Crime and Punishment

I

A strange time came for Raskolnikov: it was as if fog suddenly fell around him and confined him in a hopeless and heavy solitude. Recalling this time later, long afterwards, he suspected that his consciousness had sometimes grown dim, as it were, and that this had continued, with some intervals, until the final catastrophe. He was positively convinced that he had been mistaken about many things then; for example, the times and periods of certain events. At least, remembering afterwards, and trying to figure out what he remembered, he learned much about himself, going by information he received from others. He would, for example, confuse one event with another; he would consider something to be the consequence of an event that existed only in his imagination. At times he was overcome by a morbidly painful anxiety, which would even turn into panic fear. But he also remembered that he would have moments, hours, and perhaps even days, full of apathy, which came over him as if in opposition to his former fear—an apathy resembling the morbidly indifferent state of some dying people. Generally, during those last days, he even tried, as it were, to flee from a clear and full understanding of his situation; some essential facts, which called for an immediate explanation, especially burdened him; but how glad he would have been to free himself, to flee from certain cares, to forget which, however, would in his situation have threatened complete and inevitable ruin.

He was especially anxious about Svidrigailov; one might even say he had become stuck, as it were, on Svidrigailov. Since the time of Svidrigailov's words, spoken all too clearly and all too threateningly for him, in Sonya's apartment, at the moment of Katerina Ivanovna's death, the usual flow of his thoughts seemed disrupted. But even though this new fact troubled him greatly, Raskolnikov was somehow in no hurry to clarify the matter. At times, suddenly finding himself somewhere in a remote and solitary part of the city, in some wretched tavern, alone at a table, pondering, and scarcely recalling how he had ended up there, he would suddenly remember about Svidrigailov: the all too clear and alarming awareness would suddenly come to him that he also had to make arrangements with this man as soon as he could, and, if possible, come to a final resolution. Once, having gone somewhere beyond the city gates, he even fancied that he was waiting for Svidrigailov and that they had agreed to meet there. Another time he woke before dawn, on the ground somewhere, in the bushes, and almost without understanding how he had strayed there. However, in the first two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna's death, he had already met Svidrigailov a couple of times, almost always at Sonya's apartment, where he would come by somehow aimlessly, but almost always just for a minute. They always exchanged a few brief phrases and never once spoke of the capital point, as if it had somehow arranged itself between them that they would be silent about it for the time being. Katerina Ivanovna's body was still lying in the coffin. Svidrigailov had taken charge of the funeral and was bustling about. Sonya was also very busy. At their last meeting, Svidrigailov explained to Raskolnikov that he had somehow finished with Katerina Ivanovna's children, and had done so successfully; that, thanks to one connection or another, he had managed to find the right persons, with whose help it had been possible to place all three orphans, immediately, in institutions quite proper for them; that the money set aside for them had also helped considerably, because it was much easier to place orphans with capital than poor ones. He also said something about Sonya, promised to stop by at Raskolnikov's one of those days, and mentioned that he “wished to ask his advice; that he'd like very much to talk things over; that there were certain matters...” This conversation took place in the corridor, near the stairs. Svidrigailov looked intently into Raskolnikov's eyes and suddenly, after a pause, lowered his voice and asked:

“But what is it, Rodion Romanych? You're not yourself at all! Really! You listen and look, but it's as if you don't understand. You must cheer up. Let's do have a talk; only it's a pity there are so many things to be done, other people's and my own...Ehh, Rodion Romanych,” he suddenly added, “what every man of us needs is air, air, air, sir...That first of all!”

He suddenly stepped aside to allow a priest and a reader, who were coming up the stairs, to pass. They were going to hold a memorial service.^[131] On Svidrigailov's orders, these were held punctually twice a day. Svidrigailov went on his way. Raskolnikov stood, thought, and then followed the priest into Sonya's apartment.

He stopped in the doorway. The service began, quietly, ceremoniously, sadly. Ever since childhood, there had always been something heavy and mystically terrible for him in the awareness of death and the feeling of the presence of death; besides, it was long since he had heard a memorial service. Besides, there was also something else here, too terrible and disquieting. He looked at the children: they were all kneeling by the coffin, and Polechka was crying. Behind them, weeping softly and as if timidly, Sonya was praying. “And in these days she hasn't once glanced at me, hasn't said a word to me,” suddenly came to Raskolnikov's mind. The room was brightly lit by the sun; the smoke from the incense was rising in clouds; the priest was reading “Give rest, O Lord . . .”^[132] Raskolnikov stood there through the whole service. The priest, as he gave the blessing and took his leave, looked around somehow strangely. After the service, Raskolnikov went up to Sonya. She suddenly took both his hands and leaned her head on his shoulder. This brief gesture even struck Raskolnikov as puzzling; it was even strange: what, not the least loathing for him, not the least revulsion, not the least tremor in her hand? Here was some sort of boundlessness of one's own humiliation. So he understood it, at least. Sonya said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and walked out. He felt terribly heavy. Had it been possible to go somewhere that minute and remain utterly alone, even for the whole of his life, he would have counted himself happy. But the thing was that, though he had been almost always alone recently, he could never feel that he was alone. It had happened that he would leave town, go out to the high road, once he even went as far as a little wood; but the more solitary the place was, the stronger was his awareness as of someone's near and disquieting presence, not frightening so much as somehow extremely vexing, so that he would hurriedly return to the city, mingle with the crowd, go into eating-houses, taverns, to the flea market, the Haymarket. Here it seemed easier, and even more solitary. In one chop-house, towards evening, people were singing songs: he sat for a whole hour listening, and remembered that he had even enjoyed it. But towards the end he suddenly became uneasy again, as if he had suddenly begun to be tormented by remorse: “So I'm sitting here listening to songs, but is this what I ought to be doing?” he somehow thought. However, he realized immediately that this was not the only thing troubling him; there was something that called for immediate resolution, but which it was impossible to grasp or convey in words. It was all wound up into a sort of ball. “No, better some kind of fight! Better Porfiry again...or Svidrigailov...The sooner to meet someone's challenge, someone's attack... Yes, yes!” he thought. He left the chop-house and almost broke into a run. The thought of Dunya and his mother for some reason suddenly seemed to fill him with panic fear. This was the night when he woke up, before morning, in the bushes, on Krestovsky Island, all chilled, in a fever; he went home, arriving early in the morning. The fever left him after a few hours of sleep, but it was late when he woke up: already two o'clock in the afternoon.

He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna's funeral had been appointed for that day, and was glad not to be present at it. Nastasya brought him something to eat; he ate and drank with great appetite, all but greedily. His head was fresher, and he himself was calmer, than during those last three days. He even marveled, fleetingly, at his earlier influxes of panic fear. The door opened and Razumikhin came in.

“Aha! he's eating! That means he's not sick!” Razumikhin said, and, taking a chair, he sat down at the table across from Raskolnikov. He was troubled and did not try to conceal it. He spoke with obvious vexation, but without hurrying and without raising his voice especially. One might have thought there was some special and even exceptional intention lodged in him. “Listen,” he began resolutely, “devil take you all, as far as I'm concerned, but from what I see now, I see clearly that I can't understand anything; please don't think I've come to question you—I spit on it! I don't want it myself! Reveal everything now, all your secrets, and maybe I won't even listen, I'll just spit and walk away. I've come only to find out personally and finally: first of all, is it true that you're mad? You see, a belief exists (well, somewhere or other) that you may be mad, or very much inclined that way. I'll confess to you, I myself was strongly inclined to support that opinion, judging, first, by your stupid and partly vile actions (unexplainable by anything), and, second, by your recent behavior with your mother and sister. Only a monster and a scoundrel, if not a madman, would act with them as you did; consequently, you're a madman . . .”

“How long ago did you see them?”

“Just now. And you haven't seen them since then? Where have you been hanging around, may I ask; I've come by here three times already. Your mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She wanted to come here; Avdotya Romanovna tried to hold her back, but she wouldn't listen to anything: 'If he's sick,' she said, 'if he's going mad, who will help him if not his mother?' We all came here, because we couldn't let her come alone. We kept telling her to calm down all the way to your very door. We came in; you weren't home; here's where she sat. She sat for ten minutes, silently, with us standing over her. She got up and said: 'If he can go out, and is therefore well and has simply forgotten his mother, then it's indecent and shameful for a mother to stand on his doorstep and beg for affection as for a handout.' She went home and came down sick; now she has a fever: 'I see,' she says, 'he has time enough for that one of his. ' She thinks that one is Sofya Semyonovna, your fiancée or your mistress, I really don't know. I went to Sofya Semyonovna's at once, because I wanted to find out everything, brother—I came and saw a coffin standing there, children crying. Sofya Semyonovna was trying their mourning clothes on them. You weren't there. I looked in, apologized, and left, and reported to Avdotya Romanovna. So it's all nonsense, and there isn't any that one involved; so it must be madness. But here you sit gobbling boiled beef as if you hadn't eaten for three days. Granted madmen also eat, but you, though you haven't said a word to me...are not mad! I'll swear to it. Whatever else you are, you're not mad. And so, devil take you all, because there's some mystery here, some secret, and I have no intention of breaking my head over your secrets. I've just come to swear at you,” he concluded, getting up, “to vent my feelings, and now I know what to do!”

“What are you going to do now?”

“What do you care what I'm going to do now?”

“Look out, you'll go on a binge!”

“How...how did you know?”

“What else?”

Razumikhin paused for a minute.

“You've always been a very reasonable man, and you've never, ever been mad,” he suddenly observed with ardor. “It's true—I'll go on a binge! Good-bye!” And he made a move to leave.

“I was talking about you, Razumikhin, two days ago, I think, with my sister.”

“About me! But. . . where could you have seen her two days ago?” Razumikhin stopped, and even paled a little. One could guess that his heart had begun pounding slowly and tensely in his chest.

“She came here, alone, sat down and talked to me.”

“She did!”

“Yes, she did.”

“What did you tell her...about me, I mean?”

“I told her that you're a very good, honest, and hard-working man. I didn't tell her that you loved her, because she knows it herself.”

“Knows it herself?”

“What else! Wherever I may go, whatever happens to me—you will remain their Providence. I'm handing them over to you, so to speak, Razumikhin. I say this because I know perfectly well how much you love her and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I also know that she can love you as well, and perhaps even already does. Now decide for yourself, as best you can, whether you want to go on a binge or not.”

“Rodka...you see...well. . . Ah, the devil! And where do you plan on going? You see, if it's all a secret, let it stay that way! But I...I'll find out the secret...And I'm certain that it's some sort of nonsense and terribly trifling, and that it's all your own doing. But, anyway, you're a most excellent man! A most excellent man! ... ”

“And I was precisely about to add, when you interrupted me, that you had quite a good thought just now about not finding out these mysteries and secrets. Let it be for now, and don't worry. You'll learn everything in due time, precisely when you should. Yesterday a certain person told me that man needs air, air, air! I want to go to him now and find out what he meant by that.”

Razumikhin stood pensive and agitated, figuring something out.

“He's a political conspirator! For sure! And he's about to take some decisive step—for sure! It can't be otherwise, and...and Dunya knows . . .” he suddenly thought to himself.

“So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you,” he said, stressing each word, “and you yourself want to see a man who says we need air, more air, and...and, therefore, this letter, too...is something of the same sort,” he concluded, as if to himself.

“What letter?”

“She received a certain letter today; it troubled her very much. Very. Even too much. I began talking about you—she asked me to be quiet. Then...then she said we might be parting very soon, and began thanking me ardently for something; then she went to her room and locked herself in.”

“She received a letter?” Raskolnikov pensively repeated the question.

“Yes, a letter; and you didn't know? Hm.”

They were both silent for a short time.

“Good-bye, Rodion. I...there was a time, brother...anyway, good-bye. You see, there was a time...Well, good-bye! I must go, too. And I won't drink. There's no need now...Forget it!”

He hurried out, but having left and almost closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again and said, looking somewhere aside:

“By the way! Remember that murder, you know, Porfiry's case— the old woman? Well, you ought to know that the murderer has been found, he confessed and presented all the proofs himself. It was one of those workmen, those painters, just think of it; remember me defending them here? Would you believe that that whole scene of laughing and fighting on the stairs with his friend, when the others were going up, the caretaker and the two witnesses, was set up by him on purpose, precisely as a blind? What cunning, what presence of mind, in such a young pup! It's hard to believe; but he explained it all, he confessed it all himself! And what a sucker I was! Well, I suppose it's simply the genius of shamming and resourcefulness, the genius of the legal blind—and so there's nothing to be especially surprised at! Such people do exist, don't they? And that his character broke down and he confessed, makes me believe him all the more. It's more plausible...But how, how could I have been such a sucker! I was crawling the walls for them!”

“Tell me, please, where did you learn this, and why does it interest you so much?” Raskolnikov asked, with visible excitement.

“Come, now! Why does it interest me! What a question! ... I learned it from Porfiry, among others. But mainly from Porfiry.”

“From Porfiry?”

“From Porfiry.”

“And what...what does he say?” Raskolnikov asked fearfully.

“He explained it to me perfectly. Psychologically, in his own way.”

“Explained it? He explained it to you himself?”

“Himself, himself. Good-bye! I'll tell you a bit more later, but right now I have something to do. There...there was a time when I thought...But what of it; later! ... Why should I get drunk now. You've got me drunk without wine. Because I am drunk, Rodka! I'm drunk without wine now. Well, good-bye; I'll come again, very soon.”

He walked out.

“He's a political conspirator, he is, for sure, for sure!” Razumikhin decided to himself finally, as he slowly went down the stairs. “And he's drawn his sister into it; that's very, very likely, given Avdotya Romanovna's character. They've started meeting together . .. And she, too, dropped me a hint. It all comes out precisely that way, from many of her words...and phrases...and hints! And how else can all this tangle be explained? Hm! And I almost thought...Oh, Lord, how could I dream of it! Yes, sir, that was an eclipse, and I am guilty before him! It was he who brought this eclipse on me then, by the light, in the corridor. Pah! What a nasty, crude, mean thought on my part! Good boy, Mikolka, for confessing...And all the earlier things are explained now! That illness of his then, all that strange behavior, even before, before, still at the university, he was always so gloomy, sullen...But then, what does this letter mean? There might be something there as well. Who is the letter from? I suspect... Hm. No, I'm going to find it all out.”

He remembered and put together everything about Dunechka, and his heart sank. He tore from his place and ran.

Raskolnikov, as soon as Razumikhin left, got up, turned towards the window, bumped into one corner, then into another, as if forgetting how small his kennel was, and...sat down again on the sofa. He was altogether renewed, as it were; again the fight—it meant a way out had been found!

“Yes, it means a way out has been found! For everything had become too stifling and confined, too painfully oppressive, overcome by some sort of druggedness. Since that very scene with Mikolka at Porfiry's, he had been suffocating in a cramped space, with no way out. After Mikolka, on the same day, there had been the scene at Sonya's; he had handled it and ended it not at all, not at all as he might have imagined to himself beforehand...which meant he had become weak, instantly and radically! All at once! And he had agreed with Sonya then, he had agreed, agreed in his heart, that he would not be able to live like that, alone, with such a thing on his soul! And Svidrigailov? Svidrigailov's a riddle...Svidrigailov troubles him, it's true, but somehow not from that side. Maybe he'll have to face a struggle with Svidrigailov as well. Svidrigailov may also be a whole way out; but Porfiry's a different matter.

“So it was Porfiry himself who explained it to Razumikhin, explained it psychologically! He's bringing in his cursed psychology again! Porfiry, indeed! As if Porfiry could believe even for a moment in Mikolka's guilt, after what had passed between them then, after that face-to-face scene just before Mikolka, of which there could be no correct interpretation except one!” (Several times during those days scraps of that whole scene with Porfiry had flashed and recalled themselves to Raskolnikov; he could not have borne the recollection as a whole.) “Such words had been spoken between them then, such movements and gestures had been made, such looks had been exchanged, certain things had been said in such a tone, it had reached such limits, that thereafter it was not for Mikolka (whom Porfiry had figured out by heart from the first word and gesture), it was not for Mikolka to shake the very foundations of his convictions.

“And now look! Even Razumikhin has begun to suspect! So that scene in the corridor, by the light, did not go in vain. He went rushing to Porfiry...But why did the man start hoodwinking him like that? What is he aiming at in using Mikolka as a blind with Razumikhin? He certainly must have something in mind; there's an intention here, but what? True, much time has passed since that morning—much too much, and not a word or a breath from Porfiry. Well, that, of course, was worse than...” Raskolnikov took his cap and, pensive, started out of the room. For the first day in all that time he felt himself, at least, of sound mind. “I must finish with Svidrigailov,” he thought, “at all costs, as soon as possible: he, too, seems to be waiting for me to come to him.” And at that moment such hatred rose up from his weary heart that he might have killed either one of them: Svidrigailov or Porfiry. At least he felt that if not now, then later he would be able to do so. “We'll see, we'll see,” he repeated silently.

But no sooner had he opened the door to the entryway than he suddenly ran into Porfiry himself. He was coming in. Raskolnikov was dumbfounded for a moment. Strangely, he was not very surprised to see Porfiry and was almost not afraid of him. He was merely startled, but he quickly, instantly, readied himself. “The denouement, perhaps! But how is it that he came up so softly, like a cat, and I heard nothing? Can he have been eavesdropping?”

“You weren't expecting a visitor, Rodion Romanovich,” Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed, laughing. “I've been meaning to drop in for a long time; then I was passing by and thought—why not stop for five minutes and see how he is? Are you on your way somewhere? I won't keep you. Just one little cigarette, if I may.”

“Sit down, Porfiry Petrovich, do sit down.” Raskolnikov invited his visitor to take a seat, ostensibly in so pleased and friendly a manner that he would indeed have marveled could he have seen himself. The dregs, the leavings, were being scraped out! Thus a man will sometimes suffer half an hour of mortal fear with a robber, but once the knife is finally at his throat, even fear vanishes. He sat down facing Porfiry and looked at him without blinking. Porfiry narrowed his eyes and began lighting a cigarette.

“Well, speak, speak” seemed about to leap from Raskolnikov's heart. “Well, why, why, why don't you speak?”

II

“These cigarettes, really!” Porfiry finally began to speak, having lighted up and caught his breath. “Harm, nothing but harm, yet I can't give them up! I cough, sir, there's a tickling in the throat and a shortness of breath. I'm a coward, you know, so the other day I went to ------n; he examines every patient for a minimum of half an hour; he even burst out laughing when he looked at me: he tapped and listened—by the way, he said, tobacco's not good for you, your lungs are distended. Well, and how am I going to quit? What'll I replace it with? I don't drink, sir, that's the whole trouble, heh, heh, heh—that I don't drink, that's the trouble! Everything's relative, Rodion Romanych, everything's relative!”

“What is this? Is he starting with the same old officialism again, or what!” Raskolnikov thought with loathing. The whole scene of their last meeting suddenly came back to him, and a wave of the same feeling as then flooded his heart.

“I already came to see you two days ago, in the evening—didn't you know?” Porfiry Petrovich continued, looking around the room. “I came in, into this same room. Like today, I was passing by and thought—why not repay his little visit? I came up, the door was wide open; I looked around, waited, and didn't even tell the maid—just went away. You don't lock your place?”

Raskolnikov's face was growing darker and darker. Porfiry seemed to guess his thoughts.

“I've come to explain myself, my good Rodion Romanych, to explain myself, sir! I'm obliged, and I owe you an explanation, sir,” he went on with a little smile, and even slapped Raskolnikov lightly on the knee with his palm, but at almost the same moment his face suddenly assumed a serious and preoccupied air; it even became as if veiled with sadness, to Raskolnikov's surprise. He had never yet seen or suspected him of having such a face. “A strange scene took place between us last time, Rodion Romanych. One might say that in our first meeting, too, a strange scene also took place between us; but then...Well, so one thing leads to another! You see, sir, I have perhaps come out very guilty before you; I feel it, sir. For you must remember how we parted: your nerves were humming and your knees trembling, and my nerves were humming and my knees trembling. And, you know, it came out somehow improperly between us then, not in gentlemanly fashion. And we are gentlemen, after all; that is, in any case, we are gentlemen first—that has to be understood, sir. You must remember what it was coming to...even altogether indecent, sir.”

“What's with him? Who does he think I am?” Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and staring at Porfiry.

“In my judgment, it would be better now if we were to proceed with frankness,” Porfiry Petrovich continued, throwing his head back slightly and lowering his eyes, as if wishing no longer to embarrass his former victim with his look, and as if scorning his former ways and tricks. “Yes, sir, such suspicions and such scenes cannot go on for long. Mikolka resolved it for us then, otherwise I don't know what it would have come to between us. That cursed little tradesman was sitting behind my partition then—can you imagine? Of course, you know that already, and I am informed that he went to see you afterwards; but what you supposed then was not true: I hadn't sent for anyone, and I hadn't made any arrangements yet. You ask why I hadn't made any arrangements? What can I say: I was as if bowled over by it all then. I'd barely even managed to send for the caretakers. (I'll bet you noticed the caretakers as you passed by.) A thought raced through me then, a certain thought, quick as lightning; I was firmly convinced then, you see, Rodion Romanych. After all, I thought, though I may let one slip for a time, I'll catch another by the tail—but what's mine, what's mine, at least, I won't let slip. You are all too irritable, Rodion Romanych, by nature, sir; even too much so, sir, what with all the other basic qualities of your character and heart, which I flatter myself with the hope of having partly comprehended, sir. Well, of course, even then I, too, could consider that it doesn't always happen for a man just to stand up and blurt out all his innermost secrets. Though it does happen, especially when the man has been driven out of all patience, but, in any case, rarely. That I, too, could consider for myself. No, I thought, if only I had at least some little trace! At least the tiniest little trace, just one, but one you could get your hands on, some real thing, not just this psychology. Because, I thought, if a man is guilty, then, of course, it's possible anyway to expect something substantial from him; it's even permissible to count on the most unexpected results. I was counting on your character, Rodion Romanych, on your character most of all! I had much hope in you then.”

