Crime and Punishment

I

RASKOLNIKOV raised himself and sat up on the sofa. He waved weakly at Razumikhin to stop the whole stream of incoherent and ardent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister, took both of them by the hand, and for about two minutes peered silently now at the one, now at the other. His mother was frightened by his look. A strong feeling, to the point of suffering, shone in his eyes, but at the same time there was in them something fixed, even as if mad. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.

Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother's hand.

“Go home...with him,” he said in a broken voice, pointing at Razumikhin, “till tomorrow; tomorrow everything...Did you arrive long ago?”

“In the evening, Rodya,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered. “The train was terribly late. But, Rodya, I won't leave you now for anything! I'll spend the night here, beside...”

“Don't torment me!” he said, waving his hand irritably.

“I'll stay with him!” cried Razumikhin. “I won't leave him for a moment; devil take all the people at my place, let them climb the walls! They've got my uncle for a president.”

“How can I ever thank you!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna tried to begin, again pressing Razumikhin's hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her once more.

“I can't, I can't,” he kept repeating irritably, “don't torment me! Enough, go away...I can't! . . .”

“Come, mama, let's at least leave the room for a moment,” Dunya whispered, frightened. “You can see we're distressing him.”

“But can I really not even look at him after three years!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.

“Wait!” he stopped them again. “You keep interrupting me, and my thoughts get confused...Have you seen Luzhin?”

“No, Rodya, but he already knows of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovich was so good as to visit you today,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, somewhat timidly.

“Yes...was so good...Dunya, I told Luzhin I'd kick him down the stairs today, and threw him the hell out of here...”

“Rodya, what are you saying! Surely you...you don't mean . . .” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began fearfully, but stopped, looking at Dunya.

Avdotya Romanovna peered intently at her brother and waited to hear more. They had both been forewarned of the quarrel by Nastasya, as far as she had been able to understand and convey it, and had suffered in perplexity and anticipation.

“Dunya,” Raskolnikov continued with effort, “I do not want this marriage, and therefore you must refuse him tomorrow, first thing, so that he won't drag his face here again.”

“My God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Brother, think what you are saying!” Avdotya Romanovna began hot-temperedly, but at once restrained herself. “Perhaps you're in no condition now, you're tired,” she said meekly.

“Raving? No...You're marrying Luzhin for my sake. And I do not accept the sacrifice. And therefore, by tomorrow, write a letter...of refusal...Give it to me to read in the morning, and there's an end to it!”

“I cannot do that!” the offended girl cried out. “What right have you . . .”

“Dunechka, you're too hot-tempered yourself; stop now; tomorrow...Don't you see . . .” the frightened mother rushed to Dunya. “Ah, we'd better go!”

“He's raving!” the drunk Razumikhin shouted. “Otherwise how would he dare! Tomorrow all this foolishness will leave him...But he really did throw him out today. Just like he said. Well, and the other one got angry...He was playing the orator here, showing off his knowledge, and then he left with his tail between his legs . . .”

“So it's true?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out.

“Until tomorrow, brother,” Dunya said with compassion. “Come, mama...Good-bye, Rodya!”

“Listen, sister,” he repeated to her back, summoning a last effort.

“I'm not raving; this marriage is a vile thing. Maybe I'm vile myself, but you mustn't... one is enough...and though I may be vile, I will not regard such a sister as a sister. It's either me or Luzhin! Go, both of you . . .”

“You're out of your mind! Despot!” Razumikhin roared, but Raskolnikov no longer answered, and was perhaps unable to answer. He lay back on the sofa and turned to the wall, completely exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna gave Razumikhin a curious look; her dark eyes flashed; Razumikhin even jumped under her glance. Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood as if stunned.

“I cannot possibly leave!” she whispered to Razumikhin, almost in despair. “I'll stay here, somewhere...Take Dunya home.”

“You'll spoil the whole thing!” Razumikhin also whispered, losing his temper. “Let's at least go out to the stairs. Nastasya, a light! I swear to you,” he continued in a half whisper, once they were on the stairs, “he almost gave us a beating earlier, the doctor and me! Do you understand? The doctor himself! And he gave in and left so as not to irritate him, and I stayed to keep watch downstairs, but he got dressed and slipped out. And he'll slip out now if you irritate him, in the dark, and do something to himself . . .”

“Ah, what are you saying!”

“Besides, it's impossible for Avdotya Romanovna to be in that place without you! Just think where you're staying! As if that scoundrel Pyotr Petrovich couldn't have found you better...You know, I'm a bit drunk, though; that's why I'm...calling names; don't pay any . . .”

“But I shall go to the landlady here,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted. “I shall plead with her to give me and Dunya a corner for tonight. I cannot leave him like this, I cannot!”

They were standing on the stairway as they spoke, on the landing just outside the landlady's door. Nastasya held the light for them from the bottom step. Razumikhin was extremely agitated. Half an hour earlier, as he was taking Raskolnikov home, though he had been unnecessarily talkative and he knew it, he had felt completely alert and almost fresh, despite the terrible quantity of wine he had drunk that evening. But now his condition even bordered on a sort of ecstasy, and at the same time it was as if all the wine he had drunk came rushing to his head again, all at once, and with twice the force. He stood with the two ladies, grasping them both by the hand, persuading them and presenting his arguments with amazing frankness, and at almost every word, probably for added conviction, he painfully squeezed their hands, very tightly, as in a vise, and he seemed to devour Avdotya Romanovna with his eyes, without being the least embarrassed by it. Once or twice the pain made them try to free their hands from his huge and bony grip, but he not only did not notice the reason for it, but drew them to him even more tightly. If at that moment they had ordered him to throw himself headlong down the stairs, as a service to them, he would have carried out the order at once, without argument or hesitation. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, alarmed as she was by the thought of her Rodya, though she felt that the young man was being much too eccentric and was pressing her hand too painfully, at the same time, since he was like her Providence, did not wish to notice all these eccentric details. But Avdotya Romanovna, who shared her alarm, though far from fearful by nature, was amazed and almost frightened to meet the eyes of her brother's friend, flashing with wild fire, and only the boundless trust inspired by Nastasya's stories about this strange man held her back from the temptation of running away from him and dragging her mother with her. She also understood that now, perhaps, they even could not run away from him. However, after about ten minutes she felt considerably reassured: Razumikhin had the property of speaking the whole of himself out at once, whatever mood he was in, so that everyone soon knew with whom they were dealing. “It's impossible to go to the landlady, and it's terrible nonsense!” he cried out, reasoning with Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “You may be his mother, but if you stay, you'll drive him into a fury, and then devil knows what will happen! Listen, here's what I'll do: Nastasya will sit with him now, and I'll take you both to your place, because you can't go through the streets by yourselves; our Petersburg, in that respect... Well, spit on it! ... Then I'll run back here at once, and in a quarter of an hour, on my greatest word of honor, I'll bring you a report: how he is, whether he's sleeping, and all the rest of it. Then—listen!—then from you I'll go straight to my place—I have guests there, all drunk— I'll pick up Zossimov—that's the doctor who's treating him, he's at my place now, not drunk; no, he's not drunk, he never gets drunk! I'll drag him to Rodka, and then straight to you, so within an hour you'll get two reports on him—one from the doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself; that's a whole lot better than from me! If he's bad, I swear I'll bring you here myself; if he's well, you can go to sleep. And I'll spend the whole night here, in the entryway, he won't hear me, and I'll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady's, so as to be on hand. So, what's better for him now, you or the doctor? The doctor is much more useful, much more. So go home, then! And staying with the landlady's impossible; possible for me, but impossible for you—she won't let you, because...because she's a fool. She'll get jealous of Avdotya Romanovna on account of me, if you want to know, and of you as well. . . And of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She's a totally, totally unexpected character! However, I'm a fool myself...Spit on it! Let's go! Do you believe me? Well, do you believe me or not?”

“Come, mama,” said Avdotya Romanovna, “he will surely do as he's promised. He already resurrected my brother, and if it's true that the doctor is willing to spend the night here, what could be better?”

“So you...you...you understand me, because you're an angel!” Razumikhin cried out rapturously. “Let's go! Nastasya! Upstairs this minute, and sit there by him, with a light; I'll be back in a quarter of an hour . . .”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna, though not fully convinced, no longer resisted. Razumikhin took both women by the arm and dragged them down the stairs. Nevertheless, she worried about him: “He may be efficient and kind, but is he capable of carrying out his promise? He's in such a state! . . .”

“Ah, I see you're thinking what a state I'm in!” Razumikhin interrupted her thoughts, having guessed them, and went striding along the sidewalk with his enormously long steps, so that the two ladies could barely keep up with him—which fact, however, he did not notice. “Nonsense! That is...I'm drunk as a dolt, but that's not the point; I'm drunk, but not with wine. The moment I saw you, it went to my head...But spit on me! Don't pay any attention: I'm talking nonsense; I'm unworthy of you...I'm unworthy of you in the highest degree! ... But as soon as I've taken you home, I'll come straight here to the canal, and pour two tubs of water over my head, and be ready to go...If only you knew how I love you both! ... Don't laugh, and don't be angry! ... Be angry with everyone else, but don't be angry with me! I'm his friend, so I'm your friend, too. I want it that way...I had a presentiment. . . last year, there was a certain moment... Not a presentiment at all, however, because it's as if you fell from the sky. And maybe I won't even sleep all night. . . This Zossimov was afraid today that he might lose his mind...That's why he shouldn't be irritated.”

“What are you saying!” the mother cried out.

“Did the doctor really say so himself?” Avdotya Romanovna asked, frightened.

“He did, but it's not that, not that at all. And he gave him some sort of medication, a powder, I saw it, and then you arrived...Eh! ... If only you could have come a day later! It's a good thing we left. And in an hour Zossimov himself will give you a full report. He's certainly not drunk! And I won't be drunk either... Why did I get so cockeyed? Because they dragged me into an argument, curse them! I swore I wouldn't argue! ... They pour out such hogwash! I almost got into a fight! I left my uncle there as chairman...Well, so they insist on total impersonality, can you believe it? And that's just where they find the most relish! Not to be oneself, to be least of all like oneself! And that they consider the highest progress. If only they had their own way of lying, but no, they . . .”

“Listen,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but she only added fuel to the fire.

“What do you think?” Razumikhin shouted, raising his voice even more. “You think it's because they're lying? Nonsense! I like it when people lie! Lying is man's only privilege over all other organisms. If you lie—you get to the truth! Lying is what makes me a man. Not one truth has ever been reached without first lying fourteen times or so, maybe a hundred and fourteen, and that's honorable in its way; well, but we can't even lie with our own minds! Lie to me, but in your own way, and I'll kiss you for it. Lying in one's own way is almost better than telling the truth in someone else's way; in the first case you're a man, and in the second—no better than a bird! The truth won't go away, but life can be nailed shut; there are examples. Well, so where are we all now? With regard to science, development, thought, invention, ideals, aspirations, liberalism, reason, experience, and everything, everything, everything, we're all, without exception, still sitting in the first grade! We like getting by on other people's reason—we've acquired a taste for it! Right? Am I right?” Razumikhin shouted, shaking and squeezing both ladies' hands. “Am I right?”

“Oh, my God, I don't know,” said poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Yes, you're right. . . though I don't agree with you in everything,” Avdotya Romanovna added seriously, and immediately cried out, so painfully did he squeeze her hand this time.

“Right? You say I'm right? Well, then you...you . . .” he cried rapturously, “you are a wellspring of kindness, purity, reason, and...perfection! Give me your hand, give it to me...you give me yours, too; I want to kiss your hands, here and now, on my knees!”

And he knelt in the middle of the sidewalk, which at that hour was fortunately deserted.

“Stop, I beg you! What are you doing?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out, extremely alarmed.

“Get up, get up!” Dunya was alarmed, too, but laughing.

“Never! Not until you give me your hands! There, and enough now! I get up, and we go! I'm a miserable dolt, I'm unworthy of you, and drunk, and ashamed... I'm not worthy to love you, but to worship you is every man's duty, unless he's a perfect brute! So, I have worshipped...Here's your rooming house—and for this alone Rodion was right to throw your Pyotr Petrovich out today! How dared he place you in such rooms? It's a scandal! Do you know who they let in here? And you're his fiancée! You are his fiancée, aren't you? Well, let me tell you in that case that your fiancé is a scoundrel!”

“Listen, Mr. Razumikhin, you are forgetting yourself...” Pulcheria Alexandrovna tried to begin.

“Yes, yes, you're right, I'm forgetting myself, shame on me!” Razumikhin suddenly checked himself. “But... but... you cannot be angry with me for speaking this way! For I'm speaking sincerely, and not because...hm! that would be base; in short, not because I'm...hm...with you...well, never mind, let's drop it, I won't tell you why, I don't dare! ... And we all realized as soon as he came in today that he was not a man of our kind. Not because he came with his hair curled by a hairdresser, not because he was in a hurry to show off his intelligence, but because he's a stool pigeon and a speculator; because he's a Jew and a mountebank, and it shows. You think he's intelligent? No, he's a fool, a fool! So, is he a match for you? Oh, my God! You see, ladies,” he suddenly stopped, already on the way up to their rooms, “they may all be drunk at my place, but they're all honest, and though we do lie—because I lie, too—in the end we'll lie our way to the truth, because we're on a noble path, while Pyotr Petrovich...is not on a noble path. And though I just roundly denounced them, I do respect them all—even Zamyotov; maybe I don't respect him, but I still love him, because he's a puppy! Even that brute Zossimov, because he's honest and knows his business...but enough, all's said and forgiven. Forgiven? Is it? So, let's go. I know this corridor, I was here once; here, in number three, there was a scandal. . . Well, which is yours? What number? Eight? So, lock your door for the night and don't let anyone in. I'll be back in a quarter of an hour with news, and in another half an hour with Zossimov—you'll see! Good-bye, I'm running!”

“My God, Dunechka, what will come of this?” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, turning anxiously and fearfully to her daughter.

“Calm yourself, mama,” Dunya answered, taking off her hat and cape, “God Himself has sent us this gentleman, though he may have come straight from some binge. We can rely on him, I assure you. And with all he's already done for my brother . . .”

“Ah, Dunechka, God knows if he'll come back! How could I bring myself to leave Rodya! And this is not at all, not at all how I imagined finding him! He was so stern, as if he weren't glad to see us . . .”

Tears came to her eyes.

“No, mama, it's not so. You didn't look closely, you kept crying. He's very upset from this great illness—that's the reason for it all.”

“Ah, this illness! What will come of it, what will come of it! And how he spoke with you, Dunya!” her mother said, peeking timidly into her daughter's eyes in order to read the whole of her thought, and already half comforted by the fact that Dunya herself was defending Rodya and had therefore forgiven him. “I'm sure he'll think better of it tomorrow,” she added, trying to worm it all out of her.

“And I am sure he'll say the same thing tomorrow...about that,” Avdotya Romanovna cut her off, and here, of course, was the snag, because this was the point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was simply too afraid to bring up now. Dunya went over and kissed her mother.

Her mother hugged her tightly and said nothing. Then she sat down, anxiously awaiting Razumikhin's return, and began timidly to watch her daughter who, also in expectation, crossed her arms and began to pace the room back and forth, thinking to herself. Such thoughtful pacing from corner to corner was a usual habit with Avdotya Romanovna, and her mother was somehow always afraid to interrupt her thinking at such times.

Razumikhin was of course ridiculous, with the sudden, drunken flaring up of his passion for Avdotya Romanovna; but one look at Avdotya Romanovna, especially now, as she paced the room with her arms crossed, sad and thoughtful, and many would perhaps have excused him, quite apart from his eccentric state. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably good-looking—tall, wonderfully trim, strong, self-confident, as showed in her every gesture, but without in the least detracting from the softness and grace of her movements. She resembled her brother in looks, and could even be called a beauty. Her hair was dark blond, a little lighter than her brother's; her eyes were almost black, flashing, proud, and at the same time, occasionally, for moments, remarkably kind. She was pale, but not sickly pale; her face shone with freshness and health. Her mouth was somewhat small, and her lower lip, fresh and red, protruded slightly, as did her chin—the only irregularity in this beautiful face, but which lent it a specially characteristic quality and, incidentally, a trace of arrogance. The expression of her face was always serious and thoughtful rather than gay; but how becoming was her smile, how becoming her laughter—gay, young, wholehearted! It was understandable that Razumikhin, ardent, sincere, simple, honest, strong as a folk hero, and drunk, who had never seen anything like that, lost his head at first sight. Moreover, as if by design, chance showed him Dunya for the first time in a beautiful moment of love and joy at seeing her brother. Then he noticed how her lower lip trembled indignantly in response to her brother's impertinent and ungratefully cruel orders—and lost all resistance.

He was telling the truth, however, when he let out that drunken nonsense earlier, on the stairs, about Raskolnikov's eccentric landlady, Praskovya Pavlovna, becoming jealous on his account not only of Avdotya Romanovna, but perhaps of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was already forty-three years old, her face still kept the remnants of its former beauty, and besides, she looked much younger than her age, as almost always happens with women who keep their clarity of spirit, the freshness of their impressions, and the honest, pure ardor of their hearts into old age. Let us say parenthetically that keeping all this is the only means of preserving one's beauty even in old age. Her hair was already thinning and starting to turn gray, little radiating wrinkles had long since appeared around her eyes, her cheeks were sunken and dry from worry and grief, and still her face was beautiful. It was a portrait of Dunechka's face, only twenty years later, and lacking the expression of the protruding lower lip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was sentimental, though not to the point of being saccharine; she was timid and yielding, but only up to a limit: she would yield much, would agree to much, even to something that went against her convictions, but there was always a limit of honesty, principle, and ultimate conviction beyond which no circumstances could make her step.

Exactly twenty minutes after Razumikhin left, there came two soft but hurried knocks on the door; he was back.

“No time to come in!” he began hastily, when they opened the door. “He's snoring away excellently, peacefully, and God grant he sleeps for ten hours. Nastasya's with him; I told her not to leave before I get back. Now I'll go and drag Zossimov there, he'll give you a report, and then you, too, should turn in; I see you're impossibly worn out.”

And he set off again down the corridor.

“What an efficient and...devoted young man!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna exclaimed, exceedingly glad.

“He seems to be a nice person!” Avdotya Romanovna answered with some warmth, again beginning to pace the room back and forth.

