Crime and Punishment

I

“Can this be a continuation of my dream?” came once again to Raskolnikov's mind. Cautiously and mistrustfully he stared at his unexpected visitor.

“Svidrigailov? What nonsense! It can't be!” he finally said aloud, in perplexity.

The visitor seemed not in the least surprised at this exclamation.

“I have come here owing to two reasons: first, I wished to meet you personally, because I have long since heard much about you from a point that is curious and advantageous for you; and, second, I dream that you will perhaps not decline to help me in a certain undertaking directly concerned with the interests of your dear sister, Avdotya Romanovna. Owing to biased opinion, she will perhaps not allow me into the yard if I come on my own, without a recommendation; well, but with your help, on the other hand, I reckon . . .”

“Poor reckoning,” Raskolnikov interrupted.

“They arrived only yesterday, if I may ask?”

Raskolnikov did not reply.

“It was yesterday, I know. I myself arrived only two days ago. Well, here is what I shall tell you in that regard, Rodion Romanovich; I consider it unnecessary to justify myself, but even so, allow me to say: what is there in all this, in the thing itself, that is so especially criminal on my part—I mean, judging soberly, and without prejudice?”

Raskolnikov went on studying him silently.

“That I pursued a defenseless girl in my own house and 'insulted her with my vile proposals'—is that it, sir? (I'm running ahead of myself!) But you need only suppose that I, too, am a man, et nihil humanum^[84]...in short, that I, too, am capable of being tempted and of falling in love (which, of course, does not happen on command), and then everything is explained in the most natural way. The whole question here is: am I a monster, or a victim myself? Well, and what if I am a victim? For in offering to elope with my object to America or Switzerland, I may have been nurturing the most respectful feelings, and hoping, besides, to arrange for our mutual happiness! ... For reason is the slave of passion; good heavens, perhaps I was ruining myself even more! ... ”

“But that is not the point at all,” Raskolnikov interrupted with loathing. “You are quite simply disgusting, whether you are right or not, and so people don't want to have anything to do with you, they chase you away—so, go! . . .”

Svidrigailov suddenly burst out laughing.

“You, however...you simply will not be thrown off!” he said, laughing in the most genuine manner. “I tried to dodge round you, but no, you went straight to the most real point!”

“But you're continuing to dodge even now.”

“What of it? What of it?” Svidrigailov repeated, laughing openheartedly. “It's bonne guerre,^[85] as they call it, and the most admissible dodging! ... Anyway, you interrupted me; one way or the other, I affirm again: there would have been no trouble, if it hadn't been for that incident in the garden. Marfa Petrovna . . .”

“And they say you also took care of Marfa Petrovna?” Raskolnikov interrupted rudely.

“So you've heard about that, too? But then, how could you not. . . Well, concerning the question you've raised, I really don't know what to say, though my own conscience is entirely at rest in that regard. I mean, do not think that I feared anything of the sort: it was all performed in perfect order and with complete precision; the medical experts diagnosed apoplexy, the result of bathing after a heavy meal and almost a full bottle of wine, and they could not have discovered anything else...No, sir, I was thinking about that myself for some time, especially on my way here, sitting in the train: didn't I contribute to this whole...misfortune, somehow morally, through irritation or something like that? But I concluded that this, too, was positively impossible.”

Raskolnikov laughed.

“Not that you should worry!”

“And what is there to laugh at? Just think: I struck her only twice with a riding crop; there weren't even any marks...Please do not regard me as a cynic; I do know exactly how vile it was on my part, and so on; but I also know perfectly well that Marfa Petrovna may even have been glad of my, shall we say, enthusiasm. The story concerning your dear sister had been wrung out to the last drop. It was already the third day that Marfa Petrovna had been obliged to stay at home; she had nothing to take her to town, and besides they were all sick of her there, what with that letter of hers (you did hear about the reading of the letter?). And suddenly those two strokes fell as if from heaven! She ordered the carriage to be readied first thing! ... I won't even mention the fact that there are occasions when women find it extremely agreeable to be insulted, for all their apparent indignation. Everyone has known them, these occasions; man in general finds it extremely pleasant to be insulted—have you noticed? But it's especially so with women. One might even say it's their only provender.”

At one point Raskolnikov had wanted to get up and leave, thereby putting an end to the meeting. But a certain curiosity and even calculation, as it were, kept him for the moment.

“Do you enjoy fighting?” he asked distractedly.

“No, not really,” Svidrigailov answered calmly. “And Marfa Petrovna and I hardly ever fought. Our life was quite harmonious, and she always remained pleased with me. In all those seven years I used the whip only twice (unless one counts a third rather ambiguous occasion): the first time was two months after our marriage, just after we came to the estate; and then in this last instance. And you were thinking I was such a monster, a retrograde, a serf-owner? Heh, heh...By the way, you must remember, Rodion Romanovich, how a few years ago, still in the days of beneficent freedom of expression, one of our noblemen was disgraced nationwide and presswide—I've forgotten his name!—he gave a whipping to a German woman on a train, remember? It was then, too, in that same year, I think, that the 'Outrageous Act of The Age' occurred (I mean the Egyptian Nights, the public reading, remember? Those dark eyes! Oh, where have you gone, golden days of our youth!).^[86] So, sir, here is my opinion: I feel no deep sympathy for the gentleman who gave a whipping to the German woman, because it's really...well, what is there to sympathize with? But all the same I cannot help declaring that one sometimes runs across such provoking 'German women' that I don't think there's a single progressivist who could vouch for himself entirely. At the time no one looked at the subject from that point, and yet that point is the truly humane one, it really is, sir!”

Having said this, Svidrigailov suddenly laughed again. It was clear to Raskolnikov that this was a man who was firmly set on something, and who kept his own counsel.

“You must not have talked with anyone for several days?” he asked.

“Almost right. And so? You're no doubt surprised that I'm such a congenial man?”

“No, I'm surprised that you're a much too congenial man.”

“Because I was not offended by the rudeness of your questions? Is that it? But...why be offended? As I was asked, so I answered,” he added, with a surprisingly simple-hearted expression. “You see, there's not much that interests me especially, by God!” he went on, somehow pensively. “Especially now, nothing really occupies me...However, you may be permitted to think that I am ingratiating myself with you for some purpose, all the more so in that I have business with your dear sister, as I myself have declared. But I'll tell you frankly: I'm very bored! These last three days especially, so that I was even glad to see you...Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich, but you yourself seem terribly strange to me for some reason. Like it or not, there's something in you; and precisely now—that is, not this very minute, but now generally...Well, well, I'll stop, I'll stop, don't scowl! I'm really not such a bear as you think.”

Raskolnikov looked at him glumly.

“Perhaps you're not a bear at all,” he said. “It even seems to me that you're of very good society, or can at least be a decent man on occasion.”

“In fact, I'm not particularly interested in anyone's opinion,” Svidrigailov answered dryly and even as if with a shade of haughtiness, “and therefore why not be a vulgar fellow for a while—the attire is so well suited to our climate, and...and especially if that is also one's natural inclination,” he added, laughing again.

“I've heard, however, that you have many acquaintances here. You're what's known as 'not without connections.' In that case what do you need me for, if not for some purpose?”

“It's true, as you say, that I have acquaintances,” Svidrigailov picked up, without responding to the main point. “I've met some already; this is the third day I've been hanging about; I recognize people, and seem to be recognized as well. I'm decently dressed, of course, and am not reckoned a poor man; even the peasant reform didn't touch us: it's all forests and water-meadows, so there was no loss of income,^[87] but...I won't go to them; I was sick of it even before: I've been walking around for three days without telling anyone...And then there's this city! I mean, tell me, how did we ever come up with it! A city of functionaries and all sorts of seminarians! Really, there's much that I never noticed before, when I was lolling about here some eight years ago...I now place all my hopes in anatomy, by God!”

“Anatomy?”

“And as for these clubs, these Dussots, these pointes of yours,^[88] this progress, if you like—well, it can all do without us,” he went on, again ignoring the question. “Besides, who wants to be a sharper?”

“So you were a sharper, too?”

“What else? There was a whole group of us, a most respectable one, about eight years ago; we whiled the time away; all well-mannered people, you know, poets, capitalists. Generally, in our Russian society, the best-mannered people are those who have been beaten—did you ever notice that? It was on the estate that I started going to seed. Anyway, they put me in prison then, for debt—a little Greek, from Nezhin. And then Marfa Petrovna turned up, bargained a bit, and bought me off for thirty thousand pieces of silver. (I owed seventy thousand all told.) I entered into lawful marriage with her, and she immediately took me home to her estate, like some treasure. She was five years older than I, you see. She loved me very much. For seven years I never left the estate. And, mark this, all her life she kept a document against me, in somebody else's name, for the thirty thousand, so that if I ever decided to rebel at anything—there'd be a trap right there! And she'd have done it! Women can keep all these things together.”

“And if it weren't for the document, you'd have skipped out?”

“I don't know what to say. The document was almost no hindrance to me. I didn't want to go anywhere, though Marfa Petrovna herself even suggested twice that I go abroad, seeing that I was bored. But what for? I used to go abroad, and I always felt sick at heart. Nothing special, really—here's the dawn coming up, here's the Bay of Naples, the sea—you look, and it's somehow sad. The most disgusting thing is that you're always sad about something! No, the fatherland's better; here at least you can blame it all on everyone else and justify yourself. I might go on an expedition to the North Pole now, because j'ai le vin mauvais,^[89] drinking disgusts me, and wine is the only thing I have left. I've tried. Listen, they say Berg is going to fly in a huge balloon from the Yusupov Garden on Sunday, and is inviting people to go with him for a certain fee—is it true?”^[90]

“Why, would you go and fly?”

“Me? No...I just. . .” Svidrigailov muttered, as if he were indeed reflecting.

“What is he...really...or something?” Raskolnikov thought.

“No, the document was no hindrance to me,” Svidrigailov went on reflectively. “I myself wouldn't leave the estate. And a year ago, on my name-day, Marfa Petrovna handed the document over to me, and gave me a significant sum on top of it. She had a fortune, you know. 'See how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovich'—really, that's what she said. You don't believe she said it? And you know, I got to be quite a manager on the estate; the whole neighborhood knows me. I ordered books. Marfa Petrovna approved at first, but then kept being afraid I'd overstudy.”

“You seem to miss Marfa Petrovna very much?”

“Me? Perhaps. Perhaps, indeed. By the way, do you believe in ghosts?”

“What ghosts?”

“Ordinary ghosts. What do you mean, what ghosts?”

“Do you?”

“Well, perhaps not, pour vous plaire^[91]...that is, not really not. . .”

“What, do they come to you?”

Svidrigailov gave him a somehow strange look.

“Marfa Petrovna has been so kind as to visit me,” he said, twisting his mouth into a strange sort of smile.

“How do you mean, so kind as to visit you?”

“She's already come three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, an hour after the cemetery. It was the day before I left to come here. The second time was two days ago, on the way, at dawn, in the Malaya Vishera station; and the third time was two hours ago, in the apartment where I'm staying, in my room; I was alone.”

“And awake?”

“Wide awake. I was awake all three times. She comes, talks for a moment, and leaves by the door, always by the door. One even seems to hear it.”

“Why did I think that something like that must be going on with you?” Raskolnikov said suddenly, and was at once surprised that he had said it. He was greatly excited.

“So-o-o? You thought that?” Svidrigailov asked in surprise. “Can it be? Now, didn't I tell you there was a common point between us, eh?”

“You never said that!” Raskolnikov replied sharply and with passion.

“Didn't I?”

“No!”

“I thought I did. Earlier, when I came in and saw that you were lying there with your eyes closed, pretending, I said to myself at once: 'This is the very man!’”

“What do you mean, the very man? What is this about?” Raskolnikov cried out.

“What is it about? I really don't know what . . .” Svidrigailov muttered frankly, becoming somehow confused.

For a moment they were silent. They were staring wide-eyed at each other.

“That's all nonsense!” Raskolnikov cried in vexation. “What does she say when she comes?”

“She? Imagine, she talks about the most worthless trifles, and—man is amazing!—that's just what makes me angry. The first time she came (I was tired, you know: the funeral service, 'Give rest with thy saints,' then the blessings, the food^[92]—finally I was left alone in the study, lit myself a cigar, and began thinking), she came in the door: 'What with all this fuss, Arkady Ivanovich,' she said, 'you've forgotten to wind the clock in the dining room.' And indeed I had been winding that clock every week for seven years, and whenever I forgot, she would always remind me. The next day I was on my way here. I walked into the stationhouse at dawn — I'd been dozing during the night, all broken up, eyes still sleepy — had some coffee; I looked up—Marfa Petrovna suddenly sat down next to me, holding a deck of cards: 'Shall I tell your fortune, Arkady Ivanovich, for the road?' She used to be good at reading cards. Well, I'll never forgive myself for not asking her! I got scared and ran away; true, they were also ringing the bell. Then, today, I was sitting with a heavy stomach after a perfectly rotten meal in a cook-shop—sitting and smoking, when Marfa Petrovna suddenly came in again, all dressed up in a new green silk gown with a very long train: 'Good afternoon, Arkady Ivanovich! How do you like my gown? Aniska will never sew like this.' (Aniska is our village dressmaker, from a former serf family, went to Moscow for lessons—a pretty wench.) She was standing in front of me and turning around. I looked the gown over, then looked attentively in her face: 'Marfa Petrovna,' I said, 'why on earth do you trouble yourself coming to me with such trifles?' 'Good heavens, my dear, can't I bother you a little?' 'I'm going to get married, Marfa Petrovna,' I said, in order to tease her. 'That's just like you, Arkady Ivanovich; it does you little credit, after you've just buried your wife, to go and get married at once. And if only you'd choose well, but I know you—it won't be right for her or for you, you'll only make good people laugh.' Then she up and left, and I thought I could hear the rustling of her train. What nonsense, eh?”

“Or maybe it's all lies?” Raskolnikov responded.

“I rarely lie,” Svidrigailov answered thoughtfully, as if he had not even noticed the rudeness of the question.

“And did you ever see ghosts before this?”

“Y-yes, I did, once before in my life, about six years ago. I had a household serf named Filka; we had just buried him, and I forgot and called out: 'Filka, my pipe!' He came in and went straight to the cabinet where I kept my pipes. I sat there thinking: 'It's his revenge on me,' because we had quarreled badly just before his death. 'How dare you come to me with a torn elbow,' I said. 'Get out, scoundrel!' He turned around, walked out, and never came back. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna. I wanted to order a memorial service for him, but I was ashamed.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I don't need you to tell me I'm not well, though I don't really know what's wrong with me; I think I'm five times healthier than you are.

I didn't ask whether you believe that people see ghosts. I asked if you believe that there are ghosts.”

“No, I wouldn't believe it for anything!” Raskolnikov cried out, even somewhat spitefully.

“What is it they usually say?” Svidrigailov muttered as if to himself, turning aside and inclining his head slightly. “They say, 'You're sick, and therefore what you imagine is all just nonexistent raving.' But there's no strict logic here. I agree that ghosts come only to sick people; but that only proves that ghosts cannot appear to anyone but sick people, not that they themselves do not exist.”

“Of course they don't!” Raskolnikov insisted irritably.

“No? You think not?” Svidrigailov went on, slowly raising his eyes to him. “And what if one reasons like this (come, help me now): 'Ghosts are, so to speak, bits and pieces of other worlds, their beginnings. The healthy man, naturally, has no call to see them, because the healthy man is the most earthly of men, and therefore he ought to live according to life here, for the sake of completeness and order. Well, but as soon as a man gets sick, as soon as the normal earthly order of his organism is disrupted, the possibility of another world at once begins to make itself known, and the sicker one is, the greater the contact with this other world, so that when a man dies altogether, he goes to the other world directly.' I've been reasoning it out for a long time. If one believes in a future life, one can believe in this reasoning.”

“I do not believe in a future life,” said Raskolnikov.

Svidrigailov sat thinking.

“And what if there are only spiders there, or something of the sort,” he said suddenly.

“He's a madman,” thought Raskolnikov.

“We keep imagining eternity as an idea that cannot be grasped, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, imagine suddenly that there will be one little room there, something like a village bathhouse, covered with soot, with spiders in all the corners, and that's the whole of eternity. I sometimes fancy something of the sort.”

“But surely, surely you can imagine something more just and comforting than that!” Raskolnikov cried out with painful feeling.

“More just? Who knows, perhaps that is just—and, you know, if I had my way, it's certainly how I would do it!” Svidrigailov answered, smiling vaguely.

A sort of chill came over Raskolnikov at this hideous answer. Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him intently, and suddenly burst out laughing.

“No, but realize,” he cried, “that half an hour ago we had never even seen each other, we're supposed to be enemies, there's unfinished business between us; so we've dropped the business, and look what literature we've gone sailing into! Well, wasn't it true when I said we were apples from the same tree?”

“Do me a favor,” Raskolnikov continued irritably, “allow me to ask you for a quick explanation of why you deem me worthy to be honored by your visit...and...and...I'm in a hurry, I have no time, I must go out . . .”

“By all means, by all means. Your dear sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to marry Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovich?”

“Could you not somehow avoid asking any questions about my sister or mentioning her name? I don't understand how you even dare to utter her name in my presence, if you are indeed Svidrigailov.”

“But it's her that I came to speak about; how can I not mention her?”

“Very well; speak, but be quick!”