“But you...but why do you go on talking this way now?” Raskolnikov muttered at last, without making much sense of his own question. “What's he talking about?” he felt utterly at a loss. “Can he really take me for innocent?”

“Why am I talking this way? But I've come to explain myself, sir; I regard it, so to speak, as my sacred duty. I want to tell you everything to the last drop, as it all was, the whole history of all that darkening, so to speak. I made you suffer through a great deal, Rodion Romanych. I am not a monster, sir. I, too, can well understand how it must be for a man to drag all this with him when he's aggrieved but at the same time proud, domineering, and impatient—above all, impatient! In any case, sir, I regard you as a most noble man, and even as having the rudiments of magnanimity, though I do not agree with you in all your convictions, which I consider it my duty to announce beforehand, directly, and with complete frankness, for above all I have no wish to deceive. Having come to know you, I feel an attachment to you. Perhaps you will burst out laughing at such words from me? You have the right, sir. I know that you disliked me even at first sight, because essentially there is nothing to like me for, sir. Regard it as you will, but I now wish, for my part, to use every means to straighten out the impression produced, and to prove that I am a man of heart and conscience. I say it sincerely, sir.”

Porfiry Petrovich paused with dignity. Raskolnikov felt the influx of some new fear. The thought that Porfiry regarded him as innocent suddenly began to frighten him.

“To tell everything in order, as it suddenly began then, is hardly necessary,” Porfiry Petrovich continued. “I think it's even superfluous. And it's unlikely I'd be able to, sir. Because how could I explain it thoroughly? First there were rumors. To say what these rumors were, from whom they came, and when...and on what occasion, strictly speaking, the matter got as far as you—is, I think, also superfluous. And for me personally, it began by accident, a quite accidental accident, something which in the highest degree might or might not have happened—and what was it? Hm, I think there's no need to say. All these rumors and accidents converged in me then into a single thought. I confess frankly—for if one is going to confess, it should be everything—I was the first to hit on you then. Take, for instance, all those labels the old woman wrote on the things, and so on and so forth—it's all nonsense, sir. One can count off a hundred such things. I also accidentally learned in detail then about the scene in the police office—also by accident, sir—and not just in passing, but from a special narrator, a capital one, who, without realizing it, handled the scene remarkably. One thing leads to another, one thing leads to another, my dear Rodion Romanych! So, how could I not turn in a certain direction? A hundred rabbits will never make a horse, a hundred suspicions will never make a proof, as a certain English proverb says, and that's only reasonable; but the passions, sir, try overcoming the passions—for an investigator is also a man, sir. Then I also remembered your little article in that little magazine; you remember, we spoke of it in detail during your first visit. I scoffed then, but that was only to provoke you to further things. I repeat, you're impatient, and very ill, Rodion Romanych. That you are daring, presumptuous, serious, and...have felt, have already felt a great deal—all this I have known for a long time, sir. All these feelings are familiar to me, and I read your little article as a familiar one. It was worked out on sleepless nights and in a frenzy, with a heaving and pounding heart, with suppressed enthusiasm. And it's a dangerous thing in young people, this suppressed, proud enthusiasm! I scoffed a bit then, but now I shall tell you that in general—that is, as an amateur—I'm terribly fond of these first, youthful, ardent tests of the pen. Smoke, mist, a string twanging in the mist.^[133]Your article is absurd and fantastic, but there are flashes of such sincerity in it, there is pride in it, youthful and incorruptible, there is the courage of despair; it's a gloomy article, sir, but that's a good thing. I read your little article, and laid it aside, and...as I laid it aside, I thought: 'Well, for this man it won't end there!' Well, tell me now, with such a foregoing, how could I not be carried away by the subsequent! Ah, Lord! But am I really saying anything? Am I affirming anything now? I simply noted it at the time. 'What's in it?' I thought. There's nothing here—I mean, exactly nothing, and perhaps the final degree of nothing. And for me, an investigator, to be carried away like that is even altogether unfitting: here I've got Mikolka on my hands, and with facts now—whatever you say, they're facts! And he, too, comes with his psychology; I must give some attention to him, too; because it's a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining it all to you now? So that you may know and, what with your mind and heart, not accuse me of behaving maliciously that time. It wasn't malicious, sir, I say it sincerely, heh, heh! Are you wondering why I didn't come here for a search then? But I did, sir, I did, heh, heh, I came, sir, while you were lying here sick in your little bed. Not officially, and not in person, but I came, sir. Everything was examined here, in your apartment, down to the last hair, while the tracks were still fresh; but—umsonst!^[134] I thought: now the man will come, will come of himself, and very soon; if he's guilty, he'll certainly come. Another man wouldn't come, but this one will. And do you remember how Mr. Razumikhin began letting it slip to you? It was we who arranged that in order to get you stirred up; we spread the rumor on purpose, so that Mr. Razumikhin would let it slip to you, because he's the kind of man who cannot contain his indignation. What struck Mr. Zamyotov most of all was your wrath and your open daring, suddenly to blurt out in the tavern: 'I killed her!' Too daring, sir, too bold; and I thought, if he's guilty, then he's a fierce fighter! That's what I thought then, sir. So I waited! I waited as hard as I could, and as for Zamyotov, you simply crushed him then, and...that's the whole catch, that this cursed psychology is double-ended! And so I waited for you, and look, what a godsend—you came! My heart fairly skipped a beat! Eh! Now, what made you come just then? And that laughter, that laughter of yours as you walked in then, remember? I saw through it all at once, like a pane of glass, but if I hadn't been waiting for you in such a special way, I wouldn't have noticed anything in your laughter. That's what it means to be in the right frame of mind. And Mr. Razumikhin then— ah! and the stone, the stone, remember the stone, the one the things are hidden under? I can just see it there, somewhere in a kitchen garden—didn't you mention a kitchen garden to Zamyotov, and then again at my place? And when we began going through your article, when you were explaining it—one just takes your every word in a double sense, as if there were another sitting under it! And so, Rodion Romanych, in this way I reached the outermost pillars, and bumped my head, and then I came to my senses. No, I said, what's the matter with me! For if you like, I said, all this down to the last trace can be explained in the opposite sense, and it will come out even more naturally. What a torment, sir! 'No,' I thought, 'better some little trace! ...' And then, when I heard about those little bells, I even stopped dead, I even began shivering. 'Now,' I thought, 'here's that little trace! This is it!' And I wasn't reasoning then, I simply didn't want to. I'd have given a thousand roubles from my own pocket just to have seen you with my own eyes: how you walked a hundred steps beside the little tradesman that time, after he said 'murderer' to your face, and you didn't dare ask him anything for the whole hundred steps! ... Well, and that chill in the spine? Those little bells, in your illness, in half-delirium? And so, Rodion Romanych, why should you be surprised, after all that, if I was playing such tricks with you then? And why did you yourself come just at that moment? It's as if someone was prompting you, too, by God, and if Mikolka hadn't separated us...and do you remember Mikolka then? Do you remember him well? A bolt, that's what it was like, sir! Wasn't it like a bolt from the clouds? A thunderbolt! Well, and how did I meet it? I didn't believe the thunderbolt, not a whit, you could see that! And later, after you left, when he began answering some points quite, quite neatly, so that I was surprised myself, even then I didn't believe a pennyworth of it! That's what it means to be strong as adamant. No, I thought, not by a long shot! There's no Mikolka here!”

“Razumikhin was just telling me that you're still accusing Nikolai, and were assuring Razumikhin of it yourself...”

His breath failed him, and he did not finish. He had listened in inexpressible excitement to the way this man who had seen through him to the very bottom disavowed himself. He was afraid to believe it, and he did not believe it. In the still ambiguous words he greedily sought and hoped to catch something more precise and final.

“That Mr. Razumikhin!” Porfiry exclaimed, as if rejoicing at the question from Raskolnikov, who up to then had been silent. “Heh, heh, heh! But Mr. Razumikhin simply had to be gotten out of the way: two's company, three's a crowd. Mr. Razumikhin is something else, sir; he's an outsider; he came running, all pale in the face...Well, God bless him, why get him mixed up in it! As for Mikolka, would you like to hear about that subject—I mean, as I understand it? First of all, he's still immature, a child, and not so much a coward as something like a sort of artist. Really, sir, don't laugh that I interpret him this way. He's innocent and susceptible to everything. He has heart; he's fanciful. He sings, he dances, and they say he can tell stories so that people come from all over to hear him. And he goes to school, and he laughs his head off if somebody just shows him a finger, and he gets dead drunk, not really from depravity, but in spells, when he's given drink, again like a child. He stole that time, for instance, and he doesn't realize it—he 'just picked it up from the ground; what kind of stealing is that?' And do you know he's a schismatic? Or not really a schismatic, but a sectarian; there were Runners in his family, and he himself recently spent two whole years in a village, under the spiritual direction of a certain elder.^[135] I learned all this from Mikolka and from his Zaraisk friends. What's more, all he wanted was to flee to the desert! He was zealous, prayed to God at night, and read, just couldn't stop reading— the old books, the 'true' ones. Petersburg had a strong effect on him, especially the female sex, yes, and wine, too. He's susceptible, sir, he forgot the elder and all the rest. It's known to me that a certain artist took a liking to him, used to go and see him, and then this incident came along! So, what with all this intimidation—hang yourself! Run away! What can we do about the ideas people have of our juridics! There are some who are terrified of 'having the law on them.' Whose fault is that? Maybe something will come from the new courts. Oh, God grant it! And so, sir, once in prison, he evidently remembered his honorable elder; the Bible also appeared again. Do you know, Rodion Romanych, what 'suffering' means for some of them? Not for the sake of someone, but simply 'the need for suffering'; to embrace suffering, that is, and if it comes from the authorities—so much the better. In my time there was a most humble convict in prison; for a year he sat on the stove at night reading the Bible; so he kept reading it and read himself up so much that, you know, out of the blue, he grabbed a brick and threw it at the warden, without any wrong on the warden's part. And how did he throw it? He aimed it on purpose to miss by a yard, so as not to cause any harm!^[136] Well, everyone knows what's in store for a convict who throws himself armed at the authorities: so he 'embraced suffering.' And now I suspect that Mikolka also wants to 'embrace suffering' or something of the sort. I know it for certain, and even with facts, sir. Only he doesn't know that I know. What, won't you allow that such a nation as ours produces fantastic people? All over the place! The elder has started acting up in him now; he recalled him especially after the noose. However, he'll come and tell me everything himself. You think he'll hold out? Wait, he'll deny it yet. I'm expecting him to come any time now and deny his evidence. I've grown fond of this Mikolka and am studying him thoroughly. And what do you think! Heh, heh! He answered some points quite neatly—evidently picked up the necessary information, prepared himself cleverly—but on other points he's all at sea, doesn't know a blessed thing, and doesn't even suspect that he doesn't know! No, my good Rodion Romanych, there's no Mikolka here! Here we have a fantastic, gloomy case, a modern case, a situation of our times, when the human heart is clouded, when one hears cited the phrase that blood 'refreshes,' when people preach a whole life of comfort. There are bookish dreams here, sir, there is a heart chafed by theories; we see here a resolve to take the first step, but a resolve of a certain kind—he resolved on it, but as if he were falling off a mountain or plunging down from a bell-tower, and then arrived at the crime as if he weren't using his own legs. He forgot to lock the door behind him, but killed, killed two people, according to a theory. He killed, but wasn't able to take the money, and what he did manage to grab, he went and hid under a stone. It wasn't enough for him to endure the torment of standing behind the door while the door was being forced and the bell was ringing—no, later he goes back to the empty apartment, in half-delirium, to remind himself of that little bell, feeling a need to experience again that spinal chill...Well, let's say he was sick then, but here's another thing: he killed, and yet he considers himself an honest man, despises people, walks around like a pale angel—no, forget Mikolka, my dear Rodion Romanych, there's no Mikolka here!”

These last words, after everything that had been said before and that had seemed so much like a disavowal, were too unexpected. Raskolnikov began trembling all over as if he had been pierced through.

“Then...who did...kill them? . . .” he asked, unable to restrain himself, in a suffocating voice. Porfiry Petrovich even recoiled against the back of his chair, as if he, too, were quite unexpectedly amazed at the question.

“What? Who killed them? . . .” he repeated, as if not believing his ears. “But you did, Rodion Romanych! You killed them, sir . . .” he added, almost in a whisper, in a completely convinced voice.

Raskolnikov jumped up from the sofa, stood for a few seconds, and sat down again without saying a word. Brief spasms suddenly passed over his face.

“Your poor lip is twitching again, like the other day,” Porfiry Petrovich muttered, even as if sympathetically. “It seems, Rodion Romanych, that you did not understand me rightly,” he added after a short pause. “That's why you're so amazed, sir. I precisely came with the intention of saying everything this time, and of bringing it all out in the open.”

“It wasn't me,” Raskolnikov whispered, just as frightened little children do when they are caught red-handed.

“No, it was you, Rodion Romanych, it was you, sir, there's no one else,” Porfiry whispered sternly and with conviction.

They both fell silent, and the silence even lasted strangely long, for about ten minutes. Raskolnikov leaned his elbows on the table and silently ran his fingers through his hair. Porfiry Petrovich sat quietly and waited. Suddenly Raskolnikov looked contemptuously at Porfiry.

“You're up to your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovich! You just cling to the same methods: aren't you sick of it, really?”

“Eh, come on, what do I care about methods now! It would be different if there were witnesses here; but we're alone, whispering to each other. You can see I didn't come to hunt you down and catch you like a hare. Whether you confess or not—it's all the same to me right now. I'm convinced in myself, even without you.”

“In that case, why did you come?” Raskolnikov asked irritably. “I'll ask you my former question: if you consider me guilty, why don't you put me in jail?”

“Well, what a question! Let me answer you point by point: first, it's not to my advantage simply to lock you up straight away.”

“How not to your advantage! If you're convinced, then you ought . . .”

“Eh, what if I am convinced? So far it's all just my dreams, sir. And what's the point of putting you there for a rest? You know it would be, since you're begging for it yourself. I'll bring in that little tradesman, for example, to give evidence against you, and you'll say to him: 'Are you drunk, or what? Who saw me with you? I simply took you for a drunk, and in fact you were drunk,' and what am I to say to that, especially since your story is more plausible than his, because his is just psychology—which, with a mug like his, is even indecent—and you'll have gone straight to the mark, because he does drink, the scoundrel, heavily, and is all too well known for it. And I myself have frankly admitted to you several times already that this psychology is double-ended, and that the other end is bigger, and much more plausible, and that so far I have nothing else against you. And though I'm going to lock you up all the same, and have even come myself (which is not at all how it's done) to announce everything to you beforehand, all the same I'm telling you directly (which is also not how it's done) that it will not be to my advantage. Now, secondly, sir, I've come to you because . . .”

“Ah, yes, secondly . . .” (Raskolnikov was still suffocating.)

“Because, as I announced earlier, I think I owe you an explanation. I don't want you to consider me a monster, especially since I am sincerely disposed towards you, believe it or not. As a result of which, thirdly, I've come to you with an open and direct offer—that you yourself come and confess your guilt. That will be infinitely more advantageous for you, and more advantageous for me as well—since it will be taken off my back. Now, tell me, is that sincere on my part, or not?”

Raskolnikov thought for about a minute.

“Listen, Porfiry Petrovich, you said yourself it was just psychology, and meanwhile you've gone off into mathematics. But what if you're actually mistaken now?”

“No, Rodion Romanych, I'm not mistaken. I've got that little trace. I did find that little trace then, sir—a godsend!”

“What little trace?”

“I won't tell you, Rodion Romanych. And in any case I have no right to put it off any longer; I shall lock you up, sir. So consider for yourself: it's all the same to me now, and consequently it's just for your sake alone. By God, it will be better, Rodion Romanych.”

Raskolnikov grinned spitefully.

“That's not only ridiculous, it's even shameless. Now, even if I were guilty (which I'm not saying at all), why on earth should I come and confess my guilt, when you yourself say I'll be put in there for a rest?”

“Eh, Rodion Romanych, don't believe entirely in words; maybe it won't be entirely for a rest! That's just a theory, and my theory besides, sir, and what sort of authority am I for you? I might be concealing something from you even now, sir. Why should I up and pour out everything for you, heh, heh! Another thing: what do you mean, what advantage? Do you know what a reduction of sentence you'd get for that? Because when is it that you'd be coming, at what moment? Just consider that! When another man has already taken the crime on himself and confused the whole case! And I swear to you by God Himself that I'll set it up and arrange things 'there' so that your confession will come out as quite unexpected. We'll do away entirely with all this psychology, and I'll turn all the suspicions of you to nothing, so that your crime will appear as some sort of darkening— because, in all conscience, it was a darkening. I'm an honest man, Rodion Romanych, I'll keep my word.”

Raskolnikov lapsed into a sad silence and his head drooped; he thought for a long time and finally grinned again, but this time his smile was meek and sad.

“Eh, don't!” he said, as if he were now entirely done dissembling with Porfiry. “It's not worth it! I don't want your reduction at all!”

“Now, that's what I was afraid of!” Porfiry exclaimed hotly and as if involuntarily. “That's what I was afraid of, that you don't want our reduction.”

Raskolnikov gave him a sad and imposing look.

“Ah, don't disdain life!” Porfiry went on. “You still have a lot of it ahead of you. How can you not want a reduction, how can you say that? What an impatient man you are!”

“A lot of what ahead of me?”

“Of life! What, are you a prophet? How much do you know? Seek and ye shall find. Maybe it's just here that God has been waiting for you. And the fetters, well, they're not forever...”

“They'll reduce the sentence...” Raskolnikov laughed.

“Or maybe you're afraid of the bourgeois shame of it, or something? It's possible you're afraid without knowing it yourself—you being so young! But, even so, you're not one to be afraid or ashamed of confessing your guilt.”

“Ehh, I spit on it!” Raskolnikov whispered scornfully and with loathing, as though he did not even wish to speak. He again made a move to get up, as if he wanted to go somewhere, but again sat down in visible despair.

“You spit on it, really! You've lost your faith and you think I'm crudely flattering you; but how much have you lived so far? How much do you understand? He came up with a theory, and now he's ashamed because it didn't work, because it came out too unoriginally! True, it did come out meanly, but even so you're not such a hopeless scoundrel. Not such a scoundrel at all! At least you didn't addle your brain for long, you went all at once to the outermost pillars. Do you know how I regard you? I regard you as one of those men who could have their guts cut out, and would stand and look at his torturers with a smile—provided he's found faith, or God. Well, go and find it, and you will live. First of all, you've needed a change of air for a long time. And suffering is also a good thing, after all. Suffer, then. Mikolka may be right in wanting to suffer. I know belief doesn't come easily—but don't be too clever about it, just give yourself directly to life, without reasoning; don't worry—it will carry you straight to shore and set you on your feet. What shore? How do I know? I only believe that you have much life ahead of you. I know you're taking what I say now as a prepared oration, but maybe you'll remember it later and find it useful; that's why I'm saying it to you. It's good that you only killed a little old woman. If you'd come up with a different theory, you might have done something a hundred million times more hideous! Maybe you should still thank God; how do you know, maybe God is saving you for something. Be of great heart, and fear less. Have you turned coward before the great fulfillment you now face? No, it's a shameful thing to turn coward here. Since you've taken such a step, stand firm now. It's a matter of justice. So, go and do what justice demands. I know you don't believe it, but, by God, life will carry you. And then you'll get to like it. All you need is air now—air, air!”

Raskolnikov even gave a start.

“And you, who are you?” he cried out. “What sort of prophet are you? From the heights of what majestic calm are you uttering these most wise prophecies?”

“Who am I? I'm a finished man, that's all. A man who can, perhaps, sympathize and empathize, who does, perhaps, even know something—but completely finished. But you are quite a different matter: God has prepared a life for you (though, who knows, maybe it will also pass like smoke and nothing will happen). What matter that you'll be passing into a different category of people? You're not going to miss your comforts, are you, with a heart like yours? What matter if no one will see you for a long time? The point lies in you, not in time. Become a sun and everyone will see you. The sun must be the sun first of all. Why are you smiling again—because I'm such a Schiller? I bet you think I'm trying to cajole you! And, who knows, maybe that's just what I'm doing, heh, heh, heh! Perhaps, Rodion Romanych, you shouldn't take me at my word, perhaps you even should never believe me completely—for such is my bent, I agree. Only I would like to add this: you yourself seem able to judge how far I am a base man and how far I am honest!”

“And when do you plan to arrest me?”

“Oh, I can give you a day and a half, or two, to walk around. Think, my dear, pray to God. It's to your advantage, by God, it's to your advantage.”

“And what if I run away?” Raskolnikov asked, grinning somehow strangely.