Almost an hour later steps were heard in the corridor and there was another knock at the door. Both women were waiting, this time, with complete faith in Razumikhin's promise; and indeed he had managed to drag Zossimov along. Zossimov had agreed at once to leave the feast and go to have a look at Raskolnikov, but he came to the ladies reluctantly and with great mistrust, not trusting the drunken Razumikhin. Yet his vanity was immediately set at ease, and even flattered: he realized that he was indeed being awaited like an oracle. He stayed for exactly ten minutes and managed to convince Pulcheria Alexandrovna and set her at ease completely. He spoke with extraordinary sympathy, but with restraint and with a somehow eager seriousness, precisely like a twenty-seven-year-old doctor in an important consultation, not deviating from the subject by a single word or revealing the least desire to enter into more private and personal relations with the two ladies. Having noted upon entering how dazzlingly beautiful Avdotya Roma-novna was, he immediately tried not to pay her any notice during the whole time of his visit, and addressed himself to Pulcheria Alexandrovna alone. All this gave him great inner satisfaction. About the patient himself he was able to say that at the present moment he found his condition quite satisfactory. Also, from his observations, the patient's illness had, apart from the poor material circumstances of the recent months of his life, some moral causes as well, “being, so to speak, a product of many complex moral and material influences, anxieties, apprehensions, worries, certain ideas...and other things.” Having noted in passing that Avdotya Romanovna had begun to listen with special attentiveness, Zossimov expanded somewhat further on this subject. To Pulcheria Alexandrovna's anxious and timid question concerning “some supposed suspicions of madness,” he replied, with a calm and frank smile, that his words had been overly exaggerated; that, of course, some fixed idea could be observed in the patient, something suggesting monomania—since he, Zossimov, was now especially following this extremely interesting branch of medicine—but it was also to be remembered that the patient had been delirious almost up to that day, and...and, of course, the arrival of his family would strengthen, divert, and have a salutary effect upon him, “if only it is possible to avoid any special new shocks,” he added significantly. Then he got up, bowed his way out sedately and cordially, to the accompaniment of blessings, warm gratitude, entreaties, and even, without his having sought it, the offer of Avdotya Romanovna's little hand to shake, and left extremely pleased with his visit and still more with himself.

“And we'll talk tomorrow; go to bed, right now, you must!” Razumikhin clinched, following Zossimov out. “Tomorrow, as early as possible, I'll come with a report.”

“But what a ravishing girl that Avdotya Romanovna is!” Zossimov observed, all but licking his chops, as they came out to the street.

“Ravishing? Did you say ravishing!” Razumikhin bellowed, and he suddenly flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. “If you ever dare...Understand? Understand?” he shouted, shaking him by the collar and pushing him against the wall. “Do you hear?”

“Let go, you drunken devil!” Zossimov fought him off and, when Razumikhin finally let go, looked at him closely and suddenly burst out laughing. Razumikhin stood before him, his arms hanging down, in dark and serious thought.

“I'm an ass, of course,” he said, dark as a storm cloud, “but then...so are you.”

“No, brother, not me. I don't have such foolish dreams.”

They walked on silently, and only as they were nearing Raskolnikov's house did Razumikhin, who was greatly preoccupied, break the silence.

“Listen,” he said to Zossimov, “you're a nice fellow, but, on top of all your other bad qualities, you're also a philanderer, I know that, and a dirty one. You're a piece of nervous, weak-willed trash, you're whimsical, you've grown fat and can't deny yourself anything—and I call that dirty, because it leads straight to dirt. You've pampered yourself so much that, I confess, the thing I'm least able to understand is how with all that you can still be a good and even selfless physician. You sleep on a feather bed (you, a doctor!), yet you get up in the night for a sick man! In three years or so you won't be getting up for any sick man...But, the devil, that's not the point; the point is that you'll be spending the night in the landlady's apartment (it took a lot to convince her!), and I in the kitchen—so here's a chance for you to get more closely acquainted! It's not what you're thinking! Not a shadow of it, brother . . .”

“But I'm not thinking anything.”

“What you have here, brother, is modesty, reticence, shyness, fierce chastity, and for all that—a few sighs and she melts like wax, just melts away! Deliver me from her, in the name of all the devils in the world! She's such a winsome little thing! ... I'll earn it, I'll earn it with my head!”

Zossimov guffawed more than ever.

“Well, you've really got it bad! But what do I need her for?”

“I guarantee it won't be much trouble; just talk whatever slop you like, just sit next to her and talk. Besides, you're a doctor, you can start treating her for something. I swear you won't regret it. She has a piano there; I can strum a little, you know; there's one song I sing, a Russian song, a real one: 'I'll bathe myself in bitter tears . . .' She likes the real ones—well, so it started with a little song; but you are a piano virtuoso, a maestro, a Rubinstein^[69]...I guarantee you won't regret it.”

“Why, did you give her some sort of promise? A formal receipt or something? Maybe you promised to marry...”

“Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the sort! And she's not like that at all; Chebarov tried to . . .”

“Just drop her, then!”

“But I can't just drop her like that!”

“But why can't you?”

“Well, somehow I can't, that's all! There's a sucking-in principle here, brother.”

“Then why have you been leading her on?”

“But I haven't been leading her on at all; maybe I got led on myself, in my stupidity; and for her it makes absolutely no difference whether it's you or me, as long as somebody sits next to her and sighs. Look, brother...I don't know how to phrase it for you, but look—you know a lot about mathematics, for instance, and you're still studying it, I know...so, start teaching her integral calculus— by God, I'm not joking, I'm serious, it'll be decidedly all the same to her; she'll look at you and sigh, and so on for a whole year. I, incidentally, spent a very long time, two days in a row, telling her about the Prussian House of Lords^[70] (because otherwise what can you talk to her about?)—and she just sighed and stewed! Only don't start talking about love—she's shy to the point of convulsions—but still make it look as if you can't leave her side—and that's enough. It's terribly comfortable, just like home—read, sit, lie down, write...You can even kiss her, if you do it carefully...”

“But what do I need her for?”

“Eh, really, I can't seem to explain it to you! You see, the two of you suit each other perfectly! I even thought about you before...You'll end up with it anyway! Do you care whether it's sooner or later? Here, brother, there's this feather-bed principle—eh, and not only a feather-bed principle! It sucks you in, it's the end of the world, an anchor, a quirt haven, the navel of the earth, the three-fish foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, rich meat pies, evening samovars, soft sighs and warm vests, heated beds on the stove—well, just as if you died and were alive at the same time, both benefits at once! Well, the devil, brother, I've talked enough rot, it's time for bed! Listen, I sometimes wake up at night, so I'll go and look in on him. Only it's nothing, nonsense, everything's fine. You needn't worry especially, but if you want, you can look in once. But if you notice anything, delirium, for instance, or a fever, or whatever, wake me up immediately. It's not possible, though . . .”

II

Preoccupied and serious, Razumikhin woke up the next day between seven and eight. In the morning he suddenly turned out to have many new and unforeseen perplexities. He had never before imagined that he would wake up like that one day. He recalled every last detail of the previous day, realizing that something uncommon had befallen him, and that he had received into himself a certain impression heretofore unknown to him and unlike any other. At the same time he clearly understood that the dream that had begun burning in his head was in the highest degree unrealizable—so unrealizable that he was even ashamed of it, and he hurried on to other, more urgent cares and perplexities bequeathed him by that “thrice-cursed yesterday.”

His most terrible recollection was of how “base and vile” he had turned out to be, not only because he was drunk, but because, taking advantage of the girl's situation, he had abused her fiancé before her, out of stupidly hasty jealousy, not only knowing nothing of their mutual relations and commitments but not even knowing the man himself properly. And what right did he have to judge him so hastily and rashly? And who had invited him to be a judge! Was such a being as Avdotya Romanovna indeed capable of giving herself to an unworthy man for money? So there must be some worth in him. The rooms? But how, in fact, could he have known they were that sort of rooms? He was having an apartment made ready, after all... pah, how base it all was! He was drunk, but what sort of justification was that? A silly excuse, which humiliated him even more! The truth is in wine, and so this whole truth told itself—”that is, all the filth of his envious, boorish heart!” And was such a dream in any degree permissible for him, Razumikhin? Who was he compared with such a girl—he, a drunken brawler and yesterday's braggart? “Is such a cynical and ridiculous juxtaposition possible?” Razumikhin blushed desperately at the thought of it, and suddenly, as if by design, at the same moment he clearly recalled standing on the stairs yesterday, telling them that the landlady would be jealous of Avdotya Romanovna on account of him...that was really unbearable. He swung with all his might and hit the kitchen stove with his fist, hurting his hand and knocking out a brick.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself after a moment, with some feeling of self-abasement, “of course, now I can never paint or smooth over all those nasty things...so there's no point in thinking about it, I must simply go silently and...do my duty...also silently...and not apologize or say anything, and...and, of course, all is lost now!”

Nevertheless, as he was getting dressed, he looked over his outfit more carefully than usual. He had no other clothes, and even if he had, he would perhaps not have put them on—”just so, I wouldn't, on purpose.” But all the same he could not go on being a cynic and a dirty sloven: he had no right to offend other people's feelings, all the more so in that those others needed him and were calling him to them. He gave his clothes a careful brushing. And the linen he wore was always passable; in that sense he was particularly clean.

He washed zealously that morning—Nastasya found him some soap—washed his hair, his neck, and especially his hands. But when it came to the question of whether or not to shave his stubble (Praskovya Pavlovna had excellent razors, still preserved from the late Mr. Zarnitsyn), the question was resolved, even with a vengeance, in the negative: “Let it stay as it is! What if they should think I shaved in order to...and that's certainly what they would think! No, not for anything in the world!”

And...and, above all, he was so coarse, so dirty, with his tavern manners; and...and suppose he knew that he was still, let us say, a decent man at least...well, what was there to be proud of in being a decent man? Everyone ought to be a decent man, and even better than that, and...and still (now he remembered) there were some little turns laid to his account. . . not really dishonest, but all the same! ... And what thoughts he sometimes had! Hm...and to set all that next to Avdotya Romanovna! “Well, so, the devil! Who cares! I'll be dirty, salacious, tavern-mannered on purpose, and to hell with it! I'll be even more so! . . .”

In these monologues he was found by Zossimov, who had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna's drawing room.

He was about to go home, and was hurrying to have a look at the sick man before he left. Razumikhin reported to him that he was sleeping like a log. Zossimov gave orders not to rouse him before he woke up on his own. And he promised to stop by some time after ten.

“I only hope he'll be here,” he added. “Pah, the devil! No control over my own patient; just try treating him! Do you know if he will go to them or they will come here?”

“They'll come, I think,” Razumikhin replied, understanding the intent of the question, “and, of course, they'll talk over their family affairs. I'll leave. As a doctor, naturally, you have more rights than I do.”

“But I'm also not their father confessor. I'll come and go. I have enough to do without them.”

“One thing troubles me,” Razumikhin interrupted, frowning. “Yesterday, being drunk, I blurted out various foolish things to him as we walked along...various things...among them that you're afraid he...is inclined to madness.”

“You blurted out the same thing to the ladies as well.”

“I know it was stupid! Beat me if you like! And did you really have some firm idea?”

“But it's nonsense, I tell you; what firm idea! You yourself described him as a monomaniac when you brought me to him...Well, and then yesterday we added more fuel—that is, you did—with those stories...about the house-painter; a nice conversation that was, when it may have been just what made him lose his mind! If only I'd known exactly what happened in the office that time, and that some boor had...offended him with that suspicion! Hm...I wouldn't have allowed such a conversation yesterday. Because these monomaniacs turn a drop into an ocean, they think any sort of claptrap is a reality...As far as I remember, I understood half of this business from Zamyotov's story yesterday. But that's nothing! I know a case of a hypochondriac, a forty-year-old man, who couldn't stand an eight-year-old boy's daily mockery at the table, and put a knife in him! And there he was, all in rags, an insolent policeman, the start of an illness, and such a suspicion! For a wild hypochondriac! With such rabid, exceptional vanity! The whole starting point of the illness may well have been sitting right there! Well, so, the devil! ... Incidentally, this Zamyotov really is a nice boy, only...hm...he shouldn't have told all that yesterday. An awful babbler!”

“But who did he tell? Me and you?”

“And Porfiry.”

“So, why not Porfiry?”

“Incidentally, do you have any influence over those two, the mother and the sister? They should be more careful with him today . . .”

“They'll manage!” Razumikhin answered reluctantly.

“And why is he so much against this Luzhin? The man has money, she doesn't seem averse to him...and they don't have a bean, do they?”

“What are you trying to worm out of me?” Razumikhin cried irritably. “Bean or no bean, how do I know? Ask them yourself, maybe you'll find out...”

“Pah, how stupid you are sometimes! Yesterday's drunkenness is still sitting in you...Good-bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna for the night's lodging. She locked herself in, wouldn't answer my bonjour through the door, but she got up at seven o'clock, a samovar was brought to her through the corridor from the kitchen...I wasn't deemed worthy of beholding...”

At nine o'clock sharp Razumikhin arrived at Bakaleev's rooming house. The two ladies had been awaiting him for a long, long time, with hysterical impatience. They had risen at about seven, or even earlier. He came in looking dark as night, and bowed awkwardly, for which he immediately became angry—at himself, of course. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna simply rushed to him, seized both his hands, and almost kissed them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but that arrogant face had at the moment an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and, for him, unexpected esteem (instead of mocking looks and involuntary, poorly disguised contempt!) that it would truly have been easier for him if he had been met with abuse; otherwise it was too embarrassing. Fortunately, there was a ready topic of conversation, and he hastened to seize upon it.

Having heard that “he was not awake yet” but that “everything was excellent,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that it was all for the better, “because she needed very, very, very much to discuss things first.” The question of tea followed, with an invitation to have it together; they had not had anything yet, since they were expecting Razumikhin. Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell, a dirty ragamuffin answered the summons, tea was ordered and eventually served, but in so dirty and improper a fashion that the ladies were ashamed. Razumikhin vehemently denounced the rooming house but, remembering about Luzhin, fell silent, became embarrassed, and was terribly glad when Pulcheria Alexandrovna's questions finally came pouring out one after another, without a break.

He spent three-quarters of an hour answering them, constantly interrupted and questioned again, and managed to convey the most important and necessary facts as he knew them from the last year of Rodion Romanovich's life, concluding with a detailed account of his illness. However, he omitted much of what was better omitted, including the scene in the office with all its consequences. His account was greedily listened to; but when he thought he had already finished and satisfied his listeners, it turned out that for them it was as if he had not yet begun.

“Tell me, tell me, what do you think...ah, forgive me, I still do not know your name!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurried.

“Dmitri Prokofych.”

“Now then, Dmitri Prokofych, I should like very, very much to know...generally...how he looks at things now—that is, please understand me, how shall I put it—that is, better to say: what are his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? What are his wishes and, so to speak, his dreams, if you can say? What precisely has a special influence on him now? In short, I should like . . .”

“Ah, mama, how can anyone answer so much all at once?” Dunya remarked.

“Ah, my God, but this is not at all, not at all how I expected to see him, Dmitri Prokofych.”

“That's only natural,” Dmitri Prokofych replied. “I have no mother, but my uncle comes here every year, and almost every time fails to recognize me, even externally, and he is an intelligent man; well, and in the three years of your separation a lot of water has flowed under the bridge. What can I tell you? I've known Rodion for a year and a half: sullen, gloomy, arrogant, proud; recently (and maybe much earlier) insecure and hypochondriac. Magnanimous and kind. Doesn't like voicing his feelings, and would rather do something cruel than speak his heart out in words. At times, however, he's not hypochondriac at all, but just inhumanly cold and callous, as if there really were two opposite characters in him, changing places with each other. At times he's terribly taciturn! He's always in a hurry, always too busy, yet he lies there doing nothing. Not given to mockery, and not because he lacks sharpness but as if he had no time for such trifles. Never hears people out to the end. Is never interested in what interests everyone else at a given moment. Sets a terribly high value on himself and, it seems, not without a certain justification. Well, what else?... It seems to me that your arrival will have a salutary effect on him.”

“Ah, God grant us that!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out, tormented by Razumikhin's assessment of her Rodya.

And Razumikhin at last looked more courageously at Avdotya Romanovna. He had glanced at her frequently during the conversation, but cursorily, for a moment only, looking away at once. Avdotya Romanovna now sat at the table and listened attentively, now got up again and began pacing from corner to corner, as was her habit, arms crossed, lips pressed together, occasionally asking a question without interrupting her pacing, and again falling into thought. She, too, had the habit of not hearing people out to the end. She was wearing a dark dress of some thin fabric, with a sheer white scarf tied around her neck. Razumikhin noted at once by many tokens that both women were in extremely poor circumstances. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he most likely would not have been afraid of her at all; but now, perhaps just because she was so poorly dressed and because he noticed this whole niggardly situation, fear crept into his heart, and he became apprehensive of every word, every gesture— which, of course, was inconvenient for a man who did not trust himself to begin with.

“You have said many curious things about my brother's character, and...have spoken impartially. That's good; I thought you were in awe of him,” Avdotya Romanovna observed with a smile. “It also seems true that he ought to have a woman around him,” she added pensively.

“I didn't say so, but perhaps you're right about that, too, only . . .”

“What?”

“He doesn't love anyone, and maybe he never will,” Razumikhin said bluntly.

“You mean he's unable to love?”

“And you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you resemble your brother terribly much, in everything even!” he suddenly blurted out, unexpectedly for himself, but, recalling what he had just told her about her brother, he immediately blushed like a lobster and became terribly embarrassed. Looking at him, Avdotya Romanovna could not help laughing.

“You both may be mistaken about Rodya,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted, somewhat piqued. “I'm not talking about now, Dunechka. What Pyotr Petrovich writes in this letter...and what you and I were supposing, may not be true, but you cannot even imagine, Dmitri Prokofych, how fantastical and, how shall I put it, capricious he is. I could never trust his character, even when he was only fifteen years old. I'm certain that even now he might suddenly do something with himself that no other man would ever think of doing...There's no need to look far: do you know how he astounded me, shocked me, and all but completely did me in a year ago, when he took it into his head to marry that—what's her name?—Zarnitsyn, his landlady's daughter?”

“Do you know any details of that story?” asked Avdotya Romanovna.

“Do you think,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued hotly, “that my tears, my pleas, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty, would have stopped him? He would have stepped quite calmly over every obstacle. Yet can it be, can it be that he doesn't love us?”