“I'm sure you've already formed an opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, to whom I am related through my wife, if you've spent as much as half an hour with him, or merely heard something true and accurate about him. He is no match for Avdotya Romanovna. In my opinion, Avdotya Romanovna is quite magnanimously and improvidently sacrificing herself in this affair for...for her family. It seemed to me, from all I had heard about you, that you, for your part, would be very pleased if this marriage could be broken off without harming anyone's interests. Now that I've met you in person, I'm even certain of it.”

“This is all very naive on your part—excuse me, I was going to say insolent,” Raskolnikov said.

“What you mean, I take it, is that I'm trying to grease my own skids. Don't worry, Rodion Romanovich, if I were going to bother about my own advantage, I would not speak so directly—I'm not a complete fool yet. In this regard, I shall reveal to you a psychological anomaly. Earlier, in justifying my love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was a victim myself. Well, let it be known to you that I no longer feel any love, none at all, which even seems strange to me now, because I did indeed feel something...”

“From idleness and depravity,” Raskolnikov interrupted.

“I am indeed a depraved and idle person. Nevertheless, your dear sister possesses so many advantages that I could not help succumbing somewhat to the impression. But that is all nonsense, as I now see myself.”

“How long ago did you see it?”

“I began to notice it even earlier, and finally became convinced two days ago, almost at the very moment of my arrival in Petersburg. In Moscow, however, I still imagined I was coming to seek Avdotya Romanovna's hand and to be Mr. Luzhin's rival.”

“Excuse me for interrupting you, but kindly make it short, and go straight to the purpose of your visit. I'm in a hurry, I must go out . . .”

“With the greatest pleasure. Having arrived here, and having now decided to undertake a certain...voyage, I wished to make the necessary preliminary arrangements. My children have stayed behind with their aunt; they're rich, and do not need me personally. After all, what sort of father am I! For myself I took only what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. It's enough for me. Sorry, I'm now coming to the business itself. Before this voyage, which may in fact take place, I also want to finish with Mr. Luzhin. Not that I find him so unbearable, but all the same it was through him that my quarrel with Marfa Petrovna came about, when I discovered she had cooked up this wedding. I now wish to see Avdotya Romanovna, with your mediation, and explain to her, perhaps even in your presence, first, that she will get not the slightest profit from Mr. Luzhin, but instead, and quite certainly, there will be a clear loss. Then, having asked her forgiveness for all those recent troubles, I would like to ask permission to offer her ten thousand roubles and thus facilitate her break with Mr. Luzhin, a break which I am sure she would not be averse to, if only the possibility should arise.”

“But you are really and truly crazy!” Raskolnikov exclaimed, not even so much angry as surprised. “How dare you say that!”

“I knew you were going to make an outcry; but, first, though I'm not rich, I do have these ten thousand roubles at my disposal—that is, I absolutely, absolutely do not need them. If Avdotya Romanovna does not accept them, I may put them to some even more foolish use. That's one thing. Second, my conscience is entirely at rest; there is no calculation in my offer. You may not believe it, but later both you and Avdotya Romanovna will find it to be so. The whole thing is that I did indeed cause your dear, much esteemed sister some trouble and unpleasantness; therefore, feeling sincerely repentant, it is my heartfelt wish—not to buy myself off, not to pay for the unpleasantness, but purely and simply to do something profitable for her, on the grounds that I have not, after all, taken the privilege of doing only evil. If there were even a millionth part of calculation in my offer, I would not have made it so directly; and I would not be offering her only ten thousand, when I offered her much more just five weeks ago. Besides, it's possible that in a very, very short time I shall marry a certain girl, and consequently all suspicion of any attempts against Avdotya Romanovna should thereby be wiped out. In conclusion, I will say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, Avdotya Romanovna will only be taking the same money from another hand . .. Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich; consider it calmly and coolly.”

Svidrigailov himself was extremely cool and calm as he said this.

“I beg you to finish,” said Raskolnikov. “In any case, it's unforgivably impudent.”

“Not in the least. Or else man can only do evil to men in this world, and, on the contrary, has no right to do even a drop of good, because of empty, conventional formalities. That is absurd. If I died, for example, and left this sum to your dear sister in my will, is it possible that even then she would refuse it?”

“Quite possible.”

“Now, that can't be, sir. However, if so, so—let it be as you say. Only ten thousand is a wonderful thing on occasion. In any case, I ask that you tell Avdotya Romanovna what I've said.”

“No, I won't.”

“In that case, Rodion Romanovich, I shall be forced to try to obtain a personal meeting myself, and therefore to trouble her.”

“And if I do tell her, you won't try to obtain a personal meeting?”

“I really don't know what to say. I would very much like to see her, just once.”

“Hopeless.”

“Too bad. However, you don't know me. Perhaps we'll become closer.”

“You think we'll become closer?”

“And why not?” Svidrigailov said, smiling, and he stood up and took his hat. “It's not that I wished so much to trouble you, and I didn't even count on much in coming here, though, by the way, already this morning I was struck by your physiognomy...”

“Where did you see me this morning?” Raskolnikov asked uneasily.

“By chance, sir...I keep fancying there's something in you that suits my...But don't worry, I'm not a bore; I got along with sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a distant relation of mine and a grand gentleman, and I was able to write about Raphael's Madonna in Madame Prilukov's album, and lived uninterruptedly for seven years with Marfa Petrovna, and spent a night or two in Vyazemsky's house on the Haymarket in days of old,^[93] and will perhaps fly with Berg in his balloon.”

“Well, very well, sir. May I ask if you will be going on your trip soon?”

“What trip?”

“That 'voyage'...You were just talking about it.”

“Voyage? Ah, yes! ... I did tell you about a voyage...Well, that is a vast question...You have no idea what you're asking, however!” he added, and suddenly burst into loud but short laughter. “Perhaps, instead of the voyage, I'll get married. They're matchmaking me with a fiancée.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“How have you had time?”

“But I rather wished to see Avdotya Romanovna once. A serious request. Well, good-bye...Ah, yes! See what I forgot! Tell your dear sister, Rodion Romanovich, that she is mentioned in Marfa Petrovna's will for three thousand roubles. That is positively so. Marfa Petrovna made the arrangements a week before her death, and it was done in my presence. In two or three weeks Avdotya Romanovna will be able to have the money.”

“You're telling the truth?”

“The truth. Tell her. Well, sir, I am at your service. I'm staying quite nearby, you see.”

As he was leaving, Svidrigailov ran into Razumikhin in the doorway.

II

It was nearly eight o'clock by then; they hurried off to Bakaleev's, in order to arrive before Luzhin.

“Well, who was that?” Razumikhin asked, as soon as they were in the street.

“That was Svidrigailov, the landowner in whose house my sister was offended when she was serving there as a governess. She left them on account of his amorous pursuits, having been turned out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. Afterwards, this Marfa Petrovna begged Dunya's forgiveness, and now she has suddenly died. We were talking about her this morning. I don't know why, but I'm very afraid of the man. He came here right after his wife's funeral. He's very strange, and is set on something...He seems to know something...Dunya must be protected from him...that's what I wanted to tell you, do you hear?”

“Protected? But what can he do against Avdotya Romanovna? Well, thank you for telling me like this, Rodya...We'll protect her, that we will! ... Where does he live?”

“I don't know.”

“Why didn't you ask? Eh, too bad! But I'll find out!”

“Did you see him?” Raskolnikov asked, after some silence.

“Oh, yes, I noted him; I noted him well.”

“You're sure you saw him? Saw him clearly?” Raskolnikov insisted.

“Oh, yes, I remember him clearly; I'd know him in a thousand; I have a good memory for faces.”

Again there was a silence.

“Hm...well then . . .” Raskolnikov muttered. “Because, you know ... I was thinking...I keep imagining...it might have been a fantasy.”

“What's this all about? I don't quite understand you.”

“You've all been saying that I was mad,” Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, “and just now I imagined that perhaps I really am mad and was only seeing a ghost!”

“But what is this about?”

“And who knows! Maybe I really am mad, and everything that's happened during these days, maybe everything is just my imagination . . .”

“Eh, Rodya, you've been upset again! ... But what did he say? Why did he come?”

Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumikhin reflected for a moment.

“Well, listen to my report,” he began. “I stopped by your place; you were asleep. Then we had dinner, and then I went to Porfiry's. Zamyotov was still there. I tried to begin, but nothing came of it. I just couldn't begin talking in a real way. It's as if they don't understand, and cannot understand, and are not at all embarrassed. I took Porfiry over to the window and began talking, but again for some reason it didn't come out right; he looked away, and I looked away. Finally I brought my fist up to his mug and said I was going to smash him, in a familial way. He just stared at me. I spat and left, that's all. Very stupid. Not a word between me and Zamyotov. Only, you see, I thought I'd fouled things up, but as I was going down the stairs it occurred to me, it just dawned on me: what are we fussing about, the two of us? If there was anything to it, or any danger for you, then of course. But what is it to you? You've got nothing to do with it, so spit on them; we'll have the laugh on them afterwards, and in your place I'd even start mystifying them. Because they'll really be ashamed afterwards! Spit on it; you can give them a beating afterwards, but for now let's laugh!”

“You're right, of course!” Raskolnikov replied. “But what will you say tomorrow?” he thought to himself. Strangely, until then it had never once occurred to him: “What will Razumikhin think when he finds out?” Having thought of it, Raskolnikov looked at him intently. As for Razumikhin's present report of his visit to Porfiry, he was not very interested in it: so much had been lost and gained since then! . . .

In the corridor they ran into Luzhin: he had arrived at eight o'clock sharp and was searching for the room, so that all three entered together, but without greeting or looking at one another. The young men went in first, while Pyotr Petrovich, for propriety's sake, lingered a little in the entryway, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna went at once to meet him at the threshold. Dunya was greeting her brother.

Pyotr Petrovich walked in and quite affably, though with redoubled solemnity, bowed to the ladies. However, he looked as though he had been slightly thrown off and had not yet found himself. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who also seemed embarrassed, hastened at once to seat everyone at the round table, on which a samovar was boiling. Dunya and Luzhin were placed opposite each other on two sides of the table. Razumikhin and Raskolnikov found themselves facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna—Razumikhin closer to Luzhin, Raskolnikov next to his sister.

A momentary silence ensued. Pyotr Petrovich unhurriedly pulled out a cambric handkerchief that gave off a whiff of scent, and blew his nose with the air of a man of virtue whose dignity has been somewhat offended and who, moreover, has firmly resolved to demand an explanation. While still in the entryway the thought had occurred to him of leaving without taking off his coat, thereby punishing the two ladies severely and impressively, so as to let them feel the whole weight of it. But he had not dared. Besides, the man did not like uncertainty, and here an explanation was called for: if his orders had been so openly defied, there must be something behind it, and therefore it was better to find it out now; as for punishment, there would always be time for that, and he had the upper hand.

“I trust the trip went well?” he addressed Pulcheria Alexandrovna in an official tone.

“Thank God, it did, Pyotr Petrovich.”

“Pleased to hear it, madam. And Avdotya Romanovna did not find it too tiring either?”

“I'm young and strong, I don't get tired, but it was very hard on mother.”

“There's no help for it; our nation's railways are quite long. Our so-called 'Mother Russia' is a vast country...And I, for all that I desired to do so, was simply unable to meet you. I trust, however, that everything went without any special trouble.”

“Ah, no, Pyotr Petrovich, we were very disheartened,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare, with a special intonation, “and would simply have perished if Dmitri Prokofych had not been sent to us, as I think, by God Himself. This is he, Dmitri Prokofych Razumikhin,” she added, introducing him to Luzhin.

“Indeed, I had the pleasure...yesterday,” Luzhin muttered, with an unfriendly sidelong glance at Razumikhin; then he frowned and fell silent. Generally speaking, Pyotr Petrovich belonged to that category of people who appear extremely affable in company, and with a special claim to affability, but who, as soon as something grates on them, instantly lose all their resources and begin to seem more like sacks of flour than offhand and convivial cavaliers. Everyone again fell silent; Raskolnikov was stubbornly silent, Avdotya Romanovna did not want to break the silence for the time being, Razumikhin had nothing to say—and so Pulcheria Alexandrovna started worrying again.

“Marfa Petrovna died, have you heard?” she began, falling back on her capital resource.

“Of course I have, madam. I was informed at the first rumor of it, and have even come now to tell you that Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov left in all haste for Petersburg immediately following his wife's funeral. That is so, at least, according to the most precise reports which I have received.”

“To Petersburg? Here?” Dunechka asked worriedly, and she exchanged glances with her mother.

“Just so, madam, and surely not without purpose, considering the hastiness of his departure and the preceding circumstances in general.”

“Lord! But can it be that he will not leave Dunechka alone even here?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna exclaimed.

“It seems to me that there is nothing to be particularly worried about, either for you or for Avdotya Romanovna, unless, of course, you yourselves wish to enter into some sort of relations with him. For my part, I am watching, and am now seeking to discover where he is staying . . .”

“Ah, Pyotr Petrovich, you wouldn't believe how you frightened me just now!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on. “I have seen him only twice, but I found him terrible, terrible! I'm sure he was the cause of the late Marfa Petrovna's death.”

“Concerning that, no conclusion is possible. I have precise information. I will not dispute that he perhaps contributed to hastening the course of events, so to speak, by the moral influence of his offense; but concerning the behavior and the moral characteristics of the person in general, I agree with you. I do not know whether he is rich now or precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; that will be known to me very shortly; but, of course, here in Petersburg, with at least some financial means, he will at once resume his old habits. He is the most depraved and vice-ridden of all men of his sort! I have significant grounds for supposing that Marfa Petrovna, who had the misfortune of falling so much in love with him and redeeming him from his debts eight years ago, served him in still another respect: solely as the result of her efforts and sacrifices, a criminal case was snuffed out at the very start, a case having a tinge of brutal and, so to speak, fantastic evildoing, for which he could quite, quite possibly have taken a trip to Siberia. That is what the man is like, if you wish to know.”

“Ah, Lord!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov was listening attentively.

“And it's true that you have precise information about it?” Dunya asked sternly and imposingly.

“I say only what I myself heard in confidence from the late Marfa Petrovna. It should be noted that the case is rather obscure from a legal point of view. There was living here, and I believe she still lives here, a certain foreign woman named Resslich, a small-time money-lender, and engaged in other affairs as well. Mr. Svidrigailov had long been in some sort of rather close and mysterious relations with this Resslich. She had a distant relative living with her, a niece I think, a deaf and dumb girl of about fifteen, or even fourteen, whom this Resslich hated beyond measure and reproached for every morsel; she even used to beat her brutally. One day the girl was found hanging in the attic. The verdict was suicide. After the customary proceedings, the case was closed, but later there came a report that the child had been...cruelly abused by Svidrigailov. True, it was all obscure; the report came from another woman, also a German, a notorious woman and not to be trusted; in the end, essentially, there was no report, thanks to Marfa Petrovna's efforts and money; everything confined itself to rumor. Nevertheless, this rumor was highly portentous. While there, Avdotya Romanovna, you undoubtedly also heard about a story involving the servant Filipp, who died of brutal treatment about six years ago, still in the time of serfdom.”

“I heard, on the contrary, that this Filipp hanged himself.”

“Just so, madam; but he was driven or, better, inclined towards a violent death by Mr. Svidrigailov's system of constant punishments and persecutions.”

“That I do not know,” Dunya answered dryly. “I only heard some very strange story that this Filipp was a sort of hypochondriac, a sort of homemade philosopher; they said he 'read himself up,' and that he most likely hanged himself because of Mr. Svidrigailov's mockery, and not from any beatings. He treated the servants well while I was there, and they even liked him, though they, too, indeed accused him of Filipp's death.”

“I see, Avdotya Romanovna, that you are somehow suddenly inclined to justify him,” Luzhin remarked, twisting his mouth into an ambiguous smile. “He really is a cunning and seductive man when it comes to ladies, of which Marfa Petrovna, who died so strangely, serves as a lamentable example. I merely wanted to be of service to you and your mother with my advice, in view of his new and undoubtedly forthcoming attempts. As for me, I am firmly convinced that the man will undoubtedly disappear once again into debtors' prison. Marfa Petrovna by no means ever had the slightest intention of binding anything over to him, having her children to consider, and if she did leave him anything, it is only the most necessary, of little worth, ephemeral, not enough to last a man of his habits for even a year.”

“Pyotr Petrovich, I beg you,” said Dunya, “let us stop talking about Mr. Svidrigailov. It makes me weary.”

“He just came to see me,” Raskolnikov suddenly said, breaking his silence for the first time.

There were exclamations on all sides; everyone turned to him. Even Pyotr Petrovich became excited.

“About an hour and a half ago, while I was sleeping, he came in, woke me up, and introduced himself,” Raskolnikov continued. “He was rather offhand and cheerful, and fully hopes I will become close with him. By the way, he very much begs and seeks to meet with you, Dunya, and has asked me to be an intermediary at this meeting. He has an offer for you; he told me what it was. Moreover, he informed me positively that Marfa Petrovna managed, a week before her death, to make a bequest of three thousand roubles to you, Dunya, and that now you will be able to have the money in the very nearest future.”

“Thank God!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out, and she crossed herself. “Pray for her, Dunya, pray for her!”

“That is actually true,” escaped from Luzhin.

“Well, well, what else?” Dunya hurried.

“Then he said that he himself was not rich, that all the property would go to his children, who are now with their aunt. Then, that he was staying somewhere not far from me, but where, I don't know, I didn't ask . . .”

“But what, what does he want to offer Dunechka?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked, frightened. “Did he tell you?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What is it?”

“I'll tell you later.” Raskolnikov fell silent and turned to his tea.