“You won't. A peasant would run away, a fashionable sectarian would run away—the lackey of another man's thought—because it's enough to show him the tip of a finger and, like Midshipman Dyrka, he'll believe anything for the rest of his life.^[137] But you no longer believe your own theory—what would you run away on? And what would you do as a fugitive? It's nasty and hard to be a fugitive, and first of all you need a life and a definite position, the proper air; and would that be any air for you? You'd run away, and come back on your own. It's impossible for you to do without us. And if I lock you up in jail, you'll sit there for a month, or maybe two, or maybe three, and then suddenly and—mark my words—on your own, you'll come, perhaps even quite unexpectedly for yourself. You won't know an hour beforehand that you're going to come and confess your guilt. And I'm even sure you'll 'decide to embrace suffering'; you won't take my word for it now, but you'll come round to it yourself. Because suffering, Rodion Romanych, is a great thing; don't look at me, fat as I am, that's no matter, but I do know—don't laugh at this—that there is an idea in suffering. Mikolka is right. No, you won't run away, Rodion Romanych.”

Raskolnikov got up from his place and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich also got up.

“Going for a stroll? It should be a fine evening, if only we don't have a thunderstorm. Though that might be good; it would freshen the air . . .”

He also reached for his cap.

“Porfiry Petrovich,” Raskolnikov said with stern insistence, “please don't take it into your head that I've confessed to you today. You're a strange person, and I've been listening to you only out of curiosity. But I did not confess anything...Remember that.”

“I know, yes, I'll remember—well, really, he's even trembling! Don't worry, my dear; be it as you will. Walk around a little; only you can't walk around for too long. And, just in case, I have a little request to make of you,” he added, lowering his voice. “It's a bit ticklish, but important: if—I mean, just in case (which, by the way, I don't believe; I consider you quite incapable of it), if, I say—just so, in any such case—you should have the wish, during these forty or fifty hours, to end this matter somehow differently, in some fantastic way—such as by raising your hand against yourself (an absurd suggestion, but perhaps you'll forgive me for it)—then leave a brief but explicit note. A couple of lines, just two little lines, and mention the stone; it will be more noble, sir. Well, sir, good-bye...I wish you kind thoughts and good undertakings!”

Porfiry went out, somehow stooping, and as if avoiding Raskolnikov's eyes. Raskolnikov went to the window and waited with irritable impatience until he calculated Porfiry had had enough time to reach the street and move some distance away. Then he, too, hurriedly left the room.

III

He was hurrying to Svidrigailov. What he could hope for from him, he himself did not know. But the man had some hidden power over him. Once he realized it, he could no longer rest, and, besides, the time had now come.

One question especially tormented him on the way: had Svidrigailov gone to Porfiry?

No, as far as he was able to judge, he had not—he would have sworn to it! He thought it over again and again, recalled Porfiry's entire visit, and realized: no, he had not; of course he had not!

But if he had not gone yet, would he or would he not go to Porfiry? For the time being it seemed to him that he would not go. Why? He could not have explained that either, but even if he could have explained it, he would not have racked his brains much over it just now.

All this tormented him, yet at the same time he somehow could not be bothered with it. Strangely, though no one might have believed it, his present, immediate fate somehow concerned him only faintly, absentmindedly. Something else, much more important and urgent—to do with himself and himself alone, but something else, some main thing—was tormenting him now. Besides, he felt a boundless moral fatigue, though his mind had worked better that morning than in all those recent days.

And was it worthwhile now, after everything that had happened, to try to overcome all these measly new difficulties? Was it worthwhile, for example, trying to intrigue so that Svidrigailov would not go to Porfiry; to investigate, to make inquiries, to lose time on some Svidrigailov!

Oh, how sick he was of it all!

And yet here he was hurrying to Svidrigailov; could it be that he expected something new from him—directions, a way out? People do grasp at straws! Could it be fate, or some instinct, bringing them together? Perhaps it was only weariness, despair; perhaps it was not Svidrigailov but someone else he needed, and Svidrigailov just happened to be there. Sonya? But why should he go to Sonya now? To ask for her tears again? Besides, Sonya was terrible for him now. Sonya represented an implacable sentence, a decision not to be changed. It was either her way or his. Especially at that moment he was in no condition to see her. No, would it not be better to try Svidrigailov, to see what was there? And he could not help admitting to himself that for a long time he had really seemed to need the man for something.

Well, but what could there be in common between them? Even their evildoing could not be the same. Moreover, the man was very unpleasant, obviously extremely depraved, undoubtedly cunning and deceitful, perhaps quite wicked. There were such stories going around about him. True, he had taken some trouble over Katerina Ivanovna's children; but who knew what for or what it meant? The man eternally had his projects and intentions.

Still another thought had kept flashing in Raskolnikov all those days, and troubled him terribly, though he had even tried to drive it away from him, so difficult did he find it! He sometimes thought: Svidrigailov kept hovering around him, and was doing so even now;

Svidrigailov had found out his secret; Svidrigailov had once had designs on Dunya. And did he have them still? One could almost certainly say yes. And what if now, having found out his secret and thus gained power over him, he should want to use it as a weapon against Dunya?

This thought had tormented him at times, even in his sleep, but the first time it had appeared to him with such conscious clarity was now, as he was going to Svidrigailov. The thought alone drove him into a black rage. First of all, everything would be changed then, even in his own position: he would immediately have to reveal his secret to Dunechka. He would perhaps have to betray himself in order to divert Dunechka from some rash step. The letter? Dunya had received some letter that morning! Who in Petersburg could be sending her letters? (Luzhin, perhaps?) True, Razumikhin was on guard there; but Razumikhin did not know anything. Perhaps he would have to confide in Razumikhin as well? Raskolnikov loathed the thought of it.

“In any case, I must see Svidrigailov as soon as possible,” he decided finally to himself. “Thank God, it's not details that are needed here so much as the essence of the matter; but if, if he's really capable, if Svidrigailov is plotting something against Dunya—then...”

Raskolnikov had become so tired in all that time, over that whole month, that he could no longer resolve such questions otherwise than with one resolution: “Then I will kill him,” he thought, in cold despair. A heavy feeling weighed on his heart; he stopped in the middle of the street and began looking around: what way had he taken, and where had he come to? He was on ------sky Prospect, thirty or forty steps from the Haymarket, which he had passed through. The entire second floor of the building to his left was occupied by a tavern. The windows were all wide open; the tavern, judging by the figures moving in the windows, was packed full. In the main room, singers were pouring themselves out, a clarinet and fiddle were playing, a Turkish drum was beating. Women's squeals could be heard. He was about to go back, wondering why he had turned onto ------sky Prospect, when suddenly, in one of the last open windows of the tavern, he saw Svidrigailov, sitting at a tea table just by the window, a pipe in his teeth. This struck him terribly, to the point of horror. Svidrigailov was observing him, gazing at him silently, and, what also struck Raskolnikov at once, seemed about to get up in order to slip away quietly before he was noticed. Raskolnikov immediately pretended he had not noticed him and looked away pensively, while continuing to observe him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was beating anxiously. He was right: Svidrigailov obviously did not want to be seen. He took the pipe from his mouth and was already trying to hide; but, having stood up and pushed his chair back, he must suddenly have noticed that Raskolnikov had seen and was watching him. Between them there occurred something resembling the scene of their first meeting at Raskolnikov's, when he had been asleep. A mischievous smile appeared on Svidrigailov's face and widened more and more. They both knew that each of them had seen and was watching the other. Finally, Svidrigailov burst into loud laughter.

“Well, well! Come in, then, if you like; I'm here!” he called from the window.

Raskolnikov went up to the tavern.

He found him in a very small back room, with one window, adjacent to the main room where shopkeepers, clerks, and a great many people of all sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables, to the shouting of a desperate chorus of singers. From somewhere came the click of billiard balls. On the table in front of Svidrigailov stood an open bottle of champagne and a half-filled glass. Also in the room were a boy organ-grinder with a small barrel-organ, and a healthy, ruddy-cheeked girl in a tucked-up striped skirt and a Tyrolean hat with ribbons, a singer, about eighteen years old, who, in spite of the chorus in the next room, was singing some lackey song in a rather husky contralto to the organ-grinder's accompaniment . . .

“That'll do now!” Svidrigailov interrupted her as Raskolnikov came in.

The girl broke off at once and stood waiting respectfully. She had also been singing her rhymed lackey stuff with a serious and respectful look on her face.

“Hey, Filipp, a glass!” cried Svidrigailov.

“I won't drink any wine,” said Raskolnikov.

“As you wish; it wasn't for you. Drink, Katya! No more for today— off you go!” He poured her a full glass of wine and laid out a yellow bank note. Katya drank the wine down as women do—that is, without a pause, in twenty sips—took the money, kissed Svidrigailov's hand, which he quite seriously allowed to be kissed, and walked out of the room. The boy with the barrel-organ trailed after her. They had both been brought in from the street. Svidrigailov had not spent even a week in Petersburg, but everything around him was already on some sort of patriarchal footing. The tavern lackey, Filipp, was also by now a “familiar” and quite obsequious. The door to the main room could be locked; Svidrigailov seemed at home in this room and spent, perhaps, whole days in it. The tavern was dirty, wretched, not even of a middling sort.

“I was on my way to your place, I was looking for you,” Raskolnikov began, “but why did I suddenly turn down------sky Prospect just now from the Haymarket! I never turn or come this way. I turn right from the Haymarket. And this isn't the way to your place. I just turned and here you are! It's strange!”

“Why don't you say straight out: it's a miracle!”

“Because it may only be chance.”

“Just look how they all have this twist in them!” Svidrigailov guffawed. “Even if they secretly believe in miracles, they won't admit it! And now you say it 'may' only be chance. They're all such little cowards here when it comes to their own opinion, you can't imagine, Rodion Romanych! I'm not talking about you. You have your own opinion and were not afraid to have it. It was that in you that drew my curiosity.”

“And nothing else?”

“But surely that's enough.”

Svidrigailov was obviously in an excited state, but only a little; he had drunk only half a glass of wine.

“I believe you came to see me before you found out that I was capable of having what you refer to as my own opinion,” Raskolnikov observed.

“Well, it was a different matter then. Each of us takes his own steps. And as for the miracle, let me say that you seem to have slept through these past two or three days. I myself suggested this tavern to you, and there was no miracle in your coming straight here; I gave you all the directions myself, described the place where it stands, and told you the hours when I could be found here. Remember?”

“I forgot,” Raskolnikov answered in surprise.

“I believe it. I told you twice. The address got stamped automatically in your memory. So you turned here automatically, strictly following my directions without knowing it yourself. I had no hope that you understood me as I was telling it to you then. You give yourself away too much, Rodion Romanych. And another thing: I'm convinced that many people in Petersburg talk to themselves as they walk. This is a city of half-crazy people. If we had any science, then physicians, lawyers, and philosophers could do the most valuable research on Petersburg, each in his own field. One seldom finds a place where there are so many gloomy, sharp, and strange influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The climatic influences alone are already worth something! And at the same time this is the administrative center of the whole of Russia, and its character must be reflected in everything. But that's not the point now; the point is that I've already observed you several times from the side. You walk out of the house with your head still high. After twenty steps you lower it and put your hands behind your back. You look but apparently no longer see anything either in front of you or to the sides. Finally you begin moving your lips and talking to yourself, sometimes freeing one hand and declaiming, and finally you stop in the middle of the street for a long time. It's really not good, sir. Someone besides me may notice you, and that is not at all to your advantage. It makes no difference to me, in fact, and I'm not going to cure you, but, of course, you understand me.”

“And do you know that I'm being followed?” Raskolnikov asked, glancing at him searchingly.

“No, I know nothing about that,” Svidrigailov answered, as if in surprise.

“Well, then let's leave me alone,” Raskolnikov muttered, frowning.

“All right, let's leave you alone.”

“Better tell me, if you come here to drink and twice told me to come to you here, why did you hide and try to leave just now, when I looked in the window from the street? I noticed it very well.”

“Heh, heh! And why, when I was standing in your doorway that time, did you lie on your sofa with your eyes shut, pretending you were asleep, when you weren't asleep at all? I noticed it very well.”

“I may have had...reasons...you know that yourself.”

“And I may have had my reasons, though you are not going to know them.”

Raskolnikov lowered his right elbow to the table, propped his chin from underneath with the fingers of his right hand, and fixed his eyes on Svidrigailov. For a minute or so he studied his face, which had always struck him before as well. It was somehow a strange face, more like a mask: white, ruddy, with ruddy, scarlet lips, a light blond beard, and still quite thick blond hair. The eyes were somehow too blue, and their look was somehow too heavy and immobile. There was something terribly unpleasant in this handsome and, considering the man's age, extremely youthful face. Svidrigailov's clothes were stylish, summery, light; especially stylish was his linen. On his finger there was an enormous ring with an expensive stone.

“But do I really have to bother with you as well?” Raskolnikov said suddenly, coming out into the open with convulsive impatience. “Though you're perhaps a most dangerous man, if you should decide to do me harm, I don't want to go against myself anymore. I'll show you now that I don't care as much about myself as you probably think. Know, then, that I've come to tell you straight out: if you still harbor your former intentions towards my sister, and if you think of using some recent discovery for that end, I will kill you before you can put me in jail. My word is good: you know I'm capable of keeping it. Second, if you want to announce something to me—because it has seemed to me all along as if you had something to tell me—do so quickly, because time is precious, and very soon it may be too late.”

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Svidrigailov asked, studying him curiously.

“Each of us takes his own steps,” Raskolnikov said glumly and impatiently.

“You yourself just invited me to be sincere, and now you refuse to answer the very first question,” Svidrigailov observed with a smile. “You keep thinking I have some purposes, and so you look at me suspiciously. Well, that's quite understandable in your position. But however much I may wish to become closer to you, I still won't go to the trouble of reassuring you to the contrary. By God, the game isn't worth the candle; besides, I wasn't intending to talk with you about anything very special.”

“Then why did you need me so much? You've been wooing around me, haven't you?”

“Simply as a curious subject for observation. I liked you for your fantastic situation—that's why! Besides, you're the brother of a person in whom I was very much interested; and, finally, there was a time when I heard terribly much and terribly often about you from that person, from which I concluded that you have a great influence over her; isn't that enough? Heh, heh, heh! However, I confess that your question is too complicated for me, and I find it difficult to answer. Let's say, for example, that you've come to me now not just on business, but for a little something new—right? Am I right?” Svidrigailov insisted, with a mischievous smile. “Now, just imagine that I, while still on my way here, on the train, was also counting on you, that you would also tell me a little something new, that I'd manage to come by something from you! See what rich men we are!”

“What could you come by?”

“Who can say? How should I know what? You see the sort of wretched tavern I spend all my time sitting in; and I relish it—that is, not that I relish it, but just that one needs a place to sit down. Well, take even this poor Katya—did you see her?...If I were at least a glutton, for example, a club gourmand—but look what I'm able to eat!” (He jabbed his finger towards the corner, where the leftovers of a terrible beefsteak with potatoes stood on a little table, on a tin plate.) “Have you had dinner, by the way? I had a bite, and don't want any more. Wine, for example, I don't drink at all. None, except for champagne, and even then only one glass in a whole evening, and even then I get a headache. I asked for it to be served now as a bracer, because I'm on my way somewhere, so you're seeing me in an unusual state of mind. That's why I hid myself like a schoolboy, because I thought you'd get in my way; but I think” (he took out his watch) “I can spend an hour with you; it's half past four now. Believe me, if only I were at least something—a landowner, say, or a father, an uhlan, a photographer, a journalist...n-nothing, no profession! Sometimes I'm even bored. Really, I thought you'd tell me something new.”

“But who are you, and why did you come here?”

“Who am I? Oh, you know: a nobleman, served two years in the cavalry, then hung around here in Petersburg, then married Marfa Petrovna and lived on the estate. That's my biography!”

“You're a gambler, I believe?”

“No, hardly. A sharper is not a gambler.”

“And you were a sharper?”

“Yes, I was a sharper.”

“Did you ever get thrashed?”

“It happened. What of it?”

“Well, so you could also have been challenged to a duel... and that generally makes things lively.”

“I won't contradict you, and, besides, I'm no expert at philosophizing. I confess to you that I hurried here rather more in connection with women.”

“As soon as you'd buried Marfa Petrovna?”

“Why, yes.” Svidrigailov smiled with winning frankness. “And what of it? You seem to find something bad in my talking that way about women?”

“You mean, do I find anything bad in depravity?”

“Depravity! Well, listen to that! However, for the sake of order, I'll answer you first about women in general; you know, I'm inclined to be talkative. Tell me, why should I restrain myself? Why should I give up women, if I'm so fond of them? At least it's an occupation.”

“So all you're hoping for here is depravity?”

“Well, call it depravity if you wish! You and your depravity! At least it's a direct question; I like that. In this depravity there's at least something permanent, even based on nature, and not subject to fantasy, something that abides in the blood like a perpetually burning coal, eternally inflaming, which for a long time, even with age, one may not be able to extinguish so easily. Wouldn't you agree that it's an occupation of sorts?”

“What is there to be so glad about? It's a disease, and a dangerous one.”

“Ah, listen to that! I admit it's a disease, like everything that goes beyond measure—and here one is bound to go beyond measure—but, first of all, that means one thing for one man and another for another, and, second, one must of course maintain a certain measure and calculation in everything, even if it's vile; but what can one do? Without that, really, one might perhaps have to shoot oneself. I agree that a decent man is obliged to be bored, but even so . . .”

“And could you shoot yourself?”

“Come, now!” Svidrigailov parried with loathing. “Do me a favor, don't speak of it,” he added hurriedly, and even without any of the fanfaronade that had showed in his previous words. Even his face seemed to change. “I'll confess it's an unfortunate weakness, but what can I do: I'm afraid of death and don't like hearing it talked about. You know, I'm something of a mystic.”

“Ah! Marfa Petrovna's ghosts! What, do they keep coming?”

“Away! Don't mention them! No, not in Petersburg yet; and anyway, devil take them!” he cried, with a sort of irritated look. “No, better let's talk about... although...Hm! Eh, there's no time, I can't stay with you long, more's the pity! I'd have found something to tell you.”

“What is it, a woman?”

“Yes, a woman, just some chance occasion...no, it's not that.”

“Well, and the vileness of the whole situation no longer affects you? You've already lost the power to stop?”

“So you're also appealing to power? Heh, heh, heh' You surprised me just now, Rodion Romanych, though I knew beforehand that it would be like this. And you talk to me of depravity and aesthetics! You—a Schiller! You—an idealist! Of course, it all had to be just like this, and it would be surprising if it were otherwise, but all the same it's strange when it really happens...Ah, what a pity there's no time, because you yourself are a most curious subject! By the way, are you fond of Schiller? I'm terribly fond of him.”

“What a fanfaron you are, really!” Raskolnikov said with some loathing.

“Not so, by God!” Svidrigailov replied, guffawing. “Though I won't argue, let it be fanfaron; and why not a bit of fanfaronade, since it's quite harmless? I lived for seven years on Marfa Petrovna's estate, and so now, having fallen upon an intelligent man like you—intelligent and curious in the highest degree—I'm simply glad of a little chat, and, besides, I've drunk this half glass of wine and it's already gone to my head a bit. And, above all, there is one circumstance that has braced me very much, but which I...shall pass over in silence. Where are you going?” Svidrigailov suddenly asked in alarm.

Raskolnikov was getting up. He felt both wretched and stifled, and somehow awkward that he had come there. He was convinced that Svidrigailov was the emptiest and most paltry villain in the world.

“Ehh! Sit down, stay,” Svidrigailov begged, “at least order some tea. Do stay, I won't talk nonsense—about myself, I mean. I'll tell you something. Shall I tell you how a woman, to put it in your style, was 'saving' me? This will even be an answer to your first question, because the person is your sister. May I tell you? It'll kill some time.”

“Tell me, then, but I hope you . . .”

“Oh, don't worry! Besides, even in such a bad and empty man as I am, Avdotya Romanovna can inspire nothing but the deepest respect.”

IV

“You perhaps know (and, incidentally, I told you myself),” Svidrigailov began, “that I was being held in debtors' prison here, for an enormous sum, and without the least prospect of paying it. There's no point in detailing how Marfa Petrovna bought me off then; do you know to what degree of stupefaction love can sometimes lead a woman? She was an honest woman, very far from stupid (though completely uneducated). Imagine, then, that this same jealous and honest woman made up her mind, after many terrible frenzies and reproaches, to stoop to a certain sort of contract with me, which she indeed fulfilled throughout our marriage. The thing was that she was considerably older than I and, besides, constantly kept some sort of clove in her mouth. I had enough swinishness in my soul, and honesty of a sort, to announce to her straight off that I could not be completely faithful to her. This admission drove her into a frenzy, but I think she in some way liked my crude frankness: 'If he announces it beforehand like this, it means he doesn't want to deceive me'—well, and for a jealous woman that is the primary thing. After many tears, an oral contract was concluded between us along the following lines: first, I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always remain her husband; second, I would never go away anywhere without her permission; third, I would never keep a permanent mistress; fourth, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna would allow me to cast an eye occasionally on the serving girls, but not otherwise than with her secret knowledge; fifth, God forbid I should love a woman of our own rank; sixth, if, God forbid, I should perchance be visited by some great and serious passion, I would have to confide it to Marfa Petrovna. With regard to this last point, however, Marfa Petrovna felt rather at ease all the while; she was an intelligent woman and consequently could not look upon me as anything other than a profligate and a skirt-chaser who was incapable of serious love. But an intelligent woman and a jealous woman are two different things, and that's just the trouble. To make an impartial judgment of some people, one has a priori to renounce certain preconceived opinions and one's habitual attitude to the people and things that ordinarily surround one. I have the right to trust your judgment more than anyone else's. Perhaps you've already heard a great deal that was ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. Indeed, some of her habits were quite ridiculous; but I'll tell you straight out that I sincerely regret the countless griefs of which I was the cause. Well, and that's enough, I think, to make a fairly decent oraison funèbre^[138] for the most tender wife of a most tender husband. On the occasions when we quarreled, I was silent for the most part and did not become irritated, and this gentlemanliness almost always achieved its purpose; it affected her, and even pleased her; there were occasions when she was even proud of me. But all the same your dear sister was too much for her. And how did it ever happen that she risked taking such a beauty into her house as a governess! I explain it by Marfa Petrovna's being herself a fiery and susceptible woman, and quite simply falling in love herself—literally falling in love—with your dear sister. And Avdotya Romanovna is a good one, too! I understood very well, at first glance, that things were bad here, and—what do you think?—I decided not even to raise my eyes to her. But Avdotya Romanovna herself took the first step—will you believe that? And will you believe that Marfa Petrovna at first even went so far as to be angry with me for my constant silence about your sister, for being so indifferent to her ceaseless and enamored reports about Avdotya Romanovna? I don't understand what she wanted! Well, and of course Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya Romanovna all her innermost secrets about me. She had the unfortunate trait of telling decidedly everyone all our family secrets, and of constantly complaining to everyone about me; how could she pass over such a new and wonderful friend? I suppose they even talked about nothing else but me, and no doubt all those dark, mysterious tales that are ascribed to me became known to Avdotya Romanovna...I'll bet you've already heard something of the sort as well?”