“He never told me anything about that story himself,” Razumikhin answered cautiously, “but I have heard a thing or two from Mrs. Zarnitsyn herself, who for her own part is also not a great talker, and what I heard is perhaps even a bit strange...”

“But what, what did you hear?” both women asked at once.

“Nothing so very special, really. I only learned that this marriage, which was already quite settled and failed to take place only because of the bride's death, was not at all to Mrs. Zarnitsyn's liking...Besides, they say the bride was not even good-looking—that is, they say she was even homely...and quite sickly and...and strange...though it seems she had some merits. There absolutely must have been some merits; otherwise none of it makes any sense...There was no dowry either, but he wouldn't have counted on a dowry...Generally, it's hard to judge in such matters.”

“I'm sure she was a worthy girl,” Avdotya Romanovna observed tersely.

“God forgive me, but I was glad of her death all the same, though I don't know which of them would have ruined the other, he her or she him,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded; then carefully, with pauses and constant glances at Dunya, who obviously did not like it, she again began to ask questions about the previous day's scene between Rodya and Luzhin. One could see that this event troubled her most of all, to the point of fear and trembling. Razumikhin went over everything again in detail, but this time also added his own conclusion: he accused Raskolnikov straight out of deliberately insulting Pyotr Petrovich, this time excusing him very little on account of his illness.

“He thought it all up before his illness,” he added.

“I think so, too,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna said, looking crushed. But she was greatly struck that Razumikhin this time spoke so carefully, even as if respectfully, about Pyotr Petrovich. Avdotya Romanovna was also struck by this.

“So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovich?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not help asking.

“I cannot be of any other opinion regarding your daughter's future husband,” Razumikhin replied, firmly and ardently, “and I say it not only out of common politeness, but because...because...well, if only because Avdotya Romanovna herself, of her own free will, has deigned to choose this man. And if I abused him so much yesterday, it's because I was filthy drunk and...mad as well; yes, mad, off my head, out of my mind, completely...and today I'm ashamed of it! ... ” He got red in the face and fell silent. Avdotya Romanovna also blushed, but did not break her silence. She had not said a single word from the moment they began talking about Luzhin.

And meanwhile, without her support, Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously felt hesitant. At last, faltering and glancing continually at her daughter, she declared that one circumstance troubled her greatly at present.

“You see, Dmitri Prokofych . . .” she began. “Shall I be completely frank with Dmitri Prokofych, Dunechka?”

“Of course, mama,” Avdotya Romanovna remarked imposingly.

“This is what it is,” her mother hurried on, as if a mountain had been lifted from her by this permission to voice her grief. “This morning, very early, we received a note from Pyotr Petrovich in reply to yesterday's message concerning our arrival. You see, he was to have met us yesterday, as he had promised, right at the station. Instead, some lackey was sent to meet us at the station, to give us the address of this rooming house and show us the way, and Pyotr Petrovich told him to tell us he would come to us today, in the morning. Instead of which, today, in the morning, this note came from him...It would be best if you read it yourself; there is a point in it that troubles me very much...You'll see now what this point is and...tell me your frank opinion, Dmitri Prokofych! You know Rodya's character best of all and can advise us better than anyone else. I warn you that Dunechka already resolved everything from the first moment, but I, I still do not know how to act and...and have been waiting for you.”

Razumikhin unfolded the note, dated the previous day, and read the following:

Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honor of informing you that owing to suddenly arisen delays I was unable to meet you on the platform, having sent a rather efficient man for that purpose. I must equally deprive myself of the honor of seeing you tomorrow morning, owing to urgent matters in the Senate, and so as not to intrude upon your family reunion with your son, and Avdotya Romanovna's with her brother. I shall have the honor of calling upon you and paying my respects to you in your apartment not earlier than tomorrow evening at eight o'clock sharp, and with that I venture to add an earnest and, may I say, insistent request that Rodion Romanovich not be present at this general meeting of ours, inasmuch as he offended me in an unparalleled and discourteous way when I visited him yesterday in his illness, and wishing, moreover, to have a necessary and thorough discussion with you of a certain point, concerning which I should like to know your own interpretation. With that I have the honor of forewarning you beforehand that if, contrary to my request, I do encounter Rodion Romanovich, I shall be obliged to withdraw at once, and in that case you will have only yourself to blame. I write this with the understanding that Rodion Romanovich, who appeared so ill at the time of my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later, and may therefore be able to leave his room and come to you. This was confirmed for me by my own eyes, in the apartment of a certain drunkard, who was crushed by horses and died as a result, and to whose daughter, a girl of notorious behavior, he handed over as much as twenty-five roubles yesterday, on the pretext of a funeral, which surprised me greatly, knowing what trouble you had in gathering this sum. With that, and expressing my particular respect to the esteemed Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectfully devoted feelings of

Your humble servant, P. Luzhin

“What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofych?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to say, almost in tears. “How am I to suggest that Rodya not come? Yesterday he demanded so insistently that we refuse Pyotr Petrovich, and now we're told not to receive him! But if he finds out, he will come on purpose...and what will happen then?”

“Do as Avdotya Romanovna has decided,” Razumikhin replied calmly and at once.

“Ah, my God! She says...she says God knows what, and she won't explain her purpose! She says it would be better—not really better, that is, but it's somehow supposedly necessary—that Rodya also come tonight, on purpose, at eight o'clock, and it's necessary that they meet... As for me, I didn't even want to show him the letter; I wanted to arrange it somehow slyly, through you, so that he wouldn't come...because he's so irritable...Besides, I don't understand a thing— who is this drunkard who died, and who is this daughter, and how could he give this daughter all the money he has left...that . . .”

“That cost you so dearly, mama,” Avdotya Romanovna added.

“He was not himself yesterday,” Razumikhin said thoughtfully. “If you knew what sort of things he poured out yesterday in the tavern, though it was all intelligent. . . hm! He was indeed saying something yesterday, as we were going home, about some dead man and some girl, but I didn't understand a word of it...However, yesterday I myself . . .”

“Best of all, mama, let's go to him ourselves, and there, I assure you, we'll see at once what to do. And besides, it's time—Lord, it's past ten!” she exclaimed, glancing at her magnificent gold and enamel watch, which hung round her neck on a fine Venetian chain and was terribly out of harmony with the rest of her attire. “A present from the fiancé,” thought Razumikhin.

“Ah, it's time! ... It's time, Dunechka, it's time!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began bustling about in alarm. “He may think we're angry because of yesterday, since we're so long in coming. Ah, my God!”

She was busily throwing on her cape and putting on her hat as she spoke; Dunechka also readied herself. Her gloves were not only worn out but even torn, as Razumikhin noticed, and yet the obvious poverty of their dress even lent both ladies an air of some special dignity, as always happens with those who know how to wear poor clothing. Razumikhin looked at Dunechka with awe and was proud to be escorting her. “That queen,” he thought to himself, “who mended her own stockings in prison—of course, she looked like a real queen at that moment, even more so than during the most splendid solemnities and appearances.”^[71]

“My God!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “would I ever have thought I'd be afraid to meet my own son, my dear, dear Rodya, as I am now! ... I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofych!” she added, glancing at him timidly.

“Don't be afraid, mama,” Dunya said, kissing her. “Better to believe in him. I do.”

“Ah, my God! So do I, but I didn't sleep all night!” the poor woman exclaimed.

They walked out to the street.

“You know, Dunechka, I no sooner fell asleep a little, towards morning, than I suddenly dreamed of the late Marfa Petrovna...all in white...she came up to me and took me by the hand, and she shook her head at me so sternly, so sternly, as if in disapproval. . . Does that bode well? Ah, my God, Dmitri Prokofych, you don't know yet: Marfa Petrovna died!”

“No, I didn't know. What Marfa Petrovna?”

“Quite suddenly! And imagine...”

“Later, mama!” Dunya interrupted. “He doesn't know yet who Marfa Petrovna is!”

“Ah, you don't know? And I thought you already knew everything. You must forgive me, Dmitri Prokofych, I'm quite addled these days. I really regard you as our Providence, and so I was convinced that you already knew everything. I regard you as one of our family...You won't be angry with me for saying so. Ah, my God, what's the matter with your right hand? Did you hurt it?”

“Yes, I hurt it,” murmured the overjoyed Razumikhin.

“I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dunya corrects me...But, my God, what a closet he lives in! Is he awake yet, I wonder? And that woman, his landlady, considers it a room? Listen, you say he doesn't like to show his heart; do you think perhaps I'll tire him out with my...weaknesses?...Won't you teach me, Dmitri Prokofych? How should I be with him? You know, I go about quite like a lost person.”

“Don't question him too much about anything, if you see him making a wry face; especially avoid asking him too much about his health—he doesn't like it.”

“Ah, Dmitri Prokofych, how difficult it is to be a mother! But here is the stairway...What an awful stairway!”

“Mama, you're even pale; calm yourself, my dear,” Dunya said, caressing her. “He must be happy just to see you, and you torment yourself so,” she added, flashing her eyes.

“Wait, I'll go ahead and find out if he's awake.”

The ladies slowly followed after Razumikhin, who started up the stairs ahead of them. When they came to the fourth-floor landing, outside the landlady's door, they noticed that the door was open a tiny crack and that two quick black eyes were examining them both from the darkness. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly slammed shut with such a bang that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out in fright.

III

“He's well, he's well!” Zossimov cried cheerily to greet the people entering. He had been there for about ten minutes already, and was sitting on the same end of the sofa as yesterday. Raskolnikov was sitting on the opposite end, fully dressed and even carefully washed and combed—something that had not happened with him for a long time. The room filled up immediately, but Nastasya still managed to slip in with the visitors and began to listen.

Indeed, Raskolnikov was almost well, especially as compared with yesterday, only he was very pale, distracted, and sullen. Externally, he seemed to resemble a wounded man or a man suffering from some acute physical pain: his brows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes inflamed. He spoke little and reluctantly, as if forcing himself or fulfilling a duty, and a certain anxiety showed every now and then in his movements.

All that was lacking was some bandage or gauze wrapping to complete his resemblance to a man with, for example, a painful abscess on his finger, or an injured hand, or something of the sort.

However, even this pale and sullen face brightened momentarily, as if with light, when his mother and sister entered; but this seemed to lend only a more concentrated torment to his expression, in place of the former anguished distraction. The light quickly faded but the torment remained, and Zossimov, observing and studying his patient with all the youthful ardor of a doctor just beginning to get a taste of practice, was surprised to note in him, instead of joy at his family's arrival, something like a heavy, concealed determination to endure an hour or two of torture that could no longer be avoided. He saw later how almost every word of the ensuing conversation seemed to touch and reopen some wound in his patient; but at the same time he marveled somewhat that yesterday's monomaniac, who all but flew into a rage at the slightest word, today was able to control himself and keep his feelings hidden.

“Yes, I myself can now see that I am almost well,” Raskolnikov said, kissing his mother and sister affably, at which Pulcheria Alexandrovna immediately beamed, “and I say it not as I did yesterday, “ he added, addressing Razumikhin and giving him a friendly handshake.

“And I even marveled at him today,” began Zossimov, who was glad to see the visitors, because in ten minutes he had already managed to lose the thread of his conversation with his patient. “If it goes on like this, in three or four days things will be just as they were—that is, as they were a month ago, or two...or maybe even three? Because this started and was coming on from way back...eh? Do you admit, now, that you yourself may be to blame?” he added with a cautious smile, as though still fearing to irritate him with something.

“Very likely,” Raskolnikov answered coldly.

“What I'm driving at,” Zossimov went on, with increasing relish, “is that your complete recovery now depends chiefly on you yourself. Since it's become possible to talk with you, I should like to impress upon you that it is necessary to eliminate the original, so to speak, radical causes that influenced the onset of your ill condition; only then will you be cured; otherwise it will get even worse. I do not know these original causes, but they must be known to you. You are an intelligent man and, of course, have observed yourself. It seems to me that the beginning of your disorder to some extent coincides with your leaving the university. You cannot remain without occupation, and it seems to me, therefore, that hard work and a firmly set goal could be of great help to you.”

“Yes, yes, you're entirely right. . . I'll quickly get myself back into the university, and then everything will go...like clockwork.”

Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly for effect in front of the ladies, was naturally somewhat taken aback when, glancing at his listener as he finished his speech, he noticed a look of unmistakable derision on his face. However, this lasted only a moment. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov, especially for last night's visit to their hotel.

“What? He went to see you during the night, too?” Raskolnikov asked, as if alarmed. “So then you didn't get any sleep after your journey.”

“Ah, Rodya, it was all only until two o'clock. Dunya and I never go to bed before two, even at home.”

“I, too, don't know how to thank him,” Raskolnikov continued, frowning suddenly and looking down. “Setting aside the question of money—you will excuse me for mentioning it” (he turned to Zossimov), “I really don't know how I have deserved such special attention from you. I simply don't understand...and...and it's even burdensome to me, because I don't understand it—I'm speaking frankly with you.”

“Now, don't get yourself irritated,” Zossimov forced himself to laugh. “Suppose you're my first patient; well, and our kind, when we're just starting out in practice, love our first patients like our own children, and some almost fall in love with them. After all, I don't have such a wealth of patients.”

“Not to mention him,” Raskolnikov added, pointing to Razumikhin, “he, too, has had nothing but insults and trouble from me.”

“Listen to this nonsense! Are you in a sentimental mood today, or what?” Razumikhin exclaimed.

Had he been more perceptive, he would have seen that there was no question here of a sentimental mood, but something even quite the opposite. Avdotya Romanovna noticed it. She was watching her brother closely and anxiously.

“And of you, mama, I don't even dare to speak,” he went on, as if reciting a lesson learned by heart that morning. “Only today have I been able to realize something of the torment you must have suffered yesterday, waiting here for me to return.” Having said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister, silently and with a smile. But this time there was a flash of genuine, unfeigned emotion in his smile. Dunya at once seized the hand he held out to her and pressed it ardently, with joy and gratitude. It was the first time he had addressed her since yesterday's falling-out. Their mother's face lit up with rapture and happiness at the sight of this final and wordless reconciliation of brother and sister.

“That's what I love him for!” whispered Razumikhin, who exaggerated everything, turning energetically on his chair. “These sudden gestures of his! . . .”

“And how well he does it all,” his mother thought to herself. “He has such noble impulses, and how simply, how delicately he has ended yesterday's misunderstanding with his sister—just by offering her his hand at the right moment and giving her a nice look...And what beautiful eyes he has, what a beautiful face! ... He's even better looking than Dunechka...But, my God, what clothes! How terribly he's dressed! The errand-boy Vasya, in Afanasy Ivanovich's shop, is dressed better! ... I think I could just rush to him and embrace him, and...weep—but I'm afraid, afraid...he's so...Lord! He speaks so tenderly now, yet I'm afraid! What am I afraid of? . . .”

“Ah, Rodya,” she suddenly picked up, hurrying to answer his remark, “you wouldn't believe how unhappy Dunechka and I were...yesterday! Now that everything's over and done with, and we're all happy again, I can tell you. Imagine, we came running here to embrace you, almost straight from the train, and that woman—ah, here she is! How do you do, Nastasya! ... She suddenly told us you had been in a fever and had just run away from the doctor, out of the house, delirious, and that people had gone running to look for you. You wouldn't believe how we felt! I could only picture to myself the tragic death of Lieutenant Potanchikov, our acquaintance, your father's friend—you won't remember him, Rodya—who ran out in just the same way, also in delirium, and fell into the well in the yard, and they only managed to get him out the next day. And, of course, we exaggerated it even more. We were about to rush and look for Pyotr Petrovich, so that with his help at least. . . because we were alone, completely alone,” she trailed off in a pitiful voice, and suddenly stopped altogether, remembering that it was still rather dangerous to start talking about Pyotr Petrovich, even though “everyone was now completely happy again.”

“Yes, yes...it's all a pity, of course . . .” Raskolnikov muttered in reply, but with so distracted and almost inattentive an air that Dunya looked at him in amazement.

“What else was I going to say . . .” he continued, making an effort to recall. “Ah, yes: mama, and you, too, Dunechka, please do not think that I did not want to come to you first this morning and was waiting for you to come to me.”

“But what is it, Rodya!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out, also surprised.

“Is he just answering us out of duty, or what?” thought Dunechka. “He's making peace and asking forgiveness as if he were performing a service or had memorized a lesson.”

“I was about to come as soon as I woke up, but I was delayed by my clothes; last night I forgot to tell her...Nastasya...to wash off that blood...I've only just managed to get dressed.”

“Blood! What blood!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna became alarmed.

“Never mind...don't worry. It was blood from yesterday, when I was wandering around somewhat delirious and came upon a man who had been run over...some official . . .”

“Delirious? But you remember everything,” Razumikhin interrupted.

“That's true,” Raskolnikov replied, somehow especially carefully, “I remember everything, down to the smallest detail, but try asking me why I did this, or went there, or said that—I'd have a hard time explaining.”

“A phenomenon known only too well,” Zossimov mixed in. “The performance is sometimes masterful, extremely clever, but the control of the actions, their source, is deranged and depends on various morbid impressions. As in a dream.”

“Perhaps it's even good that he considers me almost crazy,” Raskolnikov thought.

“But healthy people are perhaps no different,” Dunechka observed, looking anxiously at Zossimov.

“Quite a true observation,” the latter replied. “Indeed, in that sense we're all rather often almost like mad people, only with the slight difference that the 'sick' are somewhat madder than we are, so that it's necessary to draw a line here. And the harmonious man, it's true, almost doesn't exist; out of tens, maybe hundreds of thousands, one will be found, and quite a weak specimen at that . . .”

The word “mad,” imprudently dropped by Zossimov, whose favorite subject was running away with him, made everyone wince.

Raskolnikov sat as though he were not paying attention, deep in thought, and with a strange smile on his pale lips. He went on puzzling over something.

“Well, what about this man who was run over? I interrupted you!” Razumikhin hastened to exclaim.

“What?” the other asked, as if waking up. “Ah, yes...so I got stained with blood when I helped carry him into his apartment...Incidentally, mama, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday; I was truly out of my mind. Yesterday I gave all the money you sent me...to his wife...for the funeral. She's a widow now, consumptive, a pitiful woman...three little orphans, hungry...they have nothing in the house...and there's yet another daughter...Perhaps you'd have given her the money yourself, if you'd seen...However, I had no right, I admit, especially knowing how hard it was for you to get it. Before helping people, one must first have the right; otherwise— 'Crevez, chiens, si vous n'êtes pas contents!' “^[72] He laughed. “Right, Dunya?”

