkdamp autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all the
passers-by have pale greensickly facesor better still when wet
snow is falling straight downwhen 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 mannerand he
crossed over to the other side of the street.

Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay
Marketwhere the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but
they were not there now. Recognising the placehe stoppedlooked
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 itlooking
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 districtwhen he felt depressedthat
he might feel more so.

Now he walked alongthinking of nothing. At that point there is a
great block of buildingsentirely let out in dram shops and eatinghouses;
women were continually running in and outbare-headed and in
their indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groupson the
pavementespecially about the entrances to various festive
establishments in the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din
sounds of singingthe 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 stepsothers on the pavementothers
were standing talking. A drunken soldiersmoking a cigarettewas
walking near them in the roadswearing; he seemed to be trying to
find his way somewherebut had forgotten where. One beggar was
quarrelling with anotherand a man dead drunk was lying right across
the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of womenwho 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 franticallymarking time with his heels to the sounds of the
guitar and of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened
intentlygloomily and dreamilybending 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 singingas 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 othersshe was young and not
repulsive--the only one of the group.

Why, she's pretty,he saiddrawing himself up and looking at her.

She smiledmuch 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 observedshaking 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 thirtycovered with bruiseswith 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 thinksan hour before his deaththat if he had to live on
some high rockon such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand
and the oceaneverlasting darknesseverlasting solitudeeverlasting
tempest around himif he had to remain standing on a square yard of
space all his lifea thousand yearseternityit were better to live
so than to die at once! Only to liveto live and live! Lifewhatever
it may be! . . . How true it is! Good Godhow 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. Bahthe Palais de Cristal! Razumihin
was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I
wanted? Yesthe newspapers. . . . Zossimov said he'd read it in the
papers. Have you the papers?" he askedgoing into a very spacious and
positively clean restaurantconsisting of several roomswhich were
howeverrather empty. Two or three people were drinking teaand in a
room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne.
Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of thembut 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 eyesbut 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
upit was the head clerk Zametovlooking just the samewith the
rings on his fingers and the watch-chainwith the curlyblack hair
parted and pomadedwith the smart waistcoatrather shabby coat and
doubtful linen. He was in a good humourat 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 surprisespeaking as though he'd known
him all his life. "WhyRazumihin 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 lipsand 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 knowthe woman you
tried to befriendfor whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and
he would not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to
understand--it was quite clearwasn'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 addedslapping Zametov on the
shoulder. "I am not speaking from temperbut in a friendly wayfor
sportas that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with
Dmitriin 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. "NoI am not
reading about the fires he went on, winking at Zametov. But confess
nowmy dear fellowyou'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 backmore 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 lastperplexed
and impatient. "That's no business of mine! What of it?"

The same old woman,Raskolnikov went on in the same whispernot
heeding Zametov's explanationabout 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 outalmost
alarmed.

Raskolnikov's set and earnest face was suddenly transformedand he
suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as beforeas though
utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with
extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent pastthat
moment when he stood with the axe behind the doorwhile the latch
trembled and the men outside swore and shook itand he had a sudden
desire to shout at themto swear at themto put out his tongue at
themto mock themto laughand laughand laugh!

You are either mad, or . . .began Zametovand he broke offas
though stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind.


Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!

Nothing,said Zametovgetting angryit'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 glassput a morsel
of bread in his mouth andsuddenly looking at Zametovseemed 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
addedsmiling.

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 Zametovyes, 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 forwardslooking 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 lightthen turn itthen 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'Noexcuse 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 finishedI'd pick
out one from the fifth and one from the second thousand and take them
again to the light and ask again'Change themplease' 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 outI'd come back'Noexcuse me'
and ask for some explanation. That's how I'd do it."

Foo! what terrible things you say!said Zametovlaughing. "But all
that is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you'd make a slip.
I believe that even a practiseddesperate man cannot always reckon on
himselfmuch 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 fellowhe risked everything in open daylightwas saved by
a miracle--but his hands shooktoo. He did not succeed in robbing the
placehe couldn't stand it. That was clear from the . . ."

Raskolnikov seemed offended.

Clear? Why don't you catch him then?he criedmaliciously 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 moneythey are
not all as cunning as you are. You wouldn't go to a tavernof
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'sagain staring at him and
speaking in a whisperso 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 itand I would put
the jewels and money in that hole. Then I'd roll the stone back so
that it would look as beforewould press it down with my foot and


walk away. And for a year or twothree maybeI would not touch it.
Andwellthey could search! There'd be no trace."

You are a madman,said Zametovand for some reason he too spoke in
a whisperand moved away from Raskolnikovwhose 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 doingbut could not restrain
himself. The terrible word trembled on his lipslike the latch on
that door; in another moment it will break outin another moment he
will let it gohe 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 Zametovobviously 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
waitergetting up and taking his caphow much?

Thirty copecks,the latter repliedrunning 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
bluetwenty-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 landladyI'll be bound. . . . Wellthat's enough! /Assez causé!/
Till we meet again!"

He went outtrembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical
sensationin 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 shockany irritating sensation
stimulated and revived his energies at oncebut his strength failed
as quickly when the stimulus was removed.

Zametovleft alonesat for a long time in the same placeplunged 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 astoundedthen


angerreal 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 quietlyapparently 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 themwho 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 methat I was . . . sick of
you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure you that all that is
seriously hindering my recoverybecause it's continually irritating
me. You saw Zossimov went away just now to avoid irritating me. You
leave me alone toofor goodness' sake! What right have youindeed
to keep me by force? Don't you see that I am in possession of all my
faculties now? Howhow can I persuade you not to persecute me with
your kindness? I may be ungratefulI may be meanonly let me befor
God's sakelet me be! Let me belet me be!"

He began calmlygloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was
about to utterbut finishedpanting for breathin a frenzyas he
had been with Luzhin.

Razumihin stood a momentthought 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
youthat you are all a set of babblingposing 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 furynoticing that Raskolnikov
was again making a movement--"hear me out! You know I'm having a
house-warming this eveningI dare say they've arrived by nowbut I
left my uncle there--I just ran in--to receive the guests. And if you
weren't a foola common foola perfect foolif you were an original
instead of a translation . . . you seeRodyaI recognise you're a
clever fellowbut 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 outthere's no help for it! I'd give you
a snug easy chairmy landlady has one . . . a cup of teacompany.
. . . 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 shoutedout 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
rememberPotchinkov'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! Stayheyis 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. . . . Achwhat a blunder! I can't." And he ran back to
overtake Raskolnikovbut 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---- Bridgestood in the middleand
leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On parting
with Razumihinhe 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 waterhe gazed mechanically at the last pink flush
of the sunsetat the row of houses growing dark in the gathering
twilightat one distant attic window on the left bankflashing as
though on fire in the last rays of the setting sunat the darkening
water of the canaland the water seemed to catch his attention. At
last red circles flashed before his eyesthe houses seemed moving
the passers-bythe canal banksthe carriagesall danced before his
eyes. Suddenly he startedsaved 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 headwith a longyellowwasted face and red sunken eyes. She
was looking straight at himbut obviously she saw nothing and
recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet
lifted her right leg over the railingthen her left and threw herself
into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its victim


for a momentbut an instant later the drowning woman floated to the
surfacemoving slowly with the currenther head and legs in the
waterher skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.

A woman drowning! A woman drowning!shouted dozens of voices; people
ran upboth banks were thronged with spectatorson the bridge people
crowded about Raskolnikovpressing 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 boatwas shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a
boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canalthrew 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 stepshe 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 consciousnessraised her headsat up and began
sneezing and coughingstupidly 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
herselfwe cut her down. I ran out to the shop just nowleft my
little girl to look after her--and here she's in trouble again! A
neighbourgentlemana neighbourwe live close bythe second house
from the endsee yonder. . . ."

The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the womansomeone
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 thoughtwalking slowly and
listlessly along the canal bank. "Anyway I'll make an endfor 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 andafter a minute's thoughtturned into a
side street and went two streets out of his waypossibly without any
objector 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 ithe had not been near it since
/that/ evening. An overwhelmingunaccountable prompting drew him on.
He went into the housepassed through the gatewaythen into the
first entrance on the rightand began mounting the familiar staircase


to the fourth storey. The narrowsteep 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 therehe could hear voices; he had not expected that. After
brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the flat.
Ittoowas being done up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to
amaze him; he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left
iteven perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor. And now
bare wallsno furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window
and sat down on the window-sill. There were two workmenboth young
fellowsbut one much younger than the other. They were papering the
walls with a new white paper covered with lilac flowersinstead of
the olddirtyyellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly
annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislikeas 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 youngervery
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
enthusiasticallyexcept 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
boxthe bedand 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 bellthe 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 shoutedgoing 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 crieduneasy.
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 indifferentlyand going out


firsthe went slowly downstairs. "Heyporter 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 replybut stood beside them lost in thought.
He's been to look at the flat,said the elder workmancoming
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 Raskolnikovfrowning 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 lazydreamy voicenot
turning roundbut 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 slowlazy tones:

Come along.

Yes, take him,the man went on more confidently. "Why was he going
into /that/what's in his mindeh?"

He's not drunk, but God knows what's the matter with him,muttered
the workman.

But what do you want?the porter shouted againbeginning 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 portera 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 forwardbut recovered his footinglooked 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 wantsyou may be surebut once take him
upyou won't get rid of him. . . . We know the sort!"

Shall I go there or not?thought Raskolnikovstanding in the middle
of the thoroughfare at the cross-roadsand he looked about himas
though expecting from someone a decisive word. But no sound cameall
was dead and silent like the stones on which he walkeddead to him
to him alone. . . . All at once at the end of the streettwo hundred
yards awayin 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 itfor 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 itand the coachman had got
off his box and stood by; the horses were being held by the bridle.
. . . A mass of people had gathered roundthe police standing in
front. One of them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on
something lying close to the wheels. Everyone was talkingshouting
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 couldand succeeded at
last in seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground
a man who had been run over lay apparently unconsciousand covered
with blood; he was very badly dressedbut not like a workman. Blood
was flowing from his head and face; his face was crushedmutilated
and disfigured. He was evidently badly injured.

Merciful heaven!wailed the coachmanwhat 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 policeof coursewere 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 shoutedpushing to the front. "It's a
government clerk retired from the serviceMarmeladov. He lives close
by in Kozel's house. . . . Make haste for a doctor! I will paysee?"
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 addressandas earnestly as if it
had been his fatherhe besought the police to carry the unconscious
Marmeladov to his lodging at once.

Just here, three houses away,he said eagerlythe 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 legitimateand 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 begunas she always did at every free
momentwalking to and fro in her little room from window to stove and
back againwith her arms folded across her chesttalking to herself
and coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her
eldest girlPolenkaa child of tenwhothough there was much she
did not understandunderstood 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 brotherwho had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The
boy was waiting for her to take off his shirtwhich had to be washed
at night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chairwith a
silentserious facewith his legs stretched out straight before him
--heels together and toes turned out.

He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sistersitting
perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open eyesjust as all good
little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little
girlstill youngerdressed literally in ragsstood 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
poorconsumptive 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 saidwalking
about the roomwhat 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
violentlyoh, cursed life,she criedclearing her throat and
pressing her hands to her breastwhen 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
Schegolskoya kammerjunkerhad 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 fatherPolya; papa was
fearfully angry. . . . Is the water ready? Give me the shirtand 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



clouthe has torn it to rags! I'd do it all togetherso as not to
have to work two nights running! Ohdear! (Coughcoughcough
cough!) Again! What's this?" she criednoticing a crowd in the
passage and the menwho were pushing into her roomcarrying a
burden. "What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us!"

Where are we to put him?asked the policemanlooking round when
Marmeladovunconscious and covered with bloodhad 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 stoodturning white and gasping for breath. The
children were terrified. Little Lida screamedrushed to Polenka and
clutched at hertrembling all over.

Having laid Marmeladov downRaskolnikov flew to Katerina Ivanovna.

For God's sake be calm, don't be frightened!he saidspeaking
quicklyhe 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
pillowwhich no one had thought of and began undressing and examining
him. She kept her headforgetting herselfbiting 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 doctorit appearednext door but one.

I've sent for a doctor,he kept assuring Katerina Ivanovnadon'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; thereon a broken chair in the
cornera large earthenware basin full of water had been stoodin
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
weekif not oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they
were practically without change of linenand Katerina Ivanovna could
not endure uncleanliness andrather than see dirt in the houseshe
preferred to wear herself out at nightworking beyond her strength
when the rest were asleepso 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 requestbut almost fell down with her burden. But the
latter had already succeeded in finding a towelwetted it and began
washing the blood off Marmeladov's face.

Katerina Ivanovna stood bybreathing 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 policemantoostood in hesitation.

Polenka,cried Katerina Ivanovnarun 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 suddenlyafter
which he relapsed into the same dumb rigiditywith round eyeshis
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 leftall except onewho remained for a
timetrying 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
doorwaybut 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 lodgersone
after anothersqueezed back into the doorway with that strange inner
feeling of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a
sudden accidenteven in those nearest and dearest to the victimfrom
which no living man is exempteven in spite of the sincerest sympathy
and compassion.

Voices outside were heardhoweverspeaking of the hospital and
saying that they'd no business to make a disturbance here.

No business to die!cried Katerina Ivanovnaand she was rushing to
the door to vent her wrath upon thembut 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 criedclasping her handsyour 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 rapiditygetting quicker and
quickerbut 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 deepslowpainful breaths; blood oozed at the corners
of his mouth and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not
recognising Raskolnikovhe began looking round uneasily. Katerina
Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but stern faceand 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 littleSemyon
Zaharovitchif 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:

Ohcursed life!"

A priest,the dying man said again after a moment's silence.

They've gone for him,Katerina Ivanovna shouted to himhe 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 Lidahis favouritewho was shaking in
the corneras though she were in a fitand 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 mutteredindicating with frenzied eyes the
child's bare feet.

Be silent,Katerina Ivanovna cried irritablyyou know why she is
barefooted.

Thank God, the doctor,exclaimed Raskolnikovrelieved.

The doctor came ina precise little old mana Germanlooking about
him mistrustfully; he went up to the sick mantook his pulse
carefully felt his head and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he
unbuttoned the blood-stained shirtand bared the injured man's chest.
It was gashedcrushed and fracturedseveral ribs on the right side
were broken. On the left sidejust over the heartwas 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
partedand the priesta littlegrey old manappeared in the
doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the
time of the accident. The doctor changed places with himexchanging
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 Lidalifted 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 kneeslifted his hand rhythmically
crossing himself with precision and bowed downtouching the floor
with his foreheadwhich seemed to afford him especial satisfaction.
Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back her tears; she prayed
toonow and then pulling straight the boy's shirtand managed to
cover the girl's bare shoulders with a kerchiefwhich 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 denserbut 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 fasttook off her kerchief
looked for her motherwent up to her and saidShe'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 roomin the midst of want
ragsdeath and despair. Shetoowas in ragsher attire was all of
the cheapestbut decked out in gutter finery of a special stamp
unmistakably betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in
the doorway and looked about her bewilderedunconscious of
everything. She forgot her fourth-handgaudy silk dressso unseemly
here with its ridiculous long trainand her immense crinoline that
filled up the whole doorwayand her light-coloured shoesand the
parasol she brought with herthough it was no use at nightand the
absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-coloured feather. Under
this rakishly-tilted hat was a palefrightened little face with lips
parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of
eighteen with fair hairrather prettywith wonderful blue eyes. She
looked intently at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath
with running. At last whisperssome 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 priestshaking his head.

And isn't that a sin?cried Katerina Ivanovnapointing 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? Whyhe was drunk and threw
himself under the horses! What earnings? He brought us in nothing but
misery. He drank everything awaythe drunkard! He robbed us to get
drinkhe 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
waterwiping the blood and sweat from his headsetting his pillow
straightand 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 priestpressing 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 Ivanovnawho was bending over him again. He kept
trying to say something to her; he began moving his tongue with
difficulty and articulating indistinctlybut Katerina Ivanovna
understanding that he wanted to ask her forgivenesscalled
peremptorily to him:

Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!And the sick man
was silentbut 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 agitationturning his eyes in horror towards the door where his
daughter was standingand 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 daughteras
though not recognising her. He had never seen her before in such
attire. Suddenly he recognised hercrushed and ashamed in her
humiliation and gaudy finerymeekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye
to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering.

Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!he criedand he tried to hold out his
hand to herbut losing his balancehe fell off the sofaface
downwards on the floor. They rushed to pick him upthey put him on
the sofa; but he was dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran upembraced
him and remained so without moving. He died in her arms.

He's got what he wanted,Katerina Ivanovna criedseeing her
husband's dead body. "Wellwhat'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 beganlast 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 roomsqueezing his way through the
crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against
Nikodim Fomitchwho had heard of the accident and had come to give
instructions in person. They had not met since the scene at the police
stationbut Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.

Ah, is that you?he asked him.

He's dead,answered Raskolnikov. "The doctor and the priest have
beenall as it should have been. Don't worry the poor woman too much
she is in consumption as it is. Try and cheer her upif possible
. . . you are a kind-hearted manI know . . ." he added with a smile
looking straight in his face.

But you are spattered with blood,observed Nikodim Fomitchnoticing
in the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov's waistcoat.

Yes . . . I'm covered with blood,Raskolnikov said with a peculiar
air; then he smilednodded and went downstairs.

He walked down slowly and deliberatelyfeverish but not conscious of
itentirely 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 passexchanging 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 himcalling "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 facelooking 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 herhe could not have
said why.

Who sent you?

Sister Sonia sent me,answered the girlsmiling 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
earnestnessand her smile became graver.

And will you love me?

By way of answer he saw the little girl's face approaching himher
full lips naïvely held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as
sticks held him tightlyher head rested on his shoulder and the
little girl wept softlypressing her face against him.

I am sorry for father,she said a moment laterraising her tearstained
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 peoplehe 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 anythingbut we knew that
she liked it and father knew ittoo. And mother wants to teach me
Frenchfor 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
hotlyand 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
fanciesimaginary 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 enoughmadamleave me in peace! Now for the
reign of reason and light . . . and of willand of strength . . . and
now we will see! We will try our strength!" he added defiantlyas
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 strawhe suddenly felt that hetoo'could livethat
there was still life for himthat his life had not died with the old
woman.' Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his conclusionsbut
he did not think of that.

But I did ask her to remember 'Thy servant Rodion' in her prayers,
the idea struck him. "Wellthat 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 pronouncedexamining the patient as
far as he couldand 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-morrowto-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 outas soon as they were in the street. "I won't
tell you everythingbrotherbecause they are such fools. Zossimov
told me to talk freely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to
meand afterwards I am to tell him about itfor he's got a notion in
his head that you are . . . mad or close on it. Only fancy! In the
first placeyou've three times the brains he has; in the secondif
you are not madyou needn't care a hang that he has got such a wild
idea; and thirdlythat piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has
gone mad on mental diseasesand 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 RaskolnikovI 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 stairsat the
level of the landlady's doorand they couldas a factsee 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 stairsand the idea struck Razumihin that
perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. "AhI'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 doorwaydumbfoundered.


His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an
hour and a half for him. Why had he never expectednever thought of
themthough the news that they had startedwere on their way and
would arrive immediatelyhad 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-dayill andas they understood from her storydelirious! "Good
Heavenswhat had become of him?" Both had been weepingboth had been
in anguish for that hour and a half.

A cry of joyof ecstasygreeted 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
themhe could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms
kissed himlaughed and cried. He took a steptottered and fell to
the groundfainting.

Anxietycries of horrormoans . . . Razumihin who was standing in
the doorway flew into the roomseized 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 fainta mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was much
betterthat he is perfectly well! Water! Seehe is coming to
himselfhe is all right again!"

And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated ithe made
her bend down to see that "he is all right again." The mother and
sister looked on him with emotion and gratitudeas their Providence.
They had heard already from Nastasya all that had been done for their
Rodya during his illnessby 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 Alexandrovnathe 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 RazumihinI 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 beginningonce
more pressing Razumihin's handsbut Raskolnikov interrupted her
again.

I can't have it! I can't have it!he repeated irritablydon'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 himthat's evident."

Mayn't I look at him after three years?wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Stay,he stopped them againyou 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 alarmbut she stoppedlooking at
Dounia.

Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her brotherwaiting for
what would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from
Nastasyaso far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting
itand were in painful perplexity and suspense.

Dounia,Raskolnikov continued with an effortI 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
impetuouslybut immediately checked herself. "You are not fit to talk
nowperhaps; 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-morrowto refuse him . . . Let me read it in the morning and that
will be the end of it!"

That I can't do!the girl criedoffendedwhat 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 tipsilyor 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 crestfallen.
. . .

Then it's true?cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.


Good-bye till to-morrow, brother,said Dounia compassionately--"let
us gomother . . . Good-byeRodya."

Do you hear, sister,he repeated after themmaking 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
sofaand turned to the wallutterly 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 stairsanyway. Nastasyashow 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 himso as
not to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guardbut he dressed at
once and slipped off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him
at this time of nightand 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
Ill 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 earlierwhile he was bringing
Raskolnikov homehe had indeed talked too freelybut he was aware of
it himselfand his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities he
had imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasyand all that
he had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood
with the two ladiesseizing both by their handspersuading themand
giving them reasons with astonishing plainness of speechand at
almost every word he utteredprobably to emphasise his argumentshe
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 pawsbut far from noticing
what was the matterhe drew them all the closer to him. If they'd
told him to jump head foremost from the staircasehe 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 muchin her anxiety over her Rodya she looked on
his presence as providentialand was unwilling to notice all his
peculiarities. But though Avdotya Romanovna shared her anxietyand
was not of timorous dispositionshe 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
friendwhich prevented her from trying to run away from himand to
persuade her mother to do the same. She realisedtoothat even
running away was perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes laterhowever
she was considerably reassured; it was characteristic of Razumihin
that he showed his true nature at oncewhatever 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 staythough you are his motheryou'll drive him to a frenzyand
then goodness knows what will happen! ListenI'll tell you what I'll
do: Nastasya will stay with him nowand 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 lateron my word of honourI'll bring you news
how he iswhether he is asleepand all that. Thenlisten! Then I'll
run home in a twinkling--I've a lot of friends thereall drunk--I'll
fetch Zossimov--that's the doctor who is looking after himhe is
theretoobut he is not drunk; he is not drunkhe is never drunk!
I'll drag him to Rodyaand then to youso that you'll get two
reports in the hour--from the doctoryou understandfrom the doctor
himselfthat's a very different thing from my account of him! If
there's anything wrongI swear I'll bring you here myselfbutif
it's all rightyou go to bed. And I'll spend the night herein the
passagehe won't hear meand I'll tell Zossimov to sleep at the
landlady'sto 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 mebut it's out of the question for you: she wouldn't take
youfor she's . . . for she's a fool . . . She'd be jealous on my
account of Avdotya Romanovna and of youtooif you want to know
. . . of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She is an absolutelyabsolutely
unaccountable character! But I am a fooltoo! . . . No matter! Come
along! Do you trust me? Comedo you trust me or not?"

Let us go, mother,said Avdotya Romanovnahe 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 ecstasylet 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 convincedshe made no
further resistance. Razumihin gave an arm to each and drew them down
the stairs. He still made her uneasyas though he was competent and
good-naturedwas 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 thoughtsguessing themas he strolled along the pavement
with huge stepsso that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him
a fact he did not observehowever. "Nonsense! That is . . . I am
drunk like a foolbut 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 nonsenseI am not worthy of you. . . . I am
utterly unworthy of you! The minute I've taken you homeI'll pour a
couple of pailfuls of water over my head in the gutter hereand then
I shall be all right. . . . If only you knew how I love you both!
Don't laughand don't be angry! You may be angry with anyonebut not
with me! I am his friendand therefore I am your friendtooI want
to be . . . I had a presentiment . . . Last year there was a moment
. . . though it wasn't a presentiment reallyfor 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 Romanovnaalarmed.

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 timidlybut it only
added fuel to the flames.

What do you think?shouted Razumihinlouder than everyou 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 Razumihinpressing 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 cryfor he squeezed
her hand so painfully.

Yes, you say yes . . . well after that you . . . you . . .he cried
in a transportyou 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 pavementfortunately at that time deserted.

Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?Pulcheria Alexandrovna
criedgreatly distressed.

Get up, get up!said Dounia laughingthough shetoowas 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 . . .
hmhm! That would be disgraceful; in fact not because I'm in . . .
hm! WellanywayI won't say whyI 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'snot because he was in such a
hurry to show his witbut because he is a spya speculatorbecause
he is a skin-flint and a buffoon. That's evident. Do you think him
clever? Nohe is a foola fool. And is he a match for you? Good
heavens! Do you seeladies?" he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs
to their roomsthough 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! Goodbye,
I'll run.

Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?said Pulcheria
Alexandrovnaaddressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay.