“I have. Luzhin even accused you of causing a child's death. Is it true?”

“Do me a favor, leave all those trivialities alone,” Svidrigailov brushed the question aside, gruffly and with loathing. “If it's so necessary for you to learn about all that nonsense, I'll tell you specially some time, but now . . .”

“There was also talk of some servant on the estate, and that you seemed to have been the cause of something.”

“Do me a favor—enough!” Svidrigailov interrupted again with obvious impatience.

“Was that the same servant who came to fill your pipe after his death...the one you told me about yourself?” Raskolnikov was becoming more and more irritated.

Svidrigailov looked intently at Raskolnikov, who thought he saw a spiteful grin flash momentarily, like lightning, in his eyes, but Svidrigailov restrained himself and answered quite politely:

“The very same. I see that you, too, find all this extremely interesting, and will regard it as my duty, when the first occasion offers, to satisfy your curiosity on all points. Devil take it! I see I may actually strike people as a romantic figure. Judge, then, how grateful I must be to the late Marfa Petrovna for having told so many curious and mysterious things about me to your dear sister. I dare not judge the impression, but in any case it was to my advantage. With all the natural loathing Avdotya Romanovna felt for me, and in spite of my ever gloomy and repellent look—in the end she felt pity for me, pity for the lost man. And when a girl's heart is moved to pity, that is, of course, most dangerous for her. She's sure to want to 'save' him then, to bring him to reason, to resurrect him, to call him to nobler aims, to regenerate him into a new life and new activity—well, everyone knows what can be dreamt up in that vein. I saw at once that the bird was flying into my net on its own, and prepared myself in my turn. You seem to be frowning, Rodion Romanych? Never mind, sir, it all came down to trifles. (Devil take it, I'm drinking too much wine!) You know, from the very beginning I've always felt sorry that fate did not grant your sister to be born in the second or third century of our era, as the daughter of some princeling or some other sort of ruler, or a proconsul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly have been among those who suffered martyrdom, and would have smiled, of course, while her breast was burned with red-hot iron tongs. She would have chosen it on purpose, and in the fourth or fifth century she would have gone to the Egyptian desert and lived there for thirty years, feeding on roots, ecstasies, and visions.^[139] She's thirsting for just that, and demands to endure some torment for someone without delay, and if she doesn't get this torment, she may perhaps jump out the window. I've heard something about a certain Mr. Razumikhin. He's said to be a reasonable man (and his name also shows it; he must be a seminarian)^[140]—well, then let him take care of your sister. In short, I think I understood her, and count it to my credit. But at the time—that is, at the beginning of our acquaintance—you know yourself that one is always somehow more light-minded and foolish, one's view is mistaken, one sees the wrong things. Devil take it, why is she so good-looking? It's not my fault! In short, it began with the most irrepressible sensual impulse in me. Avdotya Romanovna is terribly chaste, to an unseen, unheard-of degree. (Note that; I'm telling it to you as a fact about your sister. She is chaste, possibly, to the point of illness, in spite of all her broad intelligence, and it will do her harm.) There happened to be a certain girl there named Parasha, dark-eyed Parasha, who had just been brought from another village, a serving-girl, whom I had never seen before—very pretty, but incredibly stupid: burst into tears, raised the rooftops with her howling, and the result was a scandal. Once, after dinner, Avdotya Romanovna came specially looking for me alone on a path in the garden, and with flashing eyes demanded that I leave poor Parasha alone. It was almost our first conversation tête-à-tête. I naturally considered it an honor to satisfy her wish, tried to pretend I was struck, embarrassed—well, in short, played my role none too badly. Communications began, secret conversations, sermons, lectures, entreaties, supplications, even tears—would you believe it, even tears!

That's how strong the passion for propaganda is in some girls! I, of course, blamed it all on my fate, pretended to be hungering and thirsting for light, and, finally, employed the greatest and surest means of conquering a woman's heart, a means which has never yet failed anyone, which works decidedly on one and all, without exception—the well-known means of flattery. There's nothing in the world more difficult than candor, and nothing easier than flattery. If there is only the hundredth part of a false note in candor, there is immediately a dissonance, and then—scandal. But with flattery, even if everything is false down to the last little note, it is still agreeable and is listened to not without pleasure; crude though the pleasure may be, it is still a pleasure. And however crude the flattery may be, at least half of it is sure to seem true. And that is so for all levels of development and strata of society. Even a vestal virgin can be seduced by flattery. Not to mention ordinary people. I can't help laughing when I remember how I once seduced a certain lady who was devoted to her husband, her children, and her own virtues. It was so much fun, and so little work! And the lady was indeed virtuous, in her own way at least. My whole tactic consisted in being simply crushed and prostrate before her chastity at every moment. I flattered her infernally, and as soon as I obtained so much as the squeezing of her hand, or even just a look from her, I would reproach myself for having wrested it from her, because she had resisted, had resisted so much that I would never have gotten so far had I not been so depraved myself; because she, in her innocence, did not foresee any perfidy and succumbed inadvertently, without knowing, without thinking, and so on and so forth. In short, I obtained everything, and my lady remained convinced in the highest degree that she was innocent and chaste and had fulfilled all her duties and obligations, and had been ruined quite accidentally. And how angry she was with me when I declared to her finally that according to my sincere conviction she was seeking pleasure as much as I was. Poor Marfa Petrovna was also terribly susceptible to flattery, and if ever I had wanted, I could, of course, have transferred her entire estate to my name while she was still alive. (However, I'm drinking a terrible amount of wine and babbling away.) I hope you won't be angry if I now mention that the same effect began to show itself with Avdotya Romanovna. But I was stupid and impatient and spoiled the whole thing myself. Several times even before (and once somehow especially) Avdotya Romanovna had been terribly displeased by the look in my eyes—can you believe it? In short, a certain fire kept flaring up in them more and more strongly and imprudently, which frightened her and in the end became hateful to her. There's no point in going over the details, but we parted. Here again I was stupid. I began jeering in the crudest way regarding all these propagandas and conversions; Parasha appeared on the scene again, and not only her—in short, Sodom began. Ah, Rodion Romanych, if you'd seen at least once in your life how your dear sister's eyes can flash at times! It doesn't matter that I'm drunk now and have already finished a whole glass of wine, I'm telling the truth; I assure you that I used to see those eyes in my dreams; the rustling of her dress finally became unbearable to me. Really, I thought I'd get the falling sickness; I never imagined I could reach such a frenzy. In short, it was necessary to make peace—but it was no longer possible. And can you imagine what I did then? Oh, the degree of stupefaction to which rage can lead a man! Never undertake anything in a rage, Rodion Romanych! Considering that Avdotya Romanovna was essentially a beggar (ah, excuse me, that's not what I wanted...but isn't it all the same, if the concept is the same?), in short, that she was living by the work of her own hands, that she was supporting both her mother and you (ah, the devil, you're scowling again . . .), I decided to offer her all my money (I could have realized as much as thirty thousand even then) on condition that she elope with me, say, here to Petersburg. Naturally, I would swear eternal love, bliss, and so on and so forth. Believe me, I was so smitten that if she'd told me: Stick a knife into Marfa Petrovna, or poison her, and marry me—the thing would have been done at once! But it all ended in the catastrophe you already know about, and you can judge for yourself what a rage I was driven to when I discovered that Marfa Petrovna had procured that meanest of little clerks, Luzhin, and had almost put together a marriage—which would be essentially the same as what I was offering. Right? Right? Am I right? I notice you've begun listening rather attentively...an interesting young man...”

Svidrigailov impatiently pounded his fist on the table. He was flushed. Raskolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne he had drunk, sipping at it imperceptibly, was having a morbid effect on him, and decided to make use of his chance. He found Svidrigailov very suspicious.

“Well, after that, I'm fully convinced that you had my sister in mind when you came here,” he said to Svidrigailov, directly and without reticence, in order to provoke him even more.

“Eh, come on,” Svidrigailov suddenly seemed to catch himself, “didn't I tell you...and besides, your sister can't stand me.”

“That she can't stand you I'm also convinced of, but that's not the point now.”

“Are you so convinced of it?” (Svidrigailov narrowed his eyes and smiled mockingly.) “You're right, she doesn't love me; but never swear yourself to what has gone on between husband and wife, or between two lovers. There's always a little corner here that's always unknown to the whole world and is known only to the two of them. Will you swear that Avdotya Romanovna looked upon me with loathing?”

“I notice from certain words and phrases in your account that you still have your plans and the most immediate intentions on Dunya— vile ones, naturally.”

“What! Did such words and phrases escape me?” Svidrigailov became most naively frightened all at once, paying not the slightest attention to the epithet applied to his intentions.

“Yes, and they're still escaping you. What, for instance, are you so afraid of? Why are you suddenly so frightened?”

“Me? Afraid and frightened? Frightened of you? It's rather you who should be afraid of me, cher ami But what drivel...However, I see that I'm drunk; I nearly let things slip again. Devil take wine! Ho, there! Water!”

He grabbed the bottle and hurled it unceremoniously out the window. Filipp brought water.

“That's all nonsense,” said Svidrigailov, wetting a towel and putting it to his head, “and I can haul you up short and reduce your suspicions to dust with a single word. Do you know, for instance, that I am getting married?”

“You told me that before.”

“Did I? I forgot. But I couldn't have spoken positively then, because I hadn't seen the bride yet; it was just an intention. Well, but now I have a bride, and the matter is settled, and if it weren't for some pressing matters, I'd certainly take you to see them—because I want to ask your advice. Eh, the devil! I only have ten minutes left. See, look at the time; however, I'll tell you, because it's an interesting little thing in its own way; my marriage, I mean—where are you going? Leaving again?”

“No, I wouldn't leave now.”

“Wouldn't leave at all? We'll see. I'll take you there, truly, to show you the bride, only not now; now it will soon be time for you to go. You to the right, and I to the left. Do you know this Resslich? This same Resslich who rents me the room—eh? You hear? No, what are you thinking, the same one they say, about the girl, in the water, in winter—well, do you hear? Do you? Well, so she's the one who cooked it all up for me; you're bored like this, she said, amuse yourself a little. And I really am a gloomy, boring man. You think I'm cheerful? No, I'm gloomy: I don't do any harm, I just sit in the corner; sometimes no one can get a word out of me for three days. And Resslich, that rogue, I'll tell you, here's what she has in mind: I'll get bored, abandon my wife, and leave; then she'll get the wife and put her into circulation—among our own set, that is, or a little higher up. There's this paralyzed father, she says, a retired official, sits in a chair and hasn't moved his legs for three years. There's also a mother, she says, a reasonable lady, the mother is. The son serves somewhere in the provinces, doesn't help them. One daughter is married and doesn't visit; there are two little nephews on their hands (as if their own weren't enough), and their last daughter's a schoolgirl, they took her out of school without letting her finish, in a month she'll be just sixteen, which means in a month she can be married. To me, that is. We went there; it was very funny. I introduced myself: a landowner, a widower, from a notable family, with such-and-such connections, with money— so what if I'm fifty and she's not sixteen yet? Who's looking at that? But isn't it tempting, eh? It's tempting, ha, ha! You should have seen me talking with the papa and mama! People would have paid just to see me then. She comes out, curtsies—can you imagine, she's still in a short dress; an unopened bud—she blushes, turns pink as the dawn (they had told her, of course). I don't know how you feel about women's faces, but to my mind those sixteen years, those still childish eyes, that timidity, those bashful little tears—to my mind they're better than beauty, and on top of that she's just like a picture. Fair hair fluffed up in little curls like a lamb's, plump little crimson lips, little feet— lovely! ... So we got acquainted, I announced that I was in a hurry owing to family circumstances, and the very next day—that is, two days ago—they gave us their blessing. Since then, the moment I come in I take her on my knees and don't let her get down...Well, she blushes like the dawn, and I kiss her all the time; and the mama naturally impresses upon her that this, you see, is your husband, and it ought to be this way—in short, clever! And this present position, as a fiancé, may in fact be better than that of a husband. It's what's called la nature et la vérité!^[141] Ha, ha! I've talked with her a couple of times— the girl is far from stupid; once in a while she gives me a glance on the sly—it burns right through. And you know, she has the face of a Raphael Madonna. Because the Sistine Madonna has a fantastic face, the face of a mournful holy fool, has that ever struck you? Well, hers is the same sort. As soon as they blessed us, the next day, I came with fifteen hundred roubles' worth: a set of diamonds, another of pearls, and a lady's silver toilet case—this big—with all kinds of things in it, so that even her Madonna's face began to glow. I took her on my knees yesterday, but I must have done it too unceremoniously—she became all flushed, tears started, but though she didn't want to show it, she was all aflame herself. Everyone left for a moment, there were just the two of us, she suddenly threw herself on my neck (the first time on her own), embraced me with her little arms, kissed me, and vowed that she would be an obedient, faithful, and good wife to me, that she would make me happy, that she would spend her whole life on it, every minute of her life, would sacrifice everything, everything, and in return for all that she wished to have only my respect, and she said, 'I need nothing else, nothing, nothing, no presents!' You must agree that to hear such a confession, in private, from such a dear sixteen-year-old angel, in a lace dress, with fluffed-up little curls, with a blush of maidenly modesty and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes, you must agree it's rather tempting. It is tempting, isn't it? It's worth something, eh? Well, isn't it? Well...so, listen...let's go and see my fiancée...only not now!”

“In short, it's this monstrous difference in age and development that arouses your sensuality! Can you really get married like that?”

“And why not? Of course. Every man looks out for himself, and he has the happiest life who manages to hoodwink himself best of all. Ha, ha! But who are you to go running full tilt into virtue? Spare me, my dear, I'm a sinful man. Heh, heh, heh!”

“Nevertheless, you provided for Katerina Ivanovna's children. However...however, you had your own reasons for that...I understand it all now.”

“I like children generally; like them very much,” Svidrigailov guffawed. “In this connection I can even tell you about a most curious episode, which is still going on. On the very day of my arrival, I went to look at all these various cesspools—well, after seven years I really leaped at them! You've probably noticed that I've been in no rush to get together with my bunch, I mean my former friends and acquaintances. And I'll do without them for as long as possible. You know, on Marfa Petrovna's estate I was tormented to death by the memory of all these mysterious places, these little corners where, if you know, you can find quite a lot. Devil take it! The people are drinking, the educated youth are burning themselves up in idleness, in unrealizable dreams and fancies, crippling themselves with theories; Yids come flocking from somewhere, hiding the money away, and the rest of it falls into depravity. This city breathed its familiar breath on me from the first hours. I wound up at a so-called dance hall—a terrible cesspool (but I like my cesspools precisely with a bit of filth)—well, there was a cancan, the like of which is not and never was in my time. Yes, sir, there's progress there. Suddenly I see a girl of about thirteen, in a lovely dress, dancing with a virtuoso, and with another one vis-à-vis. And her mother is sitting on a chair by the wall. Well, you can imagine what the cancan is! The girl gets embarrassed, blushes, finally feels offended and begins to cry. The virtuoso picks her up and begins twirling her around and performing in front of her; everyone is roaring with laughter and—I love our public, even a cancan public, at such moments—they laugh and shout: 'That's the way, serves them right! Shouldn't bring children here!' Well, I spit on it, it's none of my business whether they console themselves logically or not! I immediately picked out my place, sat down next to the mother, and started telling her that I, too, was a visitor, and, oh, what boors they all were here, that they couldn't recognize true virtue or feel any rightly deserved respect; made it known to her that I had a lot of money; offered to take them home in my carriage; brought them home, became acquainted (they'd just arrived, were subletting some closet from tenants). It was announced to me that she and her daughter could not regard my acquaintance as anything but an honor; I discovered that they had neither stick nor stone, and had come to petition for something in some office; I offered help, money; I discovered that they had gone to the dance hall by mistake, thinking it was a place where they actually taught dancing; I, for my part, offered to contribute to the young lady's education—French language and dancing lessons. They accepted with delight, considered it an honor, and I've kept up the acquaintance...If you like, we can go there—only not now.”

“Stop, stop your mean, vile anecdotes, you depraved, mean, sensual man!”

“Look at our Schiller, what a Schiller, just look at him! Vù va-t-elle la vertu se nicher?^[142]And you know, I'll go on telling you such things on purpose, just to hear your little outcries. Delightful!”

“Isn't it! And do you think I don't seem ludicrous to myself right now?” Raskolnikov muttered spitefully.

Svidrigailov was roaring with laughter; finally he called for Filipp, paid, and began getting up. “Oh, am I drunk! Assez causé!”^[143] he said. “Delightful!”

“What else but delightful,” Raskolnikov exclaimed, also getting up. “Of course it's delightful for a played-out profligate to tell about such adventures—with some monstrous intention of the same sort in mind—and under such circumstances besides, and to such a man as me...Quite arousing.”

“Well, in that case,” Svidrigailov replied, even with some surprise, scrutinizing Raskolnikov, “in that case, you're rather a cynic yourself. Anyway, you've got enormous material in you. You can understand a lot, quite a lot. . . well, and you can also do a lot. Well, but enough. I sincerely regret having talked so little with you, but you won't get away from me...Just wait . . .”

Svidrigailov left the tavern. Raskolnikov walked out after him. Svidrigailov was not very drunk, however; it had gone to his head only momentarily, and the drunkenness was passing off every minute. He was very preoccupied with something, something very important, and was frowning. Some prospect obviously worried and troubled him. In the past few minutes he had also somehow suddenly changed towards Raskolnikov, had become more rude and mocking. Raskolnikov noticed all this and was also alarmed. Svidrigailov became very suspicious to him; he decided to follow him.

They went down to the sidewalk.

“You go right, and I'll go left, or perhaps vice versa, only—adieu, mon plaisir,^[144] see you—gladly—soon!”

And he turned right, towards the Haymarket.

V

Raskolnikov walked behind him. “What's the meaning of this!” Svidrigailov exclaimed, turning around. “I believe I said . . .”

“It means that I'm not going to leave you alone right now.”

“Wha-a-at?”

The two men stopped and looked at each other for a minute or so, as if sizing each other up.

“From all your half-drunken stories,” Raskolnikov snapped sharply, “I've positively concluded that you not only have not abandoned your most vile designs on my sister, but are even more occupied with them than ever. It is known to me that my sister received some sort of letter this morning. You were unable to sit still all this while...Suppose you did dig yourself up some wife along the way; it means nothing. I wish personally to make sure...”

Raskolnikov himself could hardly have said precisely what he wanted now, or precisely what he wished personally to make sure of.

“Is that so! And would you like me to call the police right now?”

“Go ahead!”

Again they stood facing each other for a minute. Finally, Svidrigailov's expression changed. Having assured himself that Raskolnikov was not afraid of the threat, he suddenly assumed a most cheerful and friendly look.

“Aren't you the one! I purposely did not start talking with you about your affair, though naturally I'm eaten up with curiosity. It's a fantastic affair. I tried to put it off until next time, but, really, you could even rouse a dead man...Well, come along, only I'll tell you beforehand that I'm only going home for a moment, to pick up some money; then I'll lock the apartment, take a carriage, and go off to the Islands for the whole evening. Well, do you think you're going to follow me?”

“To the apartment, for the moment; not yours but Sofya Semyonovna's, to apologize for not being at the funeral.”

“Do as you please, but Sofya Semyonovna isn't home. She took all the children to a certain lady, an aristocratic old lady, a former acquaintance of mine from the old days, who is the patroness of some orphanages. I charmed the lady by paying the fees for all three of Katerina Ivanovna's younglings and donating money to the institutions as well; finally, I told her Sofya Semyonovna's story, with full honors, not concealing anything. The effect was indescribable. That's why Sofya Semyonovna had an appointment to go straight to the ------y Hotel, where this lady is temporarily present, after her summer house.”

“No matter, I'll still come.”

“As you wish, only I'm no part of it; it's nothing to me! Here's the house. Tell me, am I right that you look at me suspiciously because I myself have been so delicate all along and haven't bothered you with any questions...you understand? It seems a remarkable thing to you, I'll bet on it! Well, so much for being delicate!”