“No, not right,” Dunya answered firmly.

“Bah! So you, too...have your notions! . . .” he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred and smiling derisively. “I should have realized it...Well, that's praiseworthy; it's better for you...and you'll come to a certain line, and if you don't cross it, you'll be unhappy, and if you do, maybe you'll be even more unhappy...However, it's all nonsense!” he added irritably, annoyed at getting involuntarily carried away. “I only wanted to say that I ask your forgiveness, mama,” he concluded sharply and abruptly.

“Ah, Rodya, there's no need; I'm sure everything you do is wonderful!” his gladdened mother said.

“Don't be sure,” he said, twisting his mouth into a smile. Silence ensued. There was something tense in this whole conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and everyone felt it.

“So they really are afraid of me,” Raskolnikov thought to himself, glancing sullenly at his mother and sister. Indeed, the longer Pulcheria Alexandrovna remained silent, the more timid she became.

“I seemed to love them so much when they weren't here,” flashed through his head.

“You know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna died!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly popped up.

“What Marfa Petrovna?”

“Ah, my God—Marfa Petrovna—Svidrigailov! I wrote you so much about her.”

“A-a-ah, yes, I remember...So she died? Ah, did she?” he suddenly roused himself, as if waking up. “She really died? Of what?”

“Just imagine, it was a sudden death!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurried on, encouraged by his curiosity. “And just at the same time as I sent you that letter, even the same day! Imagine, that terrible man seems to have been the cause of her death. They say he gave her a terrible beating!”

“Is that how they were?” he asked, turning to his sister.

“No, quite the opposite. He was always very patient with her, even polite. In many cases he was even too indulgent of her nature, for all those seven years...Somehow he suddenly lost patience.”

“So he's not so terrible, if he managed to restrain himself for seven years? You seem to be vindicating him, Dunechka?”

“No, no, he's a terrible man! I can't even imagine anything more terrible,” Dunya answered, almost with a shudder, and she frowned and lapsed into thought.

“That was in the morning,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly continued. “Afterwards she immediately ordered the horses to be harnessed, to go to town right after dinner, because she always used to go to town in such cases; they say she ate dinner with great appetite...”

“In spite of the beating, eh?”

“. . . But then, that was always her...habit; and as soon as she finished dinner, so as not to be late to town, she went straight to the bathhouse...You see, she was taking some sort of bathing cure; they have a cold spring there, and she bathed in it regularly, every day, and as soon as she got into the water, she suddenly had a stroke!”

“Sure enough!” said Zossimov.

“And was it a bad beating?”

“That hardly matters,” Dunya responded.

“Hm! Anyway, mama, why do you bother telling me about such nonsense?” Raskolnikov suddenly said, irritably and as if inadvertently.

“Ah, my friend, I just didn't know what to talk about,” escaped from Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“What is it, are you all afraid of me or something?” he said with a twisted smile.

“In fact, it's true,” said Dunya, looking directly and sternly at her brother. “Mama was so afraid coming up the stairs that she even crossed herself.”

His face became all contorted as if in a spasm.

“Ah, Dunya, stop it! Rodya, please don't be angry...How could you, Dunya!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna started to say in confusion. “The truth is that as we were coming here, I was dreaming all the way, on the train, of how we would see each other, how we would tell each other everything...and I was so happy that I didn't even notice the journey! But what am I saying! I'm happy now, too...Dunya, you really shouldn't! It makes me happy just to see you, Rodya . . .”

“Enough, mama,” he muttered in confusion, pressing her hand without looking at her. “We'll have time to talk all we want!”

Having said this, he suddenly became confused and turned pale: again that terrible, recent feeling passed like a deathly chill over his soul; again it suddenly became perfectly plain and clear to him that he had just uttered a terrible lie, that not only would he never have the chance to talk all he wanted, but that it was no longer possible for him to talk at all, with anyone, about anything, ever. The impression of this tormenting thought was so strong that for a moment he almost forgot himself entirely; he rose from his place and, without looking at anyone, started out the door.

“What are you doing?” Razumikhin exclaimed, seizing his arm.

He sat down again and began silently looking around him; everyone was looking at him in perplexity.

“But why are you all so dull!” he suddenly cried out, quite unexpectedly. “Say something! What's the point of sitting here like this! Well, speak! Let's talk...We got together and don't open our mouths...So, say something!”

“Thank God! I thought it was going to be the same as yesterday,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna said, crossing herself.

“What is it, Rodya?” Avdotya Romanovna asked mistrustfully.

“Nothing. I just remembered something,” he answered, and suddenly laughed.

“Well, that's good. At least it was something! Otherwise I'd have thought. . .” Zossimov muttered, rising from the sofa. “However, it's time I was going; maybe I'll stop by later...if you're here . . .”

He made his bows and left.

“What a wonderful man!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna observed.

“Yes, wonderful, excellent, educated, intelligent . . .” Raskolnikov suddenly started saying in a sort of unexpected patter, and with hitherto unusual animation. “I can't recall where I met him before my illness...I think I did meet him somewhere...And here is another good man!” He motioned towards Razumikhin. “Do you like him, Dunya?” he asked, and for no apparent reason suddenly burst out laughing.

“Very much,” Dunya replied.

“Pah, you're a real...little swine!” said Razumikhin, frightfully abashed and blushing, and he rose from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled slightly, and Raskolnikov roared with laughter.

“But where are you off to?”

“I also...have to . . .”

“You don't have to at all; stay here! Zossimov left, so you also have to. Don't go...What time is it? Twelve already? What a pretty watch you have, Dunya! But why are you all silent again? I'm the only one who keeps talking! . . .”

“It was a present from Marfa Petrovna,” Dunya replied.

“And a very expensive one,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added.

“Ahh! Look at the size of it—almost too big for a lady.”

“I like it like that,” said Dunya.

Razumikhin thought to himself: “So it's not from her fiancé,” and for some reason he rejoiced.

“And I thought it was Luzhin's present,” Raskolnikov remarked.

“No, he hasn't given Dunya anything yet.”

“Ahh! And do you remember how I was in love, mama, and wanted to get married?” he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was struck by this unexpected turn and the tone in which he began talking about it.

“Ah, my friend, of course!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dunechka and Razumikhin.

“Hm! Yes! Well, what can I tell you. I don't even remember much. She was such a sickly girl,” he went on, as if suddenly lapsing into thought again, and looking down, “quite ill; she liked giving alms and kept dreaming of a convent, and once she broke down in tears when she began talking about it; yes, yes...I remember...I remember very well. She was so...homely. Really, I don't know why I got so attached to her then; I think it was because she was always sick...If she'd been lame or hunchbacked, I think I would have loved her even more . . .” (He smiled pensively.) “It was just...some spring delirium . . .”

“No, it was not just a spring delirium,” Dunechka said animatedly.

He looked with strained attention at his sister, but either did not hear or did not understand her words. Then he rose, deep in thought, went over to his mother, kissed her, returned to his place, and sat down.

“You love her even now!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna said, touched.

“Her? Now? Ah...you mean her! No. It's all as if in another world now...and so long ago. And everything around seems not to be happening here . . .”

He looked at them attentively.

“And you, too...it's as if I were looking at you from a thousand miles away...Besides, devil knows why we're talking about it! What's the point of asking questions?” he added in vexation, and fell silent, biting his nails and lapsing into thought again.

“What an awful apartment you have, Rodya; like a coffin,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna said suddenly, breaking the heavy silence. “I'm sure it's half on account of this apartment that you've become so melancholic.”

“Apartment? . . .” he replied distractedly. “Yes, the apartment contributed a lot. . . I've thought about that myself...But if you knew what a strange thought you just said, mama,” he added suddenly, with a strange smirk.

A little longer and this company, this family, after their three-year separation, this familial tone of conversation, together with the complete impossibility of talking about anything at all, would finally become decidedly unbearable to him. There was, however, one pressing matter that absolutely had to be resolved that day, one way or the other—so he had resolved when he woke up in the morning. He was glad, now, to have this matter as a way out.

“Listen, Dunya,” he began seriously and dryly, “I must, of course, ask your forgiveness for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to remind you again that I will not renounce my main point. It's either me or Luzhin. I may be vile, but you must not be. One of us is enough. And if you marry Luzhin, I will immediately cease to regard you as my sister.”

“Rodya, Rodya! But this is all the same as yesterday,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna exclaimed ruefully. “And why do you keep calling yourself vile—I can't bear it! It was the same yesterday . . .”

“Brother,” Dunya replied firmly and also dryly, “there is a mistake on your part in all this. I thought it over during the night and found the mistake. The point is that you seem to think I'm sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That is not so at all. I am marrying simply for myself, because things are hard for me; of course, I shall be glad if I also manage to be of use to my family, but that is not the main motive for my determination . . .”

“She's lying!” he thought to himself, biting his nails in anger. “The proud thing! She doesn't want to admit that she'd like playing the benefactress! Oh, base characters! They love, and it comes out like hate...Oh, how I...hate them all!”

“In short, I am marrying Pyotr Petrovich,” Dunechka went on, “because I prefer the lesser of two evils. I intend honestly to fulfill all that he expects of me, and therefore I am not deceiving him...Why did you just smile like that?”

She, too, became flushed, and wrath shone in her eyes.

“You'll fulfill everything?” he asked, grinning venomously.

“Up to a point. Both the manner and the form of Pyotr Petrovich's proposal showed me at once what he requires. He may, of course, value himself too highly, but I hope that he also values me...Why are you laughing again?”

“And why are you blushing again? You're lying, sister, you're lying on purpose, solely out of your woman's stubbornness, just to insist on your point before me...You cannot respect Luzhin—I've seen him and talked with him. Which means you're selling yourself for money, and that means that in any case you're acting basely, and I'm glad you're at least able to blush!”

“It's not true, I'm not lying! . . .” Dunechka cried out, losing all her composure. “I won't marry him unless I'm convinced that he values and appreciates me; I won't marry him unless I'm convinced that I can respect him. Fortunately, I can be convinced of that quite certainly, and even today. And such a marriage is not vile, as you say! And if you were right, and I had really made up my mind to do something vile, isn't it merciless on your part to talk to me that way? Why do you demand a heroism of me that you may not even have in yourself? That is despotism; that is coercion! If I ruin anyone, it will only be myself...I haven't gone and put a knife into anyone yet! ... Why are you looking at me like that? Why did you get so pale? Rodya, what's wrong? Rodya, dear!”

“Lord! She's made him faint!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out.

“No, no...nonsense...it's nothing! ... I just felt a little dizzy. Not faint at all...You and your faints! ... Hm! yes...what was I going to say? Ah, yes: how could you be convinced today that you can respect him, and that he...values you, or however you put it? I think you said something about today? Or did I not hear right?”

“Mama, show my brother Pyotr Petrovich's letter,” said Dunechka.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna handed over the letter with trembling hands. He took it with great curiosity. But before unfolding it, he suddenly looked at Dunya somehow with surprise.

“Strange,” he said slowly, as if suddenly struck by a new thought, “why am I making such a fuss? Why all this outcry? Go and marry whomever you like!”

He spoke as if to himself, though he said it aloud, and looked at his sister for some time as if in bewilderment.

Finally he unfolded the letter, still with an expression of some strange surprise; then he began reading slowly and attentively, and read it twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was especially uneasy, and everyone also expected something special.

“It surprises me,” he began, after some reflection, handing the letter back to his mother, but without addressing anyone in particular, “he handles cases, he's a lawyer, and his conversation is so...pretentious— yet his writing is quite illiterate.”

Everyone stirred; this was not what they were expecting.

“But they all write like that,” Razumikhin observed abruptly.

“So you've read it?”

“Yes.”

“We showed him, Rodya, we...asked his advice,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.

“It's legal style, as a matter of fact,” Razumikhin interrupted, “legal documents are still written that way.”

“Legal? Yes, precisely legal, businesslike...Not so very illiterate, and not too literary either—a business style!”

“Pyotr Petrovich makes it no secret that he had to scrape up pennies for his education, and even boasts of having made his own way in life,” Avdotya Romanovna remarked, somewhat offended by her brother's new tone.

“Let him boast, he has some reason—I don't deny that. You seem to be offended, sister, that out of the entire letter I drew such a frivolous observation, and you think I began speaking of such trifles on purpose, in my vexation, just to put on an act in front of you. On the contrary, a certain observation to do with style occurred to me, which is not at all irrelevant in the present case. There is this one phrase: 'you will have only yourself to blame'—very significantly and clearly put; and then there is the threat that he will leave at once if I come. This threat to leave is the same as a threat to abandon you both if you disobey, and to abandon you now, when he has already brought you to Petersburg. Now, tell me: can such a phrase from Luzhin be as offensive as it would be if he had written it” (he pointed to Razumikhin), “or Zossimov, or any one of us?”

“N-no,” Dunechka answered, perking up, “I understood very well that it was too naively expressed, and that he was perhaps simply not a very skillful writer...That's good reasoning, brother. I didn't even expect . . .”

“It's put in a legal manner, there's no other way to put it legally, and it came out coarser than he may have wanted. However, I must disappoint you somewhat: there is one other expression in this letter that is a bit of a slander against me, and rather a low one. Yesterday I gave money to a consumptive and broken-hearted widow, not 'on the pretext of a funeral,' but simply for the funeral, and I handed it not to the daughter—a girl, as he writes, 'of notorious behavior' (whom I saw yesterday for the first time in my life)—but precisely to the widow. In all this I see an overly hasty desire to sully me and make me quarrel with you. Again, he expresses himself legalistically—that is, revealing his purpose too plainly, and with rather naive haste. He's an intelligent man, but it takes something more than intelligence to act intelligently. All this portrays the man, and...I don't think he values you very much. I say this in admonition, because I sincerely wish you well...”

Dunechka did not reply; her decision had already been made, and she was only waiting for that evening.

“Well, what have you decided, Rodya?” asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, troubled even more than before by his sudden, new businesslike tone of voice.

“What do you mean—'decided'?”

“But Pyotr Petrovich writes here that you mustn't be with us in the evening, and that he will leave...if you come. So, will you...come?”

“That is, of course, not up to me to decide, but up to you, first, if such a demand from Pyotr Petrovich does not offend you, and, second, up to Dunya, if she also is not offended. I will do as you think best,” he added dryly.

“Dunechka has already decided, and I agree with her completely,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to put in.

“I decided to ask you, Rodya, to ask you earnestly to join us at this meeting without fail,” said Dunya. “Will you come?”

“I will.”

“I ask you, too, to join us at eight o'clock,” she turned to Razumikhin. “Mama, I'm inviting him, too.”

“That's fine, Dunechka. Whatever you all decide,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, “so let it be. And it's easier for me; I don't like lying and pretending; better to tell the whole truth...and let Pyotr Petrovich be angry if he chooses!”

IV

At that moment the door opened quietly, and a girl came into the room, looking timidly around. Everyone turned to her with surprise and curiosity. Raskolnikov did not recognize her at first. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her for the first time the day before, but at such a moment, under such circumstances, and in such attire that his memory retained the image of quite a different person. Here, now, was a modestly and even poorly dressed girl, still very young, looking almost like a little girl, with a modest and decent manner and a bright but as if somewhat intimidated face. She was wearing a very simple, everyday dress and an old hat no longer in fashion, though she still carried yesterday's parasol. Suddenly seeing a room full of people, she became not so much confused as quite lost, timid as a little child, and even made a move to go out again.

“Ah...it's you?” Raskolnikov said, greatly surprised, and he suddenly became embarrassed himself.

It occurred to him at once that his mother and sister had already heard fleetingly, in Luzhin's letter, of a certain girl of “notorious” behavior. He had just been protesting against Luzhin's slander and stated that it was the first time he had seen the girl, and suddenly she herself walked in. He also recalled that he had not protested in the least against the expression “of notorious behavior.” All this flitted vaguely and instantly through his head. But, looking more attentively, he suddenly saw that this humiliated being was already so humiliated that he suddenly felt pity for her. And when she made a move to run away in fear—it was as if something turned over inside him.

“I was not at all expecting you,” he hurried, stopping her with his eyes. “Be so good as to sit down. You must have come from Katerina Ivanovna. Excuse me, not here; sit over there . . .”

When Sonya entered, Razumikhin, who had been sitting just by the door on one of Raskolnikov's three chairs, rose to let her in. At first Raskolnikov had shown her to the end of the sofa where Zossimov had been sitting, but recalling that this sofa was too familiar a place, that it served him as a bed, he hastily directed her to Razumikhin's chair.

“And you sit here,” he said to Razumikhin, putting him on the end where Zossimov had been sitting.

Sonya sat down, all but trembling with fear, and glanced timidly at the two ladies. One could see that she herself did not know how she could possibly have sat down next to them. She became so frightened when she realized it that she suddenly stood up again and in complete embarrassment addressed Raskolnikov.

“I...I...have come just for a moment, excuse me for disturbing you,” she began, faltering. “Katerina Ivanovna sent me, she had no one else...And Katerina Ivanovna told me to beg you please to come to the funeral service tomorrow, in the morning...to the liturgy...at the Mitrofanievsky Cemetery, and to stay afterwards for a meal...with us...with her...To do her the honor...She told me to ask you.”^[73]

Sonya faltered and fell silent.

“I will certainly try...certainly,” Raskolnikov answered, also standing up, and also faltering and not finishing...”Be so good as to sit down,” he said suddenly, “I must speak with you. Please— but perhaps you're in a hurry—be so good as to give me two minutes . . .”

And he moved the chair for her. Sonya sat down again and again quickly gave the two ladies a timid, lost glance, and suddenly looked down.

Raskolnikov's pale face became flushed; he cringed all over, as it were; his eyes lit up.

“Mama,” he said, firmly and insistently, “this is Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov, the daughter of that most unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov who was run over before my eyes yesterday, and about whom I have already spoken with you...”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked at Sonya and slightly narrowed her eyes. In spite of her confusion before Rodya's insistent and challenging look, she simply could not deny herself that pleasure. Dunechka stared seriously and fixedly straight in the poor girl's face and gazed at her in perplexity. Hearing the introduction, Sonya tried to raise her eyes, but became even more embarrassed than before.

“I wanted to ask you,” Raskolnikov hastened to address her, “how things worked out with you today. Did you have any trouble?... With the police, for instance?”

“No, sir, everything went all right... It's only too clear what caused his death; we weren't troubled; except that the neighbors are angry.”

“Why?”