Pyotr Petrovich took out his watch and looked at it.

“I must go and attend to some business, and thus will not be in your way,” he added, looking somewhat piqued, and he began to rise from his chair.

“Do stay, Pyotr Petrovich,” said Dunya. “You were planning to spend the evening. Besides, you yourself wrote that you wished to talk with mama about something.”

“Just so, Avdotya Romanovna,” Pyotr Petrovich said imposingly, taking his seat again, but still holding his hat in his hand. “Indeed, I wanted to talk both with you and with your most respected mother, and even about some quite important points. However, just as your brother is unable to speak in my presence concerning certain offers from Mr. Svidrigailov, so I am unwilling and unable to speak...in the presence of others...concerning certain quite, quite important points. Furthermore, my capital and most urgent request has not been fulfilled...”

Luzhin assumed a bitter expression and lapsed into dignified silence.

“Your request that my brother not be present at our meeting was not fulfilled solely at my insistence,” said Dunya. “You wrote that my brother had insulted you; I think that this ought to be explained at once, and that you should make peace. And if Rodya did indeed insult you, he must and will ask your forgiveness.”

Pyotr Petrovich immediately showed his mettle.

“There are certain insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which, for all one's good will, cannot be forgotten. There is a line in all things that it is dangerous to step over; for once one steps over, it is impossible to go back.”

“As a matter of fact, Pyotr Petrovich, that is not what I was talking about,” Dunya interrupted a little impatiently. “Do try to understand that our whole future depends on whether all this can or cannot be clarified and settled as soon as possible. I tell you outright, from the first word, that I cannot look upon it any other way, and if you value me at all, then, hard as it may be, this whole story must end today. I repeat that if my brother is at fault, he will ask your forgiveness.”

“I am surprised that you put the question in such a way, Avdotya Romanovna.” Luzhin was becoming more and more irritated. “While valuing and, so to speak, adoring you, I may at the same time quite, quite dislike someone of your household. Having claimed the happiness of your hand, I cannot at the same time take upon myself obligations incompatible with...”

“Ah, drop all this touchiness, Pyotr Petrovich,” Dunya interrupted with feeling, “and be the noble and intelligent man I have always considered and want to consider you to be. I gave you a great promise, I am your fiancée; trust me in this matter, then, and believe me capable of judging impartially. That I am taking upon myself the role of judge is as much a surprise for my brother as it is for you. When I asked him today, after receiving your letter, to be sure to come to our meeting, I told him nothing of my intentions. Understand that if you do not make peace I shall have to choose between you: either you or him. That is how the question has been put both on his side and on yours. I do not want to make a wrong choice, and I must not. For your sake, I must break with my brother; for my brother's sake, I must break with you. I can and will find out now for certain whether he is a brother to me. And, about you, whether you appreciate me, whether you value me, whether you are a husband to me.”

“Avdotya Romanovna,” Luzhin pronounced, wincing, “your words are of all too great an import for me; I will say more, they are even offensive, in view of the position I have the honor of occupying in relation to you. To say nothing of the offensive and strange juxtaposition, on the same level, of myself and...a presumptuous youth, you allow, by your words, for the possibility of breaking the promise I was given. 'Either you or him,' you say, and thereby show me how little I mean to you...I cannot allow it, in view of the relations and...obligations existing between us.”

“What!” Dunya flared up. “I place your interests alongside all that has so far been precious in my life, all that has so far constituted the whole of my life, and you are suddenly offended because I attach so little value to you!”

Raskolnikov smiled silently and caustically. Razumikhin cringed all over. But Pyotr Petrovich did not accept the objection; on the contrary, he grew more importunate and irritable with every word, as though he were acquiring a taste for it.

“Love for one's future life-companion, a future husband, ought to exceed the love for one's brother,” he pronounced sententiously, “and in any case I am not to be placed on the same level...Although I insisted before that in your brother's presence I could not and did not wish to explain all that I came to say, I shall nevertheless ask your much respected mother here and now for the necessary explanation of one point I consider quite capital and offensive to myself. Yesterday,” he turned to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “in the presence of Mr. Rassudkin (or...is that right? Excuse me, I've forgotten your last name)”—he bowed politely to Razumikhin^[94]—”your son offended me by distorting a thought I once expressed to you in private conversation, over coffee: namely, that marriage to a poor girl who has already experienced life's grief is, in my view, more profitable with regard to matrimony than marriage to one who has known prosperity, for it is better for morality. Your son deliberately exaggerated the meaning of my words to absurdity, accusing me of malicious intentions, and basing himself, as I think, on your own correspondence. I shall count myself happy, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, if you prove able to reassure me in the opposite sense and thereby set my mind considerably at rest. Tell me, then, in precisely what terms did you convey my words in your letter to Rodion Romanovich?”

“I don't remember,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna was thrown off, “but I told it as I myself understood it. I don't know how Rodya told it to you. Perhaps he did exaggerate something.”

“He could not have exaggerated without some suggestion from you.”

“Pyotr Petrovich,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity, “that we are here is proof that Dunya and I did not take your words in a very bad way.”

“Well done, mama!” Dunya said approvingly.

“Then I am to blame in this as well!” Luzhin became offended.

“Now, Pyotr Petrovich, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself also wrote us something untrue about him in today's letter,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, taking heart.

“I do not recall writing anything that was not true, madam.”

“You wrote,” Raskolnikov said sharply, without turning to Luzhin, “that I gave money yesterday not to the widow of the man who was run over, as it was in reality, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen until yesterday). You wrote it in order to make me quarrel with my family, and to that end added some vile expressions about the behavior of a girl whom you do not know. All that is gossip and meanness.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Luzhin replied, trembling with anger, “in my letter I enlarged upon your qualities and actions solely to fulfill thereby the request of your dear sister and your mama that I describe to them how I found you and what impression you made on me. With regard to what I mentioned in my letter, find even one line that is not right—that is, that you did not spend the money, and that in that family, unfortunate as they may be, there are no unworthy persons!”

“And I say that you, with all your virtues, are not worth the little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you are casting a stone.”

“Meaning that you might even decide to introduce her into the company of your mother and sister?”

“I have already done so, if you want to know. I sat her down beside mama and Dunya today.”

“Rodya!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Dunechka blushed; Razumikhin knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled haughtily and sarcastically.

“You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,” he said, “whether any agreement is possible here. I hope that the matter is now ended and explained once and for all. And I shall withdraw so as not to interfere with the further pleasantness of this family reunion and the imparting of secrets” (he rose from the chair and took his hat). “But in leaving I will venture to remark that henceforth I hope to be spared such meetings and, so to speak, compromises. On this subject I address myself particularly to you, most respected Pulcheria Alexandrovna, the more so as my letter was intended for you and you alone.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna became slightly offended.

“Why, you're really going about getting us into your power, Pyotr Petrovich. Dunya told you the reason why your wish was not fulfilled; her intentions were good. And, besides, you wrote to me as if it were an order. Should we really regard your every wish as an order? I will tell you, on the contrary, that you ought now to be especially delicate and forbearing towards us, because we have dropped everything and come here, entrusting ourselves to you, and therefore are almost in your power as it is.”

“That is not quite correct, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at the present moment, when Marfa Petrovna's legacy of three thousand roubles has just been announced—which seems to be very opportune, judging by the new tone in which I am being addressed,” he added caustically.

“Judging by that remark, it may be supposed that you were indeed counting on our helplessness,” Dunya observed irritably.

“But now, in any case, I cannot do so, and I especially have no wish to hinder the conveying of Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov's secret offers, with which he has empowered your dear brother, and which, as I perceive, have a capital, and perhaps also rather pleasant, significance for you.”

“Ah, my God!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Razumikhin kept fidgeting in his chair.

“Well, sister, are you ashamed now?” asked Raskolnikov.

“Yes, I am ashamed, Rodya,” said Dunya. “Pyotr Petrovich, get out!” she turned to him, pale with wrath.

Pyotr Petrovich was apparently not at all expecting such an outcome. He had relied too much on himself, on his power, on the helplessness of his victims. Even now he did not believe it. He became pale, and his lips trembled.

“Avdotya Romanovna, if I walk out that door now, with such parting words, then—consider—I shall never come back. Think it over well! My word is firm.”

“What insolence!” cried Dunya, quickly rising from her place. “I don't want you to come back!”

“What? So tha-a-at's how it is!” cried Luzhin, who until the last moment absolutely did not believe in such a denouement, and therefore now lost the thread altogether. “It's that that it is, madam! And do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, that I could even protest?”

“What right have you to speak to her like that!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna broke in hotly. “How are you going to protest? And what are these rights of yours? Do you think I would give my Dunya to a man like you? Go, leave us altogether! It's our own fault for deciding to do a wrong thing, and mine most of all . . .”

“All the same, Pulcheria Alexandrovna,” Luzhin was becoming frenzied in his rage, “you bound me by the word you gave, which you are now renouncing...and finally...finally, I have been drawn, so to speak, into expenses because of it . . .”

This last claim was so much in Pyotr Petrovich's character that Raskolnikov, who was growing pale from wrath and from his efforts to contain it, suddenly could not help himself and—burst out laughing. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna lost her temper:

“Expenses? What expenses? You're not talking about our trunk! But the conductor delivered it for nothing! Lord, and it's we who bound you! Come to your senses, Pyotr Petrovich; it is you who have bound us hand and foot, and not we you!”

“Enough, mama, please, enough!” Avdotya Romanovna pleaded. “Pyotr Petrovich, kindly leave!”

“I shall leave, madam, but just one last word!” he said, now losing almost all control of himself. “Your mother seems to have entirely forgotten that I decided to take you, so to speak, after a town rumor concerning your good name had spread throughout the neighborhood. Disregarding public opinion for your sake, and restoring your good name, I could quite, quite certainly hope for some retribution, and even demand your gratitude...And only now have my eyes been opened! I see myself that I perhaps acted quite, quite rashly in disregarding the public voice . . .”

“What, is he queer in the head or something?” cried Razumikhin, jumping up from his chair and preparing himself for reprisals.

“Mean and wicked man that you are!” said Dunya.

“Not a word! Not a gesture!” cried Raskolnikov, holding Razumikhin back; then, going up to Luzhin almost point-blank:

“Be so good as to get out!” he said, softly and distinctly. “And not a word more, or else . . .”

Pyotr Petrovich looked at him for a few seconds, his face pale and twisted with spite, then turned and went out; and rarely, of course, has anyone carried away so much spiteful hatred in his heart as this man felt for Raskolnikov. He blamed him, and him alone, for everything. Remarkably, as he was going down the stairs, he still imagined that the case was perhaps not lost at all, and, as far as the ladies alone were concerned, was even “quite, quite” remediable.

III

The main thing was that, until the very last moment, he had in no way expected such a denouement. He had stood on his mettle to the last limit, without supposing even the possibility that the two poor and defenseless women could get out from under his power. Vanity contributed much to this conviction, as did that degree of self-confidence which is best called self-admiration. Having risen from insignificance, Pyotr Petrovich had a morbid habit of admiring himself, highly valued his intelligence and abilities, and sometimes, alone with himself, even admired his own face in the mirror. But most of all in the world he loved and valued his money, acquired by labor and various means: it made him equal to all that was higher than himself. In bitterly reminding Dunya just now that he had decided to take her in spite of the bad rumors about her, Pyotr Petrovich had spoken quite sincerely, and even felt deeply indignant at such “black ingratitude.” And yet, when he was proposing to Dunya, he had already been fully convinced of the absurdity of all this gossip, universally refuted by Marfa Petrovna and long since dropped by the whole little town, which ardently vindicated Dunya. And he himself would not have denied now that he knew all that at the time. Nevertheless, he still valued highly his determination to elevate Dunya to himself, and regarded it as a great deed. In reprimanding Dunya about it just now, he had given voice to a secret, cherished thought of his, which he had already admired more than once, and was unable to understand how others could fail to admire his great deed. When he had gone to visit Raskolnikov the other day, he had entered with the feeling of a benefactor ready to reap his harvest and listen to the sweetest compliments. And now, going down the stairs, he most certainly considered himself offended and unacknowledged in the highest degree.

As for Dunya, she was simply necessary for him; it was unthinkable for him to renounce her. For a long time, for several years already, he had been having delectable dreams of marriage, but he kept hoarding up money and waited. In deepest secret, he entertained rapturous thoughts of a well-behaved and poor girl (she must be poor), very young, very pretty, well born and educated, very intimidated, who had experienced a great many misfortunes and was utterly cowed before him, a girl who would all her life regard him as her salvation, stand in awe of him, obey him, wonder at him and at him alone. How many scenes, how many delectable episodes he had created in imagination on this playful and seductive theme, as he rested quietly from his affairs! And now the dream of so many years was almost coming true: the beauty and education of Avdotya Romanovna struck him; her helpless position aroused him in the extreme. Here was something even a bit more than he had dreamed of: here was a proud, unusual, virtuous girl, superior to him in education and upbringing (that he could feel), and such a being would be slavishly grateful to him all her life for his great deed, and would reverently efface herself before him, and he—he would rule boundlessly and absolutely! ... As if by design, shortly before then, after much anticipation and deliberation, he had at last decided finally to change his career and enter a wider sphere of activity, and, with that, to move little by little into higher society, the thought of which he had long been savoring. In short, he had decided to try Petersburg. He knew that here women could be “quite, quite” beneficial. The charm of a lovely, virtuous, and educated woman could do wonders to smooth his path, attract certain people, create an aura...and now it had all collapsed! This present, ugly breakup affected him like a bolt of lightning. It was some ugly joke, an absurdity! He had only shown his mettle a tiny bit; he had not even had time to speak himself out; he was merely joking, got carried away, and it ended so seriously! Finally, he had even come to love Dunya in his own way; he was already her master in his dreams—and suddenly! ... No! Tomorrow, tomorrow at the latest, all this must be restored, healed, set right, and above all—this presumptuous brat, this youngster who was the cause of it all, must be destroyed. With a painful feeling he also somehow involuntarily remembered Razumikhin...however, he soon set himself at ease in that regard: “This is the last person who could be held up to him!” Indeed, if there was anyone he was seriously afraid of, it was—Svidrigailov...In short, many troubles lay ahead of him.......................................

“No, it's my fault most of all!” Dunechka was saying, embracing and kissing her mother. “I was tempted by his money, but I swear, brother—I never imagined he could be such an unworthy man. If I had seen through him sooner, I would never have been tempted! Don't blame me, brother!”

“God has delivered us! God has delivered us!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna muttered, but somehow unconsciously, as if she had not quite made sense of all that had happened.

They were all rejoicing; in five minutes they were even laughing. Only Dunechka occasionally became pale and knitted her brows, thinking back on what had happened. Pulcheria Alexandrovna would never have imagined that she, too, could be so glad; even that morning a breakup with Luzhin had seemed to her a terrible disaster. But Razumikhin was in ecstasy. He did not yet dare to express it fully, but was trembling all over as in a fever, as if a two-hundred-pound weight had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to give his whole life to them, to serve them . .. And who knew what then! However, he drove all further thoughts away still more timorously, and was afraid of his own imagination. Only Raskolnikov went on sitting in the same place, almost sullen, even distracted. He who had insisted most on Luzhin's removal, now seemed to be the least interested in what had happened. Dunya thought unwillingly that he was still very angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna kept looking at him fearfully.

“So, what did Svidrigailov say?” Dunya went over to him.

“Ah, yes, yes!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Raskolnikov raised his head.

“He insists on making you a gift of ten thousand roubles, and at the same time says he wishes to see you once more, in my presence.”

“To see her! Not for anything in the world!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried out. “And how dare he offer her money!”

Then Raskolnikov related (rather dryly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting Marfa Petrovna's ghosts, so as not to go into superfluous matters, and feeling disgusted at starting any conversation at all beyond the most necessary.

“And what answer did you give him?” asked Dunya.

“First I said I wouldn't tell you anything. Then he said he would use every means possible to seek a meeting himself. He insisted that his passion for you was a whim, and that he now feels nothing for you...He does not want you to marry Luzhin...Generally, he was not very consistent.”

“How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he seem to you?”

“I confess I don't understand any of it very well. He offers ten thousand, while saying he's not rich. He announces that he wants to go away somewhere, and ten minutes later forgets that he mentioned it. Suddenly he also says he wants to get married, and that a match has already been made for him...He has his purposes, of course—bad ones, most likely. Then again, it's somehow strange to suppose he'd approach this matter so stupidly, if he had bad intentions towards you...Of course, I refused this money on your behalf, once and for all. Generally, he seemed very strange to me, and...even...as if he showed signs of madness. But I could just as well be mistaken; there might simply be some sort of hoodwinking going on here. Marfa Petrovna's death seems to have made its impression on him . . .”

“Lord rest her soul!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I will pray to God for her eternally, eternally! Where would we be now, Dunya, without those three thousand roubles! Lord, just as though they fell from heaven! Ah, Rodya, this morning we had all of three roubles to our name, and were thinking, Dunya and I, of quickly pawning the watch somewhere, if only so as not to take anything from that man until he thought of it himself.”

Dunya was somehow all too struck by Svidrigailov's offer. She was still standing deep in thought.

“He's contemplating something horrible!” she said to herself, almost in a whisper, all but shuddering.

Raskolnikov noticed this excessive fear.

“It seems I'll have to see him more than once,” he said to Dunya.

“We'll keep an eye on him! I'll stay on his trail!” Razumikhin cried energetically. “I won't let him out of my sight! Rodya gave me his permission. He told me himself today: 'Protect my sister.' And do I have your permission, Avdotya Romanovna?”