“And eavesdropping at doors!”

“Ah, so it's that now!” Svidrigailov laughed. “Yes, I'd be surprised if you let that go unnoticed, after all that's happened. Ha, ha! I did catch something about your antics that time...there...which you were telling to Sofya Semyonovna, but still, what does it mean? Perhaps I'm a thoroughly backward man and unable to understand anything. Explain, my dear, for God's sake! Enlighten me with the latest principles.”

“You couldn't have heard anything; it's all lies!”

“I don't mean that, not that (though I did hear a thing or two all the same), no, what I mean is that you keep moaning and groaning all the time! Schiller is constantly being embarrassed in you. And now I'm told that one can't eavesdrop at doors. In that case, go and tell the authorities; say thus and so, I've had this mishap: there was a little mistake in my theory. But if you're convinced that one cannot eavesdrop at doors, but can go around whacking old crones with whatever comes to hand, to your heart's content, then leave quickly for America somewhere! Flee, young man! Maybe there's still time. I say it sincerely. Are you out of money or something? I'll give you enough for the trip.”

“That's not at all what I'm thinking about,” Raskolnikov interrupted with loathing.

“I understand (don't trouble yourself, by the way: you needn't say much if you don't want to); I understand what sort of questions are in vogue with you: moral ones, right? Questions of the citizen and the human being? Forget them; what do you need them for now? Heh, heh! Is it because you're still a citizen and a human being? But in that case you shouldn't have butted into this; there's no point in tackling business that isn't yours. So, shoot yourself; or what, you don't want to?”

“You seem to be taunting me on purpose so that I'll leave you alone now . . .”

“What an odd man! But we're already here, welcome to the stairs. See, there's Sofya Semyonovna's door; look, no one's home! You don't believe me? Ask Kapernaumov; she leaves them the key. Here's Madame de Kapernaumov herself, eh? What? (She's a bit deaf.) Gone out? Where? Well, did you hear now? She's not in, and may not be back until late in the evening. Well, let's go to my place now. Didn't you want to go there, too? So, here we are, at my place. Madame Resslich isn't home. The woman is eternally bustling about, but she's a good woman, I assure you...she might be of use to you, if you were a little more reasonable. Well, now observe if you please: I take this five percent note from the bureau (see how many I've got left!), but this one's going to the money-changer's today. Well, did you see? No point in losing more time. The bureau is being locked, the apartment is being locked, and we're on the stairs again. Well, do you want us to hire a carriage? Because I'm off to the Islands. Would you like to go for a ride? Look, I'm taking this carriage to Yelagin Island. What? You refuse? Can't keep it up? Never mind, let's go for a ride. Looks like it may rain; never mind, we'll raise the top . . .”

Svidrigailov was already sitting in the carriage. Raskolnikov judged that his suspicions, at least this time, were unwarranted. Without a word of reply, he turned and went back in the direction of the Hay-market. If he had looked behind him at least once on his way, he would have had time to see how Svidrigailov, after driving no more than a hundred paces, paid for the carriage and ended up on the sidewalk himself. But he could no longer see anything, and had already turned the corner. A profound loathing drew him away from Svidrigailov. “How could I, even for a moment, expect something from this crude villain, this sensual profligate and scoundrel!” he exclaimed involuntarily. True, Raskolnikov pronounced his judgment too hastily and light-mindedly. There was something in all that had to do with Svidrigailov which endowed him with at least a certain originality, if not mysteriousness. And as far as his sister was concerned in all this, here Raskolnikov remained convinced quite assuredly that Svidrigailov would not leave her alone. But it was becoming too difficult and unbearable to go on thinking and rethinking it all!

As usual, once he was alone, after going about twenty steps, he fell into deep thoughtfulness. Having walked out onto the bridge, he stopped by the railing and began looking at the water. And meanwhile Avdotya Romanovna was standing close by him.

He had met her as he started across the bridge but had passed by without noticing her. Dunechka had never before met him like this in the street, and was struck to the point of fear. She stopped and did not know whether to call out to him or not. Suddenly she noticed Svidrigailov coming hurriedly from the direction of the Haymarket.

He seemed to be approaching secretively and cautiously. He did not walk out on the bridge, but stopped to one side on the sidewalk, trying as well as he could not to be seen by Raskolnikov. He had noticed Dunya long since and began making signs to her. It appeared to her from his signs that he was begging her not to call her brother, but to leave him alone and come to him.

And Dunya did so. She quietly passed around her brother and went up to Svidrigailov.

“Come along, quickly,” Svidrigailov whispered to her. “I do not wish Rodion Romanovich to know of our meeting. I must warn you that I've just been sitting with him, not far from here, in a tavern, where he came looking for me himself, and I had trouble getting rid of him. He somehow knows about my letter to you and suspects something. Of course, it was not you who revealed it? But if not, then who was it?”

“Here, we've already turned the corner,” Dunya interrupted, “my brother won't see us now. I declare to you that I will not go farther with you. Tell me everything here; it can all be said in the street.”

“First, it can by no means be said in the street; second, you must also hear Sofya Semyonovna; third, I have some documents to show you...Well, and finally, if you won't agree to come to my place, I'll give up all explanations and leave at once. At the same time I beg you not to forget that a rather curious secret of your beloved brother's is entirely in my hands.”

Dunya stood hesitantly, and looked at Svidrigailov with piercing eyes.

“What are you afraid of?” the latter remarked calmly. “The city is not the country. And in the country you caused me more harm than I did you, but here...”

“Has Sofya Semyonovna been warned?”

“No, I didn't say a word to her, and am not even sure that she's at home now. However, she probably is. She buried her relation today: on such a day one doesn't go around visiting. For the time being I don't want to tell anyone about it, and even partly regret having told you. At this point the slightest imprudence is the same as a denunciation. I live just here, here in this house, the one we're coming to. Here's our caretaker; the caretaker knows me very well; look, he's bowing; he sees me coming with a lady, and of course has already managed to notice your face—that will prove useful to you, if you're very afraid and suspicious of me. Excuse me for speaking so crudely. I'm subletting from tenants. Sofya Semyonovna lives on the other side of my wall; she also sublets from tenants. The whole floor is full of tenants. Why are you afraid, then, like a child? Or am I really so frightening?”

Svidrigailov's face twisted into a condescending smile, but he could no longer bother about smiling. His heart was pounding, and his breath was taken away. He deliberately raised his voice to conceal his growing excitement, but Dunya failed to notice this special excitement; she was too irritated by his remark that she was afraid of him like a child and found him so frightening.

“Though I know that you are a man...without honor, I am not in the least afraid of you. Go ahead,” she said with apparent calm, but her face was very pale.

Svidrigailov stopped at Sonya's apartment.

“Allow me to inquire whether she is at home. No. Worse luck! But I know she can come any minute. If she's stepped out, it must be to see a certain lady, about the orphans. Their mother has died. I also mixed into it and made arrangements. If Sofya Semyonovna doesn't come back in ten minutes, I'll send her to you, this very day if you like; now here's my apartment. Here are my two rooms. My landlady, Mrs. Resslich, lives behind that door. Now look here, I'll show you my main documents: this door leads from my bedroom to two completely vacant rooms, which are for rent. Here they are...you should take a somewhat more attentive look at this . . .”

Svidrigailov occupied two rather spacious furnished rooms. Dunya was looking around mistrustfully, but did not notice anything special either in the decor or in the layout of the rooms, though there were things to be noticed—for instance, that Svidrigailov's apartment was somehow placed between two almost uninhabited apartments. His entrance was not direct from the corridor, but through the landlady's two rooms, which were nearly empty. And, having opened the locked door from the bedroom, Svidrigailov showed Dunya the other apartment, also empty, which was for rent. Dunya stood on the threshold, not understanding why she was being invited to look, but Svidrigailov hastened to explain.

“Now, look here, in this second large room. Notice this door; it's locked. By the door there's a chair, the only chair in either room. I brought it from my apartment, to listen more comfortably. Just the other side of the door stands Sofya Semyonovna's table; she was sitting there, talking with Rodion Romanych. And I was here eavesdropping, sitting on the chair, two evenings in a row, each time for two hours or so—and, of course, I'd be able to find something out, don't you think?”

“You were eavesdropping?”

“Yes, I was eavesdropping; now come back to my place; there's nowhere even to sit down here.”

He led Avdotya Romanovna back to his first room, which served him as a living room, and offered her a chair. He himself sat at the other end of the table, at least seven feet away from her, but probably his eyes were already shining with the same flame that had once so frightened Dunechka. She gave a start and again looked around mistrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture; she clearly did not want to show her mistrust. But the isolated situation of Svidrigailov's apartment finally struck her. She would have liked to ask at least if the landlady was at home, but she did not ask...out of pride. Besides, there was in her heart another, immeasurably greater suffering than fear for herself. She was unbearably tormented.

“Here is your letter,” she began, placing it on the table. “How can what you write be possible? You allude to a crime supposedly committed by my brother. You allude to it all too clearly, you cannot talk your way out of it now. Know, then, that I heard that stupid tale even before this, and I do not believe a single word of it. It is a vile and ridiculous suspicion. I know the story, and how and why it was invented. You cannot possibly have any proof. You promised to prove it: speak, then! But know beforehand that I don't believe you! I don't! . . .”

Dunechka spoke in a rapid patter, and for a moment color rushed to her face.

“If you don't believe me, how did it happen that you risked coming alone to see me? Why did you come, then? Only out of curiosity?”

“Don't torment me—speak, speak!”

“You're a brave girl, needless to say. By God, I thought you'd ask Mr. Razumikhin to accompany you here. But he was not with you, or anywhere in the vicinity—I did check. That is courageous; it means you wanted to spare Rodion Romanych. But then, everything in you is divine...As for your brother, what can I tell you? You just saw him yourself. A nice sight?”

“But you're not just basing it on that?”

“No, not on that, but on his own words. For two evenings in a row he came here to see Sofya Semyonovna. I showed you where they were sitting. He told her his full confession. He is a murderer. He killed the old woman, the money-lender, the official's widow, to whom he had also pawned things; he killed her sister as well, a small-time dealer named Lizaveta, who chanced to walk in during her sister's murder. He killed them both with an axe, which he had brought with him. He killed them in order to rob them, and he did rob them; he took money and some things...He himself told it all word for word to Sofya Semyonovna; she's the only one who knows the secret, but she did not participate in the murder either by word or by deed, but, on the contrary, was as horrified as you are now. Don't worry, she won't betray him.”

“It cannot be!” Dunya murmured with pale, deadened lips; she was breathless. “It cannot be, there's no reason, not the slightest, no motive...It's a lie! A lie!”

“He robbed her, that's the whole reason. He took money and some things. True, according to his own confession, he did not put either the money or the things to any use, but went and hid them somewhere under a stone, where they're lying still. But that was because he didn't dare use them.”

“But is it conceivable that he could steal, rob, that he could even think of it?” Dunya cried out, jumping up from her chair. “You know him, you've seen him! Could he be a thief?”

It was as if she were imploring Svidrigailov; she forgot all her fear.

“There are thousands and millions of combinations and gradations here, Avdotya Romanovna. A thief steals, but then he knows in himself that he's a scoundrel; but I've heard of one gentleman who broke into the mail, and who can tell about him, maybe he really thought he was doing a decent thing! Naturally, I would not have believed it, just as you don't, if I'd been told it by some third person. But I did believe my own ears. He also explained all his reasons to Sofya Semyonovna; and at first she did not even believe her ears, but in the end she believed her eyes, her own eyes. Because he himself was telling it to her personally.”

“And what are...the reasons!”

“That's a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. What we have here is—how shall I express it for you—a theory of sorts; it's the same as if I should find, for example, that an isolated evildoing is permissible if the main purpose is good. A single evil and a hundred good deeds! Of course, it's also offensive for a young man of merit and measureless vanity to know that if he had, for example, a mere three thousand or so, his whole career, the whole future in terms of his life's purpose, would shape itself differently—and yet the three thousand aren't there. Add to that the vexations of hunger, cramped quarters, rags, and a lively sense of the beauty of his social position, as well as that of his sister and mother. But above all vanity, pride and vanity—though, God knows, perhaps even with good inclinations...I'm not blaming him, please don't think that; it's none of my business. There was also a certain little theory of his—a so-so theory—according to which people are divided, you see, into raw material and special people, meaning people for whom, owing to their high position, the law does not exist, people, on the contrary, who themselves devise laws for the rest, for the raw material—that is, for the trash. Not bad, a so-so little theory; une théorie comme une autre.^[145] He got terribly carried away with Napoleon—that is, essentially what carried him away was that a great many men of genius disregarded isolated evil and stepped over it without hesitation. He seems to have imagined that he, too, was a man of genius—that is, he was sure of it for a time. He suffered greatly, and suffers still, from the thought that though he knew how to devise the theory, he was unable to step over without hesitation and therefore is not a man of genius. Now that, for a vain young man, is truly humiliating, especially in our age...”

“And remorse of conscience? You mean you deny him all moral feeling? Is that what he's like?”

“Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, things have all become clouded now— though, by the way, they never were in any particular order. Russian people are generally broad people, Avdotya Romanovna, broad as their land, and greatly inclined to the fantastic, the disorderly; but it's disastrous to be broad without special genius. And do you remember how much you and I used to talk in the same way, and about the same subject, sitting by ourselves on the terrace, every evening after supper? You used to reproach me precisely with this broadness. Who knows, maybe at the same time as we were talking, he was lying here and thinking his thoughts. In our educated society, Avdotya Romanovna, we have no especially sacred traditions; except for what someone somehow pieces together from old books...or something drawn from the old chronicles. But they are mostly scholars and, you know, they're all dunces in their way, so that for a man of the world it's even indecent. However, you generally know my opinion; I'm certainly not accusing anyone. I myself am an idler and I keep to that. But we've already talked about it more than once. I even had the happiness of interesting you with my judgments...You are very pale, Avdotya Romanovna!”

“I know this theory of his. I read his article in a magazine, about people to whom everything is permitted...Razumikhin brought it to me . . .”

“Mr. Razumikhin? Your brother's article? In a magazine? Is there such an article? I didn't know. Now that is most certainly curious! But where are you going, Avdotya Romanovna?”

“I want to see Sofya Semyonovna,” Dunechka said in a weak voice. “How can I get to her? Maybe she's come back; I absolutely must see her now. Let her . . .”

Avdotya Romanovna could not finish; her breath literally failed her.

“Sofya Semyonovna will not come back before nightfall. So I suppose. She ought to have come very soon, but if not, it will be very late . . .”

“Ah, so you're lying! I see...you've been lying...it was all a lie! I don't believe you! I don't! I don't!” Dunechka cried out in a real frenzy, completely losing her head.^[146]

Almost in a faint, she fell onto the chair that Svidrigailov hastened to move towards her.

“Avdotya Romanovna, what's wrong? Come to your senses! Here's some water. Take a sip . . .”

He sprinkled her with water. Dunechka started and came to her senses.

“It's affected her strongly!” Svidrigailov muttered to himself, frowning. “Avdotya Romanovna, calm yourself! I assure you, he has friends. We will save him, rescue him. Do you want me to take him abroad? I have money; I can get a ticket in three days. And as for the murder, he'll still have time to do many good deeds, so it will all be made up for; calm yourself. He still may be a great man. How are you now? How do you feel?”

“Wicked man! He's still jeering! Let me . . .”

“Where are you going? Where?”

“To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in this door, and now it's locked. When did you manage to lock it?”

“We couldn't really shout for the whole house to hear what we were just talking about. I'm not jeering at all; I'm simply tired of speaking this language. Now, where are you going to go in such a state? Or do you want to betray him? You'll drive him into a rage, and he'll betray himself. I want you to know that he's being watched, they're already on his trail. You'll only give him away. Wait. I saw him and spoke with him just now; he can still be saved. Wait, sit down, let's think it over together. That's why I sent for you, to talk about it alone with you and think it over carefully. Do sit down!”

“How can you save him? Can he be saved?”

Dunya sat down. Svidrigailov sat beside her.

“It all depends on you, on you, on you alone,” he began, with flashing eyes, almost in a whisper, becoming confused, and even failing to articulate some words in his excitement.

Dunya drew further back from him in fear. He, too, was trembling all over.

“You...one word from you, and he is saved! I... I will save him. I have money, and friends. I'll send him away at once, and I'll get a passport, two passports. One for him, the other for me. I have friends; I have practical people...Do you want me to? I'll also get a passport for you...your mother...what do you need Razumikhin for? I, too, love you...I love you infinitely. Let me kiss the hem of your dress—let me, let me! I can't bear its rustling! Tell me: 'Do this,' and I'll do it! I'll do anything. I'll do the impossible. What you believe, I will believe. I'll do anything, anything! No, don't look at me like that! You know you're killing me . . .”

He was even beginning to rave. Something happened to him suddenly, as if it all suddenly went to his head. Dunya jumped up and rushed to the door.

“Open! Open!” she cried through the door, calling to someone and shaking the door with her hands. “Open, please! Is anyone there?”

Svidrigailov stood up and recovered himself. A spiteful and mocking smile was slowly forcing itself to his still trembling lips.

“No one is there,” he said softly and evenly, “the landlady has gone out, and shouting like that is a wasted effort; you're only upsetting yourself for nothing.”

“Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, you vile man!”^[147]

“I've lost the key; I can't find it.”

“Ah! So it's force!” Dunya cried out, turned pale as death, and rushed to the corner, where she quickly shielded herself with a little table that happened to be there. She did not scream; but she fastened her eyes on her tormentor and closely followed his every movement. Svidrigailov did not move from where he was, and stood facing her at the other end of the room. He even regained his composure, at least externally. But his face was as pale as before, and the mocking smile had not left it.

“You just mentioned 'force,' Avdotya Romanovna. If it's to be force, you can judge for yourself that I've taken measures. Sofya Semyonovna is not at home; the Kapernaumovs are very far, five locked doors away. Finally, I am at least twice as strong as you are, and, besides, I have nothing to fear, because you cannot complain afterwards either: you really won't want to betray your brother, will you? Besides, no one will believe you: why on earth should a girl go alone to a single man's apartment? So that even if you sacrifice your brother, you still won't prove anything: force is very difficult to prove, Avdotya Romanovna.”

“Scoundrel!” Dunya whispered indignantly.

“As you please, but note that I was speaking only by way of suggestion. According to my own personal conviction, you are entirely right: force is an abomination. What I was getting at was that there would be exactly nothing on your conscience even if...even if you wished to save your brother voluntarily, in the way I have offered. It would mean you were simply submitting to circumstances—well, to force, finally, if it's impossible to do without the word. Think about it; the fates of your brother and your mother are in your hands. And I shall be your slave...all my life...I'll wait here . . .”

Svidrigailov sat down on the sofa, about eight steps away from Dunya. For her there was no longer the slightest doubt of his unshakeable determination. Besides, she knew him . . .

Suddenly she took a revolver from her pocket, cocked it, and lowered the hand holding the revolver to the little table. Svidrigailov jumped up from his seat.

“Aha! So that's how it is!” he cried out in surprise, but with a spiteful grin. “Well, that completely changes the course of things! You're making it much easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna! And where did you get the revolver? Can it be Mr. Razumikhin? Hah, but that's my revolver! An old acquaintance! And how I was hunting for it then! ... So those shooting lessons I had the honor of giving you in the country weren't wasted after all.”

“It's not your revolver, it's Marfa Petrovna's, whom you killed, villain!^[148] Nothing in her house was yours. I took it as soon as I began to suspect what you were capable of. If you dare take just one step, I swear I'll kill you!”

Dunya was in a frenzy. She held the revolver ready.

“Well, and your brother? I ask out of curiosity,” Svidrigailov said, still standing in the same place.

“Denounce him if you like! Don't move! Not a step! I'll shoot! You poisoned your wife, I know it; you're a murderer yourself! ... ”

“And are you firmly convinced that I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?”

“You did! You hinted it to me yourself; you spoke to me about poison...I know you went to get it...you had it ready...It was certainly you...scoundrel!”

“Even if that were true, it was because of you...you would still be the cause of it.”

“You're lying! I hated you always, always . . .”

“Aha, Avdotya Romanovna! You've obviously forgotten how in the heat of propaganda you were already inclining and melting...I saw it in your dear eyes; remember, in the evening, in the moonlight, and with a nightingale singing?”

“You're lying!” (Rage shone in Dunya's eyes.) “You're lying, slanderer!”

“Lying, am I? Well, maybe I am. So I lied. Women oughtn't to be reminded of these little things.” (He grinned.) “I know you'll shoot, you pretty little beast. Go on, shoot!”

Dunya raised the revolver and, deathly pale, her white lower lip trembling, her large black eyes flashing like fire, looked at him, having made up her mind, calculating, and waiting for the first movement from his side. He had never yet seen her so beautiful. The fire that flashed from her eyes as she raised the revolver seemed to burn him, and his heart was wrung with pain. He took a step, and a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and struck the wall behind him. He stopped and laughed softly:

“The wasp has stung! She aims straight at the head...What's this? Blood?” He took out a handkerchief to wipe away the blood that was flowing in a thin trickle from his right temple; the bullet must have slightly touched his scalp. Dunya lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov not really in fear but in some wild perplexity. It was as if she herself did not understand what she had done or what was happening.

“Well, so you missed! Shoot again, I'm waiting,” Svidrigailov said softly, still grinning, but somehow gloomily. “This way I'll have time to seize you before you cock it!”

Dunechka gave a start, quickly cocked the revolver, and raised it again.

“Let me be!” she said in despair. “I swear, I'll shoot again...I'll...kill you! . . .”

“Well, so...from three paces you could hardly fail to kill me. Well, but if you don't. . . then . . .” His eyes flashed, and he took two more steps.

Dunechka pulled the trigger—a misfire!

“You didn't load it properly. Never mind! You've got another cap left. Put it right; I'll wait.”^[149]

He stood in front of her, two steps away, waiting and looking at her with wild determination, his grim eyes inflamed with passion. Dunya realized that he would rather die than let her go. “And... and of course she would kill him now, from two paces! . . .”

Suddenly she threw the revolver aside.

“She threw it down!” Svidrigailov said in surprise, and drew a deep breath. It was as if something had all at once been lifted from his heart, and perhaps not just the burden of mortal fear—which, besides, he had hardly felt in that minute. It was a deliverance from another, more sorrowful and gloomy feeling, the full force of which he himself would have been unable to define.

He went up to Dunya and gently put his arm around her waist. She did not resist but, all trembling like a leaf, looked at him with imploring eyes. He wanted to say something, his lips twisted, but he was unable to speak.

“Let me go!” Dunya said imploringly.^[150]

Svidrigailov started; this let me was spoken somehow differently from the previous one.

“So you don't love me?” he asked softly.

Dunya moved her head negatively.

“And...you can't...ever?” he whispered in despair.

“Never!” whispered Dunya.

A moment of terrible, mute struggle passed in Svidrigailov's soul. He looked at her with an inexpressible look. Suddenly he withdrew his arm, turned away, walked quickly to the window, and stood in front of it.

Another moment passed.

“Here's the key!” (He took it from the left pocket of his coat and placed it on the table behind him, without looking and without turning to Dunya.) “Take it; go quickly! . . .”

He went on staring out the window.

Dunya approached the table to take the key.

“Quickly! Quickly!” Svidrigailov repeated, still without moving and without turning around. But in this “quickly” some terrible note must have sounded.

Dunya understood it, seized the key, rushed to the door, quickly unlocked it, and burst out of the room. A moment later, beside herself, she rushed madly to the canal and ran in the direction of the ------y Bridge.

Svidrigailov stood by the window for about three minutes; at last, he quietly turned, looked around, and slowly passed his hand over his forehead. A strange smile twisted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of despair. Blood, already drying, stained his palm; he looked at the blood spitefully; then he wet a towel and washed his temple. The revolver Dunya had thrown aside, which had landed near the door, suddenly caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a small pocket revolver with a three-shot cylinder, of old-fashioned construction; there were two loads and one cap left. It could be fired one more time. He thought a moment, put the revolver into his pocket, took his hat, and went out.

VI

All that evening until ten o'clock he spent in various taverns and cesspools, passing from one to the other. Somewhere he came across Katya, who sang another lackey song about some “scoundrel and tyrant” who “Began kissing Katya.”

Svidrigailov bought drinks for Katya, and the organ-grinder, and the singers, and the lackeys, and two wretched little scriveners. He took up with these scriveners, in fact, because they both had crooked noses: one was crooked to the right, the other to the left. This struck Svidrigailov. They drew him finally to some pleasure garden, where he paid for them and for the entrance. In this garden were one spindly, three-year-old fir tree and three little bushes. Besides that, a “Vauxhall” had also been built, actually a bar, but one could also get tea there; and a few green tables and chairs were standing around.^[151] A chorus of bad singers and some drunken German from Munich, like a clown with a red nose, but for some reason extremely downcast, were entertaining the public. The little scriveners quarreled with some other little scriveners and started a fight. They chose Svidrigailov as their arbiter. He arbitrated between them for a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so much that there was not the slightest possibility of making anything out. In all likelihood one of them had stolen something and even managed to sell it at once to some Jew who happened to be there; but, having sold it, he did not want to share the proceeds with his friend. In the end the stolen object turned out to be a teaspoon belonging to the vauxhall. It was found missing from the vauxhall, and the affair began to take on troublesome dimensions. Svidrigailov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of the garden. It was around ten o'clock. He himself had not drunk a drop of wine the whole time, but had only ordered some tea in the vauxhall, and even that more for propriety's sake. Meanwhile the evening was close and lowering. By ten o'clock terrible clouds had approached from all sides; thunder rolled, and rain poured down like a waterfall. It did not come in drops, but lashed the ground in steady streams. Lightning flashed every moment, and one could count to five in the course of each flash. Drenched to the skin, he arrived home, locked himself in, opened his bureau, took out all his money, and tore up two or three papers. Then, having thrust the money into his pocket, he thought of changing his clothes, but looking out the window and hearing the thunder and rain, he waved his hand, took his hat, and walked out without locking his apartment. He went straight to Sonya. She was at home.

She was not alone; with her were Kapernaumov's four little children. Sofya Semyonovna was giving them tea. She met Svidrigailov silently and respectfully, looked with surprise at his wet clothes, but did not say a word. The children all ran away at once in indescribable terror.

Svidrigailov sat at the table and asked Sonya to sit near him. She timidly prepared to listen.

“Sofya Semyonovna,” Svidrigailov said, “I shall perhaps be leaving for America, and as we are probably seeing each other for the last time, I have come to make certain arrangements. So, you saw that lady today? I know what she said to you; you needn't repeat it.” (Sonya stirred and blushed.) “Those people have their ways. As far as your sisters and brother are concerned, they are indeed provided for, and the money due them I have placed where it ought to be, in sure hands, with a receipt for each of them. But you had better take the receipts, just in case. Here, take them! Well, now that's done. Here are three five-percent notes, for three thousand altogether. Take them for yourself, for yourself personally, and let it be between us, so that no one knows, no matter what you may hear. And you'll need them, because, Sofya Semyonovna, to live like this, as you have been, is bad, and it's no longer necessary.”

“You have been such a benefactor to me, sir, and the orphans, and the dead woman,” Sonya rushed on, “that if I have so far thanked you so little, you mustn't take it . . .”

“Eh, enough, enough.”

“And this money, Arkady Ivanovich, I'm very grateful to you, but I have no need of it now. I can always earn enough for myself; you mustn't take it as ingratitude: if you're so charitable, sir, this money...”

“It's for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and, please, with no special words on the subject, because I really haven't time. And you will need it. There are two ways open for Rodion Romanovich: a bullet in the head, or Siberia.” (Sonya looked wildly at him and trembled.) “Don't worry, I know everything, from him, and I'm not a babbler, I won't tell anyone. You did well to advise him that he should go and denounce himself. It would be much more advantageous for him. Now, what if it's Siberia—he'll go, and you'll follow him, is that so? Is it so? Well, and if it's so, then you'll need money. You'll need it for him, understand? In giving it to you, it's as if I were giving it to him. Besides, you did promise Amalia Ivanovna that you would pay her the debt; I heard you. Why do you so rashly take such contracts and obligations upon yourself, Sofya Semyonovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna who was left owing to the German woman, not you; so just spit on the German woman. You can't survive in the world that way. Now, if anyone ever asks you—tomorrow, say, or the day after tomorrow—about me, or anything concerning me (and they will ask you), don't mention that I came to you, and by no means show them the money or tell anyone that I gave it to you. Well, now good-bye.” (He got up from his chair.) “Bow to Rodion Romanych for me. By the way, for the time being why don't you keep the money with, say, Mr. Razumikhin? Do you know Mr. Razumikhin? Of course you do. A so-so fellow. Take it to him tomorrow, or...when the time comes. And until then hide it well away.”

Sonya had also jumped up from her chair and was looking at him in fear. She wanted very much to say something, to ask something, but in those first moments she did not dare or know how to begin.

“But how can you...how can you go now, sir, in such rain?”

“What? To go off to America and be afraid of rain? Heh, heh! Farewell, my good Sofya Semyonovna! Live, and live long, you'll be needed by others. Incidentally...tell Mr. Razumikhin that I bow to him. Tell him just that: Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov bows to you. Do it without fail.”

He went out, leaving Sonya in amazement, in fear, and in some vague and somber apprehension.

It later turned out that on that same evening, after eleven o'clock, he paid yet another quite eccentric and unexpected visit. It had still not stopped raining. Soaking wet, at twenty minutes past eleven, he walked into the small apartment of his fiancee's parents on Vasilievsky Island, at the corner of the Third Line and Maly Prospect. He had difficulty getting them to open, and at first produced a great commotion; but Arkady Ivanovich, when he chose, could be a man of quite beguiling manners, so that the original (and, incidentally, quite shrewd) surmise of the fiancee's sensible parents—that Arkady Ivanovich was most likely so cockeyed drunk that he no longer knew what he was doing—immediately collapsed of itself. The paralyzed parent was rolled out in his chair to meet Arkady Ivanovich by the fiancee's tenderhearted and sensible mother, who, as was her custom, began at once with certain roundabout questions. (This woman never asked direct questions, but always resorted first to smiles and the rubbing of hands, and then, if she wanted to find out something certainly and accurately, such as when Arkady Ivanovich would be pleased to have the wedding take place, she would begin with the most curious and even greedy questions about Paris and court life there, and only later come around in due course to the Third Line on Vasilievsky Island.) At some other time all this would, of course, have inspired great respect, but on this occasion Arkady Ivanovich turned out to be somehow especially impatient and flatly demanded to see his fiancée, though he had been informed at the very beginning that the fiancée had already gone to bed. Naturally, the fiancée appeared. Arkady Ivanovich told her directly that because of a certain rather important circumstance he was obliged to leave Petersburg for some time, and therefore he had brought her various bank notes worth fifteen thousand roubles in silver, which he asked her to accept from him as a gift, since he had been intending for a long time to give her this trifle before the wedding. Of course, these explanations by no means revealed any logical connection between the gift and his urgent departure, or the unavoidable necessity of coming for that purpose at midnight, in the rain, but the thing nevertheless came off quite neatly. Even the requisite ohs and ahs, questions and exclamations, suddenly became somehow remarkably moderate and restrained; to make up for which, the most ardent gratitude was shown, and was even reinforced by tears from the most sensible mother. Arkady Ivanovich stood up, laughed, kissed the fiancee, patted her on the cheek, repeated that he would be coming back soon, and, noticing in her eyes not only a child's curiosity but also some mute and very serious question, he thought for a moment, kissed her a second time, and sincerely regretted in his soul that the gift would immediately be taken and locked up by the most sensible of mothers. He walked out, leaving everyone in an extremely excited state. But the tenderhearted mama at once, in a half-whispered patter, resolved some of the more important perplexities, saying that Arkady Ivanovich was a big man, a man with affairs and connections, and a very rich one—God knew what was in his head, he chose to go away and so he went, he chose to give money and so he gave it, and therefore there was nothing to marvel at. Of course, it was strange that he was all wet, but Englishmen, for example, are even more eccentric, and such high-toned people never pay attention to what is said about them, and never stand on ceremony. Maybe he went around like that on purpose to show that he was not afraid of anybody. And the main thing was not to say a word about it to anyone, because God knew what might still come of it, and the money should be locked up quickly, and most certainly the best thing in all this was that Fedosya had stayed in the kitchen the whole time, and the main thing was that they should by no means, by no means, by no means ever say anything to that cunning old fox Resslich, and so on and so forth. They sat and whispered until two o'clock. The fiancée, however, went to bed much earlier, surprised and a little sad.

And meanwhile, at midnight precisely, Svidrigailov was crossing the ------kov Bridge in the direction of the Petersburg side. The rain had stopped, but the wind was blowing. He was beginning to shiver, and for a moment he looked down at the black water of the Little Neva with some special curiosity, and even questioningly. But soon he felt it was much too cold for him to be standing there over the water; he turned away and went on to the ------y Prospect. He had been walking down the endless ------y Prospect for a long time, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling on the wooden pavement in the dark, but without ceasing to look curiously for something on the right side of the prospect. Driving by recently, he had noticed somewhere there, towards the end of the prospect, a hotel, wooden but spacious, and its name, as far as he could remember, was something like “The Adrianople.” He was not mistaken in his reckoning: in such a backwater, the hotel was such a conspicuous point that one could not possibly fail to find it, even in the dark. It was a long, blackened, wooden building, in which, despite the late hour, lights were still burning and a certain animation could be noticed. He went in and asked the ragamuffin he met in the corridor for a room. The ragamuffin, looking Svidrigailov over, roused himself and at once led him to a remote room, stuffy and small, somewhere at the very end of the corridor, in a corner, under the stairs. But it was the only room; all the others were occupied. The ragamuffin had a questioning look.

“Is there tea?” Svidrigailov asked.

“It's possible, sir.”

“What else is there?”

“Veal, sir, vodka, hors d'oeuvres.”

“Bring some veal and tea.”

“And you won't require anything else?” the ragamuffin asked, even in some perplexity.

“Nothing, nothing.”

The ragamuffin withdrew, thoroughly disappointed.

“Must be a nice place,” Svidrigailov thought, “why didn't I know about it? I, too, probably look like someone coming back from a café-chantant, and who already got into something on the way. Curious, however; who would stay and spend the night here?”

He lighted the candle and looked the room over in more detail. It was a closet, such a small one that Svidrigailov could barely fit into it, with a single window; a very dirty bed, a simple painted table, and a chair took up almost all the space. The walls looked as though they had been knocked together from boards, and the shabby wallpaper was so dusty and tattered that, while it was still possible to guess its color (yellow), the pattern was no longer discernible. A portion of the wall and ceiling was cut away at an angle, as is usual in garrets, but here there was a stairway above it. Svidrigailov put down the candle, sat on the bed, and lapsed into thought. But a strange, incessant whispering in the next closet, which sometimes rose almost to a shout, suddenly drew his attention. This whispering had not ceased from the moment he entered. He began to listen: someone was scolding and almost tearfully reproaching someone else, but only one voice could be heard. Svidrigailov stood up, shaded the candle with his hand, and at once a crack flashed in the wall; he went up and began to look through it.

There were two guests, in a room somewhat larger than his own. One of them, coatless, with extremely curly hair and a red, inflamed face, was standing in the pose of an orator, legs apart to keep his balance, and, beating his breast with his fist, in a voice full of pathos, was reproaching the other with being a beggar and even having no rank, claiming that he had dragged him from the mud and could throw him out whenever he wanted, and that only the finger of God sees it all. The reproached friend sat on a chair looking like someone who has a great desire to sneeze but cannot manage to do it. From time to time he glanced at the orator with dull and bovine eyes, but evidently had no idea what it was all about, and most likely had not even heard any of it. On the table, where a candle was burning down, stood an almost empty carafe of vodka, wineglasses, bread, tumblers, pickles, and the dishes from a long-since-finished tea. Having examined this picture attentively, Svidrigailov left the crack with indifference and again sat down on the bed.

The ragamuffin, who came back with the tea and veal, could not refrain from asking once more: “Will anything else be required?” and having again heard a negative reply, withdrew for good. Svidrigailov fell upon the tea to warm himself, and drank a whole glassful, but could not eat even a single bite for total loss of appetite. He was apparently beginning to have a fever. He took off his coat and jacket, wrapped himself in a blanket, and lay on the bed. This was annoying: “It would be better to be well at such a moment,” he thought, and grinned. The room was stuffy, the candlelight was dim, the noise of the wind came from outside, a mouse was scratching somewhere in a corner, and the whole room seemed to smell of mice and something leathery. He lay as if dreaming: one thought gave way to another. It seemed he would have liked very much to catch hold of at least something particular in his imagination. “It's outside the window, must be some garden,” he thought, “trees rustling; how I dislike the rustling of trees at night, in a storm, in the darkness—a nasty feeling!” And he remembered that as he was passing by the Petrovsky Park earlier he had even thought of it with loathing. Here he incidentally remembered the ------kov Bridge as well, and the Little Neva, and again he seemed to feel cold, as he had then when he was standing over the water. “Never in my life have I liked water, not even in landscapes,” he thought again, and again suddenly grinned at a certain strange thought: “Well, it seems it ought to be all the same now, with regard to all this aesthetics and comfort, but it's precisely now that I've become particular, the way an animal makes sure to choose a place for itself... on a similar occasion. I ought precisely to have turned in at the Petrovsky Park earlier! It must have seemed dark and cold, heh, heh! One all but requires pleasant sensations! ... By the way, why don't I put out the candle?” (He blew it out.) “The neighbors have gone to bed,” he thought, seeing no light from the crack. “Well, Marfa Petrovna, why don't you come now, if you like? It's dark, and the place is suitable, and the moment is an original one. But it's precisely now that you won't come . . .”

Suddenly, for some reason, he remembered how earlier, an hour before carrying out his designs on Dunechka, he had recommended that Raskolnikov entrust her to Razumikhin's protection. “In fact, perhaps I said it more to egg myself on, as Raskolnikov guessed. What a rogue this Raskolnikov is, however! He's taken a lot on himself. Might become a big rogue in time, when the nonsense gets out of him, but now he wants too much to live! On that point these people are scoundrels. Well, devil take him, he can do what he likes, it's nothing to me.”

He still could not fall asleep. Little by little today's image of Dunechka began to emerge before him, and a sudden trembling ran down his body. “No, that has to be dropped now,” he thought, coming to himself, “I have to think of something else. How strange and funny: I've never had a great hatred for anyone, never even wished especially to revenge myself on anyone—it's a bad sign, a bad sign! I didn't like arguing either, and never got into a temper—also a bad sign! And look at all I promised her today—pah, the devil! And she might really have ground me up somehow . . .” He again fell silent and clenched his teeth: again Dunechka's image appeared before him exactly as she had been when, after firing the first time, terribly frightened, she lowered the revolver and looked at him numbly, so that he could have seized her twice over, and she would not have raised a hand to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He remembered it was just as if he had felt sorry for her at that moment, as if his heart had been wrung...”Eh, devil take it! These thoughts again! It all has to be dropped, dropped! . . .”

He was beginning to doze off; the feverish trembling was going away; suddenly something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the blanket. He jumped: “Pah, the devil, a mouse no less!” he thought. “It's the veal I left on the table . . .” He was terribly reluctant to uncover himself, get out of bed, freeze; but suddenly something again scurried unpleasantly over his leg; he tore the blanket off and lighted the candle. Trembling with feverish chill, he bent down to examine the bed—there was nothing; he shook the blanket and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet. He rushed to catch it; but the mouse, refusing to get off the bed, flashed zigzagging in all directions, slipped from under his fingers, ran across his hand, and suddenly darted under the pillow; he threw the pillow aside, but instantly felt something jump onto his chest, scurry over his body, and down his back under his shirt. He shuddered nervously, and woke up. The room was dark, he was lying in bed wrapped up in the blanket as before, the wind was howling outside the window. “What nastiness!” he thought vexedly.

He got up and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the window. “Better not to sleep at all,” he decided. From the window, however, there came a cold, damp draft; without getting up, he pulled the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He did not light the candle. He was not thinking of anything, and did not want to think; but reveries rose one after another, fragments of thoughts with no beginning, no end, no connection. As if he were falling into a half slumber. Perhaps it was the cold, or the darkness, or the dampness, or the wind howling outside the window and swaying the trees, that called up in him some stubborn, fantastic inclination and desire—but he began to picture flowers. He imagined a lovely landscape; a bright, warm, almost hot day, a feast-day, the day of the Trinity.^[152] A rich, luxurious country cottage in the English style, all sunk in fragrant flowerbeds, with rows surrounding the entire house; the porch, entwined with climbing plants, filled with banks of roses; a bright, cool stairway, laid with sumptuous carpet, adorned with rare flowers in Chinese jars. He noticed especially the bouquets of white and tender narcissus, in jars of water on the windowsills, bending on long, bright green, fleshy stems, with their heavy, sweet scent. He was even reluctant to leave them; but he went up the stairs and entered a large, high-ceilinged room, and here again, at the windows, by the doors opening to the terrace, on the terrace itself, everywhere there were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly cut, fragrant grass, the windows were open, fresh, light, cool air penetrated the room, birds chirped outside the windows, and in the middle of the room, on tables covered with white satin cloths, stood a coffin. The coffin was lined with white gros de Naples silk and abundantly trimmed with white ruche. Garlands of flowers twined it on all sides. All in flowers, a girl was lying in it, in a white lace dress, her hands, as if carved from marble, folded and pressed to her breast. But her loose hair, hair of a light blond color, was wet; it was twined with a wreath of roses. The stern and already stiff profile of her face also seemed carved from marble, but the smile on her pale lips was full of some unchildlike, boundless grief and great complaint. Svidrigailov knew the girl: no icons, no lighted candles stood by the coffin, no prayers were heard. The girl was a suicide—by drowning.^[153] She was only fourteen, but hers was already a broken heart, and it destroyed itself, insulted by an offense that had horrified and astonished this young child's consciousness, that had covered her angelically pure soul with undeserved shame, and torn from her a last cry of despair, not heeded but insolently defiled in the black night, in the darkness, in the cold, in the damp thaw, while the wind was howling . . .

Svidrigailov came to his senses, got up from the bed, and stepped to the window. He fumbled for the latch and opened it. Wind swept furiously into his small closet and coated as if with hoarfrost his face and chest, covered only by a shirt. There must indeed have been something like a garden outside the window, and it, too, seemed to be a pleasure garden; probably singers would be singing there in the daytime, and tea would be served at the tables. But now drops came flying in the window from the trees and bushes, and it was dark as a cellar, so that one could just barely distinguish certain darker spots, signifying objects. Bending down and leaning his elbows on the windowsill, for all of five minutes Svidrigailov stared into the darkness without tearing himself away. From the blackness and the night a cannon shot resounded, then another.

“Ah, the signal! The water's rising,” he thought.^[154] “Towards morning it will flood all the lower places, the streets; it will pour into the basements and cellars, the cellar rats will float up, and amid rain and wind people, cursing and drenched, will begin transferring their stuff to the upper floors...I wonder what time it is now?” And as soon as he thought of it, somewhere nearby, ticking and as if hurrying as fast as it could, a wall clock struck three. “Aha! It will be daybreak in an hour! What's the use of waiting? I'll leave now, go straight to the Petrovsky: somewhere there I'll choose a big bush doused all over with rain, so that if you barely touch it with your shoulder, millions of drops will shower down on your head...” He withdrew from the window, locked it, lighted the candle, pulled on his waistcoat and overcoat, put his hat on, and went out to the corridor with his candle to hunt up the ragamuffin, asleep somewhere in a closet amid some junk and candle-ends, pay him for the room, and leave the hotel. “The best moment; one even couldn't pick a better one!”

He spent much time walking through the long, narrow corridor without finding anyone, and was just about to call out when suddenly, in a dark corner, between an old wardrobe and a door, he made out some strange object, something as if alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a child—a girl of about five, not more, in a wretched little dress soaked through like a dishrag, who was shivering and crying. She seemed not to be afraid of Svidrigailov, but looked at him in dull astonishment with her big, black eyes, sobbing now and then, as children do who have been crying for a long time, but have now stopped and are even comforted, and yet every once in a while suddenly sob. The girl's little face was pale and exhausted; she was stiff with cold, but “how did she get here? She must have hidden herself here and not slept all night.” He began questioning her. The girl suddenly came to life and began prattling something to him very, very quickly in her child's language. There was something in it about “mommy” and that “mommy was gonna beat her,” about some cup she had “bwoken.” The girl talked nonstop. It was possible to make out haphazardly from all she said that she was an unloved child, beaten down and terrorized by her mother, some eternally drunken cook, probably from this same hotel; that the girl had broken her mama's cup, and was so afraid that she ran away earlier in the evening; she must have hidden for a long time somewhere in the yard, in the rain, and finally crept in here, hidden behind the wardrobe, and stayed in this corner all night, crying, shivering from the damp, the darkness, and the fear that for all this she would now be beaten badly. He picked her up in his arms, went to his room, sat her on his bed, and began to undress her. The torn little shoes on her bare feet were as wet as if they had lain all night in a puddle. After undressing her, he placed her on the bed, covered her, and wrapped her up completely, head and all, in the blanket. She fell asleep at once. Having done all this, he again lapsed into sullen thought.

“The idea of getting involved!” he suddenly decided, with a heavy and spiteful feeling. “What nonsense!” Annoyed, he picked up the candle, so as to go and find the ragamuffin at all costs and quickly leave the place. “Eh, this girl!” he thought with a curse, already opening the door, but he went back once more to see if she was asleep and how she was sleeping. He carefully lifted the blanket. The little girl was soundly and blissfully asleep. She had warmed up under the blanket, and color had already spread over her pale cheeks. But, strangely, this color appeared brighter and deeper than a child's red cheeks would ordinarily be. “It's the flush of fever,” Svidrigailov thought; it was just like the flush from wine, as if she had been given a whole glass to drink. Her scarlet lips were as if burning, aflame—but what is this? It suddenly seems to him as if her long black eyelashes are fluttering and blinking, as if they are opening, and a coy, sharp eye, winking somehow in an unchildlike way, is peeping out from under them, as if the girl is not asleep but pretending. Yes, so it is: her lips are expanding into a smile, the corners of her mouth are quivering, as if she were still restraining herself. But now she has lost all restraint; now it is laughter, obvious laughter; something insolent, defiant, shines in this completely unchildlike face; it is depravity, it is the face of a scarlet woman, the insolent face of a woman for sale, of the French sort. Now, without hiding it at all, both eyes open: they look him over with a fiery and shameless glance, they beckon to him, they laugh...There is something infinitely hideous and insulting in this laughter, in these eyes, in all this vileness in the face of a child. “What! A five-year-old!” Svidrigailov whispered in genuine horror. “This...what is this?” But by now she has fully turned her whole burning face to him, she reaches her arms out...”Ah, cursed one!” Svidrigailov cried out in horror, raising his hand over her...But at that moment he woke up.

He was still in bed, wrapped in the blanket as before; the candle had not been lighted; the windowpanes were pale with the full light of day.

“Nightmares all night long!” He raised himself angrily, feeling all broken; his bones ached. There was a completely dense fog outside, and nothing could be distinguished. It was nearly five o'clock; he had overslept! He got up and put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Having felt for the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and adjusted the cap; then he sat down, took a notebook from his pocket, and wrote a few lines in large script on the front and most conspicuous page. After reading them over, he lapsed into thought, resting his elbow on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay just by his elbow. Flies woke up and swarmed all over the untouched portion of veal that lay there on the table. He watched them for a long time and finally with his free right hand began trying to catch one. He exhausted himself with the long effort, but still could not catch it. Finally, catching himself in this interesting occupation, he came to his senses, gave a start, got up, and resolutely walked out of the room. A moment later he was in the street.

Thick, milky fog lay over the city. Svidrigailov walked along the slippery, dirty, wooden pavement in the direction of the Little Neva. In imagination he could see the water of the Little Neva as it had risen high overnight, Petrovsky Island, wet paths, wet grass, wet trees and bushes, and finally that very bush...Annoyed, he began staring at the houses in order to think about something else. There was not a passer-by, not a coachman to be met on the prospect. The bright yellow wooden houses with their closed shutters looked cheerless and dirty. The cold and damp chilled his whole body through, and he began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop or greengrocer's signs, and he read each one carefully. Then the wooden pavement came to an end. He was in front of a big stone building. A dirty, shivering little mutt, tail between its legs, ran across his path. Someone was lying, dead drunk, in an overcoat, face down on the sidewalk. He glanced at him and went on. To the left a tall watchtower caught his eye. “Hah!” he thought, “here's the place; why go to Petrovsky? At least in front of an official witness . . .” He almost grinned at this new thought, and turned down ------sky Street. It was there that the big building with the watchtower stood. By the big locked gates of the building, leaning with his shoulder against them, stood a little man wrapped in a gray soldier's greatcoat and wearing a brass Achilles helmet.^[155] With drowsy eyes, coldly, he glanced sidelong at the approaching Svidrigailov. His face bore that expression of eternal, grumbling sorrow that is so sourly imprinted upon all faces of the Jewish tribe without exception. The two of them, Svidrigailov and Achilles, studied each other silently for a while. Achilles finally thought it out of order for a man who was not drunk to be standing there in front of him, three steps away, staring at him point-blank and saying nothing.

“Zo vat do you vant here?” he said, still without moving or changing his position.

“Nothing, brother. Good morning!” Svidrigailov replied.

“It's de wrong place.”

“I'm off to foreign lands, brother.”

“To foreign lands?”

“To America.”

“America?”

Svidrigailov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows.

“Zo vat's dis, a choke? It's de wrong place!”

“But why is it the wrong place?”

“Because it's de wrong place!”

“Well, never mind, brother. It's a good place. If they start asking you, just tell them he went to America.”

He put the revolver to his right temple.

“Oi, dat's not allowed, it's de wrong place!” Achilles roused himself, his pupils widening more and more.

Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.

VII

That same day, but in the evening, past six o'clock, Raskolnikov was approaching the apartment of his mother and sister—the apartment in Bakaleev's house where Razumikhin had placed them. The entrance to the stairway was from the street. Raskolnikov was still slowing his steps and as if hesitating whether to go in or not. But he would not have turned back for anything in the world; his decision had been taken. “Besides, it doesn't matter, they still don't know anything,” he was thinking, “and they're already used to considering me an odd man...” His clothes were terrible: everything was dirty, torn, tattered, after a whole night out in the rain. His face was almost disfigured by weariness, bad weather, physical exhaustion, and the nearly twenty-four-hour struggle with himself. He had spent the whole night alone, God knows where. But at least he had made up his mind.

He knocked at the door; his mother opened. Dunechka was not there. Even the serving-girl happened not to be there. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless at first from joyful amazement; then she seized him by the hand and pulled him into the room.

“So here you are!” she began, faltering with joy. “Don't be angry with me, Rodya, for greeting you so foolishly, with tears: I'm laughing, not crying. You think I'm crying? No, I'm rejoicing, but I have this foolish habit: tears pour out of me. I've had it ever since your father's death; I cry at everything. Sit down, darling, you must be tired, I can see. Ah, how dirty you've gotten.”

“I was out in the rain yesterday, mama . . .” Raskolnikov tried to begin.

“Don't, oh, don't!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna burst out, interrupting him. “You thought I'd just up and start questioning you, from my former woman's habit, but don't worry. I do understand, I understand everything now, I now know how things are done here, and really, I can see for myself that it's more intelligent here. I've judged once and for all: is it for me to understand your considerations and demand reports from you? God knows what affairs and plans you may have in your head, or what ideas may be born there; so why should I nudge your arm and ask what you're thinking about? And now I'm...Ah, Lord! But why am I rushing up and down like a lunatic?... Now I'm reading your article in the magazine, Rodya; Dmitri Prokofych brought it. I just gasped when I saw it: fool that I am, I thought to myself, this is what he's busy with, this is the solution to it all! Perhaps he has new ideas in his head right now; he's thinking them over, and I'm tormenting and confusing him. Well, I'm reading it, my dear, and of course there are many things I don't understand; however, that's as it must be: how could I?”

“Show it to me, mother!”

Raskolnikov took the little journal and glanced briefly at his article. Contradictory as it was to his situation and condition, he still felt that strange and mordantly sweet sensation an author experiences on seeing himself in print for the first time; besides, his twenty-three years showed themselves. This lasted only a moment. Having read a few lines, he frowned and a terrible anguish wrung his heart. The whole of his soul's struggle over the past months came back to him all at once. In disgust and vexation, he flung the article down on the table.

“But, foolish as I am, Rodya, I'm able to judge all the same that you will soon be one of the foremost men, if not the very foremost, in our learned world. And they dared to think you were mad. Ha, ha, ha! You don't know, but they did think that! Ah, base worms, how can they understand what intelligence is! And Dunechka nearly believed it, too—fancy that! Your late father twice sent things to magazines— poems first (I still have the notebook, I'll show it to you someday), and then a whole long story (I begged to be the one to copy it out), and how we both prayed it would be accepted—but it wasn't! It grieved me so, six or seven days ago, Rodya, to look at your clothes, the way you live, what you eat, how you dress. But now I see that I was being foolish again, because if you wanted, you could get everything for yourself at once, with your mind and talent. It means that for the time being you don't want to, and are occupied with far more important matters...”

“Dunya's not home, mother?”

“No, Rodya. I quite often don't see her at home; she leaves me by myself. Dmitri Prokofych, bless him, comes to sit with me, and keeps talking about you. He loves and respects you, my dear. I'm not saying that your sister is so very inconsiderate of me. I'm not complaining. She has her character, I have mine; she's got some sort of secrets now; well, I don't have any secrets from either of you. Of course, I'm firmly convinced that Dunya is far too intelligent and, besides, she loves both you and me...but I really don't know where it will all end. You've made me happy by coming, Rodya, but she has missed seeing you; she'll come and I'll say: your brother stopped by while you were out, and where, may I ask, have you been spending your time? Don't spoil me too much, Rodya: stop by if you can, and if you can't—there's no help for it, I'll just wait. I'll know that you love me even so, and that's enough for me. I'll read your writings, I'll hear about you from everyone, and once in a while you'll stop by to see me yourself—what could be better? For you did come now to comfort your mother, I see that . . .”

Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly started to cry.

“Me again! Don't look at your foolish mother! Ah, Lord, but why am I sitting here like this,” she exclaimed, jumping up from her place. “There's coffee, and I haven't offered you any! That's what it means to be a selfish old woman. Just a moment, just a moment!”

“Forget it, mama, I'm going now. I didn't come for that. Please listen to me.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna timidly went up to him.

“Mama, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever they tell you about me, will you still love me as you do now?” he asked suddenly, from the fullness of his heart, as if not thinking about his words or weighing them.

“Rodya, Rodya, what's the matter with you? How can you ask me that! And who is going to tell me anything about you? No, I won't believe anyone at all, and whoever comes to me I'll simply chase away.”

“I've come to assure you that I have always loved you, and I'm glad we're alone now, I'm even glad that Dunechka isn't here,” he went on with the same impulsiveness. “I've come to tell you straight out that, although you will be unhappy, you must know all the same that your son loves you right now more than himself, and whatever you may have thought about me being cruel and not loving you, it's all untrue. I'll never cease to love you...Well, and enough; I thought I had to do this, to begin with this . . .”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was silently embracing him, pressing him to her, and weeping softly.

“What's the matter with you, Rodya, I don't know,” she said at last. “I thought all this time that we were simply bothering you, but now I see every sign that there is a great grief ahead of you, and that's why you are in anguish. I've foreseen it for a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for beginning to speak of it; I think about it all the time and don't sleep nights. Your sister, too, spent the whole of last night in delirium, and kept mentioning you. I heard something but understood none of it. I went around all morning as if I were facing execution, waiting for something, anticipating—and here it is! Rodya, Rodya, what is it? Are you going away somewhere, or what?”

“I'm going away.”

“That's what I thought! But I can come with you, too, if you want. And Dunya; she loves you, she loves you very much, and Sofya Semyonovna, maybe she can come with us if you want; you see, I'll willingly take her like a daughter. Dmitri Prokofych will help us all get ready...but...where are you...going?”

“Good-bye, mama.”

“What! This very day!” she cried out, as if she were losing him forever.

“I can't, I have to go, I must . . .”

“And I can't go with you?”

“No, but kneel and pray to God for me. Maybe your prayer will be heard.”

“Let me cross you, let me bless you! So, so. Oh, God, what are we doing?”

Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that no one was there, that he and his mother were alone. It was as if his heart softened all at once, to make up for all that terrible time. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet, and they both wept, embracing each other. And this time she was not surprised and did not ask any questions. She had long understood that something terrible was happening with her son, and now some awful moment had come round for him.

“Rodya, my dear, my first-born,” she said, sobbing, “you're the same now as when you were little and used to come to me in the same way and embrace me and kiss me in the same way; when your father was still alive and times were hard, you gave us comfort simply by being with us; and when I buried your father—how often we used to weep over his grave, embracing each other as we're doing now. And if I've been weeping for so long, it's because my mother's heart foreboded calamity. As soon as I saw you that first time, in the evening—remember, when we'd only just arrived?—I understood everything from your eyes alone, and my heart shook within me, and today, as I opened the door to you, I looked and thought, well, the fatal hour must be here. Rodya, Rodya, you're not going now?”

“No.”

“You'll come again?”

“Yes...I'll come.”

“Rodya, don't be angry, I daren't even ask any questions, I know I daren't, but all the same tell me just two words, are you going somewhere far away?”

“Very far.”

“What is there, some job, a career for you, or what?”

“Whatever God sends...only pray for me . . .”

Raskolnikov went to the door, but she clutched at him and looked desperately in his eyes. Her face became distorted with terror.

“Enough, mama,” Raskolnikov said, deeply regretting his decision to come.

“Not forever? It's not forever yet? You will come, will you come tomorrow?”

“I'll come, I'll come, good-bye.”

He finally tore himself away.

The evening was fresh, warm, and bright; the weather had cleared that morning. Raskolnikov was going to his apartment; he was hurrying. He wished to be done with everything before sundown. And until then he had no wish to meet anyone. Going up to his apartment, he noticed that Nastasya tore herself away from the samovar and watched him intently, following him with her eyes. “I hope nobody's there,” he thought. With loathing, he imagined Porfiry. But when he reached his room and opened the door, he saw Dunechka. She was sitting there all by herself, deep in thought, and seemed to have been waiting for him a long time. He stopped on the threshold. She rose from the sofa in alarm and stood up straight before him. The look she fixed upon him showed horror and unappeasable grief. And from that look alone he understood immediately that she knew everything.

“Well, shall I come in or go away?” he asked mistrustfully.

“I've been sitting the whole day with Sofya Semyonovna; we were both waiting for you. We thought you would surely come there.”

Raskolnikov went into the room and sat down on a chair in exhaustion.

“I'm somehow weak, Dunya; very tired, really; and I wished to be in full possession of myself at least at this moment.”

He quickly raised his mistrustful eyes to her.

“But where were you all night?”

“I don't remember very well; you see, sister, I wanted to make my mind up finally, and walked many times by the Neva; that I remember. I wanted to end it there, but...I couldn't make up my mind...” he whispered, again glancing mistrustfully at Dunya.

“Thank God! We were so afraid of just that, Sofya Semyonovna and I! So you still believe in life—thank God, thank God!”

Raskolnikov grinned bitterly.

“I didn't believe, but just now, with mother, I wept as we embraced each other; I don't believe, but I asked her to pray for me. God knows how these things work, Dunechka, I don't understand any of it.”

“You went to see mother? And you told her?” Dunya exclaimed in horror. “Could you possibly dare to tell her?”

“No, I didn't tell her...in words; but she understood a great deal. She heard you raving last night. I'm sure she already understands half of it. Maybe it was a bad thing that I went. I don't even know why I did it. I'm a vile man, Dunya.”

“A vile man, yet you're ready to go and suffer! You are going, aren't you?”

“I am. Right now. Yes, it was to avoid this shame that I wanted to drown myself, Dunya, but I thought, as I was already standing over the water, that if I've considered myself a strong man all along, then let me not be afraid of shame now,” he said, getting ahead of himself. “Is that pride, Dunya?”

“Yes, it's pride, Rodya.”

It was as if fire flashed in his extinguished eyes, as if he were pleased to think there was still pride in him.

“And you don't think, sister, that I simply got scared of the water?” he asked, with a hideous smirk, peeking into her face.

“Oh, Rodya, enough!” Dunya exclaimed bitterly.

The silence lasted for about two minutes. He sat downcast, staring at the ground; Dunechka stood at the other end of the table and looked at him with suffering. Suddenly he stood up.

“It's late, it's time. I'm now going to give myself up. But why I'm going to give myself up, I don't know.”

Big tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“You're crying, sister, but can you give me your hand?”

“Did you doubt it?”

She embraced him tightly.

“By going to suffer, haven't you already washed away half your crime?” she cried out, pressing him in her arms and kissing him.

“Crime? What crime?” he suddenly cried out in some unexpected rage. “I killed a vile, pernicious louse, a little old money-lending crone who was of no use to anyone, to kill whom is worth forty sins forgiven, who sucked the life-sap from the poor—is that a crime? I'm not thinking of it, nor am I thinking of washing it away. And why is everyone jabbing at me from all sides: 'Crime! Crime!' Only now do I see clearly all the absurdity of my faintheartedness, now that I've already decided to go to this needless shame! I decided on it simply from my own vileness and giftlessness, and perhaps also for my own advantage, as was suggested by this...Porfiry!”

“Brother, brother, what are you saying! You shed blood!” Dunya cried out in despair.

“Which everyone sheds,” he picked up, almost in a frenzy, “which is and always has been shed in torrents in this world, which men spill like champagne, and for which they're crowned on the Capitoline and afterwards called benefactors of mankind.^[156] But just look closer and try to see! I wished people well and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds, instead of this one stupidity—or not even stupidity, but simply clumsiness, because the whole idea was by no means as stupid as it seems now that it failed (everything that fails seems stupid!). By this stupidity, I merely wanted to put myself in an independent position, to take the first step, to acquire means, and later everything would be made up for by the—comparatively—immeasurable usefulness...But I, I could not endure even the first step, because I'm a scoundrel! That's the whole point! But even so I won't look at it with your eyes: if I'd succeeded, I'd have been crowned, but now I'm walking into the trap!”

“But that's not it, that's not it at all! Brother, what are you saying!”

“Ah, the wrong form, not so good aesthetically! Well, I decidedly do not understand why hurling bombs at people, according to all the rules of siege warfare, is a more respectable form. Fear of aesthetics is the first sign of powerlessness! ... Never, never have I been more clearly aware of it than now, and now more than ever I fail to understand my crime! Never, never have I been stronger or more certain than now! . . .”

Color even came to his pale, worn-out face. But as he was uttering this last exclamation, his eyes suddenly met Dunya's, and so great, so great was the anguish for him in those eyes that he came involuntarily to his senses. He felt that after all he had made these two poor women unhappy. After all, it was he who had caused . . .

“Dunya, dear! If I am guilty, forgive me (though if I'm guilty, I cannot be forgiven). Good-bye! Let's not argue! It's time, it really is. Don't follow me, I beg you, I still have to stop at. . . But go now, at once, and stay with mother. I beg you to do that. It is my last, my greatest request of you. Don't leave her for a moment; I left her in such anxiety that she'll hardly survive it: she'll either die or lose her mind. So be with her! Razumikhin will stay by you; I talked with him...Don't weep over me: I'll try to be both courageous and honest all my life, even though I'm a murderer. Perhaps you'll hear my name someday. I won't disgrace you, you'll see; I'll still prove...well, good-bye for now,” he hastened to finish, again noticing some strange expression in Dunya's eyes at his last words and promises. “Why are you crying so? Don't cry, don't; we're not parting forever! ... Ah, yes! Wait, I forgot! . . .”

He went to the table, took a thick, dusty book, opened it, and took from between the pages a small watercolor portrait on ivory. It was a portrait of his landlady's daughter, his former fiancée, who had died of a fever, the same strange girl who had wanted to go into a convent. He gazed at that expressive and sickly little face for a moment, kissed the portrait, and handed it to Dunechka.

“With her I used to talk a lot—about that, too—with her alone,” he said, reflecting. “I confided much to her heart of what later came true so hideously. Don't worry,” he turned to Dunya, “she didn't agree with it, as you don't, and I'm glad she's no longer here. The main thing, the main thing is that now everything will go a new way, it will break in two,” he cried out suddenly, returning again to his anguish, “everything, everything, and am I ready for that? Do I myself want it? They say the ordeal is necessary for me! Why, why all these senseless ordeals? Why, am I going to have a better understanding then, when I'm crushed by suffering and idiocy, in senile powerlessness after twenty years of hard labor, than I have now? And why, then, should I live? And why do I agree to such a life now? Oh, I knew I was a scoundrel as I was standing over the Neva at dawn today!”

They both finally left. It was hard for Dunya, but she loved him! She began to walk away, but having gone about fifty steps, she turned once more to look at him. He was still in sight. When he reached the corner, he, too, turned around; their eyes met for a last time; but noticing that she was looking at him, he impatiently and even irritably waved his hand at her to go on, and himself sharply turned the corner.

“I'm wicked, I see that,” he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment later of his irritated gesture to Dunya. “But why do they love me so, when I'm unworthy of it! Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved me, and I myself had never loved anyone! None of this would be! Curious, is it possible that in these next fifteen or twenty years my soul will become so humbled that I'll reverently snivel in front of people, calling myself a robber with every word? Yes, precisely, precisely! That's why they're going to exile me now, that's what they want. . . Look at them all scuttling up and down the street, and each one of them is a scoundrel and a robber by his very nature; worse than that—an idiot! But let exile pass me by, and they'll all go wild with noble indignation! Oh, how I hate them all!”

He fell to pondering deeply “by what process it might come about that he would finally humble himself before them all without reasoning, humble himself from conviction? But, after all, why not? Of course, that is how it should be. Won't twenty years of unremitting oppression finish him off completely? Water wears away stone. But why, why live in that case? Why am I going now, if I know myself that it will all be precisely so, as if by the book, and not otherwise!”

It was perhaps the hundredth time he had asked himself that question since the previous evening, and yet he was going.

VIII

When he came to Sonya's, dusk was already falling. Sonya had been waiting for him all day in terrible anxiety. She had waited together with Dunya, who, remembering Svidrigailov's words of the day before that Sonya “knew about it,” had come to her that morning. We shall not relate the details of the conversation and the tears of the two women, or how close they became to each other. From this meeting Dunya drew at least one consolation, that her brother would not be alone: he had gone first to her, to Sonya, with his confession; in her he had sought a human being when he needed a human being; and she would go with him wherever fate sent him. She had not asked, but she knew it would be so. She looked at Sonya even with a certain reverence, and at first almost embarrassed her by the reverent feeling with which she treated her. Sonya was all but on the verge of tears: she considered herself, on the contrary, unworthy even to glance at Dunya. The beautiful image of Dunya as she had bowed to her with such attention and respect at the time of their first meeting at Raskolnikov's, had since remained forever in her soul as one of the most beautiful and unattainable visions of her life.

Dunechka finally could not stand it and left Sonya to go and wait for her brother in his apartment; she kept thinking he might come there first. Left alone, Sonya immediately began to be tormented by fear at the thought that he might indeed commit suicide. Dunya was afraid of the same thing. But they had competed all day long in reassuring each other by every possible argument that it could not be so, and had felt calmer while they were together. Once they parted, however, they both began thinking only of that. Sonya kept recalling how Svidrigailov had told her the day before that there were two ways open for Raskolnikov—Siberia, or...She knew, besides, his vanity, his presumption, his self-conceit, and his unbelief. “Can it be that he has only faintheartedness and the fear of death to make him live?” she thought at last, in despair. Meanwhile the sun was going down. She stood sadly by the window, gazing out—but from the window only the blank, unpainted wall of the neighboring house could be seen. At last, when she had become completely convinced that the unfortunate man was dead—he walked into her room.

A joyful cry burst from her breast. But, looking closely at his face, she suddenly grew pale.

“Well, so!” Raskolnikov said, grinning, “I've come for your crosses, Sonya. You're the one who was sending me to the crossroads; why turn coward now that it's come to business?”

Sonya looked at him in amazement. His tone seemed strange to her; a cold shiver ran through her body; but a moment later she realized that all of it—both the tone and the words—was put on. He even stared somehow into the corner as he talked to her, as if trying to avoid looking her straight in the face.

“You see, Sonya, I figure that it may be more advantageous this way. There's a certain circumstance...Well, but it's a long tale to tell, and there's no point. Only, you know what makes me mad? It irks me that all those stupid, beastly mugs will immediately surround me, gaping at me with their eyeballs hanging out, asking me their stupid questions, which I will have to answer—pointing their fingers at me...Pah! You know, I'm not going to go to Porfiry; I'm sick of him. Better if I go to my friend Gunpowder—now that will be a surprise, that will make an effect of sorts! And I'd better be more cool-headed; I've gotten too bilious lately. Would you believe it, I all but shook my fist at my sister just now, simply because she turned to look at me a last time. Swinishness, that's the name for it! Eh, see what I've come to! Well, so where are the crosses?”

It was as if he were not himself. He was unable to stay still even for a minute, unable to focus his attention on any one subject; his thoughts leaped over each other; his speech wandered; his hands were trembling slightly.

Sonya silently took two crosses from a drawer, one of cypress, the other of brass; she crossed herself, crossed him, and hung the cypress cross around his neck.

“So this is a symbol of my taking a cross upon myself, heh, heh! That's right, I haven't suffered enough yet! Cypress, for simple folk; the brass one, Lizaveta's, you're keeping for yourself—can I see it? So she was wearing it...at that moment? I also know of two similar crosses, a silver one and a little icon. I let them drop on the old crone's chest that time. It would really be more to the point if I put those on now...It's all nonsense, however; I'm forgetting the real business; I'm somehow distracted! ... You see, Sonya, as a matter of fact I came to forewarn you, so that you'd know . .. Well, that's all... That's the only reason I came. (Hm. I thought I'd have more to say, though.) Anyway, you yourself wanted me to go; well, so I'll be locked up in jail and your wish will be fulfilled; so, why are you crying? You, too? Stop; enough! Oh, how hard this all is for me!”

Feeling came to life in him, however; his heart was wrung as he looked at her. “But this one, why this one?” he thought to himself. “What am I to her? Why is she crying, why is she getting me ready, like mother or Dunya? She'll be my nursemaid!”

“Cross yourself, pray once at least,” Sonya asked in a trembling, timid voice.

“Oh, that, yes, as much as you like! And in all sincerity, Sonya, in all sincerity...”

He wanted, however, to say something else.

He crossed himself several times. Sonya seized her shawl and threw it over her head. It was a green flannel shawl, probably the same one Marmeladov had mentioned, the “family shawl.” Raskolnikov thought fleetingly of it, but he did not ask. Indeed, he now began to feel himself that he was terribly distracted and somehow hideously alarmed. That frightened him. It also suddenly struck him that Sonya wanted to go with him.

“What's this! Where are you going? Stay, stay! I'll go alone,” he cried out in fainthearted vexation, and almost angrily walked to the door. “No need for a whole retinue!” he muttered on his way out.

Sonya was left standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said good-bye to her; he had already forgotten her; a corrosive and rebellious doubt was seething in his soul.

“But is it right, is it all so right?” he thought again, going down the stairs. “Can it be that it's impossible to stop now and revise it all...and not go?”

But still he was going. He sensed all at once that there was finally no point in asking himself questions. Coming out to the street, he remembered that he had not said good-bye to Sonya, that she had stayed in the middle of the room in her green shawl, not daring to stir after his shout, and he stopped for an instant. At that same moment a thought suddenly dawned on him brightly—as though it had been waiting to strike him at the last.

“Then why did I go to her now? What for? I told her it was for business; and what was this business? There wasn't any business at all! To announce that I was going? But what of it? What was the need! Is it that I love her? I don't, do I? Didn't I just chase her away like a dog? Was it really crosses I wanted from her? Oh, how low I've fallen! No—I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her frightened, to look at her heartache and torment! I wanted to cling at least to something, to linger, to look at a human being! And I dared have such hopes for myself, such dreams, abject as I am, worthless—a scoundrel, a scoundrel!”

He was walking along the canal bank and had not much farther to go. But on reaching the bridge he stopped for a moment and suddenly turned aside, crossed it, and went to the Haymarket.

He looked greedily to right and left, peered intently at every object, but could not focus his attention on anything; everything slipped away. “In a week, say, or a month, I'll be taken somewhere in one of those prison vans over this bridge, and how will I look at the canal then? I must try to remember it,” flashed through his head. “This sign, say—how will I read these same letters then? Here they've written 'Compiny,' so I must remember this i, this letter i, and look at it in a month, at this same i; how will I look at it then? What will I be feeling and thinking then?...God, how base it all must be, all these present...cares of mine! Of course, it must all be rather curious...in its own way...(ha, ha, ha! what a thought!). I'm becoming a child, swaggering to myself; why am I shaming myself? Pah, they shove so! This fat one—must be a German—who just shoved me: does he know whom he was shoving? Here's a woman with a child, begging for alms; curious that she should consider me more fortunate than herself. Maybe I'll give her something just for the oddity of it. Hah, a five-kopeck piece managed to survive in my pocket, I wonder how! Yes, yes...take it, mother!”

“God keep you!” came the weepy voice of the beggar-woman.

He walked into the Haymarket. It was unpleasant, very unpleasant, for him to encounter people, yet he was going precisely where he could see the most people. He would have given anything in the world to be left alone, yet he felt himself that he could not have remained alone for a minute. A drunk man was acting up in the crowd; he was trying to dance, but kept losing his balance. People were standing around him. Raskolnikov squeezed through the crowd, watched the drunk man for a few minutes, and suddenly guffawed shortly and abruptly. A moment later he had already forgotten about him and did not even see him, though he went on looking at him. Finally he walked away, not even remembering where he was; but when he came to the middle of the square, a certain movement suddenly occurred with him, a certain sensation seized him all at once, took hold of him entirely— body and mind.

He suddenly remembered Sonya's words: “Go to the crossroads, bow down to people, kiss the earth, because you have sinned before it as well, and say aloud to the whole world: 'I am a murderer!' “ He trembled all over as he remembered it. And so crushed was he by the hopeless anguish and anxiety of this whole time, and especially of the last few hours, that he simply threw himself into the possibility of this wholesome, new, full sensation. It came to him suddenly in a sort of fit, caught fire in his soul from a single spark, and suddenly, like a flame, engulfed him. Everything softened in him all at once, and the tears flowed. He simply fell to the earth where he stood . . .

He knelt in the middle of the square, bowed to the earth, and kissed that filthy earth with delight and happiness. He stood up and then bowed once more.

“This one's plastered all right!” a fellow near him observed.

There was laughter.

“It's that he's going to Jerusalem, brothers, and he's saying good-bye to his children and his motherland and bowing to the whole world, giving a kiss to the metropolitan city of Saint Petersburg and its soil,” some drunken little tradesman added.

“Still a young lad!” a third one put in.

“From gentlefolk!” someone observed in an imposing voice.

“You can't tell nowadays who's gentlefolk and who isn't.”

All this talk and commentary held Raskolnikov back, and the words “I killed,” which were perhaps on the tip of his tongue, froze in him. However, he calmly endured all these exclamations, and without looking back went straight down the side street in the direction of the police station. On the way an apparition flashed before him, but he was not surprised by it; he had already anticipated that it must be so. As he bowed down the second time in the Haymarket, turning to the left, he had seen Sonya standing about fifty steps away. She was hiding from him behind one of the wooden stalls in the square, which meant that she had accompanied him throughout his sorrowful procession! Raskolnikov felt and understood in that moment, once and for all, that Sonya was now with him forever and would follow him even to the ends of the earth, wherever his fate took him. His whole heart turned over inside him...but—here he was at the fatal place . . .

He walked quite briskly into the courtyard. He had to go up to the third floor. “So far so good,” he thought. Generally, it seemed to him that the fatal moment was still far off, that there was still much time left, that he could still think many things over.

Again the same trash, the same eggshells on the winding stairs, again the wide-open doors to the apartments, again the same kitchens emitting fumes and stench. Raskolnikov had not been back here since that time. His legs were going numb and giving way under him, but went on walking. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and straighten himself up, so as to enter like a human being. “But why? What for?” he suddenly thought, having caught his own movement. “If I am indeed to drink this cup, what difference does it make? The fouler the better.” At that moment the picture of Ilya Petrovich Gunpowder flashed in his imagination. “Must I really go to him? Why not to someone else? Why not to Nikodim Fomich? Turn around and go to the police chief himself, to his place? At least things could be arranged in a homelike fashion...No, no! To Gunpowder, to Gunpowder! If I'm to drink, I'll drink it all at once . . .”

Turning cold and barely conscious of himself, he opened the door to the office. This time very few people were there, some caretaker and some other simple fellow. The guard did not even peek out from behind his partition. Raskolnikov went into the next room. “Maybe it's still possible not to tell them,” flashed in him. Here some person from among the scribes, dressed in a civilian jacket, was settling down to write something at a desk. In the corner another scrivener was about to take his seat. Zamyotov was not there. Nikodim Fomich was, of course, not there either.

“No one's here?” Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the desk.

“Who do you want?”

“Aha-a-a! Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the smell of a Russian man...or how does the tale go...I forget! Gr-r-reetings!” a familiar voice cried out suddenly.

Raskolnikov shook. There stood Gunpowder; he walked out suddenly from the third room. “This is fate itself,” Raskolnikov thought. “Why is he here?”

“Come to see us? What's the occasion? . . .” Ilya Petrovich exclaimed. (He was apparently in a most excellent and even somewhat excited state of mind.) “If it's on business, you've come too early. I myself just happen to be...However, anything I can do. I must confess...what's your, your...Excuse me...”

“Raskolnikov.”

“There you are—Raskolnikov! You don't suppose I really forgot! No, please, you mustn't regard me as such a...Rodion Ro...Ro...Rodionych, isn't it?”

“Rodion Romanych.”

“Yes, yes, of course! Rodion Romanych, Rodion Romanych! Just what I was getting at. I even made a number of inquiries. I—shall I confess to you?—I have been genuinely grieved that you and I were so...it was later explained to me, I learned that the young writer— scholar, even...the first steps, so to speak...Oh, Lord! And who among writers and scholars did not make some original steps to begin with! My wife and I, we both respect literature—my wife even to the point of passion! ... Literature and artistry! One need only be a gentleman, and the rest can all be acquired by talent, knowledge, reason, genius! A hat—now what, for instance, is a hat? A hat is a pancake, I can buy one at Zimmerman's; but that which is kept under the hat, and is covered by the hat, that I cannot buy, sir! ... I'll confess I even wanted to go and explain myself to you, but I thought perhaps you...However, I haven't even asked: do you in fact need anything? I hear your family has come?”

“Yes, my mother and sister.”

“I've even had the honor and happiness of meeting your sister—an educated and charming person. I'll confess I regretted that you and I got so worked up that time. A mishap! And that I gave you a certain kind of look then, on the occasion of your fainting—that was explained afterwards in a most brilliant manner! Overzealousness and fanaticism! I understand your indignation. Perhaps you're changing apartments on the occasion of your family's arrival?”

“N-no, I just... I came to ask... I thought I'd find Zamyotov here.”

“Ah, yes! You became friends; I heard, sir. Well, Zamyotov is no longer with us—you've missed him. Yes, sir, we've lost Alexander Grigorievich! He's been unavailable since yesterday; he's moved on...and as he was moving on he quarreled with everybody...even quite discourteously...A flighty youngster, nothing more; he might even give one hopes; but what can be done with them, these brilliant young men of ours! He wants to take some examination or other, but with us that's all just talk and swagger, and so much for the examination. It's quite another matter with you, for example, or let's say your friend, Mr. Razumikhin! Your career is a scholarly one, and you won't be put off by any setbacks! For you, all these beauties of life, one might say, nihil est^[157]—ascetic, monk, hermit that you are! ... For you, it's a book, a pen behind the ear, scholarly research—there's where your spirit soars! I myself am somewhat...have you read Livingstone's diaries,^[158] may I ask?”

“No.”

“But I have. Nowadays, by the way, there are a great many nihilists spreading around; well, it's quite understandable; what sort of times are these, I ask you! But I'm being too...by the way, you're surely not a nihilist!^[159] Tell me frankly, frankly!”

“N-no.”

“No, you see, you can be frank with me, don't be embarrassed, just as if you were alone with yourself! Duty is one thing, and...what is another?... You thought I was going to say pleasure—no, sir, you've guessed wrong! Not pleasure, but the feeling of a citizen and a human being, the feeling of humaneness and love for the Almighty. I may be an official person and acting in the line of duty, but I must always feel the citizen and human being in myself, and be accountable for it...Now, you were so good as to bring up Zamyotov. Zamyotov! He'd go and cause a French-style scandal in some disreputable establishment, over a glass of champagne or Don wine—that's what your Zamyotov is! While I, perhaps, so to speak, am consumed with devotion and lofty feelings, and furthermore I have significance, rank, I occupy a position! I'm a married man, I have children. I fulfill the duties of a citizen and a human being, and who is he, may I ask? I advert to you as a man ennobled by education. And there are also these midwives spreading around in extraordinary numbers.”

Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows questioningly. The words of Ilya Petrovich, who had obviously just gotten up from the table, came clattering and spilling out at him for the most part as empty sounds. But even so he somehow understood part of them; he looked on questioningly, not knowing where it would end.

“I'm talking about these crop-haired wenches,” the garrulous Ilya Petrovich went on. “I've nicknamed them midwives, and personally I find the nickname completely satisfactory. Heh, heh! They force their way into the Academy, study anatomy; now tell me, if I get sick, am I going to call a girl to treat me? Heh, heh!”^[160]

Ilya Petrovich guffawed, thoroughly pleased with his witticisms.

“Well, let's say it's an immoderate thirst for enlightenment; but once enlightened, it's enough. Why abuse it? Why insult noble persons the way that scoundrel Zamyotov does? Why did he insult me, I ask you? And then, too, there are so many suicides spreading around—you can't even imagine. They spend their last money and then kill themselves. Girls, boys, old folk...Only this morning there was a report about some recently arrived gentleman. Nil Pavlych, hey, Nil Pavlych! What's the name of that gentleman, the one we just had the report about, who shot himself on the Petersburg side?”

“Svidrigailov,” someone responded huskily and indifferently from the other room.

Raskolnikov gave a start.

“Svidrigailov! Svidrigailov shot himself!” he cried out.

“What, you know Svidrigailov?”

“Yes...I do...he came recently . . .”

“Right, he came recently, lost his wife, a man of wanton behavior, and all of a sudden he shot himself, and so scandalously, you can't even imagine...left a few words in his notebook, that he was dying in his right mind and asked that no one be blamed for his death. The man had money, they say. And how do you happen to know him?”

“I...was acquainted...my sister lived with them as a governess . . .”

“Aha, aha, aha...But you can tell us about him, then. You didn't even suspect?”

“I saw him yesterday...he...was drinking wine...I knew nothing.”

Raskolnikov felt as if something had fallen on him and crushed him.

“You seem to have turned pale again. This is a stuffy place . . .”

“Yes, it's time I was going, sir,” Raskolnikov muttered. “Excuse me for having troubled...”

“Oh, heavens, as much as you like! It's my pleasure, and I'm glad to say . . .”

Ilya Petrovich even offered him his hand.

“I just wanted...to see Zamyotov . . .”

“I understand, I understand, and it's been my pleasure.”

“I'm...very glad...good-bye, sir . . .” Raskolnikov smiled.

He walked out; he was reeling. His head was spinning. He could not feel his legs under him. He started down the stairs, propping himself against the wall with his right arm. It seemed to him that some caretaker with a book in his hands pushed him as he climbed past on his way up to the office, that some little mutt was barking its head off somewhere on a lower floor, and that some woman threw a rolling pin at it and shouted. He went on down the stairs and came out into the courtyard. There in the courtyard, not far from the entrance, stood Sonya, pale, numb all over, and she gave him a wild, wild look. He stopped before her. Something pained and tormented, something desperate, showed in her face. She clasped her hands. A hideous, lost smile forced itself to his lips. He stood a while, grinned, and turned back upstairs to the office.

Ilya Petrovich was sitting down, rummaging through some papers. Before him stood the same peasant who had just pushed Raskolnikov on his way up the stairs.

“A-a-ah? You again! Did you leave something behind?...But what's the matter?”

Raskolnikov, his lips pale, a fixed look in his eyes, went straight up to the desk, leaned on it with his hand, tried to say something, but could not; only incoherent sounds came out.

“You're not well! A chair! Here, sit down on the chair, sit down! Water!”

Raskolnikov sank down on the chair, but would not take his eyes from the quite unpleasantly surprised face of Ilya Petrovich. For a minute or so they went on looking at each other and waiting. Water was brought.

“It was I . . .” Raskolnikov tried to begin.

“Drink some water.”

Raskolnikov pushed the water aside with his hand and said softly, with some pauses, but distinctly:

“It was I who killed the official's old widow and her sister Lizaveta with an axe and robbed them. “

Ilya Petrovich opened his mouth. People came running from all sides.

Raskolnikov repeated his statement.....................