Don't worry yourself, mother,said Douniataking off her hat and
cape. "God has sent this gentleman to our aidthough he has come from
a drinking party. We can depend on himI 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 motherlooking timidly at her
daughtertrying to read her thoughts andalready half consoled by
Dounia's standing up for her brotherwhich 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 inI haven't time he hastened to say when the door
was opened. He sleeps like a topsoundlyquietlyand God grant he
may sleep ten hours. Nastasya's with him; I told her not to leave till
I came. Now I am fetching Zossimovhe 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
warmthresuming 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'sbut he came reluctantly and with the greatest
suspicion to see the ladiesmistrusting 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 sympathybut 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 Romanovnahe 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 monthsbut it had partly also a moral originwas, 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 attentionZossimov 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
conclusionfollowing 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 shoutedshaking him by the collar
and squeezing him against the wall. "Do you hear?"

Let me go, you drunken devil,said Zossimovstruggling and when he
had let him gohe 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 observedsombre as a storm cloudbut
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 lodgingsRazumihin broke the silence in considerable
anxiety.

Listen,he saidyou'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 fishpies,
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'clocktroubled 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 himthat 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 itand 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 isall the uncleanness
of his coarse and envious heart"! And would such a dream ever be
permissible to himRazumihin? What was he beside such a girl--hethe
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-abasementof 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 hadperhaps 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 othersespecially 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 hairhis 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 Zossimovwho had spent the
night in Praskovya Pavlovna's parlourcame 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 patientshow is one to cure them? Do you know whether /he/ will
go to themor whether /they/ are coming here?"

They are coming, I think,said Razumihinunderstanding the object
of the questionand 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 Razumihinfrowning. "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 nightbowed awkwardly and was at once furious
with himself for it. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria
Alexandrovna fairly rushed at himseized him by both hands and was
almost kissing them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovnabut her
proud countenance wore at that moment an expression of such gratitude
and friendlinesssuch 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 conversationand he made
haste to snatch at it.

Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet
wakedPulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it
because "she had something which it was veryvery 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
waiterand they asked him to bring tea which was served at lastbut
in such a dirty and disorderly way that the ladies were ashamed.
Razumihin vigorously attacked the lodgingsbutremembering Luzhin
stopped in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria
Alexandrovna's questionswhich showered in a continual stream upon
him.

He talked for three quarters of an hourbeing constantly interrupted
by their questionsand 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
howevermany thingswhich were better omittedincluding the scene
at the police station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly
to his storyandwhen he thought he had finished and satisfied his
listenershe 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 motherbut my uncle comes
every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise meeven in
appearancethough 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 morosegloomyproud 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. Sometimesthoughhe is not at all
morbidbut 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 hindranceand
yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn't jeer at thingsnot
because he hasn't the witbut 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. Wellwhat
more? I think your arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon
him."

God grant it may,cried Pulcheria Alexandrovnadistressed 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 talkingbut only for a
moment and looked away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the
tablelistening attentivelythen got up again and began walking to
and fro with her arms folded and her lips compressedoccasionally
putting in a questionwithout 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 queenhe felt that he would
not be afraid of herbut perhaps just because she was poorly dressed
and that he noticed all the misery of her surroundingshis heart was
filled with dread and he began to be afraid of every word he uttered
every gesture he madewhich 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 rightonly . . ."

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 surprisebut
remembering at once what he had just before said of her brotherhe
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
remarkedslightly piqued. "I am not talking of our present
difficultyDounia. What Pyotr Petrovitch writes in this letter and
what you and I have supposed may be mistakenbut you can't imagine
Dmitri Prokofitchhow moody andso to saycapricious 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 . . . Wellfor instancedo you know how a year and a half ago
he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly killed mewhen 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 tearsmy entreatiesmy illnessmy possible death
from griefour poverty would have made him pause? Nohe 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
Luzhinhesitating and continually glancing at Douniaobviously to
the latter's annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently
caused her uneasinesseven consternation. Razumihin described it in
detail againbut this time he added his own conclusions: he openly
blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitchnot
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 Romanovnatoowas 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 warmthand 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 flushedbut 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 lastfaltering 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 ProkofitchDounia?"

Of course, mother,said Avdotya Romanovna emphatically.

This is what it is,she began in hasteas 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 stationyou
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 isand
. . . tell me your candid opinionDmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya's
character better than anyone and no one can advise us better than you
can. DouniaI must tell youmade her decision at oncebut 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
Alexandrovnaalmost 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 knowsand . . . 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 thoughtfullyif 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 chainand looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of
her dress. "A present from her /fiancé/ thought Razumihin.

We must startDouniawe must start her mother cried in a flutter.
He will be thinking we are still angry after yesterdayfrom our
coming so late. Merciful heavens!"

While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle;
Douniatooput on her things. Her glovesas Razumihin noticedwere
not merely shabby but had holes in themand yet this evident poverty
gave the two ladies an air of special dignitywhich 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 Alexandrovnalittle did I think that I
should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodya! I am
afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch,she addedglancing at him timidly.

Don't be afraid, mother,said Douniakissing herbetter 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 herthen with flashing eyes she added: "He ought to
be happy at seeing youand you are tormenting yourself so."

Wait, I'll peep in and see whether he has waked up.

The ladies slowly followed Razumihinwho went on beforeand when
they reached the landlady's door on the fourth storeythey 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 metthe 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 beforeon the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite
cornerfully dressed and carefully washed and combedas he had not
been for some time past. The room was immediately crowdedyet
Nastasya managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen.

Raskolnikov really was almost wellas compared with his condition the
day beforebut he was still palelistlessand sombre. He looked
like a wounded man or one who has undergone some terrible physical
suffering. His brows were knittedhis lips compressedhis eyes
feverish. He spoke little and reluctantlyas though performing a
dutyand 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 palesombre face lighted up for a moment when his mother and
sister enteredbut this only gave it a look of more intense
sufferingin place of its listless dejection. The light soon died
awaybut the look of suffering remainedand Zossimovwatching and
studying his patient with all the zest of a young doctor beginning to
practisenoticed in him no joy at the arrival of his mother and
sisterbut a sort of bitterhidden 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 hadlike a monomaniacfallen 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.

YesindeedI 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 daysif he goes on like thishe will be just
as beforethat isas he was a month agoor two . . . or perhaps
even three. This has been coming on for a long while. . . . eh?
Confessnowthat it has been perhaps your own fault?" he addedwith


a tentative smileas though still afraid of irritating him.

It is very possible,answered Raskolnikov coldly.

I should say, too,continued Zossimov with zestthat 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. . . .

Zossimovwho had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect
before the ladieswas certainly somewhat mystifiedwhenglancing at
his patienthe observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted
an instanthowever. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking
Zossimovespecially for his visit to their lodging the previous
night.

What! he saw you last night?Raskolnikov askedas 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 onsuddenly
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
meindeedbecause 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 childrenand some almost
fall in love with them. Andof courseI am not rich in patients."

I say nothing about him,added Raskolnikovpointing 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 himbut 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 onas 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
yesterdaywaiting for me to come back."

When he had said thishe 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 onceand warmly pressed his
handoverjoyed 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. "Yesthat 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 suddenlyin haste to
answer his words to herhow 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 shortsuddenlyrecollecting it was still somewhat dangerous
to speak of Pyotr Petrovitchalthough "we are quite happy again."

Yes, yes. . . . Of course it's very annoying. . . .Raskolnikov
muttered in replybut 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. Shetoo
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 detailand yet--why I did


that and went there and said thatI can't clearly explain now."

A familiar phenomenon,interposed Zossimovactions 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
Dounialooking uneasily at Zossimov.

There is some truth in your observation,the latter replied. "In
that sense we are certainly all not infrequently like madmenbut with
the slight difference that the deranged are somewhat madderfor we
must draw a line. A normal manit is truehardly 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.

Wellwhat 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 waymammaI 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 nowin consumptiona poor creature . . . three little
childrenstarving . . . nothing in the house . . . there's a
daughtertoo . . . perhaps you'd have given it yourself if you'd seen
them. But I had no right to do it I admitespecially as I knew how
you needed the money yourself. To help others one must have the right
to do itor else /Crevezchienssi vous n'êtes pas contents/." He
laughedThat's right, isn't it, Dounia?

No, it's not,answered Dounia firmly.

Bah! you, too, have ideals,he mutteredlooking at her almost with
hatredand smiling sarcastically. "I ought to have considered that.
. . . Wellthat's praiseworthyand it's better for you . . . and if
you reach a line you won't overstepyou will be unhappy . . . and if
you overstep itmaybe 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 forgivenessmother he concluded,
shortly and abruptly.

That's enoughRodyaI 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 knowRodyaMarfa 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 suddenlyas if waking up. "What did she die of?"

Only imagine, quite suddenly,Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered
hurriedlyencouraged by his curiosity. "On the very day I was sending
you that letter! Would you believe itthat 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 askedaddressing 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
answeredalmost with a shudderknitting her browsand 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 dinnerI
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 irritablyas 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 askedwith a constrained smile.

That's certainly true,said Dounialooking directly and sternly at
her brother. "Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up


the stairs."

His face workedas 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 seecoming hereI was dreaming all the wayin the
trainhow we should meethow we should talk over everything
together. . . . And I was so happyI did not notice the journey! But
what am I saying? I am happy now. . . . You should notDounia. . . .
I am happy now--simply in seeing youRodya. . . ."

Hush, mother,he muttered in confusionnot looking at herbut
pressing her hand. "We shall have time to speak freely of everything!"

As he said thishe 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 seatand not looking at anyone walked towards the door.

What are you about?cried Razumihinclutching him by the arm.

He sat down againand began looking about himin silence. They were
all looking at him in perplexity.

But what are you all so dull for?he shoutedsuddenly and quite
unexpectedly. "Do say something! What's the use of sitting like this?
Comedo speak. Let us talk. . . . We meet together and sit in
silence. . . . Comeanything!"

Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning
again,said Pulcheria Alexandrovnacrossing herself.

What is the matter, Rodya?asked Avdotya Romanovnadistrustfully.

Oh, nothing! I remembered something,he answeredand suddenly
laughed.

Well, if you remembered something; that's all right! . . . I was
beginning to think . . .muttered Zossimovgetting up from the sofa.
It is time for me to be off. I will look in again perhaps . . . if I
can . . .He made his bowsand went out.

What an excellent man!observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent,Raskolnikov
begansuddenly speaking with surprising rapidityand 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 mantoo he nodded at Razumihin. Do you like him
Dounia?" he asked her; and suddenlyfor some unknown reasonlaughed.

Very much,answered Dounia.

Foo!--what a pig you are!Razumihin protestedblushing in terrible
confusionand he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled
faintlybut 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 Razumihinand 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 suddenlylooking at his motherwho 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 ongrowing dreamy and looking down
again. "Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poorand
was always dreaming of a nunneryand once she burst into tears when
she began talking to me about it. YesyesI 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 hunchbackI believe I should have liked her better
still he smiled dreamily. Yesit was a sort of spring delirium."

No, it was not only spring delirium,said Douniawith warm feeling.

He fixed a strained intent look on his sisterbut did not hear or did
not understand her words. Thencompletely lost in thoughthe got up
went up to his motherkissed herwent back to his place and sat
down.

You love her even now?said Pulcheria Alexandrovnatouched.

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. "Younow . . . I seem to be looking at you from
a thousand miles away . . . butgoodness knows why we are talking of
that! And what's the use of asking about it?" he added with annoyance
and biting his nailsfell into dreamy silence again.

What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It's like a tomb,said
Pulcheria Alexandrovnasuddenly breaking the oppressive silence. "I
am sure it's quite half through your lodging you have become so
melancholy."

My lodging,he answeredlistlessly. "Yesthe lodging had a great
deal to do with it. . . . I thought thattoo. . . . If only you knew


thoughwhat a strange thing you said just nowmother 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.

ListenDounia he began, gravely and drily, of course I beg your
pardon for yesterdaybut 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
scoundrelyou must not be. One is enough. If you marry LuzhinI
cease at once to look on you as a sister."

Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again,Pulcheria
Alexandrovna criedmournfully. "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 nightand
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 sakebecause things are hard for
me. Thoughof courseI 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 himselfbiting 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 DouniaI 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?
Shetooflushedand there was a gleam of anger in her eyes.

All?he askedwith 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 Dounialosing 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 handsPulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He
took it with great interestbutbefore opening ithe suddenly
looked with a sort of wonder at Dounia.

It is strange,he saidslowlyas 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 himselfbut said it aloudand looked for
some time at his sisteras though puzzled. He opened the letter at
laststill with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then
slowly and attentivelyhe began readingand read it through twice.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna showed marked anxietyand all indeed expected
something particular.

What surprises me,he beganafter a short pausehanding the letter
to his motherbut not addressing anyone in particularis 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 beganembarrassed.

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 observedsomewhat 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 Douniawith more animation. "I saw clearly that it
was too naïvely expressedand that perhaps he simply has no skill in
writing . . . that is a true criticismbrother. 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 Alexandrovnawho
was more uneasy than ever at the suddennew 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 addeddrily.

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. "MotherI am inviting himtoo."

Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided,added Pulcheria
Alexandrovnaso 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 openedand a young girl walked
into the roomlooking timidly about her. Everyone turned towards her
with surprise and curiosity. At first sightRaskolnikov did not
recognise her. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her


yesterday for the first timebut at such a momentin such
surroundings and in such a dressthat his memory retained a very
different image of her. Now she was a modestly and poorly-dressed
young girlvery youngindeedalmost like a childwith a modest and
refined mannerwith a candid but somewhat frightened-looking face.
She was wearing a very plain indoor dressand had on a shabby oldfashioned
hatbut she still carried a parasol. Unexpectedly finding
the room full of peopleshe was not so much embarrassed as completely
overwhelmed with shynesslike a little child. She was even about to
retreat. "Oh . . . it's you!" said Raskolnikovextremely astonished
and hetoowas 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 rememberedtoothat he had not
protested against the expression "of notorious behaviour." All this
passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brainbut looking at her
more intentlyhe saw that the humiliated creature was so humiliated
that he felt suddenly sorry for her. When she made a movement to
retreat in terrorit sent a pang to his heart.

I did not expect you,he saidhurriedlywith a look that made her
stop. "Please sit down. You comeno doubtfrom Katerina Ivanovna.
Allow me--not there. Sit here. . . ."

At Sonia's entranceRazumihinwho had been sitting on one of
Raskolnikov's three chairsclose to the doorgot up to allow her to
enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa where
Zossimov had been sittingbut feeling that the sofa which served him
as a bedwas too /familiar/ a placehe hurriedly motioned her to
Razumihin's chair.

You sit here,he said to Razumihinputting him on the sofa.

Sonia sat downalmost shaking with terrorand looked timidly at the
two ladies. It was evidently almost inconceivable to herself that she
could sit down beside them. At the thought of itshe was so
frightened that she hurriedly got up againand in utter confusion
addressed Raskolnikov.

I . . . I . . . have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing
you,she began falteringly. "I come from Katerina Ivanovnaand 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
toostood upand hetoofaltered and could not finish his
sentence. "Please sit down he said, suddenly. I want to talk to
you. You are perhaps in a hurrybut pleasebe so kindspare 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
Marmeladovthe daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladovwho was
run over yesterday before my eyesand of whom I was just telling
you."

Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Soniaand slightly screwed up her
eyes. In spite of her embarrassment before Rodya's urgent and


challenging lookshe could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dounia
gazed gravely and intently into the poor girl's faceand scrutinised
her with perplexity. Soniahearing herself introducedtried to raise
her eyes againbut was more embarrassed than ever.

I wanted to ask you,said Raskolnikovhastilyhow 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 tremblingbutwith an effort
she controlled herselflooking down again.

During the conversationRaskolnikov watched her carefully. She had a
thinvery thinpale little facerather irregular and angularwith
a sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called pretty
but her blue eyes were so clearand when they lighted upthere was
such a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not
help being attracted. Her faceand her whole figure indeedhad
another peculiar characteristic. In spite of her eighteen yearsshe
looked almost a little girl--almost a child. And in some of her
gesturesthis 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 suddenlyin replyin
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 surroundingsand 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 saidgetting upwe 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 answeredgetting up fussily. "But I have
something to see to."

But surely you will have dinner together?cried Razumihinlooking
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 bowedpositively radiant. For one momentthey 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 Soniatoo; but it somehow
failed to come offand she went in a flutter out of the room.

But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turnand following her
mother outgave Sonia an attentivecourteous bow. Soniain
confusiongave a hurriedfrightened curtsy. There was a look of
poignant discomfort in her faceas though Avdotya Romanovna's
courtesy and attention were oppressive and painful to her.

Dounia, good-bye,called Raskolnikovin the passage. "Give me your
hand."

Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?said Douniaturning
warmly and awkwardly to him.

Never mind, give it to me again.And he squeezed her fingers warmly.

Dounia smiledflushedpulled her hand awayand went off quite
happy.

Come, that's capital,he said to Soniagoing back and looking
brightly at her. "God give peace to the deadthe living have still to
live. That is rightisn'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 beganas soon as they were
in the streetI 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


uphotly and jealously. "Do you knowDouniaI was looking at you
two. You are the very portrait of himand not so much in face as in
soul. You are both melancholyboth morose and hot-temperedboth
haughty and both generous. . . . Surely he can't be an egoistDounia.
Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this eveningmy 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 Douniasharply 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?

Whythat Sofya Semyonovnawho 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 Douniain vexation. "What nonsensewith
your presentimentsmother! He only made her acquaintance the evening
beforeand 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
outsuddenly.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not resumed.

*****

I will tell you what I want with you,said Raskolnikovdrawing
Razumihin to the window.

Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming,Sonia said
hurriedlypreparing 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 latterwith
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. "Wellhow 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 Semyonovnathis is
my friend Razumihinand he is a good man."

If you have to go now,Sonia was beginningnot looking at Razumihin
at alland still more embarrassed.

Let us go,decided Raskolnikov. "I will come to you to-daySofya
Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live."

He was not exactly ill at easebut seemed hurriedand avoided her
eyes. Sonia gave her addressand flushed as she did so. They all went
out together.

Don't you lock up?asked Razumihinfollowing 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 rightSofya Semyonovna? How did you find meby the

way?" he addedas though he wanted to say something quite different.

He wanted to look at her soft clear eyesbut 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 possibleto walk the twenty
steps to the turning on the right and to be at last aloneand then
moving rapidly alonglooking at no onenoticing nothingto think
to rememberto meditate on every wordevery detail. Nevernever 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 dayperhaps at once!

Only not to-day, please, not to-day!she kept muttering with a
sinking heartas though entreating someonelike 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 RazumihinRaskolnikovand
she stood still at parting on the pavementthis gentlemanwho was
just passingstarted on hearing Sonia's words: "and I asked where Mr.
Raskolnikov lived?" He turned a rapid but attentive look upon all
threeespecially upon Raskolnikovto whom Sonia was speaking; then
looked back and noted the house. All this was done in an instant as he
passedand trying not to betray his interesthe walked on more
slowly as though waiting for something. He was waiting for Sonia; he
saw that they were partingand that Sonia was going home.

Home? Where? I've seen that face somewhere,he thought. "I must find
out."

At the turning he crossed overlooked roundand saw Sonia coming the
same waynoticing 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 fiftyrather tall and thickly setwith broad high
shoulders which made him look as though he stooped a little. He wore
good and fashionable clothesand looked like a gentleman of position.
He carried a handsome canewhich he tapped on the pavement at each
step; his gloves were spotless. He had a broadrather pleasant face
with high cheek-bones and a fresh colournot often seen in
Petersburg. His flaxen hair was still abundantand only touched here
and there with greyand 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 bankthey were the only two persons
on the pavement. He observed her dreaminess and preoccupation. On
reaching the house where she lodgedSonia turned in at the gate; he
followed herseeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to
the right corner. "Bah!" muttered the unknown gentlemanand mounted
the stairs behind her. Only then Sonia noticed him. She reached the
third storeyturned down the passageand rang at No. 9. On the door


was inscribed in chalkKapernaumov, Tailor.Bah!the stranger
repeated againwondering at the strange coincidenceand he rang next
doorat No. 8. The doors were two or three yards apart.

You lodge at Kapernaumov's,he saidlooking 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'sRazumihin was obviously excited.

That's capital, brother,he repeated several timesand 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 fellowyou will
seebrother. Rather clumsythat is to sayhe is a man of polished
mannersbut I mean clumsy in a different sense. He is an intelligent
fellowvery much so indeedbut he has his own range of ideas. . . .
He is incredulousscepticalcynical . . . he likes to impose on
peopleor rather to make fun of them. His is the oldcircumstantial
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 veryvery 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 assumedhowever.

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 alarmedtooby what Razumihin
had just said about Porfiry.

I shall have to pull a long face with him too,he thoughtwith a
beating heartand he turned whiteand 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 suddenlyaddressing Razumihinwith a sly
smileI have been noticing all day that you seem to be curiously
excited. Isn't it so?

Excited? Not a bit of it,said Razumihinstung 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 overwhelmedturning cold with horror. "What


will you tell them? Comebrother . . . 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
laughingthey entered Porfiry Petrovitch's flat. This is what
Raskolnikov wanted: from within they could be heard laughing as they
came instill guffawing in the passage.

Not a word here or I'll . . . brain you!Razumihin whispered
furiouslyseizing 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 awkwardshamefaced and red
as a peonywith an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His
face and whole figure really were ridiculous at that moment and amply
justified Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikovnot waiting for an
introductionbowed to Porfiry Petrovitchwho stood in the middle of
the room looking inquiringly at them. He held out his hand and shook
handsstill 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 Razumihinand 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 roaredwaving 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 laughingwith his hand in Porfiry Petrovitch's
but anxious not to overdo itawaited the right moment to put a
natural end to it. Razumihincompletely put to confusion by upsetting
the table and smashing the glassgazed 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
laughingbut obviously looked for explanations. Zametov had been
sitting in the cornerbut he rose at the visitors' entrance and was
standing in expectation with a smile on his lipsthough 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 meplease 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 Razumihinwithout 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 Razumihinand
suddenly bursting out laughing himselfhe 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 acquaintanceand secondlyhe has a little matter of business
with you. Bah! Zametovwhat brought you here? Have you met before?
Have you known each other long?"

What does this mean?thought Raskolnikov uneasily.

Zametov seemed taken abackbut 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-gownvery clean linenand
trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirtyshort
stout even to corpulenceand clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short
and had a large round headparticularly prominent at the back. His
softroundrather 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 eyeswhich shone with a watery
mawkish light under almost whiteblinking eyelashes. The expression
of those eyes was strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish
figureand 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 himhe begged him to sit down on the sofa and
sat down himself on the other endwaiting for him to explain his
businesswith that careful and over-serious attention which is at
once oppressive and embarrassingespecially to a strangerand
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
exactlyand 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. Razumihinsitting opposite at the same table
listened warmly and impatientlylooking 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 repliedwith a
most businesslike airthat 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 embarrassmentI 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 Petrovitchreceiving his
explanation of his pecuniary position coldlybut 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 himscrewing up his eyes andas it werewinking at
him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov's fancyfor it all lasted but a
moment. There was certainly something of the sortRaskolnikov could
have sworn he winked at himgoodness knows why.

He knows,flashed through his mind like lightning.

Forgive my troubling you about such trifles,he went ona little
disconcertedthe 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 eyesbut immediately
recollected himself.

You seem to be jeering at me, brother?he said to himwith a wellfeigned
irritability. "I dare say I do seem to you absurdly anxious
about such trash; but you mustn't think me selfish or grasping for
thatand these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I
told you just now that the silver watchthough it's not worth a cent
is the only thing left us of my father's. You may laugh at mebut 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 lostshe 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 importancehe carefully offered
the ash-tray to Razumihinwho was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash
over the carpet. Raskolnikov shudderedbut Porfiry did not seem to be
looking at himand 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 awkwardlydoing his very
utmost to look him straight in the facebut he failedand 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 angrilycompletely changing his tone. His anger was
mountinghe 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 believePorfiry
as soon as our backs were turnedhe dressedthough he could hardly
standand gave us the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till
midnightdelirious 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 defianceI 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 momentso 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
Petrovitchthat he met you very late last night in the lodging of a
man who had been run over.