“That the body's been there so long...it's hot now; there's a smell...so today, around vespers, they'll carry it over to the cemetery, to the chapel, till tomorrow. Katerina Ivanovna was against it at first, but now she sees herself that it's impossible . . .”

“Today, then?”

“She begs you to do us the honor of attending the funeral service in church tomorrow, and of coming to her afterwards for a memorial meal.”

“She's preparing a meal?”

“Yes, sir, a light one; she told me to thank you very much for your help yesterday...without you we'd have nothing for the funeral.” And her lips and chin suddenly quivered, but she collected herself and overcame her emotion by quickly looking down again.

As they spoke, Raskolnikov studied her closely. She had a thin little face, quite thin and pale, and rather irregular, somehow sharp, with a sharp little nose and chin. She could not even have been called pretty, but her blue eyes were so clear, and when they were animated, the expression of her face became so kind and simple-hearted, that one involuntarily felt drawn to her. There was, besides, a special, characteristic feature of her face and of her whole figure: despite her eighteen years, she looked almost like a little girl, much younger than her age, almost quite a child, and this sometimes even appeared comically in some of her movements.

“But can Katerina Ivanovna manage on such small means, and even plan to have a meal? . . .” Raskolnikov asked, determined to continue the conversation.

“But the coffin will be a simple one, sir...it will all be simple, so it won't cost much...Katerina Ivanovna and I calculated everything so as to have something left for the meal...and Katerina Ivanovna wants very much to have it. One can't really...it's a consolation to her...that's how she is, you know . . .”

“I understand, I understand...certainly...Why are you staring at my room? Mama here also says it's like a coffin.”

“You gave us all you had yesterday!” Sonechka suddenly said in reply, in a sort of intense and quick whisper, again looking down. Her lips and chin quivered again. She had been struck much earlier by the poverty of Raskolnikov's furnishings, and now these words somehow escaped her of themselves. Silence ensued. Dunechka's eyes somehow brightened, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna even looked affably at Sonya.

“Rodya,” she said, getting up, “we shall be dining together, of course. Dunechka, come...And you, Rodya, ought to go for a little walk, and then rest, lie down a bit, and afterwards come soon...I'm afraid we may have tired you...”

“Yes, yes, I'll come,” he said, getting up and beginning to hurry...”I have some business, however . . .”

“You don't mean you'll dine separately!” Razumikhin exclaimed, looking at Raskolnikov in surprise. “What's got into you?”

“Yes, yes, I'll come, of course, of course...And you stay for a minute. You don't need him now, mama? Or am I perhaps taking him from you?”

“Oh, no, no! And you, Dmitri Prokofych, will you be so kind as to join us for dinner?”

“Please do,” Dunya asked.

Razumikhin bowed, beaming all over. For a moment everyone suddenly became somehow strangely abashed.

“Good-bye, Rodya—I mean, for now; I don't like saying 'good-bye.' Good-bye, Nastasya...ah, I've said it again! . . .”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was going to bow to Sonechka, but it somehow did not come off, and she hastened from the room.

But Avdotya Romanovna was waiting her turn, as it were, and, following her mother past Sonya, gave her an attentive, polite, and full bow. Sonechka became embarrassed and bowed somehow hastily and fearfully; a sort of pained feeling even showed in her face, as if Avdotya Romanovna's politeness and attention were burdensome and tormenting to her.

“Dunya, good-bye!” Raskolnikov called out from the doorway, “give me your hand!”

“But I did; don't you remember?” Dunya answered, turning to him tenderly and awkwardly.

“Well, then give it to me again!”

And he squeezed her fingers tightly. Dunechka smiled at him, blushed, quickly pulled her hand back, and went after her mother, all happy herself for some reason.

“Well, that's nice!” he said to Sonya, coming back into the room and looking at her brightly. “May the Lord grant rest to the dead, but the living have still got to live! Right? Right? Isn't that right?”

Sonya looked at his suddenly brightened face even with surprise; for a few moments he gazed at her silently and fixedly: the whole story her deceased father had told him about her swept suddenly through his memory ...

“Lord, Dunechka!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to say, as soon as they came out to the street, “I really almost feel glad we've left; it's somehow easier. Now, would I have thought yesterday on the train that I could ever be glad of that!”

“I tell you again, mama, he's still very ill. Don't you see? Maybe it was suffering over us that upset him. One must be tolerant; then so much, so much can be forgiven.”

“But you were not very tolerant!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted at once, hotly and jealously. “You know, Dunya, I was looking at the two of you, and you're the perfect picture of him, not so much in looks as in soul: you're both melancholic, both sullen and hot-tempered, both arrogant, and both magnanimous...Is it possible that he's an egoist, Dunechka? Eh?...When I think what may happen tonight at our place, my heart just sinks!”

“Don't worry, mama, what must be, will be.”

“But, Dunechka, only think of the position we're in now! What if Pyotr Petrovich retracts?” poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly let out incautiously.

“What would he be worth after that!” Dunechka answered curtly and contemptuously.

“We did well to leave now,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to interrupt. “He was hurrying somewhere on business; let him go out for a walk, get some air...his room is awfully stuffy...but where can one get any air here? It's the same outside as in a closed room. Lord, what a city! ... Wait, look out, you'll be crushed, they're carrying something! Goodness, it's a piano...how they all push! ... I'm also very afraid of this girl . . .”

“What girl, mama?”

“Why, this Sofya Semyonovna who was there just now...”

“What about her?”

“I just have a certain presentiment, Dunya. Well, believe it or not, as soon as she walked in, at that very moment I thought to myself: here is where the main thing lies . . .”

“Nothing's lying there at all!” Dunya exclaimed in vexation. “You and your presentiments, mother! He's only known her since yesterday, and he didn't recognize her today when she came in.”

“Well, you'll see! ... She disturbs me; but you'll see, you will! And I got so scared: she looked at me, just looked, with such eyes, I could hardly sit still—remember, when he began introducing her? And it's strange: Pyotr Petrovich writes such things about her, and then he introduces her to us, to you of all people! It means he cares for her!”

“What does it matter what he writes! People talked and wrote about us, too, don't forget! And I'm sure she's...wonderful, and that this is all nonsense!”

“God be with her!”

“And Pyotr Petrovich is a worthless gossip,” Dunechka suddenly snapped.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna simply wilted. The conversation ceased.

“Listen, here's this business I have with you . . .” Raskolnikov said, drawing Razumikhin over to the window . . .

“I'll tell Katerina Ivanovna that you'll come, then . . .” Sonya hurried, bowing as she prepared to leave.

“One moment, Sofya Semyonovna; we have no secrets; you are not in our way...I'd like to say a couple of more words to you...Listen,” he suddenly turned to Razumikhin, as if breaking off without finishing the sentence, “you do know this...what's his name! ... Porfiry Petrovich?”

“Of course I do! My relative. What about it?” Razumikhin added with a sort of burst of curiosity.

“He's now in charge of...this case...well, this murder...the one you were talking about yesterday?”

“Yes...so?” Razumikhin suddenly goggled his eyes.

“He's been questioning the pawners, and I also pawned some things there—junk, really—but it's my sister's ring, which she gave me as a keepsake when I was coming here, and also my father's silver watch. Worth five or six roubles in all, but I care about them, as mementos. So what shall I do now? I don't want the things to be lost, especially the watch. I was trembling just now for fear mother would ask to see it when we started talking about Dunechka's watch. It's the only thing left of my father's. She'll be sick if it's lost! Women! So what shall I do, tell me! I know I should report it to the police! But wouldn't it be better to go to Porfiry himself, eh? What do you think? To be done with it sooner? Mama will still ask before dinner, you'll see!”

“Certainly not to the police, but to Porfiry—by all means!” Razumikhin cried in some unusual excitement. “I can't tell you how glad I am! But why wait? Let's go now, it's two steps away, we're sure to find him there.”

“Why not...let's go . . .”

“And he'll be very, very, very, very glad to meet you! I've told him a lot about you at various times...And yesterday, too. Let's go! ... So you knew the old woman! Well, there! ... It's all turned out quite mag-ni-fi-cently! ... Ah, yes...Sofya Ivanovna . . .”

“Sofya Semyonovna,” Raskolnikov corrected him. “Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumikhin, and a good man he is . . .”

“If you have to go now . . .” Sonya tried to begin, without so much as looking at Razumikhin, and becoming even more abashed as a result.

“Let's go, then!” Raskolnikov decided. “I'll call on you today, Sofya Semyonovna, only tell me, where do you live?”

It was not that he was confused, but as if he were hurrying and avoiding her eyes. Sonya gave him her address and blushed. They went out together.

“Don't you lock the door?” Razumikhin asked, coming down the stairs behind them.

“Never! ... Though I've been meaning to buy a lock for two years now,” he added casually. “Happy are those who have nothing to lock up?” he turned to Sonya, laughing.

Outside, they stopped in the gateway.

“Are you going to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? By the way, how did you find me?” he asked, as if wishing to tell her something quite different. He kept wanting to look into her quiet, clear eyes, but somehow kept being unable to . . .

“But you gave Polechka your address yesterday.”

“Polya? Ah, yes...Polechka! That...little one...is she your sister? So I gave her my address?”

“You mean you've forgotten?”

“No...I remember . . .”

“And I also heard about you before, from my late father...Only I didn't know your last name then, and he didn't know it himself...And I came just now...and since I learned your last name yesterday...I asked today, 'Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?'...I didn't know you were also subletting a room...Good-bye, sir...I'll tell Katerina Ivanovna . . .”

She was terribly glad to get away at last; she walked looking down, hurrying, the sooner to be out of their sight, the sooner somehow to get through those twenty steps until she could turn the corner to the right and be alone at last, and then walk along, hurrying, not looking at anyone, not noticing anything, but thinking, remembering, pondering every word said, every circumstance. Never, never had she felt anything like this. A whole new world had descended vaguely and mysteriously into her soul. She suddenly remembered that Raskolnikov himself wanted to call on her that day, perhaps that same morning, perhaps at once!

“Only not today, please, not today!” she murmured with a sinking heart, as if pleading with someone, like a frightened child. “Lord! To me...in that room...he'll see...oh, Lord!”

And, of course, at that moment she could not have noticed the gentleman, unknown to her, who was keeping a close eye on her and following on her heels. He had been following her ever since she walked out the gate. When the three of them—she, Razumikhin, and Raskolnikov—stopped for a couple of words on the sidewalk, this passer-by, stepping around them, seemed suddenly to give a start, accidentally catching Sonya's words: “and I asked, where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?” He had looked quickly but attentively at all three of them, especially at Raskolnikov, whom Sonya was addressing; then he looked at the house and made a note of it. All this was done in a moment, as he walked, and the passer-by, trying not to let it show, went farther on, slowing his pace as if he were waiting. He was waiting for Sonya; he had seen that they were saying good-bye and that Sonya was about to go home.

“But where does she live? I've seen that face somewhere,” he thought, remembering Sonya's face...”I must find out.”

Coming to the corner, he crossed to the other side of the street, looked back, and saw that Sonya was already following after him, in the same direction, noticing nothing. Coming to the corner, she also turned down the same street. He followed her on the opposite sidewalk, without taking his eyes off her; after going some fifty steps, he crossed back to Sonya's side of the street, caught up with her, and kept on walking five steps behind her.

He was a man of about fifty, of above average height, portly, with broad and steep shoulders that gave him a stooping look. He was stylishly and comfortably dressed, and had the air of an imposing gentleman. He was carrying a beautiful cane with which he tapped the sidewalk at every step, and on his hands he wore a fresh pair of gloves. His broad face with its high cheekbones was quite pleasant, and he had a fresh, non-Petersburg complexion. His hair, still very thick, was quite blond, with perhaps only a touch of gray, and his broad, thick spade beard was even lighter than the hair on his head. His eyes were blue and had a cold, intent, and thoughtful look; his lips were scarlet. In general, he was an exceedingly well-preserved man, who seemed much younger than his years.

When Sonya came out to the canal, the two of them were alone on the sidewalk. Observing her, he had been able to notice how pensive and distracted she was. When she reached her house, Sonya turned in at the gate; he followed her, seeming somewhat surprised. Going into the courtyard, she turned to the right, towards the corner, where the stairway to her apartment was. “Hah!” the unknown gentleman muttered, and he started up the stairs behind her. Only then did Sonya notice him. She went up to the third floor, turned down the hallway, and rang at number nine, where the words kapernaumov, tailor were written on the door in chalk. “Hah!” the stranger repeated again, surprised at the strange coincidence, and rang at number eight next door. The two doors were about six paces apart.

“You live at Kapernaumov's!” he said, looking at Sonya and laughing. “He altered my waistcoat for me yesterday. And I'm staying here, next door to you, with Madame Resslich, Gertrude Karlovna. The way things do happen!”

Sonya looked at him attentively.

“We're neighbors,” he went on, somehow especially cheerfully. “It's only my third day in the city. Well, good-bye for now.”

Sonya did not answer; the door was opened and she slipped into her room. She felt ashamed for some reason, and seemed to have grown timid . . .

On the way to see Porfiry, Razumikhin was in an especially excited state.

“This is nice, brother,” he repeated several times. “I'm glad, I'm so glad!”

“What are you so glad about?” Raskolnikov thought to himself.

“I didn't even know you also pawned things with the old woman. And . .. and...was it long ago? I mean, did you go to her long ago?”

(“What a naive fool!”)

“When was it? ...” Raskolnikov paused, recollecting. “I went there, I think, about three days before her death. However, I'm not going to redeem the things now,” he picked up, with a sort of hasty and special concern about the things, “I'm down to my last silver rouble again...thanks to that cursed delirium yesterday! ... ”

He mentioned the delirium with special significance.

“Ah, yes, yes, yes,” Razumikhin hastily yessed him, who knows about what. “That's why you were struck...partly...that time...and, you know, you also kept saying something about rings and chains in your delirium! ... Ah, yes, yes...It's clear, it's all clear now.”

(“So! The idea really spread around among them! Here's a man who would go to the cross for me, yet he's so glad it's become clear why I talked about rings in my delirium! It really got settled in them all! . . .”)

“And will we find him in?” he asked aloud.

“We will, we will,” Razumikhin hurried. “He's a nice fellow, brother, you'll see! He's a bit awkward—not to say he's not a man of the world, but I mean he's awkward in another sense. He's an intelligent type, intelligent, not stupid at all, only he has some peculiar way of thinking...Mistrustful, a skeptic, a cynic...he likes hoodwinking people, or not hoodwinking them but pulling their leg...Well, and then it's the old material method...But he knows his job, he really does...Last year he ran down a case involving a murder where almost all the traces were lost! He wants very, very, very much to make your acquaintance!”

“But why so much?”

“I mean, not that...you see, recently, when you were sick, I happened to talk about you a lot and quite often...So, he listened...and when he learned that you were studying law and couldn't finish your studies because of your circumstances, he said, 'What a pity!' So, I concluded...I mean, not just that, but all of it together; yesterday Zamyotov...You see, Rodya, I blabbed something to you yesterday while I was drunk, as we were walking home...so you see, brother, I'm afraid you may exaggerate . . .”

“What is it? That I'm supposed to be mad? But maybe it's true.”

He grinned tensely.

“Yes...yes...I mean, no! Pah! Anyway, everything I was saying (and about other things, too) was all nonsense, on account of drink.”

“But why are you apologizing! I'm so sick of all this!” Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritation. He was partly pretending, however.

“I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. It's shameful even to speak of . . .”

“If it's shameful, don't speak!”

They both fell silent. Razumikhin was more than delighted, and Raskolnikov realized this with loathing. He was also troubled by what Razumikhin had just said about Porfiry.

“I'll have to sing Lazarus for him, too,” he thought,^[74]turning pale, and with his heart pounding, “and sing it naturally. Most natural would be to sing nothing. Eagerly to sing nothing. No, eagerly would be unnatural again...Well, how things turn out there...we shall see...presently...Is it good that I'm going, or not good? A moth flying into the candle-flame. My heart is pounding—that's not good! . . .”

“In this gray house,” said Razumikhin.

(“Most important is whether or not Porfiry knows I was in that witch's apartment yesterday...and asked about the blood. I must find that out at once, from the very first step, the moment I walk in, by the look on his face; o-ther-wise...I'll find out, if it's the end of me!”)

“You know what?” he suddenly turned to Razumikhin with an impish smile. “I've noticed that you've been in a state of some unusual excitement today, brother, ever since this morning. True?”

“Excitement? None whatsoever.” Razumikhin cringed.

“No, really, brother, it's quite noticeable. You sat on the chair today as you never do, somehow on the edge of it, and kept jerking spasmodically. Kept jumping up for no apparent reason. You'd be angry, and then suddenly for some reason your mug would turn as sweet as a lollipop. You even blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed terribly.”

“Nothing of the kind! Lies! ... What are you talking about?”

“But why are you dodging like a schoolboy! Pah, the devil, he's blushing again!”

“What a swine you are, though!”

“But why are you embarrassed? Romeo! Wait, I'm going to tell on you today—ha, ha, ha! Mama will have a laugh...and so will someone else . . .”

“Listen, listen, listen, but this is serious, it's...ah, the devil, I don't know what it is!” Razumikhin became utterly muddled and went cold with terror. “What are you going to tell them? I, brother...pah, what a swine you are!”

“Just like a rose in springtime! And you have no idea how it becomes you; a six-and-a-half-foot Romeo! And so well scrubbed today; you even cleaned under your fingernails, eh? When did that ever happen before! And, by God, you've even pomaded yourself! Bend down!”

“Swine!!!”

Raskolnikov laughed so much that it seemed he could no longer control himself, and, thus laughing, they entered Porfiry Petrovich's apartment. This was just what Raskolnikov wanted: from inside one could hear how they came in laughing and went on guffawing in the entryway.

“Not a word here, or I'll...beat you to a pulp!” Razumikhin whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

V

The latter was already going into the apartment. He entered looking as though he had to use all his strength to keep from somehow breaking into giggles. Behind him, his physiognomy completely overthrown and ferocious, red as a peony, lanky and awkward, entered the abashed Razumikhin. His face and his whole figure were indeed comical at that moment, and justified Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, not introduced as yet, bowed to their host, who was standing in the middle of the room looking at them inquiringly, and held out his hand to him, still with an obviously great effort to suppress his hilarity and to utter at least two or three words to introduce himself. But he had barely managed to assume a serious expression and mutter something when suddenly, as if involuntarily, he glanced at Razumikhin again, and here he could no longer restrain himself: the suppressed laughter broke through all the more irresistibly the more forcefully he had been trying to contain it until then. The remarkable ferocity with which Razumikhin was taking this “heartfelt” laughter gave the whole scene a look of the most genuine hilarity and, above all, naturalness. Razumikhin, as if on purpose, was helping things along.