Dunya smiled and gave him her hand, but the worry would not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna kept glancing at her timidly; however, the three thousand had obviously set her at ease.

A quarter of an hour later they were all in a most animated conversation. Even Raskolnikov, though he did not speak, listened attentively for some time. Razumikhin was holding forth.

“But why, why would you leave!” he overflowed rapturously in his ecstatic speech. “What are you going to do in a wretched little town? The main thing is that you're all together here, and you need one another—oh, you do need one another, believe me! Well, at least for the time being...Take me as a friend, a partner, and I assure you we can start an excellent enterprise. Listen, I'll explain it all to you in detail—the whole project! This morning, when nothing had happened yet, it was already flashing in my head...The point is this: I have an uncle (I'll introduce him to you; a most agreeable, most respectable old codger!), and this uncle has a capital of a thousand roubles; he himself lives on his pension and wants for nothing. For two years now he's been pestering me to take the thousand from him and pay him six percent on it. I see what he's up to: he simply wants to help me out. Last year I didn't need it, but this year I was just waiting for him to come and decided I'd take it. Then you can give another thousand out of your three; that way we'll have enough to start with, and so we'll join together. And what is it we're going to do?”

Here Razumikhin began developing his project, and spoke at length about how almost all our booksellers and publishers have little feeling for their wares, and are therefore also bad publishers, whereas decent publications generally pay for themselves and bring in a profit, sometimes a considerable one. And so Razumikhin's dream was to go into publishing, since he had already spent two years working for others, and knew three European languages quite well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days ago that his German was “kaput, “ with the aim of convincing him to take half of his translation work and three roubles of the advance; not only was he lying then, but Raskolnikov had known that he was lying.

“Why, why should we let the chance slip, when we happen to have one of the main essentials—our own money?” Razumikhin was becoming excited. “Of course, it means a lot of work, but we will work—you, Avdotya Romanovna, and I, and Rodion...some books bring in a nice profit nowadays! And the main basis of the enterprise will be that we'll know precisely what to translate. We'll translate, and publish, and study, all at the same time. I can be useful here, because I've got experience. I've been poking around among publishers for nearly two years now; I know all the ins and outs—and there's no need for the divine spark, believe me! Why, why should we let the spoon miss our mouth? I myself know—I've been keeping it a secret—of two or three works that would bring a hundred roubles each just for the idea of translating and publishing them; as for one of them, I wouldn't sell the idea even for five hundred roubles. And you know, if I were to tell someone, he might just doubt it—blockheads that they are! As for the business end proper—typographers, paper, sales—you can leave that to me! I know all the ropes! We'll start little by little and wind up with something big; at least we'll have enough to eat, and in any case we'll get back what we put in.”

Dunya's eyes were shining.

“I like what you're saying very much, Dmitri Prokofych,” she said.

“I know nothing about it, of course,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna responded, “it may be good, but then again, God knows. It's so new somehow, so unknown. Of course, it's necessary for us to stay here, at least for the time being.”

She looked at Rodya.

“What do you think, brother?” Dunya said.

“I think his idea is a very good one,” he answered. “Naturally, you shouldn't dream ahead of time of establishing a firm, but it is indeed possible to publish five or six books with unquestionable success. I myself know of one work that would be sure to do well. And as for his ability to handle the business, there's no doubt of it: he understands business...However, you have time enough to come to an agreement...”

“Hurrah!” cried Razumikhin. “Now wait, there's an apartment here, in this same building, with the same landlord. It's a private, separate one, not connected with the rooming house, and it's furnished—the price is moderate, three small rooms. So you take that to start with. I'll pawn your watch tomorrow and bring you the money, and later everything will be settled. And the main thing is that you can all three live together, and Rodya with you...Where are you off to, Rodya?”

“What, Rodya, you're leaving already?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked, even in alarm.

“At such a moment!” exclaimed Razumikhin.

Dunya looked at her brother with incredulous surprise. He had his cap in his hand; he was getting ready to go.

“It's not as if you were burying me or saying good-bye forever,” he said, somehow strangely.

It was as if he smiled, but at the same time as if it were not a smile.

“Though, who knows, maybe this is the last time we'll see each other,” he added inadvertently.

He was thinking it to himself, but somehow it got spoken aloud.

“What's the matter with you!” his mother cried out.

“Where are you going, Rodya?” Dunya asked, somehow strangely.

“No, I really must,” he answered vaguely, as if hesitating over what he wanted to say. But there was a sort of sharp determination in his pale face.

“I wanted to tell you...as I was coming here...I wanted to tell you, mama...and you, Dunya, that it's better if we part ways for a while. I'm not feeling well, I'm not at ease...I'll come myself afterwards...when I can. I think of you and love you...Leave me! Leave me alone! I decided on it even before...I decided on it for certain...Whatever happens to me, whether I perish or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether. It's better...Don't make inquiries about me. When need be, I'll come myself, or... send for you. Perhaps everything will rise again! ... But for now, if you love me, give in...Otherwise I'll start hating you, I feel it...Good-bye!”

“Lord!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Mother and sister were both terribly frightened; so was Razumikhin.

“Rodya, Rodya! Make peace with us, let's be as we used to be!” his poor mother exclaimed.

He slowly turned towards the door, and slowly began walking out of the room. Dunya overtook him.

“Brother! What are you doing to mother!” she whispered, her eyes burning with indignation.

He gave her a heavy look.

“It's all right, I'll be back, I'll still come!” he muttered half aloud, as if not quite aware of what he wanted to say, and walked out of the room.

“Wicked, unfeeling egoist!” Dunya cried out.

“He's not unfeeling, he's cra-a-azy! He's mad! Don't you see that? If not, you're unfeeling yourself! . . .” Razumikhin whispered hotly, just over her shoulder, squeezing her hand hard.

“I'll be back right away!” he cried, turning to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who had gone numb, and he ran out of the room.

Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the corridor.

“I knew you'd come running,” he said. “Go back to them and be with them...Be with them tomorrow, too...and always. I'll come...maybe...if I can. Good-bye!”

And without offering his hand, he began walking away.

“But where are you going? Why? What's wrong with you? You can't do this!” Razumikhin kept murmuring, utterly at a loss.

Raskolnikov stopped again.

“Once and for all, never ask me about anything. I have no answers for you...Don't come to me. Maybe I'll come here. Leave me...but don't leave them. Do you understand me?”

It was dark in the corridor; they were standing near a light. For a minute they looked silently at each other. Razumikhin remembered that minute all his life. Raskolnikov's burning and fixed look seemed to grow more intense every moment, penetrating his soul, his consciousness. All at once Razumikhin gave a start. Something strange seemed to pass between them...as if the hint of some idea, something horrible, hideous, flitted by and was suddenly understood on both sides...Razumikhin turned pale as a corpse.

“You understand now?” Raskolnikov said suddenly, with a painfully contorted face. “Go back, go to them,” he added suddenly, and, turning quickly, he walked out of the house . . .

I will not describe here what went on that evening at Pulcheria Alexandrovna's, how Razumikhin went back to them, how he tried to calm them, how he swore that Rodya needed to be allowed some rest in his illness, swore that Rodya would come without fail, would visit them every day, that he was very, very upset, that he should not be irritated; that he, Razumikhin, would keep an eye on him, would find him a doctor, a good doctor, the best, a whole consultation...In short, from that evening on Razumikhin became their son and brother.

IV

And Raskolnikov went straight to the house on the canal where Sonya lived. It was a three-storied, old, and green-colored house. He sought out the caretaker and got vague directions from him as to where Kapernaumov the tailor lived. Having located the entrance to a narrow and dark stairway in the corner of the yard, he went up, finally, to the second floor and came out onto a gallery running around it on the courtyard side. While he was wandering in the darkness and in perplexity with regard to the possible whereabouts of Kapernaumov's entrance, a door opened suddenly, three steps away from him; he took hold of it mechanically.

“Who's there?” a woman's voice asked in alarm.

“It's me...to see you,” Raskolnikov replied, and stepped into the tiny entryway. There, on a chair with a broken seat, stood a candle in a bent copper candlestick.

“It's you! Lord!” Sonya cried weakly, and stood rooted to the spot.

“Where do I go? In here?”

And, trying not to look at her, Raskolnikov went quickly into the room.

A moment later Sonya came in with the candle, put the candlestick down, and stood before him, completely at a loss, all in some inexpressible agitation, and obviously frightened by his unexpected visit. Color suddenly rushed to her pale face, and tears even came to her eyes...She had a feeling of nausea, and shame, and sweetness...Raskolnikov quickly turned away and sat down on a chair by the table. He managed to glance around the room as he did so.

It was a big but extremely low-ceilinged room, the only one let by the Kapernaumovs, the locked door to whose apartment was in the wall to the left. Opposite, in the right-hand wall, there was another door, always tightly shut. This led to another, adjoining apartment, with a different number. Sonya's room had something barnlike about it; it was of a very irregular rectangular shape, which gave it an ugly appearance. A wall with three windows looking onto the canal cut somehow obliquely across the room, making one corner, formed of a terribly acute angle, run somewhere into the depths where, in the weak light, it could not even be seen very well; the other corner was too grotesquely obtuse. The whole big room had almost no furniture in it. There was a bed in the corner to the right; a chair next to it, nearer the door. Along the same wall as the bed, just by the door to the other apartment, stood a simple wooden table covered with a dark blue cloth and, at the table, two rush-bottom chairs. Then, against the opposite wall, near the acute corner, there was a small chest of drawers, made of plain wood, standing as if lost in the emptiness. That was all there was in the room. The yellowish, frayed, and shabby wallpaper was blackened in all the corners; it must have been damp and fumy in winter. The poverty was evident; there were not even any curtains over the bed.

Sonya looked silently at her visitor, who was examining her room so attentively and unceremoniously, and at last even began to tremble with fear, as though she were standing before the judge and ruler of her destiny.

“It's late . .. already eleven?” he asked, still without raising his eyes to her.

“Yes,” Sonya murmured. “Ah, yes, it is!” she suddenly hurried on, as if the whole way out for her lay there. “The landlord's clock just struck...I heard it myself...It is!”

“I've come to you for the last time,” Raskolnikov went on sullenly, though it was in fact the first time. “I may never see you again . . .”

“You're...going away?”

“I don't know...tomorrow, everything . . .”

“So you won't be at Katerina Ivanovna's tomorrow?” Sonya's voice faltered.

“I don't know. Tomorrow morning, everything...That's not the point; I came to say one word to you . . .”

He raised his pensive eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was sitting and she was still standing before him.

“Why are you standing? Sit down,” he said suddenly, in a changed, quiet and tender voice.

She sat down. He looked at her for about a minute, kindly and almost compassionately.

“How thin you are! Look at your hand! Quite transparent. Fingers like a dead person's.”

He took her hand. Sonya smiled weakly.

“I've always been like that,” she said.

“Even when you were living at home?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, but of course!” he uttered abruptly, and the expression of his face and the sound of his voice suddenly changed again. He looked once more around the room.

“You rent from Kapernaumov?”

“Yes, sir . . .”

“That's their door there?”

“Yes...They have a room the same as this one.”

“All in one room?”

“Yes, in one room, sir.”

“I'd be scared in your room at night,” he remarked sullenly.

“The landlords are very nice, very affectionate,” Sonya replied, as if she had still not come to her senses or collected her thoughts, “and all the furniture and everything...everything is theirs. And they're very kind, and the children often come to see me, too.”

“They're the ones who are tongue-tied?”

“Yes, sir...He stammers, and he's lame as well. And his wife, too...Not that she really stammers, but it's as if she doesn't quite get the words out. She's kind, very. And he's a former household serf. And there are seven children...and only the oldest one stammers; the rest are just sick...but they don't stammer...But how do you know about them?” she added with some surprise.

“Your father told me everything that time. He told me everything about you...How you went out at six o'clock, and came back after eight, and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt by your bed.”

Sonya was embarrassed.

“I thought I saw him today,” she whispered hesitantly.

“Whom?”

“My father. I was walking along the street, nearby, at the corner, around ten o'clock, and he seemed to be walking ahead of me. It looked just like him. I was even going to go to Katerina Ivanovna . . .”

“You were out walking?”

“Yes,” Sonya whispered abruptly, embarrassed again and looking down.

“But Katerina Ivanovna all but beat you when you lived at your father's?”

“Ah, no, what are you saying, no!” Sonya looked at him even with some sort of fright.

“So you love her?”

“Love her? But, of co-o-ourse!” Sonya drew the word out plaintively, suddenly clasping her hands together with suffering. “Ah! You don't...If only you knew her! She's just like a child. It's as if she's lost her mind...from grief. And she used to be so intelligent...so generous...so kind! You know nothing, nothing...ah!”

Sonya spoke as if in despair, worrying and suffering and wringing her hands. Her pale cheeks became flushed again; her eyes had a tormented look. One could see that terribly much had been touched in her, that she wanted terribly to express something, to speak out, to intercede. Some sort of insatiable compassion, if one may put it so, showed suddenly in all the features of her face.

“Beat me? How can you! Beat me—Lord! And even if she did beat me, what of it! Well, what of it! You know nothing, nothing...She's so unhappy; ah, how unhappy she is! And sick...She wants justice...She's pure. She believes so much that there should be justice in everything, and she demands it...Even if you tortured her, she wouldn't act unjustly. She herself doesn't notice how impossible it all is that there should be justice in people, and it vexes her... Like a child, like a child! She's a just woman!”

“And what will become of you?”

Sonya looked at him questioningly.

“They're all on your hands. True, it was all on you before as well, and it was to you that your late father came to beg for the hair of the dog. Well, what will become of you now?”

“I don't know,” Sonya said sadly.

“Will they stay there?”

“I don't know, they owe rent for the apartment; only I heard today that the landlady said she wants to turn them out, and Katerina Ivanovna says herself that she won't stay a moment longer.”

“How is she so brave? She's counting on you?”

“Ah, no, don't talk like that! ... We're all one, we live as one.” Sonya again became all excited and even vexed, just like a canary or some other little bird getting angry. “And what is she to do? What, what is she to do?” she repeated, hotly and excitedly. “And how she cried, how she cried today! She's losing her mind, did you notice? She is; she keeps worrying like a little girl that everything should be done properly tomorrow, the meal and everything...then she wrings her hands, coughs up blood, cries, and suddenly starts beating her head against the wall as if in despair. And then she gets comforted again; she keeps hoping in you; she says you'll be her helper now, and that she'll borrow a little money somewhere, and go back with me to her town, and start an institution for noble girls, and she'll make me a supervisor, and a completely new, beautiful life will begin for us, and she kisses me, embraces me, comforts me, and she really believes it! She really believes in her fantasies! Well, how can one contradict her? And she spent the whole day today washing, cleaning, mending; she brought the tub into the room by herself, with her weak strength, out of breath, and just collapsed on the bed; and she and I also went to the market in the morning to buy shoes for Polechka and Lenya, because theirs fell to pieces, only we didn't have enough money, it was much more than we could spend, and she had picked out such lovely shoes, because she has taste, you don't know...She just cried right there in the shop, in front of the shopkeepers, because there wasn't enough...Ah, it was such a pity to see!”

“Well, after that one can understand why you...live as you do,” Raskolnikov said, with a bitter smirk.

“And don't you pity her? Don't you?” Sonya heaved herself up again. “You, I know, you gave her all you had, and you hadn't even seen anything. And if you'd seen everything, oh, Lord! And so many times, so many times I've brought her to tears! Just last week! Ah, me! Only a week before his death. I acted cruelly! And I've done it so many times, so many times. Ah, it's been so painful to remember it all day long today!”

Sonya even wrung her hands as she spoke, so painful was it to remember.

“You, cruel?”

“Yes, me, me! I came then,” she continued, weeping, “and my father said, 'Read to me, Sonya,' he said, 'there's an ache in my head, read to me...here's a book'—he had some book, he got it from Andrei Semyonovich, he lives here, Lebezyatnikov, he was always getting such funny books. And I said, 'It's time I was going,' I just didn't want to read, because I stopped by mainly to show Katerina Ivanovna the collars; Lizaveta, the dealer, had brought me some cheap collars and cuffs, pretty, new ones, with a pattern. And Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much, she put them on and looked at herself in the mirror, and she liked them very, very much. 'Sonya, please,' she said, 'give them to me.' She said please, and she wanted them so much. But where would she go in them? She was just remembering her former happy days! She looked in the mirror, admired herself, and she's had no dresses, no dresses at all, no things, for so many years now! And she never asks anything from anybody; she's proud, she'd sooner give away all she has, but this time she asked—she liked them so much! And I was sorry to think of giving them away; I said, 'But what for, Katerina Ivanovna?' I said that: 'what for?' I should never have said that to her. She just looked at me, and she took it so hard, so hard, that I refused, and it was such a pity to see...And it wasn't because of the collars, but because I refused, I could see that. Ah, if only I could take it all back now, do it over again, all those past words...Oh, I...but why am I talking about it! ... it's all the same to you!”

“So you knew Lizaveta, the dealer?”

“Yes...Why, did you?” Sonya asked in return, with some surprise.

“Katerina Ivanovna has consumption, a bad case; she'll die soon,” Raskolnikov said after a pause, and without answering the question.

“Oh, no, no, no!” And with an unconscious gesture, Sonya seized both his hands, as if pleading that it be no.

“But it's better if she dies.”

“No, it's not better, not better, not better at all!” she repeated, fearfully and unwittingly.