And there,said Razumihinweren'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 saidturning to Porfiry Petrovitchwith
trembling lips. "We are boring youaren'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. "Comestrike me openlydon't play with me
like a cat with a mouse. It's hardly civilPorfiry Petrovitchbut
perhaps I won't allow it! I shall get up and throw the whole truth in
your ugly facesand you'll see how I despise you." He could hardly
breathe. "And what if it's only my fancy? What if I am mistakenand
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 saidbut
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?
Yesthe tone. . . . Razumihin is sitting herewhy 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 herewhile it's my first visit.
Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits with his back to him.
They're as thick as thievesno doubtover 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 flatit may be of use
afterwards. . . . Deliriousindeed . . . 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 wrongyou 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 nowmaybe is a fact! Foolhow 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 oncegetting warm and
hurried as usual. "ListenRodionand tell us your opinionI 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 Razumihinwhich 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 nightin one roomwith punch as a
preliminary! Nobrotheryou are wrongenvironment 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. "Ohif 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 clearlyexactlyprogressivelyand 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 Razumihinjumping up
and gesticulating. "What's the use of talking to you? He does all that
on purpose; you don't know himRodion! 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 marriedthat he had everything ready for the
wedding. He ordered new clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate
him. There was no bridenothingall 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 universitybut 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 thoughI 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 submissionhave no right to transgress the lawbecause
don't you seethey are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right
to commit any crime and to transgress the law in any wayjust because
they are extraordinary. That was your ideaif 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 onceand 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; perhapsif you
likeperfectly 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 moralsas you call it. In factI
doubt whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted
that an 'extraordinary' man has the right . . . that is not an
official rightbut an inner right to decide in his own conscience to
overstep . . . certain obstaclesand only in case it is essential for
the practical fulfilment of his idea (sometimesperhapsof 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 onea dozena hundredor more menNewton would have
had the rightwould 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. ThenI rememberI maintain in my
article that all . . . welllegislators and leaders of mensuch as
LycurgusSolonMahometNapoleonand so onwere all without
exception criminalsfrom the very fact thatmaking a new lawthey
transgressed the ancient onehanded down from their ancestors and
held sacred by the peopleand they did not stop short at bloodshed
eitherif that bloodshed--often of innocent persons fighting bravely
in defence of ancient law--were of use to their cause. It's
remarkablein factthat the majorityindeedof these benefactors
and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In shortI
maintain that all great men or even men a little out of the common
that is to say capable of giving some new wordmust from their very
nature be criminals--more or lessof 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 tofrom their very nature againand to my
mind they ought notindeedto 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 extraordinaryI acknowledge that it's somewhat
arbitrarybut 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 categoriesinferior (ordinary)that isso to saymaterial that
serves only to reproduce its kindand men who have the gift or the
talent to utter /a new word/. There areof courseinnumerable subdivisions
but the distinguishing features of both categories are
fairly well marked. The first categorygenerally speakingare 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
controlledbecause that's their vocationand 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 bloodhe
canI maintainfind within himselfin his consciencea 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 anxietyhowever; the masses will scarcely ever admit
this rightthey 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 presentthe second the man of the future. The first preserve the
world and people itthe second move the world and lead it to its
goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In factall have equal
rights with me--and /vive la guerre éternelle/--till the New
Jerusalemof 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 Raskolnikovraising 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 ideaspeople with the faintest capacity
for saying something /new/are extremely few in number


extraordinarily so in fact. One thing only is clearthat the
appearance of all these grades and sub-divisions of men must follow
with unfailing regularity some law of nature. That lawof courseis
unknown at presentbut I am convinced that it existsand one day may
become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere materialand only
exists in order by some great effortby some mysterious processby
means of some crossing of races and stocksto 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 roughlyapproximately--is born
with some independenceand with still greater independence one in a
hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of millionsand the great
geniusesthe crown of humanityappear 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
lawit 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 seriousRodya?"

Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no
reply. And the unconcealedpersistentnervousand /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 nowbut . . . excuse me for my impertinence (I am
really ashamed to be worrying you like this)you seeyou've removed
my anxiety as to the two grades getting mixedbut . . . 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 calmlythat 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
banishmentcriminal investigatorspenal 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 frowningthose 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
dreamilynot in the tone of the conversation.

He raised his eyeslooked earnestly at them allsmiledand 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 againbut 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 eyeand 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 drylythat 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 speakbut 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 amiablyholding out his hand
with excessive politeness. "Veryvery glad of your acquaintance. As
for your requesthave no uneasinesswrite just as I told youor
better stillcome to me there yourself in a day or two . . .
to-morrowindeed. 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 criedseemingly 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 Raskolnikovthat 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 Raskolnikovwith 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 slowlyas
though ransacking his memorywhile at the same instant he was racking
every nervealmost swooning with anxiety to conjecture as quickly as
possible where the trap lay and not to overlook anything. "NoI
didn't see themand 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 . . . noI don't remember that there
were any paintersand I don't think that there was a flat open
anywherenothere wasn't."

What do you mean?Razumihin shouted suddenlyas though he had
reflected and realised. "Whyit was on the day of the murder the
painters were at workand 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 flatso 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 sullenand 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 Razumihintrying
in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov's arguments.

They were by now approaching Bakaleyev's lodgingswhere Pulcheria
Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while.
Razumihin kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussionconfused
and excited by the very fact that they were for the first time
speaking openly about /it/.

Don't believe it, then!answered Raskolnikovwith a coldcareless
smile. "You were noticing nothing as usualbut 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 isthat 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 Razumihinseizing 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 contraryyou 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 answeredwith 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 momenthe was
struck by the strangeness of his own franknessand the eagerness with
which he had made this explanationthough he had kept up all the
preceding conversation with gloomy repulsionobviously 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 uneasyas 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 screamedwith such bitter
irritationsuch despair in his eyes that Razumihin's hands dropped.
He stood for some time on the stepslooking gloomily at Raskolnikov
striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last
gritting his teeth and clenching his fisthe swore he would squeeze
Porfiry like a lemon that very dayand went up the stairs to reassure
Pulcheria Alexandrovnawho was by now alarmed at their long absence.

When Raskolnikov got homehis hair was soaked with sweat and he was
breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairswalked into his
unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror
he rushed to the cornerto that hole under the paper where he had put
the things; put his hand inand for some minutes felt carefully in
the holein every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothinghe
got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of
Bakaleyev'she suddenly fancied that somethinga chaina stud or
even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old
woman's handwriting on itmight somehow have slipped out and been
lost in some crackand then might suddenly turn up as unexpected
conclusive evidence against him.

He stood as though lost in thoughtand a strangehumiliatedhalf
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 artisanwearing
a long coat and a waistcoatand looking at a distance remarkably like
a woman. He stoopedand 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 grimlysternly and discontentedly.

What is it?Raskolnikov askedgoing up to the porter.

The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him
attentivelydeliberately; 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 puzzledbut not much soand after
wondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room.

Raskolnikov ran after the strangerand 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 groundas though in
meditation. He soon overtook himbut for some time walked behind him.
At lastmoving on to a level with himhe looked at his face. The man
noticed him at oncelooked at him quicklybut 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
lastbut 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 weaka
cold shiver ran down his spineand his heart seemed to stand still
for a momentthen suddenly began throbbing as though it were set
free. So they walked for about a hundred pacesside 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
emphaticallywith a smile of triumphant hatredand 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 standinggazing
after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him
still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearlybut he
fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and
triumph.

With slow faltering stepswith shaking kneesRaskolnikov made his
way back to his little garretfeeling chilled all over. He took off
his cap and put it on the tableand 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 thoughtssome
images without order or coherence floated before his mind--faces of
people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere oncewhom he
would never have recalledthe 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 shopa tavern rooma
back staircase quite darkall sloppy with dirty water and strewn with
egg-shellsand the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere. . . . The
images followed one anotherwhirling like a hurricane. Some of them
he liked and tried to clutch atbut they faded and all the while
there was an oppression within himbut it was not overwhelming
sometimes it was even pleasant. . . . The slight shivering still
persistedbut 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 hesitatingthen 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 eyesturned on
his back againclasping 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
Raskolnikovturning cold and shiveringand 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 weakhow physically weak he had become. "I ought to have known
it he thought with a bitter smile. And how dared Iknowing myself
knowing how I should betake up an axe and shed blood! I ought to
have known beforehand. . . . Ahbut 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. Napoleonthe
pyramidsWaterlooand a wretched skinny old womana 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! Ughhow 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 perhapsbut 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 beingbut a principle!
I killed the principlebut I didn't overstepI 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 industriouscommercial people; 'the
happiness of all' is their case. Nolife 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 myselfor else better not live at all. I
simply couldn't pass by my mother starvingkeeping 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 onceI too want. . . .
EchI am an æsthetic louse and nothing more he added suddenly,
laughing like a madman. YesI am certainly a louse he went on,
clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with
vindictive pleasure. In the first placebecause I can reason that I
am oneand secondlybecause for a month past I have been troubling
benevolent Providencecalling it to witness that not for my own
fleshly lusts did I undertake itbut with a grand and noble object-ha-
ha! Thirdlybecause I aimed at carrying it out as justly as
possibleweighingmeasuring 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 stepno more nor less (so the rest
would have gone to a monasteryaccording to her willha-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
killedand /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 righthe 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 obeytrembling creationand not /to have
desires/for that's not for you! . . . I shall nevernever forgive
the old woman!"

His hair was soaked with sweathis quivering lips were parchedhis
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
addedstraining himself to thinkas it were struggling with
delirium. "Ahhow 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 thoughwhy is it I scarcely ever think of heras though
I hadn't killed her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle thingswith 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
mortardust and stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked alongmournful
and anxious; he was distinctly aware of having come out with a
purposeof having to do something in a hurrybut what it was he had
forgotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on the other
side of the streetbeckoning to him. He crossed over to himbut at
once the man turned and walked away with his head hangingas though
he had made no sign to him. "Staydid he really beckon?" Raskolnikov
wonderedbut 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
storeyshould 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 openhe hesitated and went in.
It was very dark and empty in the passageas though everything had
been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour which was flooded
with moonlight. Everything there was as beforethe chairsthe
looking-glassthe yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames. A huge
roundcopper-red moon looked in at the windows. "It's the moon that
makes it so stillweaving 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 thoughtit 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 sawsitting 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 placestill
watching him.


He stepped cautiously into the roomcarefully closing the door after
himwent up to the tablepaused a momentstill keeping his eyes on
Raskolnikovand 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 glanceshe was a man no longer youngstoutwith a full
fairalmost whitish beard.

Ten minutes passed. It was still lightbut 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 oddlylaughing 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 saidlaughing
in the frankest way. "I hoped to get round youbut you took up the
right line at once!"

But you are trying to get round me still!

What of it? What of it?cried Svidrigaïlovlaughing 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
anotherI 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 answeredcalmly. "And Marfa Petrovna and
I scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniouslyand 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 timetwo months after our marriageimmediately after we
arrived in the countryand the last time was that of which we are
speaking. Did you suppose I was such a monstersuch a reactionary
such a slave driver? Haha! By the waydo you rememberRodion
Romanovitchhow a few years agoin those days of beneficent
publicitya noblemanI've forgotten his namewas put to shame
everywherein all the papersfor having thrashed a German woman in
the railway train. You remember? It was in those daysthat very year
I believethe 'disgraceful action of the /Age/' took place (you know
'The Egyptian Nights' that public readingyou remember? The dark
eyesyou know! Ahthe golden days of our youthwhere are they?).
Wellas for the gentleman who thrashed the GermanI feel no sympathy
with himbecause 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 viewI assure you."

After saying thisSvidrigaïlov 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 knowthere's hardly
anything I take interest in he went on, as it were dreamily,
especially nowI've nothing to do. . . . You are quite at liberty to
imagine though that I am making up to you with a motiveparticularly
as I told you I want to see your sister about something. But I'll
confess franklyI am very much bored. The last three days especially
so I am delighted to see you. . . . Don't be angryRodion
Romanovitchbut you seem to be somehow awfully strange yourself. Say
what you likethere's something wrong with youand nowtoo . . .
not this very minuteI meanbut nowgenerally. . . . WellwellI
won'tI won'tdon't scowl! I am not such a bearyou knowas 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 breedingor at least know how on occasion
to behave like one."

I am not particularly interested in anyone's opinion,Svidrigaïlov


answereddryly and even with a shade of haughtinessand 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 addedlaughing 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 admittednot
replying to the chief point. "I've met some already. I've been
lounging about for the last three daysand I've seen themor 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 themI 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 ustell
me that? A town of officials and students of all sorts. Yesthere's a
great deal I didn't notice when I was here eight years agokicking up
my heels. . . . My only hope now is in anatomyby Joveit is!"

Anatomy?

But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed, maybe
--well, all that can go on without me,he went onagain without
noticing the question. "Besideswho 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 doingnot leaving the countryand
nearly a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back the document on my nameday
and made me a present of a considerable sum of moneytoo. She had
a fortuneyou know. 'You see how I trust youArkady Ivanovitch'-that
was actually her expression. You don't believe she used it? But
do you know I managed the estate quite decentlythey know me in the
neighbourhood. I ordered bookstoo. 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 saidtwisting 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
ingenuouslyas though hetoowere 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 diningroom
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 thoughtfullyapparently 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 criedwith positive anger.

What do people generally say?muttered Svidrigaïlovas though
speaking to himselflooking aside and bowing his head. "They say
'You are illso what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.' But
that's not strictly logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to the
sickbut that only proves that they are unable to appear except to
the sicknot that they don't exist."

Nothing of the sort,Raskolnikov insisted irritably.

No? You don't think so?Svidrigaïlov went onlooking at him
deliberately. "But what do you say to this argument (help me with it):
ghosts areas it wereshreds and fragments of other worldsthe
beginning of them. A man in health hasof courseno reason to see
thembecause 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 illas soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is
brokenone begins to realise the possibility of another world; and
the more seriously ill one isthe closer becomes one's contact with
that other worldso 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 lifeyou could believe in thattoo."

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 criedwith 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 Svidrigaïlovwith
a vague smile.

This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov.
Svidrigaïlov raised his headlooked at himand suddenly began
laughing.

Only think,he criedhalf 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 irritablyto 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 saidsmiling. 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 addedand
gave a suddenloudshort 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 outSvidrigaïlov 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 Razumihinas 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 knowI
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 ontwisting his mouth into a
smilethat 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 beganI 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 saytill that moment it had never
occurred to him to wonder what Razumihin would think when he knew. As
he thought itRaskolnikov looked at him. Razumihin's account of his
visit to Porfiry had very little interest for himso much had come
and gone since then.

In the corridor they came upon Luzhin; he had arrived punctually at
eightand was looking for the numberso that all three went in
together without greeting or looking at one another. The young men


walked in firstwhile Pyotr Petrovitchfor good mannerslingered a
little in the passagetaking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna
came forward at once to greet him in the doorwayDounia was welcoming
her brother. Pyotr Petrovitch walked in and quite amiablythough with
redoubled dignitybowed to the ladies. He lookedhoweveras though
he were a little put out and could not yet recover himself. Pulcheria
Alexandrovnawho seemed also a little embarrassedhastened 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 slightedand was firmly resolved to
insist on an explanation. In the passage the idea had occurred to him
to keep on his overcoat and walk awayand 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. Besideshe could
not endure uncertaintyand he wanted an explanation: if his request
had been so openly disobeyedthere was something behind itand 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 addedintroducing 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 personson the surface
very polite in societywho make a great point of punctiliousnessbut
whodirectly they are crossed in anythingare completely
disconcertedand become more like sacks of flour than elegant and
lively men of society. Again all was silent; Raskolnikov was
obstinately muteAvdotya Romanovna was unwilling to open the
conversation too soon. Razumihin had nothing to sayso 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 terribleterrible! 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 Douniadryly. "I only heard a queer
story that Philip was a sort of hypochondriaca sort of domestic
philosopherthe 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
servantsand they were actually fond of himthough 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 observedtwisting his lips into
an ambiguous smilethere'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 Douniasay no more of Mr.
Svidrigaïlov. It makes me miserable.

He has just been to see me,said Raskolnikovbreaking his silence
for the first time.

There were exclamations from alland 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 easeand quite hopes that we shall become friends. He is
particularly anxiousby the wayDouniafor 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 metoothat a week before her death
Marfa Petrovna left you three thousand roubles in her willDounia
and that you can receive the money very shortly."

Thank God!cried Pulcheria Alexandrovnacrossing herself. "Pray for
her soulDounia!"

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 Douniayou 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
impressivelysitting down againbut 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. SvidrigaïlovItoo
do not desire and am not able to speak openly . . . in the presence of
others . . . of certain matters of the greatest gravity. Moreovermy
most weighty and urgent request has been disregarded. . . ."

Assuming an aggrieved airLuzhin relapsed into dignified silence.

Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting was
disregarded solely at my instance,said Dounia. "You wrote that you
had been insulted by my brother; I think that this must be explained
at onceand you must be reconciled. And if Rodya really has insulted
youthen 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 lightand if you have the least regard for meall
this business must be ended to-dayhowever 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. "Esteemingand so to sayadoring
youI may at the same timevery well indeedbe able to dislike some
member of your family. Though I lay claim to the happiness of your
handI cannot accept duties incompatible with . . ."

Ah, don't be so ready to take offence, Pyotr Petrovitch,Dounia
interrupted with feelingand 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 huffilyyour 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 Douniaflushing. "I set your interest beside all that
has hitherto been most precious in my lifewhat has made up the
/whole/ of my lifeand here you are offended at my making too
/little/ account of you."

Raskolnikov smiled sarcasticallyRazumihin fidgetedbut Pyotr
Petrovitch did not accept the reproof; on the contraryat every word
he became more persistent and irritableas 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 Alexandrovnayesterday
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 dignitythe
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 Luzhinaggrieved.

Well, Pyotr Petrovitch, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself
have just written what was false about him,Pulcheria Alexandrovna
addedgaining courage.

I don't remember writing anything false.


You wrote,Raskolnikov said sharplynot turning to Luzhinthat 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 Luzhinquivering with fury. "I enlarged upon
your qualities and conduct in my letter solely in response to your
sister's and mother's inquirieshow I found youand what impression
you made on me. As for what you've alluded to in my letterbe so good
as to point out one word of falsehoodshowthat isthat you didn't
throw away your moneyand that there are not worthless persons in
that familyhowever 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 crimsonedRazumihin
knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm.

You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,he saidwhether 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 withdrawingI venture to request that
for the future I may be spared similar meetingsandso to say
compromises. I appeal particularly to youhonoured Pulcheria
Alexandrovnaon this subjectthe 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 Petrovitchgo 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 Romanovnaif I go out of this door nowafter such a
dismissalthenyou may reckon on itI will never come back.
Consider what you are doing. My word is not to be shaken."

What insolence!cried Douniaspringing up from her seat. "I don't
want you to come back again."

What! So that's how it stands!cried Luzhinutterly 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 knowAvdotya
Romanovnathat 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
actionand I above all. . . ."

But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna,Luzhin stormed in a
frenzyby 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 Petrovitchthat
Raskolnikovpale 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
Petrovitchdo be kind and go!"

I am going, but one last word,he saidquite unable to control
himself. "Your mamma seems to have entirely forgotten that I made up
my mind to take youso to speakafter 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
reputationI 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 veryvery
recklessly in disregarding the universal verdict. . . ."

Does the fellow want his head smashed?cried Razumihinjumping up.

You are a mean and spiteful man!cried Dounia.

Not a word! Not a movement!cried Raskolnikovholding Razumihin
back; then going close up to LuzhinKindly leave the room!he said
quietly and distinctlyand not a word more or . . .


Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face that
worked with angerthen he turnedwent outand rarely has any man
carried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against
Raskolnikov. Himand him alonehe blamed for everything. It is
noteworthy that as he went downstairs he still imagined that his case
was perhaps not utterly lostand thatso far as the ladies were
concernedall 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 degreenever dreaming
that two destitute and defenceless women could escape from his
control. This conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceita
conceit to the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitchwho had made his
way up from insignificancewas morbidly given to self-admirationhad
the highest opinion of his intelligence and capacitiesand 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 reportPyotr Petrovitch had spoken with perfect
sincerity and hadindeedfelt genuinely indignant at such "black
ingratitude." And yetwhen he made Dounia his offerhe was fully
aware of the groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had been
everywhere contradicted by Marfa Petrovnaand was by then disbelieved
by all the townspeoplewho were warm in Dounia'a 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 Douniahe
had let out the secret feeling he cherished and admiredand 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 nowhe 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 marriagebut he had
gone on waiting and amassing money. He brooded with relishin
profound secretover the image of a girl--virtuouspoor (she must be
poor)very youngvery prettyof good birth and educationvery
timidone who had suffered muchand was completely humbled before
himone who would all her life look on him as her saviourworship
himadmire him and only him. How many sceneshow many amorous
episodes he had imagined on this seductive and playful themewhen his
work was over! Andbeholdthe 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
charactervirtueof education and breeding superior to his own (he
felt that)and this creature would be slavishly grateful all her life
for his heroic condescensionand would humble herself in the dust
before himand he would have absoluteunbounded power over her!
. . . Not long beforehe hadtooafter long reflection and
hesitationmade 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 wasin factdetermined to try his fortune in


Petersburg. He knew that women could do a very great deal. The
fascination of a charmingvirtuoushighly educated woman might make
his way easiermight do wonders in attracting people to himthrowing
an aureole round himand now everything was in ruins! This sudden
horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it was like a
hideous jokean absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit masterfulhad
not even time to speak outhad simply made a jokebeen carried away
--and it had ended so seriously. Andof coursetoohe did love
Dounia in his own way; he already possessed her in his dreams--and all
at once! No! The next daythe very next dayit must all be set
rightsmoothed oversettled. 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 toobuthe 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 shorta great deal to attend to. . . .

*****

No, I, I am more to blame than anyone!said Douniakissing and
embracing her mother. "I was tempted by his moneybut on my honour
brotherI had no idea he was such a base man. If I had seen through
him beforenothing would have tempted me! Don't blame mebrother!"

God has delivered us! God has delivered us!Pulcheria Alexandrovna
mutteredbut half consciouslyas though scarcely able to realise
what had happened.

They were all relievedand in five minutes they were laughing. Only
now and then Dounia turned white and frownedremembering what had
passed. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that shetoo
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 fullybut 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 themto 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 placealmost
sullen and indifferent. Though he had been the most insistent on
getting rid of Luzhinhe seemed now the least concerned at what had
happened. Dounia could not help thinking that he was still angry with
herand Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him timidly.

What did Svidrigaïlov say to you?said Douniaapproaching 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
Svidrigaïlovomitting his account of the ghostly visitations of Marfa
Petrovnawishing 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 is he 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
alwaysalways pray for her! Where should we be nowDouniawithout
this three thousand! It's as though it had fallen from heaven! Why
Rodyathis morning we had only three roubles in our pocket and Dounia
and I were just planning to pawn her watchso 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
herselfalmost 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 leavetooAvdotya Romanovna?"

Dounia smiled and held out her handbut the look of anxiety did not
leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna gazed at her timidlybut the
three thousand roubles had obviously a soothing effect on her.

A quarter of an hour laterthey 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 isyou are all
here together and you need one another--you do need one another
believe me. For a timeanyway. . . . Take me into partnershipand I
assure you we'll plan a capital enterprise. Listen! I'll explain it
all in detail to youthe whole project! It all flashed into my head
this morningbefore anything had happened . . . I tell you what; I
have an uncleI must introduce him to you (a most accommodating and
respectable old man). This uncle has got a capital of a thousand
roublesand 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 itbut 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 startso we'll go
into partnershipand what are we going to do?"


Then Razumihin began to unfold his projectand he explained at length
that almost all our publishers and booksellers know nothing at all of
what they are sellingand for that reason they are usually bad
publishersand that any decent publications pay as a rule and give a
profitsometimes a considerable one. Razumihin hadindeedbeen
dreaming of setting up as a publisher. For the last two years he had
been working in publishers' officesand knew three European languages
wellthough he had told Raskolnikov six days before that he was
schwachin German with an object of persuading him to take half his
translation and half the payment for it. He had told a lie thenand
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 workbut we will workyouAvdotya
RomanovnaIRodion. . . . You get a splendid profit on some books
nowadays! And the great point of the business is that we shall know
just what wants translatingand we shall be translatingpublishing
learning all at once. I can be of use because I have experience. For
nearly two years I've been scuttling about among the publishersand
now I know every detail of their business. You need not be a saint to
make potsbelieve me! And whywhy should we let our chance slip!
WhyI know--and I kept the secret--two or three books which one might
get a hundred roubles simply for thinking of translating and
publishing. Indeedand 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
publisherI dare say he'd hesitate--they are such blockheads! And as
for the business sideprintingpapersellingyou trust to meI
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 courseit's too
soon to dream of a publishing firmbut 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
itthere's no doubt about that either. He knows the business. . . .
But we can talk it over later. . . ."

Hurrah!cried Razumihin. "Nowstaythere's a flat here in this
housebelonging to the same owner. It's a special flat apartnot
communicating with these lodgings. It's furnishedrent moderate
three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I'll pawn your watch
to-morrow and bring you the moneyand everything can be arranged
then. You can all three live togetherand Rodya will be with you. But
where are you off toRodya?"

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 handhe 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 smilebut it did not turn out a
smile. "But who knowsperhaps 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 vaguelyas 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 whisperedher eyes
flashing with indignation.

He looked dully at her.