“Pah, the devil!” he bellowed, waving his arm, and happened to hit a small round table on which stood an empty tea glass. Everything went flying and jingling.

“But why go breaking chairs, gentlemen! It's a loss to the exchequer!” Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed merrily.

The scene presented itself as follows: Raskolnikov, his hand forgotten in his host's hand, was finishing laughing but, knowing there were limits, was waiting for the moment to end it as quickly and naturally as possible. Razumikhin, embarrassed to the utmost by the fall of the table and the broken glass, looked gloomily at the fragments, spat, and turned sharply to the window, where he stood with his back to the public, his face scowling terribly, looking out the window but seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovich was laughing, and willingly so, but it was obvious that explanations were called for. On a chair in the corner sat Zamyotov, who had risen when the guests entered and stood expectantly, widening his mouth into a smile, but looked at the whole scene with perplexity and even something like mistrust, and at Raskolnikov even with a certain bewilderment. The unexpected presence of Zamyotov struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.

“This still needs some figuring out!” he thought.

“Excuse me, please,” he began, trying to look abashed, “Raskolnikov . . .”

“But, my goodness, sir, how nice, and how nicely you came in...What, doesn't he intend even to say hello?” Porfiry Petrovich nodded towards Razumikhin.

“By God, I don't know why he's so furious with me. I simply told him on the way here that he resembled Romeo, and...and proved it. I can't think of anything else.”

“Swine!” Razumikhin responded, without turning around.

“He must have had very serious reasons, if he got so angry over one little word,” Porfiry laughed.

“Ah, you—investigator! ... Ah, devil take you all!” Razumikhin snapped, and suddenly laughed himself, and with a cheerful face, as though nothing had happened, went up to Porfiry Petrovich.

“Enough! Fools all! To business now: this is my friend, Rodion Romanych Raskolnikov; first of all, he's heard about you and has been wanting to make your acquaintance, and, second, he has a little business with you. Hah! Zamyotov! What brings you here? You mean you know each other? Since when?”

“What's this now!” Raskolnikov thought uneasily.

Zamyotov seemed abashed, but not very.

“We met yesterday, at your place,” he said offhandedly.

“So God spared me the trouble: last week he was begging me terribly to get him introduced to you somehow, Porfiry, but here you've rubbed noses without me...Where do you keep your tobacco?”

Porfiry Petrovich was casually dressed, in a house-jacket, a rather clean shirt, and down-at-the-heel slippers. He was a man of about thirty-five, of less than average height, stout and even pot-bellied, clean-shaven, with no moustache or side-whiskers, and with closely cropped hair on a large, round head that bulged somehow especially roundly at the back. His puffy, round, slightly pug-nosed face was of a sickly, dark yellow color, but rather cheerful and even mocking. It would even have been good-natured were it not for the expression of his eyes, which had a sort of liquid, watery gleam and were covered by nearly white eyelashes that blinked as though winking at someone. The look of these eyes was strangely out of harmony with his whole figure, which had something womanish about it, and lent it something a good deal more serious than might have been expected at first sight.

As soon as he heard that his guest had “a little business” with him, he at once asked him to sit down on the sofa, sat down himself at the other end, and stared at his guest, expecting an immediate account of the business, with the sort of eager and all too serious attention that from the first becomes burdensome and embarrassing, especially for a stranger, and especially when what is being recounted seems, in one's own opinion, out of all proportion to the unusually weighty attention accorded it. But Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and precisely, in brief and coherent terms, and was left so pleased with himself that he even managed to give Porfiry a thorough looking-over. Porfiry Petrovich, for his part, never once took his eyes off him during the whole time. Razumikhin, settling himself across the table from them, hotly and impatiently followed the account of the business, shifting his glance every second from one to the other and back, which was even a bit too much.

“Fool!” Raskolnikov cursed to himself.

“You ought to make a statement to the police,” Porfiry replied with a most businesslike look, “that, having been informed of such-and-such an event—of this murder, that is—you ask in your turn to inform the investigator in charge of the case that such-and-such things belong to you, and that you wish to redeem them...or perhaps...however, they'll write it out for you.”

“That's just the point, that at the present moment,” Raskolnikov did his best to look as abashed as possible, “I am not exactly solvent . . . and even such a trifle is more than...You see, for now I'd like simply to declare that the things are mine, and that when I have the money...”

“That doesn't matter, sir,” Porfiry Petrovich answered, taking the explanation of finances coldly, “and, as a matter of fact, if you wish you can write directly to me, to the same effect, that having been informed of this and that, and declaring such-and-such things mine, I ask . . .”

“On ordinary paper?” Raskolnikov hastened to interrupt, interested again in the financial aspect of the matter.

“Oh, the most ordinary, sir!” Porfiry Petrovich suddenly looked at him somehow with obvious mockery, narrowing his eyes and as if winking at him. However, perhaps it only seemed so to Raskolnikov, because it lasted no more than an instant. There was something of the sort, at least. Raskolnikov would have sworn to God that he winked at him, devil knew why.

“He knows!” flashed in him like lightning.

“Excuse me for bothering you with such trifles,” he went on, somewhat disconcerted, “my things are worth only five roubles, but they are especially dear to me as mementos of those from whom I received them, and, I confess, as soon as I found out, I was very afraid . . .”

“That's why you got so roused up yesterday when I let on to Zossimov that Porfiry was questioning the pawners!” Razumikhin put in with obvious intention.

Now, this was insufferable. Raskolnikov could not help himself and angrily flashed a glance at him, his black eyes burning with wrath. But he immediately recovered himself.

“You seem to be taunting me, brother?” he turned to him with artfully feigned irritation. “I agree that in your eyes I may care too much about such trash, but you cannot regard me as greedy or egoistic for that, and in my eyes these two worthless little trinkets may not be trash at all. I told you just now that this two-penny silver watch is the only thing left of my father's. You may laugh, but my mother has come to visit me,” he suddenly turned to Porfiry again, “and if she were to find out,” he quickly turned back to Razumikhin, trying especially hard to make his voice tremble, “that this watch is lost, I swear she would be in despair! Women!”

“But it's not that at all! I meant it in a different way! Quite the opposite!” exclaimed the distressed Razumikhin.

“Well done? Natural? Not exaggerated?” Raskolnikov trembled within himself. “Why did I say 'women'?”

“Your mother has come to visit you?” Porfiry Petrovich inquired for some reason.

“Yes.”

“When was that, sir?”

“Yesterday evening.”

Porfiry paused, as if considering something.

“Your things would not be lost in any event,” he went on calmly and coldly, “because I've been sitting here a long time waiting for you.”

And as though nothing were the matter, he solicitously began offering an. ashtray to Razumikhin, who was mercilessly flicking cigarette ashes on the carpet. Raskolnikov gave a start, but Porfiry, still solicitous for Razumikhin's cigarette, seemed not to be looking.

“Wha-a-at? Waiting? So you knew he had pawned things there?” exclaimed Razumikhin.

Porfiry Petrovich addressed Raskolnikov directly.

“Your two things, the ring and the watch, she had wrapped up in one piece of paper, with your name clearly written on it in pencil, together with the day and month when she received them from you . . .”

“How is it you're so observant? . . .” Raskolnikov grinned awkwardly, making a special effort to look him straight in the eye; but he could not help himself and suddenly added: “I just made that observation because there were probably many pawners...so that it would be difficult for you to remember them all... But, on the contrary, you remember them all so distinctly, and...and...”

(“Stupid! Weak! Why did I add that!”)

“Yes, almost all the pawners are known now; in fact, you are the only one who has not been so good as to pay us a visit,” Porfiry replied, with a barely noticeable shade of mockery.

“I was not feeling very well.”

“So I have heard, sir. I've even heard that you were greatly upset by something. You also seem pale now.”

“Not pale at all...on the contrary, I'm quite well!” Raskolnikov snapped rudely and angrily, suddenly changing his tone. Anger was boiling up in him and he could not suppress it. “And it's in anger that I'll make some slip!” flashed in him again. “But why are they tormenting me! . . .”

“Not feeling very well!” Razumikhin picked up. “Listen to that drivel! He was in delirium and almost unconscious until yesterday...Would you believe it, Porfiry, he could hardly stand up, but as soon as we—Zossimov and I—turned our backs yesterday, he got dressed and made off on the sly, and carried on somewhere till almost midnight—and all that, I tell you, in complete delirium, can you imagine it! A remarkable case!”

“Really, in complete delirium? You don't say!” Porfiry shook his head with a sort of womanish gesture.

“Ah, nonsense! Don't believe it! But then, you don't believe it anyway!” escaped from Raskolnikov, who was now much too angry. However, Porfiry Petrovich seemed not to hear these strange words.

“But how could you have gone out if you weren't delirious?” Razumikhin suddenly lost his temper. “Why did you go out? What for?...And why precisely on the sly? Was there any common sense in you then? Now that all the danger is past, I can say it straight out!”

“I got awfully sick of them yesterday,” Raskolnikov suddenly turned to Porfiry with an insolently defiant grin, “so I ran away from them to rent an apartment where they wouldn't find me, and I took a pile of money with me. Mr. Zamyotov here saw the money. What do you say, Mr. Zamyotov, was I intelligent yesterday or delirious? Settle the argument!”

He could really have strangled Zamyotov at that moment, so much did he dislike his silence and the look in his eyes.

“In my opinion you spoke quite intelligently, and even cunningly, sir, only you were rather irritable,” Zamyotov declared dryly.

“And Nikodim Fomich told me today,” Porfiry Petrovich put in, “that he met you yesterday, quite late, in the apartment of an official who had been run over by horses . . .”

“Now, take this official, for instance!” Razumikhin picked up. “Now, weren't you crazy at the official's place? You gave all your money to the widow for the funeral! Now, if you wanted to help—

well, give her fifteen, give her twenty, leave three roubles for yourself at least—but no, you just forked over the whole twenty-five!”

“Maybe I found a treasure somewhere, and you don't know it. So I gave her money with both hands yesterday...Mr. Zamyotov here knows I found a treasure! ... Excuse us, please,” he turned to Porfiry with twitching lips, “for bothering you for half an hour with such a trivial exchange. You must be sick of it, eh?”

“My goodness, sir, on the contrary, on the co-o-ontrary! You have no idea how you interest me! It's curious both to look and to listen...and, I admit, I'm very glad that you have finally been so good as to come . . .”

“Well, give us some tea at least! Our throats are dry!” Razumikhin cried.

“A wonderful idea! Maybe everyone will join us. But wouldn't you like...something more substantial...before tea?”

“Ah, go on!”

Porfiry Petrovich went to send for tea.

Thoughts were spinning like a whirlwind in Raskolnikov's head. He was terribly annoyed.

“What's more, they don't even conceal it; they don't even care to stand on ceremony! What occasion did you have for talking about me with Nikodim Fomich, since you don't know me at all? It means they don't even care to conceal the fact that they're watching me like a pack of dogs! They spit in my mug quite openly!” He was trembling with fury. “Strike directly, then; don't play cat and mouse with me. It's not polite, Porfiry Petrovich, and I may still, perhaps, not allow it, sir! ... I'll get up and blurt out the whole truth in your mugs; then you'll see how I despise you! . . .” He caught his breath with difficulty. “But what if it only seems so to me? What if it's a mirage, what if I'm completely mistaken, get angry on account of my inexperience, and fail to keep up my vile role? Maybe it's all unintentional? Their words are all ordinary, but there's something in them...All this can always be said, and yet there is something. Why did he come out with that 'she'? Why did Zamyotov add that I spoke cunningly? Why do they all speak in such a tone? Yes...that tone...Razumikhin has been sitting right here, why does he not imagine anything? The innocent dolt never imagines anything! I'm feverish again! ... Did Porfiry wink at me just now, or not? Must be nonsense; why would he wink? Do they want to irritate my nerves, or are they taunting me? Either it's all a mirage, or they know!. . . Even Zamyotov is impertinent...Is Zamyotov impertinent? Zamyotov's changed his mind overnight. I had a feeling he'd change his mind! He seems quite at home here, yet it's the first time he's come. Porfiry doesn't treat him like a guest, turns his back to him. They've already rubbed noses. They must have rubbed noses because of me! They must have been talking about me before we came! ... Do they know about the apartment? Just get it over with! ... When I said I ran away yesterday to rent an apartment, he let it go, he didn't pick it up...It was clever to put that in about the apartment—I'll need it later! ... In delirium, I said! ... Ha, ha, ha! He knows all about yesterday evening! But he didn't know about mother's arrival! ... And the witch wrote down the date with a pencil! ... Lies! I won't let you get me! These aren't facts yet, they're only a mirage! No, just try giving me facts! The apartment is not a fact either, it's delirium; I know what to tell them...But do they know about the apartment? I won't go until I find out! Why did I come? But that I'm angry now—that, perhaps, is a fact! Pah, how irritable I am! But maybe that's good; the role of the sick man...He's feeling me out. He'll try to throw me off. Why did I come?”

All this swept like lightning through his head.

Porfiry Petrovich was back in an instant. He suddenly became somehow merry.

“Since your party yesterday, brother, my head...in fact, the whole of me is somehow unscrewed,” he began in quite a different tone, laughing, to Razumikhin.

“Well, was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point. Who won?”

“No one, naturally. We got on to the eternal questions, and it all stayed in the clouds.”

“Just imagine what they got on to yesterday, Rodya: is there such a thing as crime, or not? He said they all lied themselves into the blue devils.”

“What's so surprising? It's an ordinary social question,” Raskolnikov replied distractedly.

“The question was not formulated that way,” Porfiry observed.

“Not quite that way, it's true,” Razumikhin agreed at once, hurrying and getting excited as usual. “You see, Rodion—listen and give your opinion, I want it. I was turning inside out yesterday waiting for you; I told them about you, too, that you were going to come...It started with the views of the socialists. Their views are well known: crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social set-up— that alone and nothing more, no other causes are admitted—but nothing! . . .”

“Now, that is a lie!” cried Porfiry Petrovich. He was growing visibly animated and laughing all the while, looking at Razumikhin, which fired him up all the more.

“N-nothing is admitted!” Razumikhin interrupted hotly. “I'm not lying! ... I'll show you their books: with them one is always a 'victim of the environment'—and nothing else! Their favorite phrase! Hence directly that if society itself is normally set up, all crimes will at once disappear, because there will be no reason for protesting and everyone will instantly become righteous. Nature isn't taken into account, nature is driven out, nature is not supposed to be! With them it's not mankind developing all along in a historical, living way that will finally turn by itself into a normal society, but, on the contrary, a social system, coming out of some mathematical head, will at once organize the whole of mankind and instantly make it righteous and sinless, sooner than any living process, without any historical and living way! That's why they have such an instinctive dislike of history: 'there's nothing in it but outrage and stupidity'—and everything is explained by stupidity alone! That's why they so dislike the living process of life: there's no need for the living soul! The living soul will demand life, the living soul won't listen to mechanics, the living soul is suspicious, the living soul is retrograde! While here, though there may be a whiff of carrion, and it may all be made out of rubber—still it's not alive, still it has no will, still it's slavish, it won't rebel! And it turns out in the end that they've reduced everything to mere brickwork and the layout of corridors and rooms in a phalanstery!^[75] The phalanstery may be all ready, but your nature isn't ready for the phalanstery, it wants life, it hasn't completed the life process yet, it's too soon for the cemetery! You can't overleap nature with logic alone! Logic will presuppose three cases, when there are a million of them! Cut away the whole million, and reduce everything to the one question of comfort! The easiest solution to the problem! Enticingly clear, and there's no need to think! Above all, there's no need to think! The whole of life's mystery can fit on two printed pages!”

“He's broken loose again, drumming away! You've got to hold him by both arms,” Porfiry laughed. “Imagine,” he turned to Raskolnikov, “it was the same yesterday evening, with six voices, in one room, and with preliminary punch-drinking besides—can you picture that? No, brother, you're lying: 'environment' means a great deal in crime; I can confirm that.”

“I know it means a great deal, but tell me this: a forty-year-old man dishonors a girl of ten—was it the environment that made him do it?”

“Well, strictly speaking, perhaps it is the environment,” Porfiry observed with surprising solemnity. “The crime against the girl may very well be explained by the 'environment.’”

Razumikhin all but flew into a rage.

“And if you like I can deduce for you right now,” he bellowed, “that you have white eyelashes solely because Ivan the Great^[76] is two hundred and fifty feet high, and I can deduce it clearly, precisely, progressively, and even with a liberal tinge. I can! Want to bet?”

“I accept! Let's listen, please, to how he deduces it!”

“Ah, he just goes on pretending, devil take it!” Razumikhin cried out, jumped up, and waved his arm. “You're not worth talking to! He does it all on purpose, you don't know him yet, Rodion! And he took their side yesterday just so as to fool them all. And, Lord, the things he was saying! And didn't he make them happy! ... He sometimes keeps it up like that for two weeks. Last year he assured us, who knows why, that he was going to become a monk: he stood by it for two months! Recently he decided to assure us he was getting married and that everything was set for the wedding. He even had a new suit made. We already started congratulating him. There was no bride, nothing— it was all a mirage!”

“Ah, that's a lie! I had the suit made before. It was because of the new suit that it occurred to me to pull your legs.”

“Are you really such a dissembler?” Raskolnikov asked casually.

“And did you think I wasn't? Just wait, I'll take you in, too—ha, ha, ha! No, you see, I'll tell you the whole truth! Speaking of all these questions, crimes, the environment, little girls, I now recall, though it always interested me, a certain article of yours: 'On Crime'...or whatever it was, I don't remember the title, I've forgotten. I had the pleasure of reading it two months ago in Periodical Discourse. “

“My article? In Periodical Discourse?” Raskolnikov asked in surprise. “I did indeed write an article dealing with a certain book six months ago, when I left the university, but at the time I took it to Weekly Discourse, not Periodical. “

“Yet it got into Periodical Discourse. “

“But Weekly Discourse ceased to exist, which is why it wasn't printed then . . .”

“That's true, sir; and as it was ceasing to exist, Weekly Discourse merged with Periodical Discourse, and so your little article appeared two months ago in Periodical Discourse. And you didn't know?”

Raskolnikov indeed knew nothing.