“And the children? Where will they go, if you don't take them?”

“Oh, I really don't know!” Sonya cried out, almost in despair, and clutched her head. One could see that the thought had already flashed in her many, many times, and that he had only scared it up again.

“Well, and what if you get ill now, while Katerina Ivanovna is still with you, and you're taken to the hospital—what then?” he insisted mercilessly.

“Ah, don't, don't! That simply can't be!” And Sonya's face became distorted with terrible fright.

“Why can't it?” Raskolnikov went on, with a cruel grin. “You're not insured against it, are you? What will happen to them then? They'll wind up in the street, the lot of them; she'll cough and beg and beat her head against the wall, like today, and the children will cry... Then she'll collapse, then the police station, the hospital, she'll die, and the children...”

“Oh, no! God won't let it happen!” burst at last from Sonya's straining breast. She listened, looking at him in supplication, her hands clasped in mute entreaty, as if it were on him that everything depended.

Raskolnikov got up and began pacing the room. About a minute passed. Sonya stood with arms and head hanging, in terrible anguish.

“But can't you save? Put something aside for a rainy day?” he asked suddenly, stopping in front of her.

“No,” whispered Sonya.

“No, naturally! And have you tried?” he added, all but in mockery.

“I have.”

“But it didn't work! Naturally! Why even ask!”

And he began pacing again. Another minute or so passed.

“You don't get money every day?”

Sonya became more embarrassed than before, and color rushed to her face again.

“No,” she whispered, with painful effort.

“It's bound to be the same with Polechka,” he said suddenly.

“No, no! It can't be! No!” Sonya cried loudly, desperately, as if she had suddenly been stabbed with a knife. “God, God won't allow such horror! . . .”

“He allows it with others.”

“No, no! God will protect her! God! . . .” she repeated, beside herself.

“But maybe there isn't any God,” Raskolnikov replied, even almost gloatingly, and he looked at her and laughed.

Sonya's face suddenly changed terribly: spasms ran over it. She looked at him with inexpressible reproach, was about to say something, but could not utter a word and simply began sobbing all at once very bitterly, covering her face with her hands.

“You say Katerina Ivanovna is losing her mind, but you're losing your mind yourself,” he said, after a pause.

About five minutes passed. He kept pacing up and down, silently and without glancing at her. Finally he went up to her; his eyes were flashing. He took her by the shoulders with both hands and looked straight into her weeping face. His eyes were dry, inflamed, sharp, his lips were twitching...With a sudden, quick movement he bent all the way down, leaned towards the floor, and kissed her foot. Sonya recoiled from him in horror, as from a madman. And, indeed, he looked quite mad.

“What is it, what are you doing? Before me!” she murmured, turning pale, and her heart suddenly contracted very painfully.

He rose at once.

“I was not bowing to you, I was bowing to all human suffering,” he uttered somehow wildly, and walked to the window. “Listen,” he added, returning to her after a minute, “I told one offender today that he wasn't worth your little finger...and that I did my sister an honor by sitting her next to you.”

“Ah, how could you say that to them! And she was there?” Sonya cried fearfully. “To sit with me! An honor! But I'm...dishonorable...I'm a great, great sinner! Ah, how could you say that!”

“I said it of you not for your dishonor and sin, but for your great suffering. But that you are a great sinner is true,” he added, almost ecstatically, “and most of all you are a sinner because you destroyed yourself and betrayed yourself in vain. Isn't that a horror! Isn't it a horror that you live in this filth which you hate so much, and at the same time know yourself (you need only open your eyes) that you're not helping anyone by it, and not saving anyone from anything! But tell me, finally,” he spoke almost in a frenzy, “how such shame and baseness can be combined in you beside other opposite and holy feelings? It would be more just, a thousand times more just and reasonable, to jump headfirst into the water and end it at once!”

“And what would become of them?” Sonya asked weakly, glancing at him with suffering, but at the same time as if she were not at all surprised at his question. Raskolnikov looked at her strangely.

He read everything in that one glance of hers. So she really had already thought of it herself. Perhaps many times, in despair, she had seriously considered how to end it all at once, so seriously, indeed, that now she was almost not surprised at his suggestion. She had not even noticed the cruelty of his words (nor had she noticed, of course, the meaning of his reproaches, or his special view of her shame—that was obvious to him). But he fully understood the monstrous pain she suffered, and had long been suffering, at the thought of her dishonorable and shameful position. What, he wondered, what could so far have kept her from deciding to end it all at once? And only here did he understand fully what these poor little orphaned children meant to her, and this pitiful, half-crazed Katerina Ivanovna, with her consumption, and her beating her head against the wall.

But then, too, it was clear to him that Sonya, with her character, and the education which, after all, she did have, could in no way remain as she was. It still stood as a question for him: how had she been able to remain for so much too long a time in such a position and not lose her mind, if it was beyond her strength to drown herself? Of course, he understood that Sonya's position was an accidental social phenomenon, though unfortunately a far from isolated and exceptional one. But it would seem that this very accident, this smattering of education, and the whole of her preceding life, should have killed her at once, with her first step onto that loathsome path. What sustained her? Surely not depravity? All this shame obviously touched her only mechanically; no true depravity, not even a drop of it, had yet penetrated her heart—he could see that; she stood before him in reality . . .

“Three ways are open to her,” he thought, “to throw herself into the canal, to go to the madhouse, or...or, finally, to throw herself into a depravity that stupefies reason and petrifies the heart.” This last thought was the most loathsome of all to him; but he was already a skeptic; he was young, abstract, and consequently cruel; and therefore he could not but believe that the last outcome—that is, depravity—was the most likely.

“But can it be true?” he exclaimed to himself. “Can it be that this being, who has still kept her purity of spirit, in the end will be consciously pulled into this vile, stinking hole? Can it be that the pulling has already begun, and that she has been able to endure so far only because vice no longer seems so loathsome to her? No, no, it can't be!” he kept exclaiming, like Sonya earlier. “No, what has so far kept her from the canal is the thought of sin, and of them, those ones...And if she hasn't lost her mind so far...But who says she hasn't lost her mind? Is she in her right mind? Is it possible to talk as she does? Is it possible for someone in her right mind to reason as she does? Is it possible to sit like that over perdition, right over the stinking hole that's already dragging her in, and wave her hands and stop her ears when she's being told of the danger? What does she expect, a miracle? No doubt. And isn't this all a sign of madness?”

He stubbornly stayed at this thought. He liked this solution more than any other. He began studying her with greater attention.

“So you pray very much to God, Sonya?” he asked her.

Sonya was silent; he stood beside her, waiting for an answer.

“And what would I be without God?” she whispered quickly, energetically, glancing at him fleetingly with suddenly flashing eyes, and she pressed his hand firmly with her own.

“So that's it!” he thought.

“And what does God do for you in return?” he asked, testing her further.

Sonya was silent for a long time, as if she were unable to answer. Her frail chest was all heaving with agitation . . .

“Be still! Don't ask! You're not worthy! . . .” she cried suddenly, looking at him sternly and wrathfully.

“That's it! That's it!” he repeated insistently to himself.

“He does everything!” she whispered quickly, looking down again.

“Here's the solution! Here's the explanation of the solution!” he decided to himself, studying her with greedy curiosity.

With a new, strange, almost painful feeling, he peered at that pale, thin, irregular, and angular little face, those meek blue eyes, capable of flashing with such fire, such severe, energetic feeling, that small body still trembling with indignation and wrath, and it all seemed more and more strange to him, almost impossible. “A holy fool! A holy fool!” he kept saying within himself.^[95]

There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had noticed it each time he paced the room; now he picked it up and looked. It was the New Testament, in Russian translation.^[96] The book was old, used, bound in leather.

“Where did this come from?” he called to her across the room. She was still standing in the same place, three steps from the table.

“It was brought to me,” she answered, as if reluctantly, and without glancing at him.

“Who brought it?”

“Lizaveta. I asked her to.”

“Lizaveta! How strange!” he thought. Everything about Sonya was becoming more strange and wondrous for him with each passing minute. He took the book over to the candle and began leafing through it.

“Where is the part about Lazarus?” he asked suddenly.

Sonya went on stubbornly looking down, and did not answer.

“Where is it about the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonya.”

She gave him a sidelong glance.

“You're looking in the wrong place...it's in the fourth Gospel...” she whispered sternly, without moving towards him.

“Find it and read it to me,” he said. He sat down, leaned his elbow on the table, propped his head in his hand, and looked away sullenly, preparing to listen.

“About three weeks, and welcome to Bedlam! I'll probably be there myself, if nothing worse happens,” he muttered to himself.

Sonya stepped hesitantly to the table, mistrusting Raskolnikov's strange wish. Nevertheless, she picked up the book.

“You've never read it?” she asked, glancing at him loweringly across the table. Her voice was becoming more and more severe.

“Long ago...in school. Read it!”

“You never heard it in church?”

“I...haven't gone. Do you go often?”

“N-no,” whispered Sonya.

Raskolnikov grinned.

“I see...Then you won't go tomorrow to bury your father either?”

“Yes, I will. And I went last week...for a memorial service.”

“For whom?”

“Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe.”

His nerves were becoming more and more irritated. His head was beginning to spin.

“Were you friends with Lizaveta?”

“Yes...She was a just woman...She came...rarely...she couldn't. She and I used to read and...talk. She will see God.”^[97]

How strange these bookish words sounded to him; and here was another new thing: some sort of mysterious get-togethers with Lizaveta—two holy fools.

“One might well become a holy fool oneself here! It's catching!” he thought. “Read!” he suddenly exclaimed insistently and irritably.

Sonya still hesitated. Her heart was pounding. She somehow did not dare read to him. He looked almost with pain at the “unfortunate madwoman.”

“What is it to you? You don't believe, do you? . . .” she whispered softly, somehow short of breath.

“Read! I want you to!” he insisted. “You read to Lizaveta!”

Sonya opened the book and found the place. Her hands were trembling; she did not have voice enough. She tried twice to begin, but kept failing to get the first syllable out.

“‘Now a certain man was sick, named Lazarus, of Bethany . . .' “^[98] she uttered at last, with effort, but suddenly, at the third word, her voice rose and broke like an overtightened string. Her breath failed, and her chest contracted.

Raskolnikov partly understood why Sonya was hesitant to read to him, and the more he understood it, the more rudely and irritably he insisted on her reading. He understood only too well how hard it was for her now to betray and expose all that was hers. He understood that these feelings might indeed constitute her secret, as it were, real and long-standing, going back perhaps to her adolescence, when she was still in the family, with her unfortunate father and her grief-maddened stepmother, among the hungry children, the ugly shouts and reproaches. But at the same time he now knew, and knew for certain, that even though she was anguished and terribly afraid of something as she was starting out to read, she also had a tormenting desire to read, in spite of all her anguish and apprehension, and precisely for him, so that he would hear it, and precisely now—”whatever might come of it afterwards!”...He read it in her eyes, understood it from her rapturous excitement...She mastered herself, suppressed the spasm in her throat that had made her voice break at the beginning of the verse, and continued her reading of the eleventh chapter of John's Gospel. Thus she read on to the nineteenth verse:

“‘And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary, to comfort them concerning their brother. Then Martha, as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming, went and met him: but Mary sat still in the house. Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. But I know, that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee.’”

Here she stopped again, anticipating with shame that her voice was again about to tremble and break . . .

“‘Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again. Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day. Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this? She saith unto him . . .’”

(and catching her breath as if in pain, Sonya read strongly and distinctly, exactly as if she herself were confessing it for all to hear:)

“‘Yea, Lord: I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world.’”

She stopped, quickly raised her eyes to him, but mastered herself at once and began to read further. Raskolnikov sat listening motionlessly, without turning, his elbow resting on the table, his eyes looking away.

They read to the thirty-second verse.

“‘Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled, and said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto him, Lord, come and see. Jesus wept. Then said the Jews, Behold how he loved him! And some of them said, Could not this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should not have died?’”

Raskolnikov turned and looked at her anxiously: yes, that was it! She was already trembling in a real, true fever. He had expected that. She was approaching the word about the greatest, the unheard-of miracle, and a feeling of great triumph took hold of her. There was an iron ring to her voice; joy and triumph sounded in it and strengthened it. The lines became confused on the page before her, because her sight was dimmed, but she knew by heart what she was reading. At the last verse: “Could not this man, which opened the eyes of the blind...” she had lowered her voice, conveying ardently and passionately the doubt, reproach, and reviling of the blind, unbelieving Jews, who in another moment, as if thunderstruck, would fall down, weep, and believe...”And he, he who is also blinded and unbelieving, he, too, will now hear, he, too, will believe—yes, yes! right now, this minute,” she dreamed, and she was trembling with joyful expectation.

“‘Jesus therefore again groaning in himself cometh to the grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, Take ye away the stone.

Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto him, Lord, by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days.’”

She strongly emphasized the word four.

“‘Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee, that, if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God? Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me. And I knew that thou hearest me always: but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent me. And when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. And he that was dead came forth...’”

(she read loudly and rapturously, trembling and growing cold, as if she were seeing it with her own eyes:)

“‘. . . bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.

“‘Then many of the Jews which came to Mary, and had seen the things which Jesus did, believed on him. ‘“

Beyond that she did not and could not read; she closed the book and got up quickly from her chair.

“That's all about the raising of Lazarus,” she whispered abruptly and sternly, and stood motionless, turned away, not daring and as if ashamed to raise her eyes to him. Her feverish trembling continued. The candle-end had long been burning out in the bent candlestick, casting a dim light in this destitute room upon the murderer and the harlot strangely come together over the reading of the eternal book. Five minutes or more passed.

“I came to talk about business,” Raskolnikov suddenly spoke loudly, and, frowning, he rose and went to Sonya. She looked up at him silently. His face was especially stern, and some wild resolution was expressed in it.

“I left my family today,” he said, “my mother and sister. I won't go to them now. I've broken with everything there.”

“Why?” Sonya asked, as if stunned. Her meeting earlier with his mother and sister had left an extraordinary impression on her, though one not yet clear to herself. She heard the news of the break almost with horror.

“I have only you now,” he added. “Let's go together...I've come to you. We're cursed together, so let's go together!”

His eyes were flashing. “He's crazy,” Sonya thought in her turn.

“Go where?” she asked in fear, and involuntarily stepped back.

“How do I know? I only know that it's on the same path, I know it for certain—that's all. One goal!”

She went on looking at him, understanding nothing. She understood only that he was terribly, infinitely unhappy.

“None of them will understand anything, if you start talking with them,” he continued, “but I understand. I need you, and so I've come to you.”

“I don't understand . . .” Sonya whispered.

“You'll understand later...Haven't you done the same thing? You, too, have stepped over...were able to step over. You laid hands on yourself, you destroyed a life...your own (it's all the same!). You might have lived by the spirit and reason, but you'll end up on the Haymarket... But you can't endure it, and if you remain alone, you'll lose your mind, like me. You're nearly crazy already; so we must go together, on the same path! Let's go!”

“Why? Why do you say that?” Sonya said, strangely and rebelliously stirred by his words.

“Why? Because it's impossible to remain like this—that's why! It's necessary finally to reason seriously and directly, and not weep and cry like a child that God will not allow it! What if you are indeed taken to the hospital tomorrow? That woman is out of her mind and consumptive, she'll die soon, and the children? Won't Polechka be destroyed? Haven't you seen children here on the street corners, sent out by their mothers to beg? I've learned where these mothers live, and in what circumstances. Children cannot remain children there. There a seven-year-old is depraved and a thief. But children are the image of Christ: 'Theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.'^[99] He taught us to honor and love them, they are the future mankind . . .”

“But what, what can be done, then?” Sonya repeated, weeping hysterically and wringing her hands.

“What can be done? Smash what needs to be smashed, once and for all, and that's it—and take the suffering upon ourselves! What? You don't understand? You'll understand later...Freedom and power, but above all, power! Over all trembling creatures, over the whole ant-heap! ... That is the goal! Remember it! This is my parting word to you! I may be talking to you for the last time. If I don't come tomorrow, you'll hear about everything yourself, and then remember these present words. And sometime later, years later, as life goes on, maybe you'll understand what they meant. But if I come tomorrow, I'll tell you who killed Lizaveta. Good-bye!”

Sonya shuddered all over with fear.

“You mean you know who killed her?” she asked, frozen in horror and looking at him wildly.

“I know and I'll tell...you, you alone! I've chosen you. I won't come asking forgiveness, I'll simply tell you. I chose you long ago to tell it to, back when your father was talking about you and Lizaveta was still alive, I thought of it then. Good-bye. Don't give me your hand. Tomorrow!”

He went out. Sonya looked at him as at a madman; but she herself was as if insane, and she felt it. Her head was spinning. “Lord! How does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those words mean? It's frightening!” But at the same time the thought would not enter her mind. No, no, it would not! ... ”Oh, he must be terribly unhappy! ... He's left his mother and sister. Why? What happened? And what are his intentions? What was it he had said to her? He had kissed her foot and said...said (yes, he had said it clearly) that he now could not live without her...Oh, Lord!”

Sonya spent the whole night in fever and delirium. She jumped up every now and then, wept, wrung her hands, then dropped into feverish sleep again, and dreamed of Polechka, of Katerina Ivanovna, of Lizaveta, of reading the Gospel, and of him...him, with his pale face, his burning eyes...He was kissing her feet, weeping...Oh, Lord!

Beyond the door to the right, the door that separated Sonya's apartment from the apartment of Gertrude Karlovna Resslich, there was an intervening room, long empty, which belonged to Mrs. Resslich's apartment and was up for rent, as signs on the gates and notices pasted to the windows facing the canal announced. Sonya had long been used to considering this room uninhabited. And meanwhile, all that time, Mr. Svidrigailov had been standing by the door in the empty room and stealthily listening. When Raskolnikov left, he stood for a while, thought, then went on tiptoe into his room, adjacent to the empty room, took a chair, and inaudibly brought it close to the door leading to Sonya's room. He had found the conversation amusing and bemusing, and he had liked it very, very much—so much that he even brought a chair, in order not to be subjected again in the future, tomorrow, for instance, to the unpleasantness of standing on his feet for a whole hour, but to settle himself more comfortably and thus treat himself to a pleasure that was full in all respects.

V

When, at exactly eleven o'clock the next morning, Raskolnikov entered the building that housed the —y police station, went to the department of the commissioner of investigations, and asked to be announced to Porfiry Petrovich, he was even surprised at how long they kept him waiting: at least ten minutes went by before he was summoned. Whereas, according to his calculations, it seemed they ought to have pounced on him at once. Meanwhile he stood in the waiting room, and people came and went who apparently were not interested in him at all. In the next room, which looked like an office, several scriveners sat writing, and it was obvious that none of them had any idea who or what Raskolnikov was. With an uneasy and mistrustful look he glanced around, trying to see if there were not at least some guard, some mysterious eyes, appointed to watch that he not go away. But there was nothing of the kind: all he saw were some pettily occupied office faces, then some other people, and none of them had any need of him: he could have gone four ways at once. A thought was becoming more and more firmly established in him: if that mysterious man yesterday, that ghost who had come from under the ground, indeed knew everything and had seen everything—would they let him, Raskolnikov, stand here like this and wait quietly? And would they have waited for him here until eleven o'clock, until he himself saw fit to come? It followed that the man either had not denounced him yet, or...or simply did not know anything, had not seen anything himself, with his own eyes (and how could he have?), and, consequently, the whole thing that he, Raskolnikov, had gone through yesterday was again a phantom, exaggerated by his troubled and sick imagination. This surmise had begun to strengthen in him even yesterday, during the most intense anxiety and despair. As he thought it all over now and made ready for a new battle, he suddenly felt himself trembling—and indignation even boiled up in him at the thought that he was trembling with fear before the hateful Porfiry Petrovich. It was most terrible for him to meet this man again; he hated him beyond measure, infinitely, and was even afraid of somehow giving himself away by his hatred. And so strong was this indignation that it immediately stopped his trembling; he made ready to go in with a cold and insolent air, and vowed to be silent as much as possible, to look and listen attentively, and, if only this once at least, to overcome his morbidly irritated nature, cost what it might. Just then he was called in to see Porfiry Petrovich.

It turned out that Porfiry Petrovich was alone in his office at the moment. His office was a room neither large nor small; in it stood a big writing desk in front of a sofa upholstered in oilcloth, a bureau, a cabinet in the corner, and a few chairs—all institutional furniture, of yellow polished wood. In the corner of the back wall—or, better, partition—was a closed door; beyond it, behind the partition, there must consequently have been other rooms. When Raskolnikov came in, Porfiry Petrovich immediately closed the door through which he had come, and they remained alone. He met his visitor with an apparently quite cheerful and affable air, and only several minutes later did Raskolnikov notice in him the signs of something like embarrassment—as if he had suddenly been put out, or caught doing something very solitary and secretive.

“Ah, my esteemed sir! Here you are...in our parts . . .” Porfiry began, reaching out both hands to him. “Well, do sit down, my dear! Or perhaps you don't like being called esteemed and...dear—so, tout court?^[100] Please don't regard it as familiarity...Over here, sir, on the sofa.”

Raskolnikov sat down without taking his eyes off him.

“In our parts,” the apology for being familiar, the French phrase “tout court, “ and so on—these were all typical signs. “He reached out both hands to me, and yet he didn't give me either, he drew them back in time,” flashed in him suspiciously. Each of them was watching the other, but as soon as their eyes met, quick as lightning they would look away.

“I've brought you this little paper...about the watch...here, sir. Is that all right, or shall I copy it over?”

“What? A little paper? Right, right...don't worry, it's quite all right, sir,” Porfiry Petrovich said, as if he were hurrying somewhere, and after saying it, he took the paper and looked it over. “Quite all right, sir. Nothing more is needed,” he confirmed in the same patter, and put the paper on the desk. Then, a minute later, already speaking of something else, he took it up again and put it on the bureau.

“You seemed to be saying yesterday that you wished to ask me...formally...about my acquaintance with this...murdered woman?” Raskolnikov tried to begin again. “Why did I put in that seemed?” flashed in him like lightning. “And why am I so worried about having put in that seemed?” a second thought immediately flashed in him like lightning.

And he suddenly felt that his insecurity, from the mere contact with Porfiry, from two words only, from two glances only, had bushed out to monstrous proportions in a moment...and that it was terribly dangerous—frayed nerves, mounting agitation. “It's bad! It's bad! ... I'll betray myself again.”

“Yes, yes, yes! Don't worry! It will keep, it will keep, sir,” Porfiry Petrovich muttered, moving back and forth by the desk, but somehow aimlessly, as if darting now to the window, now to the bureau, then back to the desk, first avoiding Raskolnikov's suspicious eyes, then suddenly stopping dead and staring point-blank at him. His plump, round little figure gave it all an extremely strange effect, like a ball rolling in different directions and bouncing off all the walls and corners.

“We'll have time, sir, we'll have time! ... Do you smoke, by chance? Have you got your own? Here, sir, take a cigarette...” he continued, offering his visitor a cigarette. “You know, I'm receiving you here, but my apartment is right there, behind the partition...government quarters, sir, but just now I'm renting another for a while. They've been doing a bit of renovating here. It's almost ready now...a government apartment is a fine thing, eh? What do you think?”

“Yes, a fine thing,” Raskolnikov answered, looking at him almost mockingly.

“A fine thing, a fine thing . . .” Porfiry Petrovich kept repeating, as if he had suddenly begun thinking of something quite different; “yes, a fine thing!” he all but shouted in the end, suddenly fixing his eyes on Raskolnikov and stopping two steps away from him. This silly, multiple repetition that a government apartment is a fine thing was too contradictory, in its triteness, to the serious, reflective, and enigmatic look that he now directed at his visitor.

But this only made Raskolnikov's anger boil the more, and he was no longer able to refrain from making a mocking and rather imprudent challenge.

“You know what,” he suddenly asked, looking at him almost insolently, and as if enjoying his own insolence, “it seems there exists a certain legal rule, a certain legal technique—for all possible investigators—to begin from afar at first, with little trifles, or even with something serious but quite unrelated, in order to encourage, so to speak, or, better, to divert the person being interrogated, to lull his prudence, and then suddenly, in the most unexpected way, to stun him right on the head with the most fatal and dangerous question—is it so? I suppose it's mentioned religiously to this day in all the rule books and manuals?”

“Well, well...so you think I've been using this government apartment to get you to...eh?” And having said this, Porfiry Petrovich squinted, winked; something merry and sly ran across his face, the little wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out, his little eyes narrowed, his features stretched out, and he suddenly dissolved into prolonged, nervous laughter, heaving and swaying with his whole body, and looking straight into Raskolnikov's eyes. The latter began to laugh himself, somewhat forcedly; but when Porfiry, seeing that he was also laughing, went off into such gales of laughter that he almost turned purple, Raskolnikov's loathing suddenly went beyond all prudence; he stopped laughing, frowned, and stared at Porfiry long and hatefully, not taking his eyes off him during this whole long and as if deliberately unceasing fit of laughter. The imprudence, however, was obvious on both sides: it appeared that Porfiry Petrovich was laughing in the face of his visitor, who was meeting his laughter with hatred, and that he was hardly embarrassed by this circumstance. Raskolnikov found the last fact very portentous: he realized that Porfiry Petrovich had certainly also not been at all embarrassed earlier, but on the contrary, that he himself, Raskolnikov, had perhaps stepped into a trap; that evidently there was something here that he was unaware of, some goal; that everything was perhaps prepared already, and now, this minute, would be revealed and come crashing down . . .

He went straight to the point at once, rose from his place, and took his cap.

“Porfiry Petrovich,” he began resolutely, but with rather strong irritation, “yesterday you expressed a wish that I come for some sort of interrogations” (he put special emphasis on the word interrogations). “I have come. If there is anything you need to ask, ask it; if not, allow me to withdraw. I have no time, I have things to do...I have to be at the funeral of that official who was run over, about whom...you also know...” he added, and at once became angry for having added it, and therefore at once became more irritated. “I am quite sick of it all, sir, do you hear? And have been for a long time...that is partly what made me ill...In short,” he almost shouted, feeling that the phrase about his illness was even more inappropriate, “in short, kindly either ask your questions or let me go, right now...and if you ask, do so not otherwise than according to form, sir! I will not allow it otherwise; and so, good-bye for now, since there's nothing for the two of us to do here.”

“Lord! What is it? What is there to ask?” Porfiry Petrovich suddenly began clucking, immediately changing his tone and aspect, and instantly ceasing to laugh. “Don't worry, please,” he fussed, again rushing in all directions, then suddenly trying to sit Raskolnikov down, “it will keep, it will keep, sir, and it's all just trifles, sir! I am, on the contrary, so glad that you have finally come to us...I am receiving you as a guest. And excuse me, dear Rodion Romanovich, for this cursed laughter. Rodion Romanovich—is that right?... I'm a nervous man, sir, and you made me laugh by the wittiness of your remark; sometimes, really, I start shaking like a piece of gum rubber and can't stop for half an hour...I laugh easily, sir. With my constitution I'm even afraid of a stroke. But do sit down, won't you?...Please, my dear, or I'll think you're angry . . .”

Raskolnikov kept silent, listened, and watched, still frowning wrathfully. He sat down nonetheless, but without letting the cap out of his hands.

“I'll tell you one thing about myself, dear Rodion Romanovich, in explanation of my personal characteristics, so to speak,” Porfiry Petrovich went on, fussing about the room, and, as before, seeming to avoid meeting his visitor's eyes. “I am, you know, a bachelor, an unworldly and unknowing man, and, moreover, a finished man, a frozen man, sir, gone to seed, and...and...and have you noticed, Rodion Romanovich, that among us—that is, in our Russia, sir, and most of all in our Petersburg circles—if two intelligent men get together, not very well acquainted yet, but, so to speak, mutually respecting each other, just like you and me now, sir, it will take them a whole half hour to find a topic of conversation—they freeze before each other, they sit feeling mutually embarrassed. Everybody has topics for discussion—ladies, for instance...worldly men, for instance, of a higher tone, always have a topic for discussion, c'est de rigueur^[101]—but people of the neuter kind, like us, are all easily embarrassed and have trouble talking...the thinking ones, I mean. Why do you suppose that is, my dear? Do we have no social interests, or is it that we're too honest and don't want to deceive each other, I don't know. Eh? What do you think? And do put your cap aside, sir, it's as if you were just about to leave, really, it's awkward looking at you...On the contrary, I'm so glad, sir . . .”

Raskolnikov put down the cap, but remained silent and went on listening seriously and frowningly to Porfiry's empty and inconsistent babble. “What is he trying to do, divert my attention with his silly babble, or what?”

“I won't offer you coffee, sir, this is no place for it; but why shouldn't one sit down for five little minutes with a friend, as a diversion,” Porfiry continued in a steady stream, “and you know, sir, all these official duties...you won't be offended, my dear, that I keep pacing back and forth like this; excuse me, my dear, I'm so afraid of offending you, but it's simply necessary for me to move, sir. I sit all the time, and I'm so glad to be able to walk around for five minutes or so...hemorrhoids, sir...I keep thinking of trying gymnastics as a treatment; they say there are state councillors, senior state councillors, even privy councillors, happily skipping rope, sir; that's how it is, this science, in our age, sir... yes, sir... But concerning these duties here, interrogations, and all these formalities...now you, my dear, were just so good as to mention interrogations yourself...and you know, really, my dear Rodion Romanovich, these interrogations frequently throw off the interrogator himself more than the one who is being interrogated...As you, my dear, so justly and wittily remarked a moment ago.” (Raskolnikov had made no such remark.) “One gets mixed up, sir! Really mixed up! And it's all the same thing, all the same thing, like a drum! Now that the reform is coming, they'll at least change our title, heh, heh, heh!^[102] And concerning our legal techniques—as you were pleased to put it so wittily—there I agree with you completely, sir. Tell me, really, who among all the accused, even the most cloddish peasant, doesn't know, for instance, that they will first lull him with unrelated questions (to use your happy expression) and then suddenly stun him right on the head, with an axe, sir—heh, heh, heh!—right on the head, to use your happy comparison, heh, heh! So you really thought I was talking about this apartment to make you...heh, heh! Aren't you an ironical man. Very well, I'll stop! Ah, yes, incidentally, one word calls up another, one thought evokes another— now, you were just pleased to mention form, with regard to a bit of interrogating, that is...But what is it about form? You know, sir, in many cases form is nonsense. Oftentimes one may just have a friendly talk, and it's far more advantageous. Form won't run away, allow me to reassure you on that score, sir; but, I ask you, what is form essentially? One cannot bind the investigator with form at every step. The investigator's business is, so to speak, a free art, in its own way, or something like that...heh, heh, heh!”

Porfiry Petrovich paused for a moment to catch his breath. The talk was simply pouring out of him, now in senselessly empty phrases, then suddenly letting in some enigmatic little words, and immediately going off into senselessness again. He was almost running back and forth now, moving his fat little legs quicker and quicker, looking down all the time, with his right hand behind his back and his left hand constantly waving and performing various gestures, each time remarkably unsuited to his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that as he was running back and forth he twice seemed almost to pause for a moment by the door, as if he were listening...”Is he waiting for something, or what?”

“And you really are entirely right, sir,” Porfiry picked up again, looking at Raskolnikov merrily and with remarkable simple-heartedness (which startled him and put him on his guard at once), “really, you're right, sir, in choosing to laugh so wittily at our legal forms, heh, heh! Because these profoundly psychological techniques of ours (some of them, naturally) are extremely funny, and perhaps even useless, sir, when they're too bound up with form. Yes, sir...I'm talking about form again: well, if I were to regard, or, better, to suspect this, that, or the other person of being a criminal, sir, in some little case entrusted to me...You're preparing to be a lawyer, are you not, Rodion Romanovich?”

“Yes, I was . . .”

“Well, then, here you have a little example, so to speak, for the future—I mean, don't think I'd be so bold as to teach you, you who publish such articles on crime! No, sir, but I'll be so bold as to offer you a little example, simply as a fact—so, if I were to regard, for example, this, that, or the other person as a criminal, why, I ask you, should I trouble him before the time comes, even if I have evidence against him, sir? There may be a man, for example, whom it is my duty to arrest quickly, but another man may have a different character, really, sir; and why shouldn't I let him walk around town, heh, heh, sir! No, I can see you don't quite understand, so let me present it to you more clearly, sir: if I were to lock him up too soon, for example, I might thereby be lending him, so to speak, moral support, heh, heh! You laugh?” (Raskolnikov had not even thought of laughing; he was sitting with compressed lips, not taking his feverish gaze from the eyes of Porfiry Petrovich.) “And yet it really is so, sir, particularly with some specimens, because people are multifarious, sir, and there is one practice over all. Now, you were just pleased to mention evidence; well, suppose there is evidence, sir, but evidence, my dear, is mostly double-ended, and I am an investigator and therefore, I confess, a weak man: I would like to present my investigation with, so to speak, mathematical clarity; I would like to get hold of a piece of evidence that's something like two times two is four! Something like direct and indisputable proof! But if I were to lock him up at the wrong time—even though I'm sure it was him—I might well deprive myself of the means for his further incrimination. Why? Because I would be giving him, so to speak, a definite position; I would be, so to speak, defining him and reassuring him psychologically, so that he would be able to hide from me in his shell: he would understand finally that he is under arrest. They say that in Sebastopol, right after Alma, intelligent people were oh so afraid that the enemy might attack any moment in full force and take Sebastopol at once; but when they saw that the enemy preferred a regular siege and was digging the first parallel, the intelligent people were ever so glad and reassured, sir: it meant the thing would drag on for at least two months, because who knew when they'd manage to take it by regular siege!^[103] Again you laugh? Again you don't believe me? And right you are, of course. You are, sir, yes, you are! These are all particular cases, I agree; the case in point is indeed a particular one, sir! But at the same time, my good Rodion Romanovich, it must be observed that the general case, the one to which all legal forms and rules are suited, and on the basis of which they are all worked out and written down in the books, simply does not exist, for the very reason that every case, let's say, for instance, every crime, as soon as it actually occurs, turns at once into a completely particular case, sir; and sometimes, just think, really completely unlike all the previous ones, sir. The most comical occurrences sometimes occur this way, sir. But if I were to leave some gentleman quite alone, not bring him in or bother him, but so that he knows every hour and every minute, or at least suspects, that I know everything, all his innermost secrets, and am watching him day and night, following him vigilantly, if I were to keep him consciously under eternal suspicion and fear, then, by God, he might really get into a whirl, sir, he might come himself and do something that would be like two times two, so to speak, something with a mathematical look to it—which is quite agreeable, sir. It can happen even with a lumpish peasant, and all the more so with our sort, the contemporarily intelligent man, and developed in a certain direction to boot! Because, my dear, it's quite an important thing to understand in which direction a man is developed. And nerves, sir, nerves—you've forgotten about them, sir! Because all of that is so sick, and bad, and irritated nowadays! ... And there's so much bile, so much bile in them all! I'll tell you, it's a sort of gold mine on occasion, sir! And why should I worry that he's walking around town unfettered! Let him, let him walk around meanwhile, let him; I know all the same that he's my dear little victim and that he won't run away from me! Where is he going to run to, heh, heh! Abroad? A Pole would run abroad, but not him, especially since I'm watching and have taken measures. Is he going to flee to the depths of the country? Butonly peasants live there—real, cloddish, Russian peasants; now, a contemporarily developed man would sooner go to prison than live with such foreigners as our good peasants, heh, heh! But that's all nonsense, all external. What is it, to run away! A mere formality; that's not the main thing; no, he won't run away from me, not just because he has nowhere to run to: psychologically he won't run away on me, heh, heh! A nice little phrase! He won't run away on me by a law of nature, even if he has somewhere to run to. Have you ever seen a moth near a candle? Well, so he'll keep circling around me, circling around me, as around a candle; freedom will no longer be dear to him, he'll fall to thinking, get entangled, he'll tangle himself all up as in a net, he'll worry himself to death! ... What's more, he himself will prepare some sort of mathematical trick for me, something like two times two—if I merely allow him a slightly longer intermission . .. And he'll keep on, he'll keep on making circles around me, narrowing the radius more and more, and—whop! He'll fly right into my mouth, and I'll swallow him, sir, and that will be most agreeable, heh, heh, heh! You don't believe me?”

Raskolnikov did not reply; he was sitting pale and motionless, peering with the same strained attention into Porfiry's face.

“A good lesson!” he thought, turning cold. “This isn't even like cat and mouse anymore, as it was yesterday. And it's not for something so useless as to make a show of his strength and...let me know it: he's more intelligent than that! There's some other goal here, but what? Eh, it's nonsense, brother, this dodging and trying to scare me! You have no proofs, and that man yesterday doesn't exist! You simply want to throw me off, to irritate me beforehand, and when I'm irritated, whop me—only it's all lies, you won't pull it off, you won't! But why, why let me know so much?...Are we counting on bad nerves, or what?...No, brother, it's all lies, you won't pull it off, whatever it is you've got prepared...Well, we shall see what you've got prepared.”

And he braced himself with all his strength, preparing for the terrible and unknown catastrophe. At times he wanted to hurl himself at Porfiry and strangle him on the spot. He had been afraid of this anger from the moment he entered. He was aware that his lips were dry, his heart was pounding, there was foam caked on his lips. But he was still determined to be silent and not say a word until the time came. He realized that this was the best tactic in his position, because he not only would not give anything away, but, on the contrary, would exasperate the enemy with his silence, and perhaps make him give something away himself. At least he hoped for that.

“No, I see you don't believe me, sir; you keep thinking I'm just coming out with harmless jokes,” Porfiry picked up, getting merrier and merrier, ceaselessly chuckling with pleasure, and beginning to circle the room again, “and of course you're right, sir; even my figure has been so arranged by God Himself that it evokes only comic thoughts in others; a buffoon, sir; but what I shall tell you, and repeat again, sir, is that you, my dear Rodion Romanovich—you'll excuse an old man—you are still young, sir, in your first youth, so to speak, and therefore you place the most value on human intelligence, following the example of all young men. A playful sharpness of wit and the abstract arguments of reason are what seduce you, sir. Which is exactly like the former Austrian Hofkriegsrat, for example, insofar, that is, as I am able to judge of military events: on paper they had Napoleon crushed and taken prisoner, it was all worked out and arranged in the cleverest manner in their study, and then, lo and behold, General Mack surrenders with his entire army, heh, heh, heh!^[104] I see, I see, Rodion Romanovich, my dear, you're laughing that such a civilian as I should keep picking little examples from military history. A weakness, I can't help it, I love the military profession, and I do so love reading all these military accounts...I've decidedly missed my career. I should be serving in the military, really, sir. I might not have become a Napoleon, perhaps, but I'd be a major at least, heh, heh, heh! Well, my dearest, now I'll tell you the whole detailed truth—about that particular case, I mean: reality and human nature, sir, are very important things, and oh how they sometimes bring down the most perspicacious calculations! Eh, listen to an old man, I say it seriously, Rodion Romanovich” (as he spoke, the barely thirty-five-year-old Porfiry Petrovich indeed seemed to grow old all at once; his voice even changed, and he became all hunched over); “besides, I'm a sincere man, sir...Am I a sincere man, or am I not? What do you think? I'd say I'm completely sincere: I'm telling you all this gratis, and ask no reward for it, heh, heh! Well, sir, to go on: wit, in my opinion, is a splendid thing, sir; it is, so to speak, an adornment of nature and a consolation of life; and what tricks it can perform, it seems, so that some poor little investigator is hard put to figure them out, it seems, since he also gets carried away by his own fantasy, as always happens, because he, too, is a man, sir! But it's human nature that helps the poor investigator out, sir, that's the trouble! And that is what doesn't occur to the young people, carried away by their own wit, 'stepping over all obstacles' (as you were pleased to put it in a most witty and cunning way). Suppose he lies—our man, I mean, this particular case, sir, this incognito—and lies splendidly, in the most cunning way; here, it seems, is a triumph; go and enjoy the fruits of your wit; but then—whop! he faints, in the most interesting, the most scandalous place. Suppose he's ill, and the room also happens to be stuffy, but even so, sir! Even so, it makes one think! He lied incomparably, but he failed to reckon on his nature. There's the perfidy, sir! Another time, carried away by the playfulness of his wit, he starts making a fool of a man who suspects him, and turns pale as if on purpose, as if in play, but he turns pale too naturally, it's too much like the truth, so again it makes one think! He might hoodwink him to begin with, but overnight the man will reconsider, if he's nobody's fool. And so it is at every step, sir! And that's not all: he himself starts running ahead, poking his nose where no one has asked him, starting conversations about things of which he ought, on the contrary, to keep silent, slipping in various allegories, heh, heh! He'll come himself and start asking why he wasn't arrested long ago, heh, heh, heh! And it can happen with the wittiest man, a psychologist and a writer, sir! Human nature is a mirror, sir, the clearest mirror! Look and admire—there you have it, sir! But why are you so pale, Rodion Romanovich? Is there not enough air? Shall I open the window?”

“Oh, don't bother, please,” Raskolnikov cried, and suddenly burst out laughing, “please don't bother!”

Porfiry stood in front of him, waited, and suddenly burst out laughing himself. Raskolnikov rose from the sofa, suddenly putting an abrupt stop to his completely hysterical laughter.

“Porfiry Petrovich!” he said loudly and distinctly, though he could barely stand on his trembling legs, “at last I see clearly that you do definitely suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. For my own part I declare to you that I have long been sick of it all. If you believe you have the right to prosecute me legally, then prosecute me; or to arrest me, then arrest me. But to torment me and laugh in my face, that I will not allow!”

His lips trembled all at once, his eyes lit up with fury, and his hitherto restrained voice rang out:

“I will not allow it, sir!” he suddenly shouted, banging his fist on the table with all his might. “Do you hear, Porfiry Petrovich? I will not allow it!”

“Ah, Lord, what's this now!” Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed, looking thoroughly frightened. “My good Rodion Romanovich! My heart and soul! My dearest! What's the matter!”

“I will not allow it!” Raskolnikov shouted once more.

“Not so loud, my dear! People will hear you, they'll come running! And what shall we tell them? Only think!” Porfiry Petrovich whispered in horror, bringing his face very close to Raskolnikov's face.

“I will not allow it, I will not allow it!” Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, but suddenly also in a complete whisper.

Porfiry quickly turned and ran to open the window.

“To let in some air, some fresh air! And do drink some water, my dear; this is a fit, sir!” And he rushed to the door to send for water, but there turned out to be a carafe of water right there in the corner.

“Drink, my dear,” he whispered, rushing to him with the carafe, “maybe it will help . . .” Porfiry Petrovich's alarm and his sympathy itself were so natural that Raskolnikov fell silent and began to stare at him with wild curiosity. He did not accept the water, however.

“Rodion Romanovich, my dear! but you'll drive yourself out of your mind this way, I assure you, a-ah! Do drink! A little sip, at least!”

He succeeded after all in making him take the glass of water in his hands. Raskolnikov mechanically brought it to his lips, but then, recollecting himself, set it on the table with loathing.

“Yes, sir, a fit, that's what we've just had, sir! Go on this way, my dear, and you'll have your former illness back,” Porfiry Petrovich began clucking in friendly sympathy, though he still looked somewhat at a loss. “Lord! How is it you take no care of yourself at all? Then, too, Dmitri Prokofych came to see me yesterday—I agree, I agree, I have a caustic nature, a nasty one, but look what he deduced from it! ... Lord! He came yesterday, after you, we were having dinner, he talked and talked, I just threw up my hands; well, I thought... ah, my Lord! Don't tell me you sent him! But sit down, my dear, do sit down, for Christ's sake!”

“No, I didn't send him. But I knew he went to you and why he went,” Raskolnikov replied sharply.

“You knew?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“Here's what, my dear Rodion Romanovich—that this is not all I know about your exploits; I've been informed of everything, sir! I know about how you went to rent the apartment, just at nightfall, when it was getting dark, and began ringing the bell and asking about blood, which left the workmen and caretakers perplexed. I quite understand what state you were in at the time...but even so, you'll simply drive yourself out of your mind this way, by God! You'll get yourself into a whirl! You're boiling too much with indignation, sir, with noble indignation, sir, at being wronged first by fate and then by the police, and so you rush here and there, trying, so to speak, to make everyone talk the sooner and thus put an end to it all at once, because you're sick of these stupidities and all these suspicions. Isn't that so? I've guessed your mood, haven't I?...Only this way it's not just yourself but also Razumikhin that you'll get into a whirl on me; because he's too kind a man for this, you know it yourself. You are ill, but he is a virtuous man, and so the illness is catching for him...I'll explain, my dear, when you're calmer...but do sit down, for Christ's sake! Please rest, you look awful; do sit down.”

Raskolnikov sat down; his trembling was going away and he was beginning to feel hot all over. In deep amazement, tensely, he listened to the alarmed and amiably solicitous Porfiry Petrovich. But he did not believe a word he said, though he felt some strange inclination to believe. Porfiry's unexpected words about the apartment thoroughly struck him. “So he knows about the apartment, but how?” suddenly crossed his mind. “And he tells it to me himself!”

“Yes, sir, we had a case almost exactly like that in our legal practice, a psychological case, a morbid one, sir,” Porfiry went on pattering. “There was a man who also slapped a murder on himself, sir, and how he did it! He came out with a whole hallucination, presented facts, described circumstances, confused and bewildered us one and all—and why? Quite unintentionally, he himself had been partly the cause of the murder, but only partly, and when he learned that he had given a pretext to the murderers, he became anguished, stupefied, began imagining things, went quite off his head, and convinced himself that he was the murderer! But the governing Senate finally examined the case and the unfortunate man was acquitted and put under proper care. Thanks to the governing Senate! Ah, well, tsk, tsk, tsk! So, what then, my dear? This way you may get yourself into a delirium, if you have such urges to irritate your nerves, going around at night ringing doorbells and asking about blood! I've studied all this psychology in practice, sir. Sometimes it can drive a man to jump out the window or off a bell-tower, and it's such a tempting sensation, sir. The same with doorbells, sir...An illness, Rodion Romanovich, an illness! You've been neglecting your illness too much, sir. You ought to get the advice of an experienced physician—what use is this fat fellow of yours! ... You're delirious! You're doing all this simply and solely in delirium! . . .”

For a moment everything started whirling around Raskolnikov.

“Can it be, can it be,” flashed in him, “that he's lying even now? Impossible, impossible!” He pushed the thought away from him, sensing beforehand to what degree of rage and fury it might lead him, sensing that he might lose his mind from rage.

“It was not in delirium, it was in reality!” he cried out, straining all the powers of his reason to penetrate Porfiry's game. “In reality, in reality! Do you hear?”

“Yes, I understand, and I hear, sir! Yesterday, too, you said it was not in delirium, you even especially stressed that it was not in delirium!

Everything you can say, I understand, sir! Ahh! ... But Rodion Romanovich, my good man, at least listen to the following circumstances. If you were indeed a criminal in reality, or somehow mixed up in this cursed case, well, for heaven's sake, would you yourself stress that you were doing it all not in delirium but, on the contrary, in full consciousness? And stress it especially, stress it with such special obstinacy—now, could that be, could it be, for heaven's sake? Quite the opposite, I should think. Because if there really was anything to it, you would be bound precisely to stress that it was certainly done in delirium! Right? Am I right?”

Something sly could be heard in the question. Raskolnikov drew all the way back on the sofa, away from Porfiry, who was leaning towards him, and stared at him silently, point-blank, in bewilderment.

“Or else, to do with Mr. Razumikhin—to do, that is, with whether he came to talk yesterday on his own or at your instigation—you ought precisely to have said that he came on his own, and to have concealed that it was at your instigation! But you're not concealing it! You precisely stress that it was at your instigation!”

Raskolnikov had done no such thing. A chill ran down his spine.

“You keep lying,” he said slowly and weakly, his lips twisted into a pained smile. “You want to show me again that you know my whole game, that you know all my answers beforehand,” he said, himself almost aware that he was no longer weighing his words as he should. “You want to bully me...or else you're simply laughing at me.”

He continued to stare at him point-blank as he said this, and suddenly a boundless anger again flashed in his eyes.

“You keep lying!” he cried out. “You know perfectly well that the criminal's best dodge is to conceal as little as possible of what need not be concealed. I don't believe you!”

“You're quite a dodger yourself!” Porfiry tittered. “There's just no getting along with you, my dear; you've got some monomania sitting in you. So you don't believe me? But I shall tell you that you do in fact believe me, you've already believed me for a foot, and I'm going to get you to believe me for a whole yard, because I'm genuinely fond of you and sincerely wish you well.”

Raskolnikov's lips trembled.

“Yes, I do, sir, and I'll tell you one last thing, sir,” he went on, taking Raskolnikov lightly and amiably by the arm, a little above the elbow, “I'll tell you one last thing, sir: watch out for your illness. Besides, your family has now come to you; give a thought to them. You ought to soothe them and pamper them, and all you do is frighten them . . .”

“What's that to you? How do you know it? Why are you so interested? It means you're spying on me and want me to see it?”

“But, my dear, I learned it all from you, from you yourself! You don't even notice that in your excitement you're the first one to tell everything, both to me and to others. I also learned many interesting details yesterday from Mr. Razumikhin, Dmitri Prokofych. No, sir, you interrupted me just now, but I shall tell you that, for all your wit, your insecurity has made you lose a sober view of things. Here's an example, on that same theme, to do with the doorbells: I let you have such a precious thing, such a fact (it is a complete fact, sir!), just like that, lock, stock, and barrel—I, an investigator! And you see nothing in it? But, if I had even the slightest suspicion of you, is that how I ought to have acted? On the contrary, I ought first to have lulled your suspicions, giving no sign that I was already informed of this fact; to have thus diverted you in the opposite direction; and then suddenly to have stunned you on the head as with an axe (to use your own expression): 'And what, sir, were you pleased to be doing in the murdered woman's apartment at ten o'clock in the evening, or even almost eleven? And why were you ringing the bell? And why did you ask about the blood? And why did you bewilder the caretakers and incite them to go to the police station, to the lieutenant of the precinct?' That's how I ought to have acted, if I had even the slightest suspicion of you. I ought to have taken your evidence in accordance with all the forms, made a search, and perhaps have arrested you as well. . . Since I have acted otherwise, it follows that I have no suspicions of you! But you've lost a sober view and don't see anything, I repeat, sir!”

Raskolnikov shuddered all over, so that Porfiry Petrovich noticed it only too clearly.

“You're lying still!” he cried. “I don't know what your purposes are, but you keep lying...You talked in a different sense a moment ago, and I'm surely not mistaken...You're lying!”

“Lying, am I?” Porfiry picked up, obviously excited, but preserving a most merry and mocking look, and seeming not in the least concerned with Mr. Raskolnikov's opinion of him. “Lying, am I?... Well, and how did I act with you just now (I, an investigator), prompting you and letting you in on all the means of defense, and coming out with all this psychology for you myself: 'Illness, delirium, you felt all offended; melancholy, policemen,' and all the rest of it? Eh? Heh, heh, heh! Though, by the way—incidentally speaking—all these psychological means of defense, these excuses and dodges, are quite untenable, and double-ended besides: 'Illness, delirium, dreams,' they say, 'I imagined it, I don't remember'—maybe so, but why is it, my dear, that in one's illness and delirium one imagines precisely these dreams, and not others? One might have had others, sir? Right? Heh, heh, heh, heh!”

Raskolnikov looked at him proudly and disdainfully.

“In short,” he said, loudly and insistently, getting up and pushing Porfiry a little aside, “in short, I want to know: do you acknowledge me to be finally free of suspicion, or not? Speak, Porfiry Petrovich, speak positively and finally, and right now, quickly!”

“What an assignment! Ah, you're a real assignment!” Porfiry exclaimed, with a perfectly merry, sly, and not in the least worried look. “But why do you want to know, why do you want to know so much, when we haven't even begun to bother you in the least! You're like a child: just let me touch the fire! And why do you worry so much? Why do you thrust yourself upon us, for what reason? Eh? Heh, heh, heh!”

“I repeat,” Raskolnikov cried furiously, “that I can no longer endure...”

“What, sir? The uncertainty?” Porfiry interrupted.

“Don't taunt me! I won't have it! ... I tell you, I won't have it! ... I cannot and I will not have it! . .. Do you hear! Do you hear!” he cried, banging his fist on the table again.

“Quiet, quiet! They'll hear you! I warn you seriously: look out for yourself. I'm not joking, sir!” Porfiry said in a whisper, but in his face this time there was nothing of that earlier womanish, good-natured, and alarmed expression; on the contrary, now he was ordering outright, sternly, frowning, and as if suddenly breaking through all secrets and ambiguities. But only for a moment. Puzzled at first, Raskolnikov suddenly flew into a real frenzy; but, strangely, he again obeyed the order to speak more softly, though he was in the most violent paroxysm of rage.

“I will not allow you to torture me!” he began whispering, as before, realizing immediately, with pain and hatred, that he was unable to disobey the order, and getting into even more of a rage at the thought of it. “Arrest me, search me, but be so good as to act according to form and not to toy with me, sir! Do not dare . . .”

“Now, don't go worrying about form,” Porfiry interrupted, with his usual sly smile, and as if even delightedly admiring Raskolnikov. “I invited you here unofficially, my dear, only as a friend!”

“I don't want your friendship, and I spit on it! Do you hear? Now look: I'm taking my cap and leaving. What are you going to say to that, if you were intending to arrest me?”

He seized his cap and walked to the door.

“But don't you want to see my little surprise?” Porfiry tittered, seizing his arm again just above the elbow, and stopping him at the door. He was obviously becoming more and more merry and playful, which was finally driving Raskolnikov into a fury.

“What little surprise? What is it?” he asked, suddenly stopping and looking at Porfiry in fear.

“A little surprise, sir, sitting there behind my door, heh, heh, heh!” (He pointed his finger at the closed door in the partition, which led to his government apartment.) “I even locked it in so that it wouldn't run away.”

“What is it? Where? What?...” Raskolnikov went over to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked.

“It's locked, sir, and here is the key!”

And indeed he showed him the key, having taken it from his pocket.

“You're still lying!” Raskolnikov screamed, no longer restraining himself. “You're lying, you damned punchinello!” And he rushed at Porfiry, who retreated towards the door, but was not at all afraid.

“I understand everything, everything!” he leaped close to him. “You're lying and taunting me so that I'll give myself away . . .”

“But one could hardly give oneself away any more, my dear Rodion Romanovich. You're beside yourself. Don't shout, I really will call people, sir!”

“Lies! You've got nothing! Call your people! You knew I was sick and wanted to annoy me to the point of rage, to get me to give myself away, that was your purpose! No, show me your facts! I understand everything! You have no facts, all you have are just miserable, worthless guesses, Zamyotovian guesses! ... You knew my character, you wanted to drive me into a frenzy and then suddenly stun me with priests and deputies...Is it them you're waiting for? Eh? What are you waiting for? Where? Let's have it!”

“But what deputies could there be, my dear! You have quite an imagination! This way one can't even go by form, as you say; you don't know the procedure, my friend...But form won't run away, sir, as you'll see for yourself! . . .” Porfiry muttered, with an ear towards the door.

Indeed, at that moment there seemed to be some noise just behind the door to the other room.

“Ah, they're coming!” cried Raskolnikov. “You sent for them! ... You've been waiting for them! You calculated...Well, let's have them all here—deputies, witnesses, whatever you like...go on! I'm ready! Ready! . . .”

But here a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected, in the ordinary course of things, that certainly neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovich could have reckoned on such a denouement.

VI

Afterwards, remembering this moment, Raskolnikov pictured it all in the following way.

The noise from behind the door quickly increased all at once, and the door opened a little.

“What is it?” Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed in annoyance. “Didn't I warn you . . .”

No answer came for a moment, but one could see that several people were outside the door, and that someone was apparently being pushed aside.

“What is it in there?” Porfiry Petrovich repeated worriedly.

“We've brought the prisoner Nikolai,” someone's voice was heard.

“No! Away! Not now! ... How did he get here? What is this disorder?” Porfiry cried, rushing to the door.

“But he . . .” the same voice tried to begin again and suddenly stopped short.

For two seconds, not more, a real struggle took place; then it was as if someone suddenly pushed someone violently aside, after which a certain very pale man stepped straight into Porfiry Petrovich's office.

The man's appearance, at first sight, was very strange. He was staring straight ahead of him, but as if seeing no one. Determination flashed in his eyes, but at the same time there was a deathly pallor on his face, as though he were being led out to execution. His completely white lips quivered slightly.

He was still very young, dressed as a commoner, of average height, lean, with his hair cut like a bowl, and with gaunt, dry-looking features. The man he had unexpectedly pushed aside was the first to dash into the room after him, and managed to seize him by the shoulder: it was one of the guards; but Nikolai jerked his arm and tore himself free again.

A crowd of several curious onlookers formed in the doorway. Some of them made attempts to enter. Everything described here took place in no more than a moment.

“Away! It's too soon! Wait till you're called! ... Why did you bring him ahead of time?” Porfiry Petrovich muttered, extremely annoyed and as if thrown off. But all at once Nikolai went down on his knees.

“What's this now?” Porfiry cried in amazement.

“I'm guilty. The sin is mine! I am the murderer!” Nikolai suddenly pronounced, somewhat breathlessly, but in a rather loud voice.

The silence lasted for about ten seconds, as though everyone were simply stunned; even the guard recoiled and no longer tried to approach Nikolai, but retreated mechanically towards the door and stood there without moving.

“What is this?” cried Porfiry Petrovich, coming out of his momentary stupor.

“I am...the murderer . . .” Nikolai repeated, after a short silence.

“What...you...what...who did you kill?” Porfiry Petrovich was obviously at a loss.

Again Nikolai was silent for a moment.

“Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna—I...killed them...with an axe. My mind was darkened . . .” he added suddenly, and again fell silent, he was still on his knees.

For a few moments Porfiry Petrovich stood as if pondering, then he roused himself up again and waved away the uninvited witnesses. They vanished instantly, and the door was closed. Then he looked at Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner gazing wildly at Nikolai, made a move towards him, but suddenly stopped, looked at him, immediately shifted his eyes to Nikolai, then back to Raskolnikov, then back to Nikolai, and suddenly, as if carried away, he fell upon Nikolai again.

“Why are you rushing ahead with your darkening?” he shouted at him almost spitefully. “I haven't asked you yet whether your mind was darkened or not...Tell me, you killed them?”

“I am the murderer...I'm giving testimony . . .” Nikolai said.

“Ehh! What did you kill them with?”

“An axe. I had it ready.”

“Eh, he's rushing! Alone?”

Nikolai did not understand the question.

“Did you do it alone?”

“Alone. And Mitka's not guilty, and he's not privy to any of it.”

“Don't rush with Mitka! Ehh! ... And how was it, how was it that you went running down the stairs then? The caretakers met both of you, didn't they?”

“That was to throw you off... that's why I ran then... with Mitka,” Nikolai replied hurriedly, as if he had prepared the answer beforehand.

“So, there it is!” Porfiry cried out spitefully. “He's not using his own words!” he muttered, as if to himself, and suddenly he noticed Raskolnikov again.

He had evidently been so carried away with Nikolai that for a moment he even forgot all about Raskolnikov. Now he suddenly recollected himself, was even embarrassed . . .

“Rodion Romanovich, my dear! Excuse me, sir,” he dashed to him, “this simply won't do; if you please, sir...there's nothing for you to...I myself...see what surprises! ... if you please, sir! . . .”

And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door.

“It seems you didn't expect this?” said Raskolnikov, who of course understood nothing clearly yet but had already managed to cheer up considerably.

“You didn't expect it either, my dear. Look how your hand is shaking! Heh, heh!”

“You're shaking, too, Porfiry Petrovich.”

“Indeed I am, sir; I didn't expect this! . . .”

They were standing in the doorway. Porfiry was waiting impatiently for Raskolnikov to go out.

“So you're not going to show me your little surprise?” Raskolnikov said suddenly.

“He says it, and his teeth are still chattering in his mouth, heh, heh! What an ironical man you are! Well, sir, come again.”

“It's good-bye, I should think.”

“As God wills, sir, as God wills!” Porfiry muttered, his smile becoming somehow twisted.

As he passed through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people were looking at him intently. Among the crowd in the waiting room he managed to make out the two caretakers from that house, the ones he had incited to go to the police that night. They were standing and waiting for something. But as soon as he walked out to the stairs, he suddenly heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovich behind him. Turning around, he saw that he was hurrying after him, all out of breath.

“One little word, Rodion Romanovich, sir; concerning everything else, it's as God wills, but all the same we'll have to ask you a thing or two formally, sir...so we'll be seeing each other right enough, sir.”

And Porfiry stood in front of him, smiling.

“Right enough, sir,” he added once more.

It might be supposed that he wanted to say something more, but it somehow would not get itself said.

“And you must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovich, about these things just now...I lost my temper,” Raskolnikov began, now thoroughly cheered up, so much so that he could not resist the desire to show off.

“Never mind, sir, never mind...” Porfiry picked up almost joyfully. “And I myself, sir...I have a venomous character, I confess, I confess! So we'll be seeing each other, sir. God willing, we shall indeed, sir!”

“And finally get to know each other?” Raskolnikov picked up.

“And finally get to know each other,” Porfiry Petrovich agreed, narrowing his eyes and looking at him rather seriously. “So, now you're off to the name-day party, sir?”

“To the funeral, sir!”

“Ah, yes, the funeral, that is! Your health, do look after your health, sir . . .”

“And I really don't know what to wish you in return!” replied Raskolnikov, who was already starting down the stairs but suddenly turned back to Porfiry. “I would wish you greater success, but, you see, your job is so comical!”

“How is it comical, sir?” Porfiry, who had also turned to go, instantly pricked up his ears.

“Well, just take this poor Mikolka, whom you must have tortured and tormented psychologically, the way you do, until he confessed; you must have been proving it to him day and night: 'You are the murderer, you are the murderer . . .'—well, and now that he's confessed, you're going to pick him apart bone by bone: 'You're lying, you're not the murderer! You couldn't have been! You're not using your own words!' How can it not be a comical job after that?”

“Heh, heh, heh! So you noticed I just told Nikolai that he wasn't 'using his own words'?”

“How could I not?”

“Heh, heh! Sharp-witted, you're sharp-witted, sir. You notice everything! Truly a playful mind, sir! And you do touch the most comical string...heh, heh! They say it's Gogol, among writers, who had this trait in the highest degree?”^[105]

“Yes, Gogol.”

“Yes, Gogol, sir...Till we have the pleasure again, sir.”

“Till we have the pleasure again . . .”

Raskolnikov went straight home. He was so puzzled and confused that, having come home and thrown himself on the sofa, he sat there for a quarter of an hour simply resting and trying at least somehow to collect his thoughts. He did not even venture to reason about Nikolai: he felt that he was defeated, that in Nikolai's confession there was something inexplicable, astonishing, which at the moment he was totally unable to understand. But Nikolai's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact became clear to him at once: the lie could not but be revealed, and then they would set to work on him again. But at least he was free until then, and he absolutely had to do something for himself, because the danger was unavoidable.

To what extent, however? The situation was beginning to clarify itself. Recalling his whole recent scene with Porfiry, roughly, in its general outlines, he could not help shuddering with horror again. Of course, he did not know all of Porfiry's purposes yet, he could not grasp all his calculations. But part of the game had been revealed, and certainly no one knew better than he how terrible this “move” in Porfiry's game was for him. A little more and he might have given himself away completely, and factually now. Knowing the morbidity of his character, having correctly grasped and penetrated it at first sight, Porfiry had acted almost unerringly, albeit too resolutely. There was no question that Raskolnikov had managed to compromise himself far too much today, but still it had not gone as far as facts; it was all still relative. But was it right, was it right, the way he understood it now? Was he not mistaken? What precisely had Porfiry been driving at today? Did he really have anything prepared today? And what precisely? Was he really expecting something, or not? How precisely would they have parted today, had it not been for the arrival of an unexpected catastrophe through Nikolai?

Porfiry had shown almost the whole of his game; he was taking a risk, of course, but he had shown it, and (Raskolnikov kept thinking) if Porfiry really had something more, he would have shown that, too. What was this “surprise”? A mockery, perhaps? Did it mean anything, or not? Could it have concealed anything resembling a fact, a positive accusation? That man yesterday? Where had he dropped to? Where was he today? Because if Porfiry had anything positive, it must certainly be connected with that man yesterday . . .

He was sitting on the sofa, his head hanging down, his elbows resting on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. A nervous trembling still shook his whole body. Finally he got up, took his cap, thought, and made for the door.

He somehow had a presentiment that for today, at least, he could almost certainly consider himself safe. Suddenly his heart felt almost joyful: he wanted to hasten to Katerina Ivanovna's. To be sure, he was late for the funeral, but he would still be in time for the memorial meal, and there, now, he would see Sonya.

He stopped, thought, and a sickly smile forced itself to his lips.

“Today! Today!” he repeated to himself. “Yes, today! It must be . . .”

He was just about to open the door, when it suddenly began to open by itself. He trembled and jumped back. The door was opening slowly and quietly, and suddenly a figure appeared—of yesterday's man from under the ground.

The man stopped on the threshold, looked silently at Raskolnikov, and took a step into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday, the same figure, the same clothes, but in his face and eyes a great change had taken place: he now looked somehow rueful, and, having stood for a little, he sighed deeply. He need only have put his palm to his cheek and leaned his head to one side, to complete his resemblance to a peasant woman.

“What do you want?” Raskolnikov asked, going dead.

The man paused and then suddenly bowed deeply to him, almost to the ground. At least he touched the ground with one finger of his right hand.

“What is this?” Raskolnikov cried out.

“I am guilty,” the man said softly.

“Of what?”

“Of wicked thoughts.”

The two stood looking at each other.

“I felt bad. When you came that time, maybe under the influence, and told the caretakers to go to the precinct, and asked about blood, I felt bad because it all came to nothing, and you were taken for drunk. And I felt so bad that I lost my sleep. And, remembering the address, we came here yesterday and asked...”

“Who came?” Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to recall.

“I came, that is. I did you a bad turn.”

“You're from that house, then?”

“But I was standing with them in the gateway that time, don't you remember? We have our handcraft there, from old times. We're furriers, tradespeople, we work at home...but most of all I felt bad . . .”

And all at once Raskolnikov clearly recalled the whole scene in the gateway two days ago; he realized that besides the caretakers several other people had been standing there, and women as well. He recalled one voice suggesting that he be taken straight to the police. He could not recall the speaker's face, and even now he did not recognize him, but he remembered that he had even made him some reply then, and turned to him . . .

So this was the solution to yesterday's horror. Most horrible was the thought that he had really almost perished, almost destroyed himself, because of such a worthless circumstance. So except for the renting of the apartment and the talk about blood, this man had nothing to tell. So Porfiry also had nothing, nothing except this delirium, no facts except for psychology, which is double-ended, nothing positive. So if no more facts emerged (and they must not emerge, they must not, they must not!), then...then what could they possibly do to him? How could they expose him finally, even if they should arrest him? And so Porfiry had learned about the apartment only now, only that day, and knew nothing before.

“Was it you who told Porfiry today...that I went there?” he cried, struck by the sudden idea.

“What Porfiry?”

“The chief investigator.”

“Yes, me. The caretakers wouldn't go that time, so I went.”

“Today?”

“I was there just a minute before you. And I heard everything, everything, the way he was tormenting you.”

“Where? What? When?”

“But, right there, behind the partition, I was sitting there the whole time.”

“What? So the surprise was you? But how could it have happened? For pity's sake!”

“Seeing as the caretakers didn't want to go on my words,” the tradesman began, “because they said it was late by then and he might even be angry that they came at the wrong time, I felt bad, and lost my sleep, and began finding things out. And having found out yesterday, I went today. The first time I came, he wasn't there. I tarried an hour longer, and then he couldn't see me. The third time I came, they let me in. I began reporting to him everything as it was, and he began rushing around the room and beat himself on the chest with his fist: 'What are you doing to me, you robbers?' he said. 'If I'd known anything of the sort, I'd have gone and brought him in under guard!' Then he ran out, called someone, and began talking to him in the corner, and then he came back to me, and began questioning and chiding me. And he reproached me very much; and I informed him of everything, and said that you didn't dare answer anything to my words yesterday, and that you didn't recognize me. And here he began running around again, and kept beating himself on the chest, and he was angry, and running around, and when you were announced— 'Well,' he said, 'get behind the partition, sit there for now, don't move, no matter what you hear,' and he himself brought me a chair there and locked me in; 'I may ask for you,' he said. And when they brought Nikolai, he took me out, just after you: 'I'll want you again,' he said, 'I'll question you again' . . .”

“And did he ask Nikolai any questions while you were there?” “As soon as he took you out, he immediately took me out as well, and began questioning Nikolai.”

The tradesman stopped and suddenly bowed again, touching the floor with his finger.

“For my slander and my wickedness, forgive me.” “God will forgive,” Raskolnikov replied, and as soon as he uttered it, the tradesman bowed to him, not to the ground this time but from the waist, turned slowly, and walked out of the room. “Everything's double-ended, now everything's double-ended,” Raskolnikov kept repeating, and he walked out of the room more cheerful than ever.

“The struggle's not over yet,” he said with a spiteful grin, on his way down the stairs. The spite was directed at himself: with scorn and shame he looked back on his “faintheartedness.”