No matter, I shall come. . . . I'm coming,he muttered in an
undertoneas though not fully conscious of what he was sayingand 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 earsqueezing her
hand tightly. "I shall be back directly he shouted to the horrorstricken
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 mutteredat 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 corridorthey 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 momentpiercing into his soulinto
his consciousness. Suddenly Razumihin started. Something strangeas
it werepassed between them. . . . Some ideasome hintas it were
slippedsomething awfulhideousand suddenly understood on both
sides. . . . Razumihin turned pale.

Do you understand now?said Raskolnikovhis face twitching
nervously. "Go backgo 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 weaklyand she stood rooted to
the spot.

Which is your room? This way?and Raskolnikovtrying not to look at
herhastened in.

A minute later Soniatoocame in with the candleset down the
candlestick andcompletely disconcertedstood 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 happytoo. . . .
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 roomthe only one let by
the Kapernaumovsto 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 flatwhich 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 angleand 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 bedsteadbeside itnearest the doora chair. A plain
deal table covered by a blue cloth stood against the same wallclose
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 lookingas it werelost in a desert. That
was all there was in the room. The yellowscratched and shabby wallpaper
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 visitorwho was so attentively and
unceremoniously scrutinising her roomand even began at last to
tremble with terroras though she was standing before her judge and
the arbiter of her destinies.

I am late. . . . It's eleven, isn't it?he askedstill not lifting
his eyes.

Yes,muttered Soniaoh yes, it is,she addedhastilyas 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 voicegentle
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 Soniawho still
seemed bewilderedand 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 abruptlyagain 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 emphasisand she
clasped her hands in distress. "Ahyou don't. . . . If you only knew!
You seeshe 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! Ahyou don't understandyou don't
understand!"

Sonia said this as though in despairwringing her hands in excitement


and distress. Her pale cheeks flushedthere was a look of anguish in
her eyes. It was clear that she was stirred to the very depthsthat
she was longing to speakto championto express something. A sort of
/insatiable/ compassionif one may so express itwas 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 angryas though a canary or some
other little bird were to be angry. "And what could she do? Whatwhat
could she do?" she persistedgetting hot and excited. "And how she
cried to-day! Her mind is unhingedhaven't you noticed it? At one
minute she is worrying like a child that everything should be right
to-morrowthe lunch and all that. . . . Then she is wringing her
handsspitting bloodweepingand all at once she will begin
knocking her head against the wallin 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 itand we will
begin a new splendid life. And she kisses and hugs mecomforts me
and you know she has such faithsuch faith in her fancies! One can't
contradict her. And all the day long she has been washingcleaning
mending. She dragged the wash tub into the room with her feeble hands
and sank on the bedgasping 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 enoughnot nearly enough. And she
picked out such dear little bootsfor she has tasteyou don't know.
And there in the shop she burst out crying before the shopmen because
she hadn't enough. . . . Ahit 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. "WhyI knowyou gave your last penny yourselfthough you'd
seen nothing of itand if you'd seen everythingoh dear! And how
oftenhow often I've brought her to tears! Only last week! YesI!


Only a week before his death. I was cruel! And how often I've done it!
AhI'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 onweepingand 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 pausewithout answering her question.

Oh, no, no, no!

And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his handsas 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 Soniaalmost in despairand 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 itare you? What will happen to them then? They will
be in the streetall of themshe will cough and beg and knock her
head against some wallas she did to-dayand the children will cry.
. . . Then she will fall downbe taken to the police station and to
the hospitalshe will dieand the children . . ."

Oh, no. . . . God will not let it be!broke at last from Sonia's
overburdened bosom.

She listenedlooking imploringly at himclasping her hands in dumb
entreatyas 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 askedstopping
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 desperationas 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 malignancelaughed and looked at her.

Sonia's face suddenly changed; a tremor passed over it. She looked at
him with unutterable reproachtried to say somethingbut could not
speak and broke into bitterbitter sobshiding 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 hardfeverish and piercinghis lips were
twitching. All at once he bent down quickly and dropping to the
groundkissed 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 mutteredturning paleand 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! WhyI'm . . .
dishonourable. . . . Ahwhy 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 solemnlyand 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 frenzyhow 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 faintlygazing at him
with eyes of anguishbut 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 alreadyperhaps many timesand
earnestly she had thought out in her despair how to end it and so
earnestlythat 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 hadof course
not noticed eitherand thattoowas clear to him.) But he saw how
monstrously the thought of her disgracefulshameful position was
torturing her and had long tortured her. "Whatwhat 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 Ivanovnaknocking her head against the
wall in her consumptionmeant for Sonia.

Butneverthelessit was clear to him again that with her character
and the amount of education she had after all receivedshe could not
in any case remain so. He was still confronted by the questionhow
could she have remained so long in that position without going out of
her mindsince she could not bring herself to jump into the water? Of
course he knew that Sonia's position was an exceptional casethough
unhappily not unique and not infrequentindeed; but that very
exceptionalnessher tinge of educationher previous life mightone
would have thoughthave 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 mechanicallynot 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 thoughtthe 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 revoltingbut he was a sceptiche was
youngabstractand therefore crueland 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? Nonothat
cannot be!" he criedas Sonia had just before. "Nowhat has kept her
from the canal till now is the idea of sin and theythe 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 talkcan
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 rapidlyforcibly
glancing at him with suddenly flashing eyesand squeezing his hand.

Ah, so that is it!he thought.

And what does God do for you?he askedprobing her further.

Sonia was silent a long whileas though she could not answer. Her
weak chest kept heaving with emotion.

Be silent! Don't ask! You don't deserve!she cried suddenlylooking
sternly and wrathfully at him.

That's it, that's it,he repeated to himself.

He does everything,she whispered quicklylooking down again.

That's the way out! That's the explanation,he decidedscrutinising
her with eager curiositywith a newstrangealmost morbid feeling.
He gazed at that palethinirregularangular little facethose
soft blue eyeswhich could flash with such firesuch stern energy
that little body still shaking with indignation and anger--and it all
seemed to him more and more strangealmost 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 leatherold and worn.

Where did you get that?he called to her across the room.

She was still standing in the same placethree steps from the table.

It was brought me,she answeredas it were unwillinglynot 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 sternlywithout looking at him.

Find it and read it to me,he said. He sat down with his elbow on
the tableleaned 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 askedlooking 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 shakingher
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 readbut 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 thisthe 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 yearsperhaps from childhoodwhile she lived with
an unhappy father and a distracted stepmother crazed by griefin
the midst of starving children and unseemly abuse and reproaches.
But at the same time he knew now and knew for certain thatalthough
it filled her with dread and sufferingyet she had a tormenting
desire to read and to read to /him/ that he might hear itand to read
/now/ whatever might come of it! . . . He read this in her eyeshe
could see it in her intense emotion. She mastered herselfcontrolled
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 GodGod 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 HimI know that he shall rise again in the
resurrectionat 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 breathSonia 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 himbut controlling herself went
on reading. Raskolnikov sat without movinghis 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 weepingand the Jews also weeping which
came with herHe 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 saidcould not this Man which opened the eyes of
the blindhave caused that even this man should not have died?"

Raskolnikov turned and looked at her with emotion. Yeshe 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 eyesbut
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 doubtthe reproach and censure of the
blind disbelieving Jewswho in another moment would fall at His feet
as though struck by thundersobbing and believing. . . . "And /he
he/--toois blinded and unbelievinghetoowill hearhetoo
will believeyesyes! At oncenow 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 caveand 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 saidFatherI 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 spokenHe cried with a loud voiceLazarus
come forth.


And he that was dead came forth.

(She read loudlycold and trembling with ecstasyas 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 moreclosed the book and got up from her chair
quickly.

That is all about the raising of Lazarus,she whispered severely and
abruptlyand turning away she stood motionlessnot daring to raise
her eyes to him. She still trembled feverishly. The candle-end was
flickering out in the battered candlestickdimly 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 aloudfrowning. 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 saidmy 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 youwe are both accursedlet 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
terriblyinfinitely 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 Soniastrangely 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 Soniaweeping
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 askedchilled 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 headnot for a moment! "Ohhe 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 (yeshe had said it clearly) that
he could not live without her. . . . Ohmerciful heavens!"

Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She jumped up from
time to timewept and wrung her handsthen sank again into feverish
sleep and dreamt of PolenkaKaterina Ivanovna and Lizavetaof
reading the gospel and him . . . him with pale facewith burning eyes
. . . kissing her feetweeping.

On the other side of the door on the rightwhich divided Sonia's room
from Madame Resslich's flatwas 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
standinglistening at the door of the empty room. When Raskolnikov
went out he stood stillthought a momentwent on tiptoe to his own
room which adjoined the empty onebrought a chair and noiselessly
carried it to the door that led to Sonia's room. The conversation had


struck him as interesting and remarkableand he had greatly enjoyed
it--so much so that he brought a chair that he might not in the
futureto-morrowfor instancehave to endure the inconvenience of
standing a whole hourbut 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 Petrovitchhe 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 waitingroom
and peoplewho apparently had nothing to do with himwere
continually passing to and fro before him. In the next room which
looked like an officeseveral 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 guardsome 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 detailsthen other peopleno 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
yesterdaythat phantom sprung out of the earthhad 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 informationor . . . or simply he knew nothinghad
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 beforein the midst of all his alarm and despair.
Thinking it all over now and preparing for a fresh conflicthe 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 intenseunmitigated 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 smallfurnished with a large writing-tablethat
stood before a sofaupholstered in checked materiala bureaua
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 airand it was only after a few minutes that
Raskolnikov saw signs of a certain awkwardness in himas 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
Porfiryholding out both hands to him. "Comesit downold 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 downkeeping 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 mebut 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 hasteand after he had said it he took
the paper and looked at it. "Yesit'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 Porfiryat the first wordsat
the first lookshad grown in an instant to monstrous proportionsand
that this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quiveringhis
emotion was increasing. "It's badit's bad! I shall say too much
again."

Yes, yes, yes! There's no hurry, there's no hurry,muttered Porfiry
Petrovitchmoving to and fro about the table without any apparent
aimas it were making dashes towards the windowthe bureau and the
tableat one moment avoiding Raskolnikov's suspicious glancethen
again standing still and looking him straight in the face.

His fat round little figure looked very strangelike 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 onoffering his visitor a cigarette. "You know I
am receiving you herebut my own quarters are through thereyou
knowmy government quarters. But I am living outside for the timeI
had to have some repairs done here. It's almost finished now. . . .
Government quartersyou knoware a capital thing. Ehwhat do you
think?"

Yes, a capital thing,answered Raskolnikovlooking at him almost
ironically.

A capital thing, a capital thing,repeated Porfiry Petrovitchas
though he had just thought of something quite different. "Yesa
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 meplease 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 rulea sort of legal tradition--for all investigating
lawyers--to begin their attack from afarwith a trivialor at least


an irrelevant subjectso as to encourageor ratherto divert the
man they are cross-examiningto 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 traditionmentionedI 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-humouredcrafty look passed over his face. The wrinkles on his
forehead were smoothed outhis eyes contractedhis 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 laughtoobut when Porfiryseeing that he
was laughingbroke 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 Porfirykeeping his eyes fixed on
him while his intentionally prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack
of precaution on both sideshoweverfor 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 eitherbut that heRaskolnikov
had perhaps fallen into a trap; that there must be somethingsome
motive here unknown to him; thatperhapseverything was in readiness
and in another moment would break upon him . . .

He went straight to the point at oncerose from his seat and took his
cap.

Porfiry Petrovitch,he began resolutelythough with considerable
irritationyesterday 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 meask it
and if notallow me to withdraw. I have no time to spare. . . . I
have to be at the funeral of that man who was run overof 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 alldo 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 shortkindly examine me or let me goat once. And if
you must examine medo so in the proper form! I will not allow you to
do so otherwiseand so meanwhilegood-byeas 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 toneinstantly leaving
off laughing. "Please don't disturb yourself he began fidgeting from
place to place and fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. There's no
hurrythere's no hurryit's all nonsense. OhnoI'm very glad
you've come to see me at last . . . I look upon you simply as a
visitor. And as for my confounded laughterplease excuse itRodion
Romanovitch. Rodion Romanovitch? That is your name? . . . It's my
nervesyou 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 door I shall think you are angry . . ."

Raskolnikov did not speak; he listenedwatching himstill frowning
angrily. He did sit downbut still held his cap.

I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion Romanovitch,
Porfiry Petrovitch continuedmoving about the room and again avoiding


his visitor's eyes. "You seeI'm a bachelora man of no consequence
and not used to society; besidesI have nothing before meI'm set
I'm running to seed and . . . and have you noticedRodion
Romanovitchthat in our Petersburg circlesif two clever men meet
who are not intimatebut respect each otherlike you and meit
takes them half an hour before they can find a subject for
conversation--they are dumbthey sit opposite each other and feel
awkward. Everyone has subjects of conversationladies for instance
. . . people in high society always have their subjects of
conversation/c'est de rigueur/but people of the middle sort like
usthinking people that isare always tongue-tied and awkward. What
is the reason of it? Whether it is the lack of public interestor
whether it is we are so honest we don't want to deceive one anotherI
don't know. What do you think? Do put down your capit looks as if
you were just goingit 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 onand 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 phrasesletting slip a few enigmatic words and again
reverting to incoherence. He was almost running about the roommoving
his fat little legs quicker and quickerlooking at the groundwith
his right hand behind his backwhile 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 dooras though he were listening.

Is he expecting anything?


You are certainly quite right about it,Porfiry began gailylooking
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 formshe-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. Wellif I recogniseor more strictly speakingif I
suspect someone or other to be a criminal in any case entrusted to me
. . . you're reading for the lawof courseRodion 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
lipshis 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 motionlessstill gazing
with the same intensity into Porfiry's face.

It's a lesson,he thoughtturning cold. "This is beyond the cat
playing with a mouselike 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 nonsensemy
friendyou are pretendingto 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 wrongyou
won't do it! But why give me such a hint? Is he reckoning on my
shattered nerves? Nomy friendyou are wrongyou 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 foamhis 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 positionbecause instead of saying too much he would be
irritating his enemy by his silence and provoking him into speaking
too freely. Anyhowthis 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 againgetting 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 youand I
repeat itexcuse an old manmy dear Rodion Romanovitchyou are a
man still youngso to sayin your first youth and so you put
intellect above everythinglike 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
mattersthat is: on paper they'd beaten Napoleon and taken him
prisonerand there in their study they worked it all out in the
cleverest fashionbut look youGeneral Mack surrendered with all his
armyhe-he-he! I seeI seeRodion Romanovitchyou are laughing at
a civilian like metaking examples out of military history! But I
can't help itit'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 armyupon my
word I ought. I shouldn't have been a Napoleonbut I might have been
a majorhe-he! WellI'll tell you the whole truthmy dear fellow


about this /special case/I mean: actual fact and a man's
temperamentmy dear sirare weighty matters and it's astonishing how
they sometimes deceive the sharpest calculation! I--listen to an old
man--am speaking seriouslyRodion Romanovitch" (as he said this
Porfiry Petrovitchwho was scarcely five-and-thirtyactually seemed
to have grown old; even his voice changed and he seemed to shrink
together) "MoreoverI'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 ithe-he! Wellto
proceedwit in my opinion is a splendid thingit isso to sayan
adornment of nature and a consolation of lifeand what tricks it can
play! So that it sometimes is hard for a poor examining lawyer to know
where he isespecially when he's liable to be carried away by his own
fancytoofor you know he is a man after all! But the poor fellow is
saved by the criminal's temperamentworse 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 isthe man who is a /special case/the
incognitoand he will lie wellin the cleverest fashion; you might
think he would triumph and enjoy the fruits of his witbut at the
most interestingthe most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course
there may be illness and a stuffy room as wellbut anyway! Anyway
he's given us the idea! He lied incomparablybut 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 himhe will turn pale as it were on purpose to misleadbut
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 firsthe will think differently next day if he is not a fooland
of courseit is like that at every step! He puts himself forward
where he is not wantedspeaks continually when he ought to keep
silentbrings in all sorts of allegorical allusionshe-he! Comes and
asks why didn't you take me long ago? he-he-he! And that can happen
you knowwith the cleverest manthe psychologistthe literary man.
The temperament reflects everything like a mirror! Gaze into it and
admire what you see! But why are you so paleRodion 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 himpaused a moment and suddenly he too laughed.
Raskolnikov got up from the sofaabruptly checking his hysterical
laughter.

Porfiry Petrovitch,he beganspeaking loudly and distinctlythough
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 legallyto arrest
methen prosecute mearrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered
at to my face and worried . . ."

His lips trembledhis eyes glowed with fury and he could not restrain
his voice.

I won't allow it!he shoutedbringing 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 Romanovitchmy dear fellowwhat
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 horrorbringing his
face close to Raskolnikov's.

I won't allow it, I won't allow it,Raskolnikov repeated
mechanicallybut 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. "Comedrink 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 waterhowever.

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 lipsbut 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
sympathythough he still looked rather disconcerted. "Good heavens
you must take more care of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was herecame
to see me yesterday--I knowI knowI've a nastyironical temper
but what they made of it! . . . Good heavenshe came yesterday after
you'd been. We dined and he talked and talked awayand I could only
throw up my hands in despair! Did he come from you? But do sit down
for mercy's sakesit 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 shiveredhe 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 saidthough he felt a
strange inclination to believe. Porfiry's unexpected words about the


flat had utterly overwhelmed him. "How can it behe 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 factshe imposed upon everyone and why? He had been
partlybut only partlyunintentionally the cause of a murder and
when he knew that he had given the murderers the opportunityhe sank
into dejectionit got on his mind and turned his brainhe 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! Whymy dear fellowyou may drive yourself into
delirium if you have the impulse to work upon your nervesto 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 illnessRodion Romanovitch! You have begun to neglect
your illness. You should consult an experienced doctorwhat'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 mindthat 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 himfeeling that that
fury might drive him mad.

I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing,he criedstraining
every faculty to penetrate Porfiry's gameI 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 weaklytwisting his lips
into a sickly smileyou are trying again to show that you know all
my game, that you know all I shall say beforehand,he saidconscious
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 titteredthere'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 Porfirytouching 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 criedI 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 repeatedapparently incensedbut preserving a
good-humoured and ironical faceas though he were not in the least
concerned at Raskolnikov's opinion of him. "I am lying . . . but how
did I treat you just nowIthe examining lawyer? Prompting you and
giving you every means for your defence; illnessI saiddelirium
injurymelancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it? Ah!
He-he-he! Thoughindeedall those psychological means of defence are
not very reliable and cut both ways: illnessdeliriumI don't
remember--that's all rightbut whymy good sirin your illness and
in your delirium were you haunted by just those delusions and not by
any others? There may have been otherseh? He-he-he!"

Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at him.

Briefly,he said loudly and imperiouslyrising to his feet and in
so doing pushing Porfiry back a littlebriefly, 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-humouredsly and composed face. "And why do you want to know
why do you want to know so muchsince they haven't begun to worry
you? Whyyou are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so
uneasy? Why do you force yourself upon useh? He-he-he!"

I repeat,Raskolnikov cried furiouslythat 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 shoutedbringing 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 whisperedbut this time there was
not the look of old womanish good nature and alarm in his face. Now he
was peremptorysternfrowning and for once laying aside all
mystification.

But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikovbewilderedsuddenly
fell into actual frenzybutstrange to sayhe again obeyed the
command to speak quietlythough he was in a perfect paroxysm of fury.

I will not allow myself to be tortured,he whisperedinstantly
recognising with hatred that he could not help obeying the command and
driven to even greater fury by the thought. "Arrest mesearch mebut
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
smileas it weregloating 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 Porfiryagain 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 askedstanding 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 itbut 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 restraintyou lie, you
damned punchinello!and he rushed at Porfiry who retreated to the
other doornot 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 mutteredlistening at the door through which a noise
could be heard.

Ah, they're coming,cried Raskolnikov. "You've sent for them! You
expected them! Wellproduce them all: your deputiesyour witnesses
what you like! . . . I am ready!"

But at this moment a strange incident occurredsomething 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 afterwardsthis is how Raskolnikov saw
it.

The noise behind the door increasedand suddenly the door was opened
a little.

What is it?cried Porfiry Petrovitchannoyed. "WhyI gave
orders . . ."

For an instant there was no answerbut it was evident that there were
several persons at the doorand that they were apparently pushing
somebody back.

What is it?Porfiry Petrovitch repeateduneasily.

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 Porfiryrushing to the door.

But he . . .began the same voiceand suddenly ceased.

Two secondsnot morewere spent in actual strugglethen someone
gave a violent shoveand then a manvery palestrode into the room.

This man's appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared
straight before himas though seeing nothing. There was a determined


gleam in his eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his
faceas though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were
faintly twitching.

He was dressed like a workman and was of medium heightvery young
slimhis hair cut in round cropwith 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 mutteredextremely
annoyedand as it were thrown out of his reckoning.

But Nikolay suddenly knelt down.

What's the matter?cried Porfirysurprised.

I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer,Nikolay articulated
suddenlyrather breathlessbut speaking fairly loudly.

For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been struck dumb;
even the warder stepped backmechanically retreated to the doorand
stood immovable.

What is it?cried Porfiry Petrovitchrecovering from his momentary
stupefaction.

I . . . am the murderer,repeated Nikolayafter 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 suddenlyand was
again silent.

He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood for some
moments as though meditatingbut suddenly roused himself and waved
back the uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the
door. Then he looked towards Raskolnikovwho was standing in the
cornerstaring wildly at Nikolay and moved towards himbut stopped
shortlooked 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 himalmost angrily. "I
didn't ask you what came over you. . . . Speakdid 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 hurriedlyas though he had prepared the answer.

I knew it!cried Porfirywith 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 Romanovitchexcuse me!" he flew up to himthis
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 armhe showed him to the door.

I suppose you didn't expect it?said Raskolnikov whothough he had
not yet fully grasped the situationhad 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 saidsarcastically.

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 Porfirywith an unnatural smile.

As he walked through the officeRaskolnikov noticed that many people
were looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from /the/
housewhom 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 roundhe saw the
latter running after himout 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 stillfacing him with a smile.

Shan't we?he added again.

He seemed to want to say something morebut could not speak out.

You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed


. . . I lost my temper,began Raskolnikovwho had so far regained
his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his
coolness.

Don't mention it, don't mention it,Porfiry repliedalmost
gleefully. "I myselftoo . . . I have a wicked temperI admit it!
But we shall meet again. If it's God's willwe 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
Petrovitchand he screwed up his eyeslooking 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 Raskolnikovwho had begun to
descend the stairsbut looked back again. "I should like to wish you
successbut your office is such a comical one."

Why comical?Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to gobut 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
inexplicableamazing--something beyond his understanding. But
Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact
were clear to him at onceits falsehood could not fail to be
discoveredand then they would be after him again. Till thenat
leasthe was free and must do something for himselffor the danger
was imminent.

But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him.
Rememberingsketchilythe main outlines of his recent scene with


Porfiryhe could not help shuddering again with horror. Of coursehe
did not yet know all Porfiry's aimshe could not see into all his
calculations. But he had already partly shown his handand 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
completelycircumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament and from
the first glance seeing through himPorfirythough playing a bold
gamewas bound to win. There's no denying that Raskolnikov had
compromised himself seriouslybut 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 coursehe had risked
something in showing them--and if he had really had anything up his
sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected)he would have shown thattoo. What
was that "surprise"? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it
have concealed anything like a facta piece of positive evidence? His
yesterday's visitor? What had become of him? Where was he to-day? If
Porfiry really had any evidenceit 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 uptook
his capthought a minuteand went to the door.

He had a sort of presentiment that for to-dayat leasthe 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 funeralof coursebut he would be in time for the memorial
dinnerand there at once he would see Sonia.

He stood stillthought a momentand a suffering smile came for a
moment on to his lips.

To-day! To-day,he repeated to himself. "Yesto-day! So it must
be. . . ."

But as he was about to open the doorit began opening of itself. He
started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowlyand there
suddenly appeared a figure--yesterday's visitor /from underground/.

The man stood in the doorwaylooked at Raskolnikov without speaking
and took a step forward into the room. He was exactly the same as
yesterday; the same figurethe same dressbut 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 Raskolnikovnumb with terror. The man was
still silentbut 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 interruptedinstantly 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 porterswomen among them. He
remembered one voice had suggested taking him straight to the policestation.
He could not recall the face of the speakerand even now he
did not recognise itbut 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 losthad 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
Porfirytoohad 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 notthey must not!) then . . .
then what can they do to him? How can they convict himeven 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 latesaid theyand maybe he'll be angry that we
did not come at the time. I was vexed and I lost my sleepand I began
making inquiries. And finding out yesterday where to goI went
to-day. The first time I went he wasn't therewhen I came an hour
later he couldn't see me. I went the third timeand they showed me
in. I informed him of everythingjust as it happenedand 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 outcalled somebody and began talking to
him in the cornerthen he turned to mescolding and questioning me.
He scolded me a great deal; and I told him everythingand 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 chestand getting angry and running aboutand
when you were announced he told me to go into the next room. 'Sit
there a bit' he said. 'Don't movewhatever 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 stilland again suddenly bowed downtouching the
ground with his finger.

Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander.

May God forgive you,answered Raskolnikov.

And as he said thisthe man bowed down againbut not to the ground
turned slowly and went out of the room.

It all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways,repeated
Raskolnikovand he went out more confident than ever.

Now we'll make a fight for it,he saidwith a malicious smileas
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 washe 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 bedPyotr
Petrovitch immediately looked in the looking-glass. He was afraid that
he had jaundice. However his health seemed unimpaired so farand
looking at his nobleclear-skinned countenance which had grown
fattish of latePyotr Petrovitch for an instant was positively
comforted in the conviction that he would find another bride and
perhapseven a better one. But coming back to the sense of his
present positionhe turned aside and spat vigorouslywhich excited a
sarcastic smile in Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikovthe young friend
with whom he was staying. That smile Pyotr Petrovitch noticedand 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 temperthrough impulsiveness and irritability. . . .
Moreoverall 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 ownera rich German tradesmanwould not
entertain the idea of breaking the contract which had just been signed
and insisted on the full forfeit moneythough 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
itPyotr Petrovitch would promptly have uttered the wish.

It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money,he thoughtas
he returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov's roomand 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 againPyotr Petrovitch called himself a fool-but
not aloudof course.

He returned hometwice 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
fanciedindeedthat he had been invitedbut 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
cemeteryhe heard that the entertainment was to be a great affair
that all the lodgers had been invitedamong them some who had not
known the dead manthat even Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov was
invited in spite of his previous quarrel with Katerina Ivanovnathat
hePyotr Petrovitchwas not only invitedbut 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
unpleasantnessand so she was very busy with preparations and was
taking a positive pleasure in them; she was moreover dressed up to the
ninesall in new black silkand she was proud of it. All this
suggested an idea to Pyotr Petrovitch and he went into his roomor
rather Lebeziatnikov'ssomewhat 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 strangethough 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 parsimonythough that had been perhaps his chief object.
He had heard of Andrey Semyonovitchwho had once been his wardas a
leading young progressive who was taking an important part in certain
interesting circlesthe 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 notof
coursebeen able to form even an approximate notion of what they
meant. Helike everyonehad heard that there wereespecially in
Petersburgprogressives of some sortnihilists and so onandlike
many peoplehe 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 beforewhen he was just entering on his
own careerhe had come upon two cases in which rather important
personages in the provincepatrons of hishad 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 andif necessaryto 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 simpletonbut that by no means
reassured Pyotr Petrovitch. Even if he had been certain that all the
progressives were fools like himit would not have allayed his
uneasiness. All the doctrinesthe ideasthe systemswith 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 anæmicscrofulous little manwith
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-heartedbut self-confident and sometimes extremely
conceited in speechwhich had an absurd effectincongruous with his
little figure. He was one of the lodgers most respected by Amalia
Ivanovnafor 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 abortionsconceitedhalf-educated coxcombswho
attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to vulgarise it and
who caricature every cause they servehowever sincerely.

Though Lebeziatnikov was so good-naturedhetoowas beginning to
dislike Pyotr Petrovitch. This happened on both sides unconsciously.
However simple Andrey Semyonovitch might behe began to see that
Pyotr Petrovitch was duping him and secretly despising himand that
he was not the right sort of man.He had tried expounding to him the
system of Fourier and the Darwinian theorybut 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 simpletonbutperhapsa liartooand
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 propagandafor he was in
too great a muddle. A fine person he would be to show anyone up! It
must be notedby the waythat Pyotr Petrovitch had during those ten
days eagerly accepted the strangest praise from Andrey Semyonovitch;
he had not protestedfor instancewhen Andrey Semyonovitch belauded


him for being ready to contribute to the establishment of the new
commune,or to abstain from christening his future childrenor to
acquiesce if Dounia were to take a lover a month after marriageand
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 fiveper-
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 unmovedand the latteron his sidekept thinking
bitterly that Pyotr Petrovitch was capable of entertaining such an
idea about him and wasperhapsglad 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 irritablethough heAndrey
Semyonovitchbegan enlarging on his favourite subjectthe 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 suddenlyinterrupting
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 Petrovitchwho 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 accounthasn'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 Lebeziatnikovflustered 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 Petrovitchas
though comfortedwent back to clicking his beads.

It's all slander and nonsense!cried Lebeziatnikovwho was always
afraid of allusions to the subject. "It was not like that at allit
was quite different. You've heard it wrong; it's a libel. I was simply
defending myself. She rushed at me first with her nailsshe pulled


out all my whiskers. . . . It's permissable for anyoneI should hope
to defend himself and I never allow anyone to use violence to me on
principlefor 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
interruptedbut 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 inventionfor she did not understand! And I
never made love to Sofya Semyonovna! I was simply developing her
entirely disinterestedlytrying 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 youthey turn it into
ridicule before they understand it. And how proud they are of ittoo!
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 mepleasewhat 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-sacrificeit's simply work
honourableuseful work which is as good as any other and much better
than the work of a Raphael and a Pushkinbecause 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 Lebeziatnikovwho in spite of his
independenceand 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
displeasurecan 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 peopleshe 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 downlooked about her--at
Lebeziatnikovat 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. "Yesyou are right.
. . . Of courseI am convinced personally that you have no reason to
be uneasybut . . . stillyou 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 sofasat down opposite Sonialooked
attentively at her and assumed an extremely dignifiedeven severe
expressionas much as to saydon'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 dignitythough affably.

It was evident that his intentions were friendly.

Quite so, yes; the place of a mother,Sonia answeredtimidly 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 hersmiling at her
simplicity and ignorance of good mannersand 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 tablebut she
quickly looked away and fixed her eyes on Pyotr Petrovitch. She felt
it horribly indecorousespecially 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 andnot knowing where to turnended 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 feetdid 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 Soniaand
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 Soniagazing
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 itflushed crimsonjumped upmuttered
something and began taking leave. Pyotr Petrovitch accompanied her
ceremoniously to the door. She got out of the room at lastagitated
and distressedand returned to Katerina Ivanovnaoverwhelmed with
confusion.

All this time Lebeziatnikov had stood at the window or walked about
the roomanxious 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 saidlaying stress on the last
verb. "That is honourableI mean to sayit's humane! You wanted to
avoid gratitudeI saw! And although I cannotI confessin principle
sympathise with private charityfor it not only fails to eradicate
the evil but even promotes ityet I must admit that I saw your action
with pleasure--yesyesI like it."

That's all nonsense,muttered Pyotr Petrovitchsomewhat
disconcertedlooking 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 Lebeziatnikovwho
felt a return of affection for Pyotr Petrovitch. "Andwhat do you
want with marriagewith /legal/ marriagemy dearnoble Pyotr
Petrovitch? Why do you cling to this /legality/ of marriage? Wellyou
may beat me if you likebut I am gladpositively glad it hasn't come
offthat you are freethat you are not quite lost for humanity.
. . . you seeI'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 importanceI agree; but the question of children
has another solution. Some refuse to have children altogetherbecause
they suggest the institution of the family. We'll speak of children
laterbut now as to the question of honourI confess that's my weak
point. That horridmilitaryPushkin 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 marriageso to sayits correctivea
protest. So that indeed it's not humiliating . . . and if I everto
suppose an absurditywere to be legally marriedI should be
positively glad of it. I should say to my wife: 'My dearhitherto I
have loved younow I respect youfor you've shown you can protest!'
You laugh! That's because you are of incapable of getting away from
prejudices. Confound it all! I understand now where the unpleasantness
is of being deceived in a legal marriagebut it's simply a despicable
consequence of a despicable position in which both are humiliated.
When the deception is openas in a free marriagethen it does not
existit'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 marriedpfoo! I mean if I were to marry
legally or notit's just the sameI should present my wife with a
lover if she had not found one for herself. 'My dear' I should say
'I love youbut even more than that I desire you to respect me. See!'
Am I not right?"

Pyotr Petrovitch sniggered as he listenedbut 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 roublesgiven by Raskolnikov for
Marmeladov's funeralwere 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 inferiorand 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 probabletoothat Katerina Ivanovna
longed on this occasionat the moment when she seemed to be abandoned
by everyoneto show those "wretched contemptible lodgers" that she
knew "how to do thingshow to entertain" and that she had been
brought up "in a genteelshe 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
circumstancebut her spirit could not have been brokenthat isshe
could not have been intimidatedher will could not be crushed.
Moreover Sonia had said with good reason that her mind was unhinged.
She could not be said to be insanebut for a year past she had been
so harassed that her mind might well be overstrained. The later stages
of consumption are aptdoctors tell usto affect the intellect.

There was no great variety of winesnor was there Madeira; but wine
there was. There was vodkarum and Lisbon wineall of the poorest
quality but in sufficient quantity. Besides the traditional rice and
honeythere were three or four dishesone of which consisted of
pancakesall prepared in Amalia Ivanovna's kitchen. Two samovars were
boilingthat tea and punch might be offered after dinner. Katerina
Ivanovna had herself seen to purchasing the provisionswith the help
of one of the lodgersan 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 himand very
anxious that everyone should be aware of it. For every trifle he ran
to Katerina Ivanovnaeven hunting her out at the bazaarat every
instant called her "/Pani/." She was heartily sick of him before the
endthough 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 gaylively and peace-loving
dispositionbut 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 peacethat the slightest jarthe smallest
disaster reduced her almost to frenzyand she would pass in an
instant from the brightest hopes and fancies to cursing her fate and
ravingand knocking her head against the wall.

Amalia Ivanovnatoosuddenly acquired extraordinary importance in
Katerina Ivanovna's eyes and was treated by her with extraordinary
respectprobably only because Amalia Ivanovna had thrown herself
heart and soul into the preparations. She had undertaken to lay the
tableto provide the linencrockeryetc.and to cook the dishes in
her kitchenand 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 crockeryknivesforks and glasses
wereof courseof all shapes and patternslent by different
lodgersbut the table was properly laid at the time fixedand Amalia
Ivanovnafeeling she had done her work wellhad put on a black silk
dress and a cap with new mourning ribbons and met the returning party
with some pride. This pridethough justifiabledispleased Katerina


Ivanovna for some reason: "as though the table could not have been
laid except by Amalia Ivanovna!" She disliked the cap with new
ribbonstoo. "Could she be stuck upthe stupid Germanbecause she
was mistress of the houseand 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 personsand then anyone like Amalia Ivanovnaor rather
Ludwigovnawould not have been allowed into the kitchen."

Katerina Ivanovnahoweverput off expressing her feelings for the
time and contented herself with treating her coldlythough she
decided inwardly that she would certainly have to put Amalia Ivanovna
down and set her in her proper placefor 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 funeralexcept
the Pole who had just managed to run into the cemeterywhile to the
memorial dinner the poorest and most insignificant of them had turned
upthe wretched creaturesmany of them not quite sober. The older
and more respectable of them allas if by common consentstayed
away. Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhinfor instancewho might be said to be
the most respectable of all the lodgersdid not appearthough
Katerina Ivanovna had the evening before told all the worldthat is
Amalia IvanovnaPolenkaSonia and the Polethat he was the most
generousnoble-hearted man with a large property and vast
connectionswho had been a friend of her first husband'sand a guest
in her father's houseand 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 fortuneit
was without any ulterior motivequite disinterestedlyfor the mere
pleasure of adding to the consequence of the person praised. Probably
taking his cuefrom Luzhinthat 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 oldmaidish
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 daughterwhose
foot she was not worth,and who had turned away haughtily when she
casually met themso 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 Polea wretched looking
clerk with a spotty face and a greasy coatwho had not a word to say
for himselfand smelt abominablya 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 cametoo; he was
drunkhad 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-gownbut this was too muchand the
efforts of Amalia Ivanovna and the Pole succeeded in removing him. The
Pole brought with himhowevertwo 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
boxwhile Polenka as a big girl had to look after themfeed them
and keep their noses wiped like well-bred children's.

Katerina Ivanovnain factcould hardly help meeting her guests with
increased dignityand even haughtiness. She stared at some of them
with special severityand loftily invited them to take their seats.
Rushing to the conclusion that Amalia Ivanovna must be responsible for
those who were absentshe began treating her with extreme
nonchalancewhich 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 himin the
first placebecause he was the one "educated visitorandas
everyone knewwas 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? Herher!"
Katerina Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady. "Look at hershe's
making round eyesshe feels that we are talking about her and can't
understand. Pfoothe 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
peopleespecially those who knew my late husbandand look at the set
of fools she has brought! The sweeps! Look at that one with the spotty
face. And those wretched Polesha-ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) Not one
of them has ever poked his nose in hereI've never set eyes on them.
What have they come here forI ask you? There they sit in a row. Hey
/pan/!" she cried suddenly to one of themhave 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 suddenlyalmost
aloudif your spoons should happen to be stolen, I won't be
responsible, I warn you! Ha-ha-ha!She laughed turning to
Raskolnikovand again nodding towards the landladyin high glee at
her sally. "She didn't understandshe didn't understand again! Look
how she sits with her mouth open! An owla real owl! An owl in new
ribbonsha-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 silenceand 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 apologiestrying 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 thatas soon
as he possibly couldhe would come immediately to discuss /business/
alone with her and to consider what could be done for heretc.etc.

Sonia knew that this would comfort Katerina Ivanovnawould flatter
her and gratify her pride. She sat down beside Raskolnikov; she made
him a hurried bowglancing curiously at him. But for the rest of the
time she seemed to avoid looking at him or speaking to him. She seemed
absent-mindedthough she kept looking at Katerina Ivanovnatrying to
please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna had been able to get
mourning; Sonia was wearing dark brownand Katerina Ivanovna had on
her only dressa dark striped cotton one.

The message from Pyotr Petrovitch was very successful. Listening to
Sonia with dignityKaterina Ivanovna inquired with equal dignity how
Pyotr Petrovitch wasthen 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 visitorsand
suddenly inquired aloud across the table of the deaf man: "Wouldn't he
have some more meatand had he been given some wine?" The old man
made no answer and for a long while could not understand what he was
askedthough his neighbours amused themselves by poking and shaking
him. He simply gazed about him with his mouth openwhich 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
continuedand, of course, he is not like . . .with an extremely
stern face she addressed Amalia Ivanovna so sharply and loudly that


the latter was quite disconcertednot 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 clerkgulping down his twelfth glass of vodka.

My late husband certainly had that weakness, and everyone knows it,
Katerina Ivanovna attacked him at oncebut 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 sighedlost in
thought.

No doubt you think, like everyone, that I was too severe with him,
she went onaddressing Raskolnikov. "But that's not so! He respected
mehe 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
meI used to feel so sorry for himI 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 againswallowing 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 markedher chest heaved.
In another minute she would have been ready to make a scene. Many of
the visitors were sniggeringevidently 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 clerkthat 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 silencelistening with disgust. He only ate from
politenessjust tasting the food that Katerina Ivanovna was
continually putting on his plateto avoid hurting her feelings. He
watched Sonia intently. But Sonia became more and more anxious and
distressed; shetooforesaw that the dinner would not end peaceably
and saw with terror Katerina Ivanovna's growing irritation. She knew
that sheSoniawas 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 herselfher
childrenor her fatherSonia knew that Katerina Ivanovna would not


be satisfied nowtill she had shown those draggletails that they
were both . . .To make matters worse someone passed Soniafrom the
other end of the tablea 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 amissand at the same time
deeply wounded by Katerina Ivanovna's haughtinessand to restore the
good-humour of the company and raise herself in their esteem she
beganapropos of nothingtelling 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 killand Karl very much begged him
not to killand wept and clasped handsand frightened and from fear
pierced his heart." Though Katerina Ivanovna smiledshe observed at
once that Amalia Ivanovna ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian; the
latter was still more offendedand she retorted that her "/Vater aus
Berlin/ was a very important manand 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 onceher goodhumour
almost restoredshe meant to say he kept his hands in his
pockets, but she said he put his hands in people's pockets. (Coughcough.)
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-humourKaterina Ivanovna began at once telling
Raskolnikov that when she had obtained her pensionshe 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 projectand 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 tavernwhen he told
him that Katerina Ivanovnahis wifehad 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 dinnerand proving incontestably
that Katerina Ivanovna was of the most nobleshe 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
guestsand Katerina Ivanovna did not try to retain itfor it
actually contained the statement /en toutes lettres/that her father
was of the rank of a majorand also a companion of an orderso that
she really was almost the daughter of a colonel.

Warming upKaterina 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-schoolone a most
respectable old Frenchmanone Mangotwho 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
itshe raised her voice and began at once speaking with conviction of
Sonia's undoubted ability to assist herof "her gentlenesspatience
devotiongenerosity 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 sillythat she was too much upsetthat it was time to
finishand as the dinner was overit was time to hand round the
tea."

At that momentAmalia Ivanovnadeeply aggrieved at taking no part in
the conversationand not being listened tomade one last effortand
with secret misgivings ventured on an exceedingly deep and weighty
observationthat "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 linenand secondly that the young
ladies must not novels at night read."

Katerina Ivanovnawho certainly was upset and very tiredas well as
heartily sick of the dinnerat once cut short Amalia Ivanovnasaying
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 highclass
boarding-school to look after /die Wäsche/, and as for novelreading,
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 comebecause those ladies
/are/ ladies and cannot come to a lady who is not a lady." Katerina
Ivanovna at once pointed out to herthat 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 veryvery important man
and both hands in pockets wentand always used to say: 'Poof! poof!'"
and she leapt up from the table to represent her fathersticking her
hands in her pocketspuffing her cheeksand uttering vague sounds
resembling "poof! poof!" amid loud laughter from all the lodgerswho
purposely encouraged Amalia Ivanovnahoping for a fight.

But this was too much for Katerina Ivanovnaand she at once declared
so that all could hearthat Amalia Ivanovna probably never had a
fatherbut was simply a drunken Petersburg Finnand 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 fatherbut 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 colonelwhile Amalia Ivanovna's
father--if she really had one--was probably some Finnish milkmanbut
that probably she never had a father at allsince it was still
uncertain whether her name was Amalia Ivanovna or Amalia Ludwigovna.

At this Amalia Ivanovnalashed to furystruck the table with her
fistand shrieked that she was Amalia Ivanovnaand 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 chairand 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 papasheKaterina Ivanovnawould tear
her cap off her head and trample it under foot." Amalia Ivanovna ran
about the roomshouting at the top of her voicethat 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 uproarthe
children began crying. Sonia ran to restrain Katerina Ivanovnabut
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
stepdaughterSofya . . . IvanovnaI think it is? Allow me to pass."

Pyotr Petrovitchedging by herwent to the opposite corner where
Sonia was.

Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she wasas though
thunderstruck. She could not understand how Pyotr Petrovitch could
deny having enjoyed her father's hospitility. Though she had invented
it herselfshe believed in it firmly by this time. She was struck too
by the businesslikedry 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 partybut it was evidenttoothat he had come upon some
matter of consequencethat some exceptional cause must have brought
him and that therefore something was going to happen. Raskolnikov
standing beside Soniamoved aside to let him pass; Pyotr Petrovitch
did not seem to notice him. A minute later Lebeziatnikovtoo
appeared in the doorway; he did not come inbut stood still
listening with marked interestalmost wonderand seemed for a time
perplexed.

Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it's a matter of some
importance,Pyotr Petrovitch observedaddressing the company
generally. "I am glad indeed to find other persons present. Amalia
IvanovnaI 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 tablein the room of my friend Mr.


Lebeziatnikov. If in any way whatever you know and will tell us where
it is nowI 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 palestaring at Luzhin and unable to say a
word. She seemed not to understand. Some seconds passed.

Well, how is it to be then?asked Luzhinlooking 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 momentmademoiselle he began severely, but still,
as it were, admonishing her. ReflectI am prepared to give you time
for consideration. Kindly observe this: if I were not so entirely
convinced I should notyou may be surewith my experience venture to
accuse you so directly. Seeing that for such direct accusation before
witnessesif false or even mistakenI should myself in a certain
sense be made responsibleI 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 yourselfmademoiselleprobably 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 relativeKaterina Ivanovna (whose dinner I was
unable to attend)and the advisability of getting up something of the
nature of a subscriptionlottery or the likefor 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 tenrouble
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 whichbeing
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 itintending to count it and to put it asideas 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 reckoningfor the minute before your entrance I
had finished my accounts and found the total correct. You will admit
that recollecting your embarrassmentyour eagerness to get away and
the fact that you kept your hands for some time on the tableand
taking into consideration your social position and the habits
associated with itI wasso to saywith horror and positively
against my will/compelled/ to entertain a suspicion--a cruelbut
justifiable suspicion! I will add further and repeat that in spite of
my positive convictionI realise that I run a certain risk in making
this accusationbut as you seeI could not let it pass. I have taken
action and I will tell you why: solelymadamsolelyowing to your
black ingratitude! Why! I invite you for the benefit of your destitute


relativeI present you with my donation of ten roubles and youon
the spotrepay me for all that with such an action. It is too bad!
You need a lesson. Reflect! Moreoverlike a true friend I beg you-and
you could have no better friend at this moment--think what you are
doingotherwise I shall be immovable! Wellwhat do you say?"

I have taken nothing,Sonia whispered in terroryou gave me ten
roubles, here it is, take it.

Sonia pulled her handkerchief out of her pocketuntied a corner of
ittook out the ten-rouble note and gave it to Luzhin.

And the hundred roubles you do not confess to taking?he insisted
reproachfullynot taking the note.

Sonia looked about her. All were looking at her with such awful
sternironicalhostile eyes. She looked at Raskolnikov . . . he
stood against the wallwith his arms crossedlooking 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
Ivanovnathrowing up her hands.

You knew it?Luzhin caught her upthen 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 Ivanovnasuddenly realising the positionand
she rushed at Luzhin. "What! You accuse her of stealing? Sonia? Ah
the wretchesthe 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 personsbesides Lebeziatnikovappeared
in the doorwayamong them the two ladies.

What! Mad? Am I mad? Idiot!shrieked Katerina Ivanovna. "You are an
idiot yourselfpettifogging lawyerbase man! SoniaSonia take his
money! Sonia a thief! Whyshe'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 landladyand 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 mutteredthat 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. "Soniaturn out your pockets! See! Lookmonsterthe
pocket is emptyhere was her handkerchief! Here is the other pocket
look! D'you seed'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
itseveral cried out. Pyotr Petrovitch stooped downpicked up the
paper in two fingerslifted 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 silentkeeping his
eyes fixed on Soniaexcept for an occasional rapid glance at Luzhin.
Sonia stood stillas 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 wailand she ran to Katerina Ivanovnawho
clasped her tightly in her armsas 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 factswaying her to and fro in her
arms like a babykissing her face continuallythen snatching at her
hands and kissing themtooyou took it! How stupid these people
are! Oh dear! You are fools, fools,she criedaddressing the whole
roomyou 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 poorconsumptivehelpless woman seemed to produce a
great effect on her audience. The agonisedwastedconsumptive face
the parched blood-stained lipsthe hoarse voicethe tears
unrestrained as a child'sthe trustfulchildish 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
impressivelyno 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 companygentlemen! 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 saidaddressing
Soniaand I will carry the matter no further. Enough!

Pyotr Petrovitch stole a glance at Raskolnikov. Their eyes metand
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 childrentoowere embracing
Sonia on all sidesand Polenka--though she did not fully understand
what was wrong--was drowned in tears and shaking with sobsas she hid
her pretty little faceswollen with weepingon Sonia's shoulder.

How vile!a loud voice cried suddenly in the doorway.

Pyotr Petrovitch looked round quickly.

What vileness!Lebeziatnikov repeatedstaring 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 saidgoing 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 hotlylooking sternly at him with his shortsighted
eyes.

He was extremely angry. Raskolnikov gazed intently at himas 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 beganstammering. "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 Lebeziatnikovaddressing 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 repeatedand 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 impudentlywhy, 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 wonderbut 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 Ivanovnahardly knowing what she was doingsank on her
knees before him.

A pack of nonsense!yelled Luzhinroused to furyit'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 endhe was quite tiredand the perspiration
streamed from his face. He could notalaseven express himself
correctly in Russianthough he knew no other languageso that he was
quite exhaustedalmost 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
shoutedthat'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 Lebeziatnikovthat'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 voiceand he
stepped forward.

He appeared to be firm and composed. Everyone felt clearlyfrom 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 Raskolnikovaddressing
Lebeziatnikov. "From the very beginning of the businessI suspected
that there was some scoundrelly intrigue at the bottom of it. I began
to suspect it from some special circumstances known to me onlywhich
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 sisterAvdotya Romanovna
Raskolnikov. But coming to Petersburg he quarrelled with methe day
before yesterdayat 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 herein
your roomand that consequently on the very day we quarrelled--the
day before yesterday--he saw me give Katerina Ivanovna some money for


the funeralas 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
moneynot to Katerina Ivanovna but to Sofya Semyonovnaand referred
in a most contemptible way to the . . . character of Sofya Semyonovna
that ishinted at the character of my attitude to Sofya Semyonovna.
All this you understand was with the object of dividing me from my
mother and sisterby insinuating that I was squandering on unworthy
objects the money which they had sent me and which was all they had.
Yesterday eveningbefore my mother and sister and in his presenceI
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 beforeindeed. At the
same time I added that hePyotr Petrovitch Luzhinwith all his
virtueswas not worth Sofya Semyonovna's little fingerthough he
spoke so ill of her. To his question--would I let Sofya Semyonovna sit
down beside my sisterI answered that I had already done so that day.
Irritated that my mother and sister were unwilling to quarrel with me
at his insinuationshe 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 thiefhe would have shown to my mother and sister that he was
almost right in his suspicionsthat he had reason to be angry at my
putting my sister on a level with Sofya Semyonovnathatin attacking
mehe was protecting and preserving the honour of my sisterhis
betrothed. In fact he might eventhrough all thishave been able to
estrange me from my familyand no doubt he hoped to be restored to
favour with them; to say nothing of revenging himself on me
personallyfor 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 thisor somewhat like thisthat Raskolnikov wound up his
speech which was followed very attentivelythough often interrupted
by exclamations from his audience. But in spite of interruptions he
spoke clearlycalmlyexactlyfirmly. His decisive voicehis tone
of conviction and his stern face made a great impression on everyone.

Yes, yes, that's it,Lebeziatnikov assented gleefullythat 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 awaybut at the moment
this was scarcely possible. It would have implied admitting the truth
of the accusations brought against him. Moreoverthe companywhich
had already been excited by drinkwas now too much stirred to allow
it. The commissariat clerkthough indeed he had not grasped the whole
positionwas 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 attentionthough 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 Raskolnikovfeeling that
all her safety lay in him. Katerina Ivanovna breathed hard and
painfully and seemed fearfully exhausted. Amalia Ivanovna stood
looking more stupid than anyonewith her mouth wide openunable to


make out what had happened. She only saw that Pyotr Petrovitch had
somehow come to grief.

Raskolnikov was attempting to speak againbut 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 failedhe 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 threatsif you please! I
assure you it will be uselessyou will gain nothing by it. On the
contraryyou'll have to answergentlemenfor violently obstructing
the course of justice. The thief has been more than unmaskedand I
shall prosecute. Our judges are not so blind and . . . not so drunk
and will not believe the testimony of two notorious infidels
agitatorsand atheistswho accuse me from motives of personal
revenge which they are foolish enough to admit. . . . Yesallow 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 tablebrandished
it in the air and flung it at Pyotr Petrovitch; but the glass flew
straight at Amalia Ivanovna. She screamedand the clerk
overbalancingfell heavily under the table. Pyotr Petrovitch made his
way to his room and half an hour later had left the house. Sonia
timid by naturehad felt before that day that she could be illtreated
more easily than anyoneand that she could be wronged with
impunity. Yet till that moment she had fancied that she might escape
misfortune by caregentleness and submissiveness before everyone. Her
disappointment was too great. She couldof coursebear with patience
and almost without murmur anythingeven 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 lastunable to bear any
moreshe rushed out of the room and ran homealmost immediately
after Luzhin's departure. When amidst loud laughter the glass flew at
Amalia Ivanovnait was more than the landlady could endure. With a
shriek she rushed like a fury at Katerina Ivanovnaconsidering 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 Ivanovnaand throwing it on
the floor. Katerina Ivanovnapalealmost faintingand gasping for
breathjumped 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


womansobbing 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 RaskolnikovKaterina Ivanovna squeezed her way through
the disorderly and drunken crowd of lodgers who still filled the room
andwailing and tearfulshe 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 crouchedterrifiedon the trunk in the
corner of the roomwhere she waited trembling for her mother to come
back. Amalia Ivanovna raged about the roomshriekinglamenting and
throwing everything she came across on the floor. The lodgers talked
incoherentlysome commented to the best of their ability on what had
happenedothers quarrelled and swore at one anotherwhile others
struck up a song. . . .

Now it's time for me to go,thought Raskolnikov. "WellSofya
Semyonovnawe 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
Luzhinalthough he had such a load of horror and anguish in his own
heart. But having gone through so much in the morninghe found a sort
of relief in a change of sensationsapart from the strong personal
feeling which impelled him to defend Sonia. He was agitated too
especially at some momentsby 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 andas it were
brushed away the thought of it. So when he cried as he left Katerina
Ivanovna'sWell, Sofya Semyonovna, we shall see what you'll say
now!he was still superficially excitedstill vigorous and defiant
from his triumph over Luzhin. Butstrange to sayby the time he
reached Sonia's lodginghe felt a sudden impotence and fear. He stood
still in hesitation at the doorasking 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 herbut also that he could not put off the telling. He did
not yet know why it must be sohe only /felt/ itand the agonising
sense of his impotence before the inevitable almost crushed him. To
cut short his hesitation and sufferinghe 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 handsbut 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 quicklymeeting
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 himtwo steps awayjust as she
had done the day before.

Well, Sonia?he saidand felt that his voice was tremblingit 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 smileafraid 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 Sonialet's go at once. . . .

And she snatched up her cape.

It's everlastingly the same thing!said Raskolnikovirritably.
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 hereyou'll be blamed for it. . . ."

Sonia sat down in painful suspense. Raskolnikov was silentgazing at
the floor and deliberating.

This time Luzhin did not want to prosecute you,he begannot
looking at Soniabut 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 laughbut rather a forced one. "Whatsilence
again?" he asked a minute later. "We must talk about somethingyou
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.) "NoreallyI am serious. ImagineSoniathat you
had known all Luzhin's intentions beforehand. Knownthat isfor a
factthat 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. Wellif
suddenly it all depended on your decision whether he or they should go
on livingthat is whether Luzhin should go on living and doing wicked
thingsor 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 questionwhich 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 forgivenessSonia. . . ."

He tried to smilebut there was something helpless and incomplete in
his pale smile. He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands.

And suddenly a strangesurprising sensation of a sort of bitter
hatred for Sonia passed through his heart. As it were wondering and
frightened of this sensationhe 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 palegot up from his chairlooked at Soniaand 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 Soniadreadfully frightened.

He could not utter a word. This was not at allnot at all the way he
had intended to "tell" and he did not understand what was happening to
him now. She went up to himsoftlysat down on the bed beside him
and waitednot taking her eyes off him. Her heart throbbed and sank.
It was unendurable; he turned his deadly pale face to her. His lips


workedhelplessly struggling to utter something. A pang of terror
passed through Sonia's heart.

What's the matter?she repeateddrawing a little away from him.

Nothing, Sonia, don't be frightened. . . . It's nonsense. It really
is nonsense, if you think of it,he mutteredlike a man in delirium.
Why have I come to torture you?he added suddenlylooking at her.
Why, really? I keep asking myself that question, Sonia. . . .

He had perhaps been asking himself that question a quarter of an hour
beforebut now he spoke helplesslyhardly knowing what he said and
feeling a continual tremor all over.

Oh, how you are suffering!she muttered in distresslooking
intently at him.

It's all nonsense. . . . Listen, Sonia.He suddenly smileda 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 quicklyas though suddenly regaining her
reason.

Sonia's face grew paler and palerand 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 againhardly audibly and
again after a minute's pause.

He turned to her and looked very intently at her.

Guess,he saidwith the same distorted helpless smile.

A shudder passed over her.

But you . . . why do you frighten me like this?she saidsmiling
like a child.

I must be a great friend of /his/ . . . since I know,Raskolnikov
went onstill gazing into her faceas 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 suddenlyfeeling 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 againthe 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 facewhen he approached her with the axe and she stepped
back to the wallputting out her handwith childish terror in her
facelooking as little children do when they begin to be frightened
of somethinglooking 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 terrorshe looked at him for a while and
suddenly putting out her left handpressed her fingers faintly
against his breast and slowly began to get up from the bedmoving
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 pillowsbut a
moment later she got upmoved quickly to himseized both his hands
andgripping them tight in her thin fingersbegan 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 onindeed
when she recalled that momentshe thought it strange and wondered why
she had seen at once that there was no doubt. She could not have said
for instancethat she had foreseen something of the sort--and yet
nowas soon as he told hershe 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 allnot at all like this he had thought of telling her
but this is how it happened.

She jumped upseeming not to know what she was doingandwringing
her handswalked into the middle of the room; but quickly went back
and sat down again beside himher shoulder almost touching his. All
of a sudden she started as though she had been stabbeduttered a cry
and fell on her knees before himshe did not know why.

What have you done--what have you done to yourself?she said in
despairandjumping upshe flung herself on his neckthrew her
arms round himand 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 frenzynot hearing what he saidand 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 saidlooking at her almost with
hope.

No, no, never, nowhere!cried Sonia. "I will follow youI will
follow you everywhere. Ohmy God! Ohhow miserable I am! . . . Why
why didn't I know you before! Why didn't you come before? Ohdear!"

Here I have come.

Yes, now! What's to be done now? . . . Together, together!she
repeated as it were unconsciouslyand she hugged him again. "I'll
follow you to Siberia!"

He recoiled at thisand the same hostilealmost 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 passionateagonising 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 yetwhyhowwith what object it had
been. Now all these questions rushed at once into her mind. And again
she could not believe it: "Hehe is a murderer! Could it be true?"

What's the meaning of it? Where am I?she said in complete
bewildermentas though still unable to recover herself. "How could
youyoua man like you. . . . How could you bring yourself to it?
. . . What does it mean?"

Oh, well--to plunder. Leave off, Sonia,he answered wearilyalmost
with vexation.

Sonia stood as though struck dumbbut suddenly she cried:

You were hungry! It was . . . to help your mother? Yes?

No, Sonia, no,he mutteredturning away and hanging his head. "I
was not so hungry. . . . I certainly did want to help my motherbut
. . . 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 suddenlythat money you gave Katerina
Ivanovna . . . that money. . . . Can that money . . .

No, Sonia,he broke in hurriedlythat 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 softlyas though reflecting. "I took a purse off
her neckmade 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 quicklycatching at a straw.

I don't know. . . . I haven't yet decided whether to take that money
or not,he saidmusing again; andseeming to wake up with a start
he gave a brief ironical smile. "Achwhat silly stuff I am talking
eh?"

The thought flashed through Sonia's mindwasn't he mad? But she
dismissed it at once. "Noit was something else." She could make
nothing of itnothing.

Do you know, Sonia,he said suddenly with convictionlet me tell
you: if I'd simply killed because I was hungry,laying stress on
every word and looking enigmatically but sincerely at herI should
be /happy/ now. You must believe that! What would it matter to you,
he cried a moment later with a sort of despairwhat 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 somethingbut 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 knowSoniait's only
nowonly 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 thingI came to you for one thing--not to leave me. You
won't leave meSonia?"

She squeezed his hand.

And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?he cried a
minute later in despairlooking with infinite anguish at her. "Here
you expect an explanation from meSonia; you are sitting and waiting
for itI see that. But what can I tell you? You won't understand and
will only suffer misery . . . on my account! Wellyou 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 tooand 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 heartand 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 againwe 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 knowfar better!"

He looked at her with anguish.

What if it were really that?he saidas though reaching a
conclusion. "Yesthat'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 speakspeakI
shall understandI 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
beggedstill more timidly and scarcely audibly.

He turned to herlooked 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 . . . wellmy sister might well have fared
worse! And it's a hard thing to pass everything by all one's lifeto
turn one's back upon everythingto 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 motherto keep myself at the university and for a
little while after leaving it--and to do this all on a broadthorough
scaleso as to build up a completely new career and enter upon a new
life of independence. . . . Well . . . that's all. . . . Wellof
course in killing the old woman I did wrong. . . . Wellthat'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 . . . nothat's not rightnot 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 answeredlooking strangely at her.
But I am talking nonsense, Sonia,he added. "I've been talking
nonsense a long time. . . . That's not ityou are right there. There
were quitequite other causes for it! I haven't talked to anyone for
so longSonia. . . . 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
comprehensiblebut yet . . . "But howhow! Good God!" And she wrung
her hands in despair.

No, Sonia, that's not it,he began again suddenlyraising 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--yesit's certainly
better--imagine that I am vainenviousmaliciousbasevindictive
and . . . wellperhaps with a tendency to insanity. (Let's have it
all out at once! They've talked of madness alreadyI 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 foodno doubt. Lessons had turned up at half a rouble.
Razumihin works! But I turned sulky and wouldn't. (Yessulkiness
that's the right word for it!) I sat in my room like a spider. You've
been in my denyou've seen it. . . . And do you knowSoniathat low
ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul and the mind? Ahhow 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 togetherand I wouldn't workI wouldn't even
eatI just lay there doing nothing. If Nastasya brought me anything
I ate itif she didn'tI went all day without; I wouldn't askon
purposefrom sulkiness! At night I had no lightI lay in the dark
and I wouldn't earn money for candles. I ought to have studiedbut 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 timestrange dreams of all sortsno
need to describe! Only then I began to fancy that . . . Nothat'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 sawSoniathat if one waits for everyone to
get wiser it will take too long. . . . Afterwards I understood that
that would never come to passthat 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 natureSonia. . . that's so!
. . . And I know nowSoniathat 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 thishe 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 eagerlythat 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 Soniaclasping her hands. "You turned away
from God and God has smitten youhas 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 allI have thought it all over and over and whispered it all
over to myselflying there in the dark. . . . I've argued it all over
with myselfevery point of itand I know it allall! And how sick
how sick I was then of going over it all! I have kept wanting to
forget it and make a new beginningSoniaand leave off thinking. And
you don't suppose that I went into it headlong like a fool? I went
into it like a wise manand that was just my destruction. And you
mustn't suppose that I didn't knowfor instancethat 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 methough it might be for a man
who would go straight to his goal without asking questions. . . . If I
worried myself all those dayswondering whether Napoleon would have
done it or notI felt clearly of course that I wasn't Napoleon. I had
to endure all the agony of that battle of ideasSoniaand I longed
to throw it off: I wanted to murder without casuistryto murder for
my own sakefor 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
myselffor myself aloneand 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 menI couldn't have cared at that moment. . . . And it
was not the money I wantedSoniawhen I did it. It was not so much


the money I wantedbut 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 notwhether 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 meSonia. I want to
prove one thing onlythat the devil led me on then and he has shown
me since that I had not the right to take that pathbecause 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 louseshould 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 agonylet 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 askedsuddenly raising his head and
looking at her with a face hideously distorted by despair.

What are you to do?she criedjumping upand her eyes that had
been full of tears suddenly began to shine. "Stand up!" (She seized
him by the shoulderhe got uplooking at her almost bewildered.) "Go
at oncethis very minutestand at the cross-roadsbow downfirst
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 gowill you go?" she asked himtrembling
all oversnatching his two handssqueezing 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 criedwhy, 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 scoundrelsSonia! I am not going
to them. And what should I say to them--that I murdered herbut did
not dare to take the money and hid it under a stone?" he added with a
bitter smile. "Whythey would laugh at meand 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 childSonia. . . ."


It will be too much for you to bear, too much!she repeatedholding
out her hands in despairing supplication.


Perhaps I've been unfair to myself,he observed gloomilypondering
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 cryingit's time to talk of the facts:
I've come to tell you that the police are after meon 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 sideboth mournful and dejectedas 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 himand strange to say he
felt it suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yesit 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 sufferingand nowwhen all her heart turned towards himhe
suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than before.


Sonia,he saidyou'd better not come and see me when I am in
prison.


Sonia did not answershe was crying. Several minutes passed.


Have you a cross on you?she askedas 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 togetherand
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 convictionwhen 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 isI 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 doyou see!
She came back--she seems to have been turned out somewhereperhaps
beaten. . . . So it seems at least. . . She had run to your father's
former chiefshe didn't find him at home: he was dining at some other
general's. . . . Only fancyshe rushed off thereto the other
general'sandimagineshe was so persistent that she managed to get
the chief to see herhad him fetched out from dinnerit seems. You
can imagine what happened. She was turned outof course; but
according to her own storyshe abused him and threw something at him.
One may well believe it. . . . How it is she wasn't taken upI can't
understand! Now she is telling everyoneincluding Amalia Ivanovna;
but it's difficult to understand hershe is screaming and flinging
herself about. . . . Oh yesshe shouts that since everyone has
abandoned hershe will take the children and go into the street with
a barrel-organand the children will sing and danceand she tooand
collect moneyand will go every day under the general's window . . .
'to let everyone see well-born childrenwhose 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
dancePolenka the same. She is tearing up all the clothesand making
them little caps like actors; she means to carry a tin basin and make
it tinkleinstead of music. . . . She won't listen to anything. . . .


Imagine the state of things! It's beyond anything!"

Lebeziatnikov would have gone onbut Soniawho had heard him almost
breathlesssnatched up her cloak and hatand 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 Raskolnikovas they went out
into the street. "I didn't want to frighten Sofya Semyonovnaso 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 herbut 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
livedhe nodded to Lebeziatnikov and went in at the gate.
Lebeziatnikov woke up with a startlooked 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
paperat the dustat his sofa. . . . From the yard came a loud
continuous knocking; someone seemed to be hammering . . . He went to
the windowrose 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.

Nevernever had he felt himself so fearfully alone!

Yeshe felt once more that he would perhaps come to hate Sonianow
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 resolutelyand 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 doorwayjust
as he had done at Sonia; then she came in and sat down in the same
place as yesterdayon 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
RazumihinDmitri Prokofitchis a very good fellow."

Dounia flushed slightly.

Well?she askedwaiting a moment.

He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real love. . . .
Good-bye, Dounia.

Dounia flushed crimsonthen 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 awayand walked to the window. She stood a momentlooked
at him uneasilyand went out troubled.

Nohe 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/ herbut 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. "Noshe 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 notof courseand 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 poignantnothing
acute about it; but there was a feeling of permanenceof eternity
about it; it brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden
miserya 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 anxiouslyhurrying 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 lodgedthere was a crowd of peopleconsisting
principally of gutter children. The hoarse broken voice of Katerina
Ivanovna could be heard from the bridgeand it certainly was a
strange spectacle likely to attract a street crowd. Katerina Ivanovna
in her old dress with the green shawlwearing a torn straw hat
crushed in a hideous way on one sidewas really frantic. She was
exhausted and breathless. Her wasted consumptive face looked more
suffering than everand indeed out of doors in the sunshine a
consumptive always looks worse than at home. But her excitement did
not flagand every moment her irritation grew more intense. She
rushed at the childrenshouted at themcoaxed themtold them before
the crowd how to dance and what to singbegan explaining to them why
it was necessaryand driven to desperation by their not
understandingbeat 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
genteelone may say aristocratichouse" had been brought to. If she


heard laughter or jeering in the crowdshe would rush at once at the
scoffers and begin squabbling with them. Some people laughedothers
shook their headsbut everyone felt curious at the sight of the
madwoman with the frightened children. The frying-pan of which
Lebeziatnikov had spoken was not thereat least Raskolnikov did not
see it. But instead of rapping on the panKaterina Ivanovna began
clapping her wasted handswhen she made Lida and Kolya dance and
Polenka sing. She too joined in the singingbut broke down at the
second note with a fearful coughwhich 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 capor rather a night cap that
had belonged to Marmeladovdecorated with a broken piece of white
ostrich featherwhich 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 motherand kept at her
sidehiding her tears. She dimly realised her mother's conditionand
looked uneasily about her. She was terribly frightened of the street
and the crowd. Sonia followed Katerina Ivanovnaweeping and
beseeching her to return homebut Katerina Ivanovna was not to be
persuaded.

Leave off, Sonia, leave off,she shoutedspeaking fastpanting 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
everyonelet all Petersburg see the children begging in the streets
though their father was an honourable man who served all his life in
truth and fidelityand 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! AhRodion Romanovitchis that you?" she cried
seeing Raskolnikov and rushing up to him. "Explain to this silly girl
pleasethat nothing better could be done! Even organ-grinders earn
their livingand 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 postyou'll see! We shall perform under
his windows every dayand if the Tsar drives byI'll fall on my
kneesput the children before meshow them to himand say 'Defend
us father.' He is the father of the fatherlesshe is mercifulhe'll
protect usyou'll seeand that wretch of a general. . . . Lida
/tenez vous droite/! Kolyayou'll dance again. Why are you
whimpering? Whimpering again! What are you afraid ofstupid?
Goodnesswhat am I to do with themRodion Romanovitch? If you only
knew how stupid they are! What's one to do with such children?"

And shealmost crying herself--which did not stop her uninterrupted
rapid flow of talk--pointed to the crying children. Raskolnikov tried
to persuade her to go homeand even saidhoping to work on her
vanitythat it was unseemly for her to be wandering about the streets
like an organ-grinderas she was intending to become the principal of
a boarding-school.

A boarding-school, ha-ha-ha! A castle in the air,cried Katerina
Ivanovnaher laugh ending in a cough. "NoRodion Romanovitchthat
dream is over! All have forsaken us! . . . And that general. . . . You
knowRodion RomanovitchI 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 namethrew it at him and ran away. Ohthe scoundrelsthe
scoundrels! But enough of themnow I'll provide for the children
myselfI won't bow down to anybody! She has had to bear enough for
us!" she pointed to Sonia. "Polenkahow much have you got? Show me!


Whatonly two farthings! Ohthe mean wretches! They give us nothing
only run after usputting their tongues out. Therewhat 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 wantPolenka? Tell me in French/parlez-moi français/. Why
I've taught youyou know some phrases. Else how are you to show that
you are of good familywell brought-up childrenand not at all like
other organ-grinders? We aren't going to have a Punch and Judy show in
the streetbut to sing a genteel song. . . . Ahyes. . . What are
we to sing? You keep putting me outbut we . . . you seewe are
standing hereRodion Romanovitchto find something to sing and get
moneysomething Kolya can dance to. . . . Foras you can fancyour
performance is all impromptu. . . . We must talk it over and rehearse
it all thoroughlyand then we shall go to Nevskywhere there are far
more people of good societyand we shall be noticed at once. Lida
knows 'My Village' onlynothing but 'My Village' and everyone sings
that. We must sing something far more genteel. . . . Wellhave you
thought of anythingPolenka? If only you'd help your mother! My
memory's quite goneor I should have thought of something. We really
can't sing 'An Hussar.' Ahlet us sing in French'Cinq sous' I have
taught it youI have taught it you. And as it is in Frenchpeople
will see at once that you are children of good familyand 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 nobetter sing 'Cinq sous.' NowKolyayour
hands on your hipsmake hasteand youLidakeep turning the other
wayand Polenka and I will sing and clap our hands!

/Cinq sous, cinq sous
Pour monter notre menage.


(Cough-cough-cough!) "Set your dress straightPolenkait's slipped
down on your shoulders she observed, panting from coughing. Now
it's particularly necessary to behave nicely and genteellythat all
may see that you are well-born children. I said at the time that the
bodice should be cut longerand made of two widths. It was your
faultSoniawith your advice to make it shorterand now you see the
child is quite deformed by it. . . . Whyyou're all crying again!
What's the matterstupids? ComeKolyabegin. Make hastemake
haste! Ohwhat 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 solidlooking
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 politeeven ceremoniousbow.

I thank you, honoured sir,she began loftily. "The causes that have
induced us (take the moneyPolenka: you see there are generous and
honourable people who are ready to help a poor gentlewoman in
distress). You seehonoured sirthese 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 orphansfor you knew my late
husbandSemyon Zaharovitchand 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 wantfool?"

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. . . . SoniaSonia! Where is
she? She is crying too! What's the matter with you all? KolyaLida
where are you going?" she cried suddenly in alarm. "Ohsilly
children! KolyaLidawhere are they off to? . . ."

Kolya and Lidascared out of their wits by the crowdand their
mother's mad prankssuddenly seized each other by the handand ran
off at the sight of the policeman who wanted to take them away
somewhere. Weeping and wailingpoor Katerina Ivanovna ran after them.
She was a piteous and unseemly spectacleas she ranweeping 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 Soniabending
over her.

All ran up and crowded around. Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov were the
first at her sidethe official too hastened upand behind him the
policeman who mutteredBother!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 womancrossing herself. "Have they
caught the little girl and the boy? They're being brought backthe
elder one's got them. . . . Ahthe naughty imps!"

When they examined Katerina Ivanovna carefullythey saw that she had
not cut herself against a stoneas Sonia thoughtbut 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 bloodall in a minute. . . . What's to be done
though? She is dying."

This way, this way, to my room!Sonia implored. "I live here! . . .
Seethat housethe second from here. . . . Come to memake haste
she turned from one to the other. Send for the doctor! Ohdear!"

Thanks to the official's effortsthis plan was adoptedthe policeman
even helping to carry Katerina Ivanovna. She was carried to Sonia's
roomalmost unconsciousand laid on the bed. The blood was still
flowingbut she seemed to be coming to herself. Raskolnikov
Lebeziatnikovand the official accompanied Sonia into the room and
were followed by the policemanwho first drove back the crowd which
followed to the very door. Polenka came in holding Kolya and Lidawho
were trembling and weeping. Several persons came in too from the
Kapernaumovs' room; the landlorda lame one-eyed man of strange
appearance with whiskers and hair that stood up like a brushhis
wifea woman with an everlastingly scared expressionand several
open-mouthed children with wonder-struck faces. Among these
Svidrigaïlov suddenly made his appearance. Raskolnikov looked at him
with surprisenot understanding where he had come from and not having
noticed him in the crowd. A doctor and priest wore spoken of. The
official whispered to Raskolnikov that he thought it was too late now
for the doctorbut 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 Soniawho stood pale and tremblingwiping the sweat from her
brow with a handkerchief. At last she asked to be raised. They sat her
up on the bedsupporting her on both sides.

Where are the children?she said in a faint voice. "You've brought
themPolenka? Oh the sillies! Why did you run away. . . . Och!"

Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She moved her
eyeslooking 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 downlet 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 siderecognised everyone for a minute
but at once sank into delirium again. Her breathing was hoarse and
difficultthere was a sort of rattle in her throat.

I said to him, your excellency,she ejaculatedgasping after each
word. "That Amalia Ludwigovnaah! LidaKolyahands on your hips
make haste! /Glissezglissez! pas de basque!/ Tap with your heelsbe
a graceful child!


/Du hast Diamanten und Perlen/

What next? That's the thing to sing.

/Du hast die schonsten Augen
Madchen, 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.

Ahhow I loved it! I loved that song to distractionPolenka! Your
fatheryou knowused 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 lastin a horribly
hoarsebroken voiceshe beganshrieking 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 tearsprotect the orphans! You have been their father's
guest . . . one may say aristocratic. . . .She startedregaining
consciousnessand gazed at all with a sort of terrorbut at once
recognised Sonia.

Sonia, Sonia!she articulated softly and caressinglyas though
surprised to find her there. "Sonia darlingare you heretoo?"

They lifted her up again.

Enough! It's over! Farewell, poor thing! I am done for! I am broken!
she cried with vindictive despairand her head fell heavily back on
the pillow.

She sank into unconsciousness againbut this time it did not last
long. Her paleyellowwasted face dropped backher mouth fell open
her leg moved convulsivelyshe gave a deepdeep sigh and died.

Sonia fell upon herflung her arms about herand remained motionless
with her head pressed to the dead woman's wasted bosom. Polenka threw
herself at her mother's feetkissing them and weeping violently.
Though Kolya and Lida did not understand what had happenedthey had a
feeling that it was something terrible; they put their hands on each
other's little shouldersstared 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 turbanthe 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
Svidrigaïlovcoming 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 slynesskeeping his
eyes fixed on Raskolnikovwho turned white and coldhearing his own
phrasesspoken to Sonia. He quickly stepped back and looked wildly at
Svidrigaïlov.

How do you know?he whisperedhardly 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 Svidrigaïlovshaking with laughter. "I assure you on
my honourdear Rodion Romanovitchthat you have interested me
enormously. I told you we should become friendsI 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 afterhe believed that his
mind had been clouded at timesand that it had continued sowith
intervalstill the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had
been mistaken about many things at that timefor instance as to the
date of certain events. Anywaywhen he tried later on to piece his
recollections togetherhe 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 uneasinessamounting
sometimes to panic. But he rememberedtoomomentshoursperhaps
whole daysof complete apathywhich came upon him as a reaction from
his previous terror and might be compared with the abnormal


insensibilitysometimes 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 caresthe neglect of which would have
threatened him with completeinevitable ruin.

He was particularly worried about Svidrigaïlovhe 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 deaththe 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 townin some
wretched eating-housesitting alone lost in thoughthardly knowing
how he had come therehe suddenly thought of Svidrigaïlov. He
recognised suddenlyclearlyand 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 dayhe positively fancied
that they had fixed a meeting therethat 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 deathhe
had two or three times met Svidrigaïlov at Sonia's lodgingwhere he
had gone aimlessly for a moment. They exchanged a few words and made
no reference to the vital subjectas though they were tacitly agreed
not to speak of it for a time.

Katerina Ivanovna's body was still lying in the coffinSvidrigaïlov
was busy making arrangements for the funeral. Sonia too was very busy.
At their last meeting Svidrigaïlov informed Raskolnikov that he had
made an arrangementand a very satisfactory onefor Katerina
Ivanovna's children; that he hadthrough 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 assistanceas
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 Raskolnikovmentioning that "he would like to
consult with himthat there were things they must talk over. . . ."

This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs.
Svidrigaïlov looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenlyafter a
brief pausedropping his voiceasked: "But how is itRodion
Romanovitch; you don't seem yourself? You look and you listenbut you
don't seem to understand. Cheer up! We'll talk things over; I am only
sorryI'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
airfresh air . . . more than anything!"

He moved to one side to make way for the priest and serverwho 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 momentthoughtand followed
the priest into Sonia's room. He stood at the door. They began
quietlyslowly 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 welltoo
awful and disturbing. He looked at the children: they were all
kneeling by the coffin; Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia prayed
softly andas it weretimidly 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 readGive rest, oh
Lord. . . .Raskolnikov stayed all through the service. As he blessed
them and took his leavethe priest looked round strangely. After the
serviceRaskolnikov 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
repugnanceno trace of disgustno tremor in her hand. It was the
furthest limit of self-abnegationat 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 solitudehe
would have thought himself luckyeven 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 roadonce he had even reached a little woodbut
the lonelier the place wasthe more he seemed to be aware of an
uneasy presence near him. It did not frighten himbut greatly annoyed
himso that he made haste to return to the townto mingle with the
crowdto enter restaurants and tavernsto 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 againas 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 decisionbut
it was something he could not clearly understand or put into words. It
was a hopeless tangle. "Nobetter the struggle again! Better Porfiry
again . . . or Svidrigaïlov. . . . Better some challenge again . . .
some attack. Yesyes!" 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 Islandtrembling all over
with fever; he walked homeand it was early morning when he arrived.
After some hours' sleep the fever left himbut he woke up latetwo
o'clock in the afternoon.

He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna's funeral had been fixed for that
dayand was glad that he was not present at it. Nastasya brought him
some food; he ate and drank with appetitealmost 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 annoyancebut 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 concernedyou may all
go to hellbut from what I seeit'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 knowhang it! If you begin telling me your secretsI
dare say I shouldn't stay to listenI 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 myselfjudging from
your stupidrepulsive and quite inexplicable actionsand 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 finishedgetting
upto 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 excitementmaking 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 saidweighing each
syllableand 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 himhe
suddenly opened it againand saidlooking 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 decidedas he slowly descended the stairs. "And he's drawn
his sister in; that's quitequite 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 heavenswhat I thought! YesI took leave
of my senses and I wronged him! It was his doingunder the lamp in
the corridor that day. Pfoo! What a crudenastyvile idea on my
part! Nikolay is a brickfor confessing. . . . And how clear it all
is now! His illness thenall his strange actions . . . before this
in the universityhow morose he used to behow gloomy. . . . But
what's the meaning now of that letter? There's something in thattoo
perhaps. Whom was it from? I suspect . . .! NoI must find out!"

He thought of Douniarealising all he had heard and his heart
throbbedand he suddenly broke into a run.

As soon as Razumihin went outRaskolnikov got upturned to the
windowwalked into one corner and then into anotheras though
forgetting the smallness of his roomand sat down again on the sofa.
He feltso to speakrenewed; again the struggleso 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 himthat was true
but somehow not on the same point. He might still have a struggle to
come with Svidrigaïlov. Svidrigaïlovtoomight 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 designbut 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. Wellthat was a bad
sign. . . ."

Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the roomstill pondering. It
was the first time for a long while that he had felt clear in his
mindat least. "I must settle Svidrigaïlov he thought, and as soon
as possible; hetooseems 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
laterif 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 minutebut only for one minute. Strange to sayhe
was not very much astonished at seeing Porfiry and scarcely afraid of
him. He was simply startledbut was quicklyinstantlyon 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 himselfif he could have seen it.

The last moment had comethe last drops had to be drained! So a man
will sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a
brigandyet when the knife is at his throat at lasthe feels no
fear.

Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiryand 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. "Comewhy don't you speak?"

CHAPTER II

Ah these cigarettes!Porfiry Petrovitch ejaculated at lasthaving
lighted one. "They are perniciouspositively perniciousand yet I
can't give them up! I coughI begin to have tickling in my throat and
a difficulty in breathing. You know I am a cowardI 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 drinkthat's the mischief
he-he-hethat I don't. Everything is relativeRodion 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 himand 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 onlooking round the room. "I
came into this very room. I was passing byjust as I did to-dayand
I thought I'd return your call. I walked in as your door was wide
openI looked roundwaited 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 smilejust 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 amazementraising his head and looking with open eyes on
Porfiry.

I've decided openness is better between us,Porfiry Petrovitch went
onturning his head away and dropping his eyesas though unwilling
to disconcert his former victim and as though disdaining his former
wiles. "Yessuch suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long.
Nikolay put a stop to itor 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 thatof course; and I am aware that he
came to you afterwards. But what you supposed then was not true: I had
not sent for anyoneI 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
timeyou seeRodion Romanovitch. ComeI thought--even if I let one
thing slip for a timeI shall get hold of something else--I shan't
lose what I wantanyway. You are nervously irritableRodion
Romanovitchby temperament; it's out of proportion with other
qualities of your heart and characterwhich 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 sometimesif you make a man lose all patiencethough
even then it's rare. I was capable of realising that. If I only had a
factI thoughtthe least little fact to go uponsomething I could
lay hold ofsomething tangiblenot merely psychological. For if a
man is guiltyyou must be able to get something substantial out of
him; one may reckon upon most surprising results indeed. I was
reckoning on your temperamentRodion Romanovitchon 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 distractedlydoes 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. "IndeedI could scarcely attempt it. To begin
with there were rumours. Through whomhowand when those rumours
came to me . . . and how they affected youI need not go into. My
suspicions were aroused by a complete accidentwhich 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 happenedtooto hear of the scene at the office
from a man who described it capitallyunconsciously reproducing the
scene with great vividness. It was just one thing after another
Rodion Romanovitchmy dear fellow! How could I avoid being brought to
certain ideas? From a hundred rabbits you can't make a horsea
hundred suspicions don't make a proofas the English proverb says
but that's only from the rational point of view--you can't help being
partialfor after all a lawyer is only human. I thoughttooof your
article in that journaldo you rememberon your first visit we
talked of it? I jeered at you at the timebut that was only to lead
you on. I repeatRodion Romanovitchyou are ill and impatient. That
you were boldheadstrongin earnest and . . . had felt a great deal
I recognised long before. Itoohave felt the sameso that your
article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on sleepless nights
with a throbbing heartin ecstasy and suppressed enthusiasm. And that
proud suppressed enthusiasm in young people is dangerous! I jeered at
you thenbut let me tell you thatas a literary amateurI am
awfully fond of such first essaysfull of the heat of youth. There is
a mistiness and a chord vibrating in the mist. Your article is absurd
and fantasticbut there's a transparent sinceritya youthful
incorruptible pride and the daring of despair in it. It's a gloomy
articlebut that's what's fine in it. I read your article and put it
asidethinking as I did so 'that man won't go the common way.' Well
I ask youafter that as a preliminaryhow could I help being carried
away by what followed? OhdearI am not saying anythingI am not
making any statement now. I simply noted it at the time. What is there
in it? I reflected. There's nothing in itthat 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 itbut it's evidence. He brings in his psychology
too; one has to consider himtoofor it's a matter of life and
death. Why am I explaining this to you? That you may understandand
not blame my malicious behaviour on that occasion. It was not
maliciousI assure youhe-he! Do you suppose I didn't come to search
your room at the time? I didI didhe-he! I was here when you were
lying ill in bednot officiallynot in my own personbut I was
here. Your room was searched to the last thread at the first
suspicion; but /umsonst/! I thought to myselfnow that man will come
will come of himself and quicklytoo; if he's guiltyhe's sure to
come. Another man wouldn'tbut he will. And you remember how Mr.
Razumihin began discussing the subject with you? We arranged that to
excite youso we purposely spread rumoursthat he might discuss the
case with youand 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 daringtoo reckless. I thought so myselfif 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 . . . wellyou
seeit all lies in this--that this damnable psychology can be taken
two ways! WellI kept expecting youand so it wasyou 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 wayRodion RomanovitchI reached the furthest limitand
knocking my head against a postI pulled myself upasking myself
what I was about. After allI saidyou can take it all in another
sense if you likeand it's more natural soindeed. I couldn't help
admitting it was more natural. I was bothered! 'NoI'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 Iand I didn't think it overI simply wouldn't. I would have
given a thousand roubles at that minute to have seen you with my own
eyeswhen you walked a hundred paces beside that workmanafter he
had called you murderer to your faceand you did not dare to ask him
a question all the way. And then what about your tremblingwhat about
your bell-ringing in your illnessin 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 himand he broke off. He had been listening in
indescribable agitationas this man who had seen through and through
himwent 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 Petrovitchseeming glad of a question
from Raskolnikovwho had till then been silent. "He-he-he! But I had
to put Mr. Razumihin off; two is companythree is none. Mr. Razumihin
is not the right manbesides he is an outsider. He came running to me
with a pale face. . . . But never mind himwhy bring him in? To
return to Nikolaywould you like to know what sort of a type he is
how I understand himthat is? To begin withhe is still a child and
not exactly a cowardbut something by way of an artist. Reallydon't
laugh at my describing him so. He is innocent and responsive to
influence. He has a heartand is a fantastic fellow. He sings and
danceshe tells storiesthey sayso that people come from other
villages to hear him. He attends school tooand laughs till he cries
if you hold up a finger to him; he will drink himself senseless--not
as a regular vicebut at timeswhen people treat himlike a child.
And he stoletoothenwithout knowing it himselffor 'How can it
be stealingif one picks it up?' And do you know he is an Old
Believeror rather a dissenter? There have been Wanderers[*] in his
familyand 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 morehe wanted to run into the
wilderness! He was full of fervourprayed at nightread the old
books'the true' onesand 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.

Wellhe was frightenedhe 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! Wellin prisonit seemshe remembered the venerable elder;
the Bibletoomade its appearance again. Do you knowRodion
Romanovitchthe force of the word 'suffering' among some of these
people! It's not a question of suffering for someone's benefitbut
simply'one must suffer.' If they suffer at the hands of the
authoritiesso 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 crazyand so crazy
do you knowthat one dayapropos of nothinghe 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 purposefor fear of
hurting him. Wellwe 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!

NoRodion RomanovitchNikolay doesn't come in! This is a fantastic
gloomy businessa modern casean incident of to-day when the heart
of man is troubledwhen the phrase is quoted that blood 'renews'
when comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish
dreamsa heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the
first stagebut 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 himand
murdered two people for a theory. He committed the murder and couldn't
take the moneyand 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 bellnohe had to go to the
empty lodginghalf deliriousto recall the bell-ringinghe wanted
to feel the cold shiver over again. . . . Wellthat we grantwas
through illnessbut consider this: he is a murdererbut looks upon
himself as an honest mandespises othersposes as injured innocence.
Nothat's not the work of a Nikolaymy 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
voiceunable to restrain himself.

Porfiry Petrovitch sank back in his chairas though he were amazed at
the question.


Who is the murderer?he repeatedas 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 meI
thinkRodion 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 sternlywith conviction.

They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely longabout 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 guiltywhy 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 againbut his
smile was sad and gentle.

No!he saidapparently abandoning all attempt to keep up
appearances with Porfiryit's not worth it, I don't care about
lessening the sentence!

That's just what I was afraid of!Porfiry cried warmly andas it
seemedinvoluntarily. "That's just what I fearedthat 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 contemptas
though he did not want to speak aloud.

He got up again as though he meant to go awaybut 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 to 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, Nokolay 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.

Hetootook 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 nothingremember 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 addeddropping 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 wayin some fantastic
fashion--laying hands on yourself--(it's an absurd propositionbut
you must forgive me for it) do leave a brief but precise noteonly
two linesand mention the stone. It will be more generous. Cometill
we meet! Good thoughts and sound decisions to you!"

Porfiry went outstooping 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 thishe could not restand now the time had come.

On the wayone question particularly worried him: had Svidrigaïlov
been to Porfiry's?

As far as he could judgehe would swear to itthat he had not. He
pondered again and againwent over Porfiry's visit; nohe hadn't
beenof course he hadn't.

But if he had not been yetwould he go? Meanwhilefor the present he
fancied he couldn't. Why? He could not have explainedbut if he
couldhe 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 saynone would have believed it perhapsbut he only felt
a faint vague anxiety about his immediate future. Anothermuch more
important anxiety tormented him--it concerned himselfbut in a
differentmore vital way. Moreoverhe was conscious of immense moral
fatiguethough his mind was working better that morning than it had
done of late.

And was it worth whileafter all that had happenedto contend with
these new trivial difficulties? Was it worth whilefor instanceto
manoeuvre that Svidrigaïlov should not go to Porfiry's? Was it worth
while to investigateto ascertain the factsto waste time over
anyone like Svidrigaïlov?

Ohhow sick he was of it all!

And yet he was hastening to Svidrigaïlov; could he be expecting
something /new/ from himinformationor means of escape? Men will
catch at straws! Was it destiny or some instinct bringing them
together? Perhaps it was only fatiguedespair; perhaps it was not
Svidrigaïlov but some other whom he neededand 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 Soniatoo.
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. Nowould 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 manmoreoverwas very unpleasantevidently
depravedundoubtedly cunning and deceitfulpossibly malignant. Such
stories were told about him. It is true he was befriending Katerina
Ivanovna's childrenbut who could tell with what motive and what it
meant? The man always had some designsome project.

There was another thought which had been continually hovering of late
about Raskolnikov's mindand 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 himhe were
to use it as a weapon against Dounia?

This idea sometimes even tormented his dreamsbut 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 withthis would
transform everythingeven 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? Luzhinperhaps? It's true Razumihin was there to protect
herbut 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 possiblehe decided
finally. Thank Godthe details of the interview were of little
consequenceif 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.

Wellwellcome 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 roomadjoining the saloon in which merchantsclerks 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 organa healthy-looking redcheeked
girl of eighteenwearing a tucked-up striped skirtand 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 rhymestoowith 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 glassand
laid down a yellow note.

Katia drank off her glass of wineas women dowithout putting it
downin twenty gulpstook 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 Petersburgbut everything
about him was alreadyso to speakon a patriarchal footing; the
waiterPhilipwas 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 wretchednot even second-rate.

I was going to see you and looking for you,Raskolnikov beganbut
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 iteven 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 ownyou can't fancyRodion
Romanovitch. I don't mean youyou 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
exhilaratedbut only slightly sohe 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 Raskolnikovlooking
inquisitively at him.

No, I know nothing about it,said Svidrigaïlovseeming surprised.

Well, then, let us leave me alone,Raskolnikov mutteredfrowning.

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 tableleaned his chin in
the fingers of his right handand stared intently at Svidrigaïlov.
For a full minute he scrutinised his facewhich had impressed him
before. It was a strange facelike a mask; white and redwith bright
red lipswith a flaxen beardand 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
suddenlycoming with nervous impatience straight to the point. "Even
though perhaps you are the most dangerous man if you care to injure
meI 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 lateI 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 itfor time is precious and very likely it
will soon be too late."

Why in such haste?asked Svidrigaïlovlooking 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. "Wellcan't you fancy then that Itooon my way
here in the train was reckoning on youon your telling me something
newand 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 watchI 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 weaknessbut 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 timeand can't stay
long with youit'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. "HoweverI
won't dispute itlet me be a braggartwhy not bragif it hurts no
one? I spent seven years in the country with Marfa Petrovnaso now
when I come across an intelligent person like you--intelligent and
highly interesting--I am simply glad to talk andbesidesI've drunk
that half-glass of champagne and it's gone to my head a little. And
besidesthere's a certain fact that has wound me up tremendouslybut
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 wereill 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 teaanyway. Stay a littleI won't talk nonsenseabout
myselfI mean. I'll tell you something. If you like I'll tell you how
a woman tried 'to save' meas you would call it? It will be an answer
to your first question indeedfor 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 Svidrigaïlovthat
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 idiocyI will tell you one daybut 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
Svidrigaïlovin order to irritate him further.

Oh, nonsense,said Svidrigaïlovseeming to rouse himself. "WhyI
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 rightshe doesn't love mebut 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
dismaytaking 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 Svidrigaïlovwetting 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 wellknown
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 hauntsafter 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 knowwhen I was with Marfa Petrovna in the countryI was
haunted by the thought of these places where anyone who knows his way
about can find a great deal. Yesupon my soul! The peasants have
vodkathe educated young peopleshut out from activitywaste
themselves in impossible dreams and visions and are crippled by
theories; Jews have sprung up and are amassing moneyand 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 danceso calledand there was a /cancan/ such
as I never saw in my day. Yesthere you have progress. All of a
sudden I saw a little girl of thirteennicely dresseddancing with a
specialist in that linewith 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 ashamedblushedat last felt insultedand began
to cry. Her partner seized her and began whirling her round and
performing before her; everyone laughed and--I like your publiceven
the /cancan/ public--they laughed and shouted'Serves her right-serves
her right! Shouldn't bring children!' Wellit's not my
business whether that consoling reflection was logical or not. I at
once fixed on my plansat down by the motherand 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 moneyoffered 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 mistakebelieving 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 likewe'll go and see themonly 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 Philippaid his
billand 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 answeredscrutinising
Raskolnikov with some surpriseif 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 drunkthe wine had
affected him for a momentbut 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 minutesand 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 roundI thought I
said . . .

It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now.

What?

Both stood still and gazed at one anotheras though measuring their
strength.

From all your half tipsy stories,Raskolnikov observed harshlyI
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 threathe 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. "YesI 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 aboutwhat was the meaning of it?
Perhaps I am quite behind the times and can't understand. For
goodness' sakeexplain itmy 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 offdismiss 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 originaleven a
mysterious character. As concerned his sisterRaskolnikov 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 alonehe had not gone twenty paces before he sankas
usualinto 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 bridgebut 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
bridgebut stood aside on the pavementdoing 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 brotherbut 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 herI 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 interruptedand 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 stillhesitatingand 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 excitementshe 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 mistrustfullybut saw nothing special in the
furniture or position of the rooms. Yet there was something to
observefor instancethat Svidrigaïlov's flat was exactly between
two sets of almost uninhabited apartments. His rooms were not entered
directly from the passagebut through the landlady's two almost empty
rooms. Unlocking a door leading out of his bedroomSvidrigaïlov
showed Dounia the two empty rooms that were to let. Dounia stopped in
the doorwaynot knowing what she was called to look uponbut
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 tableat least
seven feet from herbut 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 homebut pride kept her
from asking. Moreovershe had another trouble in her heart
incomparably greater than fear for herself. She was in great distress.

Here is your letter,she saidlaying it on the table. "Can it be
true what you write? You hint at a crime committedyou sayby 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 thisspeaking hurriedlyand 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 Douniawith white lips. She gasped for
breath. "It cannot be. There was not the slightest causeno sort of
ground. . . . It's a liea 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. "Whyyou know himand you've seen
himcan 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 inperhaps. 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
Douniacompletely losing her head.

Almost faintingshe 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 himselffrowning.
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 begin with glowing
eyesalmost 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 calledshaking 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 outand 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 Douniaturning pale as death. She rushed
to the furthest cornerwhere she made haste to barricade herself with
a little table.

She did not screambut 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 composedat least in appearancebut 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.
Besidesshe knew him. Suddenly she pulled out of her pocket a
revolvercocked it and laid it in her hand on the table. Svidrigaïlov
jumped up.

Aha! So that's it, is it?he criedsurprised but smiling
maliciously. "Wellthat completely alters the aspect of affairs.
You've made things wonderfully easier for meAvdotya Romanovna. But
where did you get the revolver? Was it Mr. Razumihin? Whyit's my
revolveran 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 Svidrigaïlovstill
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 eyesthat'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 shootyou
pretty wild creature. Wellshoot away!"

Dounia raised the revolverand deadly palegazed at himmeasuring
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 bloodwhich 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 smilingbut gloomily. "If you go on like thatI shall have
time to seize you before you cock again."

Dounia startedquickly 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 hertwo paces awaywaiting and gazing at her with
wild determinationwith feverishly passionatestubbornset eyes.
Dounia saw that he would sooner die than let her go. "And . . . now
of course she would kill himat two paces!" Suddenly she flung away
the revolver.

She's dropped it!said Svidrigaïlov with surpriseand 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 feelingdarker and
more bitterwhich he could not himself have defined.

He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not
resistbuttrembling like a leaflooked at him with suppliant eyes.
He tried to say somethingbut 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 terribledumb struggle in the heart of
Svidrigaïlov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly he
withdrew his armturned 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 himwithout 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 Svidrigaïlovstill without turning
or moving. But there seemed a terrible significance in the tone of
that "make haste."

Dounia understood itsnatched up the keyflew to the doorunlocked
it quickly and rushed out of the room. A minute laterbeside 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 turnedlooked about him and passed his hand over his forehead.
A strange smile contorted his facea pitifulsadweak smilea
smile of despair. The bloodwhich was already getting drysmeared
his hand. He looked angrily at itthen 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 littleput the revolver in his pockettook
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 songhow 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 nosesone bent to the
left and the other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure
gardenwhere he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky threeyear-
old pine-tree and three bushes in the gardenbesides a
Vauxhall,which was in reality a drinking-bar where tea too was
servedand 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 hourbut 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 Jewbut 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 spoongot
upand 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 thunderand the rain
came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in dropsbut 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 skinhe went homelocked himself inopened the
bureautook out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then
putting the money in his pockethe was about to change his clothes
butlooking out of the window and listening to the thunder and the
rainhe gave up the ideatook 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 Svidrigaïlovand
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 brotherthey 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 receiptsin case
anything happens. Heretake them! Well nowthat's settled. Here are
three 5-per-cent bonds to the value of three thousand roubles. Take


those for yourselfentirely for yourselfand let that be strictly
between ourselvesso that no one knows of itwhatever you hear. You
will need the moneyfor to go on living in the old waySofya
Semyonovnais badand 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 hurriedlyand 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 himand started.) "Don't be uneasyI 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. Wellif it turns out to be Siberiahe will go
and you will follow him. That's soisn't it? And if soyou'll need
money. You'll need it for himdo you understand? Giving it to you is
the same as my giving it to him. Besidesyou promised Amalia Ivanovna
to pay what's owing. I heard you. How can you undertake such
obligations so heedlesslySofya Semyonovna? It was Katerina
Ivanovna's debt and not yoursso 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. Wellnow goodbye."
(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 thenhide
it carefully."

Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at
Svidrigaïlov. She longed to speakto ask a questionbut 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! Goodbye,
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 outleaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety and vague
apprehension.

It appeared afterwards that on the same eveningat twenty past
elevenhe made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain
still persisted. Drenched to the skinhe walked into the little flat
where the parents of his betrothed livedin Third Street in
Vassilyevsky Island. He knocked some time before he was admittedand
his visit at first caused great perturbation; but Svidrigaïlov could
be very fascinating when he likedso that the firstand 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 motherwho as usual began the


conversation with various irrelevant questions. She never asked a
direct questionbut began by smiling and rubbing her hands and then
if she were obliged to ascertain something--for instancewhen
Svidrigaïlov would like to have the wedding--she would begin by
interested and almost eager questions about Paris and the court life
thereand 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 impatientand
insisted on seeing his betrothed at oncethough he had been informed
to begin withthat 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 timeand therefore
brought her fifteen thousand roubles and begged her accept them as a
present from himas 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 regretthe inevitable questions were
extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other handthe gratitude
expressed was most glowing and was reinforced by tears from the most
sensible of mothers. Svidrigaïlov got uplaughedkissed his
betrothedpatted her cheekdeclared he would soon come backand
noticing in her eyestogether with childish curiositya sort of
earnest dumb inquiryreflected and kissed her againthough 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 awayleaving them all in a state of extraordinary excitement
but the tender mammaspeaking quietly in a half whispersettled some
of the most important of their doubtsconcluding that Svidrigaïlov
was a great mana 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 himso
that there was nothing surprising about it. Of course it was strange
that he was wet throughbut Englishmenfor instanceare even more
eccentricand all these people of high society didn't think of what
was said of them and didn't stand on ceremony. Possiblyindeedhe
came like that on purpose to show that he was not afraid of anyone.
Above allnot a word should be said about itfor God knows what
might come of itand the money must be locked upand it was most
fortunate that Fedosyathe cookhad not left the kitchen. And above
all not a word must be said to that old catMadame Resslichand so
on and so on. They sat up whispering till two o'clockbut the girl
went to bed much earlieramazed and rather sorrowful.

Svidrigaïlov meanwhileexactly at midnightcrossed the bridge on the
way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a roaring
wind. He began shiveringand for one moment he gazed at the black
waters of the Little Neva with a look of special interesteven
inquiry. But he soon felt it very coldstanding by the water; he
turned and went towards Y. Prospect. He walked along that endless
street for a long timealmost half an hourmore than once stumbling
in the dark on the wooden pavementbut 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 endbuilt of woodbut fairly largeand 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 longblackened wooden buildingand 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 latterscanning Svidrigaïlovpulled himself


together and led him at once to a close and tiny room in the distance
at the end of the corridorunder the stairs. There was no otherall
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 awaycompletely 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
stay 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 bedwhich was very dirtyand the plainstained
chair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as
though they were made of plankscovered with shabby paperso torn
and dusty that the pattern was indistinguishablethough the general
colour--yellow--could still be made out. One of the walls was cut
short by the sloping ceilingthough the room was not an attic but
just under the stairs.

Svidrigaïlov set down the candlesat 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 scoldingbut he heard only one voice.

Svidrigaïlov got upshaded the light with his hand and at once he saw
light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The
roomwhich was somewhat larger than hishad two occupants. One of
thema very curly-headed man with a red inflamed facewas standing
in the pose of an oratorwithout his coatwith his legs wide apart
to preserve his balanceand smiting himself on the breast. He
reproached the other with being a beggarwith having no standing
whatever. He declared that he had taken the other out of the gutter
and he could turn him out when he likedand that only the finger of
Providence sees it all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a
chairand had the air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneezebut
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-glassesa nearly empty bottle of vodkabread and cucumberand
glasses with the dregs of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this
Svidrigaïlov turned away indifferently and sat down on the bed.

The ragged attendantreturning with the teacould not resist asking
him again whether he didn't want anything moreand again receiving a
negative replyfinally withdrew. Svidrigaïlov made haste to drink a
glass of tea to warm himselfbut could not eat anything. He began to
feel feverish. He took off his coat andwrapping himself in the


blanketlay 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 nightin 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 thoughteven in a landscape,and he
suddenly smiled again at a strange idea: "Surely now all these
questions of taste and comfort ought not to matterbut I've become
more particularlike 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 darkcoldha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant
sensations! . . . By the waywhy 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. WellnowMarfa Petrovnanow is the time
for you to turn up; it's darkand the very time and place for you.
But now you won't come!"

He suddenly recalled howan hour before carrying out his design on
Douniahe had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin's
keeping. "I suppose I really did say itas Raskolnikov guessedto
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. Buthang the fellow! Let him please
himselfit'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. "NoI 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 anyoneI never particularly
desired to avenge myself evenand that's a bad signa bad signa
bad sign. I never liked quarrelling eitherand never lost my temper-that's
a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just nowtoo--
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 himjust as she was whenafter shooting the first time
she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at himso
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 herhow 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 ceasedwhen 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 blanketget upget coldbut 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 itbut the mouse
ran to and fro in zigzags without leaving the bedslipped between his
fingersran over his hand and suddenly darted under the pillow. He
threw down the pillowbut 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. Ahthe 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 outand
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 whensomewhere neara clock on the wallticking 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 windowshut itlighted the candleput on his
waistcoathis overcoat and his hat and went outcarrying 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 rubbishto 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 outwhen 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 girlnot more than five years oldshivering and crying
with her clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem
afraid of Svidrigaïlovbut 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 timebut are beginning to be comforted. The
child's face was pale and tiredshe 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 animatedchattered
away in her baby languagesomething 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 childwhose motherprobably a drunken cook
in the service of the hotelwhipped 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 beforehad hidden for a long while somewhere
outside in the rainat last had made her way in herehidden behind
the cupboard and spent the night therecrying and trembling from the
dampthe darkness and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it.
He took her in his armswent back to his roomsat 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 herhe put her on the bedcovered
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 doorbut he
turned again to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the
blanket carefully. The child was sleeping soundlyshe had got warm
under the blanketand 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. Whatat five years
old?" Svidrigaïlov muttered in genuine horror. "What does it mean?"
And now she turned to himher little face all aglowholding out her
arms. . . . "Accursed child!" Svidrigaïlov criedraising his hand to
strike herbut at that moment he woke up.

He was in the same bedstill wrapped in the blanket. The candle had
not been lightedand daylight was streaming in at the windows.

I've had nightmare all night!He got up angrilyfeeling 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 upput on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the
revolver in his pockethe took it out and then he sat downtook 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 overhe
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 vealwhich 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 tiredbut could not catch it. At lastrealising that he was
engaged in this interesting pursuithe startedgot 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 Islandthe wet pathsthe wet grassthe wet trees and
bushes and at last the bush. . . . He began ill-humouredly staring at
the housestrying to think of something else. There was not a cabman
or a passer-by in the street. The bright yellowwoodenlittle 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 dirtyshivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its
legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead drunkacross the
pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower stood up on the
left. "Bah!" he shoutedhere 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 housea little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them
wrapped in a grey soldier's coatwith a copper Achilles helmet on his
head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His
face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejectionwhich is so sourly
printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both
Svidrigaïlov and Achillesstared 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 himstaring and not saying
a word.

What do you want here?he saidwithout 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 Achillesrousing
himselfhis eyes growing bigger and bigger.

Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER VII

The same dayabout seven o'clock in the eveningRaskolnikov 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 stepsas 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 dirtysoaked with a
night's rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigueexposure
the inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had
spent all the previous night aloneGod 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 beganfaltering with joy. "Don't be angry with
meRodyafor welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing
not crying. Did you think I was crying? NoI am delightedbut 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 downdear
boyyou must be tired; I see you are. Ahhow muddy you are."

I was in the rain yesterday, mother. . . .Raskolnikov began.

No, no,Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interruptedyou 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 circumstanceshe felt that strange
and bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first
time he sees himself in print; besideshe 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 criedjumping up. "There is coffee and I don't
offer you any. Ahthat'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 heartas 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 unhappyyou
must believe that your son loves you now more than himselfand that
all you thought about methat I was cruel and didn't care about you
was all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you. . . . Wellthat's
enough: I thought I must do this and begin with this. . . ."

Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silencepressing 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 youand that's why you
are miserable. I've foreseen it a long timeRodya. 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 nighttalking of
nothing but you. I caught somethingbut I couldn't make it out. I
felt all the morning as though I were going to be hangedwaiting for
somethingexpecting somethingand now it has come! RodyaRodya
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 criedas 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?

Yeshe was gladhe was very glad that there was no one therethat
he was alone with his mother. For the first time after all those awful
months his heart was softened. He fell down before herhe kissed her
feet and both weptembracing. 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 sobbingnow 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 Raskolnikovdeeply 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 warmfreshbright 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 aloneplunged in deep thoughtand 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
eyesfixed upon himbetrayed 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 whisperedlooking 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 Douniahorrorstricken.
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 saidhurrying on. "It's prideDounia."

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
askedlooking 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
criedholding him close and kissing him.

Crime? What crime?he cried in sudden fury. "That I killed a vile
noxious insectan old pawnbroker womanof 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 itand why are you all rubbing it in on all
sides? 'A crime! a crime!' Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my


cowardicenow 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 toperhaps too for my advantageas 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 franticallywhich 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 facebut as he uttered
his last explanationhe happened to meet Dounia's eyes and he saw
such anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt
that he hadanywaymade these two poor women miserablethat he was
anywaythe 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 hurriedlynoticing
again a strange expression in Dounia's eyes at his last words and
promises. "Why are you crying? Don't crydon't cry: we are not
parting for ever! Ahyes! Wait a minuteI'd forgotten!"

He went to the tabletook up a thick dusty bookopened it and took
from between the pages a little water-colour portrait on ivory. It was
the portrait of his landlady's daughterwho had died of feverthat
strange girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the
delicate expressive face of his betrothedkissed 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 youand I am glad that she is gone. The
great point is that everything now is going to be differentis going
to be broken in two he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection.
Everythingeverythingand 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
forwhen I am crushed by hardships and idiocyand 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? OhI 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 Douniabut she loved him.
She walked awaybut 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
himhe motioned her away with impatience and even vexationand
turned the corner abruptly.

I am wicked, I see that,he thought to himselffeeling ashamed a
moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia. "But why are they so fond
of me if I don't deserve it? Ohif 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? Yesthat's itthat's itthat's what they
are sending me there forthat's what they want. Look at them running
to and fro about the streetsevery one of them a scoundrel and a
criminal at heart andworse stillan idiot. But try to get me off
and they'd be wild with righteous indignation. Ohhow I hate them
all!"

He fell to musing by what process it could come to passthat he could
be humbled before all of themindiscriminately--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 eveningbut still he went.

CHAPTER VIII

When he went into Sonia's roomit 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 morningremembering
Svidrigaïlov's words that Sonia knew. We will not describe the
conversation and tears of the two girlsand how friendly they became.
Dounia gained one comfort at least from that interviewthat her
brother would not be alone. He had gone to herSoniafirst 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
askbut 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 herselfon the contraryhardly 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 andleaving Soniawent to her
brother's room to await him there; she kept thinking that he would
come there first. When she had goneSonia began to be tortured by the
dread of his committing suicideand Dounia too feared it. But they


had spent the day trying to persuade each other that that could not
beand both were less anxious while they were together. As soon as
they partedeach 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 vanityhis 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 windowbut 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 joybut looking carefully into his face she turned
pale.

Yes,said Raskolnikovsmiling. "I have come for your crossSonia.
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 herbut in a moment she guessed that the tone and the
words were a mask. He spoke to her looking awayas 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 anotherhe talked incoherentlyhis hands trembled
slightly.

Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crossesone of
cypress wood and one of copper. She made the sign of the cross over
herself and over himand 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 crossthat is the peasant
one; the copper onethat is Lizaveta's--you will wear yourselfshow
me! So she had it on . . . at that moment? I remember two things like
these tooa silver one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the
old woman's neck. Those would be appropriate nowreallythose 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 youSoniaso 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. Wellnow I am going to prison and you'll have your
wish. Wellwhat are you crying for? You too? Don't. Leave off! Oh
how I hate it all!"

But his feeling was stirred; his heart achedas 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 melike 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 spokenthe family shawl.Raskolnikov thought of that
looking at itbut 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 vexationand almost resentfulhe 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 Soniathat he had left her in the middle of
the room in her green shawlnot daring to stir after he had shouted
at herand he stopped short for a moment. At the same instant
another thought dawned upon himas 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 bankand 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 leftgazed 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 rememberthat 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 bewhat 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 babyI am showing off to
myself; why am I ashamed? Foo! how people shove! that fat man--a
German he must be--who pushed against medoes he know whom he pushed?
There's a peasant woman with a babybegging. It's curious that she
thinks me happier than she is. I might give her somethingfor the
incongruity of it. Here's a five copeck piece left in my pocketwhere
did I get it? Herehere . . . take itmy good woman!"

God bless you,the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice.

He went into the Hay Market. It was distastefulvery distasteful to
be in a crowdbut 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
crowdstared 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
himthough he still stared. He moved away at lastnot remembering
where he was; but when he got into the middle of the square an emotion
suddenly came over himoverwhelming him body and mind.

He suddenly recalled Sonia's wordsGo 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
timeespecially of the last hourshad 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 squarebowed 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 Raskolnikovand the wordsI
am a murderer,which were perhaps on the point of dropping from his
lipsdied away. He bore these remarks quietlyhoweverandwithout
looking roundhe 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 sawstanding fifty paces from him on the leftSonia.
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
wonderedreflecting. "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 itdrink it off at once.

Turning cold and hardly conscioushe 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 askedaddressing 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 itwhat is it? Excuse me. . . ."
[*] Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that it is after sunsetand

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


Petrovitchwho had obviously been diningwere for the most part a
stream of empty sounds for him. But some of them he understood. He
looked at him inquiringlynot 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 oneha-ha! They go to the Academystudy anatomy. If I
fall illam I to send for a young lady to treat me? What do you say?
Ha-ha!" Ilya Petrovitch laughedquite pleased with his own wit. "It's
an immoderate zeal for educationbut once you're educatedthat's
enough. Why abuse it? Why insult honourable peopleas that scoundrel
Zametov does? Why did he insult meI ask you? Look at these suicides
toohow common they areyou can't fancy! People spend their last
halfpenny and kill themselvesboys and girls and old people. Only
this morning we heard about a gentleman who had just come to town. Nil
PavlitchI saywhat 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 reeledhe was overtaken with giddiness and did not
know what he was doing. He began going down the stairssupporting


himself with his right hand against the wall. He fancied that a porter
pushed past him on his way upstairs to the police officethat 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.
Therenot far from the entrancestood Soniapale and horrorstricken.
She looked wildly at him. He stood still before her. There
was a look of poignant agonyof despairin her face. She clasped her
hands. His lips worked in an uglymeaningless smile. He stood still a
minutegrinned 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?

Raskolnikovwith white lips and staring eyescame slowly nearer. He
walked right to the tableleaned his hand on ittried to say
somethingbut could not; only incoherent sounds were audible.

You are feeling ill, a chair! Here, sit down! Some water!

Raskolnikov dropped on to a chairbut he kept his eyes fixed on the
face of Ilya Petrovitchwhich 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 handand 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

Siberia. On the banks of a broad solitary river stands a townone 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
exactlyfirmlyand clearly to his statement. He did not confuse nor
misrepresent the factsnor soften them in his own interestnor omit
the smallest detail. He explained every incident of the murderthe
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 keyswhat they were likeas well as the chest and its
contents; he explained the mystery of Lizaveta's murder; described how
Koch andafter himthe student knockedand 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 thingin factwas perfectly clear. The lawyers and
the judges were very much struckamong other thingsby the fact that
he had hidden the trinkets and the purse under a stonewithout making
use of themand thatwhat was morehe did not now remember what the
trinkets were likeor 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
stonesome 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 thiswhen 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 purseand 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 derangementthrough homicidal maniawithout object
or the pursuit of gain. This fell in with the most recent fashionable
theory of temporary insanityso often applied in our days in criminal
cases. Moreover Raskolnikov's hypochondriacal condition was proved by
many witnessesby Dr. Zossimovhis former fellow studentshis
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 opinionthe
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 positionhis poverty and helplessnessand 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 natureexasperated moreover
by privation and failure. To the question what led him to confesshe
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 remorsepartly 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 confessionat the very moment when the case was hopelessly
muddled by the false evidence given by Nikolay through melancholy and
fanaticismand whenmoreoverthere were no proofs against the real
criminalno suspicions even (Porfiry Petrovitch fully kept his word)
--all this did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstancestoo
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 monthsand when this
student diedleaving a decrepit old father whom he had maintained
almost from his thirteenth yearRaskolnikov had got the old man into
a hospital and paid for his funeral when he died. Raskolnikov's
landlady bore witnesstoothat when they had lived in another house
at Five CornersRaskolnikov 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 wasin consideration of extenuating
circumstancescondemned 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
Petersburgso 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 brothershe had
found her mother already illin 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 commissionwhich 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 subjectneither then nor thereafter. On
the contraryshe 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 factsand
that Rodya had many very powerful enemiesso that it was necessary
for him to be in hiding. As for his future careershe 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
statesmanthat his article and brilliant literary talent proved it.
This article she was continually readingshe even read it aloud
almost took it to bed with herbut scarcely asked where Rodya was
though the subject was obviously avoided by the otherswhich 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 notfor instance
complain of getting no letters from himthough 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 askfor fear of hearing something still more
awful. In any caseDounia saw clearly that her mother was not in full
possession of her faculties.

It happened once or twicehoweverthat Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave
such a turn to the conversation that it was impossible to answer her
without mentioning where Rodya wasand on receiving unsatisfactory
and suspicious answers she became at once gloomy and silentand 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
animationand the invalid would begin to talk almost incessantly of
her sonof her hopes of his future. . . . Her fancies were sometimes
very strange. They humoured herpretended to agree with her (she saw
perhaps that they were pretending)but she still went on talking.


Five months after Raskolnikov's confessionhe 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 everRazumihin did the same.
Razumihinin his youthful ardourhad firmly resolved to lay the
foundations at least of a secure livelihood during the next three or
four yearsand saving up a certain sumto emigrate to Siberiaa
country rich in every natural resource and in need of workersactive
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 SvidrigaïlovSonia 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 subjectbut 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 themeven entering into conversation
with strangers in the streetthough Dounia always accompanied her. In
public conveyances and shopswherever she could capture a listener
she would begin the discourse about her sonhis articlehow he had
helped the studenthow he had been burnt at the fireand so on!
Dounia did not know how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her
morbid excitementthere 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
homethat 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
comingbegan to do up her room for himto clean the furnitureto
wash and put up new hangings and so on. Dounia was anxiousbut said
nothing and helped her to arrange the room. After a fatiguing day
spent in continual fanciesin joyful day-dreams and tearsPulcheria


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 deaththough
a regular correspondence had been maintained from the time he reached
Siberia. It was carried on by means of Soniawho wrote every month to
the Razumihins and received an answer with unfailing regularity. At
first they found Sonia's letters dry and unsatisfactorybut later on
they came to the conclusion that the letters could not be betterfor
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 detailthe simplest and clearest description of all
Raskolnikov's surroundings as a convict. There was no word of her own
hopesno conjecture as to the futureno description of her feelings.
Instead of any attempt to interpret his state of mind and inner life
she gave the simple facts--that ishis own wordsan exact account of
his healthwhat he asked for at their interviewswhat 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 talkthat he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave
him from their lettersthat he sometimes asked after his mother and
that whenseeing that he had guessed the truthshe told him at last
of her deathshe was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly
affected by itnot externally at any rate. She told them that
although he seemed so wrapped up in himself andas it wereshut
himself off from everyone--he took a very direct and simple view of
his new life; that he understood his positionexpected nothing better
for the timehad no ill-founded hopes (as is so common in his
position) and scarcely seemed surprised at anything in his
surroundingsso 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 foodbut except
on Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that at last he had been
glad to accept some money from herSoniato have his own tea every
day. He begged her not to trouble about anything elsedeclaring that
all this fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote further that in
prison he shared the same room with the restthat she had not seen
the inside of their barracksbut 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 roughlynot from any plan or designbut simply from
inattention and indifference.

Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her
visitshad almost been vexed with her indeed for comingunwilling to
talk and rude to her. But that in the end these visits had become a
habit and almost a necessity for himso 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 kilnsor at the sheds on the banks of the Irtish.

About herselfSonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some
acquaintances in the townthat she did sewingandas there was
scarcely a dressmaker in the townshe was looked upon as an


indispensable person in many houses. But she did not mention that the
authorities werethrough herinterested 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 himthat 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.

He was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison lifenot
the hard labourthe bad foodthe shaven heador 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 exhaustedhe 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 himhow could he be ashamed before
her? And yet he was ashamed even before Soniawhom 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. Ohhow
happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He could
have borne anything theneven shame and disgrace. But he judged
himself severelyand his exasperated conscience found no particularly
terrible fault in his pastexcept a simple /blunder/ which might
happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because heRaskolnikovhad so
hopelesslystupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate
and must humble himself and submit to "the idiocy" of a sentenceif
he were anyhow to be at peace.

Vague and objectless anxiety in the presentand 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? Whyhe had been ready a thousand times before
to give up existence for the sake of an ideafor a hopeeven 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 sleepthat
repentancethe awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or
drowning! Ohhe 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 stupidityas 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 himselfwas 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 criminalityonly 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 italthough he was afraid of death?

In misery he asked himself this questionand could not understand
thatat the very time he had been standing looking into the riverhe
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 crisisof 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 overagain 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
themthe tramps for instancehad endured! Could they care so much
for a ray of sunshinefor the primeval forestthe cold spring hidden
away in some unseen spotwhich the tramp had marked three years
beforeand longed to see againas 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 prisonof coursethere 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 beganas it were involuntarilyto
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 speciesand he looked at them
and they at him with distrust and hostility. He felt and knew the
reasons of his isolationbut he would never have admitted till then
that those reasons were so deep and strong. There were some Polish
exilespolitical prisonersamong 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
contemptuousa 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--whyhe 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 Lenthis turn came to take the sacrament with his
gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke
out one dayhe 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 beliefbut 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 quiverhis face did not flinch. The
guard succeeded in intervening between him and his assailantor 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
themsometimes only she came to see him at work for a moment. And yet
everybody knew herthey knew that she had come out to follow /him/
knew how and where she lived. She never gave them moneydid 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 townat their
instructionsleft with Sonia presents and money for them. Their wives
and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited
Raskolnikov at workor met a party of the prisoners on the roadthey
all took off their hats to her. "Little mother Sofya Semyonovnayou
are our deargood 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 feelingsher aspirations at
least. . . ."

She too had been greatly agitated that dayand 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
nothingthat he would have to pay dearly for itthat it would cost
him great strivinggreat suffering.

But that is the beginning of a new story--the story of the gradual
renewal of a manthe story of his gradual regenerationof his
passing from one world into anotherof his initiation into a new
unknown life. That might be the subject of a new storybut our
present story is ended.