“But, my goodness, you can demand payment from them for the article! What a character you have, though! Your life is so solitary that you don't even know things that concern you directly. It's a fact, sir.”

“Bravo, Rodka! I didn't know either!” Razumikhin exclaimed. “I'll stop by the reading room today and look for that issue! Two months ago? What was the date? Anyway, I'll find it! What a thing! And he doesn't even say!”

“But how did you find out that the article was mine? I signed it with an initial.”

“By chance, and only the other day. Through the editor, an acquaintance of mine...I was quite interested.”

“As I recall, I was considering the psychological state of the criminal throughout the course of the crime.”

“Yes, sir, and you maintain that the act of carrying out a crime is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but... as a matter of fact, what interested me was not that part of your article, but a certain thought tossed in at the end, which unfortunately you present only vaguely, by way of a hint... In short, if you recall, a certain hint is presented that there supposedly exist in the world certain persons who can...that is, who not only can but are fully entitled to commit all sorts of crimes and excesses and to whom the law supposedly does not apply.”

Raskolnikov smiled at this forced and deliberate distortion of his idea.

“What? How's that? The right to commit crimes? But not because they're 'victims of the environment'?” Razumikhin inquired, even somewhat fearfully.

“No, no, not quite because of that,” Porfiry replied. “The whole point is that in his article all people are somehow divided into the 'ordinary' and the 'extraordinary.' The ordinary must live in obedience and have no right to transgress the law, because they are, after all, ordinary. While the extraordinary have the right to commit all sorts of crimes and in various ways to transgress the law, because in point of fact they are extraordinary. That is how you had it, unless I'm mistaken?”

“But what is this? It can't possibly be so!” Razumikhin muttered in perplexity.

Raskolnikov smiled again. He realized all at once what the point was and where he was being led; he remembered his article. He decided to accept the challenge.

“That isn't quite how I had it,” he began, simply and modestly. “I admit, however, that your summary is almost correct, even perfectly correct, if you like . . .” (It was as if he were pleased to agree that it was perfectly correct.) “The only difference is that I do not at all insist that extraordinary people absolutely must and are duty bound at all times to do all sorts of excesses, as you say. I even think that such an article would never be accepted for publication. I merely suggested that an 'extraordinary' man has the right... that is, not an official right, but his own right, to allow his conscience to...step over certain obstacles, and then only in the event that the fulfillment of his idea— sometimes perhaps salutary for the whole of mankind—calls for it. You have been pleased to say that my article is unclear; I am prepared to clarify it for you, as far as I can. I will perhaps not be mistaken in supposing that that seems to be just what you want. As you please, sir. In my opinion, if, as the result of certain combinations, Kepler's or Newton's discoveries could become known to people in no other way than by sacrificing the lives of one, or ten, or a hundred or more people who were hindering the discovery, or standing as an obstacle in its path, then Newton would have the right, and it would even be his duty . . . to remove those ten or a hundred people, in order to make his discoveries known to all mankind. It by no means follows from this, incidentally, that Newton should have the right to kill anyone he pleases, whomever happens along, or to steal from the market every day. Further, I recall developing in my article the idea that all... well, let's say, the lawgivers and founders of mankind, starting from the most ancient and going on to the Lycurguses, the Solons, the Muhammads, the Napoleons, and so forth,^[77] that all of them to a man were criminals, from the fact alone that in giving a new law they thereby violated the old one, held sacred by society and passed down from their fathers, and they certainly did not stop at shedding blood either, if it happened that blood (sometimes quite innocent and shed valiantly for the ancient law) could help them. It is even remarkable that most of these benefactors and founders of mankind were especially terrible blood-shedders. In short, I deduce that all, not only great men, but even those who are a tiny bit off the beaten track—that is, who are a tiny bit capable of saying something new—by their very nature cannot fail to be criminals—more or less, to be sure. Otherwise it would be hard for them to get off the beaten track, and, of course, they cannot consent to stay on it, again by nature, and in my opinion it is even their duty not to consent. In short, you see that so far there is nothing especially new here. It has been printed and read a thousand times. As for my dividing people into ordinary and extraordinary, I agree that it is somewhat arbitrary, but I don't really insist on exact numbers. I only believe in my main idea. It consists precisely in people being divided generally, according to the law of nature, into two categories: a lower or, so to speak, material category (the ordinary), serving solely for the reproduction of their own kind; and people proper—that is, those who have the gift or talent of speaking a new word in their environment. The subdivisions here are naturally endless, but the distinctive features of both categories are quite marked: people of the first, or material, category are by nature conservative, staid, live in obedience, and like being obedient. In my opinion they even must be obedient, because that is their purpose, and for them there is decidedly nothing humiliating in it. Those of the second category all transgress the law, are destroyers or inclined to destroy, depending on their abilities. The crimes of these people, naturally, are relative and variegated; for the most part they call, in quite diverse declarations, for the destruction of the present in the name of the better. But if such a one needs, for the sake of his idea, to step even over a dead body, over blood, then within himself, in his conscience, he can, in my opinion, allow himself to step over blood—depending, however, on the idea and its scale—make note of that. It is only in this sense that I speak in my article of their right to crime. (You recall we began with the legal question.) However, there's not much cause for alarm: the masses hardly ever acknowledge this right in them; they punish them and hang them (more or less), thereby quite rightly fulfilling their conservative purpose; yet, for all that, in subsequent generations these same masses place the punished ones on a pedestal and worship them (more or less). The first category is always master of the present; the second— master of the future. The first preserves the world and increases it numerically; the second moves the world and leads it towards a goal. Both the one and the other have a perfectly equal right to exist. In short, for me all men's rights are equivalent—and vive la guerre éternelle—until the New Jerusalem, of course!”^[78]

“So you still believe in the New Jerusalem?”

“I believe,” Raskolnikov answered firmly; saying this, as throughout his whole tirade, he looked at the ground, having picked out a certain spot on the carpet.

“And...and...and do you also believe in God? Excuse me for being so curious.”

“I believe,” Raskolnikov repeated, looking up at Porfiry.

“And...and do you believe in the raising of Lazarus?”^[79]

“I be-believe. What do you need all this for?”

“You believe literally?”

“Literally.”

“I see, sir...just curious. Excuse me, sir. But, if I may say so— returning to the previous point—they aren't always punished; some, on the contrary...”

“Triumph in their own lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain in their own lifetime, and then . . .”

“Start doing their own punishing?”

“If necessary, and, in fact, almost always. Your observation, generally speaking, is quite witty.”

“Thank you, sir. But tell me this: how does one manage to distinguish these extraordinary ones from the ordinary? Are they somehow marked at birth, or what? What I'm getting at is that one could do with more accuracy here, more outward certainty, so to speak: excuse the natural uneasiness of a practical and law-abiding man, but wouldn't it be possible in this case, for example, to introduce some special clothing, the wearing of some insignia, or whatever?...Because, you must agree, if there is some sort of mix-up, and a person from one category imagines he belongs to the other category and starts 'removing all obstacles,' as you quite happily put it, well then . . .”

“Oh, it happens quite often! This observation is even wittier than your last one...”

“Thank you, sir . . .”

“Not at all, sir; but consider also that a mistake is possible only on the part of the first category, that is, the 'ordinary' people (as I have called them, perhaps rather unfortunately). In spite of their innate tendency to obedience, by some playfulness of nature that is not denied even to cows, quite a few of them like to imagine themselves progressive people, 'destroyers,' who are in on the 'new word,' and that in all sincerity, sir. And at the same time they quite often fail to notice the really new ones, and even despise them as backward, shabby-minded people. But in my opinion there cannot be any significant danger here, and there is really nothing for you to be alarmed about, because they never go far. Of course, they ought to receive an occasional whipping, to remind them of their place when they get carried away, but no more than that; there isn't even any need for someone to whip them: they'll whip themselves, because they're so well behaved; some perform this service for each other, and some do it with their own hands...all the while imposing various public penances on themselves—the result is beautiful and edifying; in short, there's nothing for you to be alarmed about...Such a law exists.”

“Well, at least you've reassured me somewhat in that regard; but then there's this other worry: tell me, please, are there many of these people who have the right to put a knife into others—I mean, of these 'extraordinary' ones? I am ready to bow down, of course, but you'll agree, sir, it's a bit eerie if there are too many of them, eh?”

“Oh, don't worry about that either,” Raskolnikov went on in the same tone. “Generally, there are remarkably few people born who have a new thought, who are capable, if only slightly, of saying anything new—strangely few, in fact. One thing is clear, that the ordering of people's conception, all these categories and subdivisions, must be quite correctly and precisely determined by some law of nature. This law is as yet unknown, of course, but I believe that it exists and may one day be known. An enormous mass of people, of material, exists in the world only so that finally, through some effort, some as yet mysterious process, through some interbreeding of stocks and races, with great strain it may finally bring into the world, let's say, at least one somewhat independent man in a thousand. Perhaps one in ten thousand is born with a broader independence (I'm speaking approximately, graphically). With a still broader independence—one in a hundred thousand. Men of genius—one in millions; and great geniuses, the fulfillers of mankind—perhaps after the elapsing of many thousands of millions of people on earth. In short, I have not looked into the retort where all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law; it can be no accident.”

“What, are you two joking or something?” Razumikhin cried out at last. “Addling each other's brains, aren't you? Sitting there and poking fun at each other! Are you serious, Rodya?”

Raskolnikov silently raised his pale, almost sad face to him, and did not answer. And how strange this quiet and sad face seemed to Razumikhin next to the undisguised, intrusive, annoying, and impolite sarcasm of Porfiry.

“Well, brother, if it's really serious, then...You're right, of course, in saying that it's nothing new, and resembles everything we've read and heard a hundred times over; but what is indeed original in it all—and, to my horror, is really yours alone—is that you do finally permit bloodshed in all conscience and, if I may say so, even with such fanaticism...So this is the main point of your article. This permission to shed blood in all conscience is...is to my mind more horrible than if bloodshed were officially, legally permitted . . .”

“Quite right, it's more horrible,” Porfiry echoed.

“No, you got carried away somehow! It's a mistake. I'll read it...You got carried away! You can't think like that...I'll read it.”

“That's not all in the article; it's only hinted at,” said Raskolnikov.

“Right, right, sir,” Porfiry could not sit still. “It has now become almost clear to me how you choose to look at crime, sir, but... excuse my importunity (I'm bothering you so much; I'm quite ashamed!)— you see, sir, you have reassured me greatly concerning cases of a mistaken mixing of the two categories, but...I keep being bothered by various practical cases! Now, what if some man, or youth, imagines himself a Lycurgus or a Muhammad—a future one, to be sure—and goes and starts removing all obstacles to that end...We're faced with a long campaign, and for this campaign we need money...and so he starts providing himself for the campaign...you know what I mean?”

Zamyotov suddenly snorted from his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him.

“I have to agree,” he answered calmly, “that such cases must indeed occur. The vain and silly in particular fall for such bait; young men particularly.”

“So you see, sir. Well, and what then, sir?”

“Then nothing,” Raskolnikov smiled. “It's not my fault. That's how it is and always will be. Now, he just said” (he nodded towards Razu-mikhin) “that I permit the shedding of blood. What of it? Society is all too well provided with banishments, prisons, court investigators, hard labor camps—why worry? Go and catch your thief! ... ”

“And what if we do catch him?”

“Serves him right.”

“You're logical, after all. Well, sir, and what about his conscience?”

“But what business is that of yours?”

“But just out of humaneness, sir.”

“Whoever has one can suffer, if he acknowledges his error. It's a punishment for him—on top of hard labor.”

“Well, and those who are the true geniuses—the ones who are granted the right to put a knife into others,” Razumikhin asked, frowning, “they ought not to suffer at all, even for the blood they've shed?”

“Why this word ought? There's neither permission nor prohibition here. Let him suffer, if he pities his victim...Suffering and pain are always obligatory for a broad consciousness and a deep heart. Truly great men, I think, must feel great sorrow in this world,” he suddenly added pensively, not even in the tone of the conversation.

He raised his eyes, gave them all a thoughtful look, smiled, and took his cap. He was too calm, compared with when he had first come, and he felt it. Everyone rose.

“Well, sir, curse me if you like, be angry if you like, but I cannot help myself,” Porfiry Petrovich rounded off again. “Allow me one more little question (I really am bothering you, sir!); I would like to introduce just one little idea, simply so as not to forget, sir...”

“Very well, tell me your little idea,” Raskolnikov stood expectantly before him, pale and serious.

“Now then, sir...I really don't know how best to express it...it's such a playful idea...a psychological idea...Now then, sir, it really cannot be—heh, heh, heh!—that when you were writing your little article you did not regard yourself—say, just the tiniest bit—as one of the 'extraordinary' people, as saying a new word—in your sense, I mean...Isn't that so, sir?”

“It's quite possible,” Raskolnikov replied disdainfully.

Razumikhin stirred.

“And if so, sir, can it be that you yourself would venture—say, in view of certain worldly failures and constraints, or somehow for the furtherance of all mankind—to step over the obstacle?...well, for instance, to kill and rob? . . .”

And he somehow suddenly winked at him again with his left eye and laughed inaudibly—exactly as earlier.

“If I did, I would certainly not tell you,” Raskolnikov answered with defiant, haughty disdain.

“No, sir, it's just that I'm interested, properly speaking, in understanding your article, in a literary sense only, sir . . .”

“Pah, how obvious and insolent!” Raskolnikov thought in disgust.

“Allow me to observe,” he answered dryly, “that I do not consider myself a Muhammad or a Napoleon... or any such person whatsoever, and am consequently unable, not being them, to give you a satisfactory explanation of how I would act.”

“But, my goodness, who in our Russia nowadays doesn't consider himself a Napoleon?” Porfiry suddenly pronounced with horrible familiarity. There was something particularly clear this time even in the tone of his voice.

“Might it not have been some future Napoleon who bumped off our Alyona Ivanovna with an axe last week?” Zamyotov suddenly blurted out from his corner.

Raskolnikov was silent, looking firmly and fixedly at Porfiry. Razumikhin frowned gloomily. He seemed to have begun noticing something even earlier. He looked wrathfully around him. A moment of gloomy silence passed. Raskolnikov turned to leave.

“Leaving already!” Porfiry said kindly, holding out his hand with extreme affability. “I'm very, very glad to have made your acquaintance. And concerning your request, do not be in any doubt. Simply write as I told you. Or, best of all, come to my office yourself...one of these days...tomorrow, even. I'll be there around eleven o'clock for certain. We can settle everything...and talk...Since you were one of the last to be there, you might be able to tell us something . . .” he added, with a most good-natured air.

“You want to question me officially, with all the trimmings?” Raskolnikov asked sharply.

“What for, sir? There's no need of that as yet. You misunderstand me. You see, I never let an opportunity go by, and...and I've already talked with all the other pawners...taken evidence from some...and since you're the last one...Oh, yes, by the way!” he exclaimed, suddenly happy about something, “by the way, I've just remembered—what's the matter with me! . . .” He turned to Razu-mikhin. “You were carping at me all the time about this Nikolashka...well, I know, I know myself that the lad is clear,” he turned back to Raskolnikov, “but there was no help for it; we had to bother Mitka as well...The thing is, sir, the whole point is: going up the stairs that time...excuse me, you were there before eight, sir?”

“Before eight,” Raskolnikov answered, at the same time with an unpleasant feeling that he need not have said it.

“So, passing by on the stairs before eight o'clock, did you at least notice two workers in the open apartment—remember?—on the second floor? Or at least one of them? They were painting, didn't you see? This is very, very important for them! ... ”

“Painters? No, I didn't see . . .” Raskolnikov answered slowly, as if rummaging through his memories, at the same time straining his whole being and frozen with anguish trying to guess where precisely the trap lay, and how not to overlook something. “No, I didn't see, and I didn't notice any open apartment either...but on the fourth floor” (he was now in full possession of the trap and was triumphant) “I do remember there was an official moving out of the apartment. . . opposite Alyona Ivanovna's...yes...that I remember clearly...soldiers carrying out some sofa and pressing me against the wall...but painters—no, I don't remember any painters being there...and I don't think there was any open apartment anywhere. No, there wasn't . . .”

“But what's the matter with you!” Razumikhin exclaimed suddenly, as if coming to his senses and figuring things out. “The painters were working on the day of the crime itself, and he was there two days earlier! Why ask him?”

“Pah! I got it all mixed up!” Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. “Devil take it, my mind stumbles all over itself with this case!” he said to Raskolnikov, as if in apology. “It's so important for us to find out if anyone saw them in the apartment between seven and eight, that I fancied just now you also might be able to tell us...I got it totally mixed up!”

“Well, so you ought to be more careful,” Razumikhin observed morosely.

These last words were spoken in the entryway. Porfiry Petrovich saw them right to the door, with extreme affability. They both came out to the street gloomy and sullen, and did not say a word for a few steps. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath . . .

VI

...I don't believe it! I can't believe it!” the puzzled Razumikhin repeated, trying his best to refute Raskolnikov's arguments. They were already approaching Bakaleev's rooming house, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dunya had long been expecting them. In the heat of the conversation, Razumikhin kept stopping every moment, embarrassed and excited by the mere fact that they were talking openly about that for the first time.

“Don't, then!” Raskolnikov replied, with a cold and careless smile. “You noticed nothing, as is usual with you, but I weighed every word.”

“You're insecure, that's why...Hm...I must admit Porfiry's tone was rather strange, and that scoundrel Zamyotov especially! ... You're right, there was something in him—but why? Why?”

“Changed his mind overnight.”

“But it's the opposite, the opposite! If they did have such a brainless idea, they'd try their best to conceal it and keep their cards hidden, so as to catch you later...But now—it was so insolent and reckless!”

“If they had any facts—real facts, that is—or somewhat well-founded suspicions at least, then they would indeed try to conceal their game, in hopes of bigger winnings (but then they would have made a search long ago!). They have no facts, however, not a one—it's all a mirage, all double-ended, just a fleeting idea—so they're using insolence to try to throw me off. Maybe he's angry himself that there are no facts, and his irritation broke through. Or maybe he has something in mind...It seems he's an intelligent man...Maybe he wanted to frighten me with his knowing...There's psychology for you, brother...But enough! It's disgusting to explain it all!”

“And insulting, insulting! I understand you! But...since we've started talking openly now (and it's excellent that we're talking openly; I'm glad!)—I will now confess to you straight out that I've noticed it in them for some time, this idea, all along; in the tiniest sense, naturally; a creeping suspicion—but why even a creeping one! How dare they! Where, where are its roots hidden? If you knew how furious I was! What, just because a poor student, crippled by poverty and hypochondria, on the verge of a cruel illness and delirium, which may already have begun in him (note that!), insecure, vain, conscious of his worth, who for six months has sat in his corner seeing no one, in rags, in boots without soles, is standing there in front of some local cops, suffering their abuse; and here there's an unexpected debt shoved in his nose, an overdue promissory note from the court councillor Chebarov, rancid paint, thirty degrees Reaumur,^[80] a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people, a story about the murder of a person he'd visited the day before—and all this on an empty stomach! How could anyone not faint! And to base everything on that, on that! Devil take it! I know it's annoying, but in your place, Rodka, I'd burst out laughing in their faces; or, better—I'd spit in their mugs, and lay it on thick, and deal out a couple of dozen whacks all around—wisely, as it should always be done—and that would be the end of it. Spit on them! Cheer up! For shame!”

“He explained it well, however,” Raskolnikov thought.

“Spit on them? And tomorrow another interrogation!” he said bitterly. “Should I really get into explanations with them? I'm already annoyed that I stooped to Zamyotov yesterday in the tavern...”

“Devil take it! I'll go to Porfiry myself! And I'll pin him down as a relative; let him lay it all out to the roots! As for Zamyotov . . .”

“He's finally figured it out!” thought Raskolnikov.

“Wait!” cried Razumikhin, suddenly seizing him by the shoulder. “Wait! You're all wrong! I've just thought it over: you're all wrong! Look, what sort of ruse was it? You say the question about the workmen was a ruse? Get what I'm saying: if you had done that, would you let on that you'd seen the apartment being painted...and the workmen? On the contrary: you didn't see anything, even if you did! Who's going to come out against himself?”

“If I had done that thing, I would certainly say I had seen both the apartment and the workmen,” Raskolnikov went on answering reluctantly and with obvious loathing.

“But why speak against oneself?”

“Because only peasants or the most inexperienced novices deny everything outright and all down the line. A man with even a bit of development and experience will certainly try to admit as far as possible all the external and unavoidable facts; only he'll seek other reasons for them, he'll work in some feature of his own, a special and unexpected one, that will give them an entirely different meaning and present them in a different light. Porfiry could precisely count on my being certain to answer that way, on my being certain to say I'd seen them, for the sake of plausibility, and working in something to explain it . . .”

“But he'd tell you immediately that there were no workmen there two days before, and that you had therefore been there precisely on the day of the murder, between seven and eight. He'd throw you off with nothing!”

“But that's what he was counting on, that I wouldn't have time to figure it out and would precisely hasten to answer more plausibly, forgetting that the workmen couldn't have been there two days before.”

“But how could one forget that?”

“What could be easier! It's with such nothings that clever people are thrown off most easily. The cleverer the man, the less he suspects that he can be thrown off with the simplest thing. It's precisely the simplest thing that will throw off the cleverest man. Porfiry isn't as stupid as you think...”

“In that case he's a scoundrel!”

Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the same moment it struck him as strange that he had become so animated and had so willingly uttered this last explanation, when he had kept up the whole previous conversation with sullen loathing, obviously for some purpose, out of necessity.

“I'm beginning to relish certain points!” he thought to himself.

But at almost the same moment he began suddenly to be somehow uneasy, as if struck by an unexpected and alarming thought. His unease kept growing. They had already reached the entrance to Bakaleev's rooming house.

“Go alone,” Raskolnikov said suddenly, “I'll be back right away.”

“Where are you going? We're already here!”

“I must, I must...something to do...I'll be back in half an hour...Tell them.”

“As you wish; I'll follow you!”

“So you want to torment me, too!” he cried out, with such bitter irritation, with such despair in his eyes, that Razumikhin dropped his hands. He stood for a while on the steps and watched glumly as Raskolnikov strode off quickly in the direction of his own lane. Finally, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, and swearing on the spot that he would squeeze Porfiry out like a lemon that very day, he went upstairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, alarmed by then at their long absence.

By the time Raskolnikov reached his house, his temples were damp with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He hastily climbed the stairs, walked into his unlocked apartment, and immediately put the door on the hook. Then he rushed fearfully and madly to the corner, to the same hole in the wallpaper where the things had lain, thrust his hand into it, and for several minutes felt around in it carefully, going over every cranny and every crease in the wallpaper. Finding nothing, he stood up and drew a deep breath. Just as he was coming to Bakaleev's steps, he had suddenly imagined that something, some chain, a cufflink, or even a scrap of the paper they had been wrapped in, with a mark on it in the old woman's hand, might somehow have slipped down and lost itself in a crack, afterwards to confront him suddenly as unexpected and irrefutable evidence.

He stood as if pensively, and a strange, humiliated, half-senseless smile wandered over his lips. Finally he took his cap and walked quietly out of the room. His thoughts were confused. Pensively, he went down to the gateway.

“Why, here's the man himself!” a loud voice exclaimed. He raised his head.

The caretaker was standing by the door of his closet, pointing him out to some short man, a tradesman by the look of it, who was wearing something like a smock over his waistcoat, and from a distance very much resembled a woman. His head hung down in its greasy cap, and he was as if all hunched over. His flabby, wrinkled face told more than fifty years; his small, swollen eyes had a sullen, stern, and displeased look.

“What is it?” Raskolnikov asked, coming up to the caretaker.

The tradesman gave him a sidelong look, examining him closely, attentively, unhurriedly; then he turned slowly and, without saying a word, walked out the gate to the street.

“But what is it!” Raskolnikov cried.

“Just somebody asking if a student lived here—he gave your name— and who you rent from. You came down right then, I pointed you out, and he left. How about that!”

The caretaker, too, was somewhat perplexed, but not very, and after thinking a moment longer, he turned and slouched back to his closet.

Raskolnikov rushed after the tradesman and caught sight of him at once, going along the other side of the street at the same steady and unhurried pace, his eyes fixed on the ground, as if pondering something. He soon overtook him, but walked behind him for a while; finally he drew abreast of him and stole a glance at his face from the side. The man noticed him at once, quickly looked him over, then dropped his eyes again, and thus they walked on for about a minute, side by side, neither one saying a word.

“You were asking for me...at the caretaker's?” Raskolnikov said at last, but somehow very softly.

The tradesman made no reply and did not even look. Again there was silence.

“But why do you...come asking...and say nothing...what does it mean?” Raskolnikov's voice was faltering, and the words somehow did not want to come out clearly.

This time the tradesman raised his eyes and gave Raskolnikov an ominous, gloomy look.

“Murderer!” he said suddenly, in a soft but clear and distinct voice.

Raskolnikov was walking beside him. His legs suddenly became terribly weak, a chill ran down his spine, and it was as if his heart stood still for a moment; then all at once it began pounding as if it had jumped off the hook. They walked on thus for about a hundred steps, side by side, and again in complete silence.

The tradesman did not look at him.

“What do you...what...who is a murderer?” Raskolnikov muttered, barely audibly.

“You are a murderer,” the man replied even more distinctly and imposingly, smiling as if with some hateful triumph, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov's pale face and deadened eyes. Just then they came to an intersection. The tradesman turned down the street to the left and walked on without looking back. Raskolnikov remained on the spot and gazed after him for a long time. He saw him turn around, after he had gone fifty steps or so, and look at him standing there motionlessly on the same spot. It was impossible to see, but Raskolnikov fancied that the man once again smiled his coldly hateful and triumphant smile.

With slow, weakened steps, with trembling knees and as if terribly cold, Raskolnikov returned and went upstairs to his closet. He took off his cap, put it on the table, and stood motionlessly beside it for about ten minutes. Then, powerless, he lay down on the sofa and painfully, with a weak moan, stretched out on it; his eyes were closed. He lay that way for about half an hour.

He was not thinking of anything. There were just some thoughts, or scraps of thoughts, images without order or connection—the faces of people he had seen as a child, or had met only once somewhere, and whom he would never even have remembered; the belfry of the V------y Church; the billiard table in some tavern, an officer by the billiard table, the smell of cigars in a basement tobacco shop, a pothouse, a back stairway, completely dark, all slopped with swill and strewn with eggshells, and from somewhere the sound of Sunday bells ringing...One thing followed another, spinning like a whirlwind. Some he even liked, and he clung to them, but they would die out, and generally something weighed on him inside, but not very much. At times he even felt good...The slight chill would not go away, but that, too, felt almost good.

He heard Razumikhin's hurrying steps and his voice, closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep. Razumikhin opened the door and for a while stood as if hesitating in the doorway. Then he stepped quietly into the room and cautiously approached the sofa. Nastasya could be heard whispering:

“Don't rile him; let him get some sleep; he can eat later.”

“Right you are,” answered Razumikhin.

They both went out cautiously and closed the door. Another half hour or so passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes and heaved himself over on his back again, his arms flung behind his head . . .

“Who is he? Who is this man who came from under the ground? Where was he and what did he see? He saw everything, there's no doubt of it. But where was he standing then, where was he watching from? Why did he come from under the floor only now? And how could he have seen—how is it possible?...Hm . . .” Raskolnikov went on, turning cold and shuddering, “and the case that Nikolai found behind the door—how was that possible? Evidence? One little thing in a hundred thousand overlooked—and here's evidence as big as an Egyptian pyramid! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible this way?”

And he suddenly felt with loathing how weak he had become, physically weak.

“I should have known,” he thought, with a bitter smile, “and how, knowing myself, anticipating myself, did I dare take an axe and bloody my hands! I had to have known beforehand...Eh! but I did know beforehand! . . .” he whispered in despair.

At times he stopped still at some thought.

“No, those people are made differently; the true master, to whom all is permitted, sacks Toulon, makes a slaughterhouse of Paris, forgets an army in Egypt, expends half a million men in a Moscow campaign, and gets off with a pun in Vilno; and when he dies they set up monuments to him—and thus everything is permitted.^[81] No, obviously such men are made not of flesh but of bronze!”

All at once a sudden, extraneous thought almost made him laugh:

“Napoleon, pyramids, Waterloo—and a scrawny, vile registrar's widow, a little old crone, a moneylender with a red trunk under her bed—well, how is Porfiry Petrovich, for instance, going to digest that! ... It's not for them to digest! ... Aesthetics will prevent them: would Napoleon, say, be found crawling under some 'little old crone's' bed! Eh, but what rot! . . .”

There were moments when he felt he was almost raving; he would fall into a feverishly ecstatic mood.

“The little old crone is nonsense!” he thought, ardently and impetuously. “The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she's not the point! The old woman was merely a sickness...I was in a hurry to step over...it wasn't a human being I killed, it was a principle! So I killed the principle, but I didn't step over, I stayed on this side...All I managed to do was kill. And I didn't even manage that, as it turns out...A principle? Why was that little fool Razumikhin abusing the socialists today? They're hardworking, commercial people, concerned with 'universal happiness'...No, life is given to me only once, and never will be again—I don't want to sit waiting for universal happiness. I want to live myself; otherwise it's better not to live at all. And so? I just didn't want to pass by my hungry mother, clutching my rouble in my pocket, while waiting for 'universal happiness.' To say, 'I'm carrying a little brick for universal happiness, and so there's a feeling of peace in my heart.'^[82] Ha, ha! But why did you leave me out? I have only one life; I, too, want...Eh, an aesthetic louse is what I am, and nothing more,” he added, suddenly bursting into laughter like a madman. “Yes, I really am a louse,” he went on, gloatingly seizing upon the thought, rummaging in it, playing and amusing himself with it, “if only because, first, I'm now reasoning about being a louse; second, because I've been troubling all-good Providence for a whole month, calling it to witness that I was undertaking it not to satisfy my own flesh and lust, but with a splendid and agreeable goal in mind—ha, ha! Third, because I resolved to observe all possible justice in carrying it out, weight, measure, arithmetic: I chose the most useless louse of all and, having killed her, decided to take from her exactly as much as I needed for the first step, no more and no less (and the rest would thus simply go to the monastery, according to her will—ha, ha!)...And ultimately, ultimately I am a louse,” he added, grinding his teeth, “because I myself am perhaps even more vile and nasty than the louse I killed, and I had anticipated beforehand that I would tell myself so after I killed her. Can anything compare with such horror! Oh, triteness! Oh, meanness! ... Oh, how well I understand the 'prophet' with his sabre, on his steed. Allah commands—obey, 'trembling' creature!^[83]He's right, the 'prophet' is right when he sets up a first-rate battery across a street somewhere and blasts away at the innocent and the guilty, without even stooping to explain himself! Obey, trembling creature and—forget your wishes, because—that's none of your business! ... Oh, nothing, nothing will make me forgive the old crone!”

His hair was damp with sweat, his trembling lips were parched, his fixed eyes were turned up to the ceiling.

“My mother, my sister, how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, hate them physically, I cannot bear having them near me...I went over and kissed mother this morning, I remember...To embrace her and think that if she found out, she...should I tell her, then? That would be just like me...Hm! She must be the same as I am,” he added, making an effort to think, as though struggling against the delirium that was taking hold of him. “Oh, how I hate that little old crone now! If she recovered, I think I'd kill her again! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she have to turn up there! ... Strange, though; why is it that I almost never think of her, as if I hadn't killed her?...Lizaveta! Sonya! Poor, meek ones, with meek eyes...Dear ones! ... Why don't they weep? Why don't they moan?...They give everything...their eyes are meek and gentle...Sonya, Sonya! Gentle Sonya! . . .”

He became oblivious; it seemed strange to him that he did not remember how he could have ended up in the street. It was already late evening. The twilight was thickening, the full moon shone brighter and brighter, but the air was somehow especially stifling. People moved in crowds along the street; artisans and office workers were going home, others were out for a stroll; there was a smell of lime, dust, stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along sad and preoccupied; he remembered very well that he had left the house with some purpose, that he had to do something, and quickly, but precisely what—he had forgotten. Suddenly he stopped and noticed that a man standing on the sidewalk across the street was waving to him with his hand. He started across the street towards him, but the man suddenly turned and went on as though nothing had happened, with his head down, not looking back or showing any sign that he had called him. “But did he call me, really?” Raskolnikov thought, and nevertheless started after him. When he was about ten steps away, he suddenly recognized the man— and was frightened: it was today's tradesman, in the same smock, hunched over as before. Raskolnikov stayed some distance behind him; his heart was pounding; they turned down a side street—he still refused to look back. “Does he know I'm following him?” thought Raskolnikov. The tradesman walked through the gates of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened up to the gates and looked in to see if he would turn and call him. Indeed, having passed under the gateway and on into the courtyard, he suddenly turned around and again seemed to wave to him. Raskolnikov immediately went through the gateway, but the tradesman was no longer in the courtyard. That meant he had gone straight up the first stairway. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He could indeed hear someone's steady, unhurried steps two flights above. Strangely, the stairway seemed familiar! Here was the first-floor window; moonlight shone sadly and mysteriously through the glass; here was the second floor. Hah! It was the same apartment where the painters had been working...How had he not recognized it at once? The steps of the man ahead of him faded away: “that means he has stopped or is hiding somewhere.” Here was the third floor; should he go any farther? How silent it was, even frightening...But he went on. The sound of his own steps scared and alarmed him. God, how dark! The tradesman was probably lurking somewhere here in a corner. Ah! The apartment door was standing wide open; he thought a moment and went in. The entryway was very dark and empty, not a soul, as though everything had been taken out; quietly, on tiptoe, he moved on into the living room: the whole room was brightly flooded with moonlight; everything here was as it had been: the chairs, the mirror, the yellow sofa, the pictures in their frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon was looking straight in the window. “It's because of the moon that it's so silent,” thought Raskolnikov, “asking some riddle, no doubt.” He stood and waited, waited a long time, and the more silent the moon was, the harder his heart pounded—it was even becoming painful. And still the same silence. Suddenly there came a brief, dry crack like the snapping of a twig; then everything was still again. An awakened fly suddenly swooped and struck against the window, buzzing plaintively. At the same moment he made out what seemed to be a woman's wrap hanging in the corner between a small cupboard and the window. “Why is that wrap here?” he thought, “it wasn't here before...” He approached quietly and realized that someone seemed to be hiding there behind the wrap. He cautiously moved the wrap aside with his hand and saw a chair standing there, and on the chair, in the corner, sat the little old crone, all hunched up, with her head bent down so that there was no way he could see her face—but it was she. He stood over her. “Afraid!” he thought, and he quietly freed the axe from its loop and struck the old woman on the crown of the head, once and then again. But, strangely, she did not even stir under his blows, as though she were made of wood. He became frightened, bent closer, and began looking at her, but she also bent her head still lower. Then he bent down all the way to the floor and peeked into her face from below, peeked and went dead: the little old crone was sitting there laughing—simply dissolving in soft, inaudible laughter, trying her best not to let him hear her. He suddenly fancied that the door to the bedroom had opened a little, and there also seemed to be laughter and whispering there. Rage overcame him: he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his strength, but at every blow of the axe the laughing and whispering from the bedroom grew stronger and louder, and the little crone heaved all over with laughter. He wanted to run away, but now the whole entryway is full of people, all the doors to the stairs are wide open, and on the landings, on the stairway, farther down there are people, head to head, all looking—but all hushed and waiting, silent... His heart shrank, his feet became rooted and refused to move...He tried to cry out—and woke up.

He drew a deep breath—yet, strangely, it was as if the dream were still going on: his door was wide open, and a man completely unknown to him was standing on the threshold, studying him intently.

Raskolnikov had not yet managed to open his eyes fully, and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring. “Is the dream still going on, or not?” he thought, and again imperceptibly parted his eyelashes a little: the stranger was standing in the same place and was still peering at him. All at once he cautiously stepped across the threshold, closed the door carefully behind him, went over to the table, waited for about a minute—not taking his eyes off him all the while—and softly, noiselessly, sat down on the chair by the sofa; he placed his hat beside him on the floor, leaned with both hands on his cane, and rested his chin on his hands. One could see that he was prepared to wait a long time. As far as could be made out through blinking eyelashes, this was a man no longer young, thickset, and with a bushy, fair, almost white beard . . .

About ten minutes went by. It was still light, but evening was approaching. There was total silence in the room. No sound came even from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and struggled, striking with a swoop against the window. Finally it became unbearable: Raskolnikov raised himself all at once and sat up on the sofa.

“Speak, then. What do you want?”

“Ah, I just knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,” the unknown man answered strangely, with a quiet laugh. “Allow me to introduce myself: Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov . . .”