www.gutenberg.org
    # CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

    1.   By Fyodor Dostoevsky

    1.   Translated By Constance Garnett
    1.   <br />
    2.     <br /> [ TRANSLATOR&rsquo;S PREFACE ](#link2H_4_0001)<br /> <br /> [  ](#link2H_4_0002)<br />
    3.     <br /> <br />
    4.   <br />
    5.     [  ](#link2H_PART1)
    6.   <br />
    7.     [ CHAPTER I ](#link2HCH0001)
    8.   <br />
    9.     [ CHAPTER II ](#link2HCH0002)
    10.   <br />
    11.     [ CHAPTER III ](#link2HCH0003)
    12.   <br />
    13.     [ CHAPTER IV ](#link2HCH0004)
    14.   <br />
    15.     [ CHAPTER V ](#link2HCH0005)
    16.   <br />
    17.     [ CHAPTER VI ](#link2HCH0006)
    18.   <br />
    19.     [ CHAPTER VII ](#link2HCH0007)
    20.   <br />
    21.     <br />
    22.   <br />
    23.     [  ](#link2H_PART2)
    24.   <br />
    25.     [ CHAPTER I ](#link2HCH0008)
    26.   <br />
    27.     [ CHAPTER II ](#link2HCH0009)
    28.   <br />
    29.     [ CHAPTER III ](#link2HCH0010)
    30.   <br />
    31.     [ CHAPTER IV ](#link2HCH0011)
    32.   <br />
    33.     [ CHAPTER V ](#link2HCH0012)
    34.   <br />
    35.     [ CHAPTER VI ](#link2HCH0013)
    36.   <br />
    37.     [ CHAPTER VII ](#link2HCH0014)
    38.   <br />
    39.     <br />
    40.   <br />
    41.     [  ](#link2H_PART3)
    42.   <br />
    43.     [ CHAPTER I ](#link2HCH0015)
    44.   <br />
    45.     [ CHAPTER II ](#link2HCH0016)
    46.   <br />
    47.     [ CHAPTER III ](#link2HCH0017)
    48.   <br />
    49.     [ CHAPTER IV ](#link2HCH0018)
    50.   <br />
    51.     [ CHAPTER V ](#link2HCH0019)
    52.   <br />
    53.     [ CHAPTER VI ](#link2HCH0020)
    54.   <br />
    55.     <br />
    56.   <br />
    57.     [  ](#link2H_PART4)
    58.   <br />
    59.     [ CHAPTER I ](#link2HCH0021)
    60.   <br />
    61.     [ CHAPTER II ](#link2HCH0022)
    62.   <br />
    63.     [ CHAPTER III ](#link2HCH0023)
    64.   <br />
    65.     [ CHAPTER IV ](#link2HCH0024)
    66.   <br />
    67.     [ CHAPTER V ](#link2HCH0025)
    68.   <br />
    69.     [ CHAPTER VI ](#link2HCH0026)
    70.   <br />
    71.     <br />
    72.   <br />
    73.     [  ](#link2H_PART5)
    74.   <br />
    75.     [ CHAPTER I ](#link2HCH0027)
    76.   <br />
    77.     [ CHAPTER II ](#link2HCH0028)
    78.   <br />
    79.     [ CHAPTER III ](#link2HCH0029)
    80.   <br />
    81.     [ CHAPTER IV ](#link2HCH0030)
    82.   <br />
    83.     [ CHAPTER V ](#link2HCH0031)
    84.   <br />
    85.     <br />
    86.   <br />
    87.     [  ](#link2H_PART6)
    88.   <br />
    89.     [ CHAPTER I ](#link2HCH0032)
    90.   <br />
    91.     [ CHAPTER II ](#link2HCH0033)
    92.   <br />
    93.     [ CHAPTER III ](#link2HCH0034)
    94.   <br />
    95.     [ CHAPTER IV ](#link2HCH0035)
    96.   <br />
    97.     [ CHAPTER V ](#link2HCH0036)
    98.   <br />
    99.     [ CHAPTER VI ](#link2HCH0037)
    100.   <br />
    101.     [ CHAPTER VII ](#link2HCH0038)
    102.   <br />
    103.     [ CHAPTER VIII ](#link2HCH0039)
    104.   <br />

    EPILOGUE 

    1.   TRANSLATOR&rsquo;S PREFACE
    4.   A few words about Dostoevsky himself may help the English reader to
    5.   understand his work.
    6. <br />
    7.   Dostoevsky was the son of a doctor. His parents were very hard-working and
    8.   deeply religious people, but so poor that they lived with their five
    9.   children in only two rooms. The father and mother spent their evenings in
    10.   reading aloud to their children, generally from books of a serious
    11.   character.
    12. <br />
    13.   Though always sickly and delicate Dostoevsky came out third in the final
    14.   examination of the Petersburg school of Engineering. There he had already
    15.   begun his first work, &ldquo;Poor Folk.&rdquo;
    16.  <br />
    17.   This story was published by the poet Nekrassov in his review and was
    18.   received with acclamations. The shy, unknown youth found himself instantly
    19.   something of a celebrity. A brilliant and successful career seemed to open
    20.   before him, but those hopes were soon dashed. In 1849 he was arrested.
    21. <br />
    22.   Though neither by temperament nor conviction a revolutionist, Dostoevsky
    23.   was one of a little group of young men who met together to read Fourier
    24.   and Proudhon. He was accused of &ldquo;taking part in conversations against the
    25.   censorship, of reading a letter from Byelinsky to Gogol, and of knowing of
    26.   the intention to set up a printing press.&rdquo; Under Nicholas I. (that &ldquo;stern
    27.   and just man,&rdquo; as Maurice Baring calls him) this was enough, and he was
    28.   condemned to death. After eight months&rsquo; imprisonment he was with
    29.   twenty-one others taken out to the Semyonovsky Square to be shot. Writing
    30.   to his brother Mihail, Dostoevsky says: &ldquo;They snapped words over our
    31.   heads, and they made us put on the white shirts worn by persons condemned
    32.   to death. Thereupon we were bound in threes to stakes, to suffer
    33.   execution. Being the third in the row, I concluded I had only a few
    34.   minutes of life before me. I thought of you and your dear ones and I
    35.   contrived to kiss Plestcheiev and Dourov, who were next to me, and to bid
    36.   them farewell. Suddenly the troops beat a tattoo, we were unbound, brought
    37.   back upon the scaffold, and informed that his Majesty had spared us our
    38.   lives.&rdquo; The sentence was commuted to hard labour.
    39. <br />
    40.   One of the prisoners, Grigoryev, went mad as soon as he was untied, and
    41.   never regained his sanity.
    42. <br />
    43.   The intense suffering of this experience left a lasting stamp on
    44.   Dostoevsky&rsquo;s mind. Though his religious temper led him in the end to
    45.   accept every suffering with resignation and to regard it as a blessing in
    46.   his own case, he constantly recurs to the subject in his writings. He
    47.   describes the awful agony of the condemned man and insists on the cruelty
    48.   of inflicting such torture. Then followed four years of penal servitude,
    49.   spent in the company of common criminals in Siberia, where he began the
    50.   &ldquo;Dead House,&rdquo; and some years of service in a disciplinary battalion.
    51. <br />
    52.   He had shown signs of some obscure nervous disease before his arrest and
    53.   this now developed into violent attacks of epilepsy, from which he
    54.   suffered for the rest of his life. The fits occurred three or four times a
    55.   year and were more frequent in periods of great strain. In 1859 he was
    56.   allowed to return to Russia. He started a journal&mdash;&ldquo;Vremya,&rdquo; which
    57.   was forbidden by the Censorship through a misunderstanding. In 1864 he
    58.   lost his first wife and his brother Mihail. He was in terrible poverty,
    59.   yet he took upon himself the payment of his brother&rsquo;s debts. He started
    60.   another journal&mdash;&ldquo;The Epoch,&rdquo; which within a few months was also
    61.   prohibited. He was weighed down by debt, his brother&rsquo;s family was
    62.   dependent on him, he was forced to write at heart-breaking speed, and is
    63.   said never to have corrected his work. The later years of his life were
    64.   much softened by the tenderness and devotion of his second wife.
    65. <br />
    66.   In June 1880 he made his famous speech at the unveiling of the monument to
    67.   Pushkin in Moscow and he was received with extraordinary demonstrations of
    68.   love and honour.
    69. <br />
    70.   A few months later Dostoevsky died. He was followed to the grave by a vast
    71.   multitude of mourners, who &ldquo;gave the hapless man the funeral of a king.&rdquo;
    72.    He is still probably the most widely read writer in Russia.
    73. <br />
    74.   In the words of a Russian critic, who seeks to explain the feeling
    75.   inspired by Dostoevsky: &ldquo;He was one of ourselves, a man of our blood and
    76.   our bone, but one who has suffered and has seen so much more deeply than
    77.   we have his insight impresses us as wisdom... that wisdom of the heart
    78.   which we seek that we may learn from it how to live. All his other gifts
    79.   came to him from nature, this he won for himself and through it he became
    80.   great.&rdquo;

    1.   CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

    1.   PART I

    1.   CHAPTER I
    4.   On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the
    5.   garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in
    6.   hesitation, towards K. bridge.
    7. <br />
    8.   He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His
    9.   garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more like
    10.   a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with garret,
    11.   dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time he went
    12.   out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which invariably stood
    13.   open. And each time he passed, the young man had a sick, frightened
    14.   feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt
    15.   to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.
    16. <br />
    17.   This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but
    18.   for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable condition,
    19.   verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in himself,
    20.   and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his
    21.   landlady, but anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties
    22.   of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had given up
    23.   attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do
    24.   so. Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror for him. But to
    25.   be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial,
    26.   irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and
    27.   complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie&mdash;no,
    28.   rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out
    29.   unseen.
    30. <br />
    31.   This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely
    32.   aware of his fears.
    33. <br />
    34.   &ldquo;I want to attempt a thing  and am frightened by these
    35.   trifles,&rdquo; he thought, with an odd smile. &ldquo;Hm... yes, all is in a man&rsquo;s
    36.   hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that&rsquo;s an axiom. It would be
    37.   interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step,
    38.   uttering a new word is what they fear most.... But I am talking too much.
    39.   It&rsquo;s because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter
    40.   because I do nothing. I&rsquo;ve learned to chatter this last month, lying for
    41.   days together in my den thinking... of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I
    42.   going there now? Am I capable of ? Is  serious? It
    43.   is not serious at all. It&rsquo;s simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything!
    44.   Yes, maybe it is a plaything.&rdquo;
    45.  <br />
    46.   The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle and
    47.   the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that special
    48.   Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in
    49.   summer&mdash;all worked painfully upon the young man&rsquo;s already overwrought
    50.   nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot-houses, which are
    51.   particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men whom
    52.   he met continually, although it was a working day, completed the revolting
    53.   misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed
    54.   for a moment in the young man&rsquo;s refined face. He was, by the way,
    55.   exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, well-built,
    56.   with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank into deep
    57.   thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he
    58.   walked along not observing what was about him and not caring to observe
    59.   it. From time to time, he would mutter something, from the habit of
    60.   talking to himself, to which he had just confessed. At these moments he
    61.   would become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a tangle and that
    62.   he was very weak; for two days he had scarcely tasted food.
    63. <br />
    64.   He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would
    65.   have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that quarter
    66.   of the town, however, scarcely any shortcoming in dress would have created
    67.   surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number of
    68.   establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the trading and
    69.   working class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the heart
    70.   of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in the streets that no
    71.   figure, however queer, would have caused surprise. But there was such
    72.   accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young man&rsquo;s heart, that, in
    73.   spite of all the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least of all
    74.   in the street. It was a different matter when he met with acquaintances or
    75.   with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any
    76.   time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was being
    77.   taken somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly
    78.   shouted at him as he drove past: &ldquo;Hey there, German hatter&rdquo; bawling at the
    79.   top of his voice and pointing at him&mdash;the young man stopped suddenly
    80.   and clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall round hat from
    81.   Zimmerman&rsquo;s, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and
    82.   bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not
    83.   shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken
    84.   him.
    85. <br />
    86.   &ldquo;I knew it,&rdquo; he muttered in confusion, &ldquo;I thought so! That&rsquo;s the worst of
    87.   all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might spoil
    88.   the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable.... It looks absurd and that
    89.   makes it noticeable.... With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any sort of
    90.   old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears such a hat, it
    91.   would be noticed a mile off, it would be remembered.... What matters is
    92.   that people would remember it, and that would give them a clue. For this
    93.   business one should be as little conspicuous as possible.... Trifles,
    94.   trifles are what matter! Why, it&rsquo;s just such trifles that always ruin
    95.   everything....&rdquo;
    96.  <br />
    97.   He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate
    98.   of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted
    99.   them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith
    100.   in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their hideous but
    101.   daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had begun to look upon them
    102.   differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which he jeered at his own
    103.   impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard this
    104.   &ldquo;hideous&rdquo; dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he still did not
    105.   realise this himself. He was positively going now for a &ldquo;rehearsal&rdquo; of his
    106.   project, and at every step his excitement grew more and more violent.
    107. <br />
    108.   With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house
    109.   which on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the
    110.   street. This house was let out in tiny tenements and was inhabited by
    111.   working people of all kinds&mdash;tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of
    112.   sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, etc.
    113.   There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and in the
    114.   two courtyards of the house. Three or four door-keepers were employed on
    115.   the building. The young man was very glad to meet none of them, and at
    116.   once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the
    117.   staircase. It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was familiar
    118.   with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these surroundings: in
    119.   such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded.
    120. <br />
    121.   &ldquo;If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that I
    122.   were really going to do it?&rdquo; he could not help asking himself as he
    123.   reached the fourth storey. There his progress was barred by some porters
    124.   who were engaged in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that the flat
    125.   had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service, and his family.
    126.   This German was moving out then, and so the fourth floor on this staircase
    127.   would be untenanted except by the old woman. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a good thing anyway,&rdquo;
    128.    he thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman&rsquo;s flat. The
    129.   bell gave a faint tinkle as though it were made of tin and not of copper.
    130.   The little flats in such houses always have bells that ring like that. He
    131.   had forgotten the note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to
    132.   remind him of something and to bring it clearly before him.... He started,
    133.   his nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the door
    134.   was opened a tiny crack: the old woman eyed her visitor with evident
    135.   distrust through the crack, and nothing could be seen but her little eyes,
    136.   glittering in the darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the landing,
    137.   she grew bolder, and opened the door wide. The young man stepped into the
    138.   dark entry, which was partitioned off from the tiny kitchen. The old woman
    139.   stood facing him in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a
    140.   diminutive, withered up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and
    141.   a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly
    142.   smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long
    143.   neck, which looked like a hen&rsquo;s leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag,
    144.   and, in spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy
    145.   fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every
    146.   instant. The young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar
    147.   expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.
    148. <br />
    149.   &ldquo;Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago,&rdquo; the young man made
    150.   haste to mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be more
    151.   polite.
    152. <br />
    153.   &ldquo;I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here,&rdquo; the old
    154.   woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face.
    155. <br />
    156.   &ldquo;And here... I am again on the same errand,&rdquo; Raskolnikov continued, a
    157.   little disconcerted and surprised at the old woman&rsquo;s mistrust. &ldquo;Perhaps
    158.   she is always like that though, only I did not notice it the other time,&rdquo;
    159.    he thought with an uneasy feeling.
    160. <br />
    161.   The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one side, and
    162.   pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor pass in
    163.   front of her:
    164. <br />
    165.   &ldquo;Step in, my good sir.&rdquo;
    166.  <br />
    167.   The little room into which the young man walked, with yellow paper on the
    168.   walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly lighted
    169.   up at that moment by the setting sun.
    170. <br />
    171.   &ldquo;So the sun will shine like this  too!&rdquo; flashed as it were by
    172.   chance through Raskolnikov&rsquo;s mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned
    173.   everything in the room, trying as far as possible to notice and remember
    174.   its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the room. The furniture,
    175.   all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a huge bent
    176.   wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a dressing-table with a
    177.   looking-glass fixed on it between the windows, chairs along the walls and
    178.   two or three half-penny prints in yellow frames, representing German
    179.   damsels with birds in their hands&mdash;that was all. In the corner a
    180.   light was burning before a small ikon. Everything was very clean; the
    181.   floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything shone.
    182. <br />
    183.   &ldquo;Lizaveta&rsquo;s work,&rdquo; thought the young man. There was not a speck of dust to
    184.   be seen in the whole flat.
    185. <br />
    186.   &ldquo;It&rsquo;s in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds such
    187.   cleanliness,&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a curious glance at
    188.   the cotton curtain over the door leading into another tiny room, in which
    189.   stood the old woman&rsquo;s bed and chest of drawers and into which he had never
    190.   looked before. These two rooms made up the whole flat.
    191. <br />
    192.   &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; the old woman said severely, coming into the room and,
    193.   as before, standing in front of him so as to look him straight in the
    194.   face.
    195. <br />
    196.   &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve brought something to pawn here,&rdquo; and he drew out of his pocket an
    197.   old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back of which was engraved a
    198.   globe; the chain was of steel.
    199. <br />
    200.   &ldquo;But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day before
    201.   yesterday.&rdquo;
    202.  <br />
    203.   &ldquo;I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little.&rdquo;
    204.  <br />
    205.   &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait or to sell your
    206.   pledge at once.&rdquo;
    207.  <br />
    208.   &ldquo;How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?&rdquo;
    209.  <br />
    210.   &ldquo;You come with such trifles, my good sir, it&rsquo;s scarcely worth anything. I
    211.   gave you two roubles last time for your ring and one could buy it quite
    212.   new at a jeweler&rsquo;s for a rouble and a half.&rdquo;
    213.  <br />
    214.   &ldquo;Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my father&rsquo;s. I
    215.   shall be getting some money soon.&rdquo;
    216.  <br />
    217.   &ldquo;A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!&rdquo;
    218.  <br />
    219.   &ldquo;A rouble and a half!&rdquo; cried the young man.
    220. <br />
    221.   &ldquo;Please yourself&rdquo;&mdash;and the old woman handed him back the watch. The
    222.   young man took it, and was so angry that he was on the point of going
    223.   away; but checked himself at once, remembering that there was nowhere else
    224.   he could go, and that he had had another object also in coming.
    225. <br />
    226.   &ldquo;Hand it over,&rdquo; he said roughly.
    227. <br />
    228.   The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared behind
    229.   the curtain into the other room. The young man, left standing alone in the
    230.   middle of the room, listened inquisitively, thinking. He could hear her
    231.   unlocking the chest of drawers.
    232. <br />
    233.   &ldquo;It must be the top drawer,&rdquo; he reflected. &ldquo;So she carries the keys in a
    234.   pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a steel ring.... And there&rsquo;s one
    235.   key there, three times as big as all the others, with deep notches; that
    236.   can&rsquo;t be the key of the chest of drawers... then there must be some other
    237.   chest or strong-box... that&rsquo;s worth knowing. Strong-boxes always have keys
    238.   like that... but how degrading it all is.&rdquo;
    239.  <br />
    240.   The old woman came back.
    241. <br />
    242.   &ldquo;Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so I must take
    243.   fifteen copecks from a rouble and a half for the month in advance. But for
    244.   the two roubles I lent you before, you owe me now twenty copecks on the
    245.   same reckoning in advance. That makes thirty-five copecks altogether. So I
    246.   must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the watch. Here it is.&rdquo;
    247.  <br />
    248.   &ldquo;What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!&rdquo;
    249.  <br />
    250.   &ldquo;Just so.&rdquo;
    251.  <br />
    252.   The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at the old
    253.   woman, and was in no hurry to get away, as though there was still
    254.   something he wanted to say or to do, but he did not himself quite know
    255.   what.
    256. <br />
    257.   &ldquo;I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna&mdash;a
    258.   valuable thing&mdash;silver&mdash;a cigarette-box, as soon as I get it
    259.   back from a friend...&rdquo; he broke off in confusion.
    260. <br />
    261.   &ldquo;Well, we will talk about it then, sir.&rdquo;
    262.  <br />
    263.   &ldquo;Good-bye&mdash;are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with
    264.   you?&rdquo; He asked her as casually as possible as he went out into the
    265.   passage.
    266. <br />
    267.   &ldquo;What business is she of yours, my good sir?&rdquo;
    268.  <br />
    269.   &ldquo;Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick.... Good-day,
    270.   Alyona Ivanovna.&rdquo;
    271.  <br />
    272.   Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became more and
    273.   more intense. As he went down the stairs, he even stopped short, two or
    274.   three times, as though suddenly struck by some thought. When he was in the
    275.   street he cried out, &ldquo;Oh, God, how loathsome it all is! and can I, can I
    276.   possibly.... No, it&rsquo;s nonsense, it&rsquo;s rubbish!&rdquo; he added resolutely. &ldquo;And
    277.   how could such an atrocious thing come into my head? What filthy things my
    278.   heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loathsome,
    279.   loathsome!&mdash;and for a whole month I&rsquo;ve been....&rdquo; But no words, no
    280.   exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling of intense
    281.   repulsion, which had begun to oppress and torture his heart while he was
    282.   on his way to the old woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken
    283.   such a definite form that he did not know what to do with himself to
    284.   escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the pavement like a drunken
    285.   man, regardless of the passers-by, and jostling against them, and only
    286.   came to his senses when he was in the next street. Looking round, he
    287.   noticed that he was standing close to a tavern which was entered by steps
    288.   leading from the pavement to the basement. At that instant two drunken men
    289.   came out at the door, and abusing and supporting one another, they mounted
    290.   the steps. Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at
    291.   once. Till that moment he had never been into a tavern, but now he felt
    292.   giddy and was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold
    293.   beer, and attributed his sudden weakness to the want of food. He sat down
    294.   at a sticky little table in a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer,
    295.   and eagerly drank off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his
    296.   thoughts became clear.
    297. <br />
    298.   &ldquo;All that&rsquo;s nonsense,&rdquo; he said hopefully, &ldquo;and there is nothing in it all
    299.   to worry about! It&rsquo;s simply physical derangement. Just a glass of beer, a
    300.   piece of dry bread&mdash;and in one moment the brain is stronger, the mind
    301.   is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!&rdquo;
    302.  <br />
    303.   But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful
    304.   as though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed
    305.   round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But even at that moment
    306.   he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also not
    307.   normal.
    308. <br />
    309.   There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two drunken
    310.   men he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about five men and a
    311.   girl with a concertina had gone out at the same time. Their departure left
    312.   the room quiet and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern were a
    313.   man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not extremely so, sitting
    314.   before a pot of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man with a grey
    315.   beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very drunk: and had dropped
    316.   asleep on the bench; every now and then, he began as though in his sleep,
    317.   cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper part of his
    318.   body bounding about on the bench, while he hummed some meaningless
    319.   refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these:
    320. <br />
    321.     &ldquo;His wife a year he fondly loved<br />
    322.     His wife a&mdash;a year he&mdash;fondly loved.&rdquo;
    323.    <br />
    324.   Or suddenly waking up again:
    325. <br />
    326.     &ldquo;Walking along the crowded row<br />
    327.     He met the one he used to know.&rdquo;
    328.    <br />
    329.   But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with positive
    330.   hostility and mistrust at all these manifestations. There was another man
    331.   in the room who looked somewhat like a retired government clerk. He was
    332.   sitting apart, now and then sipping from his pot and looking round at the
    333.   company. He, too, appeared to be in some agitation.

    1.   CHAPTER II
    4.   Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided
    5.   society of every sort, more especially of late. But now all at once he
    6.   felt a desire to be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking
    7.   place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for company. He was
    8.   so weary after a whole month of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy
    9.   excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other
    10.   world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the
    11.   surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern.
    12. <br />
    13.   The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently
    14.   came down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with red
    15.   turn-over tops coming into view each time before the rest of his person.
    16.   He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no
    17.   cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an iron lock. At
    18.   the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was another boy
    19.   somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the counter lay some
    20.   sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and some fish, chopped
    21.   up small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close, and so heavy
    22.   with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such an atmosphere might
    23.   well make a man drunk.
    24. <br />
    25.   There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first
    26.   moment, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on
    27.   Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked
    28.   like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this impression
    29.   afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked repeatedly at
    30.   the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring persistently at
    31.   him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At the other persons in
    32.   the room, including the tavern-keeper, the clerk looked as though he were
    33.   used to their company, and weary of it, showing a shade of condescending
    34.   contempt for them as persons of station and culture inferior to his own,
    35.   with whom it would be useless for him to converse. He was a man over
    36.   fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height, and stoutly built. His face,
    37.   bloated from continual drinking, was of a yellow, even greenish, tinge,
    38.   with swollen eyelids out of which keen reddish eyes gleamed like little
    39.   chinks. But there was something very strange in him; there was a light in
    40.   his eyes as though of intense feeling&mdash;perhaps there were even
    41.   thought and intelligence, but at the same time there was a gleam of
    42.   something like madness. He was wearing an old and hopelessly ragged black
    43.   dress coat, with all its buttons missing except one, and that one he had
    44.   buttoned, evidently clinging to this last trace of respectability. A
    45.   crumpled shirt front, covered with spots and stains, protruded from his
    46.   canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor moustache, but had
    47.   been so long unshaven that his chin looked like a stiff greyish brush. And
    48.   there was something respectable and like an official about his manner too.
    49.   But he was restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his
    50.   head drop into his hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the
    51.   stained and sticky table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and
    52.   said loudly and resolutely:
    53. <br />
    54.   &ldquo;May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation?
    55.   Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not command respect, my
    56.   experience admonishes me that you are a man of education and not
    57.   accustomed to drinking. I have always respected education when in
    58.   conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular counsellor
    59.   in rank. Marmeladov&mdash;such is my name; titular counsellor. I make bold
    60.   to inquire&mdash;have you been in the service?&rdquo;
    61.  <br />
    62.   &ldquo;No, I am studying,&rdquo; answered the young man, somewhat surprised at the
    63.   grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at being so directly
    64.   addressed. In spite of the momentary desire he had just been feeling for
    65.   company of any sort, on being actually spoken to he felt immediately his
    66.   habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached or
    67.   attempted to approach him.
    68. <br />
    69.   &ldquo;A student then, or formerly a student,&rdquo; cried the clerk. &ldquo;Just what I
    70.   thought! I&rsquo;m a man of experience, immense experience, sir,&rdquo; and he tapped
    71.   his forehead with his fingers in self-approval. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been a student or
    72.   have attended some learned institution!... But allow me....&rdquo; He got up,
    73.   staggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down beside the young man,
    74.   facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke fluently and boldly,
    75.   only occasionally losing the thread of his sentences and drawling his
    76.   words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too had not
    77.   spoken to a soul for a month.
    78. <br />
    79.   &ldquo;Honoured sir,&rdquo; he began almost with solemnity, &ldquo;poverty is not a vice,
    80.   that&rsquo;s a true saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue, and
    81.   that that&rsquo;s even truer. But beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a vice. In
    82.   poverty you may still retain your innate nobility of soul, but in beggary&mdash;never&mdash;no
    83.   one. For beggary a man is not chased out of human society with a stick, he
    84.   is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as humiliating as possible;
    85.   and quite right, too, forasmuch as in beggary I am ready to be the first
    86.   to humiliate myself. Hence the pot-house! Honoured sir, a month ago Mr.
    87.   Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and my wife is a very different
    88.   matter from me! Do you understand? Allow me to ask you another question
    89.   out of simple curiosity: have you ever spent a night on a hay barge, on
    90.   the Neva?&rdquo;
    91.  <br />
    92.   &ldquo;No, I have not happened to,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
    93.  <br />
    94.   &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ve just come from one and it&rsquo;s the fifth night I&rsquo;ve slept so....&rdquo;
    95.    He filled his glass, emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in fact
    96.   clinging to his clothes and sticking to his hair. It seemed quite probable
    97.   that he had not undressed or washed for the last five days. His hands,
    98.   particularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black nails.
    99. <br />
    100.   His conversation seemed to excite a general though languid interest. The
    101.   boys at the counter fell to sniggering. The innkeeper came down from the
    102.   upper room, apparently on purpose to listen to the &ldquo;funny fellow&rdquo; and sat
    103.   down at a little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity. Evidently
    104.   Marmeladov was a familiar figure here, and he had most likely acquired his
    105.   weakness for high-flown speeches from the habit of frequently entering
    106.   into conversation with strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit
    107.   develops into a necessity in some drunkards, and especially in those who
    108.   are looked after sharply and kept in order at home. Hence in the company
    109.   of other drinkers they try to justify themselves and even if possible
    110.   obtain consideration.
    111. <br />
    112.   &ldquo;Funny fellow!&rdquo; pronounced the innkeeper. &ldquo;And why don&rsquo;t you work, why
    113.   aren&rsquo;t you at your duty, if you are in the service?&rdquo;
    114.  <br />
    115.   &ldquo;Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir,&rdquo; Marmeladov went on, addressing
    116.   himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put that
    117.   question to him. &ldquo;Why am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache to think
    118.   what a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr. Lebeziatnikov beat my wife
    119.   with his own hands, and I lay drunk, didn&rsquo;t I suffer? Excuse me, young
    120.   man, has it ever happened to you... hm... well, to petition hopelessly for
    121.   a loan?&rdquo;
    122.  <br />
    123.   &ldquo;Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?&rdquo;
    124.  <br />
    125.   &ldquo;Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you will
    126.   get nothing by it. You know, for instance, beforehand with positive
    127.   certainty that this man, this most reputable and exemplary citizen, will
    128.   on no consideration give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he?
    129.   For he knows of course that I shan&rsquo;t pay it back. From compassion? But Mr.
    130.   Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas explained the other day that
    131.   compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that&rsquo;s what
    132.   is done now in England, where there is political economy. Why, I ask you,
    133.   should he give it to me? And yet though I know beforehand that he won&rsquo;t, I
    134.   set off to him and...&rdquo;
    135.  <br />
    136.   &ldquo;Why do you go?&rdquo; put in Raskolnikov.
    137. <br />
    138.   &ldquo;Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must
    139.   have somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must go
    140.   somewhere! When my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket, then
    141.   I had to go... (for my daughter has a yellow passport),&rdquo; he added in
    142.   parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness at the young man. &ldquo;No
    143.   matter, sir, no matter!&rdquo; he went on hurriedly and with apparent composure
    144.   when both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the innkeeper smiled&mdash;&ldquo;No
    145.   matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of their heads; for everyone
    146.   knows everything about it already, and all that is secret is made open.
    147.   And I accept it all, not with contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be
    148.   it! &lsquo;Behold the man!&rsquo; Excuse me, young man, can you.... No, to put it more
    149.   strongly and more distinctly; not  you but  you,
    150.   looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?&rdquo;
    151.  <br />
    152.   The young man did not answer a word.
    153. <br />
    154.   &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; the orator began again stolidly and with even increased dignity,
    155.   after waiting for the laughter in the room to subside. &ldquo;Well, so be it, I
    156.   am a pig, but she is a lady! I have the semblance of a beast, but Katerina
    157.   Ivanovna, my spouse, is a person of education and an officer&rsquo;s daughter.
    158.   Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel, but she is a woman of a noble heart,
    159.   full of sentiments, refined by education. And yet... oh, if only she felt
    160.   for me! Honoured sir, honoured sir, you know every man ought to have at
    161.   least one place where people feel for him! But Katerina Ivanovna, though
    162.   she is magnanimous, she is unjust.... And yet, although I realise that
    163.   when she pulls my hair she only does it out of pity&mdash;for I repeat
    164.   without being ashamed, she pulls my hair, young man,&rdquo; he declared with
    165.   redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering again&mdash;&ldquo;but, my God, if she
    166.   would but once.... But no, no! It&rsquo;s all in vain and it&rsquo;s no use talking!
    167.   No use talking! For more than once, my wish did come true and more than
    168.   once she has felt for me but... such is my fate and I am a beast by
    169.   nature!&rdquo;
    170.  <br />
    171.   &ldquo;Rather!&rdquo; assented the innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov struck his fist
    172.   resolutely on the table.
    173. <br />
    174.   &ldquo;Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you know, I have sold her very
    175.   stockings for drink? Not her shoes&mdash;that would be more or less in the
    176.   order of things, but her stockings, her stockings I have sold for drink!
    177.   Her mohair shawl I sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her own
    178.   property, not mine; and we live in a cold room and she caught cold this
    179.   winter and has begun coughing and spitting blood too. We have three little
    180.   children and Katerina Ivanovna is at work from morning till night; she is
    181.   scrubbing and cleaning and washing the children, for she&rsquo;s been used to
    182.   cleanliness from a child. But her chest is weak and she has a tendency to
    183.   consumption and I feel it! Do you suppose I don&rsquo;t feel it? And the more I
    184.   drink the more I feel it. That&rsquo;s why I drink too. I try to find sympathy
    185.   and feeling in drink.... I drink so that I may suffer twice as much!&rdquo; And
    186.   as though in despair he laid his head down on the table.
    187. <br />
    188.   &ldquo;Young man,&rdquo; he went on, raising his head again, &ldquo;in your face I seem to
    189.   read some trouble of mind. When you came in I read it, and that was why I
    190.   addressed you at once. For in unfolding to you the story of my life, I do
    191.   not wish to make myself a laughing-stock before these idle listeners, who
    192.   indeed know all about it already, but I am looking for a man of feeling
    193.   and education. Know then that my wife was educated in a high-class school
    194.   for the daughters of noblemen, and on leaving she danced the shawl dance
    195.   before the governor and other personages for which she was presented with
    196.   a gold medal and a certificate of merit. The medal... well, the medal of
    197.   course was sold&mdash;long ago, hm... but the certificate of merit is in
    198.   her trunk still and not long ago she showed it to our landlady. And
    199.   although she is most continually on bad terms with the landlady, yet she
    200.   wanted to tell someone or other of her past honours and of the happy days
    201.   that are gone. I don&rsquo;t condemn her for it, I don&rsquo;t blame her, for the one
    202.   thing left her is recollection of the past, and all the rest is dust and
    203.   ashes. Yes, yes, she is a lady of spirit, proud and determined. She scrubs
    204.   the floors herself and has nothing but black bread to eat, but won&rsquo;t allow
    205.   herself to be treated with disrespect. That&rsquo;s why she would not overlook
    206.   Mr. Lebeziatnikov&rsquo;s rudeness to her, and so when he gave her a beating for
    207.   it, she took to her bed more from the hurt to her feelings than from the
    208.   blows. She was a widow when I married her, with three children, one
    209.   smaller than the other. She married her first husband, an infantry
    210.   officer, for love, and ran away with him from her father&rsquo;s house. She was
    211.   exceedingly fond of her husband; but he gave way to cards, got into
    212.   trouble and with that he died. He used to beat her at the end: and
    213.   although she paid him back, of which I have authentic documentary
    214.   evidence, to this day she speaks of him with tears and she throws him up
    215.   to me; and I am glad, I am glad that, though only in imagination, she
    216.   should think of herself as having once been happy.... And she was left at
    217.   his death with three children in a wild and remote district where I
    218.   happened to be at the time; and she was left in such hopeless poverty
    219.   that, although I have seen many ups and downs of all sort, I don&rsquo;t feel
    220.   equal to describing it even. Her relations had all thrown her off. And she
    221.   was proud, too, excessively proud.... And then, honoured sir, and then, I,
    222.   being at the time a widower, with a daughter of fourteen left me by my
    223.   first wife, offered her my hand, for I could not bear the sight of such
    224.   suffering. You can judge the extremity of her calamities, that she, a
    225.   woman of education and culture and distinguished family, should have
    226.   consented to be my wife. But she did! Weeping and sobbing and wringing her
    227.   hands, she married me! For she had nowhere to turn! Do you understand,
    228.   sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to
    229.   turn? No, that you don&rsquo;t understand yet.... And for a whole year, I
    230.   performed my duties conscientiously and faithfully, and did not touch
    231.   this&rdquo; (he tapped the jug with his finger), &ldquo;for I have feelings. But even
    232.   so, I could not please her; and then I lost my place too, and that through
    233.   no fault of mine but through changes in the office; and then I did touch
    234.   it!... It will be a year and a half ago soon since we found ourselves at
    235.   last after many wanderings and numerous calamities in this magnificent
    236.   capital, adorned with innumerable monuments. Here I obtained a
    237.   situation.... I obtained it and I lost it again. Do you understand? This
    238.   time it was through my own fault I lost it: for my weakness had come
    239.   out.... We have now part of a room at Amalia Fyodorovna Lippevechsel&rsquo;s;
    240.   and what we live upon and what we pay our rent with, I could not say.
    241.   There are a lot of people living there besides ourselves. Dirt and
    242.   disorder, a perfect Bedlam... hm... yes... And meanwhile my daughter by my
    243.   first wife has grown up; and what my daughter has had to put up with from
    244.   her step-mother whilst she was growing up, I won&rsquo;t speak of. For, though
    245.   Katerina Ivanovna is full of generous feelings, she is a spirited lady,
    246.   irritable and short-tempered.... Yes. But it&rsquo;s no use going over that!
    247.   Sonia, as you may well fancy, has had no education. I did make an effort
    248.   four years ago to give her a course of geography and universal history,
    249.   but as I was not very well up in those subjects myself and we had no
    250.   suitable books, and what books we had... hm, anyway we have not even those
    251.   now, so all our instruction came to an end. We stopped at Cyrus of Persia.
    252.   Since she has attained years of maturity, she has read other books of
    253.   romantic tendency and of late she had read with great interest a book she
    254.   got through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, Lewes&rsquo; Physiology&mdash;do you know it?&mdash;and
    255.   even recounted extracts from it to us: and that&rsquo;s the whole of her
    256.   education. And now may I venture to address you, honoured sir, on my own
    257.   account with a private question. Do you suppose that a respectable poor
    258.   girl can earn much by honest work? Not fifteen farthings a day can she
    259.   earn, if she is respectable and has no special talent and that without
    260.   putting her work down for an instant! And what&rsquo;s more, Ivan Ivanitch
    261.   Klopstock the civil counsellor&mdash;have you heard of him?&mdash;has not
    262.   to this day paid her for the half-dozen linen shirts she made him and
    263.   drove her roughly away, stamping and reviling her, on the pretext that the
    264.   shirt collars were not made like the pattern and were put in askew. And
    265.   there are the little ones hungry.... And Katerina Ivanovna walking up and
    266.   down and wringing her hands, her cheeks flushed red, as they always are in
    267.   that disease: &lsquo;Here you live with us,&rsquo; says she, &lsquo;you eat and drink and
    268.   are kept warm and you do nothing to help.&rsquo; And much she gets to eat and
    269.   drink when there is not a crust for the little ones for three days! I was
    270.   lying at the time... well, what of it! I was lying drunk and I heard my
    271.   Sonia speaking (she is a gentle creature with a soft little voice... fair
    272.   hair and such a pale, thin little face). She said: &lsquo;Katerina Ivanovna, am
    273.   I really to do a thing like that?&rsquo; And Darya Frantsovna, a woman of evil
    274.   character and very well known to the police, had two or three times tried
    275.   to get at her through the landlady. &lsquo;And why not?&rsquo; said Katerina Ivanovna
    276.   with a jeer, &lsquo;you are something mighty precious to be so careful of!&rsquo; But
    277.   don&rsquo;t blame her, don&rsquo;t blame her, honoured sir, don&rsquo;t blame her! She was
    278.   not herself when she spoke, but driven to distraction by her illness and
    279.   the crying of the hungry children; and it was said more to wound her than
    280.   anything else.... For that&rsquo;s Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s character, and when
    281.   children cry, even from hunger, she falls to beating them at once. At six
    282.   o&rsquo;clock I saw Sonia get up, put on her kerchief and her cape, and go out
    283.   of the room and about nine o&rsquo;clock she came back. She walked straight up
    284.   to Katerina Ivanovna and she laid thirty roubles on the table before her
    285.   in silence. She did not utter a word, she did not even look at her, she
    286.   simply picked up our big green  shawl (we have a
    287.   shawl, made of ), put it over her head and face and
    288.   lay down on the bed with her face to the wall; only her little shoulders
    289.   and her body kept shuddering.... And I went on lying there, just as
    290.   before.... And then I saw, young man, I saw Katerina Ivanovna, in the same
    291.   silence go up to Sonia&rsquo;s little bed; she was on her knees all the evening
    292.   kissing Sonia&rsquo;s feet, and would not get up, and then they both fell asleep
    293.   in each other&rsquo;s arms... together, together... yes... and I... lay drunk.&rdquo;
    294.  <br />
    295.   Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice had failed him. Then he
    296.   hurriedly filled his glass, drank, and cleared his throat.
    297. <br />
    298.   &ldquo;Since then, sir,&rdquo; he went on after a brief pause&mdash;&ldquo;Since then, owing
    299.   to an unfortunate occurrence and through information given by
    300.   evil-intentioned persons&mdash;in all which Darya Frantsovna took a
    301.   leading part on the pretext that she had been treated with want of respect&mdash;since
    302.   then my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has been forced to take a yellow ticket,
    303.   and owing to that she is unable to go on living with us. For our landlady,
    304.   Amalia Fyodorovna would not hear of it (though she had backed up Darya
    305.   Frantsovna before) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too... hm.... All the trouble
    306.   between him and Katerina Ivanovna was on Sonia&rsquo;s account. At first he was
    307.   for making up to Sonia himself and then all of a sudden he stood on his
    308.   dignity: &lsquo;how,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;can a highly educated man like me live in the
    309.   same rooms with a girl like that?&rsquo; And Katerina Ivanovna would not let it
    310.   pass, she stood up for her... and so that&rsquo;s how it happened. And Sonia
    311.   comes to us now, mostly after dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and
    312.   gives her all she can.... She has a room at the Kapernaumovs&rsquo; the tailors,
    313.   she lodges with them; Kapernaumov is a lame man with a cleft palate and
    314.   all of his numerous family have cleft palates too. And his wife, too, has
    315.   a cleft palate. They all live in one room, but Sonia has her own,
    316.   partitioned off.... Hm... yes... very poor people and all with cleft
    317.   palates... yes. Then I got up in the morning, and put on my rags, lifted
    318.   up my hands to heaven and set off to his excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch. His
    319.   excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch, do you know him? No? Well, then, it&rsquo;s a man
    320.   of God you don&rsquo;t know. He is wax... wax before the face of the Lord; even
    321.   as wax melteth!... His eyes were dim when he heard my story. &lsquo;Marmeladov,
    322.   once already you have deceived my expectations... I&rsquo;ll take you once more
    323.   on my own responsibility&rsquo;&mdash;that&rsquo;s what he said, &lsquo;remember,&rsquo; he said,
    324.   &lsquo;and now you can go.&rsquo; I kissed the dust at his feet&mdash;in thought only,
    325.   for in reality he would not have allowed me to do it, being a statesman
    326.   and a man of modern political and enlightened ideas. I returned home, and
    327.   when I announced that I&rsquo;d been taken back into the service and should
    328.   receive a salary, heavens, what a to-do there was!...&rdquo;
    329.  <br />
    330.   Marmeladov stopped again in violent excitement. At that moment a whole
    331.   party of revellers already drunk came in from the street, and the sounds
    332.   of a hired concertina and the cracked piping voice of a child of seven
    333.   singing &ldquo;The Hamlet&rdquo; were heard in the entry. The room was filled with
    334.   noise. The tavern-keeper and the boys were busy with the new-comers.
    335.   Marmeladov paying no attention to the new arrivals continued his story. He
    336.   appeared by now to be extremely weak, but as he became more and more
    337.   drunk, he became more and more talkative. The recollection of his recent
    338.   success in getting the situation seemed to revive him, and was positively
    339.   reflected in a sort of radiance on his face. Raskolnikov listened
    340.   attentively.
    341. <br />
    342.   &ldquo;That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes.... As soon as Katerina Ivanovna and
    343.   Sonia heard of it, mercy on us, it was as though I stepped into the
    344.   kingdom of Heaven. It used to be: you can lie like a beast, nothing but
    345.   abuse. Now they were walking on tiptoe, hushing the children. &lsquo;Semyon
    346.   Zaharovitch is tired with his work at the office, he is resting, shh!&rsquo;
    347.   They made me coffee before I went to work and boiled cream for me! They
    348.   began to get real cream for me, do you hear that? And how they managed to
    349.   get together the money for a decent outfit&mdash;eleven roubles, fifty
    350.   copecks, I can&rsquo;t guess. Boots, cotton shirt-fronts&mdash;most magnificent,
    351.   a uniform, they got up all in splendid style, for eleven roubles and a
    352.   half. The first morning I came back from the office I found Katerina
    353.   Ivanovna had cooked two courses for dinner&mdash;soup and salt meat with
    354.   horse radish&mdash;which we had never dreamed of till then. She had not
    355.   any dresses... none at all, but she got herself up as though she were
    356.   going on a visit; and not that she&rsquo;d anything to do it with, she smartened
    357.   herself up with nothing at all, she&rsquo;d done her hair nicely, put on a clean
    358.   collar of some sort, cuffs, and there she was, quite a different person,
    359.   she was younger and better looking. Sonia, my little darling, had only
    360.   helped with money &lsquo;for the time,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;it won&rsquo;t do for me to come
    361.   and see you too often. After dark maybe when no one can see.&rsquo; Do you hear,
    362.   do you hear? I lay down for a nap after dinner and what do you think:
    363.   though Katerina Ivanovna had quarrelled to the last degree with our
    364.   landlady Amalia Fyodorovna only a week before, she could not resist then
    365.   asking her in to coffee. For two hours they were sitting, whispering
    366.   together. &lsquo;Semyon Zaharovitch is in the service again, now, and receiving
    367.   a salary,&rsquo; says she, &lsquo;and he went himself to his excellency and his
    368.   excellency himself came out to him, made all the others wait and led
    369.   Semyon Zaharovitch by the hand before everybody into his study.&rsquo; Do you
    370.   hear, do you hear? &lsquo;To be sure,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;Semyon Zaharovitch, remembering
    371.   your past services,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;and in spite of your propensity to that
    372.   foolish weakness, since you promise now and since moreover we&rsquo;ve got on
    373.   badly without you,&rsquo; (do you hear, do you hear;) &lsquo;and so,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;I rely
    374.   now on your word as a gentleman.&rsquo; And all that, let me tell you, she has
    375.   simply made up for herself, and not simply out of wantonness, for the sake
    376.   of bragging; no, she believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her
    377.   own fancies, upon my word she does! And I don&rsquo;t blame her for it, no, I
    378.   don&rsquo;t blame her!... Six days ago when I brought her my first earnings in
    379.   full&mdash;twenty-three roubles forty copecks altogether&mdash;she called
    380.   me her poppet: &lsquo;poppet,&rsquo; said she, &lsquo;my little poppet.&rsquo; And when we were by
    381.   ourselves, you understand? You would not think me a beauty, you would not
    382.   think much of me as a husband, would you?... Well, she pinched my cheek,
    383.   &lsquo;my little poppet,&rsquo; said she.&rdquo;
    384.  <br />
    385.   Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin began to
    386.   twitch. He controlled himself however. The tavern, the degraded appearance
    387.   of the man, the five nights in the hay barge, and the pot of spirits, and
    388.   yet this poignant love for his wife and children bewildered his listener.
    389.   Raskolnikov listened intently but with a sick sensation. He felt vexed
    390.   that he had come here.
    391. <br />
    392.   &ldquo;Honoured sir, honoured sir,&rdquo; cried Marmeladov recovering himself&mdash;&ldquo;Oh,
    393.   sir, perhaps all this seems a laughing matter to you, as it does to
    394.   others, and perhaps I am only worrying you with the stupidity of all the
    395.   trivial details of my home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me.
    396.   For I can feel it all.... And the whole of that heavenly day of my life
    397.   and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting dreams of how I would
    398.   arrange it all, and how I would dress all the children, and how I should
    399.   give her rest, and how I should rescue my own daughter from dishonour and
    400.   restore her to the bosom of her family.... And a great deal more.... Quite
    401.   excusable, sir. Well, then, sir&rdquo; (Marmeladov suddenly gave a sort of
    402.   start, raised his head and gazed intently at his listener) &ldquo;well, on the
    403.   very next day after all those dreams, that is to say, exactly five days
    404.   ago, in the evening, by a cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I
    405.   stole from Katerina Ivanovna the key of her box, took out what was left of
    406.   my earnings, how much it was I have forgotten, and now look at me, all of
    407.   you! It&rsquo;s the fifth day since I left home, and they are looking for me
    408.   there and it&rsquo;s the end of my employment, and my uniform is lying in a
    409.   tavern on the Egyptian bridge. I exchanged it for the garments I have
    410.   on... and it&rsquo;s the end of everything!&rdquo;
    411.  <br />
    412.   Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, closed
    413.   his eyes and leaned heavily with his elbow on the table. But a minute
    414.   later his face suddenly changed and with a certain assumed slyness and
    415.   affectation of bravado, he glanced at Raskolnikov, laughed and said:
    416. <br />
    417.   &ldquo;This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for a pick-me-up!
    418.   He-he-he!&rdquo;
    419.  <br />
    420.   &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say she gave it to you?&rdquo; cried one of the new-comers; he
    421.   shouted the words and went off into a guffaw.
    422. <br />
    423.   &ldquo;This very quart was bought with her money,&rdquo; Marmeladov declared,
    424.   addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Thirty copecks she gave me
    425.   with her own hands, her last, all she had, as I saw.... She said nothing,
    426.   she only looked at me without a word.... Not on earth, but up yonder...
    427.   they grieve over men, they weep, but they don&rsquo;t blame them, they don&rsquo;t
    428.   blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when they don&rsquo;t blame! Thirty
    429.   copecks yes! And maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you think, my dear
    430.   sir? For now she&rsquo;s got to keep up her appearance. It costs money, that
    431.   smartness, that special smartness, you know? Do you understand? And
    432.   there&rsquo;s pomatum, too, you see, she must have things; petticoats, starched
    433.   ones, shoes, too, real jaunty ones to show off her foot when she has to
    434.   step over a puddle. Do you understand, sir, do you understand what all
    435.   that smartness means? And here I, her own father, here I took thirty
    436.   copecks of that money for a drink! And I am drinking it! And I have
    437.   already drunk it! Come, who will have pity on a man like me, eh? Are you
    438.   sorry for me, sir, or not? Tell me, sir, are you sorry or not? He-he-he!&rdquo;
    439.  <br />
    440.   He would have filled his glass, but there was no drink left. The pot was
    441.   empty.
    442. <br />
    443.   &ldquo;What are you to be pitied for?&rdquo; shouted the tavern-keeper who was again
    444.   near them.
    445. <br />
    446.   Shouts of laughter and even oaths followed. The laughter and the oaths
    447.   came from those who were listening and also from those who had heard
    448.   nothing but were simply looking at the figure of the discharged government
    449.   clerk.
    450. <br />
    451.   &ldquo;To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?&rdquo; Marmeladov suddenly declaimed,
    452.   standing up with his arm outstretched, as though he had been only waiting
    453.   for that question.
    454. <br />
    455.   &ldquo;Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! there&rsquo;s nothing to pity me for! I
    456.   ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, oh
    457.   judge, crucify me but pity me! And then I will go of myself to be
    458.   crucified, for it&rsquo;s not merry-making I seek but tears and tribulation!...
    459.   Do you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of yours has been sweet to
    460.   me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and
    461.   tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity us
    462.   Who has had pity on all men, Who has understood all men and all things, He
    463.   is the One, He too is the judge. He will come in that day and He will ask:
    464.   &lsquo;Where is the daughter who gave herself for her cross, consumptive
    465.   step-mother and for the little children of another? Where is the daughter
    466.   who had pity upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father, undismayed by
    467.   his beastliness?&rsquo; And He will say, &lsquo;Come to me! I have already forgiven
    468.   thee once.... I have forgiven thee once.... Thy sins which are many are
    469.   forgiven thee for thou hast loved much....&rsquo; And he will forgive my Sonia,
    470.   He will forgive, I know it... I felt it in my heart when I was with her
    471.   just now! And He will judge and will forgive all, the good and the evil,
    472.   the wise and the meek.... And when He has done with all of them, then He
    473.   will summon us. &lsquo;You too come forth,&rsquo; He will say, &lsquo;Come forth ye
    474.   drunkards, come forth, ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!&rsquo;
    475.   And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand before him. And
    476.   He will say unto us, &lsquo;Ye are swine, made in the Image of the Beast and
    477.   with his mark; but come ye also!&rsquo; And the wise ones and those of
    478.   understanding will say, &lsquo;Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?&rsquo; And He
    479.   will say, &lsquo;This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is why I receive
    480.   them, oh ye of understanding, that not one of them believed himself to be
    481.   worthy of this.&rsquo; And He will hold out His hands to us and we shall fall
    482.   down before him... and we shall weep... and we shall understand all
    483.   things! Then we shall understand all!... and all will understand, Katerina
    484.   Ivanovna even... she will understand.... Lord, Thy kingdom come!&rdquo; And he
    485.   sank down on the bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no one,
    486.   apparently oblivious of his surroundings and plunged in deep thought. His
    487.   words had created a certain impression; there was a moment of silence; but
    488.   soon laughter and oaths were heard again.
    489. <br />
    490.   &ldquo;That&rsquo;s his notion!&rdquo;
    491.  <br />
    492.   &ldquo;Talked himself silly!&rdquo;
    493.  <br />
    494.   &ldquo;A fine clerk he is!&rdquo;
    495.  <br />
    496.   And so on, and so on.
    497. <br />
    498.   &ldquo;Let us go, sir,&rdquo; said Marmeladov all at once, raising his head and
    499.   addressing Raskolnikov&mdash;&ldquo;come along with me... Kozel&rsquo;s house, looking
    500.   into the yard. I&rsquo;m going to Katerina Ivanovna&mdash;time I did.&rdquo;
    501.  <br />
    502.   Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting to go and he had meant to help
    503.   him. Marmeladov was much unsteadier on his legs than in his speech and
    504.   leaned heavily on the young man. They had two or three hundred paces to
    505.   go. The drunken man was more and more overcome by dismay and confusion as
    506.   they drew nearer the house.
    507. <br />
    508.   &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now,&rdquo; he muttered in agitation&mdash;&ldquo;and
    509.   that she will begin pulling my hair. What does my hair matter! Bother my
    510.   hair! That&rsquo;s what I say! Indeed it will be better if she does begin
    511.   pulling it, that&rsquo;s not what I am afraid of... it&rsquo;s her eyes I am afraid
    512.   of... yes, her eyes... the red on her cheeks, too, frightens me... and her
    513.   breathing too.... Have you noticed how people in that disease breathe...
    514.   when they are excited? I am frightened of the children&rsquo;s crying, too....
    515.   For if Sonia has not taken them food... I don&rsquo;t know what&rsquo;s happened! I
    516.   don&rsquo;t know! But blows I am not afraid of.... Know, sir, that such blows
    517.   are not a pain to me, but even an enjoyment. In fact I can&rsquo;t get on
    518.   without it.... It&rsquo;s better so. Let her strike me, it relieves her heart...
    519.   it&rsquo;s better so... There is the house. The house of Kozel, the
    520.   cabinet-maker... a German, well-to-do. Lead the way!&rdquo;
    521.  <br />
    522.   They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The staircase got
    523.   darker and darker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o&rsquo;clock and
    524.   although in summer in Petersburg there is no real night, yet it was quite
    525.   dark at the top of the stairs.
    526. <br />
    527.   A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A very
    528.   poor-looking room about ten paces long was lighted up by a candle-end; the
    529.   whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was all in disorder,
    530.   littered up with rags of all sorts, especially children&rsquo;s garments. Across
    531.   the furthest corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Behind it probably was
    532.   the bed. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and a sofa
    533.   covered with American leather, full of holes, before which stood an old
    534.   deal kitchen-table, unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the table
    535.   stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an iron candlestick. It appeared that
    536.   the family had a room to themselves, not part of a room, but their room
    537.   was practically a passage. The door leading to the other rooms, or rather
    538.   cupboards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel&rsquo;s flat was divided stood half
    539.   open, and there was shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed to
    540.   be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words of the most unceremonious
    541.   kind flew out from time to time.
    542. <br />
    543.   Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather tall,
    544.   slim and graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent dark brown
    545.   hair and with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down in
    546.   her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips were
    547.   parched and her breathing came in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes glittered
    548.   as in fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And that
    549.   consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the
    550.   candle-end playing upon it made a sickening impression. She seemed to
    551.   Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for
    552.   Marmeladov.... She had not heard them and did not notice them coming in.
    553.   She seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and seeing nothing. The room was
    554.   close, but she had not opened the window; a stench rose from the
    555.   staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the inner
    556.   rooms clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not
    557.   close the door. The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep, sitting
    558.   curled up on the floor with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older stood
    559.   crying and shaking in the corner, probably he had just had a beating.
    560.   Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wearing a thin
    561.   and ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere pelisse flung over her bare
    562.   shoulders, long outgrown and barely reaching her knees. Her arm, as thin
    563.   as a stick, was round her brother&rsquo;s neck. She was trying to comfort him,
    564.   whispering something to him, and doing all she could to keep him from
    565.   whimpering again. At the same time her large dark eyes, which looked
    566.   larger still from the thinness of her frightened face, were watching her
    567.   mother with alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the door, but dropped on his
    568.   knees in the very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The woman
    569.   seeing a stranger stopped indifferently facing him, coming to herself for
    570.   a moment and apparently wondering what he had come for. But evidently she
    571.   decided that he was going into the next room, as he had to pass through
    572.   hers to get there. Taking no further notice of him, she walked towards the
    573.   outer door to close it and uttered a sudden scream on seeing her husband
    574.   on his knees in the doorway.
    575. <br />
    576.   &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; she cried out in a frenzy, &ldquo;he has come back! The criminal! the
    577.   monster!... And where is the money? What&rsquo;s in your pocket, show me! And
    578.   your clothes are all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the
    579.   money! Speak!&rdquo;
    580.  <br />
    581.   And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively and obediently held
    582.   up both arms to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there.
    583. <br />
    584.   &ldquo;Where is the money?&rdquo; she cried&mdash;&ldquo;Mercy on us, can he have drunk it
    585.   all? There were twelve silver roubles left in the chest!&rdquo; and in a fury
    586.   she seized him by the hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov
    587.   seconded her efforts by meekly crawling along on his knees.
    588. <br />
    589.   &ldquo;And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, but is a positive
    590.   con-so-la-tion, ho-nou-red sir,&rdquo; he called out, shaken to and fro by his
    591.   hair and even once striking the ground with his forehead. The child asleep
    592.   on the floor woke up, and began to cry. The boy in the corner losing all
    593.   control began trembling and screaming and rushed to his sister in violent
    594.   terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was shaking like a leaf.
    595. <br />
    596.   &ldquo;He&rsquo;s drunk it! he&rsquo;s drunk it all,&rdquo; the poor woman screamed in despair&mdash;&ldquo;and
    597.   his clothes are gone! And they are hungry, hungry!&rdquo;&mdash;and wringing her
    598.   hands she pointed to the children. &ldquo;Oh, accursed life! And you, are you
    599.   not ashamed?&rdquo;&mdash;she pounced all at once upon Raskolnikov&mdash;&ldquo;from
    600.   the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have been drinking with
    601.   him, too! Go away!&rdquo;
    602.  <br />
    603.   The young man was hastening away without uttering a word. The inner door
    604.   was thrown wide open and inquisitive faces were peering in at it. Coarse
    605.   laughing faces with pipes and cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust
    606.   themselves in at the doorway. Further in could be seen figures in dressing
    607.   gowns flung open, in costumes of unseemly scantiness, some of them with
    608.   cards in their hands. They were particularly diverted, when Marmeladov,
    609.   dragged about by his hair, shouted that it was a consolation to him. They
    610.   even began to come into the room; at last a sinister shrill outcry was
    611.   heard: this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself pushing her way amongst
    612.   them and trying to restore order after her own fashion and for the
    613.   hundredth time to frighten the poor woman by ordering her with coarse
    614.   abuse to clear out of the room next day. As he went out, Raskolnikov had
    615.   time to put his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the coppers he had
    616.   received in exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to lay them
    617.   unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on the stairs, he changed his mind and
    618.   would have gone back.
    619. <br />
    620.   &ldquo;What a stupid thing I&rsquo;ve done,&rdquo; he thought to himself, &ldquo;they have Sonia
    621.   and I want it myself.&rdquo; But reflecting that it would be impossible to take
    622.   it back now and that in any case he would not have taken it, he dismissed
    623.   it with a wave of his hand and went back to his lodging. &ldquo;Sonia wants
    624.   pomatum too,&rdquo; he said as he walked along the street, and he laughed
    625.   malignantly&mdash;&ldquo;such smartness costs money.... Hm! And maybe Sonia
    626.   herself will be bankrupt to-day, for there is always a risk, hunting big
    627.   game... digging for gold... then they would all be without a crust
    628.   to-morrow except for my money. Hurrah for Sonia! What a mine they&rsquo;ve dug
    629.   there! And they&rsquo;re making the most of it! Yes, they are making the most of
    630.   it! They&rsquo;ve wept over it and grown used to it. Man grows used to
    631.   everything, the scoundrel!&rdquo;
    632.  <br />
    633.   He sank into thought.
    634. <br />
    635.   &ldquo;And what if I am wrong,&rdquo; he cried suddenly after a moment&rsquo;s thought.
    636.   &ldquo;What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the whole
    637.   race of mankind&mdash;then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial
    638.   terrors and there are no barriers and it&rsquo;s all as it should be.&rdquo;

    1.   CHAPTER III
    4.   He waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But his sleep had not
    5.   refreshed him; he waked up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked
    6.   with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces
    7.   in length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty yellow
    8.   paper peeling off the walls, and it was so low-pitched that a man of more
    9.   than average height was ill at ease in it and felt every moment that he
    10.   would knock his head against the ceiling. The furniture was in keeping
    11.   with the room: there were three old chairs, rather rickety; a painted
    12.   table in the corner on which lay a few manuscripts and books; the dust
    13.   that lay thick upon them showed that they had been long untouched. A big
    14.   clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and half the floor space
    15.   of the room; it was once covered with chintz, but was now in rags and
    16.   served Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he was,
    17.   without undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his old student&rsquo;s overcoat,
    18.   with his head on one little pillow, under which he heaped up all the linen
    19.   he had, clean and dirty, by way of a bolster. A little table stood in
    20.   front of the sofa.
    21. <br />
    22.   It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of disorder, but to
    23.   Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this was positively agreeable. He
    24.   had got completely away from everyone, like a tortoise in its shell, and
    25.   even the sight of a servant girl who had to wait upon him and looked
    26.   sometimes into his room made him writhe with nervous irritation. He was in
    27.   the condition that overtakes some monomaniacs entirely concentrated upon
    28.   one thing. His landlady had for the last fortnight given up sending him in
    29.   meals, and he had not yet thought of expostulating with her, though he
    30.   went without his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only servant, was rather
    31.   pleased at the lodger&rsquo;s mood and had entirely given up sweeping and doing
    32.   his room, only once a week or so she would stray into his room with a
    33.   broom. She waked him up that day.
    34. <br />
    35.   &ldquo;Get up, why are you asleep?&rdquo; she called to him. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s past nine, I have
    36.   brought you some tea; will you have a cup? I should think you&rsquo;re fairly
    37.   starving?&rdquo;
    38.  <br />
    39.   Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognised Nastasya.
    40. <br />
    41.   &ldquo;From the landlady, eh?&rdquo; he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting
    42.   up on the sofa.
    43. <br />
    44.   &ldquo;From the landlady, indeed!&rdquo;
    45.  <br />
    46.   She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak and stale tea and
    47.   laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side of it.
    48. <br />
    49.   &ldquo;Here, Nastasya, take it please,&rdquo; he said, fumbling in his pocket (for he
    50.   had slept in his clothes) and taking out a handful of coppers&mdash;&ldquo;run
    51.   and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the
    52.   pork-butcher&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
    53.  <br />
    54.   &ldquo;The loaf I&rsquo;ll fetch you this very minute, but wouldn&rsquo;t you rather have
    55.   some cabbage soup instead of sausage? It&rsquo;s capital soup, yesterday&rsquo;s. I
    56.   saved it for you yesterday, but you came in late. It&rsquo;s fine soup.&rdquo;
    57.  <br />
    58.   When the soup had been brought, and he had begun upon it, Nastasya sat
    59.   down beside him on the sofa and began chatting. She was a country
    60.   peasant-woman and a very talkative one.
    61. <br />
    62.   &ldquo;Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police about you,&rdquo; she said.
    63. <br />
    64.   He scowled.
    65. <br />
    66.   &ldquo;To the police? What does she want?&rdquo;
    67.  <br />
    68.   &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t pay her money and you won&rsquo;t turn out of the room. That&rsquo;s what
    69.   she wants, to be sure.&rdquo;
    70.  <br />
    71.   &ldquo;The devil, that&rsquo;s the last straw,&rdquo; he muttered, grinding his teeth, &ldquo;no,
    72.   that would not suit me... just now. She is a fool,&rdquo; he added aloud. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
    73.   go and talk to her to-day.&rdquo;
    74.  <br />
    75.   &ldquo;Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if you are so clever,
    76.   do you lie here like a sack and have nothing to show for it? One time you
    77.   used to go out, you say, to teach children. But why is it you do nothing
    78.   now?&rdquo;
    79.  <br />
    80.   &ldquo;I am doing...&rdquo; Raskolnikov began sullenly and reluctantly.
    81. <br />
    82.   &ldquo;What are you doing?&rdquo;
    83.  <br />
    84.   &ldquo;Work...&rdquo;
    85.  <br />
    86.   &ldquo;What sort of work?&rdquo;
    87.  <br />
    88.   &ldquo;I am thinking,&rdquo; he answered seriously after a pause.
    89. <br />
    90.   Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter. She was given to laughter
    91.   and when anything amused her, she laughed inaudibly, quivering and shaking
    92.   all over till she felt ill.
    93. <br />
    94.   &ldquo;And have you made much money by your thinking?&rdquo; she managed to articulate
    95.   at last.
    96. <br />
    97.   &ldquo;One can&rsquo;t go out to give lessons without boots. And I&rsquo;m sick of it.&rdquo;
    98.  <br />
    99.   &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t quarrel with your bread and butter.&rdquo;
    100.  <br />
    101.   &ldquo;They pay so little for lessons. What&rsquo;s the use of a few coppers?&rdquo; he
    102.   answered, reluctantly, as though replying to his own thought.
    103. <br />
    104.   &ldquo;And you want to get a fortune all at once?&rdquo;
    105.  <br />
    106.   He looked at her strangely.
    107. <br />
    108.   &ldquo;Yes, I want a fortune,&rdquo; he answered firmly, after a brief pause.
    109. <br />
    110.   &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall I get you the loaf
    111.   or not?&rdquo;
    112.  <br />
    113.   &ldquo;As you please.&rdquo;
    114.  <br />
    115.   &ldquo;Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday when you were out.&rdquo;
    116.  <br />
    117.   &ldquo;A letter? for me! from whom?&rdquo;
    118.  <br />
    119.   &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say. I gave three copecks of my own to the postman for it. Will
    120.   you pay me back?&rdquo;
    121.  <br />
    122.   &ldquo;Then bring it to me, for God&rsquo;s sake, bring it,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov greatly
    123.   excited&mdash;&ldquo;good God!&rdquo;
    124.  <br />
    125.   A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it: from his mother,
    126.   from the province of R&mdash;&mdash;. He turned pale when he took it. It
    127.   was a long while since he had received a letter, but another feeling also
    128.   suddenly stabbed his heart.
    129. <br />
    130.   &ldquo;Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness&rsquo; sake; here are your three
    131.   copecks, but for goodness&rsquo; sake, make haste and go!&rdquo;
    132.  <br />
    133.   The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to open it in her
    134.   presence; he wanted to be left  with this letter. When
    135.   Nastasya had gone out, he lifted it quickly to his lips and kissed it;
    136.   then he gazed intently at the address, the small, sloping handwriting, so
    137.   dear and familiar, of the mother who had once taught him to read and
    138.   write. He delayed; he seemed almost afraid of something. At last he opened
    139.   it; it was a thick heavy letter, weighing over two ounces, two large
    140.   sheets of note paper were covered with very small handwriting.
    141. <br />
    142.   &ldquo;My dear Rodya,&rdquo; wrote his mother&mdash;&ldquo;it&rsquo;s two months since I last had
    143.   a talk with you by letter which has distressed me and even kept me awake
    144.   at night, thinking. But I am sure you will not blame me for my inevitable
    145.   silence. You know how I love you; you are all we have to look to, Dounia
    146.   and I, you are our all, our one hope, our one stay. What a grief it was to
    147.   me when I heard that you had given up the university some months ago, for
    148.   want of means to keep yourself and that you had lost your lessons and your
    149.   other work! How could I help you out of my hundred and twenty roubles a
    150.   year pension? The fifteen roubles I sent you four months ago I borrowed,
    151.   as you know, on security of my pension, from Vassily Ivanovitch Vahrushin
    152.   a merchant of this town. He is a kind-hearted man and was a friend of your
    153.   father&rsquo;s too. But having given him the right to receive the pension, I had
    154.   to wait till the debt was paid off and that is only just done, so that
    155.   I&rsquo;ve been unable to send you anything all this time. But now, thank God, I
    156.   believe I shall be able to send you something more and in fact we may
    157.   congratulate ourselves on our good fortune now, of which I hasten to
    158.   inform you. In the first place, would you have guessed, dear Rodya, that
    159.   your sister has been living with me for the last six weeks and we shall
    160.   not be separated in the future. Thank God, her sufferings are over, but I
    161.   will tell you everything in order, so that you may know just how
    162.   everything has happened and all that we have hitherto concealed from you.
    163.   When you wrote to me two months ago that you had heard that Dounia had a
    164.   great deal to put up with in the Svidrigaïlovs&rsquo; house, when you wrote
    165.   that and asked me to tell you all about it&mdash;what could I write in
    166.   answer to you? If I had written the whole truth to you, I dare say you
    167.   would have thrown up everything and have come to us, even if you had to
    168.   walk all the way, for I know your character and your feelings, and you
    169.   would not let your sister be insulted. I was in despair myself, but what
    170.   could I do? And, besides, I did not know the whole truth myself then. What
    171.   made it all so difficult was that Dounia received a hundred roubles in
    172.   advance when she took the place as governess in their family, on condition
    173.   of part of her salary being deducted every month, and so it was impossible
    174.   to throw up the situation without repaying the debt. This sum (now I can
    175.   explain it all to you, my precious Rodya) she took chiefly in order to
    176.   send you sixty roubles, which you needed so terribly then and which you
    177.   received from us last year. We deceived you then, writing that this money
    178.   came from Dounia&rsquo;s savings, but that was not so, and now I tell you all
    179.   about it, because, thank God, things have suddenly changed for the better,
    180.   and that you may know how Dounia loves you and what a heart she has. At
    181.   first indeed Mr. Svidrigaïlov treated her very rudely and used to make
    182.   disrespectful and jeering remarks at table.... But I don&rsquo;t want to go into
    183.   all those painful details, so as not to worry you for nothing when it is
    184.   now all over. In short, in spite of the kind and generous behaviour of
    185.   Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s wife, and all the rest of the
    186.   household, Dounia had a very hard time, especially when Mr. Svidrigaïlov,
    187.   relapsing into his old regimental habits, was under the influence of
    188.   Bacchus. And how do you think it was all explained later on? Would you
    189.   believe that the crazy fellow had conceived a passion for Dounia from the
    190.   beginning, but had concealed it under a show of rudeness and contempt.
    191.   Possibly he was ashamed and horrified himself at his own flighty hopes,
    192.   considering his years and his being the father of a family; and that made
    193.   him angry with Dounia. And possibly, too, he hoped by his rude and
    194.   sneering behaviour to hide the truth from others. But at last he lost all
    195.   control and had the face to make Dounia an open and shameful proposal,
    196.   promising her all sorts of inducements and offering, besides, to throw up
    197.   everything and take her to another estate of his, or even abroad. You can
    198.   imagine all she went through! To leave her situation at once was
    199.   impossible not only on account of the money debt, but also to spare the
    200.   feelings of Marfa Petrovna, whose suspicions would have been aroused: and
    201.   then Dounia would have been the cause of a rupture in the family. And it
    202.   would have meant a terrible scandal for Dounia too; that would have been
    203.   inevitable. There were various other reasons owing to which Dounia could
    204.   not hope to escape from that awful house for another six weeks. You know
    205.   Dounia, of course; you know how clever she is and what a strong will she
    206.   has. Dounia can endure a great deal and even in the most difficult cases
    207.   she has the fortitude to maintain her firmness. She did not even write to
    208.   me about everything for fear of upsetting me, although we were constantly
    209.   in communication. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna
    210.   accidentally overheard her husband imploring Dounia in the garden, and,
    211.   putting quite a wrong interpretation on the position, threw the blame upon
    212.   her, believing her to be the cause of it all. An awful scene took place
    213.   between them on the spot in the garden; Marfa Petrovna went so far as to
    214.   strike Dounia, refused to hear anything and was shouting at her for a
    215.   whole hour and then gave orders that Dounia should be packed off at once
    216.   to me in a plain peasant&rsquo;s cart, into which they flung all her things, her
    217.   linen and her clothes, all pell-mell, without folding it up and packing
    218.   it. And a heavy shower of rain came on, too, and Dounia, insulted and put
    219.   to shame, had to drive with a peasant in an open cart all the seventeen
    220.   versts into town. Only think now what answer could I have sent to the
    221.   letter I received from you two months ago and what could I have written? I
    222.   was in despair; I dared not write to you the truth because you would have
    223.   been very unhappy, mortified and indignant, and yet what could you do? You
    224.   could only perhaps ruin yourself, and, besides, Dounia would not allow it;
    225.   and fill up my letter with trifles when my heart was so full of sorrow, I
    226.   could not. For a whole month the town was full of gossip about this
    227.   scandal, and it came to such a pass that Dounia and I dared not even go to
    228.   church on account of the contemptuous looks, whispers, and even remarks
    229.   made aloud about us. All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody even bowed
    230.   to us in the street, and I learnt that some shopmen and clerks were
    231.   intending to insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates of our house
    232.   with pitch, so that the landlord began to tell us we must leave. All this
    233.   was set going by Marfa Petrovna who managed to slander Dounia and throw
    234.   dirt at her in every family. She knows everyone in the neighbourhood, and
    235.   that month she was continually coming into the town, and as she is rather
    236.   talkative and fond of gossiping about her family affairs and particularly
    237.   of complaining to all and each of her husband&mdash;which is not at all
    238.   right&mdash;so in a short time she had spread her story not only in the
    239.   town, but over the whole surrounding district. It made me ill, but Dounia
    240.   bore it better than I did, and if only you could have seen how she endured
    241.   it all and tried to comfort me and cheer me up! She is an angel! But by
    242.   God&rsquo;s mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr. Svidrigaïlov returned to
    243.   his senses and repented and, probably feeling sorry for Dounia, he laid
    244.   before Marfa Petrovna a complete and unmistakable proof of Dounia&rsquo;s
    245.   innocence, in the form of a letter Dounia had been forced to write and
    246.   give to him, before Marfa Petrovna came upon them in the garden. This
    247.   letter, which remained in Mr. Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s hands after her departure,
    248.   she had written to refuse personal explanations and secret interviews, for
    249.   which he was entreating her. In that letter she reproached him with great
    250.   heat and indignation for the baseness of his behaviour in regard to Marfa
    251.   Petrovna, reminding him that he was the father and head of a family and
    252.   telling him how infamous it was of him to torment and make unhappy a
    253.   defenceless girl, unhappy enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter
    254.   was so nobly and touchingly written that I sobbed when I read it and to
    255.   this day I cannot read it without tears. Moreover, the evidence of the
    256.   servants, too, cleared Dounia&rsquo;s reputation; they had seen and known a
    257.   great deal more than Mr. Svidrigaïlov had himself supposed&mdash;as indeed
    258.   is always the case with servants. Marfa Petrovna was completely taken
    259.   aback, and &lsquo;again crushed&rsquo; as she said herself to us, but she was
    260.   completely convinced of Dounia&rsquo;s innocence. The very next day, being
    261.   Sunday, she went straight to the Cathedral, knelt down and prayed with
    262.   tears to Our Lady to give her strength to bear this new trial and to do
    263.   her duty. Then she came straight from the Cathedral to us, told us the
    264.   whole story, wept bitterly and, fully penitent, she embraced Dounia and
    265.   besought her to forgive her. The same morning without any delay, she went
    266.   round to all the houses in the town and everywhere, shedding tears, she
    267.   asserted in the most flattering terms Dounia&rsquo;s innocence and the nobility
    268.   of her feelings and her behavior. What was more, she showed and read to
    269.   everyone the letter in Dounia&rsquo;s own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigaïlov and
    270.   even allowed them to take copies of it&mdash;which I must say I think was
    271.   superfluous. In this way she was busy for several days in driving about
    272.   the whole town, because some people had taken offence through precedence
    273.   having been given to others. And therefore they had to take turns, so that
    274.   in every house she was expected before she arrived, and everyone knew that
    275.   on such and such a day Marfa Petrovna would be reading the letter in such
    276.   and such a place and people assembled for every reading of it, even many
    277.   who had heard it several times already both in their own houses and in
    278.   other people&rsquo;s. In my opinion a great deal, a very great deal of all this
    279.   was unnecessary; but that&rsquo;s Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s character. Anyway she
    280.   succeeded in completely re-establishing Dounia&rsquo;s reputation and the whole
    281.   ignominy of this affair rested as an indelible disgrace upon her husband,
    282.   as the only person to blame, so that I really began to feel sorry for him;
    283.   it was really treating the crazy fellow too harshly. Dounia was at once
    284.   asked to give lessons in several families, but she refused. All of a
    285.   sudden everyone began to treat her with marked respect and all this did
    286.   much to bring about the event by which, one may say, our whole fortunes
    287.   are now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya, that Dounia has a suitor
    288.   and that she has already consented to marry him. I hasten to tell you all
    289.   about the matter, and though it has been arranged without asking your
    290.   consent, I think you will not be aggrieved with me or with your sister on
    291.   that account, for you will see that we could not wait and put off our
    292.   decision till we heard from you. And you could not have judged all the
    293.   facts without being on the spot. This was how it happened. He is already
    294.   of the rank of a counsellor, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, and is distantly
    295.   related to Marfa Petrovna, who has been very active in bringing the match
    296.   about. It began with his expressing through her his desire to make our
    297.   acquaintance. He was properly received, drank coffee with us and the very
    298.   next day he sent us a letter in which he very courteously made an offer
    299.   and begged for a speedy and decided answer. He is a very busy man and is
    300.   in a great hurry to get to Petersburg, so that every moment is precious to
    301.   him. At first, of course, we were greatly surprised, as it had all
    302.   happened so quickly and unexpectedly. We thought and talked it over the
    303.   whole day. He is a well-to-do man, to be depended upon, he has two posts
    304.   in the government and has already made his fortune. It is true that he is
    305.   forty-five years old, but he is of a fairly prepossessing appearance and
    306.   might still be thought attractive by women, and he is altogether a very
    307.   respectable and presentable man, only he seems a little morose and
    308.   somewhat conceited. But possibly that may only be the impression he makes
    309.   at first sight. And beware, dear Rodya, when he comes to Petersburg, as he
    310.   shortly will do, beware of judging him too hastily and severely, as your
    311.   way is, if there is anything you do not like in him at first sight. I give
    312.   you this warning, although I feel sure that he will make a favourable
    313.   impression upon you. Moreover, in order to understand any man one must be
    314.   deliberate and careful to avoid forming prejudices and mistaken ideas,
    315.   which are very difficult to correct and get over afterwards. And Pyotr
    316.   Petrovitch, judging by many indications, is a thoroughly estimable man. At
    317.   his first visit, indeed, he told us that he was a practical man, but still
    318.   he shares, as he expressed it, many of the convictions &lsquo;of our most rising
    319.   generation&rsquo; and he is an opponent of all prejudices. He said a good deal
    320.   more, for he seems a little conceited and likes to be listened to, but
    321.   this is scarcely a vice. I, of course, understood very little of it, but
    322.   Dounia explained to me that, though he is not a man of great education, he
    323.   is clever and seems to be good-natured. You know your sister&rsquo;s character,
    324.   Rodya. She is a resolute, sensible, patient and generous girl, but she has
    325.   a passionate heart, as I know very well. Of course, there is no great love
    326.   either on his side, or on hers, but Dounia is a clever girl and has the
    327.   heart of an angel, and will make it her duty to make her husband happy who
    328.   on his side will make her happiness his care. Of that we have no good
    329.   reason to doubt, though it must be admitted the matter has been arranged
    330.   in great haste. Besides he is a man of great prudence and he will see, to
    331.   be sure, of himself, that his own happiness will be the more secure, the
    332.   happier Dounia is with him. And as for some defects of character, for some
    333.   habits and even certain differences of opinion&mdash;which indeed are
    334.   inevitable even in the happiest marriages&mdash;Dounia has said that, as
    335.   regards all that, she relies on herself, that there is nothing to be
    336.   uneasy about, and that she is ready to put up with a great deal, if only
    337.   their future relationship can be an honourable and straightforward one. He
    338.   struck me, for instance, at first, as rather abrupt, but that may well
    339.   come from his being an outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it is. For
    340.   instance, at his second visit, after he had received Dounia&rsquo;s consent, in
    341.   the course of conversation, he declared that before making Dounia&rsquo;s
    342.   acquaintance, he had made up his mind to marry a girl of good reputation,
    343.   without dowry and, above all, one who had experienced poverty, because, as
    344.   he explained, a man ought not to be indebted to his wife, but that it is
    345.   better for a wife to look upon her husband as her benefactor. I must add
    346.   that he expressed it more nicely and politely than I have done, for I have
    347.   forgotten his actual phrases and only remember the meaning. And, besides,
    348.   it was obviously not said of design, but slipped out in the heat of
    349.   conversation, so that he tried afterwards to correct himself and smooth it
    350.   over, but all the same it did strike me as somewhat rude, and I said so
    351.   afterwards to Dounia. But Dounia was vexed, and answered that &lsquo;words are
    352.   not deeds,&rsquo; and that, of course, is perfectly true. Dounia did not sleep
    353.   all night before she made up her mind, and, thinking that I was asleep,
    354.   she got out of bed and was walking up and down the room all night; at last
    355.   she knelt down before the ikon and prayed long and fervently and in the
    356.   morning she told me that she had decided.
    357. <br />
    358.   &ldquo;I have mentioned already that Pyotr Petrovitch is just setting off for
    359.   Petersburg, where he has a great deal of business, and he wants to open a
    360.   legal bureau. He has been occupied for many years in conducting civil and
    361.   commercial litigation, and only the other day he won an important case. He
    362.   has to be in Petersburg because he has an important case before the
    363.   Senate. So, Rodya dear, he may be of the greatest use to you, in every way
    364.   indeed, and Dounia and I have agreed that from this very day you could
    365.   definitely enter upon your career and might consider that your future is
    366.   marked out and assured for you. Oh, if only this comes to pass! This would
    367.   be such a benefit that we could only look upon it as a providential
    368.   blessing. Dounia is dreaming of nothing else. We have even ventured
    369.   already to drop a few words on the subject to Pyotr Petrovitch. He was
    370.   cautious in his answer, and said that, of course, as he could not get on
    371.   without a secretary, it would be better to be paying a salary to a
    372.   relation than to a stranger, if only the former were fitted for the duties
    373.   (as though there could be doubt of your being fitted!) but then he
    374.   expressed doubts whether your studies at the university would leave you
    375.   time for work at his office. The matter dropped for the time, but Dounia
    376.   is thinking of nothing else now. She has been in a sort of fever for the
    377.   last few days, and has already made a regular plan for your becoming in
    378.   the end an associate and even a partner in Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s business,
    379.   which might well be, seeing that you are a student of law. I am in
    380.   complete agreement with her, Rodya, and share all her plans and hopes, and
    381.   think there is every probability of realising them. And in spite of Pyotr
    382.   Petrovitch&rsquo;s evasiveness, very natural at present (since he does not know
    383.   you), Dounia is firmly persuaded that she will gain everything by her good
    384.   influence over her future husband; this she is reckoning upon. Of course
    385.   we are careful not to talk of any of these more remote plans to Pyotr
    386.   Petrovitch, especially of your becoming his partner. He is a practical man
    387.   and might take this very coldly, it might all seem to him simply a
    388.   day-dream. Nor has either Dounia or I breathed a word to him of the great
    389.   hopes we have of his helping us to pay for your university studies; we
    390.   have not spoken of it in the first place, because it will come to pass of
    391.   itself, later on, and he will no doubt without wasting words offer to do
    392.   it of himself, (as though he could refuse Dounia that) the more readily
    393.   since you may by your own efforts become his right hand in the office, and
    394.   receive this assistance not as a charity, but as a salary earned by your
    395.   own work. Dounia wants to arrange it all like this and I quite agree with
    396.   her. And we have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that is,
    397.   because I particularly wanted you to feel on an equal footing when you
    398.   first meet him. When Dounia spoke to him with enthusiasm about you, he
    399.   answered that one could never judge of a man without seeing him close, for
    400.   oneself, and that he looked forward to forming his own opinion when he
    401.   makes your acquaintance. Do you know, my precious Rodya, I think that
    402.   perhaps for some reasons (nothing to do with Pyotr Petrovitch though,
    403.   simply for my own personal, perhaps old-womanish, fancies) I should do
    404.   better to go on living by myself, apart, than with them, after the
    405.   wedding. I am convinced that he will be generous and delicate enough to
    406.   invite me and to urge me to remain with my daughter for the future, and if
    407.   he has said nothing about it hitherto, it is simply because it has been
    408.   taken for granted; but I shall refuse. I have noticed more than once in my
    409.   life that husbands don&rsquo;t quite get on with their mothers-in-law, and I
    410.   don&rsquo;t want to be the least bit in anyone&rsquo;s way, and for my own sake, too,
    411.   would rather be quite independent, so long as I have a crust of bread of
    412.   my own, and such children as you and Dounia. If possible, I would settle
    413.   somewhere near you, for the most joyful piece of news, dear Rodya, I have
    414.   kept for the end of my letter: know then, my dear boy, that we may,
    415.   perhaps, be all together in a very short time and may embrace one another
    416.   again after a separation of almost three years! It is settled  that Dounia and I are to set off for Petersburg, exactly when
    417.   I don&rsquo;t know, but very, very soon, possibly in a week. It all depends on
    418.   Pyotr Petrovitch who will let us know when he has had time to look round
    419.   him in Petersburg. To suit his own arrangements he is anxious to have the
    420.   ceremony as soon as possible, even before the fast of Our Lady, if it
    421.   could be managed, or if that is too soon to be ready, immediately after.
    422.   Oh, with what happiness I shall press you to my heart! Dounia is all
    423.   excitement at the joyful thought of seeing you, she said one day in joke
    424.   that she would be ready to marry Pyotr Petrovitch for that alone. She is
    425.   an angel! She is not writing anything to you now, and has only told me to
    426.   write that she has so much, so much to tell you that she is not going to
    427.   take up her pen now, for a few lines would tell you nothing, and it would
    428.   only mean upsetting herself; she bids me send you her love and innumerable
    429.   kisses. But although we shall be meeting so soon, perhaps I shall send you
    430.   as much money as I can in a day or two. Now that everyone has heard that
    431.   Dounia is to marry Pyotr Petrovitch, my credit has suddenly improved and I
    432.   know that Afanasy Ivanovitch will trust me now even to seventy-five
    433.   roubles on the security of my pension, so that perhaps I shall be able to
    434.   send you twenty-five or even thirty roubles. I would send you more, but I
    435.   am uneasy about our travelling expenses; for though Pyotr Petrovitch has
    436.   been so kind as to undertake part of the expenses of the journey, that is
    437.   to say, he has taken upon himself the conveyance of our bags and big trunk
    438.   (which will be conveyed through some acquaintances of his), we must reckon
    439.   upon some expense on our arrival in Petersburg, where we can&rsquo;t be left
    440.   without a halfpenny, at least for the first few days. But we have
    441.   calculated it all, Dounia and I, to the last penny, and we see that the
    442.   journey will not cost very much. It is only ninety versts from us to the
    443.   railway and we have come to an agreement with a driver we know, so as to
    444.   be in readiness; and from there Dounia and I can travel quite comfortably
    445.   third class. So that I may very likely be able to send to you not
    446.   twenty-five, but thirty roubles. But enough; I have covered two sheets
    447.   already and there is no space left for more; our whole history, but so
    448.   many events have happened! And now, my precious Rodya, I embrace you and
    449.   send you a mother&rsquo;s blessing till we meet. Love Dounia your sister, Rodya;
    450.   love her as she loves you and understand that she loves you beyond
    451.   everything, more than herself. She is an angel and you, Rodya, you are
    452.   everything to us&mdash;our one hope, our one consolation. If only you are
    453.   happy, we shall be happy. Do you still say your prayers, Rodya, and
    454.   believe in the mercy of our Creator and our Redeemer? I am afraid in my
    455.   heart that you may have been visited by the new spirit of infidelity that
    456.   is abroad to-day; If it is so, I pray for you. Remember, dear boy, how in
    457.   your childhood, when your father was living, you used to lisp your prayers
    458.   at my knee, and how happy we all were in those days. Good-bye, till we
    459.   meet then&mdash;I embrace you warmly, warmly, with many kisses.
    460. <br />
    461.   &ldquo;Yours till death,
    462. <br />
    463.   &ldquo;PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV.&rdquo;
    464.  <br />
    465.   Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolnikov&rsquo;s face was
    466.   wet with tears; but when he finished it, his face was pale and distorted
    467.   and a bitter, wrathful and malignant smile was on his lips. He laid his
    468.   head down on his threadbare dirty pillow and pondered, pondered a long
    469.   time. His heart was beating violently, and his brain was in a turmoil. At
    470.   last he felt cramped and stifled in the little yellow room that was like a
    471.   cupboard or a box. His eyes and his mind craved for space. He took up his
    472.   hat and went out, this time without dread of meeting anyone; he had
    473.   forgotten his dread. He turned in the direction of the Vassilyevsky
    474.   Ostrov, walking along Vassilyevsky Prospect, as though hastening on some
    475.   business, but he walked, as his habit was, without noticing his way,
    476.   muttering and even speaking aloud to himself, to the astonishment of the
    477.   passers-by. Many of them took him to be drunk.

    1.   CHAPTER IV
    4.   His mother&rsquo;s letter had been a torture to him, but as regards the chief
    5.   fact in it, he had felt not one moment&rsquo;s hesitation, even whilst he was
    6.   reading the letter. The essential question was settled, and irrevocably
    7.   settled, in his mind: &ldquo;Never such a marriage while I am alive and Mr.
    8.   Luzhin be damned!&rdquo; &ldquo;The thing is perfectly clear,&rdquo; he muttered to himself,
    9.   with a malignant smile anticipating the triumph of his decision. &ldquo;No,
    10.   mother, no, Dounia, you won&rsquo;t deceive me! and then they apologise for not
    11.   asking my advice and for taking the decision without me! I dare say! They
    12.   imagine it is arranged now and can&rsquo;t be broken off; but we will see
    13.   whether it can or not! A magnificent excuse: &lsquo;Pyotr Petrovitch is such a
    14.   busy man that even his wedding has to be in post-haste, almost by
    15.   express.&rsquo; No, Dounia, I see it all and I know what you want to say to me;
    16.   and I know too what you were thinking about, when you walked up and down
    17.   all night, and what your prayers were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan
    18.   who stands in mother&rsquo;s bedroom. Bitter is the ascent to Golgotha.... Hm...
    19.   so it is finally settled; you have determined to marry a sensible business
    20.   man, Avdotya Romanovna, one who has a fortune (has  made his
    21.   fortune, that is so much more solid and impressive), a man who holds two
    22.   government posts and who shares the ideas of our most rising generation,
    23.   as mother writes, and who  to be kind, as Dounia herself
    24.   observes. That  beats everything! And that very Dounia for
    25.   that very &lsquo;&rsquo; is marrying him! Splendid! splendid!
    26. <br />
    27.   &ldquo;... But I should like to know why mother has written to me about &lsquo;our
    28.   most rising generation&rsquo;? Simply as a descriptive touch, or with the idea
    29.   of prepossessing me in favour of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, the cunning of them! I
    30.   should like to know one thing more: how far they were open with one
    31.   another that day and night and all this time since? Was it all put into ,
    32.   or did both understand that they had the same thing at heart and in their
    33.   minds, so that there was no need to speak of it aloud, and better not to
    34.   speak of it. Most likely it was partly like that, from mother&rsquo;s letter
    35.   it&rsquo;s evident: he struck her as rude , and mother in her
    36.   simplicity took her observations to Dounia. And she was sure to be vexed
    37.   and &lsquo;answered her angrily.&rsquo; I should think so! Who would not be angered
    38.   when it was quite clear without any naïve questions and when it was
    39.   understood that it was useless to discuss it. And why does she write to
    40.   me, &lsquo;love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you more than herself&rsquo;? Has she a
    41.   secret conscience-prick at sacrificing her daughter to her son? &lsquo;You are
    42.   our one comfort, you are everything to us.&rsquo; Oh, mother!&rdquo;
    43.  <br />
    44.   His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he had happened to meet
    45.   Mr. Luzhin at the moment, he might have murdered him.
    46. <br />
    47.   &ldquo;Hm... yes, that&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; he continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that
    48.   chased each other in his brain, &ldquo;it is true that &lsquo;it needs time and care
    49.   to get to know a man,&rsquo; but there is no mistake about Mr. Luzhin. The chief
    50.   thing is he is &lsquo;a man of business and  kind,&rsquo; that was
    51.   something, wasn&rsquo;t it, to send the bags and big box for them! A kind man,
    52.   no doubt after that! But his  and her mother are to drive in a
    53.   peasant&rsquo;s cart covered with sacking (I know, I have been driven in it). No
    54.   matter! It is only ninety versts and then they can &lsquo;travel very
    55.   comfortably, third class,&rsquo; for a thousand versts! Quite right, too. One
    56.   must cut one&rsquo;s coat according to one&rsquo;s cloth, but what about you, Mr.
    57.   Luzhin? She is your bride.... And you must be aware that her mother has to
    58.   raise money on her pension for the journey. To be sure it&rsquo;s a matter of
    59.   business, a partnership for mutual benefit, with equal shares and
    60.   expenses;&mdash;food and drink provided, but pay for your tobacco. The
    61.   business man has got the better of them, too. The luggage will cost less
    62.   than their fares and very likely go for nothing. How is it that they don&rsquo;t
    63.   both see all that, or is it that they don&rsquo;t want to see? And they are
    64.   pleased, pleased! And to think that this is only the first blossoming, and
    65.   that the real fruits are to come! But what really matters is not the
    66.   stinginess, is not the meanness, but the  of the whole thing.
    67.   For that will be the tone after marriage, it&rsquo;s a foretaste of it. And
    68.   mother too, why should she be so lavish? What will she have by the time
    69.   she gets to Petersburg? Three silver roubles or two &lsquo;paper ones&rsquo; as 
    70.   says.... that old woman... hm. What does she expect to live upon in
    71.   Petersburg afterwards? She has her reasons already for guessing that she
    72.    live with Dounia after the marriage, even for the first
    73.   few months. The good man has no doubt let slip something on that subject
    74.   also, though mother would deny it: &lsquo;I shall refuse,&rsquo; says she. On whom is
    75.   she reckoning then? Is she counting on what is left of her hundred and
    76.   twenty roubles of pension when Afanasy Ivanovitch&rsquo;s debt is paid? She
    77.   knits woollen shawls and embroiders cuffs, ruining her old eyes. And all
    78.   her shawls don&rsquo;t add more than twenty roubles a year to her hundred and
    79.   twenty, I know that. So she is building all her hopes all the time on Mr.
    80.   Luzhin&rsquo;s generosity; &lsquo;he will offer it of himself, he will press it on
    81.   me.&rsquo; You may wait a long time for that! That&rsquo;s how it always is with these
    82.   Schilleresque noble hearts; till the last moment every goose is a swan
    83.   with them, till the last moment, they hope for the best and will see
    84.   nothing wrong, and although they have an inkling of the other side of the
    85.   picture, yet they won&rsquo;t face the truth till they are forced to; the very
    86.   thought of it makes them shiver; they thrust the truth away with both
    87.   hands, until the man they deck out in false colours puts a fool&rsquo;s cap on
    88.   them with his own hands. I should like to know whether Mr. Luzhin has any
    89.   orders of merit; I bet he has the Anna in his buttonhole and that he puts
    90.   it on when he goes to dine with contractors or merchants. He will be sure
    91.   to have it for his wedding, too! Enough of him, confound him!
    92. <br />
    93.   &ldquo;Well,... mother I don&rsquo;t wonder at, it&rsquo;s like her, God bless her, but how
    94.   could Dounia? Dounia darling, as though I did not know you! You were
    95.   nearly twenty when I saw you last: I understood you then. Mother writes
    96.   that &lsquo;Dounia can put up with a great deal.&rsquo; I know that very well. I knew
    97.   that two years and a half ago, and for the last two and a half years I
    98.   have been thinking about it, thinking of just that, that &lsquo;Dounia can put
    99.   up with a great deal.&rsquo; If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigaïlov and all
    100.   the rest of it, she certainly can put up with a great deal. And now mother
    101.   and she have taken it into their heads that she can put up with Mr.
    102.   Luzhin, who propounds the theory of the superiority of wives raised from
    103.   destitution and owing everything to their husband&rsquo;s bounty&mdash;who
    104.   propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted that he &lsquo;let it
    105.   slip,&rsquo; though he is a sensible man, (yet maybe it was not a slip at all,
    106.   but he meant to make himself clear as soon as possible) but Dounia,
    107.   Dounia? She understands the man, of course, but she will have to live with
    108.   the man. Why! she&rsquo;d live on black bread and water, she would not sell her
    109.   soul, she would not barter her moral freedom for comfort; she would not
    110.   barter it for all Schleswig-Holstein, much less Mr. Luzhin&rsquo;s money. No,
    111.   Dounia was not that sort when I knew her and... she is still the same, of
    112.   course! Yes, there&rsquo;s no denying, the Svidrigaïlovs are a bitter pill! It&rsquo;s
    113.   a bitter thing to spend one&rsquo;s life a governess in the provinces for two
    114.   hundred roubles, but I know she would rather be a nigger on a plantation
    115.   or a Lett with a German master than degrade her soul, and her moral
    116.   dignity, by binding herself for ever to a man whom she does not respect
    117.   and with whom she has nothing in common&mdash;for her own advantage. And
    118.   if Mr. Luzhin had been of unalloyed gold, or one huge diamond, she would
    119.   never have consented to become his legal concubine. Why is she consenting
    120.   then? What&rsquo;s the point of it? What&rsquo;s the answer? It&rsquo;s clear enough: for
    121.   herself, for her comfort, to save her life she would not sell herself, but
    122.   for someone else she is doing it! For one she loves, for one she adores,
    123.   she will sell herself! That&rsquo;s what it all amounts to; for her brother, for
    124.   her mother, she will sell herself! She will sell everything! In such
    125.   cases, &lsquo;we overcome our moral feeling if necessary,&rsquo; freedom, peace,
    126.   conscience even, all, all are brought into the market. Let my life go, if
    127.   only my dear ones may be happy! More than that, we become casuists, we
    128.   learn to be Jesuitical and for a time maybe we can soothe ourselves, we
    129.   can persuade ourselves that it is one&rsquo;s duty for a good object. That&rsquo;s
    130.   just like us, it&rsquo;s as clear as daylight. It&rsquo;s clear that Rodion
    131.   Romanovitch Raskolnikov is the central figure in the business, and no one
    132.   else. Oh, yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in the university,
    133.   make him a partner in the office, make his whole future secure; perhaps he
    134.   may even be a rich man later on, prosperous, respected, and may even end
    135.   his life a famous man! But my mother? It&rsquo;s all Rodya, precious Rodya, her
    136.   first born! For such a son who would not sacrifice such a daughter! Oh,
    137.   loving, over-partial hearts! Why, for his sake we would not shrink even
    138.   from Sonia&rsquo;s fate. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the eternal victim so long as
    139.   the world lasts. Have you taken the measure of your sacrifice, both of
    140.   you? Is it right? Can you bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in it?
    141.   And let me tell you, Dounia, Sonia&rsquo;s life is no worse than life with Mr.
    142.   Luzhin. &lsquo;There can be no question of love,&rsquo; mother writes. And what if
    143.   there can be no respect either, if on the contrary there is aversion,
    144.   contempt, repulsion, what then? So you will have to &lsquo;keep up your
    145.   appearance,&rsquo; too. Is not that so? Do you understand what that smartness
    146.   means? Do you understand that the Luzhin smartness is just the same thing
    147.   as Sonia&rsquo;s and may be worse, viler, baser, because in your case, Dounia,
    148.   it&rsquo;s a bargain for luxuries, after all, but with Sonia it&rsquo;s simply a
    149.   question of starvation. It has to be paid for, it has to be paid for,
    150.   Dounia, this smartness. And what if it&rsquo;s more than you can bear
    151.   afterwards, if you regret it? The bitterness, the misery, the curses, the
    152.   tears hidden from all the world, for you are not a Marfa Petrovna. And how
    153.   will your mother feel then? Even now she is uneasy, she is worried, but
    154.   then, when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes, indeed, what have you
    155.   taken me for? I won&rsquo;t have your sacrifice, Dounia, I won&rsquo;t have it,
    156.   mother! It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it shall not, it shall
    157.   not! I won&rsquo;t accept it!&rdquo;
    158.  <br />
    159.   He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood still.
    160. <br />
    161.   &ldquo;It shall not be? But what are you going to do to prevent it? You&rsquo;ll
    162.   forbid it? And what right have you? What can you promise them on your side
    163.   to give you such a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you will
    164.   devote to them ?
    165.   Yes, we have heard all that before, and that&rsquo;s all , but now?
    166.   Now something must be done, now, do you understand that? And what are you
    167.   doing now? You are living upon them. They borrow on their hundred roubles
    168.   pension. They borrow from the Svidrigaïlovs. How are you going to save
    169.   them from Svidrigaïlovs, from Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, oh, future
    170.   millionaire Zeus who would arrange their lives for them? In another ten
    171.   years? In another ten years, mother will be blind with knitting shawls,
    172.   maybe with weeping too. She will be worn to a shadow with fasting; and my
    173.   sister? Imagine for a moment what may have become of your sister in ten
    174.   years? What may happen to her during those ten years? Can you fancy?&rdquo;
    175.  <br />
    176.   So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such questions, and finding
    177.   a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions were not new ones
    178.   suddenly confronting him, they were old familiar aches. It was long since
    179.   they had first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long, long ago his
    180.   present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and gathered
    181.   strength, it had matured and concentrated, until it had taken the form of
    182.   a fearful, frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured his heart and
    183.   mind, clamouring insistently for an answer. Now his mother&rsquo;s letter had
    184.   burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear that he must not now suffer
    185.   passively, worrying himself over unsolved questions, but that he must do
    186.   something, do it at once, and do it quickly. Anyway he must decide on
    187.   something, or else...
    188. <br />
    189.   &ldquo;Or throw up life altogether!&rdquo; he cried suddenly, in a frenzy&mdash;&ldquo;accept
    190.   one&rsquo;s lot humbly as it is, once for all and stifle everything in oneself,
    191.   giving up all claim to activity, life and love!&rdquo;
    192.  <br />
    193.   &ldquo;Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have
    194.   absolutely nowhere to turn?&rdquo; Marmeladov&rsquo;s question came suddenly into his
    195.   mind, &ldquo;for every man must have somewhere to turn....&rdquo;
    196.  <br />
    197.   He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had had yesterday,
    198.   slipped back into his mind. But he did not start at the thought recurring
    199.   to him, for he knew, he had , that it must come
    200.   back, he was expecting it; besides it was not only yesterday&rsquo;s thought.
    201.   The difference was that a month ago, yesterday even, the thought was a
    202.   mere dream: but now... now it appeared not a dream at all, it had taken a
    203.   new menacing and quite unfamiliar shape, and he suddenly became aware of
    204.   this himself.... He felt a hammering in his head, and there was a darkness
    205.   before his eyes.
    206. <br />
    207.   He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for something. He wanted to
    208.   sit down and was looking for a seat; he was walking along the K&mdash;&mdash;
    209.   Boulevard. There was a seat about a hundred paces in front of him. He
    210.   walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way he met with a little
    211.   adventure which absorbed all his attention. Looking for the seat, he had
    212.   noticed a woman walking some twenty paces in front of him, but at first he
    213.   took no more notice of her than of other objects that crossed his path. It
    214.   had happened to him many times going home not to notice the road by which
    215.   he was going, and he was accustomed to walk like that. But there was at
    216.   first sight something so strange about the woman in front of him, that
    217.   gradually his attention was riveted upon her, at first reluctantly and, as
    218.   it were, resentfully, and then more and more intently. He felt a sudden
    219.   desire to find out what it was that was so strange about the woman. In the
    220.   first place, she appeared to be a girl quite young, and she was walking in
    221.   the great heat bareheaded and with no parasol or gloves, waving her arms
    222.   about in an absurd way. She had on a dress of some light silky material,
    223.   but put on strangely awry, not properly hooked up, and torn open at the
    224.   top of the skirt, close to the waist: a great piece was rent and hanging
    225.   loose. A little kerchief was flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting
    226.   on one side. The girl was walking unsteadily, too, stumbling and
    227.   staggering from side to side. She drew Raskolnikov&rsquo;s whole attention at
    228.   last. He overtook the girl at the seat, but, on reaching it, she dropped
    229.   down on it, in the corner; she let her head sink on the back of the seat
    230.   and closed her eyes, apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her
    231.   closely, he saw at once that she was completely drunk. It was a strange
    232.   and shocking sight. He could hardly believe that he was not mistaken. He
    233.   saw before him the face of a quite young, fair-haired girl&mdash;sixteen,
    234.   perhaps not more than fifteen, years old, pretty little face, but flushed
    235.   and heavy looking and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to know
    236.   what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it
    237.   indecorously, and showed every sign of being unconscious that she was in
    238.   the street.
    239. <br />
    240.   Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to leave her, and
    241.   stood facing her in perplexity. This boulevard was never much frequented;
    242.   and now, at two o&rsquo;clock, in the stifling heat, it was quite deserted. And
    243.   yet on the further side of the boulevard, about fifteen paces away, a
    244.   gentleman was standing on the edge of the pavement. He, too, would
    245.   apparently have liked to approach the girl with some object of his own.
    246.   He, too, had probably seen her in the distance and had followed her, but
    247.   found Raskolnikov in his way. He looked angrily at him, though he tried to
    248.   escape his notice, and stood impatiently biding his time, till the
    249.   unwelcome man in rags should have moved away. His intentions were
    250.   unmistakable. The gentleman was a plump, thickly-set man, about thirty,
    251.   fashionably dressed, with a high colour, red lips and moustaches.
    252.   Raskolnikov felt furious; he had a sudden longing to insult this fat dandy
    253.   in some way. He left the girl for a moment and walked towards the
    254.   gentleman.
    255. <br />
    256.   &ldquo;Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What do you want here?&rdquo; he shouted, clenching his
    257.   fists and laughing, spluttering with rage.
    258. <br />
    259.   &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; the gentleman asked sternly, scowling in haughty
    260.   astonishment.
    261. <br />
    262.   &ldquo;Get away, that&rsquo;s what I mean.&rdquo;
    263.  <br />
    264.   &ldquo;How dare you, you low fellow!&rdquo;
    265.  <br />
    266.   He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his fists, without
    267.   reflecting that the stout gentleman was a match for two men like himself.
    268.   But at that instant someone seized him from behind, and a police constable
    269.   stood between them.
    270. <br />
    271.   &ldquo;That&rsquo;s enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place. What do
    272.   you want? Who are you?&rdquo; he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his rags.
    273. <br />
    274.   Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight-forward, sensible,
    275.   soldierly face, with grey moustaches and whiskers.
    276. <br />
    277.   &ldquo;You are just the man I want,&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried, catching at his arm. &ldquo;I
    278.   am a student, Raskolnikov.... You may as well know that too,&rdquo; he added,
    279.   addressing the gentleman, &ldquo;come along, I have something to show you.&rdquo;
    280.  <br />
    281.   And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him towards the seat.
    282. <br />
    283.   &ldquo;Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down the boulevard.
    284.   There is no telling who and what she is, she does not look like a
    285.   professional. It&rsquo;s more likely she has been given drink and deceived
    286.   somewhere... for the first time... you understand? and they&rsquo;ve put her out
    287.   into the street like that. Look at the way her dress is torn, and the way
    288.   it has been put on: she has been dressed by somebody, she has not dressed
    289.   herself, and dressed by unpractised hands, by a man&rsquo;s hands; that&rsquo;s
    290.   evident. And now look there: I don&rsquo;t know that dandy with whom I was going
    291.   to fight, I see him for the first time, but he, too, has seen her on the
    292.   road, just now, drunk, not knowing what she is doing, and now he is very
    293.   eager to get hold of her, to get her away somewhere while she is in this
    294.   state... that&rsquo;s certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw him myself
    295.   watching her and following her, but I prevented him, and he is just
    296.   waiting for me to go away. Now he has walked away a little, and is
    297.   standing still, pretending to make a cigarette.... Think how can we keep
    298.   her out of his hands, and how are we to get her home?&rdquo;
    299.  <br />
    300.   The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout gentleman was easy to
    301.   understand, he turned to consider the girl. The policeman bent over to
    302.   examine her more closely, and his face worked with genuine compassion.
    303. <br />
    304.   &ldquo;Ah, what a pity!&rdquo; he said, shaking his head&mdash;&ldquo;why, she is quite a
    305.   child! She has been deceived, you can see that at once. Listen, lady,&rdquo; he
    306.   began addressing her, &ldquo;where do you live?&rdquo; The girl opened her weary and
    307.   sleepy-looking eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and waved her hand.
    308. <br />
    309.   &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and finding twenty copecks,
    310.   &ldquo;here, call a cab and tell him to drive her to her address. The only thing
    311.   is to find out her address!&rdquo;
    312.  <br />
    313.   &ldquo;Missy, missy!&rdquo; the policeman began again, taking the money. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll fetch
    314.   you a cab and take you home myself. Where shall I take you, eh? Where do
    315.   you live?&rdquo;
    316.  <br />
    317.   &ldquo;Go away! They won&rsquo;t let me alone,&rdquo; the girl muttered, and once more waved
    318.   her hand.
    319. <br />
    320.   &ldquo;Ach, ach, how shocking! It&rsquo;s shameful, missy, it&rsquo;s a shame!&rdquo; He shook his
    321.   head again, shocked, sympathetic and indignant.
    322. <br />
    323.   &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a difficult job,&rdquo; the policeman said to Raskolnikov, and as he did
    324.   so, he looked him up and down in a rapid glance. He, too, must have seemed
    325.   a strange figure to him: dressed in rags and handing him money!
    326. <br />
    327.   &ldquo;Did you meet her far from here?&rdquo; he asked him.
    328. <br />
    329.   &ldquo;I tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering, just here, in the
    330.   boulevard. She only just reached the seat and sank down on it.&rdquo;
    331.  <br />
    332.   &ldquo;Ah, the shameful things that are done in the world nowadays, God have
    333.   mercy on us! An innocent creature like that, drunk already! She has been
    334.   deceived, that&rsquo;s a sure thing. See how her dress has been torn too.... Ah,
    335.   the vice one sees nowadays! And as likely as not she belongs to gentlefolk
    336.   too, poor ones maybe.... There are many like that nowadays. She looks
    337.   refined, too, as though she were a lady,&rdquo; and he bent over her once more.
    338. <br />
    339.   Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, &ldquo;looking like ladies and
    340.   refined&rdquo; with pretensions to gentility and smartness....
    341. <br />
    342.   &ldquo;The chief thing is,&rdquo; Raskolnikov persisted, &ldquo;to keep her out of this
    343.   scoundrel&rsquo;s hands! Why should he outrage her! It&rsquo;s as clear as day what he
    344.   is after; ah, the brute, he is not moving off!&rdquo;
    345.  <br />
    346.   Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him. The gentleman heard him, and
    347.   seemed about to fly into a rage again, but thought better of it, and
    348.   confined himself to a contemptuous look. He then walked slowly another ten
    349.   paces away and again halted.
    350. <br />
    351.   &ldquo;Keep her out of his hands we can,&rdquo; said the constable thoughtfully, &ldquo;if
    352.   only she&rsquo;d tell us where to take her, but as it is.... Missy, hey, missy!&rdquo;
    353.    he bent over her once more.
    354. <br />
    355.   She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him intently, as
    356.   though realising something, got up from the seat and walked away in the
    357.   direction from which she had come. &ldquo;Oh shameful wretches, they won&rsquo;t let
    358.   me alone!&rdquo; she said, waving her hand again. She walked quickly, though
    359.   staggering as before. The dandy followed her, but along another avenue,
    360.   keeping his eye on her.
    361. <br />
    362.   &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be anxious, I won&rsquo;t let him have her,&rdquo; the policeman said
    363.   resolutely, and he set off after them.
    364. <br />
    365.   &ldquo;Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!&rdquo; he repeated aloud, sighing.
    366. <br />
    367.   At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an instant a
    368.   complete revulsion of feeling came over him.
    369. <br />
    370.   &ldquo;Hey, here!&rdquo; he shouted after the policeman.
    371. <br />
    372.   The latter turned round.
    373. <br />
    374.   &ldquo;Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her go! Let him amuse
    375.   himself.&rdquo; He pointed at the dandy, &ldquo;What is it to do with you?&rdquo;
    376.  <br />
    377.   The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him open-eyed. Raskolnikov
    378.   laughed.
    379. <br />
    380.   &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture of contempt, and he
    381.   walked after the dandy and the girl, probably taking Raskolnikov for a
    382.   madman or something even worse.
    383. <br />
    384.   &ldquo;He has carried off my twenty copecks,&rdquo; Raskolnikov murmured angrily when
    385.   he was left alone. &ldquo;Well, let him take as much from the other fellow to
    386.   allow him to have the girl and so let it end. And why did I want to
    387.   interfere? Is it for me to help? Have I any right to help? Let them devour
    388.   each other alive&mdash;what is it to me? How did I dare to give him twenty
    389.   copecks? Were they mine?&rdquo;
    390.  <br />
    391.   In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched. He sat down on the
    392.   deserted seat. His thoughts strayed aimlessly.... He found it hard to fix
    393.   his mind on anything at that moment. He longed to forget himself
    394.   altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and begin life
    395.   anew....
    396. <br />
    397.   &ldquo;Poor girl!&rdquo; he said, looking at the empty corner where she had sat&mdash;&ldquo;She
    398.   will come to herself and weep, and then her mother will find out.... She
    399.   will give her a beating, a horrible, shameful beating and then maybe, turn
    400.   her out of doors.... And even if she does not, the Darya Frantsovnas will
    401.   get wind of it, and the girl will soon be slipping out on the sly here and
    402.   there. Then there will be the hospital directly (that&rsquo;s always the luck of
    403.   those girls with respectable mothers, who go wrong on the sly) and then...
    404.   again the hospital... drink... the taverns... and more hospital, in two or
    405.   three years&mdash;a wreck, and her life over at eighteen or nineteen....
    406.   Have not I seen cases like that? And how have they been brought to it?
    407.   Why, they&rsquo;ve all come to it like that. Ugh! But what does it matter?
    408.   That&rsquo;s as it should be, they tell us. A certain percentage, they tell us,
    409.   must every year go... that way... to the devil, I suppose, so that the
    410.   rest may remain chaste, and not be interfered with. A percentage! What
    411.   splendid words they have; they are so scientific, so consolatory.... Once
    412.   you&rsquo;ve said &lsquo;percentage&rsquo; there&rsquo;s nothing more to worry about. If we had
    413.   any other word... maybe we might feel more uneasy.... But what if Dounia
    414.   were one of the percentage! Of another one if not that one?
    415. <br />
    416.   &ldquo;But where am I going?&rdquo; he thought suddenly. &ldquo;Strange, I came out for
    417.   something. As soon as I had read the letter I came out.... I was going to
    418.   Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to Razumihin. That&rsquo;s what it was... now I remember.
    419.   What for, though? And what put the idea of going to Razumihin into my head
    420.   just now? That&rsquo;s curious.&rdquo;
    421.  <br />
    422.   He wondered at himself. Razumihin was one of his old comrades at the
    423.   university. It was remarkable that Raskolnikov had hardly any friends at
    424.   the university; he kept aloof from everyone, went to see no one, and did
    425.   not welcome anyone who came to see him, and indeed everyone soon gave him
    426.   up. He took no part in the students&rsquo; gatherings, amusements or
    427.   conversations. He worked with great intensity without sparing himself, and
    428.   he was respected for this, but no one liked him. He was very poor, and
    429.   there was a sort of haughty pride and reserve about him, as though he were
    430.   keeping something to himself. He seemed to some of his comrades to look
    431.   down upon them all as children, as though he were superior in development,
    432.   knowledge and convictions, as though their beliefs and interests were
    433.   beneath him.
    434. <br />
    435.   With Razumihin he had got on, or, at least, he was more unreserved and
    436.   communicative with him. Indeed it was impossible to be on any other terms
    437.   with Razumihin. He was an exceptionally good-humoured and candid youth,
    438.   good-natured to the point of simplicity, though both depth and dignity lay
    439.   concealed under that simplicity. The better of his comrades understood
    440.   this, and all were fond of him. He was extremely intelligent, though he
    441.   was certainly rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking appearance&mdash;tall,
    442.   thin, blackhaired and always badly shaved. He was sometimes uproarious and
    443.   was reputed to be of great physical strength. One night, when out in a
    444.   festive company, he had with one blow laid a gigantic policeman on his
    445.   back. There was no limit to his drinking powers, but he could abstain from
    446.   drink altogether; he sometimes went too far in his pranks; but he could do
    447.   without pranks altogether. Another thing striking about Razumihin, no
    448.   failure distressed him, and it seemed as though no unfavourable
    449.   circumstances could crush him. He could lodge anywhere, and bear the
    450.   extremes of cold and hunger. He was very poor, and kept himself entirely
    451.   on what he could earn by work of one sort or another. He knew of no end of
    452.   resources by which to earn money. He spent one whole winter without
    453.   lighting his stove, and used to declare that he liked it better, because
    454.   one slept more soundly in the cold. For the present he, too, had been
    455.   obliged to give up the university, but it was only for a time, and he was
    456.   working with all his might to save enough to return to his studies again.
    457.   Raskolnikov had not been to see him for the last four months, and
    458.   Razumihin did not even know his address. About two months before, they had
    459.   met in the street, but Raskolnikov had turned away and even crossed to the
    460.   other side that he might not be observed. And though Razumihin noticed
    461.   him, he passed him by, as he did not want to annoy him.

    1.   CHAPTER V
    4.   &ldquo;Of course, I&rsquo;ve been meaning lately to go to Razumihin&rsquo;s to ask for work,
    5.   to ask him to get me lessons or something...&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought, &ldquo;but
    6.   what help can he be to me now? Suppose he gets me lessons, suppose he
    7.   shares his last farthing with me, if he has any farthings, so that I could
    8.   get some boots and make myself tidy enough to give lessons... hm... Well
    9.   and what then? What shall I do with the few coppers I earn? That&rsquo;s not
    10.   what I want now. It&rsquo;s really absurd for me to go to Razumihin....&rdquo;
    11.  <br />
    12.   The question why he was now going to Razumihin agitated him even more than
    13.   he was himself aware; he kept uneasily seeking for some sinister
    14.   significance in this apparently ordinary action.
    15. <br />
    16.   &ldquo;Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find a way out by
    17.   means of Razumihin alone?&rdquo; he asked himself in perplexity.
    18. <br />
    19.   He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long
    20.   musing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a fantastic
    21.   thought came into his head.
    22. <br />
    23.   &ldquo;Hm... to Razumihin&rsquo;s,&rdquo; he said all at once, calmly, as though he had
    24.   reached a final determination. &ldquo;I shall go to Razumihin&rsquo;s of course,
    25.   but... not now. I shall go to him... on the next day after It, when It
    26.   will be over and everything will begin afresh....&rdquo;
    27.  <br />
    28.   And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.
    29. <br />
    30.   &ldquo;After It,&rdquo; he shouted, jumping up from the seat, &ldquo;but is It really going
    31.   to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?&rdquo; He left the seat, and
    32.   went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back, homewards, but the
    33.   thought of going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing; in that
    34.   hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all  had for a
    35.   month past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.
    36. <br />
    37.   His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel shivering;
    38.   in spite of the heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he began almost
    39.   unconsciously, from some inner craving, to stare at all the objects before
    40.   him, as though looking for something to distract his attention; but he did
    41.   not succeed, and kept dropping every moment into brooding. When with a
    42.   start he lifted his head again and looked round, he forgot at once what he
    43.   had just been thinking about and even where he was going. In this way he
    44.   walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came out on to the Lesser Neva,
    45.   crossed the bridge and turned towards the islands. The greenness and
    46.   freshness were at first restful to his weary eyes after the dust of the
    47.   town and the huge houses that hemmed him in and weighed upon him. Here
    48.   there were no taverns, no stifling closeness, no stench. But soon these
    49.   new pleasant sensations passed into morbid irritability. Sometimes he
    50.   stood still before a brightly painted summer villa standing among green
    51.   foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw in the distance smartly
    52.   dressed women on the verandahs and balconies, and children running in the
    53.   gardens. The flowers especially caught his attention; he gazed at them
    54.   longer than at anything. He was met, too, by luxurious carriages and by
    55.   men and women on horseback; he watched them with curious eyes and forgot
    56.   about them before they had vanished from his sight. Once he stood still
    57.   and counted his money; he found he had thirty copecks. &ldquo;Twenty to the
    58.   policeman, three to Nastasya for the letter, so I must have given
    59.   forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs yesterday,&rdquo; he thought, reckoning
    60.   it up for some unknown reason, but he soon forgot with what object he had
    61.   taken the money out of his pocket. He recalled it on passing an
    62.   eating-house or tavern, and felt that he was hungry.... Going into the
    63.   tavern he drank a glass of vodka and ate a pie of some sort. He finished
    64.   eating it as he walked away. It was a long while since he had taken vodka
    65.   and it had an effect upon him at once, though he only drank a
    66.   wineglassful. His legs felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness came
    67.   upon him. He turned homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped
    68.   completely exhausted, turned off the road into the bushes, sank down upon
    69.   the grass and instantly fell asleep.
    70. <br />
    71.   In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular
    72.   actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times
    73.   monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are so
    74.   truth-like and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, but so
    75.   artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin
    76.   or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state. Such
    77.   sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful
    78.   impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system.
    79. <br />
    80.   Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was back in his childhood in
    81.   the little town of his birth. He was a child about seven years old,
    82.   walking into the country with his father on the evening of a holiday. It
    83.   was a grey and heavy day, the country was exactly as he remembered it;
    84.   indeed he recalled it far more vividly in his dream than he had done in
    85.   memory. The little town stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, not
    86.   even a willow near it; only in the far distance, a copse lay, a dark blur
    87.   on the very edge of the horizon. A few paces beyond the last market garden
    88.   stood a tavern, a big tavern, which had always aroused in him a feeling of
    89.   aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it with his father. There was
    90.   always a crowd there, always shouting, laughter and abuse, hideous hoarse
    91.   singing and often fighting. Drunken and horrible-looking figures were
    92.   hanging about the tavern. He used to cling close to his father, trembling
    93.   all over when he met them. Near the tavern the road became a dusty track,
    94.   the dust of which was always black. It was a winding road, and about a
    95.   hundred paces further on, it turned to the right to the graveyard. In the
    96.   middle of the graveyard stood a stone church with a green cupola where he
    97.   used to go to mass two or three times a year with his father and mother,
    98.   when a service was held in memory of his grandmother, who had long been
    99.   dead, and whom he had never seen. On these occasions they used to take on
    100.   a white dish tied up in a table napkin a special sort of rice pudding with
    101.   raisins stuck in it in the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the
    102.   old-fashioned, unadorned ikons and the old priest with the shaking head.
    103.   Near his grandmother&rsquo;s grave, which was marked by a stone, was the little
    104.   grave of his younger brother who had died at six months old. He did not
    105.   remember him at all, but he had been told about his little brother, and
    106.   whenever he visited the graveyard he used religiously and reverently to
    107.   cross himself and to bow down and kiss the little grave. And now he dreamt
    108.   that he was walking with his father past the tavern on the way to the
    109.   graveyard; he was holding his father&rsquo;s hand and looking with dread at the
    110.   tavern. A peculiar circumstance attracted his attention: there seemed to
    111.   be some kind of festivity going on, there were crowds of gaily dressed
    112.   townspeople, peasant women, their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts,
    113.   all singing and all more or less drunk. Near the entrance of the tavern
    114.   stood a cart, but a strange cart. It was one of those big carts usually
    115.   drawn by heavy cart-horses and laden with casks of wine or other heavy
    116.   goods. He always liked looking at those great cart-horses, with their long
    117.   manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing along a perfect mountain
    118.   with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier going with a load
    119.   than without it. But now, strange to say, in the shafts of such a cart he
    120.   saw a thin little sorrel beast, one of those peasants&rsquo; nags which he had
    121.   often seen straining their utmost under a heavy load of wood or hay,
    122.   especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or in a rut. And the
    123.   peasants would beat them so cruelly, sometimes even about the nose and
    124.   eyes, and he felt so sorry, so sorry for them that he almost cried, and
    125.   his mother always used to take him away from the window. All of a sudden
    126.   there was a great uproar of shouting, singing and the balalaïka, and from
    127.   the tavern a number of big and very drunken peasants came out, wearing red
    128.   and blue shirts and coats thrown over their shoulders.
    129. <br />
    130.   &ldquo;Get in, get in!&rdquo; shouted one of them, a young thick-necked peasant with a
    131.   fleshy face red as a carrot. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll take you all, get in!&rdquo;
    132.  <br />
    133.   But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in the
    134.   crowd.
    135. <br />
    136.   &ldquo;Take us all with a beast like that!&rdquo;
    137.  <br />
    138.   &ldquo;Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?&rdquo;
    139.  <br />
    140.   &ldquo;And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!&rdquo;
    141.  <br />
    142.   &ldquo;Get in, I&rsquo;ll take you all,&rdquo; Mikolka shouted again, leaping first into the
    143.   cart, seizing the reins and standing straight up in front. &ldquo;The bay has
    144.   gone with Matvey,&rdquo; he shouted from the cart&mdash;&ldquo;and this brute, mates,
    145.   is just breaking my heart, I feel as if I could kill her. She&rsquo;s just
    146.   eating her head off. Get in, I tell you! I&rsquo;ll make her gallop! She&rsquo;ll
    147.   gallop!&rdquo; and he picked up the whip, preparing himself with relish to flog
    148.   the little mare.
    149. <br />
    150.   &ldquo;Get in! Come along!&rdquo; The crowd laughed. &ldquo;D&rsquo;you hear, she&rsquo;ll gallop!&rdquo;
    151.  <br />
    152.   &ldquo;Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years!&rdquo;
    153.  <br />
    154.   &ldquo;She&rsquo;ll jog along!&rdquo;
    155.  <br />
    156.   &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, get ready!&rdquo;
    157.  <br />
    158.   &ldquo;All right! Give it to her!&rdquo;
    159.  <br />
    160.   They all clambered into Mikolka&rsquo;s cart, laughing and making jokes. Six men
    161.   got in and there was still room for more. They hauled in a fat,
    162.   rosy-cheeked woman. She was dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded
    163.   headdress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and laughing. The
    164.   crowd round them was laughing too and indeed, how could they help
    165.   laughing? That wretched nag was to drag all the cartload of them at a
    166.   gallop! Two young fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready to
    167.   help Mikolka. With the cry of &ldquo;now,&rdquo; the mare tugged with all her might,
    168.   but far from galloping, could scarcely move forward; she struggled with
    169.   her legs, gasping and shrinking from the blows of the three whips which
    170.   were showered upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and in the
    171.   crowd was redoubled, but Mikolka flew into a rage and furiously thrashed
    172.   the mare, as though he supposed she really could gallop.
    173. <br />
    174.   &ldquo;Let me get in, too, mates,&rdquo; shouted a young man in the crowd whose
    175.   appetite was aroused.
    176. <br />
    177.   &ldquo;Get in, all get in,&rdquo; cried Mikolka, &ldquo;she will draw you all. I&rsquo;ll beat her
    178.   to death!&rdquo; And he thrashed and thrashed at the mare, beside himself with
    179.   fury.
    180. <br />
    181.   &ldquo;Father, father,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;father, what are they doing? Father, they are
    182.   beating the poor horse!&rdquo;
    183.  <br />
    184.   &ldquo;Come along, come along!&rdquo; said his father. &ldquo;They are drunken and foolish,
    185.   they are in fun; come away, don&rsquo;t look!&rdquo; and he tried to draw him away,
    186.   but he tore himself away from his hand, and, beside himself with horror,
    187.   ran to the horse. The poor beast was in a bad way. She was gasping,
    188.   standing still, then tugging again and almost falling.
    189. <br />
    190.   &ldquo;Beat her to death,&rdquo; cried Mikolka, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s come to that. I&rsquo;ll do for her!&rdquo;
    191.  <br />
    192.   &ldquo;What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?&rdquo; shouted an old man
    193.   in the crowd.
    194. <br />
    195.   &ldquo;Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling such a
    196.   cartload,&rdquo; said another.
    197. <br />
    198.   &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll kill her,&rdquo; shouted the third.
    199. <br />
    200.   &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t meddle! It&rsquo;s my property, I&rsquo;ll do what I choose. Get in, more of
    201.   you! Get in, all of you! I will have her go at a gallop!...&rdquo;
    202.  <br />
    203.   All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered everything: the mare,
    204.   roused by the shower of blows, began feebly kicking. Even the old man
    205.   could not help smiling. To think of a wretched little beast like that
    206.   trying to kick!
    207. <br />
    208.   Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the mare to beat her
    209.   about the ribs. One ran each side.
    210. <br />
    211.   &ldquo;Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes,&rdquo; cried Mikolka.
    212. <br />
    213.   &ldquo;Give us a song, mates,&rdquo; shouted someone in the cart and everyone in the
    214.   cart joined in a riotous song, jingling a tambourine and whistling. The
    215.   woman went on cracking nuts and laughing.
    216. <br />
    217.   ... He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her being whipped
    218.   across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he felt choking, his
    219.   tears were streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with the whip across
    220.   the face, he did not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he rushed
    221.   up to the grey-headed old man with the grey beard, who was shaking his
    222.   head in disapproval. One woman seized him by the hand and would have taken
    223.   him away, but he tore himself from her and ran back to the mare. She was
    224.   almost at the last gasp, but began kicking once more.
    225. <br />
    226.   &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll teach you to kick,&rdquo; Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw down the
    227.   whip, bent forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a long, thick
    228.   shaft, he took hold of one end with both hands and with an effort
    229.   brandished it over the mare.
    230. <br />
    231.   &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll crush her,&rdquo; was shouted round him. &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll kill her!&rdquo;
    232.  <br />
    233.   &ldquo;It&rsquo;s my property,&rdquo; shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down with a
    234.   swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy thud.
    235. <br />
    236.   &ldquo;Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?&rdquo; shouted voices in the
    237.   crowd.
    238. <br />
    239.   And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second time on the
    240.   spine of the luckless mare. She sank back on her haunches, but lurched
    241.   forward and tugged forward with all her force, tugged first on one side
    242.   and then on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six whips were
    243.   attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raised again and fell
    244.   upon her a third time, then a fourth, with heavy measured blows. Mikolka
    245.   was in a fury that he could not kill her at one blow.
    246. <br />
    247.   &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a tough one,&rdquo; was shouted in the crowd.
    248. <br />
    249.   &ldquo;She&rsquo;ll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her,&rdquo; said
    250.   an admiring spectator in the crowd.
    251. <br />
    252.   &ldquo;Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off,&rdquo; shouted a third.
    253. <br />
    254.   &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll show you! Stand off,&rdquo; Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw down
    255.   the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron crowbar. &ldquo;Look
    256.   out,&rdquo; he shouted, and with all his might he dealt a stunning blow at the
    257.   poor mare. The blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull,
    258.   but the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her back and she fell on
    259.   the ground like a log.
    260. <br />
    261.   &ldquo;Finish her off,&rdquo; shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of the
    262.   cart. Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized anything they
    263.   could come across&mdash;whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dying mare.
    264.   Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing random blows with the crowbar.
    265.   The mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died.
    266. <br />
    267.   &ldquo;You butchered her,&rdquo; someone shouted in the crowd.
    268. <br />
    269.   &ldquo;Why wouldn&rsquo;t she gallop then?&rdquo;
    270.  <br />
    271.   &ldquo;My property!&rdquo; shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the bar
    272.   in his hands. He stood as though regretting that he had nothing more to
    273.   beat.
    274. <br />
    275.   &ldquo;No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,&rdquo; many voices were shouting
    276.   in the crowd.
    277. <br />
    278.   But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming, through the
    279.   crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head and
    280.   kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips.... Then he jumped up and
    281.   flew in a frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instant his
    282.   father, who had been running after him, snatched him up and carried him
    283.   out of the crowd.
    284. <br />
    285.   &ldquo;Come along, come! Let us go home,&rdquo; he said to him.
    286. <br />
    287.   &ldquo;Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!&rdquo; he sobbed, but his voice
    288.   broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting chest.
    289. <br />
    290.   &ldquo;They are drunk.... They are brutal... it&rsquo;s not our business!&rdquo; said his
    291.   father. He put his arms round his father but he felt choked, choked. He
    292.   tried to draw a breath, to cry out&mdash;and woke up.
    293. <br />
    294.   He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and
    295.   stood up in terror.
    296. <br />
    297.   &ldquo;Thank God, that was only a dream,&rdquo; he said, sitting down under a tree and
    298.   drawing deep breaths. &ldquo;But what is it? Is it some fever coming on? Such a
    299.   hideous dream!&rdquo;
    300.  <br />
    301.   He felt utterly broken: darkness and confusion were in his soul. He rested
    302.   his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands.
    303. <br />
    304.   &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;can it be, can it be, that I shall really take an
    305.   axe, that I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open... that I
    306.   shall tread in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble;
    307.   hide, all spattered in the blood... with the axe.... Good God, can it be?&rdquo;
    308.  <br />
    309.   He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.
    310. <br />
    311.   &ldquo;But why am I going on like this?&rdquo; he continued, sitting up again, as it
    312.   were in profound amazement. &ldquo;I knew that I could never bring myself to it,
    313.   so what have I been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday, yesterday,
    314.   when I went to make that... , yesterday I realised
    315.   completely that I could never bear to do it.... Why am I going over it
    316.   again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I
    317.   said myself that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile... the very thought of
    318.   it made me feel sick and filled me with horror.
    319. <br />
    320.   &ldquo;No, I couldn&rsquo;t do it, I couldn&rsquo;t do it! Granted, granted that there is no
    321.   flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have concluded this last month
    322.   is clear as day, true as arithmetic.... My God! Anyway I couldn&rsquo;t bring
    323.   myself to it! I couldn&rsquo;t do it, I couldn&rsquo;t do it! Why, why then am I
    324.   still...?&rdquo;
    325.  <br />
    326.   He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though surprised at finding
    327.   himself in this place, and went towards the bridge. He was pale, his eyes
    328.   glowed, he was exhausted in every limb, but he seemed suddenly to breathe
    329.   more easily. He felt he had cast off that fearful burden that had so long
    330.   been weighing upon him, and all at once there was a sense of relief and
    331.   peace in his soul. &ldquo;Lord,&rdquo; he prayed, &ldquo;show me my path&mdash;I renounce
    332.   that accursed... dream of mine.&rdquo;
    333.  <br />
    334.   Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the
    335.   glowing red sun setting in the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness he
    336.   was not conscious of fatigue. It was as though an abscess that had been
    337.   forming for a month past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom,
    338.   freedom! He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession!
    339. <br />
    340.   Later on, when he recalled that time and all that happened to him during
    341.   those days, minute by minute, point by point, he was superstitiously
    342.   impressed by one circumstance, which, though in itself not very
    343.   exceptional, always seemed to him afterwards the predestined turning-point
    344.   of his fate. He could never understand and explain to himself why, when he
    345.   was tired and worn out, when it would have been more convenient for him to
    346.   go home by the shortest and most direct way, he had returned by the Hay
    347.   Market where he had no need to go. It was obviously and quite
    348.   unnecessarily out of his way, though not much so. It is true that it
    349.   happened to him dozens of times to return home without noticing what
    350.   streets he passed through. But why, he was always asking himself, why had
    351.   such an important, such a decisive and at the same time such an absolutely
    352.   chance meeting happened in the Hay Market (where he had moreover no reason
    353.   to go) at the very hour, the very minute of his life when he was just in
    354.   the very mood and in the very circumstances in which that meeting was able
    355.   to exert the gravest and most decisive influence on his whole destiny? As
    356.   though it had been lying in wait for him on purpose!
    357. <br />
    358.   It was about nine o&rsquo;clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the tables
    359.   and the barrows, at the booths and the shops, all the market people were
    360.   closing their establishments or clearing away and packing up their wares
    361.   and, like their customers, were going home. Rag pickers and costermongers
    362.   of all kinds were crowding round the taverns in the dirty and stinking
    363.   courtyards of the Hay Market. Raskolnikov particularly liked this place
    364.   and the neighbouring alleys, when he wandered aimlessly in the streets.
    365.   Here his rags did not attract contemptuous attention, and one could walk
    366.   about in any attire without scandalising people. At the corner of an alley
    367.   a huckster and his wife had two tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton
    368.   handkerchiefs, etc. They, too, had got up to go home, but were lingering
    369.   in conversation with a friend, who had just come up to them. This friend
    370.   was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as everyone called her, Lizaveta, the younger
    371.   sister of the old pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna, whom Raskolnikov had
    372.   visited the previous day to pawn his watch and make his ....
    373.   He already knew all about Lizaveta and she knew him a little too. She was
    374.   a single woman of about thirty-five, tall, clumsy, timid, submissive and
    375.   almost idiotic. She was a complete slave and went in fear and trembling of
    376.   her sister, who made her work day and night, and even beat her. She was
    377.   standing with a bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening
    378.   earnestly and doubtfully. They were talking of something with special
    379.   warmth. The moment Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was overcome by a
    380.   strange sensation as it were of intense astonishment, though there was
    381.   nothing astonishing about this meeting.
    382. <br />
    383.   &ldquo;You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna,&rdquo; the
    384.   huckster was saying aloud. &ldquo;Come round to-morrow about seven. They will be
    385.   here too.&rdquo;
    386.  <br />
    387.   &ldquo;To-morrow?&rdquo; said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to
    388.   make up her mind.
    389. <br />
    390.   &ldquo;Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna,&rdquo; gabbled the
    391.   huckster&rsquo;s wife, a lively little woman. &ldquo;I look at you, you are like some
    392.   little babe. And she is not your own sister either&mdash;nothing but a
    393.   step-sister and what a hand she keeps over you!&rdquo;
    394.  <br />
    395.   &ldquo;But this time don&rsquo;t say a word to Alyona Ivanovna,&rdquo; her husband
    396.   interrupted; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s my advice, but come round to us without asking. It
    397.   will be worth your while. Later on your sister herself may have a notion.&rdquo;
    398.  <br />
    399.   &ldquo;Am I to come?&rdquo;
    400.  <br />
    401.   &ldquo;About seven o&rsquo;clock to-morrow. And they will be here. You will be able to
    402.   decide for yourself.&rdquo;
    403.  <br />
    404.   &ldquo;And we&rsquo;ll have a cup of tea,&rdquo; added his wife.
    405. <br />
    406.   &ldquo;All right, I&rsquo;ll come,&rdquo; said Lizaveta, still pondering, and she began
    407.   slowly moving away.
    408. <br />
    409.   Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly,
    410.   unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His first amazement was followed by
    411.   a thrill of horror, like a shiver running down his spine. He had learnt,
    412.   he had suddenly quite unexpectedly learnt, that the next day at seven
    413.   o&rsquo;clock Lizaveta, the old woman&rsquo;s sister and only companion, would be away
    414.   from home and that therefore at seven o&rsquo;clock precisely the old woman .
    415. <br />
    416.   He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in like a man condemned
    417.   to death. He thought of nothing and was incapable of thinking; but he felt
    418.   suddenly in his whole being that he had no more freedom of thought, no
    419.   will, and that everything was suddenly and irrevocably decided.
    420. <br />
    421.   Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, he
    422.   could not reckon on a more certain step towards the success of the plan
    423.   than that which had just presented itself. In any case, it would have been
    424.   difficult to find out beforehand and with certainty, with greater
    425.   exactness and less risk, and without dangerous inquiries and
    426.   investigations, that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whose
    427.   life an attempt was contemplated, would be at home and entirely alone.

      CHAPTER VI


  Later on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his wife
  had invited Lizaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there was nothing
  exceptional about it. A family who had come to the town and been reduced
  to poverty were selling their household goods and clothes, all women&rsquo;s
  things. As the things would have fetched little in the market, they were
  looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta&rsquo;s business. She undertook such
  jobs and was frequently employed, as she was very honest and always fixed
  a fair price and stuck to it. She spoke as a rule little and, as we have
  said already, she was very submissive and timid.
<br />
  But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The traces of
  superstition remained in him long after, and were almost ineradicable. And
  in all this he was always afterwards disposed to see something strange and
  mysterious, as it were, the presence of some peculiar influences and
  coincidences. In the previous winter a student he knew called Pokorev, who
  had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversation to give him the address
  of Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn
  anything. For a long while he did not go to her, for he had lessons and
  managed to get along somehow. Six weeks ago he had remembered the address;
  he had two articles that could be pawned: his father&rsquo;s old silver watch
  and a little gold ring with three red stones, a present from his sister at
  parting. He decided to take the ring. When he found the old woman he had
  felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first glance, though he
  knew nothing special about her. He got two roubles from her and went into
  a miserable little tavern on his way home. He asked for tea, sat down and
  sank into deep thought. A strange idea was pecking at his brain like a
  chicken in the egg, and very, very much absorbed him.
<br />
  Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he
  did not know and had never seen, and with him a young officer. They had
  played a game of billiards and began drinking tea. All at once he heard
  the student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna and give
  him her address. This of itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov; he had just
  come from her and here at once he heard her name. Of course it was a
  chance, but he could not shake off a very extraordinary impression, and
  here someone seemed to be speaking expressly for him; the student began
  telling his friend various details about Alyona Ivanovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;She is first-rate,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You can always get money from her. She is
  as rich as a Jew, she can give you five thousand roubles at a time and she
  is not above taking a pledge for a rouble. Lots of our fellows have had
  dealings with her. But she is an awful old harpy....&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she was, how if you
  were only a day late with your interest the pledge was lost; how she gave
  a quarter of the value of an article and took five and even seven percent
  a month on it and so on. The student chattered on, saying that she had a
  sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little creature was continually
  beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child, though Lizaveta
  was at least six feet high.
<br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a phenomenon for you,&rdquo; cried the student and he laughed.
<br />
  They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her with a
  peculiar relish and was continually laughing and the officer listened with
  great interest and asked him to send Lizaveta to do some mending for him.
  Raskolnikov did not miss a word and learned everything about her. Lizaveta
  was younger than the old woman and was her half-sister, being the child of
  a different mother. She was thirty-five. She worked day and night for her
  sister, and besides doing the cooking and the washing, she did sewing and
  worked as a charwoman and gave her sister all she earned. She did not dare
  to accept an order or job of any kind without her sister&rsquo;s permission. The
  old woman had already made her will, and Lizaveta knew of it, and by this
  will she would not get a farthing; nothing but the movables, chairs and so
  on; all the money was left to a monastery in the province of N&mdash;&mdash;,
  that prayers might be said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower
  rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouth in appearance,
  remarkably tall with long feet that looked as if they were bent outwards.
  She always wore battered goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What
  the student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that
  Lizaveta was continually with child.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you say she is hideous?&rdquo; observed the officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but you
  know she is not at all hideous. She has such a good-natured face and eyes.
  Strikingly so. And the proof of it is that lots of people are attracted by
  her. She is such a soft, gentle creature, ready to put up with anything,
  always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is really very
  sweet.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You seem to find her attractive yourself,&rdquo; laughed the officer.
<br />
  &ldquo;From her queerness. No, I&rsquo;ll tell you what. I could kill that damned old
  woman and make off with her money, I assure you, without the faintest
  conscience-prick,&rdquo; the student added with warmth. The officer laughed
  again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!
<br />
  &ldquo;Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,&rdquo; the student said hotly. &ldquo;I
  was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid,
  senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply
  useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is living
  for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You understand?
  You understand?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, I understand,&rdquo; answered the officer, watching his excited
  companion attentively.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for
  want of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good
  deeds could be done and helped, on that old woman&rsquo;s money which will be
  buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on the
  right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from ruin, from
  vice, from the Lock hospitals&mdash;and all with her money. Kill her, take
  her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of
  humanity and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny crime
  be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands would be
  saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives in
  exchange&mdash;it&rsquo;s simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of
  that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence! No
  more than the life of a louse, of a black-beetle, less in fact because the
  old woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of others; the other
  day she bit Lizaveta&rsquo;s finger out of spite; it almost had to be
  amputated.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course she does not deserve to live,&rdquo; remarked the officer, &ldquo;but there
  it is, it&rsquo;s nature.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but for
  that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that, there would
  never have been a single great man. They talk of duty, conscience&mdash;I
  don&rsquo;t want to say anything against duty and conscience;&mdash;but the
  point is, what do we mean by them? Stay, I have another question to ask
  you. Listen!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, you stay, I&rsquo;ll ask you a question. Listen!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the
  old woman ?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it.... It&rsquo;s nothing to
  do with me....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there&rsquo;s no justice about
  it.... Let us have another game.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary
  youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in different
  forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear such a
  discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain was just
  conceiving... ? And why, just at the moment when
  he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old woman had he
  dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This coincidence always
  seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern had an immense
  influence on him in his later action; as though there had really been in
  it something preordained, some guiding hint....

      On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and sat for
  a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no candle
  and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never recollect
  whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At last he was
  conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised with relief
  that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over
  him, as it were crushing him.
<br />
  He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya,
  coming into his room at ten o&rsquo;clock the next morning, had difficulty in
  rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the
  second brew and again in her own tea-pot.
<br />
  &ldquo;My goodness, how he sleeps!&rdquo; she cried indignantly. &ldquo;And he is always
  asleep.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in his
  garret and sank back on the sofa again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Going to sleep again,&rdquo; cried Nastasya. &ldquo;Are you ill, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He made no reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you want some tea?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Afterwards,&rdquo; he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning
  to the wall.
<br />
  Nastasya stood over him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps he really is ill,&rdquo; she said, turned and went out. She came in
  again at two o&rsquo;clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood
  untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began wrathfully rousing
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why are you lying like a log?&rdquo; she shouted, looking at him with
  repulsion.
<br />
  He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the floor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you ill or not?&rdquo; asked Nastasya and again received no answer. &ldquo;You&rsquo;d
  better go out and get a breath of air,&rdquo; she said after a pause. &ldquo;Will you
  eat it or not?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Afterwards,&rdquo; he said weakly. &ldquo;You can go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he motioned her out.
<br />
  She remained a little longer, looked at him with compassion and went out.
<br />
  A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked for a long while
  at the tea and the soup. Then he took the bread, took up a spoon and began
  to eat.
<br />
  He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite, as it were
  mechanically. His head ached less. After his meal he stretched himself on
  the sofa again, but now he could not sleep; he lay without stirring, with
  his face in the pillow. He was haunted by day-dreams and such strange
  day-dreams; in one, that kept recurring, he fancied that he was in Africa,
  in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan was resting, the camels were
  peacefully lying down; the palms stood all around in a complete circle;
  all the party were at dinner. But he was drinking water from a spring
  which flowed gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was wonderful,
  wonderful, blue, cold water running among the parti-coloured stones and
  over the clean sand which glistened here and there like gold.... Suddenly
  he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself, raised his head,
  looked out of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly jumped up
  wide awake as though someone had pulled him off the sofa. He crept on
  tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and began listening on the
  staircase. His heart beat terribly. But all was quiet on the stairs as if
  everyone was asleep.... It seemed to him strange and monstrous that he
  could have slept in such forgetfulness from the previous day and had done
  nothing, had prepared nothing yet.... And meanwhile perhaps it had struck
  six. And his drowsiness and stupefaction were followed by an
  extraordinary, feverish, as it were distracted haste. But the preparations
  to be made were few. He concentrated all his energies on thinking of
  everything and forgetting nothing; and his heart kept beating and thumping
  so that he could hardly breathe. First he had to make a noose and sew it
  into his overcoat&mdash;a work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow
  and picked out amongst the linen stuffed away under it, a worn out, old
  unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long strip, a couple of inches
  wide and about sixteen inches long. He folded this strip in two, took off
  his wide, strong summer overcoat of some stout cotton material (his only
  outer garment) and began sewing the two ends of the rag on the inside,
  under the left armhole. His hands shook as he sewed, but he did it
  successfully so that nothing showed outside when he put the coat on again.
  The needle and thread he had got ready long before and they lay on his
  table in a piece of paper. As for the noose, it was a very ingenious
  device of his own; the noose was intended for the axe. It was impossible
  for him to carry the axe through the street in his hands. And if hidden
  under his coat he would still have had to support it with his hand, which
  would have been noticeable. Now he had only to put the head of the axe in
  the noose, and it would hang quietly under his arm on the inside. Putting
  his hand in his coat pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all the
  way, so that it did not swing; and as the coat was very full, a regular
  sack in fact, it could not be seen from outside that he was holding
  something with the hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had
  designed a fortnight before.
<br />
  When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little opening
  between his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and drew out
  the , which he had got ready long before and hidden there.
  This pledge was, however, only a smoothly planed piece of wood the size
  and thickness of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of wood
  in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there was some sort of a
  workshop. Afterwards he had added to the wood a thin smooth piece of iron,
  which he had also picked up at the same time in the street. Putting the
  iron which was a little the smaller on the piece of wood, he fastened them
  very firmly, crossing and re-crossing the thread round them; then wrapped
  them carefully and daintily in clean white paper and tied up the parcel so
  that it would be very difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert
  the attention of the old woman for a time, while she was trying to undo
  the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip was added to give
  weight, so that the woman might not guess the first minute that the
  &ldquo;thing&rdquo; was made of wood. All this had been stored by him beforehand under
  the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when he heard someone
  suddenly about in the yard.
<br />
  &ldquo;It struck six long ago.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Long ago! My God!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and began to descend
  his thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had still the
  most important thing to do&mdash;to steal the axe from the kitchen. That
  the deed must be done with an axe he had decided long ago. He had also a
  pocket pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still less on
  his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We may note in
  passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the final resolutions taken by
  him in the matter; they had one strange characteristic: the more final
  they were, the more hideous and the more absurd they at once became in his
  eyes. In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never for a single
  instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his plans.
<br />
  And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point
  could have been considered and finally settled, and no uncertainty of any
  kind had remained, he would, it seems, have renounced it all as something
  absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a whole mass of unsettled points and
  uncertainties remained. As for getting the axe, that trifling business
  cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier. Nastasya was continually
  out of the house, especially in the evenings; she would run in to the
  neighbours or to a shop, and always left the door ajar. It was the one
  thing the landlady was always scolding her about. And so, when the time
  came, he would only have to go quietly into the kitchen and to take the
  axe, and an hour later (when everything was over) go in and put it back
  again. But these were doubtful points. Supposing he returned an hour later
  to put it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot. He would
  of course have to go by and wait till she went out again. But supposing
  she were in the meantime to miss the axe, look for it, make an outcry&mdash;that
  would mean suspicion or at least grounds for suspicion.
<br />
  But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and
  indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off
  trifling details, until . But that seemed
  utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at least. He could not
  imagine, for instance, that he would sometime leave off thinking, get up
  and simply go there.... Even his late experiment (i.e. his visit with the
  object of a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt at an
  experiment, far from being the real thing, as though one should say &ldquo;come,
  let us go and try it&mdash;why dream about it!&rdquo;&mdash;and at once he had
  broken down and had run away cursing, in a frenzy with himself. Meanwhile
  it would seem, as regards the moral question, that his analysis was
  complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he could not find
  rational objections in himself. But in the last resort he simply ceased to
  believe in himself, and doggedly, slavishly sought arguments in all
  directions, fumbling for them, as though someone were forcing and drawing
  him to it.
<br />
  At first&mdash;long before indeed&mdash;he had been much occupied with one
  question; why almost all crimes are so badly concealed and so easily
  detected, and why almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He had
  come gradually to many different and curious conclusions, and in his
  opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the material impossibility of
  concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every criminal is
  subject to a failure of will and reasoning power by a childish and
  phenomenal heedlessness, at the very instant when prudence and caution are
  most essential. It was his conviction that this eclipse of reason and
  failure of will power attacked a man like a disease, developed gradually
  and reached its highest point just before the perpetration of the crime,
  continued with equal violence at the moment of the crime and for longer or
  shorter time after, according to the individual case, and then passed off
  like any other disease. The question whether the disease gives rise to the
  crime, or whether the crime from its own peculiar nature is always
  accompanied by something of the nature of disease, he did not yet feel
  able to decide.
<br />
  When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there
  could not be such a morbid reaction, that his reason and will would remain
  unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for the simple reason
  that his design was &ldquo;not a crime....&rdquo; We will omit all the process by
  means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have run too far
  ahead already.... We may add only that the practical, purely material
  difficulties of the affair occupied a secondary position in his mind. &ldquo;One
  has but to keep all one&rsquo;s will-power and reason to deal with them, and
  they will all be overcome at the time when once one has familiarised
  oneself with the minutest details of the business....&rdquo; But this
  preparation had never been begun. His final decisions were what he came to
  trust least, and when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite
  differently, as it were accidentally and unexpectedly.
<br />
  One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even left
  the staircase. When he reached the landlady&rsquo;s kitchen, the door of which
  was open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether, in Nastasya&rsquo;s
  absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether the door to
  her own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when he went in
  for the axe. But what was his amazement when he suddenly saw that Nastasya
  was not only at home in the kitchen, but was occupied there, taking linen
  out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she left off hanging
  the clothes, turned to him and stared at him all the time he was passing.
  He turned away his eyes, and walked past as though he noticed nothing. But
  it was the end of everything; he had not the axe! He was overwhelmed.
<br />
  &ldquo;What made me think,&rdquo; he reflected, as he went under the gateway, &ldquo;what
  made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment!
  Why, why, why did I assume this so certainly?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself in
  his anger.... A dull animal rage boiled within him.
<br />
  He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go a walk
  for appearance&rsquo; sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even more
  revolting. &ldquo;And what a chance I have lost for ever!&rdquo; he muttered, standing
  aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter&rsquo;s little dark room,
  which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter&rsquo;s room, two
  paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the right caught
  his eye.... He looked about him&mdash;nobody. He approached the room on
  tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a faint voice called the
  porter. &ldquo;Yes, not at home! Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the
  door is wide open.&rdquo; He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled it out
  from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks of wood; at once,
  before going out, he made it fast in the noose, he thrust both hands into
  his pockets and went out of the room; no one had noticed him! &ldquo;When reason
  fails, the devil helps!&rdquo; he thought with a strange grin. This chance
  raised his spirits extraordinarily.
<br />
  He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening
  suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passers-by, tried to escape looking
  at their faces at all, and to be as little noticeable as possible.
  Suddenly he thought of his hat. &ldquo;Good heavens! I had the money the day
  before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!&rdquo; A curse rose from
  the bottom of his soul.
<br />
  Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock on
  the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste and at
  the same time to go someway round, so as to approach the house from the
  other side....
<br />
  When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes
  thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much afraid
  now, was not afraid at all, indeed. His mind was even occupied by
  irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov
  garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great
  fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere in all the
  squares. By degrees he passed to the conviction that if the summer garden
  were extended to the field of Mars, and perhaps joined to the garden of
  the Mihailovsky Palace, it would be a splendid thing and a great benefit
  to the town. Then he was interested by the question why in all great towns
  men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some peculiar way inclined
  to live in those parts of the town where there are no gardens nor
  fountains; where there is most dirt and smell and all sorts of nastiness.
  Then his own walks through the Hay Market came back to his mind, and for a
  moment he waked up to reality. &ldquo;What nonsense!&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;better think
  of nothing at all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that
  meets them on the way,&rdquo; flashed through his mind, but simply flashed, like
  lightning; he made haste to dismiss this thought.... And by now he was
  near; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock somewhere
  struck once. &ldquo;What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it must be
  fast!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very
  moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay had just
  driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under the
  gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time to drive through into the
  yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other side of
  the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrelling; but no one noticed him
  and no one met him. Many windows looking into that huge quadrangular yard
  were open at that moment, but he did not raise his head&mdash;he had not
  the strength to. The staircase leading to the old woman&rsquo;s room was close
  by, just on the right of the gateway. He was already on the stairs....
<br />
  Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and once
  more feeling for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly and
  cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every minute. But the stairs,
  too, were quite deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no one. One flat
  indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were at work in it,
  but they did not glance at him. He stood still, thought a minute and went
  on. &ldquo;Of course it would be better if they had not been here, but... it&rsquo;s
  two storeys above them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the flat
  opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old woman&rsquo;s was
  apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had been torn
  off&mdash;they had gone away!... He was out of breath. For one instant the
  thought floated through his mind &ldquo;Shall I go back?&rdquo; But he made no answer
  and began listening at the old woman&rsquo;s door, a dead silence. Then he
  listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently... then looked
  about him for the last time, pulled himself together, drew himself up, and
  once more tried the axe in the noose. &ldquo;Am I very pale?&rdquo; he wondered. &ldquo;Am I
  not evidently agitated? She is mistrustful.... Had I better wait a little
  longer... till my heart leaves off thumping?&rdquo;
 <br />
  But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite him,
  it throbbed more and more violently. He could stand it no longer, he
  slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang. Half a minute later he rang
  again, more loudly.
<br />
  No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman
  was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He had some
  knowledge of her habits... and once more he put his ear to the door.
  Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to suppose),
  or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he suddenly heard something
  like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the rustle of a skirt at
  the very door. Someone was standing stealthily close to the lock and just
  as he was doing on the outside was secretly listening within, and seemed
  to have her ear to the door.... He moved a little on purpose and muttered
  something aloud that he might not have the appearance of hiding, then rang
  a third time, but quietly, soberly, and without impatience, Recalling it
  afterwards, that moment stood out in his mind vividly, distinctly, for
  ever; he could not make out how he had had such cunning, for his mind was
  as it were clouded at moments and he was almost unconscious of his
  body.... An instant later he heard the latch unfastened.


      CHAPTER VII


  The door was as before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp and
  suspicious eyes stared at him out of the darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost
  his head and nearly made a great mistake.
<br />
  Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being alone, and not
  hoping that the sight of him would disarm her suspicions, he took hold of
  the door and drew it towards him to prevent the old woman from attempting
  to shut it again. Seeing this she did not pull the door back, but she did
  not let go the handle so that he almost dragged her out with it on to the
  stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the doorway not allowing him to
  pass, he advanced straight upon her. She stepped back in alarm, tried to
  say something, but seemed unable to speak and stared with open eyes at
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna,&rdquo; he began, trying to speak easily, but his
  voice would not obey him, it broke and shook. &ldquo;I have come... I have
  brought something... but we&rsquo;d better come in... to the light....&rdquo;
 <br />
  And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old woman
  ran after him; her tongue was unloosed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov... here, I brought you
  the pledge I promised the other day...&rdquo; And he held out the pledge.
<br />
  The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at once stared in
  the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked intently, maliciously and
  mistrustfully. A minute passed; he even fancied something like a sneer in
  her eyes, as though she had already guessed everything. He felt that he
  was losing his head, that he was almost frightened, so frightened that if
  she were to look like that and not say a word for another half minute, he
  thought he would have run away from her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?&rdquo; he said suddenly,
  also with malice. &ldquo;Take it if you like, if not I&rsquo;ll go elsewhere, I am in
  a hurry.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He had not even thought of saying this, but it was suddenly said of
  itself. The old woman recovered herself, and her visitor&rsquo;s resolute tone
  evidently restored her confidence.
<br />
  &ldquo;But why, my good sir, all of a minute.... What is it?&rdquo; she asked, looking
  at the pledge.
<br />
  &ldquo;The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She held out her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;But how pale you are, to be sure... and your hands are trembling too?
  Have you been bathing, or what?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Fever,&rdquo; he answered abruptly. &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t help getting pale... if you&rsquo;ve
  nothing to eat,&rdquo; he added, with difficulty articulating the words.
<br />
  His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like the truth;
  the old woman took the pledge.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and
  weighing the pledge in her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;A thing... cigarette case.... Silver.... Look at it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It does not seem somehow like silver.... How he has wrapped it up!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all
  her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him
  altogether for some seconds and stood with her back to him. He unbuttoned
  his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did not yet take it out
  altogether, simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His hands
  were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing more numb and more
  wooden. He was afraid he would let the axe slip and fall.... A sudden
  giddiness came over him.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what has he tied it up like this for?&rdquo; the old woman cried with
  vexation and moved towards him.
<br />
  He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe quite out, swung it
  with both arms, scarcely conscious of himself, and almost without effort,
  almost mechanically, brought the blunt side down on her head. He seemed
  not to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he had once brought
  the axe down, his strength returned to him.
<br />
  The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light hair, streaked
  with grey, thickly smeared with grease, was plaited in a rat&rsquo;s tail and
  fastened by a broken horn comb which stood out on the nape of her neck. As
  she was so short, the blow fell on the very top of her skull. She cried
  out, but very faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on the floor,
  raising her hands to her head. In one hand she still held &ldquo;the pledge.&rdquo;
   Then he dealt her another and another blow with the blunt side and on the
  same spot. The blood gushed as from an overturned glass, the body fell
  back. He stepped back, let it fall, and at once bent over her face; she
  was dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their sockets, the brow
  and the whole face were drawn and contorted convulsively.
<br />
  He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her
  pocket (trying to avoid the streaming body)&mdash;the same right-hand
  pocket from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in full
  possession of his faculties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his
  hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been
  particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to get smeared
  with blood.... He pulled out the keys at once, they were all, as before,
  in one bunch on a steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom with them.
  It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy images. Against the
  other wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with a silk patchwork
  wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of drawers. Strange to say,
  so soon as he began to fit the keys into the chest, so soon as he heard
  their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt
  tempted again to give it all up and go away. But that was only for an
  instant; it was too late to go back. He positively smiled at himself, when
  suddenly another terrifying idea occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied
  that the old woman might be still alive and might recover her senses.
  Leaving the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up the
  axe and lifted it once more over the old woman, but did not bring it down.
  There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and examining her again
  more closely, he saw clearly that the skull was broken and even battered
  in on one side. He was about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his
  hand and indeed it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect
  pool of blood. All at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at
  it, but the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked
  with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but
  something held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised
  the axe again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not dare,
  and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood, after two
  minutes&rsquo; hurried effort, he cut the string and took it off without
  touching the body with the axe; he was not mistaken&mdash;it was a purse.
  On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of copper, and
  an image in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy chamois leather
  purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed very full;
  Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it, flung the
  crosses on the old woman&rsquo;s body and rushed back into the bedroom, this
  time taking the axe with him.
<br />
  He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began trying them
  again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It was
  not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making mistakes;
  though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one and would not
  fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered and realised that
  the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging there with the small
  keys could not possibly belong to the chest of drawers (on his last visit
  this had struck him), but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps
  was hidden in that box. He left the chest of drawers, and at once felt
  under the bedstead, knowing that old women usually keep boxes under their
  beds. And so it was; there was a good-sized box under the bed, at least a
  yard in length, with an arched lid covered with red leather and studded
  with steel nails. The notched key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the
  top, under a white sheet, was a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin;
  under it was a silk dress, then a shawl and it seemed as though there was
  nothing below but clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his
  blood-stained hands on the red brocade. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s red, and on red blood will
  be less noticeable,&rdquo; the thought passed through his mind; then he suddenly
  came to himself. &ldquo;Good God, am I going out of my senses?&rdquo; he thought with
  terror.
<br />
  But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped from
  under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them all over. There turned out
  to be various articles made of gold among the clothes&mdash;probably all
  pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed&mdash;bracelets, chains,
  ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in cases, others simply wrapped
  in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with tape.
  Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of his trousers and
  overcoat without examining or undoing the parcels and cases; but he had
  not time to take many....
<br />
  He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He stopped
  short and was still as death. But all was quiet, so it must have been his
  fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry, as though someone had
  uttered a low broken moan. Then again dead silence for a minute or two. He
  sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited holding his breath.
  Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of the bedroom.
<br />
  In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her arms.
  She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white as a sheet
  and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him run out of the
  bedroom, she began faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a shudder ran
  down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but still did not
  scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the corner, staring
  intently, persistently at him, but still uttered no sound, as though she
  could not get breath to scream. He rushed at her with the axe; her mouth
  twitched piteously, as one sees babies&rsquo; mouths, when they begin to be
  frightened, stare intently at what frightens them and are on the point of
  screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so simple and had been so
  thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not even raise a hand to guard
  her face, though that was the most necessary and natural action at the
  moment, for the axe was raised over her face. She only put up her empty
  left hand, but not to her face, slowly holding it out before her as though
  motioning him away. The axe fell with the sharp edge just on the skull and
  split at one blow all the top of the head. She fell heavily at once.
  Raskolnikov completely lost his head, snatching up her bundle, dropped it
  again and ran into the entry.
<br />
  Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this second,
  quite unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the place as fast as
  possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing and
  reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realise all the
  difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the
  absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and,
  perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of that
  place and to make his way home, it is very possible that he would have
  flung up everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and not from
  fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had done. The feeling
  of loathing especially surged up within him and grew stronger every
  minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even into the room for
  anything in the world.
<br />
  But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take
  possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot what
  was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the
  kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought
  him of washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with blood. He
  dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap that
  lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands in the
  bucket. When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and
  spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood where there were
  spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all with some
  linen that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and then he was a
  long while attentively examining the axe at the window. There was no trace
  left on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in the
  noose under his coat. Then as far as was possible, in the dim light in the
  kitchen, he looked over his overcoat, his trousers and his boots. At the
  first glance there seemed to be nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted
  the rag and rubbed the boots. But he knew he was not looking thoroughly,
  that there might be something quite noticeable that he was overlooking. He
  stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas
  rose in his mind&mdash;the idea that he was mad and that at that moment he
  was incapable of reasoning, of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps
  to be doing something utterly different from what he was now doing. &ldquo;Good
  God!&rdquo; he muttered &ldquo;I must fly, fly,&rdquo; and he rushed into the entry. But
  here a shock of terror awaited him such as he had never known before.
<br />
  He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer
  door from the stairs, at which he had not long before waited and rung, was
  standing unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all
  the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it after him perhaps
  as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen Lizaveta afterwards! And
  how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that she must have come
  in somehow! She could not have come through the wall!
<br />
  He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.
<br />
  &ldquo;But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away....&rdquo;
 <br />
  He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the
  staircase.
<br />
  He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the gateway,
  two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding.
  &ldquo;What are they about?&rdquo; He waited patiently. At last all was still, as
  though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out, but
  suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and someone began
  going downstairs humming a tune. &ldquo;How is it they all make such a noise?&rdquo;
   flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door and waited. At last
  all was still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a step towards the
  stairs when he heard fresh footsteps.
<br />
  The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but he
  remembered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he began
  for some reason to suspect that this was someone coming , to
  the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar,
  significant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now  had
  passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it was growing more
  and more distinct! He could hear his heavy breathing. And now the third
  storey had been reached. Coming here! And it seemed to him all at once
  that he was turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is
  being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is rooted to the spot
  and cannot even move one&rsquo;s arms.
<br />
  At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floor, he suddenly
  started, and succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the flat
  and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook and softly,
  noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had done
  this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown visitor was
  by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one another, as
  he had just before been standing with the old woman, when the door divided
  them and he was listening.
<br />
  The visitor panted several times. &ldquo;He must be a big, fat man,&rdquo; thought
  Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream indeed.
  The visitor took hold of the bell and rang it loudly.
<br />
  As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of
  something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite
  seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged violently
  and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror at
  the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every
  minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem
  possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the
  fastening, but  might be aware of it. A giddiness came over him
  again. &ldquo;I shall fall down!&rdquo; flashed through his mind, but the unknown
  began to speak and he recovered himself at once.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!&rdquo; he bawled in a
  thick voice, &ldquo;Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my
  beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen times at the
  bell. He must certainly be a man of authority and an intimate
  acquaintance.
<br />
  At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far off, on the stairs.
  Someone else was approaching. Raskolnikov had not heard them at first.
<br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say there&rsquo;s no one at home,&rdquo; the new-comer cried in a cheerful,
  ringing voice, addressing the first visitor, who still went on pulling the
  bell. &ldquo;Good evening, Koch.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;From his voice he must be quite young,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who the devil can tell? I&rsquo;ve almost broken the lock,&rdquo; answered Koch. &ldquo;But
  how do you come to know me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times running at billiards
  at Gambrinus&rsquo;.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So they are not at home? That&rsquo;s queer. It&rsquo;s awfully stupid though. Where
  could the old woman have gone? I&rsquo;ve come on business.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes; and I have business with her, too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aie&mdash;aie! And I was hoping
  to get some money!&rdquo; cried the young man.
<br />
  &ldquo;We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this time for? The
  old witch fixed the time for me to come herself. It&rsquo;s out of my way. And
  where the devil she can have got to, I can&rsquo;t make out. She sits here from
  year&rsquo;s end to year&rsquo;s end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet here all
  of a sudden she is out for a walk!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hadn&rsquo;t we better ask the porter?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where she&rsquo;s gone and when she&rsquo;ll be back.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hm.... Damn it all!... We might ask.... But you know she never does go
  anywhere.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he once more tugged at the door-handle.
<br />
  &ldquo;Damn it all. There&rsquo;s nothing to be done, we must go!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Stay!&rdquo; cried the young man suddenly. &ldquo;Do you see how the door shakes if
  you pull it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That shows it&rsquo;s not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how
  the hook clanks?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, don&rsquo;t you see? That proves that one of them is at home. If they were
  all out, they would have locked the door from the outside with the key and
  not with the hook from inside. There, do you hear how the hook is
  clanking? To fasten the hook on the inside they must be at home, don&rsquo;t you
  see. So there they are sitting inside and don&rsquo;t open the door!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well! And so they must be!&rdquo; cried Koch, astonished. &ldquo;What are they about
  in there?&rdquo; And he began furiously shaking the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stay!&rdquo; cried the young man again. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t pull at it! There must be
  something wrong.... Here, you&rsquo;ve been ringing and pulling at the door and
  still they don&rsquo;t open! So either they&rsquo;ve both fainted or...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I tell you what. Let&rsquo;s go fetch the porter, let him wake them up.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All right.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Both were going down.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What for?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, you&rsquo;d better.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All right.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m studying the law you see! It&rsquo;s evident, e-vi-dent there&rsquo;s something
  wrong here!&rdquo; the young man cried hotly, and he ran downstairs.
<br />
  Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell which gave one tinkle,
  then gently, as though reflecting and looking about him, began touching
  the door-handle pulling it and letting it go to make sure once more that
  it was only fastened by the hook. Then puffing and panting he bent down
  and began looking at the keyhole: but the key was in the lock on the
  inside and so nothing could be seen.
<br />
  Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was in a sort of
  delirium. He was even making ready to fight when they should come in.
  While they were knocking and talking together, the idea several times
  occurred to him to end it all at once and shout to them through the door.
  Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them, while they
  could not open the door! &ldquo;Only make haste!&rdquo; was the thought that flashed
  through his mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what the devil is he about?...&rdquo; Time was passing, one minute, and
  another&mdash;no one came. Koch began to be restless.
<br />
  &ldquo;What the devil?&rdquo; he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his sentry
  duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and thumping with his heavy boots on
  the stairs. The steps died away.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens! What am I to do?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door&mdash;there was no sound.
  Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closing the door as
  thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs.
<br />
  He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice below&mdash;where
  could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going back to the
  flat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hey there! Catch the brute!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran
  down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was
  still. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast began
  noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them. He
  distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. &ldquo;Hey!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling &ldquo;come what
  must!&rdquo; If they stopped him&mdash;all was lost; if they let him pass&mdash;all
  was lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they were
  only a flight from him&mdash;and suddenly deliverance! A few steps from
  him on the right, there was an empty flat with the door wide open, the
  flat on the second floor where the painters had been at work, and which,
  as though for his benefit, they had just left. It was they, no doubt, who
  had just run down, shouting. The floor had only just been painted, in the
  middle of the room stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes.
  In one instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden behind the
  wall and only in the nick of time; they had already reached the landing.
  Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He
  waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs.
<br />
  No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through
  the gateway and turned to the left in the street.
<br />
  He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the flat,
  that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as the door had
  just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the bodies, that
  before another minute had passed they would guess and completely realise
  that the murderer had just been there, and had succeeded in hiding
  somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would guess most likely
  that he had been in the empty flat, while they were going upstairs. And
  meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much, though the next turning was
  still nearly a hundred yards away. &ldquo;Should he slip through some gateway
  and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No, hopeless! Should he fling
  away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless, hopeless!&rdquo;
 <br />
  At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive.
  Here he was half way to safety, and he understood it; it was less risky
  because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a
  grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could
  scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck was all wet.
  &ldquo;My word, he has been going it!&rdquo; someone shouted at him when he came out
  on the canal bank.
<br />
  He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the
  worse it was. He remembered however, that on coming out on to the canal
  bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and so being more
  conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost
  falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get home from
  quite a different direction.
<br />
  He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his
  house! He was already on the staircase before he recollected the axe. And
  yet he had a very grave problem before him, to put it back and to escape
  observation as far as possible in doing so. He was of course incapable of
  reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to restore the axe at
  all, but to drop it later on in somebody&rsquo;s yard. But it all happened
  fortunately, the door of the porter&rsquo;s room was closed but not locked, so
  that it seemed most likely that the porter was at home. But he had so
  completely lost all power of reflection that he walked straight to the
  door and opened it. If the porter had asked him, &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; he
  would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But again the porter was not
  at home, and he succeeded in putting the axe back under the bench, and
  even covering it with the chunk of wood as before. He met no one, not a
  soul, afterwards on the way to his room; the landlady&rsquo;s door was shut.
  When he was in his room, he flung himself on the sofa just as he was&mdash;he
  did not sleep, but sank into blank forgetfulness. If anyone had come into
  his room then, he would have jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and
  shreds of thoughts were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not
  catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts....


      PART II


      CHAPTER I


  So he lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed to wake up, and at
  such moments he noticed that it was far into the night, but it did not
  occur to him to get up. At last he noticed that it was beginning to get
  light. He was lying on his back, still dazed from his recent oblivion.
  Fearful, despairing cries rose shrilly from the street, sounds which he
  heard every night, indeed, under his window after two o&rsquo;clock. They woke
  him up now.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s
  past two o&rsquo;clock,&rdquo; and at once he leaped up, as though someone had pulled
  him from the sofa.
<br />
  &ldquo;What! Past two o&rsquo;clock!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He sat down on the sofa&mdash;and instantly recollected everything! All at
  once, in one flash, he recollected everything.
<br />
  For the first moment he thought he was going mad. A dreadful chill came
  over him; but the chill was from the fever that had begun long before in
  his sleep. Now he was suddenly taken with violent shivering, so that his
  teeth chattered and all his limbs were shaking. He opened the door and
  began listening&mdash;everything in the house was asleep. With amazement
  he gazed at himself and everything in the room around him, wondering how
  he could have come in the night before without fastening the door, and
  have flung himself on the sofa without undressing, without even taking his
  hat off. It had fallen off and was lying on the floor near his pillow.
<br />
  &ldquo;If anyone had come in, what would he have thought? That I&rsquo;m drunk but...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He rushed to the window. There was light enough, and he began hurriedly
  looking himself all over from head to foot, all his clothes; were there no
  traces? But there was no doing it like that; shivering with cold, he began
  taking off everything and looking over again. He turned everything over to
  the last threads and rags, and mistrusting himself, went through his
  search three times.
<br />
  But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one place, where some
  thick drops of congealed blood were clinging to the frayed edge of his
  trousers. He picked up a big claspknife and cut off the frayed threads.
  There seemed to be nothing more.
<br />
  Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he had taken out of
  the old woman&rsquo;s box were still in his pockets! He had not thought till
  then of taking them out and hiding them! He had not even thought of them
  while he was examining his clothes! What next? Instantly he rushed to take
  them out and fling them on the table. When he had pulled out everything,
  and turned the pocket inside out to be sure there was nothing left, he
  carried the whole heap to the corner. The paper had come off the bottom of
  the wall and hung there in tatters. He began stuffing all the things into
  the hole under the paper: &ldquo;They&rsquo;re in! All out of sight, and the purse
  too!&rdquo; he thought gleefully, getting up and gazing blankly at the hole
  which bulged out more than ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with
  horror; &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; he whispered in despair: &ldquo;what&rsquo;s the matter with me? Is
  that hidden? Is that the way to hide things?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had only thought of
  money, and so had not prepared a hiding-place.
<br />
  &ldquo;But now, now, what am I glad of?&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;Is that hiding things? My
  reason&rsquo;s deserting me&mdash;simply!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once shaken by another
  unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically he drew from a chair beside him
  his old student&rsquo;s winter coat, which was still warm though almost in rags,
  covered himself up with it and once more sank into drowsiness and
  delirium. He lost consciousness.
<br />
  Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped up a second time, and
  at once pounced in a frenzy on his clothes again.
<br />
  &ldquo;How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I have not
  taken the loop off the armhole! I forgot it, forgot a thing like that!
  Such a piece of evidence!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw the bits
  among his linen under the pillow.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pieces of torn linen couldn&rsquo;t rouse suspicion, whatever happened; I think
  not, I think not, any way!&rdquo; he repeated, standing in the middle of the
  room, and with painful concentration he fell to gazing about him again, at
  the floor and everywhere, trying to make sure he had not forgotten
  anything. The conviction that all his faculties, even memory, and the
  simplest power of reflection were failing him, began to be an insufferable
  torture.
<br />
  &ldquo;Surely it isn&rsquo;t beginning already! Surely it isn&rsquo;t my punishment coming
  upon me? It is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on the
  floor in the middle of the room, where anyone coming in would see them!
<br />
  &ldquo;What is the matter with me!&rdquo; he cried again, like one distraught.
<br />
  Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes were
  covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many stains, but
  that he did not see them, did not notice them because his perceptions were
  failing, were going to pieces... his reason was clouded.... Suddenly he
  remembered that there had been blood on the purse too. &ldquo;Ah! Then there
  must be blood on the pocket too, for I put the wet purse in my pocket!&rdquo;
 <br />
  In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!&mdash;there were
  traces, stains on the lining of the pocket!
<br />
  &ldquo;So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some sense and
  memory, since I guessed it of myself,&rdquo; he thought triumphantly, with a
  deep sigh of relief; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s simply the weakness of fever, a moment&rsquo;s
  delirium,&rdquo; and he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his
  trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the sock
  which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces! He flung off
  his boots; &ldquo;traces indeed! The tip of the sock was soaked with blood;&rdquo; he
  must have unwarily stepped into that pool.... &ldquo;But what am I to do with
  this now? Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn them?
  But what can I burn them with? There are no matches even. No, better go
  out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away,&rdquo; he
  repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, &ldquo;and at once, this minute,
  without lingering...&rdquo;
 <br />
  But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy
  shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him.
<br />
  And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to &ldquo;go
  off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so that it may
  be out of sight and done with, at once, at once!&rdquo; Several times he tried
  to rise from the sofa, but could not.
<br />
  He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking at his door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!&rdquo; shouted
  Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. &ldquo;For whole days together he&rsquo;s
  snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell you. It&rsquo;s past ten.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Maybe he&rsquo;s not at home,&rdquo; said a man&rsquo;s voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ha! that&rsquo;s the porter&rsquo;s voice.... What does he want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a positive
  pain.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then who can have latched the door?&rdquo; retorted Nastasya. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s taken to
  bolting himself in! As if he were worth stealing! Open, you stupid, wake
  up!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do they want? Why the porter? All&rsquo;s discovered. Resist or open? Come
  what may!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.
<br />
  His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the
  bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing there.
<br />
  Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and
  desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey folded
  paper sealed with bottle-wax.
<br />
  &ldquo;A notice from the office,&rdquo; he announced, as he gave him the paper.
<br />
  &ldquo;From what office?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To the police?... What for?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How can I tell? You&rsquo;re sent for, so you go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to go
  away.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s downright ill!&rdquo; observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him. The
  porter turned his head for a moment. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s been in a fever since
  yesterday,&rdquo; she added.
<br />
  Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without
  opening it. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you get up then,&rdquo; Nastasya went on compassionately,
  seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re ill, and
  so don&rsquo;t go; there&rsquo;s no such hurry. What have you got there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his
  trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep with
  them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it, he remembered that half
  waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand and so
  fallen asleep again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look at the rags he&rsquo;s collected and sleeps with them, as though he has
  got hold of a treasure...&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.
<br />
  Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his eyes
  intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational reflection
  at that moment, he felt that no one would behave like that with a person
  who was going to be arrested. &ldquo;But... the police?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better have some tea! Yes? I&rsquo;ll bring it, there&rsquo;s some left.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No... I&rsquo;m going; I&rsquo;ll go at once,&rdquo; he muttered, getting on to his feet.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, you&rsquo;ll never get downstairs!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ll go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;As you please.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She followed the porter out.
<br />
  At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags.
<br />
  &ldquo;There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt, and
  rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion could
  distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed,
  thank God!&rdquo; Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began
  reading; he was a long while reading, before he understood. It was an
  ordinary summons from the district police-station to appear that day at
  half-past nine at the office of the district superintendent.
<br />
  &ldquo;But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with the
  police! And why just to-day?&rdquo; he thought in agonising bewilderment. &ldquo;Good
  God, only get it over soon!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into laughter&mdash;not
  at the idea of prayer, but at himself.
<br />
  He began, hurriedly dressing. &ldquo;If I&rsquo;m lost, I am lost, I don&rsquo;t care! Shall
  I put the sock on?&rdquo; he suddenly wondered, &ldquo;it will get dustier still and
  the traces will be gone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in loathing and
  horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no other socks, he
  picked it up and put it on again&mdash;and again he laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all conventional, that&rsquo;s all relative, merely a way of looking at
  it,&rdquo; he thought in a flash, but only on the top surface of his mind, while
  he was shuddering all over, &ldquo;there, I&rsquo;ve got it on! I have finished by
  getting it on!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But his laughter was quickly followed by despair.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s too much for me...&rdquo; he thought. His legs shook. &ldquo;From fear,&rdquo; he
  muttered. His head swam and ached with fever. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a trick! They want to
  decoy me there and confound me over everything,&rdquo; he mused, as he went out
  on to the stairs&mdash;&ldquo;the worst of it is I&rsquo;m almost light-headed... I
  may blurt out something stupid...&rdquo;
 <br />
  On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things just as
  they were in the hole in the wall, &ldquo;and very likely, it&rsquo;s on purpose to
  search when I&rsquo;m out,&rdquo; he thought, and stopped short. But he was possessed
  by such despair, such cynicism of misery, if one may so call it, that with
  a wave of his hand he went on. &ldquo;Only to get it over!&rdquo;
 <br />
  In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain had
  fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and mortar, again the stench
  from the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken men, the Finnish pedlars
  and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes, so that it
  hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head going round&mdash;as a
  man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out into the street on a
  bright sunny day.
<br />
  When he reached the turning into  street, in an agony of
  trepidation he looked down it... at  house... and at once
  averted his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;If they question me, perhaps I&rsquo;ll simply tell,&rdquo; he thought, as he drew
  near the police-station.
<br />
  The police-station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had lately been
  moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a new house. He had been once
  for a moment in the old office but long ago. Turning in at the gateway, he
  saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mounting with a
  book in his hand. &ldquo;A house-porter, no doubt; so then, the office is here,&rdquo;
   and he began ascending the stairs on the chance. He did not want to ask
  questions of anyone.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything...&rdquo; he thought, as
  he reached the fourth floor.
<br />
  The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty water. The
  kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and stood open almost the
  whole day. So there was a fearful smell and heat. The staircase was
  crowded with porters going up and down with their books under their arms,
  policemen, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The door of the
  office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting within. There, too,
  the heat was stifling and there was a sickening smell of fresh paint and
  stale oil from the newly decorated rooms.
<br />
  After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the next room. All
  the rooms were small and low-pitched. A fearful impatience drew him on and
  on. No one paid attention to him. In the second room some clerks sat
  writing, dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a queer-looking
  set. He went up to one of them.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He showed the notice he had received.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are a student?&rdquo; the man asked, glancing at the notice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, formerly a student.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. He was a
  particularly unkempt person with the look of a fixed idea in his eye.
<br />
  &ldquo;There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no interest
  in anything,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go in there to the head clerk,&rdquo; said the clerk, pointing towards the
  furthest room.
<br />
  He went into that room&mdash;the fourth in order; it was a small room and
  packed full of people, rather better dressed than in the outer rooms.
  Among them were two ladies. One, poorly dressed in mourning, sat at the
  table opposite the chief clerk, writing something at his dictation. The
  other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face,
  excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as big as a saucer,
  was standing on one side, apparently waiting for something. Raskolnikov
  thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The latter glanced at it, said:
  &ldquo;Wait a minute,&rdquo; and went on attending to the lady in mourning.
<br />
  He breathed more freely. &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be that!&rdquo;
 <br />
  By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging himself to have
  courage and be calm.
<br />
  &ldquo;Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray myself!
  Hm... it&rsquo;s a pity there&rsquo;s no air here,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s stifling.... It
  makes one&rsquo;s head dizzier than ever... and one&rsquo;s mind too...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was afraid of losing his
  self-control; he tried to catch at something and fix his mind on it,
  something quite irrelevant, but he could not succeed in this at all. Yet
  the head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him
  and guess something from his face.
<br />
  He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a dark mobile face
  that looked older than his years. He was fashionably dressed and foppish,
  with his hair parted in the middle, well combed and pomaded, and wore a
  number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain on his
  waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to a foreigner who was in
  the room, and said them fairly correctly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down,&rdquo; he said casually to the gaily-dressed,
  purple-faced lady, who was still standing as though not venturing to sit
  down, though there was a chair beside her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ich danke,&rdquo; said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk she sank
  into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with white lace floated about
  the table like an air-balloon and filled almost half the room. She smelt
  of scent. But she was obviously embarrassed at filling half the room and
  smelling so strongly of scent; and though her smile was impudent as well
  as cringing, it betrayed evident uneasiness.
<br />
  The lady in mourning had done at last, and got up. All at once, with some
  noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, with a peculiar swing of his
  shoulders at each step. He tossed his cockaded cap on the table and sat
  down in an easy-chair. The small lady positively skipped from her seat on
  seeing him, and fell to curtsying in a sort of ecstasy; but the officer
  took not the smallest notice of her, and she did not venture to sit down
  again in his presence. He was the assistant superintendent. He had a
  reddish moustache that stood out horizontally on each side of his face,
  and extremely small features, expressive of nothing much except a certain
  insolence. He looked askance and rather indignantly at Raskolnikov; he was
  so very badly dressed, and in spite of his humiliating position, his
  bearing was by no means in keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov had
  unwarily fixed a very long and direct look on him, so that he felt
  positively affronted.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; he shouted, apparently astonished that such a ragged
  fellow was not annihilated by the majesty of his glance.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was summoned... by a notice...&rdquo; Raskolnikov faltered.
<br />
  &ldquo;For the recovery of money due, from ,&rdquo; the head clerk
  interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his papers. &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; and he
  flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. &ldquo;Read that!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Money? What money?&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov, &ldquo;but... then... it&rsquo;s certainly
  not .&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense indescribable relief. A
  load was lifted from his back.
<br />
  &ldquo;And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?&rdquo; shouted the
  assistant superintendent, seeming for some unknown reason more and more
  aggrieved. &ldquo;You are told to come at nine, and now it&rsquo;s twelve!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour ago,&rdquo; Raskolnikov
  answered loudly over his shoulder. To his own surprise he, too, grew
  suddenly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. &ldquo;And it&rsquo;s enough that I
  have come here ill with fever.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Kindly refrain from shouting!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not shouting, I&rsquo;m speaking very quietly, it&rsquo;s you who are shouting at
  me. I&rsquo;m a student, and allow no one to shout at me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the first minute he
  could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped up from his seat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Be silent! You are in a government office. Don&rsquo;t be impudent, sir!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re in a government office, too,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov, &ldquo;and you&rsquo;re
  smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect to
  all of us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.
<br />
  The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant
  superintendent was obviously disconcerted.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not your business!&rdquo; he shouted at last with unnatural loudness.
  &ldquo;Kindly make the declaration demanded of you. Show him. Alexandr
  Grigorievitch. There is a complaint against you! You don&rsquo;t pay your debts!
  You&rsquo;re a fine bird!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at the
  paper, in haste to find an explanation. He read it once, and a second
  time, and still did not understand.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is this?&rdquo; he asked the head clerk.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is for the recovery of money on an I O U, a writ. You must either pay
  it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give a written declaration when
  you can pay it, and at the same time an undertaking not to leave the
  capital without payment, and nor to sell or conceal your property. The
  creditor is at liberty to sell your property, and proceed against you
  according to the law.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I... am not in debt to anyone!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not our business. Here, an I O U for a hundred and fifteen
  roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has been brought us for
  recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine months
  ago, and paid over by the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov. We
  therefore summon you, hereupon.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But she is my landlady!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And what if she is your landlady?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The head clerk looked at him with a condescending smile of compassion, and
  at the same time with a certain triumph, as at a novice under fire for the
  first time&mdash;as though he would say: &ldquo;Well, how do you feel now?&rdquo; But
  what did he care now for an I O U, for a writ of recovery! Was that worth
  worrying about now, was it worth attention even! He stood, he read, he
  listened, he answered, he even asked questions himself, but all
  mechanically. The triumphant sense of security, of deliverance from
  overwhelming danger, that was what filled his whole soul that moment
  without thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions or
  surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was an instant of
  full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But at that very moment something
  like a thunderstorm took place in the office. The assistant
  superintendent, still shaken by Raskolnikov&rsquo;s disrespect, still fuming and
  obviously anxious to keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the
  unfortunate smart lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came in
  with an exceedingly silly smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;You shameful hussy!&rdquo; he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice. (The
  lady in mourning had left the office.) &ldquo;What was going on at your house
  last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you&rsquo;re a scandal to the whole street.
  Fighting and drinking again. Do you want the house of correction? Why, I
  have warned you ten times over that I would not let you off the eleventh!
  And here you are again, again, you... you...!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The paper fell out of Raskolnikov&rsquo;s hands, and he looked wildly at the
  smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw what it
  meant, and at once began to find positive amusement in the scandal. He
  listened with pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and laugh... all his
  nerves were on edge.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ilya Petrovitch!&rdquo; the head clerk was beginning anxiously, but stopped
  short, for he knew from experience that the enraged assistant could not be
  stopped except by force.
<br />
  As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled before the storm.
  But, strange to say, the more numerous and violent the terms of abuse
  became, the more amiable she looked, and the more seductive the smiles she
  lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and curtsied
  incessantly, waiting impatiently for a chance of putting in her word: and
  at last she found it.
<br />
  &ldquo;There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain,&rdquo; she
  pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speaking Russian confidently,
  though with a strong German accent, &ldquo;and no sort of scandal, and his
  honour came drunk, and it&rsquo;s the whole truth I am telling, Mr. Captain, and
  I am not to blame.... Mine is an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and
  honourable behaviour, Mr. Captain, and I always, always dislike any
  scandal myself. But he came quite tipsy, and asked for three bottles
  again, and then he lifted up one leg, and began playing the pianoforte
  with one foot, and that is not at all right in an honourable house, and he
   broke the piano, and it was very bad manners indeed and I said
  so. And he took up a bottle and began hitting everyone with it. And then I
  called the porter, and Karl came, and he took Karl and hit him in the eye;
  and he hit Henriette in the eye, too, and gave me five slaps on the cheek.
  And it was so ungentlemanly in an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and I
  screamed. And he opened the window over the canal, and stood in the
  window, squealing like a little pig; it was a disgrace. The idea of
  squealing like a little pig at the window into the street! Fie upon him!
  And Karl pulled him away from the window by his coat, and it is true, Mr.
  Captain, he tore . And then he shouted that 
  pay him fifteen roubles damages. And I did pay him, Mr. Captain, five
  roubles for . And he is an ungentlemanly visitor and
  caused all the scandal. &lsquo;I will show you up,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;for I can write to
  all the papers about you.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then he was an author?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in an honourable
  house....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Now then! Enough! I have told you already...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ilya Petrovitch!&rdquo; the head clerk repeated significantly.
<br />
  The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head clerk slightly shook his
  head.
<br />
  &ldquo;... So I tell you this, most respectable Luise Ivanovna, and I tell it
  you for the last time,&rdquo; the assistant went on. &ldquo;If there is a scandal in
  your honourable house once again, I will put you yourself in the lock-up,
  as it is called in polite society. Do you hear? So a literary man, an
  author took five roubles for his coat-tail in an &lsquo;honourable house&rsquo;? A
  nice set, these authors!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. &ldquo;There was a scandal the
  other day in a restaurant, too. An author had eaten his dinner and would
  not pay; &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll write a satire on you,&rsquo; says he. And there was another of
  them on a steamer last week used the most disgraceful language to the
  respectable family of a civil councillor, his wife and daughter. And there
  was one of them turned out of a confectioner&rsquo;s shop the other day. They
  are like that, authors, literary men, students, town-criers.... Pfoo! You
  get along! I shall look in upon you myself one day. Then you had better be
  careful! Do you hear?&rdquo;
 <br />
  With hurried deference, Luise Ivanovna fell to curtsying in all
  directions, and so curtsied herself to the door. But at the door, she
  stumbled backwards against a good-looking officer with a fresh, open face
  and splendid thick fair whiskers. This was the superintendent of the
  district himself, Nikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna made haste to curtsy
  almost to the ground, and with mincing little steps, she fluttered out of
  the office.
<br />
  &ldquo;Again thunder and lightning&mdash;a hurricane!&rdquo; said Nikodim Fomitch to
  Ilya Petrovitch in a civil and friendly tone. &ldquo;You are aroused again, you
  are fuming again! I heard it on the stairs!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, what then!&rdquo; Ilya Petrovitch drawled with gentlemanly nonchalance;
  and he walked with some papers to another table, with a jaunty swing of
  his shoulders at each step. &ldquo;Here, if you will kindly look: an author, or
  a student, has been one at least, does not pay his debts, has given an I O
  U, won&rsquo;t clear out of his room, and complaints are constantly being lodged
  against him, and here he has been pleased to make a protest against my
  smoking in his presence! He behaves like a cad himself, and just look at
  him, please. Here&rsquo;s the gentleman, and very attractive he is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go off like powder, you
  can&rsquo;t bear a slight, I daresay you took offence at something and went too
  far yourself,&rdquo; continued Nikodim Fomitch, turning affably to Raskolnikov.
  &ldquo;But you were wrong there; he is a capital fellow, I assure you, but
  explosive, explosive! He gets hot, fires up, boils over, and no stopping
  him! And then it&rsquo;s all over! And at the bottom he&rsquo;s a heart of gold! His
  nickname in the regiment was the Explosive Lieutenant....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And what a regiment it was, too,&rdquo; cried Ilya Petrovitch, much gratified
  at this agreeable banter, though still sulky.
<br />
  Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say something exceptionally pleasant to
  them all. &ldquo;Excuse me, Captain,&rdquo; he began easily, suddenly addressing
  Nikodim Fomitch, &ldquo;will you enter into my position?... I am ready to ask
  pardon, if I have been ill-mannered. I am a poor student, sick and
  shattered (shattered was the word he used) by poverty. I am not studying,
  because I cannot keep myself now, but I shall get money.... I have a
  mother and sister in the province of X. They will send it to me, and I
  will pay. My landlady is a good-hearted woman, but she is so exasperated
  at my having lost my lessons, and not paying her for the last four months,
  that she does not even send up my dinner... and I don&rsquo;t understand this I
  O U at all. She is asking me to pay her on this I O U. How am I to pay
  her? Judge for yourselves!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But that is not our business, you know,&rdquo; the head clerk was observing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to explain...&rdquo;
   Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing Nikodim Fomitch, but trying his
  best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently
  appeared to be rummaging among his papers and to be contemptuously
  oblivious of him. &ldquo;Allow me to explain that I have been living with her
  for nearly three years and at first... at first... for why should I not
  confess it, at the very beginning I promised to marry her daughter, it was
  a verbal promise, freely given... she was a girl... indeed, I liked her,
  though I was not in love with her... a youthful affair in fact... that is,
  I mean to say, that my landlady gave me credit freely in those days, and I
  led a life of... I was very heedless...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we&rsquo;ve no time to waste,&rdquo;
   Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and with a note of triumph; but
  Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he suddenly found it exceedingly
  difficult to speak.
<br />
  &ldquo;But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain... how it all
  happened... In my turn... though I agree with you... it is unnecessary.
  But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained lodging there as
  before, and when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said to
  me... and in a friendly way... that she had complete trust in me, but
  still, would I not give her an I O U for one hundred and fifteen roubles,
  all the debt I owed her. She said if only I gave her that, she would trust
  me again, as much as I liked, and that she would never, never&mdash;those
  were her own words&mdash;make use of that I O U till I could pay of
  myself... and now, when I have lost my lessons and have nothing to eat,
  she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All these affecting details are no business of ours.&rdquo; Ilya Petrovitch
  interrupted rudely. &ldquo;You must give a written undertaking but as for your
  love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with
  that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come now... you are harsh,&rdquo; muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at the
  table and also beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Write!&rdquo; said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Write what?&rdquo; the latter asked, gruffly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will dictate to you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually and
  contemptuously after his speech, but strange to say he suddenly felt
  completely indifferent to anyone&rsquo;s opinion, and this revulsion took place
  in a flash, in one instant. If he had cared to think a little, he would
  have been amazed indeed that he could have talked to them like that a
  minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And where had those
  feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not with police
  officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he would not have
  found one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A gloomy sensation
  of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took conscious form in
  his soul. It was not the meanness of his sentimental effusions before Ilya
  Petrovitch, nor the meanness of the latter&rsquo;s triumph over him that had
  caused this sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh, what had he to do now with
  his own baseness, with all these petty vanities, officers, German women,
  debts, police-offices? If he had been sentenced to be burnt at that
  moment, he would not have stirred, would hardly have heard the sentence to
  the end. Something was happening to him entirely new, sudden and unknown.
  It was not that he understood, but he felt clearly with all the intensity
  of sensation that he could never more appeal to these people in the
  police-office with sentimental effusions like his recent outburst, or with
  anything whatever; and that if they had been his own brothers and sisters
  and not police-officers, it would have been utterly out of the question to
  appeal to them in any circumstance of life. He had never experienced such
  a strange and awful sensation. And what was most agonising&mdash;it was
  more a sensation than a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most
  agonising of all the sensations he had known in his life.
<br />
  The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration, that
  he could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date, that he
  would not leave the town, nor sell his property, and so on.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you can&rsquo;t write, you can hardly hold the pen,&rdquo; observed the head
  clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Are you ill?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I am giddy. Go on!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all. Sign it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others.
<br />
  Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going away,
  he put his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his hands. He felt
  as if a nail were being driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly
  occurred to him, to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim Fomitch, and tell
  him everything that had happened yesterday, and then to go with him to his
  lodgings and to show him the things in the hole in the corner. The impulse
  was so strong that he got up from his seat to carry it out. &ldquo;Hadn&rsquo;t I
  better think a minute?&rdquo; flashed through his mind. &ldquo;No, better cast off the
  burden without thinking.&rdquo; But all at once he stood still, rooted to the
  spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the
  words reached him:
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s impossible, they&rsquo;ll both be released. To begin with, the whole story
  contradicts itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it had been
  their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a blind? No, that would
  be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen at the gate by
  both the porters and a woman as he went in. He was walking with three
  friends, who left him only at the gate, and he asked the porters to direct
  him, in the presence of the friends. Now, would he have asked his way if
  he had been going with such an object? As for Koch, he spent half an hour
  at the silversmith&rsquo;s below, before he went up to the old woman and he left
  him at exactly a quarter to eight. Now just consider...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction? They state
  themselves that they knocked and the door was locked; yet three minutes
  later when they went up with the porter, it turned out the door was
  unfastened.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just it; the murderer must have been there and bolted himself in;
  and they&rsquo;d have caught him for a certainty if Koch had not been an ass and
  gone to look for the porter too.  must have seized the interval
  to get downstairs and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps crossing himself
  and saying: &lsquo;If I had been there, he would have jumped out and killed me
  with his axe.&rsquo; He is going to have a thanksgiving service&mdash;ha, ha!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And no one saw the murderer?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They might well not see him; the house is a regular Noah&rsquo;s Ark,&rdquo; said the
  head clerk, who was listening.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s clear, quite clear,&rdquo; Nikodim Fomitch repeated warmly.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it is anything but clear,&rdquo; Ilya Petrovitch maintained.
<br />
  Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did not
  reach it....
<br />
  When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting in a chair,
  supported by someone on the right side, while someone else was standing on
  the left, holding a yellowish glass filled with yellow water, and Nikodim
  Fomitch standing before him, looking intently at him. He got up from the
  chair.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this? Are you ill?&rdquo; Nikodim Fomitch asked, rather sharply.
<br />
  &ldquo;He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing,&rdquo; said the head clerk,
  settling back in his place, and taking up his work again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you been ill long?&rdquo; cried Ilya Petrovitch from his place, where he,
  too, was looking through papers. He had, of course, come to look at the
  sick man when he fainted, but retired at once when he recovered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Since yesterday,&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov in reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;Did you go out yesterday?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Though you were ill?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;At what time?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;About seven.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And where did you go, may I ask?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Along the street.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Short and clear.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily,
  without dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch&rsquo;s stare.
<br />
  &ldquo;He can scarcely stand upright. And you...&rdquo; Nikodim Fomitch was beginning.
<br />
  &ldquo;No matter,&rdquo; Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather peculiarly.
<br />
  Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further protest, but glancing at the
  head clerk who was looking very hard at him, he did not speak. There was a
  sudden silence. It was strange.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very well, then,&rdquo; concluded Ilya Petrovitch, &ldquo;we will not detain you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on his
  departure, and above the rest rose the questioning voice of Nikodim
  Fomitch. In the street, his faintness passed off completely.
<br />
  &ldquo;A search&mdash;there will be a search at once,&rdquo; he repeated to himself,
  hurrying home. &ldquo;The brutes! they suspect.&rdquo;
 <br />
  His former terror mastered him completely again.


      CHAPTER II


  &ldquo;And what if there has been a search already? What if I find them in my
  room?&rdquo;
 <br />
  But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had peeped in.
  Even Nastasya had not touched it. But heavens! how could he have left all
  those things in the hole?
<br />
  He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the
  things out and lined his pockets with them. There were eight articles in
  all: two little boxes with ear-rings or something of the sort, he hardly
  looked to see; then four small leather cases. There was a chain, too,
  merely wrapped in newspaper and something else in newspaper, that looked
  like a decoration.... He put them all in the different pockets of his
  overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his trousers, trying to conceal them
  as much as possible. He took the purse, too. Then he went out of his room,
  leaving the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, and though he
  felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He was afraid of pursuit, he
  was afraid that in another half-hour, another quarter of an hour perhaps,
  instructions would be issued for his pursuit, and so at all costs, he must
  hide all traces before then. He must clear everything up while he still
  had some strength, some reasoning power left him.... Where was he to go?
<br />
  That had long been settled: &ldquo;Fling them into the canal, and all traces
  hidden in the water, the thing would be at an end.&rdquo; So he had decided in
  the night of his delirium when several times he had had the impulse to get
  up and go away, to make haste, and get rid of it all. But to get rid of
  it, turned out to be a very difficult task. He wandered along the bank of
  the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or more and looked several times
  at the steps running down to the water, but he could not think of carrying
  out his plan; either rafts stood at the steps&rsquo; edge, and women were
  washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and people were
  swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and noticed from the banks
  on all sides; it would look suspicious for a man to go down on purpose,
  stop, and throw something into the water. And what if the boxes were to
  float instead of sinking? And of course they would. Even as it was,
  everyone he met seemed to stare and look round, as if they had nothing to
  do but to watch him. &ldquo;Why is it, or can it be my fancy?&rdquo; he thought.
<br />
  At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to the Neva.
  There were not so many people there, he would be less observed, and it
  would be more convenient in every way, above all it was further off. He
  wondered how he could have been wandering for a good half-hour, worried
  and anxious in this dangerous past without thinking of it before. And that
  half-hour he had lost over an irrational plan, simply because he had
  thought of it in delirium! He had become extremely absent and forgetful
  and he was aware of it. He certainly must make haste.
<br />
  He walked towards the Neva along V&mdash;&mdash; Prospect, but on the way
  another idea struck him. &ldquo;Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to go
  somewhere far off, to the Islands again, and there hide the things in some
  solitary place, in a wood or under a bush, and mark the spot perhaps?&rdquo; And
  though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the idea seemed to him a sound
  one. But he was not destined to go there. For coming out of V&mdash;&mdash;
  Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left a passage leading between
  two blank walls to a courtyard. On the right hand, the blank unwhitewashed
  wall of a four-storied house stretched far into the court; on the left, a
  wooden hoarding ran parallel with it for twenty paces into the court, and
  then turned sharply to the left. Here was a deserted fenced-off place
  where rubbish of different sorts was lying. At the end of the court, the
  corner of a low, smutty, stone shed, apparently part of some workshop,
  peeped from behind the hoarding. It was probably a carriage builder&rsquo;s or
  carpenter&rsquo;s shed; the whole place from the entrance was black with coal
  dust. Here would be the place to throw it, he thought. Not seeing anyone
  in the yard, he slipped in, and at once saw near the gate a sink, such as
  is often put in yards where there are many workmen or cab-drivers; and on
  the hoarding above had been scribbled in chalk the time-honoured
  witticism, &ldquo;Standing here strictly forbidden.&rdquo; This was all the better,
  for there would be nothing suspicious about his going in. &ldquo;Here I could
  throw it all in a heap and get away!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Looking round once more, with his hand already in his pocket, he noticed
  against the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink, a big unhewn
  stone, weighing perhaps sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a
  street. He could hear passers-by, always numerous in that part, but he
  could not be seen from the entrance, unless someone came in from the
  street, which might well happen indeed, so there was need of haste.
<br />
  He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in both hands,
  and using all his strength turned it over. Under the stone was a small
  hollow in the ground, and he immediately emptied his pocket into it. The
  purse lay at the top, and yet the hollow was not filled up. Then he seized
  the stone again and with one twist turned it back, so that it was in the
  same position again, though it stood a very little higher. But he scraped
  the earth about it and pressed it at the edges with his foot. Nothing
  could be noticed.
<br />
  Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense, almost
  unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had in the
  police-office. &ldquo;I have buried my tracks! And who, who can think of looking
  under that stone? It has been lying there most likely ever since the house
  was built, and will lie as many years more. And if it were found, who
  would think of me? It is all over! No clue!&rdquo; And he laughed. Yes, he
  remembered that he began laughing a thin, nervous noiseless laugh, and
  went on laughing all the time he was crossing the square. But when he
  reached the K&mdash;&mdash; Boulevard where two days before he had come
  upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other ideas crept into his
  mind. He felt all at once that it would be loathsome to pass that seat on
  which after the girl was gone, he had sat and pondered, and that it would
  be hateful, too, to meet that whiskered policeman to whom he had given the
  twenty copecks: &ldquo;Damn him!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas now
  seemed to be circling round some single point, and he felt that there
  really was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing that point&mdash;and
  for the first time, indeed, during the last two months.
<br />
  &ldquo;Damn it all!&rdquo; he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury. &ldquo;If it
  has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how stupid it
  is!... And what lies I told to-day! How despicably I fawned upon that
  wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I care for them
  all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! It is not that at
  all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple
  question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.
<br />
  &ldquo;If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if I
  really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even glance
  into the purse and don&rsquo;t know what I had there, for which I have undergone
  these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy
  degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water the
  purse together with all the things which I had not seen either... how&rsquo;s
  that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and it
  was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night
  without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though
  it could not possibly be otherwise.... Yes, he had known it all, and
  understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the
  moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out of
  it.... Yes, so it was.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is because I am very ill,&rdquo; he decided grimly at last, &ldquo;I have been
  worrying and fretting myself, and I don&rsquo;t know what I am doing....
  Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been
  worrying myself.... I shall get well and I shall not worry.... But what if
  I don&rsquo;t get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some
  distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new
  overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every
  moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for
  everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All
  who met him were loathsome to him&mdash;he loathed their faces, their
  movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he
  might have spat at him or bitten him....
<br />
  He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near
  the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. &ldquo;Why, he lives here, in that house,&rdquo; he
  thought, &ldquo;why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it&rsquo;s
  the same thing over again.... Very interesting to know, though; have I
  come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never mind, I said
  the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the day ;
  well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He went up to Razumihin&rsquo;s room on the fifth floor.
<br />
  The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and he
  opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each
  other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on
  his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it you?&rdquo; he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a
  brief pause, he whistled. &ldquo;As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you&rsquo;ve
  cut me out!&rdquo; he added, looking at Raskolnikov&rsquo;s rags. &ldquo;Come sit down, you
  are tired, I&rsquo;ll be bound.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in even
  worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his visitor was
  ill.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?&rdquo; He began feeling his
  pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I have come for this: I have no lessons.... I
  wanted,... but I don&rsquo;t really want lessons....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I say! You are delirious, you know!&rdquo; Razumihin observed, watching him
  carefully.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I am not.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to
  Razumihin&rsquo;s, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend face
  to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed
  for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the wide world.
  His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon
  as he crossed Razumihin&rsquo;s threshold.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good-bye,&rdquo; he said abruptly, and walked to the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stop, stop! You queer fish.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to,&rdquo; said the other, again pulling away his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is...
  almost insulting! I won&rsquo;t let you go like that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help...
  to begin... because you are kinder than anyone&mdash;cleverer, I mean, and
  can judge... and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at
  all... no one&rsquo;s services... no one&rsquo;s sympathy. I am by myself... alone.
  Come, that&rsquo;s enough. Leave me alone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I
  care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don&rsquo;t care about that, but
  there&rsquo;s a bookseller, Heruvimov&mdash;and he takes the place of a lesson.
  I would not exchange him for five lessons. He&rsquo;s doing publishing of a
  kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they
  have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I
  was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am! Now he
  is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything,
  but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German
  text&mdash;in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the
  question, &lsquo;Is woman a human being?&rsquo; And, of course, triumphantly proves
  that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution
  to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a
  half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page
  long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six roubles
  the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles for the job, and I&rsquo;ve
  had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to
  begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals
  out of the second part of  we have marked for
  translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind of
  Radishchev. You may be sure I don&rsquo;t contradict him, hang him! Well, would
  you like to do the second signature of &lsquo;&rsquo; If
  you would, take the German and pens and paper&mdash;all those are
  provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advance
  on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share. And when you
  have finished the signature there will be another three roubles for you.
  And please don&rsquo;t think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as
  soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin with, I am weak
  in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly adrift in German, so
  that I make it up as I go along for the most part. The only comfort is,
  that it&rsquo;s bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe
  it&rsquo;s sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles and
  without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment. But
  when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the
  stairs to Razumihin&rsquo;s again and laying on the table the German article and
  the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you raving, or what?&rdquo; Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last.
  &ldquo;What farce is this? You&rsquo;ll drive me crazy too... what did you come to see
  me for, damn you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want... translation,&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then what the devil do you want?&rdquo; shouted Razumihin from above.
  Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hey, there! Where are you living?&rdquo;
 <br />
  No answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, confound you then!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky
  Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant
  incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a
  violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his
  horses&rsquo; hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the
  railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of
  the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He
  heard laughter, of course.
<br />
  &ldquo;Serves him right!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A pickpocket I dare say.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on
  purpose; and you have to answer for him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a regular profession, that&rsquo;s what it is.&rdquo;
 <br />
  But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered
  after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt
  someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in
  a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter, wearing
  a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take it, my good man, in Christ&rsquo;s name.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From his
  dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking
  alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed
  to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
<br />
  He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and
  turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a
  cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva.
  The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the bridge
  about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the
  pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain
  from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and
  not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and
  gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially
  familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of
  times&mdash;generally on his way home&mdash;stood still on this spot,
  gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a
  vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold;
  this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every
  time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put
  off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts
  and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he
  recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he should
  have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he
  could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and
  pictures that had interested him... so short a time ago. He felt it almost
  amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of
  sight all that seemed to him now&mdash;all his old past, his old thoughts,
  his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and
  himself and all, all.... He felt as though he were flying upwards, and
  everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement
  with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist.
  He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung
  it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had
  cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
<br />
  Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been
  walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember.
  Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the
  sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion....
<br />
  It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a
  scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears,
  blows and curses he had never heard.
<br />
  He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat
  up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing and
  cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he
  caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing,
  rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she
  was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she
  was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was
  so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too,
  was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and
  spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice&mdash;it
  was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the
  landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps&mdash;that&rsquo;s
  clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How
  is it, is the world topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds
  from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices,
  exclamations, knocking, doors banging. &ldquo;But why, why, and how could it
  be?&rdquo; he repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he
  heard too distinctly! And they would come to him then next, &ldquo;for no
  doubt... it&rsquo;s all about that... about yesterday.... Good God!&rdquo; He would
  have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not lift his hand...
  besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured
  him and numbed him.... But at last all this uproar, after continuing about
  ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and
  groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses.... But at
  last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. &ldquo;Can he
  have gone away? Good Lord!&rdquo; Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still
  weeping and moaning... and then her door slammed.... Now the crowd was
  going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to
  one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper.
  There must have been numbers of them&mdash;almost all the inmates of the
  block. &ldquo;But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He
  lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of
  infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright
  light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of
  soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not asleep,
  she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought&mdash;bread,
  salt, a plate, a spoon.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You&rsquo;ve been trudging
  about all day, and you&rsquo;re shaking with fever.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She looked intently at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who beat the landlady?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant
  superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he ill-treating her like that,
  and... why was he here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a
  long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nastasya, why don&rsquo;t you speak?&rdquo; he said timidly at last in a weak voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the blood,&rdquo; she answered at last softly, as though speaking to
  herself.
<br />
  &ldquo;Blood? What blood?&rdquo; he muttered, growing white and turning towards the
  wall.
<br />
  Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nobody has been beating the landlady,&rdquo; she declared at last in a firm,
  resolute voice.
<br />
  He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
<br />
  &ldquo;I heard it myself.... I was not asleep... I was sitting up,&rdquo; he said
  still more timidly. &ldquo;I listened a long while. The assistant superintendent
  came.... Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the flats.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No one has been here. That&rsquo;s the blood crying in your ears. When there&rsquo;s
  no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying things.... Will
  you eat something?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Give me something to drink... Nastasya.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water. He
  remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on
  his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.


      CHAPTER III


  He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he
  was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious. He
  remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there
  were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away somewhere,
  there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he
  would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only
  now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him,
  plotted something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered
  Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom
  he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, and
  this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been
  lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day.
  But of &mdash;of  he had no recollection, and yet
  every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember.
  He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a
  rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up,
  would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and he
  sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to
  complete consciousness.
<br />
  It happened at ten o&rsquo;clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone into
  the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right wall and
  the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him with another
  person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. He
  was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat, and
  looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the half-opened
  door. Raskolnikov sat up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who is this, Nastasya?&rdquo; he asked, pointing to the young man.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, he&rsquo;s himself again!&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is himself,&rdquo; echoed the man.
<br />
  Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the
  door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or
  discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and
  buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and
  laziness, and absurdly bashful.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who... are you?&rdquo; he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment the
  door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin
  came in.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a cabin it is!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I am always knocking my head. You call
  this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I&rsquo;ve just heard the news
  from Pashenka.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He has just come to,&rdquo; said Nastasya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Just come to,&rdquo; echoed the man again, with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;And who are you?&rdquo; Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. &ldquo;My name is
  Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but
  Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are
  you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I&rsquo;ve
  come on business.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Please sit down.&rdquo; Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the
  table. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a good thing you&rsquo;ve come to, brother,&rdquo; he went on to
  Raskolnikov. &ldquo;For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk
  anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see
  you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at
  once it was nothing serious&mdash;something seemed to have gone to your
  head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have
  not had enough beer and radish, but it&rsquo;s nothing much, it will pass and
  you will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite
  a name. Come, I won&rsquo;t keep you,&rdquo; he said, addressing the man again. &ldquo;Will
  you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time
  they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I
  talked to him. Who was it came before?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please, sir.
  That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He was more intelligent than you, don&rsquo;t you think so?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Quite so; go on.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;At your mamma&rsquo;s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of whom I
  presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent to you from
  our office,&rdquo; the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. &ldquo;If you are in an
  intelligible condition, I&rsquo;ve thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as
  Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma&rsquo;s
  request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know
  him, sir?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I remember... Vahrushin,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said dreamily.
<br />
  &ldquo;You hear, he knows Vahrushin,&rdquo; cried Razumihin. &ldquo;He is in &lsquo;an
  intelligible condition&rsquo;! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well,
  it&rsquo;s always pleasant to hear words of wisdom.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the request
  of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in the same
  manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and sent
  instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you
  thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That &lsquo;hoping for better to come&rsquo; is the best thing you&rsquo;ve said, though
  &lsquo;your mamma&rsquo; is not bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is he fully
  conscious, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, here&rsquo;s the book.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I&rsquo;ll hold you. Take the pen and
  scribble &lsquo;Raskolnikov&rsquo; for him. For just now, brother, money is sweeter to
  us than treacle.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want it,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not want it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t sign it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How the devil can you do without signing it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want... the money.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t want the money! Come, brother, that&rsquo;s nonsense, I bear witness.
  Don&rsquo;t trouble, please, it&rsquo;s only that he is on his travels again. But
  that&rsquo;s pretty common with him at all times though.... You are a man of
  judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand
  and he will sign it. Here.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I can come another time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment.... Now,
  Rodya, don&rsquo;t keep your visitor, you see he is waiting,&rdquo; and he made ready
  to hold Raskolnikov&rsquo;s hand in earnest.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stop, I&rsquo;ll do it alone,&rdquo; said the latter, taking the pen and signing his
  name.
<br />
  The messenger took out the money and went away.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is there any soup?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Some of yesterday&rsquo;s,&rdquo; answered Nastasya, who was still standing there.
<br />
  &ldquo;With potatoes and rice in it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Very well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull,
  unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would
  happen. &ldquo;I believe I am not wandering. I believe it&rsquo;s reality,&rdquo; he
  thought.
<br />
  In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced that
  the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two spoons, two
  plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set
  as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.
<br />
  &ldquo;It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up
  a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, you are a cool hand,&rdquo; muttered Nastasya, and she departed to carry
  out his orders.
<br />
  Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile
  Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his
  left arm round Raskolnikov&rsquo;s head, although he was able to sit up, and
  with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it
  might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed
  one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a
  few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said that he
  must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more.
<br />
  Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
<br />
  &ldquo;And will you have tea?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture on
  without the faculty. But here is the beer!&rdquo; He moved back to his chair,
  pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he
  had not touched food for three days.
<br />
  &ldquo;I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now,&rdquo; he mumbled
  with his mouth full of beef, &ldquo;and it&rsquo;s all Pashenka, your dear little
  landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don&rsquo;t ask
  for it, but, of course, I don&rsquo;t object. And here&rsquo;s Nastasya with the tea.
  She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won&rsquo;t you have some beer?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Get along with your nonsense!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A cup of tea, then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A cup of tea, maybe.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pour it out. Stay, I&rsquo;ll pour it out myself. Sit down.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As
  before, he put his left arm round the sick man&rsquo;s head, raised him up and
  gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and
  earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective
  means towards his friend&rsquo;s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made no
  resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa
  without support and could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even
  perhaps could have walked about. But from some queer, almost animal,
  cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a
  time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession of his
  faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he
  could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen
  spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away
  capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real
  pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that,
  too, and took note of it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some
  raspberry tea,&rdquo; said Razumihin, going back to his chair and attacking his
  soup and beer again.
<br />
  &ldquo;And where is she to get raspberries for you?&rdquo; asked Nastasya, balancing a
  saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of
  sugar.
<br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;ll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of things
  have been happening while you have been laid up. When you decamped in that
  rascally way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved
  to find you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran
  about making inquiries for you! This lodging of yours I had forgotten,
  though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know it; and as
  for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners,
  Harlamov&rsquo;s house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov&rsquo;s house, and
  afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov&rsquo;s, but Buch&rsquo;s. How one
  muddles up sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance
  to the address bureau next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked
  you up! Your name is down there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;My name!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while I
  was there. Well, it&rsquo;s a long story. But as soon as I did land on this
  place, I soon got to know all your affairs&mdash;all, all, brother, I know
  everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of
  Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house-porter and Mr. Zametov,
  Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office, and, last,
  but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here knows....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s got round her,&rdquo; Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are a one!&rdquo; Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. &ldquo;I am
  not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,&rdquo; she added suddenly, recovering from her
  mirth.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short, I was
  going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all malignant influences
  in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected, brother, to
  find her so... prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him, full
  of alarm.
<br />
  &ldquo;And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,&rdquo; Razumihin went
  on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, the sly dog!&rdquo; Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation afforded her
  unspeakable delight.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way at
  first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak,
  a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character
  later.... How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up
  sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You must have been mad to sign an
  I O U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna,
  was alive?... I know all about it! But I see that&rsquo;s a delicate matter and
  I am an ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know
  Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would think at first
  sight?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No,&rdquo; mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better to
  keep up the conversation.
<br />
  &ldquo;She isn&rsquo;t, is she?&rdquo; cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out of
  him. &ldquo;But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially,
  essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a loss, I
  assure you.... She must be forty; she says she is thirty-six, and of
  course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge her
  intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a
  sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what not! I
  don&rsquo;t understand it! Well, that&rsquo;s all nonsense. Only, seeing that you are
  not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that
  through the young lady&rsquo;s death she has no need to treat you as a relation,
  she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your
  old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she&rsquo;s been
  cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to lose the I O U, for
  you assured her yourself that your mother would pay.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It was base of me to say that.... My mother herself is almost a beggar...
  and I told a lie to keep my lodging... and be fed,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said
  loudly and distinctly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr.
  Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have thought of
  doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but the business
  man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, &lsquo;Is
  there any hope of realising the I O U?&rsquo; Answer: there is, because he has a
  mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred and twenty-five roubles
  pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go
  into bondage for his sake. That&rsquo;s what he was building upon.... Why do you
  start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear boy&mdash;it&rsquo;s
  not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her
  prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend.... But I tell you
  what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business man
  &lsquo;listens and goes on eating&rsquo; you up. Well, then she gave the I O U by way
  of payment to this Tchebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal
  demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too,
  to clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned between me and
  Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that you
  would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called
  Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the I O U back from him, and here
  I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here,
  take it, you see I have torn it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned
  to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a twinge.
<br />
  &ldquo;I see, brother,&rdquo; he said a moment later, &ldquo;that I have been playing the
  fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I believe I
  have only made you cross.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked,
  after a moment&rsquo;s pause without turning his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov
  one day.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Zametov? The head clerk? What for?&rdquo; Raskolnikov turned round quickly and
  fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with you?... What are you upset about? He wanted to
  make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about you.... How
  could I have found out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow,
  brother, first-rate... in his own way, of course. Now we are friends&mdash;see
  each other almost every day. I have moved into this part, you know. I have
  only just moved. I&rsquo;ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice.... Do
  you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?
<br />
  &ldquo;Did I say anything in delirium?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should think so! You were beside yourself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What did I rave about?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about.... Well,
  brother, now I must not lose time. To work.&rdquo; He got up from the table and
  took up his cap.
<br />
  &ldquo;What did I rave about?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don&rsquo;t
  worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot
  about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky
  Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the
  assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest
  to you was your own sock. You whined, &lsquo;Give me my sock.&rsquo; Zametov hunted
  all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented,
  ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you
  comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing
  in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely somewhere
  under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so piteously for
  fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but we
  could not make it out. Now to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I
  take ten of them, and shall give you an account of them in an hour or two.
  I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been
  here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty
  often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else.
  And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he&rsquo;s a deep one!&rdquo; said Nastasya as he went
  out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist
  running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say
  to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.
<br />
  No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the bedclothes
  and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching impatience he
  had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work. But to what
  work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What if
  they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up, and
  then they will come in and tell me that it&rsquo;s been discovered long ago and
  that they have only... What am I to do now? That&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;ve forgotten, as
  though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered a minute ago.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment
  about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not
  what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to the
  corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his
  hand into the hole, fumbled&mdash;but that was not it. He went to the
  stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of his
  trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he had
  thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about
  which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on the sofa
  under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov
  could not have seen anything on it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police
  office? Where&rsquo;s the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I
  looked at my sock then, too, but now... now I have been ill. But what did
  Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?&rdquo; he muttered, helplessly
  sitting on the sofa again. &ldquo;What does it mean? Am I still in delirium, or
  is it real? I believe it is real.... Ah, I remember; I must escape! Make
  haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes... but where? And where
  are my clothes? I&rsquo;ve no boots. They&rsquo;ve taken them away! They&rsquo;ve hidden
  them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat&mdash;they passed that over! And
  here is money on the table, thank God! And here&rsquo;s the I O U... I&rsquo;ll take
  the money and go and take another lodging. They won&rsquo;t find me!... Yes, but
  the address bureau? They&rsquo;ll find me, Razumihin will find me. Better escape
  altogether... far away... to America, and let them do their worst! And
  take the I O U... it would be of use there.... What else shall I take?
  They think I am ill! They don&rsquo;t know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could
  see by their eyes that they know all about it! If only I could get
  downstairs! And what if they have set a watch there&mdash;policemen!
  What&rsquo;s this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and
  gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his breast. But
  in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even
  pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over
  him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more disconnected, and
  soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With a sense of comfort
  he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the
  soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed
  softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.
<br />
  He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw Razumihin
  standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov
  sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall
  something.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!&rdquo;
   Razumihin shouted down the stairs. &ldquo;You shall have the account directly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What time is it?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it&rsquo;s almost evening, it will be six
  o&rsquo;clock directly. You have slept more than six hours.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens! Have I?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And why not? It will do you good. What&rsquo;s the hurry? A tryst, is it? We&rsquo;ve
  all time before us. I&rsquo;ve been waiting for the last three hours for you;
  I&rsquo;ve been up twice and found you asleep. I&rsquo;ve called on Zossimov twice;
  not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And I&rsquo;ve been out
  on my own business, too. You know I&rsquo;ve been moving to-day, moving with my
  uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that&rsquo;s no matter, to
  business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how
  do you feel now, brother?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I tell you I&rsquo;ve been waiting for the last three hours.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, before.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How do you mean?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How long have you been coming here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why I told you all about it this morning. Don&rsquo;t you remember?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not
  remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hm!&rdquo; said the latter, &ldquo;he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were not
  quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep.... You really look much
  better. First-rate! Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For we
  must make a man of you. Let&rsquo;s begin from the top. Do you see this cap?&rdquo; he
  said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and ordinary
  cap. &ldquo;Let me try it on.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Presently, afterwards,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, waving it off pettishly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, Rodya, my boy, don&rsquo;t oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I
  shan&rsquo;t sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without measure. Just
  right!&rdquo; he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, &ldquo;just your size! A proper
  head-covering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in its own
  way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his
  pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear
  their hats or caps. People think he does it from slavish politeness, but
  it&rsquo;s simply because he is ashamed of his bird&rsquo;s nest; he is such a
  boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens of headgear: this
  Palmerston&rdquo;&mdash;he took from the corner Raskolnikov&rsquo;s old, battered hat,
  which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston&mdash;&ldquo;or this
  jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it,
  Nastasya!&rdquo; he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.
<br />
  &ldquo;Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,&rdquo; answered Nastasya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Twenty copecks, silly!&rdquo; he cried, offended. &ldquo;Why, nowadays you would cost
  more than that&mdash;eighty copecks! And that only because it has been
  worn. And it&rsquo;s bought on condition that when&rsquo;s it&rsquo;s worn out, they will
  give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to the
  United States of America, as they called them at school. I assure you I am
  proud of these breeches,&rdquo; and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light,
  summer trousers of grey woollen material. &ldquo;No holes, no spots, and quite
  respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in
  the fashion. And its being worn really is an improvement, it&rsquo;s softer,
  smoother.... You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the great thing for getting
  on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don&rsquo;t insist on
  having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse; and it&rsquo;s
  the same with this purchase. It&rsquo;s summer now, so I&rsquo;ve been buying summer
  things&mdash;warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have
  to throw these away in any case... especially as they will be done for by
  then from their own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of
  luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles twenty-five
  copecks! And remember the condition: if you wear these out, you will have
  another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at
  Fedyaev&rsquo;s; if you&rsquo;ve bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for
  you will never go there again of your own free will. Now for the boots.
  What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn, but they&rsquo;ll last a
  couple of months, for it&rsquo;s foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary
  of the English Embassy sold them last week&mdash;he had only worn them six
  days, but he was very short of cash. Price&mdash;a rouble and a half. A
  bargain?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But perhaps they won&rsquo;t fit,&rdquo; observed Nastasya.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not fit? Just look!&rdquo; and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov&rsquo;s old,
  broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. &ldquo;I did not go empty-handed&mdash;they
  took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And as to your
  linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with are three
  shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front.... Well now then, eighty
  copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the suit&mdash;together
  three roubles five copecks&mdash;a rouble and a half for the boots&mdash;for,
  you see, they are very good&mdash;and that makes four roubles fifty-five
  copecks; five roubles for the underclothes&mdash;they were bought in the
  lot&mdash;which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five
  copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you are set up
  with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will serve, and even has a
  style of its own. That comes from getting one&rsquo;s clothes from Sharmer&rsquo;s! As
  for your socks and other things, I leave them to you; we&rsquo;ve twenty-five
  roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don&rsquo;t you
  worry. I tell you she&rsquo;ll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let me
  change your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your
  shirt.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Let me be! I don&rsquo;t want to!&rdquo; Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened
  with disgust to Razumihin&rsquo;s efforts to be playful about his purchases.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, brother, don&rsquo;t tell me I&rsquo;ve been trudging around for nothing,&rdquo;
   Razumihin insisted. &ldquo;Nastasya, don&rsquo;t be bashful, but help me&mdash;that&rsquo;s
  it,&rdquo; and in spite of Raskolnikov&rsquo;s resistance he changed his linen. The
  latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.
<br />
  &ldquo;It will be long before I get rid of them,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;What money was
  all that bought with?&rdquo; he asked at last, gazing at the wall.
<br />
  &ldquo;Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your
  mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I remember now,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumihin
  looked at him, frowning and uneasy.
<br />
  The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar to
  Raskolnikov came in.


      CHAPTER IV


  Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, clean-shaven face
  and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on his
  fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable loose
  coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, fashionable
  and spick and span; his linen was irreproachable, his watch-chain was
  massive. In manner he was slow and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the
  same time studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his
  self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant. All his
  acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he&rsquo;s come to himself,&rdquo;
   cried Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?&rdquo; said Zossimov to Raskolnikov,
  watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he
  settled himself as comfortably as he could.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is still depressed,&rdquo; Razumihin went on. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve just changed his linen
  and he almost cried.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish it....
  His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am well, I am perfectly well!&rdquo; Raskolnikov declared positively and
  irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with
  glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to the
  wall. Zossimov watched him intently.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very good.... Going on all right,&rdquo; he said lazily. &ldquo;Has he eaten
  anything?&rdquo;
 <br />
  They told him, and asked what he might have.
<br />
  &ldquo;He may have anything... soup, tea... mushrooms and cucumbers, of course,
  you must not give him; he&rsquo;d better not have meat either, and... but no
  need to tell you that!&rdquo; Razumihin and he looked at each other. &ldquo;No more
  medicine or anything. I&rsquo;ll look at him again to-morrow. Perhaps, to-day
  even... but never mind...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk,&rdquo; said Razumihin. &ldquo;We are
  going to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Cristal.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don&rsquo;t know... a little,
  maybe... but we&rsquo;ll see.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ach, what a nuisance! I&rsquo;ve got a house-warming party to-night; it&rsquo;s only
  a step from here. Couldn&rsquo;t he come? He could lie on the sofa. You are
  coming?&rdquo; Razumihin said to Zossimov. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t forget, you promised.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, nothing&mdash;tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie... just our
  friends.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And who?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he
  is new too&mdash;he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some
  business of his. We meet once in five years.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is he?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a little
  pension. He is sixty-five&mdash;not worth talking about.... But I am fond
  of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation Department
  here... But you know him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is he a relation of yours, too?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled
  once, won&rsquo;t you come then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care a damn for him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a
  government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do tell me, please, what you or he&rdquo;&mdash;Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov&mdash;&ldquo;can
  have in common with this Zametov?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles,
  as it were by springs; you won&rsquo;t venture to turn round on your own
  account. If a man is a nice fellow, that&rsquo;s the only principle I go upon.
  Zametov is a delightful person.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Though he does take bribes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, he does! and what of it? I don&rsquo;t care if he does take bribes,&rdquo;
   Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t praise him for
  taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one
  looks at men in all ways&mdash;are there many good ones left? Why, I am
  sure I shouldn&rsquo;t be worth a baked onion myself... perhaps with you thrown
  in.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s too little; I&rsquo;d give two for you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And I wouldn&rsquo;t give more than one for you. No more of your jokes! Zametov
  is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him not repel
  him. You&rsquo;ll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One
  has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dullards! You
  don&rsquo;t understand. You harm yourselves running another man down.... But if
  you want to know, we really have something in common.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should like to know what.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, it&rsquo;s all about a house-painter.... We are getting him out of a mess!
  Though indeed there&rsquo;s nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely
  self-evident. We only put on steam.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A painter?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, haven&rsquo;t I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then
  about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is mixed
  up in it...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it...
  partly... for one reason.... I read about it in the papers, too....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Lizaveta was murdered, too,&rdquo; Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing
  Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door
  listening.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lizaveta,&rdquo; murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn&rsquo;t you know her? She used to come
  here. She mended a shirt for you, too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked
  out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining
  how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how
  many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they
  had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at
  the flower.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what about the painter?&rdquo; Zossimov interrupted Nastasya&rsquo;s chatter with
  marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, he was accused of the murder,&rdquo; Razumihin went on hotly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Was there evidence against him then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that&rsquo;s what we have
  to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and
  Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it&rsquo;s all done, it makes one sick,
  though it&rsquo;s not one&rsquo;s business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night.... By
  the way, Rodya, you&rsquo;ve heard about the business already; it happened
  before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while
  they were talking about it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!&rdquo; Zossimov
  observed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,&rdquo; shouted Razumihin, bringing
  his fist down on the table. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the most offensive is not their lying&mdash;one
  can always forgive lying&mdash;lying is a delightful thing, for it leads
  to truth&mdash;what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own
  lying.... I respect Porfiry, but... What threw them out at first? The door
  was locked, and when they came back with the porter it was open. So it
  followed that Koch and Pestryakov were the murderers&mdash;that was their
  logic!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But don&rsquo;t excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not help
  that.... And, by the way, I&rsquo;ve met that man Koch. He used to buy
  unredeemed pledges from the old woman? Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession
  of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It&rsquo;s their
  sickening rotten, petrified routine.... And this case might be the means
  of introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data
  alone how to get on the track of the real man. &lsquo;We have facts,&rsquo; they say.
  But facts are not everything&mdash;at least half the business lies in how
  you interpret them!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Can you interpret them, then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Anyway, one can&rsquo;t hold one&rsquo;s tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible
  feeling, that one might be a help if only.... Eh! Do you know the details
  of the case?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am waiting to hear about the painter.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes! Well, here&rsquo;s the story. Early on the third day after the murder,
  when they were still dandling Koch and Pestryakov&mdash;though they
  accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaff&mdash;an
  unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram-shop
  facing the house, brought to the police office a jeweller&rsquo;s case
  containing some gold ear-rings, and told a long rigamarole. &lsquo;The day
  before yesterday, just after eight o&rsquo;clock&rsquo;&mdash;mark the day and the
  hour!&mdash;&lsquo;a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see
  me already that day, brought me this box of gold ear-rings and stones, and
  asked me to give him two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got
  them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him
  anything more.&rsquo; I am telling you Dushkin&rsquo;s story. &lsquo;I gave him a note&rsquo;&mdash;a
  rouble that is&mdash;&lsquo;for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would
  with another. It would all come to the same thing&mdash;he&rsquo;d spend it on
  drink, so the thing had better be with me. The further you hide it the
  quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumours,
  I&rsquo;ll take it to the police.&rsquo; Of course, that&rsquo;s all taradiddle; he lies
  like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker and a receiver
  of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolay out of a thirty-rouble
  trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply afraid. But no
  matter, to return to Dushkin&rsquo;s story. &lsquo;I&rsquo;ve known this peasant, Nikolay
  Dementyev, from a child; he comes from the same province and district of
  Zaraïsk, we are both Ryazan men. And though Nikolay is not a drunkard, he
  drinks, and I knew he had a job in that house, painting work with Dmitri,
  who comes from the same village, too. As soon as he got the rouble he
  changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I
  did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day I heard that someone
  had murdered Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an
  axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious about the ear-rings at once, for I
  knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and
  began to make careful inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of
  all I asked, &ldquo;Is Nikolay here?&rdquo; Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off
  on the spree; he had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the house
  about ten minutes, and went out again. Dmitri didn&rsquo;t see him again and is
  finishing the job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the
  murder, on the second floor. When I heard all that I did not say a word to
  anyone&rsquo;&mdash;that&rsquo;s Dushkin&rsquo;s tale&mdash;&lsquo;but I found out what I could
  about the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at
  eight o&rsquo;clock this morning&rsquo;&mdash;that was the third day, you understand&mdash;&lsquo;I
  saw Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not to say very drunk&mdash;he
  could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and did
  not speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep
  on a bench and our two boys. &ldquo;Have you seen Dmitri?&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;No, I
  haven&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;And you&rsquo;ve not been here either?&rdquo; &ldquo;Not since the day
  before yesterday,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;And where did you sleep last night?&rdquo; &ldquo;In
  Peski, with the Kolomensky men.&rdquo; &ldquo;And where did you get those ear-rings?&rdquo;
   I asked. &ldquo;I found them in the street,&rdquo; and the way he said it was a bit
  queer; he did not look at me. &ldquo;Did you hear what happened that very
  evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase?&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said
  he, &ldquo;I had not heard,&rdquo; and all the while he was listening, his eyes were
  staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all
  about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him.
  &ldquo;Wait a bit, Nikolay,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;won&rsquo;t you have a drink?&rdquo; And I signed to
  the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the bar; but he
  darted out and down the street to the turning at a run. I have not seen
  him since. Then my doubts were at an end&mdash;it was his doing, as clear
  as could be....&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should think so,&rdquo; said Zossimov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay; they
  detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the
  Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday
  they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone
  there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a dram for it.
  They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to the
  cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining
  he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood,
  and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched her
  hardest; people ran in. &lsquo;So that&rsquo;s what you are up to!&rsquo; &lsquo;Take me,&rsquo; he
  says, &lsquo;to such-and-such a police officer; I&rsquo;ll confess everything.&rsquo; Well,
  they took him to that police station&mdash;that is here&mdash;with a
  suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old he is,
  &lsquo;twenty-two,&rsquo; and so on. At the question, &lsquo;When you were working with
  Dmitri, didn&rsquo;t you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a time?&rsquo;&mdash;answer:
  &lsquo;To be sure folks may have gone up and down, but I did not notice them.&rsquo;
  &lsquo;And didn&rsquo;t you hear anything, any noise, and so on?&rsquo; &lsquo;We heard nothing
  special.&rsquo; &lsquo;And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same day Widow So-and-so
  and her sister were murdered and robbed?&rsquo; &lsquo;I never knew a thing about it.
  The first I heard of it was from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before
  yesterday.&rsquo; &lsquo;And where did you find the ear-rings?&rsquo; &lsquo;I found them on the
  pavement.&rsquo; &lsquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you go to work with Dmitri the other day?&rsquo; &lsquo;Because
  I was drinking.&rsquo; &lsquo;And where were you drinking?&rsquo; &lsquo;Oh, in such-and-such a
  place.&rsquo; &lsquo;Why did you run away from Dushkin&rsquo;s?&rsquo; &lsquo;Because I was awfully
  frightened.&rsquo; &lsquo;What were you frightened of?&rsquo; &lsquo;That I should be accused.&rsquo;
  &lsquo;How could you be frightened, if you felt free from guilt?&rsquo; Now, Zossimov,
  you may not believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I
  know it for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to
  that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, anyway, there&rsquo;s the evidence.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about that question,
  of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed him
  and he confessed: &lsquo;I did not find it in the street, but in the flat where
  I was painting with Dmitri.&rsquo; &lsquo;And how was that?&rsquo; &lsquo;Why, Dmitri and I were
  painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and Dmitri
  took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him. I ran
  after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran
  right against the porter and some gentlemen&mdash;and how many gentlemen
  were there I don&rsquo;t remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other
  porter swore, too, and the porter&rsquo;s wife came out, and swore at us, too;
  and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us, too,
  for Dmitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri&rsquo;s hair and
  knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, caught me by the
  hair and began beating me. But we did it all not for temper but in a
  friendly way, for sport. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street,
  and I ran after him; but I did not catch him, and went back to the flat
  alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together,
  expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the corner by the
  door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I
  took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were
  the ear-rings....&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?&rdquo; Raskolnikov
  cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he
  slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes... why? What&rsquo;s the matter? What&rsquo;s wrong?&rdquo; Razumihin, too, got up from
  his seat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. All were
  silent for a while.
<br />
  &ldquo;He must have waked from a dream,&rdquo; Razumihin said at last, looking
  inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly shook his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, go on,&rdquo; said Zossimov. &ldquo;What next?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting Dmitri and
  everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got a
  rouble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and
  went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder: &lsquo;I
  know nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yesterday.&rsquo; &lsquo;And
  why didn&rsquo;t you come to the police till now?&rsquo; &lsquo;I was frightened.&rsquo; &lsquo;And why
  did you try to hang yourself?&rsquo; &lsquo;From anxiety.&rsquo; &lsquo;What anxiety?&rsquo; &lsquo;That I
  should be accused of it.&rsquo; Well, that&rsquo;s the whole story. And now what do
  you suppose they deduced from that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, there&rsquo;s no supposing. There&rsquo;s a clue, such as it is, a fact. You
  wouldn&rsquo;t have your painter set free?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Now they&rsquo;ve simply taken him for the murderer. They haven&rsquo;t a shadow of
  doubt.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s nonsense. You are excited. But what about the ear-rings? You must
  admit that, if on the very same day and hour ear-rings from the old
  woman&rsquo;s box have come into Nikolay&rsquo;s hands, they must have come there
  somehow. That&rsquo;s a good deal in such a case.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How did they get there? How did they get there?&rdquo; cried Razumihin. &ldquo;How
  can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more
  opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature&mdash;how can you
  fail to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don&rsquo;t you see at
  once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy truth?
  They came into his hand precisely as he has told us&mdash;he stepped on
  the box and picked it up.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The holy truth! But didn&rsquo;t he own himself that he told a lie at first?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and Pestryakov and
  the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was
  sitting in the porter&rsquo;s lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of
  a cab at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm, that
  is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on the ground,
  was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his hair, beating
  him, too. They lay right across the way, blocking the thoroughfare. They
  were sworn at on all sides while they &lsquo;like children&rsquo; (the very words of
  the witnesses) were falling over one another, squealing, fighting and
  laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing one another like children,
  they ran into the street. Now take careful note. The bodies upstairs were
  warm, you understand, warm when they found them! If they, or Nikolay
  alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or simply taken part
  in the robbery, allow me to ask you one question: do their state of mind,
  their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with
  axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning, robbery? They&rsquo;d just killed them, not
  five or ten minutes before, for the bodies were still warm, and at once,
  leaving the flat open, knowing that people would go there at once,
  flinging away their booty, they rolled about like children, laughing and
  attracting general attention. And there are a dozen witnesses to swear to
  that!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course it is strange! It&rsquo;s impossible, indeed, but...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, brother, no . And if the ear-rings being found in
  Nikolay&rsquo;s hands at the very day and hour of the murder constitutes an
  important piece of circumstantial evidence against him&mdash;although the
  explanation given by him accounts for it, and therefore it does not tell
  seriously against him&mdash;one must take into consideration the facts
  which prove him innocent, especially as they are facts that . And do you suppose, from the character of our legal system,
  that they will accept, or that they are in a position to accept, this fact&mdash;resting
  simply on a psychological impossibility&mdash;as irrefutable and
  conclusively breaking down the circumstantial evidence for the
  prosecution? No, they won&rsquo;t accept it, they certainly won&rsquo;t, because they
  found the jewel-case and the man tried to hang himself, &lsquo;which he could
  not have done if he hadn&rsquo;t felt guilty.&rsquo; That&rsquo;s the point, that&rsquo;s what
  excites me, you must understand!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof is
  there that the box came from the old woman?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s been proved,&rdquo; said Razumihin with apparent reluctance, frowning.
  &ldquo;Koch recognised the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner, who proved
  conclusively that it was his.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolay at the time that
  Koch and Pestryakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence
  about that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nobody did see him,&rdquo; Razumihin answered with vexation. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the worst
  of it. Even Koch and Pestryakov did not notice them on their way upstairs,
  though, indeed, their evidence could not have been worth much. They said
  they saw the flat was open, and that there must be work going on in it,
  but they took no special notice and could not remember whether there
  actually were men at work in it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hm!... So the only evidence for the defence is that they were beating one
  another and laughing. That constitutes a strong presumption, but... How do
  you explain the facts yourself?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It&rsquo;s clear. At any rate,
  the direction in which explanation is to be sought is clear, and the
  jewel-case points to it. The real murderer dropped those ear-rings. The
  murderer was upstairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestryakov knocked at the
  door. Koch, like an ass, did not stay at the door; so the murderer popped
  out and ran down, too; for he had no other way of escape. He hid from
  Koch, Pestryakov and the porter in the flat when Nikolay and Dmitri had
  just run out of it. He stopped there while the porter and others were
  going upstairs, waited till they were out of hearing, and then went calmly
  downstairs at the very minute when Dmitri and Nikolay ran out into the
  street and there was no one in the entry; possibly he was seen, but not
  noticed. There are lots of people going in and out. He must have dropped
  the ear-rings out of his pocket when he stood behind the door, and did not
  notice he dropped them, because he had other things to think of. The
  jewel-case is a conclusive proof that he did stand there.... That&rsquo;s how I
  explain it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Too clever! No, my boy, you&rsquo;re too clever. That beats everything.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But, why, why?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, because everything fits too well... it&rsquo;s too melodramatic.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A-ach!&rdquo; Razumihin was exclaiming, but at that moment the door opened and
  a personage came in who was a stranger to all present.


      CHAPTER V


  This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance,
  and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the
  doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as
  though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and
  with an affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s low and narrow &ldquo;cabin.&rdquo; With the same amazement he stared at
  Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, on his miserable
  dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he
  scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin,
  who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his
  seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as
  might be expected, some scene-shifting took place. Reflecting, probably
  from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this
  &ldquo;cabin&rdquo; by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat,
  and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his
  question, addressed Zossimov:
<br />
  &ldquo;Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not
  Razumihin anticipated him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  This familiar &ldquo;what do you want&rdquo; seemed to cut the ground from the feet of
  the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in
  time and turned to Zossimov again.
<br />
  &ldquo;This is Raskolnikov,&rdquo; mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he gave
  a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily
  put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a
  round hunter&rsquo;s case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and lazily
  proceeded to put it back.
<br />
  Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing
  persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his
  face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was
  extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone
  an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But the new-comer
  gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion
  and even alarm. When Zossimov said &ldquo;This is Raskolnikov&rdquo; he jumped up
  quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and
  breaking, voice articulated:
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively:
<br />
  &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is
  not wholly unknown to you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly
  and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he heard the name of Pyotr
  Petrovitch for the first time.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no
  information?&rdquo; asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted.
<br />
  In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands
  behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into
  Luzhin&rsquo;s face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively
  than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment.
<br />
  &ldquo;I had presumed and calculated,&rdquo; he faltered, &ldquo;that a letter posted more
  than ten days, if not a fortnight ago...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I say, why are you standing in the doorway?&rdquo; Razumihin interrupted
  suddenly. &ldquo;If you&rsquo;ve something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so
  crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here&rsquo;s a chair, thread your way in!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the
  table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the
  visitor to &ldquo;thread his way in.&rdquo; The minute was so chosen that it was
  impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying
  and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at
  Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;No need to be nervous,&rdquo; the latter blurted out. &ldquo;Rodya has been ill for
  the last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and
  has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I
  am a comrade of Rodya&rsquo;s, like him, formerly a student, and now I am
  nursing him; so don&rsquo;t you take any notice of us, but go on with your
  business.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and
  conversation?&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch asked of Zossimov.
<br />
  &ldquo;N-no,&rdquo; mumbled Zossimov; &ldquo;you may amuse him.&rdquo; He yawned again.
<br />
  &ldquo;He has been conscious a long time, since the morning,&rdquo; went on Razumihin,
  whose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good-nature that Pyotr
  Petrovitch began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby
  and impudent person had introduced himself as a student.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your mamma,&rdquo; began Luzhin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hm!&rdquo; Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him
  inquiringly.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right, go on.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in her
  neighbourhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse
  before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured that you
  were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my astonishment...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know, I know!&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. &ldquo;So
  you are the ? I know, and that&rsquo;s enough!&rdquo;
 <br />
  There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s being offended this time, but
  he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant.
  There was a moment&rsquo;s silence.
<br />
  Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he
  answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as
  though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something new
  had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There
  certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s whole appearance,
  something which seemed to justify the title of &ldquo;fiancé&rdquo; so unceremoniously
  applied to him. In the first place, it was evident, far too much so
  indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few days in the
  capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation of his
  betrothed&mdash;a perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding, indeed.
  Even his own, perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the agreeable
  improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such
  circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the rôle of
  fiancé. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor&rsquo;s and were all right,
  except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even the stylish
  new round hat had the same significance. Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too
  respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of
  lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale, if only from the fact
  of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand for show. Light and
  youthful colours predominated in Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s attire. He wore a
  charming summer jacket of a fawn shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat
  of the same, new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambric with
  pink stripes on it, and the best of it was, this all suited Pyotr
  Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face looked younger than his
  forty-five years at all times. His dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an
  agreeable setting on both sides, growing thickly upon his shining,
  clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, touched here and there with grey, though
  it had been combed and curled at a hairdresser&rsquo;s, did not give him a
  stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a
  German on his wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasing and
  repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due
  to quite other causes. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously,
  Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the pillow and stared at the
  ceiling as before.
<br />
  But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no
  notice of their oddities.
<br />
  &ldquo;I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation,&rdquo; he began,
  again breaking the silence with an effort. &ldquo;If I had been aware of your
  illness I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have,
  too, a very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other
  preoccupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting your mamma
  and sister any minute.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed
  some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but as nothing followed,
  he went on:
<br />
  &ldquo;... Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov weakly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very near here, in Bakaleyev&rsquo;s house.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s in Voskresensky,&rdquo; put in Razumihin. &ldquo;There are two storeys of
  rooms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I&rsquo;ve been there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, rooms...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A disgusting place&mdash;filthy, stinking and, what&rsquo;s more, of doubtful
  character. Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer
  people living there. And I went there about a scandalous business. It&rsquo;s
  cheap, though...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in
  Petersburg myself,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. &ldquo;However, the two
  rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time... I have
  already taken a permanent, that is, our future flat,&rdquo; he said, addressing
  Raskolnikov, &ldquo;and I am having it done up. And meanwhile I am myself
  cramped for room in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch
  Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lippevechsel; it was he who told me
  of Bakaleyev&rsquo;s house, too...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Lebeziatnikov?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you
  know him?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes... no,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian.... A
  very nice young man and advanced. I like to meet young people: one learns
  new things from them.&rdquo; Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all.
<br />
  &ldquo;How do you mean?&rdquo; asked Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;In the most serious and essential matters,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as
  though delighted at the question. &ldquo;You see, it&rsquo;s ten years since I visited
  Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in the
  provinces, but to see it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And
  it&rsquo;s my notion that you observe and learn most by watching the younger
  generation. And I confess I am delighted...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;At what?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find
  clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more practicality...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; Zossimov let drop.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nonsense! There&rsquo;s no practicality.&rdquo; Razumihin flew at him. &ldquo;Practicality
  is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. And for
  the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life.
  Ideas, if you like, are fermenting,&rdquo; he said to Pyotr Petrovitch, &ldquo;and
  desire for good exists, though it&rsquo;s in a childish form, and honesty you
  may find, although there are crowds of brigands. Anyway, there&rsquo;s no
  practicality. Practicality goes well shod.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t agree with you,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident
  enjoyment. &ldquo;Of course, people do get carried away and make mistakes, but
  one must have indulgence; those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm
  for the cause and of abnormal external environment. If little has been
  done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak. It&rsquo;s my
  personal view, if you care to know, that something has been accomplished
  already. New valuable ideas, new valuable works are circulating in the
  place of our old dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a
  maturer form, many injurious prejudices have been rooted up and turned
  into ridicule.... In a word, we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from
  the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s learnt it by heart to show off!&rdquo; Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly.
<br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; but he received no
  reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all true,&rdquo; Zossimov hastened to interpose.
<br />
  &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it so?&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov.
  &ldquo;You must admit,&rdquo; he went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph
  and superciliousness&mdash;he almost added &ldquo;young man&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;that there
  is an advance, or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and
  economic truth...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A commonplace.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance, if I were told, &lsquo;love thy
  neighbour,&rsquo; what came of it?&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps with
  excessive haste. &ldquo;It came to my tearing my coat in half to share with my
  neighbour and we both were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has it,
  &lsquo;Catch several hares and you won&rsquo;t catch one.&rsquo; Science now tells us, love
  yourself before all men, for everything in the world rests on
  self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly and
  your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private
  affairs are organised in society&mdash;the more whole coats, so to say&mdash;the
  firmer are its foundations and the better is the common welfare organised
  too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I
  am acquiring, so to speak, for all, and helping to bring to pass my
  neighbour&rsquo;s getting a little more than a torn coat; and that not from
  private, personal liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance.
  The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us,
  being hindered by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it would seem to
  want very little wit to perceive it...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me, I&rsquo;ve very little wit myself,&rdquo; Razumihin cut in sharply, &ldquo;and
  so let us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I&rsquo;ve grown
  so sick during the last three years of this chattering to amuse oneself,
  of this incessant flow of commonplaces, always the same, that, by Jove, I
  blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt,
  to exhibit your acquirements; and I don&rsquo;t blame you, that&rsquo;s quite
  pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you are, for so
  many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive cause of late
  and have so distorted in their own interests everything they touched, that
  the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That&rsquo;s enough!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me, sir,&rdquo; said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive
  dignity. &ldquo;Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I too...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, my dear sir... how could I?... Come, that&rsquo;s enough,&rdquo; Razumihin
  concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous
  conversation.
<br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up
  his mind to take leave in another minute or two.
<br />
  &ldquo;I trust our acquaintance,&rdquo; he said, addressing Raskolnikov, &ldquo;may, upon
  your recovery and in view of the circumstances of which you are aware,
  become closer... Above all, I hope for your return to health...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began getting up
  from his chair.
<br />
  &ldquo;One of her customers must have killed her,&rdquo; Zossimov declared positively.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not a doubt of it,&rdquo; replied Razumihin. &ldquo;Porfiry doesn&rsquo;t give his opinion,
  but is examining all who have left pledges with her there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Examining them?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked aloud.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes. What then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How does he get hold of them?&rdquo; asked Zossimov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Koch has given the names of some of them, other names are on the wrappers
  of the pledges and some have come forward of themselves.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it!
  The coolness!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just what it wasn&rsquo;t!&rdquo; interposed Razumihin. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what throws
  you all off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, not
  practised, and probably this was his first crime! The supposition that it
  was a calculated crime and a cunning criminal doesn&rsquo;t work. Suppose him to
  have been inexperienced, and it&rsquo;s clear that it was only a chance that
  saved him&mdash;and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee
  obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten
  or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old
  woman&rsquo;s trunks, her rags&mdash;and they found fifteen hundred roubles,
  besides notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know
  how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first crime, I assure you,
  his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good
  counsel!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?&rdquo; Pyotr
  Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in
  hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more
  intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favourable
  impression and his vanity overcame his prudence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes. You&rsquo;ve heard of it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you know the details?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say that; but another circumstance interests me in the case&mdash;the
  whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been
  greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last five
  years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what
  strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too,
  crime is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a student&rsquo;s
  robbing the mail on the high road; in another place people of good social
  position forge false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has been
  captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was
  a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was murdered
  from some obscure motive of gain.... And if this old woman, the
  pawnbroker, has been murdered by someone of a higher class in society&mdash;for
  peasants don&rsquo;t pawn gold trinkets&mdash;how are we to explain this
  demoralisation of the civilised part of our society?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There are many economic changes,&rdquo; put in Zossimov.
<br />
  &ldquo;How are we to explain it?&rdquo; Razumihin caught him up. &ldquo;It might be
  explained by our inveterate impracticality.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How do you mean?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he
  was forging notes? &lsquo;Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I
  want to make haste to get rich too.&rsquo; I don&rsquo;t remember the exact words, but
  the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or
  working! We&rsquo;ve grown used to having everything ready-made, to walking on
  crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour struck,[*]
  and every man showed himself in his true colours.&rdquo;
 <br />
 [*] The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.&mdash;TRANSLATOR&rsquo;S NOTE.


    “But morality? And so to speak, principles…”
    “But why do you worry about it?” Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. “It’s in accordance with your theory!”
    “In accordance with my theory?”
    “Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and it follows that people may be killed…”
    “Upon my word!” cried Luzhin.
    “No, that’s not so,” put in Zossimov.
    Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing painfully.
    “There’s a measure in all things,” Luzhin went on superciliously. “Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and one has but to suppose…”
    “And is it true,” Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, “is it true that you told your … within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most… was that she was a beggar… because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?”
    “Upon my word,” Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with confusion, “to distort my words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has reached you, or rather, let me say, has been conveyed to you, has no foundation in truth, and I… suspect who… in a word… this arrow… in a word, your mamma… She seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat high-flown and romantic way of thinking…. But I was a thousand miles from supposing that she would misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a way…. And indeed… indeed…”
    “I tell you what,” cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, “I tell you what.”
    “What?” Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds.
    “Why, if ever again… you dare to mention a single word… about my mother… I shall send you flying downstairs!”
    “What’s the matter with you?” cried Razumihin.
    “So that’s how it is?” Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. “Let me tell you, sir,” he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself but breathing hard, “at the first moment I saw you you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you… never after this…”
    “I am not ill,” cried Raskolnikov.
    “So much the worse…”
    “Go to hell!”
    But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received.
    “How could you—how could you!” Razumihin said, shaking his head in perplexity.
    “Let me alone—let me alone all of you!” Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy. “Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!”
    “Come along,” said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.
    “But we can’t leave him like this!”
    “Come along,” Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to overtake him.
    “It might be worse not to obey him,” said Zossimov on the stairs. “He mustn’t be irritated.”
    “What’s the matter with him?”
    “If only he could get some favourable shock, that’s what would do it! At first he was better…. You know he has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on him…. I am very much afraid so; he must have!”
    “Perhaps it’s that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just before his illness….”
    “Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in anything, he does not respond to anything except one point on which he seems excited—that’s the murder?”
    “Yes, yes,” Razumihin agreed, “I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he fainted.”
    “Tell me more about that this evening and I’ll tell you something afterwards. He interests me very much! In half an hour I’ll go and see him again…. There’ll be no inflammation though.”
    “Thanks! And I’ll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him through Nastasya….”
    Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya, but she still lingered.
    “Won’t you have some tea now?” she asked.
    “Later! I am sleepy! Leave me.”
    He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out.

      CHAPTER VI


  But as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the parcel
  which Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up again and
  began dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have become
  perfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium nor of the panic fear
  that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strange sudden
  calm. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident
  in them. &ldquo;To-day, to-day,&rdquo; he muttered to himself. He understood that he
  was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him strength
  and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down in
  the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the
  money lying on the table, and after a moment&rsquo;s thought put it in his
  pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took also all the copper change
  from the ten roubles spent by Razumihin on the clothes. Then he softly
  unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs and glanced in at the
  open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back to him, blowing up
  the landlady&rsquo;s samovar. She heard nothing. Who would have dreamed of his
  going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the street.
<br />
  It was nearly eight o&rsquo;clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as
  before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head
  felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his
  feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and
  did not think where he was going, he had one thought only: &ldquo;that all 
  must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he would not return
  home without it, because he .&rdquo; How,
  with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even
  want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he
  knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed &ldquo;one way or
  another,&rdquo; he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and
  determination.
<br />
  From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market.
  A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in
  front of a little general shop and was grinding out a very sentimental
  song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement in
  front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat
  with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a strong
  and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing, she
  sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or
  three listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in the girl&rsquo;s
  hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply
  to the organ grinder &ldquo;Come on,&rdquo; and both moved on to the next shop.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you like street music?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged man
  standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering.
<br />
  &ldquo;I love to hear singing to a street organ,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, and his
  manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject&mdash;&ldquo;I like it
  on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings&mdash;they must be damp&mdash;when all
  the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet
  snow is falling straight down, when there&rsquo;s no wind&mdash;you know what I
  mean?&mdash;and the street lamps shine through it...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.... Excuse me...&rdquo; muttered the stranger, frightened by the
  question and Raskolnikov&rsquo;s strange manner, and he crossed over to the
  other side of the street.
<br />
  Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay
  Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they
  were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round and
  addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn
  chandler&rsquo;s shop.
<br />
  &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All sorts of people keep booths here,&rdquo; answered the young man, glancing
  superciliously at Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s his name?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What he was christened.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which province?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive
  me, your excellency!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is that a tavern at the top there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s an eating-house and there&rsquo;s a billiard-room and you&rsquo;ll find
  princesses there too.... La-la!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of
  peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the
  faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation
  with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all
  shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little and took a
  turning to the right in the direction of V.
<br />
  He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading
  from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to
  wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might feel
  more so.
<br />
  Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great
  block of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating-houses;
  women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in their indoor
  clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement,
  especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in the
  lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the
  tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A
  crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the
  steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken
  soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing;
  he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where.
  One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man dead drunk was lying
  right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were
  talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses and
  goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than
  seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes.
<br />
  He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in
  the saloon below.... someone could be heard within dancing frantically,
  marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin
  falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and
  dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping inquisitively in from
  the pavement.
<br />
    &ldquo;Oh, my handsome soldier<br />
    Don&rsquo;t beat me for nothing,&rdquo;
   <br />
  trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to
  make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that.
<br />
  &ldquo;Shall I go in?&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get
  drunk?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you come in?&rdquo; one of the women asked him. Her voice was still
  musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive&mdash;the
  only one of the group.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, she&rsquo;s pretty,&rdquo; he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.
<br />
  She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re very nice looking yourself,&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t he thin though!&rdquo; observed another woman in a deep bass. &ldquo;Have you
  just come out of a hospital?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;re all generals&rsquo; daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses,&rdquo;
   interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose
  coat. &ldquo;See how jolly they are.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Go along with you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go, sweetie!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, sir,&rdquo; the girl shouted after him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She hesitated.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now
  I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there&rsquo;s a nice young man!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov gave her what came first&mdash;fifteen copecks.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s your name?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ask for Duclida.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s too much,&rdquo; one of the women observed, shaking her head at
  Duclida. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop
  with shame....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench
  of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her
  criticism quietly and earnestly. &ldquo;Where is it,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
  &ldquo;Where is it I&rsquo;ve read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an
  hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a
  narrow ledge that he&rsquo;d only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting
  darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had
  to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand
  years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to
  live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!... How true it is! Good
  God, how true! Man is a vile creature!... And vile is he who calls him
  vile for that,&rdquo; he added a moment later.
<br />
  He went into another street. &ldquo;Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was
  just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted?
  Yes, the newspapers.... Zossimov said he&rsquo;d read it in the papers. Have you
  the papers?&rdquo; he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean
  restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather
  empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away
  were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov
  was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. &ldquo;What if it
  is?&rdquo; he thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;Will you have vodka?&rdquo; asked the waiter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five
  days, and I&rsquo;ll give you something.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sir, here&rsquo;s to-day&rsquo;s. No vodka?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and
  began to look through them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, damn... these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a
  staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in
  Peski... a fire in the Petersburg quarter... another fire in the
  Petersburg quarter... and another fire in the Petersburg quarter.... Ah,
  here it is!&rdquo; He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it.
  The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly
  seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands shook with
  nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down
  beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerk Zametov,
  looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch-chain,
  with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat,
  rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least
  he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His dark face was rather
  flushed from the champagne he had drunk.
<br />
  &ldquo;What, you here?&rdquo; he began in surprise, speaking as though he&rsquo;d known him
  all his life. &ldquo;Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you were unconscious.
  How strange! And do you know I&rsquo;ve been to see you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and
  turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of
  irritable impatience was apparent in that smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know you have,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard it. You looked for my sock....
  And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says you&rsquo;ve been with
  him to Luise Ivanovna&rsquo;s&mdash;you know, the woman you tried to befriend,
  for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he would not
  understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to understand&mdash;it was
  quite clear, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What a hot head he is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The explosive one?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, your friend Razumihin.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most
  agreeable places. Who&rsquo;s been pouring champagne into you just now?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve just been... having a drink together.... You talk about pouring it
  into me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;By way of a fee! You profit by everything!&rdquo; Raskolnikov laughed, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s
  all right, my dear boy,&rdquo; he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. &ldquo;I am
  not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that
  workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of
  the old woman....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How do you know about it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps I know more about it than you do.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How strange you are.... I am sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn&rsquo;t
  to have come out.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, do I seem strange to you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a lot about the fires.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I am not reading about the fires.&rdquo; Here he looked mysteriously at
  Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. &ldquo;No, I am not
  reading about the fires,&rdquo; he went on, winking at Zametov. &ldquo;But confess
  now, my dear fellow, you&rsquo;re awfully anxious to know what I am reading
  about?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am not in the least. Mayn&rsquo;t I ask a question? Why do you keep on...?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Listen, you are a man of culture and education?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium,&rdquo; said Zametov with some
  dignity.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your parting and your rings&mdash;you
  are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!&rdquo; Here Raskolnikov
  broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov&rsquo;s face. The latter drew back,
  more amazed than offended.
<br />
  &ldquo;Foo! how strange you are!&rdquo; Zametov repeated very seriously. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t help
  thinking you are still delirious.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You
  find me curious, do you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, curious.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See
  what a lot of papers I&rsquo;ve made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, what is it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You prick up your ears?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How do you mean&mdash;&lsquo;prick up my ears&rsquo;?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare to you... no,
  better &lsquo;I confess&rsquo;... No, that&rsquo;s not right either; &lsquo;I make a deposition
  and you take it.&rsquo; I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and
  searching....&rdquo; he screwed up his eyes and paused. &ldquo;I was searching&mdash;and
  came here on purpose to do it&mdash;for news of the murder of the old
  pawnbroker woman,&rdquo; he articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing
  his face exceedingly close to the face of Zametov. Zametov looked at him
  steadily, without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov
  afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for
  exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while.
<br />
  &ldquo;What if you have been reading about it?&rdquo; he cried at last, perplexed and
  impatient. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s no business of mine! What of it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The same old woman,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper, not heeding
  Zametov&rsquo;s explanation, &ldquo;about whom you were talking in the police-office,
  you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand now?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean? Understand... what?&rdquo; Zametov brought out, almost
  alarmed.
<br />
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he
  suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as though utterly
  unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with
  extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, that
  moment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch
  trembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden
  desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them,
  to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh!
<br />
  &ldquo;You are either mad, or...&rdquo; began Zametov, and he broke off, as though
  stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; said Zametov, getting angry, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s all nonsense!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Raskolnikov became
  suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table and
  leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten
  Zametov. The silence lasted for some time.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you drink your tea? It&rsquo;s getting cold,&rdquo; said Zametov.
<br />
  &ldquo;What! Tea? Oh, yes....&rdquo; Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel of
  bread in his mouth and, suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to remember
  everything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his face
  resumed its original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea.
<br />
  &ldquo;There have been a great many of these crimes lately,&rdquo; said Zametov. &ldquo;Only
  the other day I read in the  that a whole gang of false
  coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to
  forge tickets!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago,&rdquo; Raskolnikov
  answered calmly. &ldquo;So you consider them criminals?&rdquo; he added, smiling.
<br />
  &ldquo;Of course they are criminals.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Why, half a hundred
  people meeting for such an object&mdash;what an idea! Three would be too
  many, and then they want to have more faith in one another than in
  themselves! One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses.
  Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes&mdash;what
  a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that these
  simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and what follows for the rest
  of their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of his life!
  Better hang oneself at once! And they did not know how to change the notes
  either; the man who changed the notes took five thousand roubles, and his
  hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand, but did not count the
  fifth thousand&mdash;he was in such a hurry to get the money into his
  pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. And the whole thing
  came to a crash through one fool! Is it possible?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That his hands trembled?&rdquo; observed Zametov, &ldquo;yes, that&rsquo;s quite possible.
  That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can&rsquo;t stand things.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t stand that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn&rsquo;t. For the sake of a hundred
  roubles to face such a terrible experience? To go with false notes into a
  bank where it&rsquo;s their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I should
  not have the face to do it. Would you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov had an intense desire again &ldquo;to put his tongue out.&rdquo; Shivers
  kept running down his spine.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should do it quite differently,&rdquo; Raskolnikov began. &ldquo;This is how I
  would change the notes: I&rsquo;d count the first thousand three or four times
  backwards and forwards, looking at every note and then I&rsquo;d set to the
  second thousand; I&rsquo;d count that half-way through and then hold some
  fifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light
  again&mdash;to see whether it was a good one. &lsquo;I am afraid,&rsquo; I would say,
  &lsquo;a relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the other day through a false
  note,&rsquo; and then I&rsquo;d tell them the whole story. And after I began counting
  the third, &lsquo;No, excuse me,&rsquo; I would say, &lsquo;I fancy I made a mistake in the
  seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.&rsquo; And so I would
  give up the third thousand and go back to the second and so on to the end.
  And when I had finished, I&rsquo;d pick out one from the fifth and one from the
  second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again, &lsquo;Change
  them, please,&rsquo; and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know
  how to get rid of me. When I&rsquo;d finished and had gone out, I&rsquo;d come back,
  &lsquo;No, excuse me,&rsquo; and ask for some explanation. That&rsquo;s how I&rsquo;d do it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Foo! what terrible things you say!&rdquo; said Zametov, laughing. &ldquo;But all that
  is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you&rsquo;d make a slip. I
  believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon on
  himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home&mdash;that old
  woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a
  desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a
  miracle&mdash;but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the
  place, he couldn&rsquo;t stand it. That was clear from the...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov seemed offended.
<br />
  &ldquo;Clear? Why don&rsquo;t you catch him then?&rdquo; he cried, maliciously gibing at
  Zametov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, they will catch him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? You&rsquo;ve a tough job! A great
  point for you is whether a man is spending money or not. If he had no
  money and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any child
  can mislead you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The fact is they always do that, though,&rdquo; answered Zametov. &ldquo;A man will
  commit a clever murder at the risk of his life and then at once he goes
  drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all as
  cunning as you are. You wouldn&rsquo;t go to a tavern, of course?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov.
<br />
  &ldquo;You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should behave
  in that case, too?&rdquo; he asked with displeasure.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should like to,&rdquo; Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too
  much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very much?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Very much!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All right then. This is how I should behave,&rdquo; Raskolnikov began, again
  bringing his face close to Zametov&rsquo;s, again staring at him and speaking in
  a whisper, so that the latter positively shuddered. &ldquo;This is what I should
  have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should have walked
  out of there and have gone straight to some deserted place with fences
  round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen garden or place of
  that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some stone weighing a
  hundredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from the time the
  house was built. I would lift that stone&mdash;there would sure to be a
  hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that hole. Then
  I&rsquo;d roll the stone back so that it would look as before, would press it
  down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe, I
  would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There&rsquo;d be no trace.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are a madman,&rdquo; said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a
  whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He
  had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering.
  He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to move
  without uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew what he
  was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on
  his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break
  out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out.
<br />
  &ldquo;And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?&rdquo; he said
  suddenly and&mdash;realised what he had done.
<br />
  Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His face
  wore a contorted smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;But is it possible?&rdquo; he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked
  wrathfully at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now,&rdquo; Zametov cried hastily.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you
  believe less than ever?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. &ldquo;Have you been
  frightening me so as to lead up to this?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back
  when I went out of the police-office? And why did the explosive lieutenant
  question me after I fainted? Hey, there,&rdquo; he shouted to the waiter,
  getting up and taking his cap, &ldquo;how much?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Thirty copecks,&rdquo; the latter replied, running up.
<br />
  &ldquo;And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!&rdquo; he held
  out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. &ldquo;Red notes and blue,
  twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes
  come from? You know I had not a copeck. You&rsquo;ve cross-examined my landlady,
  I&rsquo;ll be bound.... Well, that&rsquo;s enough!  Till we meet
  again!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation,
  in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy
  and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue
  increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and
  revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as quickly when the
  stimulus was removed.
<br />
  Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in
  thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on a
  certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead,&rdquo; he decided.
<br />
  Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he stumbled
  against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other till they
  almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood looking each
  other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then anger, real anger
  gleamed fiercely in his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;So here you are!&rdquo; he shouted at the top of his voice&mdash;&ldquo;you ran away
  from your bed! And here I&rsquo;ve been looking for you under the sofa! We went
  up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is
  after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth!
  Confess! Do you hear?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It means that I&rsquo;m sick to death of you all and I want to be alone,&rdquo;
   Raskolnikov answered calmly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a
  sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot!... What have you been doing
  in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Let me go!&rdquo; said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much for
  Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I&rsquo;ll do with
  you directly? I&rsquo;ll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you home
  under my arm and lock you up!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Listen, Razumihin,&rdquo; Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm&mdash;&ldquo;can&rsquo;t
  you see that I don&rsquo;t want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to
  shower benefits on a man who... curses them, who feels them a burden in
  fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was
  very glad to die. Didn&rsquo;t I tell you plainly enough to-day that you were
  torturing me, that I was... sick of you! You seem to want to torture
  people! I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery,
  because it&rsquo;s continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away just
  now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness&rsquo; sake!
  What right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don&rsquo;t you see that I am
  in possession of all my faculties now? How, how can I persuade you not to
  persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only
  let me be, for God&rsquo;s sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was
  about to utter, but finished, panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he had
  been with Luzhin.
<br />
  Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, go to hell then,&rdquo; he said gently and thoughtfully. &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; he
  roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. &ldquo;Listen to me. Let me tell you,
  that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you&rsquo;ve any little
  trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists
  even in that! There isn&rsquo;t a sign of independent life in you! You are made
  of spermaceti ointment and you&rsquo;ve lymph in your veins instead of blood. I
  don&rsquo;t believe in anyone of you! In any circumstances the first thing for
  all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!&rdquo; he cried with redoubled
  fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement&mdash;&ldquo;hear me
  out! You know I&rsquo;m having a house-warming this evening, I dare say they&rsquo;ve
  arrived by now, but I left my uncle there&mdash;I just ran in&mdash;to
  receive the guests. And if you weren&rsquo;t a fool, a common fool, a perfect
  fool, if you were an original instead of a translation... you see, Rodya,
  I recognise you&rsquo;re a clever fellow, but you&rsquo;re a fool!&mdash;and if you
  weren&rsquo;t a fool you&rsquo;d come round to me this evening instead of wearing out
  your boots in the street! Since you have gone out, there&rsquo;s no help for it!
  I&rsquo;d give you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one... a cup of tea,
  company.... Or you could lie on the sofa&mdash;any way you would be with
  us.... Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;R-rubbish!&rdquo; Razumihin shouted, out of patience. &ldquo;How do you know? You
  can&rsquo;t answer for yourself! You don&rsquo;t know anything about it.... Thousands
  of times I&rsquo;ve fought tooth and nail with people and run back to them
  afterwards.... One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So remember,
  Potchinkov&rsquo;s house on the third storey....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you&rsquo;d let anybody beat you from sheer
  benevolence.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Beat? Whom? Me? I&rsquo;d twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov&rsquo;s
  house, 47, Babushkin&rsquo;s flat....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I shall not come, Razumihin.&rdquo; Raskolnikov turned and walked away.
<br />
  &ldquo;I bet you will,&rdquo; Razumihin shouted after him. &ldquo;I refuse to know you if
  you don&rsquo;t! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Did you see him?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Talked to him?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What about? Confound you, don&rsquo;t tell me then. Potchinkov&rsquo;s house, 47,
  Babushkin&rsquo;s flat, remember!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy Street. Razumihin
  looked after him thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he went into
  the house but stopped short of the stairs.
<br />
  &ldquo;Confound it,&rdquo; he went on almost aloud. &ldquo;He talked sensibly but yet... I
  am a fool! As if madmen didn&rsquo;t talk sensibly! And this was just what
  Zossimov seemed afraid of.&rdquo; He struck his finger on his forehead. &ldquo;What
  if... how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself.... Ach, what
  a blunder! I can&rsquo;t.&rdquo; And he ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, but there
  was no trace of him. With a curse he returned with rapid steps to the
  Palais de Cristal to question Zametov.
<br />
  Raskolnikov walked straight to X&mdash;&mdash; Bridge, stood in the
  middle, and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On
  parting with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely
  reach this place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street.
  Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of
  the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight,
  at one distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire
  in the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal,
  and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed
  before his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal
  banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started,
  saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He
  became aware of someone standing on the right side of him; he looked and
  saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow, wasted
  face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but obviously
  she saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand
  on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, then her left and
  threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its
  victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to
  the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head and legs in the
  water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.
<br />
  &ldquo;A woman drowning! A woman drowning!&rdquo; shouted dozens of voices; people ran
  up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded
  about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mercy on it! it&rsquo;s our Afrosinya!&rdquo; a woman cried tearfully close by.
  &ldquo;Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A boat, a boat&rdquo; was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a
  boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his great
  coat and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her:
  she floated within a couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her
  clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a
  comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They
  laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered
  consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing,
  stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.
<br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;s drunk herself out of her senses,&rdquo; the same woman&rsquo;s voice wailed at
  her side. &ldquo;Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang herself, we
  cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look
  after her&mdash;and here she&rsquo;s in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a
  neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end, see
  yonder....&rdquo;
 <br />
  The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someone
  mentioned the police station.... Raskolnikov looked on with a strange
  sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. &ldquo;No, that&rsquo;s
  loathsome... water... it&rsquo;s not good enough,&rdquo; he muttered to himself.
  &ldquo;Nothing will come of it,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;no use to wait. What about the
  police office...? And why isn&rsquo;t Zametov at the police office? The police
  office is open till ten o&rsquo;clock....&rdquo; He turned his back to the railing and
  looked about him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very well then!&rdquo; he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and walked
  in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and empty. He
  did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, there was not a
  trace now of the energy with which he had set out &ldquo;to make an end of it
  all.&rdquo; Complete apathy had succeeded to it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, it&rsquo;s a way out of it,&rdquo; he thought, walking slowly and listlessly
  along the canal bank. &ldquo;Anyway I&rsquo;ll make an end, for I want to.... But is
  it a way out? What does it matter! There&rsquo;ll be the square yard of space&mdash;ha!
  But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah...
  damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon!
  What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don&rsquo;t care about
  that either! What idiotic ideas come into one&rsquo;s head.&rdquo;
 <br />
  To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the
  second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first
  turning he stopped and, after a minute&rsquo;s thought, turned into a side
  street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any object,
  or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking at the
  ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he lifted his head
  and saw that he was standing at the very gate of  house. He had
  not passed it, he had not been near it since  evening. An
  overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house,
  passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and
  began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow,
  steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked round
  him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had
  been taken out. &ldquo;That wasn&rsquo;t so then,&rdquo; he thought. Here was the flat on
  the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s shut up
  and the door newly painted. So it&rsquo;s to let.&rdquo; Then the third storey and the
  fourth. &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; He was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open.
  There were men there, he could hear voices; he had not expected that.
  After brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the flat.
  It, too, was being done up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze
  him; he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left it, even
  perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor. And now, bare walls,
  no furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat down on
  the window-sill. There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much
  younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white
  paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one.
  Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at
  the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so
  changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they
  were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They
  took no notice of Raskolnikov&rsquo;s coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov
  folded his arms and listened.
<br />
  &ldquo;She comes to me in the morning,&rdquo; said the elder to the younger, &ldquo;very
  early, all dressed up. &lsquo;Why are you preening and prinking?&rsquo; says I. &lsquo;I am
  ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!&rsquo; That&rsquo;s a way of going
  on! And she dressed up like a regular fashion book!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And what is a fashion book?&rdquo; the younger one asked. He obviously regarded
  the other as an authority.
<br />
  &ldquo;A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to the
  tailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show folks how to
  dress, the male sex as well as the female. They&rsquo;re pictures. The gentlemen
  are generally wearing fur coats and for the ladies&rsquo; fluffles, they&rsquo;re
  beyond anything you can fancy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing you can&rsquo;t find in Petersburg,&rdquo; the younger cried
  enthusiastically, &ldquo;except father and mother, there&rsquo;s everything!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Except them, there&rsquo;s everything to be found, my boy,&rdquo; the elder declared
  sententiously.
<br />
  Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strong box,
  the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to him very
  tiny without furniture in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the
  corner showed where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at it and went
  to the window. The elder workman looked at him askance.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; he asked suddenly.
<br />
  Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the
  bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and a
  third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly
  fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more
  vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more
  satisfaction.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what do you want? Who are you?&rdquo; the workman shouted, going out to
  him. Raskolnikov went inside again.
<br />
  &ldquo;I want to take a flat,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I am looking round.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up
  with the porter.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The floors have been washed, will they be painted?&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on.
  &ldquo;Is there no blood?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What blood?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect
  pool there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But who are you?&rdquo; the workman cried, uneasy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who am I?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You want to know? Come to the police station, I&rsquo;ll tell you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The workmen looked at him in amazement.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock
  up,&rdquo; said the elder workman.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very well, come along,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out
  first, he went slowly downstairs. &ldquo;Hey, porter,&rdquo; he cried in the gateway.
<br />
  At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers-by;
  the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others.
  Raskolnikov went straight up to them.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; asked one of the porters.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you been to the police office?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve just been there. What do you want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is it open?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is the assistant there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He was there for a time. What do you want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s been to look at the flat,&rdquo; said the elder workman, coming forward.
<br />
  &ldquo;Which flat?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where we are at work. &lsquo;Why have you washed away the blood?&rsquo; says he.
  &lsquo;There has been a murder here,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;and I&rsquo;ve come to take it.&rsquo; And
  he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. &lsquo;Come to the police
  station,&rsquo; says he. &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you everything there.&rsquo; He wouldn&rsquo;t leave
  us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo; he shouted as impressively as he could.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in Shil&rsquo;s
  house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me.&rdquo;
   Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but
  looking intently into the darkening street.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why have you been to the flat?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To look at it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is there to look at?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Take him straight to the police station,&rdquo; the man in the long coat jerked
  in abruptly.
<br />
  Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same
  slow, lazy tones:
<br />
  &ldquo;Come along.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, take him,&rdquo; the man went on more confidently. &ldquo;Why was he going into
  , what&rsquo;s in his mind, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s not drunk, but God knows what&rsquo;s the matter with him,&rdquo; muttered the
  workman.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what do you want?&rdquo; the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry
  in earnest&mdash;&ldquo;Why are you hanging about?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You funk the police station then?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov jeeringly.
<br />
  &ldquo;How funk it? Why are you hanging about?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a rogue!&rdquo; shouted the peasant woman.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why waste time talking to him?&rdquo; cried the other porter, a huge peasant in
  a full open coat and with keys on his belt. &ldquo;Get along! He is a rogue and
  no mistake. Get along!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. He
  lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators in
  silence and walked away.
<br />
  &ldquo;Strange man!&rdquo; observed the workman.
<br />
  &ldquo;There are strange folks about nowadays,&rdquo; said the woman.
<br />
  &ldquo;You should have taken him to the police station all the same,&rdquo; said the
  man in the long coat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Better have nothing to do with him,&rdquo; decided the big porter. &ldquo;A regular
  rogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you
  won&rsquo;t get rid of him.... We know the sort!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Shall I go there or not?&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle of
  the thoroughfare at the cross-roads, and he looked about him, as though
  expecting from someone a decisive word. But no sound came, all was dead
  and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to him
  alone.... All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yards away, in
  the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and shouts. In the middle
  of the crowd stood a carriage.... A light gleamed in the middle of the
  street. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the
  crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he
  recognised it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police
  station and knew that it would all soon be over.


      CHAPTER VII


  An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of
  spirited grey horses; there was no one in it, and the coachman had got off
  his box and stood by; the horses were being held by the bridle.... A mass
  of people had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of them
  held a lighted lantern which he was turning on something lying close to
  the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming; the coachman
  seemed at a loss and kept repeating:
<br />
  &ldquo;What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last in
  seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a man who
  had been run over lay apparently unconscious, and covered with blood; he
  was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing from his
  head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated and disfigured. He was
  evidently badly injured.
<br />
  &ldquo;Merciful heaven!&rdquo; wailed the coachman, &ldquo;what more could I do? If I&rsquo;d been
  driving fast or had not shouted to him, but I was going quietly, not in a
  hurry. Everyone could see I was going along just like everybody else. A
  drunken man can&rsquo;t walk straight, we all know.... I saw him crossing the
  street, staggering and almost falling. I shouted again and a second and a
  third time, then I held the horses in, but he fell straight under their
  feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was very tipsy.... The horses are
  young and ready to take fright... they started, he screamed... that made
  them worse. That&rsquo;s how it happened!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just how it was,&rdquo; a voice in the crowd confirmed.
<br />
  &ldquo;He shouted, that&rsquo;s true, he shouted three times,&rdquo; another voice declared.
<br />
  &ldquo;Three times it was, we all heard it,&rdquo; shouted a third.
<br />
  But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was
  evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was
  awaiting it somewhere; the police, of course, were in no little anxiety to
  avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the
  injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one knew his name.
<br />
  Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The
  lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate man&rsquo;s face. He recognised him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know him! I know him!&rdquo; he shouted, pushing to the front. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a
  government clerk retired from the service, Marmeladov. He lives close by
  in Kozel&rsquo;s house.... Make haste for a doctor! I will pay, see?&rdquo; He pulled
  money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in violent
  agitation.
<br />
  The police were glad that they had found out who the man was. Raskolnikov
  gave his own name and address, and, as earnestly as if it had been his
  father, he besought the police to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his
  lodging at once.
<br />
  &ldquo;Just here, three houses away,&rdquo; he said eagerly, &ldquo;the house belongs to
  Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he is
  a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife, children, he has one
  daughter.... It will take time to take him to the hospital, and there is
  sure to be a doctor in the house. I&rsquo;ll pay, I&rsquo;ll pay! At least he will be
  looked after at home... they will help him at once. But he&rsquo;ll die before
  you get him to the hospital.&rdquo; He managed to slip something unseen into the
  policeman&rsquo;s hand. But the thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in
  any case help was closer here. They raised the injured man; people
  volunteered to help.
<br />
  Kozel&rsquo;s house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully
  holding Marmeladov&rsquo;s head and showing the way.
<br />
  &ldquo;This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head foremost. Turn round!
  I&rsquo;ll pay, I&rsquo;ll make it worth your while,&rdquo; he muttered.
<br />
  Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment,
  walking to and fro in her little room from window to stove and back again,
  with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of
  late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a
  child of ten, who, though there was much she did not understand,
  understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her
  with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost to appear to understand.
  This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell
  all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off his
  shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and
  motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs
  stretched out straight before him&mdash;heels together and toes turned
  out.
<br />
  He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting
  perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, just as all good
  little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little
  girl, still younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen,
  waiting for her turn. The door on to the stairs was open to relieve them a
  little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other
  rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in the poor,
  consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner
  during that week and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than ever.
<br />
  &ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t believe, you can&rsquo;t imagine, Polenka,&rdquo; she said, walking
  about the room, &ldquo;what a happy luxurious life we had in my papa&rsquo;s house and
  how this drunkard has brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin! Papa
  was a civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; so that
  everyone who came to see him said, &lsquo;We look upon you, Ivan Mihailovitch,
  as our governor!&rsquo; When I... when...&rdquo; she coughed violently, &ldquo;oh, cursed
  life,&rdquo; she cried, clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her
  breast, &ldquo;when I... when at the last ball... at the marshal&rsquo;s... Princess
  Bezzemelny saw me&mdash;who gave me the blessing when your father and I
  were married, Polenka&mdash;she asked at once &lsquo;Isn&rsquo;t that the pretty girl
  who danced the shawl dance at the breaking-up?&rsquo; (You must mend that tear,
  you must take your needle and darn it as I showed you, or to-morrow&mdash;cough,
  cough, cough&mdash;he will make the hole bigger,&rdquo; she articulated with
  effort.) &ldquo;Prince Schegolskoy, a kammerjunker, had just come from
  Petersburg then... he danced the mazurka with me and wanted to make me an
  offer next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions and told him
  that my heart had long been another&rsquo;s. That other was your father, Polya;
  papa was fearfully angry.... Is the water ready? Give me the shirt, and
  the stockings! Lida,&rdquo; said she to the youngest one, &ldquo;you must manage
  without your chemise to-night... and lay your stockings out with it...
  I&rsquo;ll wash them together.... How is it that drunken vagabond doesn&rsquo;t come
  in? He has worn his shirt till it looks like a dish-clout, he has torn it
  to rags! I&rsquo;d do it all together, so as not to have to work two nights
  running! Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What&rsquo;s this?&rdquo; she
  cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the men, who were pushing into
  her room, carrying a burden. &ldquo;What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on
  us!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where are we to put him?&rdquo; asked the policeman, looking round when
  Marmeladov, unconscious and covered with blood, had been carried in.
<br />
  &ldquo;On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way,&rdquo;
   Raskolnikov showed him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Run over in the road! Drunk!&rdquo; someone shouted in the passage.
<br />
  Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The
  children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka and
  clutched at her, trembling all over.
<br />
  Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew to Katerina Ivanovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake be calm, don&rsquo;t be frightened!&rdquo; he said, speaking quickly,
  &ldquo;he was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage, don&rsquo;t be
  frightened, he will come to, I told them bring him here... I&rsquo;ve been here
  already, you remember? He will come to; I&rsquo;ll pay!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s done it this time!&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly and she
  rushed to her husband.
<br />
  Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who swoon
  easily. She instantly placed under the luckless man&rsquo;s head a pillow, which
  no one had thought of and began undressing and examining him. She kept her
  head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling the
  screams which were ready to break from her.
<br />
  Raskolnikov meanwhile induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a
  doctor, it appeared, next door but one.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve sent for a doctor,&rdquo; he kept assuring Katerina Ivanovna, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t be
  uneasy, I&rsquo;ll pay. Haven&rsquo;t you water?... and give me a napkin or a towel,
  anything, as quick as you can.... He is injured, but not killed, believe
  me.... We shall see what the doctor says!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken chair in the
  corner, a large earthenware basin full of water had been stood, in
  readiness for washing her children&rsquo;s and husband&rsquo;s linen that night. This
  washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a week, if
  not oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they were
  practically without change of linen, and Katerina Ivanovna could not
  endure uncleanliness and, rather than see dirt in the house, she preferred
  to wear herself out at night, working beyond her strength when the rest
  were asleep, so as to get the wet linen hung on a line and dry by the
  morning. She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov&rsquo;s request, but
  almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already succeeded in
  finding a towel, wetted it and began washing the blood off Marmeladov&rsquo;s
  face.
<br />
  Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully and pressing her hands to
  her breast. She was in need of attention herself. Raskolnikov began to
  realise that he might have made a mistake in having the injured man
  brought here. The policeman, too, stood in hesitation.
<br />
  &ldquo;Polenka,&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna, &ldquo;run to Sonia, make haste. If you
  don&rsquo;t find her at home, leave word that her father has been run over and
  that she is to come here at once... when she comes in. Run, Polenka!
  there, put on the shawl.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Run your fastest!&rdquo; cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after
  which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his heels
  thrust forward and his toes spread out.
<br />
  Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you couldn&rsquo;t have
  dropped a pin. The policemen left, all except one, who remained for a
  time, trying to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost
  all Madame Lippevechsel&rsquo;s lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of
  the flat; at first they were squeezed together in the doorway, but
  afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a
  fury.
<br />
  &ldquo;You might let him die in peace, at least,&rdquo; she shouted at the crowd, &ldquo;is
  it a spectacle for you to gape at? With cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!)
  You might as well keep your hats on.... And there is one in his hat!...
  Get away! You should respect the dead, at least!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Her cough choked her&mdash;but her reproaches were not without result.
  They evidently stood in some awe of Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one
  after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner
  feeling of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a sudden
  accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which no
  living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest sympathy and
  compassion.
<br />
  Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital and saying
  that they&rsquo;d no business to make a disturbance here.
<br />
  &ldquo;No business to die!&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to the
  door to vent her wrath upon them, but in the doorway came face to face
  with Madame Lippevechsel who had only just heard of the accident and ran
  in to restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible
  German.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my God!&rdquo; she cried, clasping her hands, &ldquo;your husband drunken horses
  have trampled! To the hospital with him! I am the landlady!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are saying,&rdquo; Katerina
  Ivanovna began haughtily (she always took a haughty tone with the landlady
  that she might &ldquo;remember her place&rdquo; and even now could not deny herself
  this satisfaction). &ldquo;Amalia Ludwigovna...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may not
  dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and as I am not one
  of your despicable flatterers like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who&rsquo;s laughing
  behind the door at this moment (a laugh and a cry of &lsquo;they are at it
  again&rsquo; was in fact audible at the door) so I shall always call you Amalia
  Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike that name. You can
  see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zaharovitch; he is dying. I
  beg you to close that door at once and to admit no one. Let him at least
  die in peace! Or I warn you the Governor-General, himself, shall be
  informed of your conduct to-morrow. The prince knew me as a girl; he
  remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well and has often been a benefactor to him.
  Everyone knows that Semyon Zaharovitch had many friends and protectors,
  whom he abandoned himself from an honourable pride, knowing his unhappy
  weakness, but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) a generous young man has
  come to our assistance, who has wealth and connections and whom Semyon
  Zaharovitch has known from a child. You may rest assured, Amalia
  Ludwigovna...&rdquo;
 <br />
  All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker,
  but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s eloquence. At that
  instant the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan; she ran
  to him. The injured man opened his eyes and without recognition or
  understanding gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him. He drew deep,
  slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the corners of his mouth and drops
  of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognising Raskolnikov, he
  began looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad
  but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding,&rdquo; she said in
  despair. &ldquo;We must take off his clothes. Turn a little, Semyon Zaharovitch,
  if you can,&rdquo; she cried to him.
<br />
  Marmeladov recognised her.
<br />
  &ldquo;A priest,&rdquo; he articulated huskily.
<br />
  Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window
  frame and exclaimed in despair:
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, cursed life!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A priest,&rdquo; the dying man said again after a moment&rsquo;s silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve gone for him,&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him, he obeyed her
  shout and was silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her; she
  returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little easier but not for
  long.
<br />
  Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favourite, who was shaking in the
  corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring at him with her wondering
  childish eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;A-ah,&rdquo; he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something.
<br />
  &ldquo;What now?&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Barefoot, barefoot!&rdquo; he muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the
  child&rsquo;s bare feet.
<br />
  &ldquo;Be silent,&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, &ldquo;you know why she is
  barefooted.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Thank God, the doctor,&rdquo; exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved.
<br />
  The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking about him
  mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefully felt
  his head and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the
  blood-stained shirt, and bared the injured man&rsquo;s chest. It was gashed,
  crushed and fractured, several ribs on the right side were broken. On the
  left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking
  yellowish-black bruise&mdash;a cruel kick from the horse&rsquo;s hoof. The
  doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel and
  turned round with it for thirty yards on the road.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s wonderful that he has recovered consciousness,&rdquo; the doctor whispered
  softly to Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you think of him?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;He will die immediately.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is there really no hope?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp.... His head is badly injured,
  too... Hm... I could bleed him if you like, but... it would be useless. He
  is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Better bleed him then.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If you like.... But I warn you it will be perfectly useless.&rdquo;
 <br />
  At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted,
  and the priest, a little, grey old man, appeared in the doorway bearing
  the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident.
  The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glances with him.
  Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He shrugged his
  shoulders and remained.
<br />
  All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably
  understood little; he could only utter indistinct broken sounds. Katerina
  Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in
  the corner by the stove and made the children kneel in front of her. The
  little girl was still trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his little bare
  knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision and
  bowed down, touching the floor with his forehead, which seemed to afford
  him especial satisfaction. Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back
  her tears; she prayed, too, now and then pulling straight the boy&rsquo;s shirt,
  and managed to cover the girl&rsquo;s bare shoulders with a kerchief, which she
  took from the chest without rising from her knees or ceasing to pray.
  Meanwhile the door from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively again. In
  the passage the crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircase
  grew denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the threshold. A
  single candle-end lighted up the scene.
<br />
  At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She
  came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for
  her mother, went up to her and said, &ldquo;She&rsquo;s coming, I met her in the
  street.&rdquo; Her mother made her kneel beside her.
<br />
  Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through the crowd, and
  strange was her appearance in that room, in the midst of want, rags, death
  and despair. She, too, was in rags, her attire was all of the cheapest,
  but decked out in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmistakably betraying
  its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and looked about
  her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She forgot her fourth-hand,
  gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train, and her
  immense crinoline that filled up the whole doorway, and her light-coloured
  shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at
  night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-coloured
  feather. Under this rakishly-tilted hat was a pale, frightened little face
  with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl
  of eighteen with fair hair, rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She
  looked intently at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath with
  running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably, reached her.
  She looked down and took a step forward into the room, still keeping close
  to the door.
<br />
  The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband again. The
  priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of admonition and
  consolation to Katerina Ivanovna on leaving.
<br />
  &ldquo;What am I to do with these?&rdquo; she interrupted sharply and irritably,
  pointing to the little ones.
<br />
  &ldquo;God is merciful; look to the Most High for succour,&rdquo; the priest began.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ach! He is merciful, but not to us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a sin, a sin, madam,&rdquo; observed the priest, shaking his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;And isn&rsquo;t that a sin?&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying
  man.
<br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to
  compensate you, at least for the loss of his earnings.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t understand!&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily waving her hand.
  &ldquo;And why should they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and threw himself
  under the horses! What earnings? He brought us in nothing but misery. He
  drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get drink, he wasted
  their lives and mine for drink! And thank God he&rsquo;s dying! One less to
  keep!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You must forgive in the hour of death, that&rsquo;s a sin, madam, such feelings
  are a great sin.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was giving him water,
  wiping the blood and sweat from his head, setting his pillow straight, and
  had only turned now and then for a moment to address the priest. Now she
  flew at him almost in a frenzy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, father! That&rsquo;s words and only words! Forgive! If he&rsquo;d not been run
  over, he&rsquo;d have come home to-day drunk and his only shirt dirty and in
  rags and he&rsquo;d have fallen asleep like a log, and I should have been
  sousing and rinsing till daybreak, washing his rags and the children&rsquo;s and
  then drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight I should
  have been darning them. That&rsquo;s how I spend my nights!... What&rsquo;s the use of
  talking of forgiveness! I have forgiven as it is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to
  her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her
  aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed
  his head and said nothing.
<br />
  Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not take his eyes off the face of
  Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending over him again. He kept trying to say
  something to her; he began moving his tongue with difficulty and
  articulating indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he
  wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to him:
<br />
  &ldquo;Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!&rdquo; And the sick man was
  silent, but at the same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway
  and he saw Sonia.
<br />
  Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the shadow in a
  corner.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s that? Who&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; he said suddenly in a thick gasping voice, in
  agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his daughter
  was standing, and trying to sit up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lie down! Lie do-own!&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna.
<br />
  With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow.
  He looked wildly and fixedly for some time on his daughter, as though not
  recognising her. He had never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he
  recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy finery,
  meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to her dying father. His face
  showed intense suffering.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!&rdquo; he cried, and he tried to hold out his hand to
  her, but losing his balance, he fell off the sofa, face downwards on the
  floor. They rushed to pick him up, they put him on the sofa; but he was
  dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so without
  moving. He died in her arms.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s got what he wanted,&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband&rsquo;s
  dead body. &ldquo;Well, what&rsquo;s to be done now? How am I to bury him! What can I
  give them to-morrow to eat?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Katerina Ivanovna,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;last week your husband told me all his
  life and circumstances.... Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate
  reverence. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted he was to you all
  and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in spite
  of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we became friends.... Allow
  me now... to do something... to repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are
  twenty roubles, I think&mdash;and if that can be of any assistance to you,
  then... I... in short, I will come again, I will be sure to come again...
  I shall, perhaps, come again to-morrow.... Good-bye!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd
  to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against Nikodim
  Fomitch, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions
  in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but
  Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, is that you?&rdquo; he asked him.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s dead,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;The doctor and the priest have been,
  all as it should have been. Don&rsquo;t worry the poor woman too much, she is in
  consumption as it is. Try and cheer her up, if possible... you are a
  kind-hearted man, I know...&rdquo; he added with a smile, looking straight in
  his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you are spattered with blood,&rdquo; observed Nikodim Fomitch, noticing in
  the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov&rsquo;s waistcoat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes... I&rsquo;m covered with blood,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air;
  then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.
<br />
  He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it,
  entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and strength
  that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be compared to
  that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Halfway
  down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on his way home;
  Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting with him. He was
  just descending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him.
  Someone overtook him; it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling
  &ldquo;Wait! wait!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped short
  a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Raskolnikov could
  distinguish the child&rsquo;s thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a
  bright childish smile. She had run after him with a message which she was
  evidently glad to give.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell me, what is your name?... and where do you live?&rdquo; she said hurriedly
  in a breathless voice.
<br />
  He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a sort of
  rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her, he could not have said
  why.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who sent you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Sister Sonia sent me,&rdquo; answered the girl, smiling still more brightly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I knew it was sister Sonia sent you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mamma sent me, too... when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma came up,
  too, and said &lsquo;Run fast, Polenka.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you love sister Sonia?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I love her more than anyone,&rdquo; Polenka answered with a peculiar
  earnestness, and her smile became graver.
<br />
  &ldquo;And will you love me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  By way of answer he saw the little girl&rsquo;s face approaching him, her full
  lips naïvely held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks
  held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder and the little girl wept
  softly, pressing her face against him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am sorry for father,&rdquo; she said a moment later, raising her tear-stained
  face and brushing away the tears with her hands. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s nothing but
  misfortunes now,&rdquo; she added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air which
  children try hard to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people.
<br />
  &ldquo;Did your father love you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He loved Lida most,&rdquo; she went on very seriously without a smile, exactly
  like grown-up people, &ldquo;he loved her because she is little and because she
  is ill, too. And he always used to bring her presents. But he taught us to
  read and me grammar and scripture, too,&rdquo; she added with dignity. &ldquo;And
  mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she liked it and
  father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach me French, for it&rsquo;s time my
  education began.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And do you know your prayers?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course, we do! We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself as I
  am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida say them aloud with mother. First
  they repeat the &lsquo;Ave Maria&rsquo; and then another prayer: &lsquo;Lord, forgive and
  bless sister Sonia,&rsquo; and then another, &lsquo;Lord, forgive and bless our second
  father.&rsquo; For our elder father is dead and this is another one, but we do
  pray for the other as well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me, too. &lsquo;And Thy servant
  Rodion,&rsquo; nothing more.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll pray for you all the rest of my life,&rdquo; the little girl declared
  hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and hugged him warmly
  once more.
<br />
  Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come
  next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him. It was past ten
  when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on the
  bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in.
<br />
  &ldquo;Enough,&rdquo; he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve done with
  fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! Life is real! haven&rsquo;t I lived
  just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman! The Kingdom of
  Heaven to her&mdash;and now enough, madam, leave me in peace! Now for the
  reign of reason and light... and of will, and of strength... and now we
  will see! We will try our strength!&rdquo; he added defiantly, as though
  challenging some power of darkness. &ldquo;And I was ready to consent to live in
  a square of space!
<br />
  &ldquo;I am very weak at this moment, but... I believe my illness is all over. I
  knew it would be over when I went out. By the way, Potchinkov&rsquo;s house is
  only a few steps away. I certainly must go to Razumihin even if it were
  not close by... let him win his bet! Let us give him some satisfaction,
  too&mdash;no matter! Strength, strength is what one wants, you can get
  nothing without it, and strength must be won by strength&mdash;that&rsquo;s what
  they don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; he added proudly and self-confidently and he walked with
  flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew
  continually stronger in him; he was becoming a different man every moment.
  What was it had happened to work this revolution in him? He did not know
  himself; like a man catching at a straw, he suddenly felt that he, too,
  &lsquo;could live, that there was still life for him, that his life had not died
  with the old woman.&rsquo; Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his
  conclusions, but he did not think of that.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I did ask her to remember &lsquo;Thy servant Rodion&rsquo; in her prayers,&rdquo; the
  idea struck him. &ldquo;Well, that was... in case of emergency,&rdquo; he added and
  laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits.
<br />
  He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already known at
  Potchinkov&rsquo;s and the porter at once showed him the way. Half-way upstairs
  he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big gathering of
  people. The door was wide open on the stairs; he could hear exclamations
  and discussion. Razumihin&rsquo;s room was fairly large; the company consisted
  of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entry, where two of the
  landlady&rsquo;s servants were busy behind a screen with two samovars, bottles,
  plates and dishes of pie and savouries, brought up from the landlady&rsquo;s
  kitchen. Raskolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran out delighted. At the
  first glance it was apparent that he had had a great deal to drink and,
  though no amount of liquor made Razumihin quite drunk, this time he was
  perceptibly affected by it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; Raskolnikov hastened to say, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve only just come to tell you
  you&rsquo;ve won your bet and that no one really knows what may not happen to
  him. I can&rsquo;t come in; I am so weak that I shall fall down directly. And so
  good evening and good-bye! Come and see me to-morrow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you know what? I&rsquo;ll see you home. If you say you&rsquo;re weak yourself, you
  must...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has just peeped out?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle&rsquo;s, I expect, or perhaps he
  has come without being invited... I&rsquo;ll leave uncle with them, he is an
  invaluable person, pity I can&rsquo;t introduce you to him now. But confound
  them all now! They won&rsquo;t notice me, and I need a little fresh air, for
  you&rsquo;ve come just in the nick of time&mdash;another two minutes and I
  should have come to blows! They are talking such a lot of wild stuff...
  you simply can&rsquo;t imagine what men will say! Though why shouldn&rsquo;t you
  imagine? Don&rsquo;t we talk nonsense ourselves? And let them... that&rsquo;s the way
  to learn not to!... Wait a minute, I&rsquo;ll fetch Zossimov.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily; he showed a special
  interest in him; soon his face brightened.
<br />
  &ldquo;You must go to bed at once,&rdquo; he pronounced, examining the patient as far
  as he could, &ldquo;and take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it
  ready some time ago... a powder.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Two, if you like,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at once.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a good thing you are taking him home,&rdquo; observed Zossimov to
  Razumihin&mdash;&ldquo;we shall see how he is to-morrow, to-day he&rsquo;s not at all
  amiss&mdash;a considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were coming out?&rdquo;
   Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they were in the street. &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t tell
  you everything, brother, because they are such fools. Zossimov told me to
  talk freely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and
  afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he&rsquo;s got a notion in his head
  that you are... mad or close on it. Only fancy! In the first place, you&rsquo;ve
  three times the brains he has; in the second, if you are not mad, you
  needn&rsquo;t care a hang that he has got such a wild idea; and thirdly, that
  piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases,
  and what&rsquo;s brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation
  to-day with Zametov.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Zametov told you all about it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does
  Zametov.... Well, the fact is, Rodya... the point is... I am a little
  drunk now.... But that&rsquo;s... no matter... the point is that this idea...
  you understand? was just being hatched in their brains... you understand?
  That is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the idea is too absurd
  and especially since the arrest of that painter, that bubble&rsquo;s burst and
  gone for ever. But why are they such fools? I gave Zametov a bit of a
  thrashing at the time&mdash;that&rsquo;s between ourselves, brother; please
  don&rsquo;t let out a hint that you know of it; I&rsquo;ve noticed he is a ticklish
  subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna&rsquo;s. But to-day, to-day it&rsquo;s all cleared
  up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! He took advantage of your
  fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now; I
  know that...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk enough to talk too
  freely.
<br />
  &ldquo;I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of paint,&rdquo; said
  Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;No need to explain that! And it wasn&rsquo;t the paint only: the fever had been
  coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how crushed that
  boy is now, you wouldn&rsquo;t believe! &lsquo;I am not worth his little finger,&rsquo; he
  says. Yours, he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the
  lesson, the lesson you gave him to-day in the Palais de Cristal, that was
  too good for anything! You frightened him at first, you know, he nearly
  went into convulsions! You almost convinced him again of the truth of all
  that hideous nonsense, and then you suddenly&mdash;put out your tongue at
  him: &lsquo;There now, what do you make of it?&rsquo; It was perfect! He is crushed,
  annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove, it&rsquo;s what they deserve! Ah,
  that I wasn&rsquo;t there! He was hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, too, wants
  to make your acquaintance...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah!... he too... but why did they put me down as mad?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother.... What struck him, you
  see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it&rsquo;s clear why
  it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances... and how that
  irritated you and worked in with your illness... I am a little drunk,
  brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own... I tell you,
  he&rsquo;s mad on mental diseases. But don&rsquo;t you mind him...&rdquo;
 <br />
  For half a minute both were silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Listen, Razumihin,&rdquo; began Raskolnikov, &ldquo;I want to tell you plainly: I&rsquo;ve
  just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died... I gave them all my money...
  and besides I&rsquo;ve just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone,
  would just the same... in fact I saw someone else there... with a
  flame-coloured feather... but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak,
  support me... we shall be at the stairs directly...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter? What&rsquo;s the matter with you?&rdquo; Razumihin asked
  anxiously.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am a little giddy, but that&rsquo;s not the point, I am so sad, so sad...
  like a woman. Look, what&rsquo;s that? Look, look!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack...&rdquo;
 <br />
  They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level
  of the landlady&rsquo;s door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that
  there was a light in Raskolnikov&rsquo;s garret.
<br />
  &ldquo;Queer! Nastasya, perhaps,&rdquo; observed Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago,
  but... I don&rsquo;t care! Good-bye!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean? I am coming with you, we&rsquo;ll come in together!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say
  good-bye to you here. So give me your hand, good-bye!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with you, Rodya?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing... come along... you shall be witness.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that perhaps
  Zossimov might be right after all. &ldquo;Ah, I&rsquo;ve upset him with my chatter!&rdquo;
   he muttered to himself.
<br />
  When they reached the door they heard voices in the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door;
  he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered.
<br />
  His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an
  hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of them,
  though the news that they had started, were on their way and would arrive
  immediately, had been repeated to him only that day? They had spent that
  hour and a half plying Nastasya with questions. She was standing before
  them and had told them everything by now. They were beside themselves with
  alarm when they heard of his &ldquo;running away&rdquo; to-day, ill and, as they
  understood from her story, delirious! &ldquo;Good Heavens, what had become of
  him?&rdquo; Both had been weeping, both had been in anguish for that hour and a
  half.
<br />
  A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov&rsquo;s entrance. Both rushed to
  him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden intolerable sensation struck him
  like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them, he could
  not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed
  and cried. He took a step, tottered and fell to the ground, fainting.
<br />
  Anxiety, cries of horror, moans... Razumihin who was standing in the
  doorway flew into the room, seized the sick man in his strong arms and in
  a moment had him on the sofa.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s nothing, nothing!&rdquo; he cried to the mother and sister&mdash;&ldquo;it&rsquo;s
  only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was much
  better, that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming to himself, he
  is all right again!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated it, he made her
  bend down to see that &ldquo;he is all right again.&rdquo; The mother and sister
  looked on him with emotion and gratitude, as their Providence. They had
  heard already from Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya during
  his illness, by this &ldquo;very competent young man,&rdquo; as Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with Dounia.


      PART III


      CHAPTER I


  Raskolnikov got up, and sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly to
  Razumihin to cut short the flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was
  addressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand and for a
  minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking. His mother was
  alarmed by his expression. It revealed an emotion agonisingly poignant,
  and at the same time something immovable, almost insane. Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna began to cry.
<br />
  Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother&rsquo;s.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go home... with him,&rdquo; he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumihin,
  &ldquo;good-bye till to-morrow; to-morrow everything... Is it long since you
  arrived?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;This evening, Rodya,&rdquo; answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, &ldquo;the train was
  awfully late. But, Rodya, nothing would induce me to leave you now! I will
  spend the night here, near you...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t torture me!&rdquo; he said with a gesture of irritation.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will stay with him,&rdquo; cried Razumihin, &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t leave him for a moment.
  Bother all my visitors! Let them rage to their hearts&rsquo; content! My uncle
  is presiding there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How, how can I thank you!&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning, once
  more pressing Razumihin&rsquo;s hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her again.
<br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t have it! I can&rsquo;t have it!&rdquo; he repeated irritably, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t worry
  me! Enough, go away... I can&rsquo;t stand it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Come, mamma, come out of the room at least for a minute,&rdquo; Dounia
  whispered in dismay; &ldquo;we are distressing him, that&rsquo;s evident.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mayn&rsquo;t I look at him after three years?&rdquo; wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; he stopped them again, &ldquo;you keep interrupting me, and my ideas get
  muddled.... Have you seen Luzhin?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya,
  that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit you today,&rdquo; Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna added somewhat timidly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes... he was so kind... Dounia, I promised Luzhin I&rsquo;d throw him
  downstairs and told him to go to hell....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don&rsquo;t mean to tell us...&rdquo;
   Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at Dounia.
<br />
  Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her brother, waiting for what
  would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from Nastasya, so
  far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in
  painful perplexity and suspense.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dounia,&rdquo; Raskolnikov continued with an effort, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want that
  marriage, so at the first opportunity to-morrow you must refuse Luzhin, so
  that we may never hear his name again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good Heavens!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Brother, think what you are saying!&rdquo; Avdotya Romanovna began impetuously,
  but immediately checked herself. &ldquo;You are not fit to talk now, perhaps;
  you are tired,&rdquo; she added gently.
<br />
  &ldquo;You think I am delirious? No... You are marrying Luzhin for 
  sake. But I won&rsquo;t accept the sacrifice. And so write a letter before
  to-morrow, to refuse him... Let me read it in the morning and that will be
  the end of it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That I can&rsquo;t do!&rdquo; the girl cried, offended, &ldquo;what right have you...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to-morrow... Don&rsquo;t you see...&rdquo; the
  mother interposed in dismay. &ldquo;Better come away!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He is raving,&rdquo; Razumihin cried tipsily, &ldquo;or how would he dare! To-morrow
  all this nonsense will be over... to-day he certainly did drive him away.
  That was so. And Luzhin got angry, too.... He made speeches here, wanted
  to show off his learning and he went out crest-fallen....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then it&rsquo;s true?&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good-bye till to-morrow, brother,&rdquo; said Dounia compassionately&mdash;&ldquo;let
  us go, mother... Good-bye, Rodya.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you hear, sister,&rdquo; he repeated after them, making a last effort, &ldquo;I am
  not delirious; this marriage is&mdash;an infamy. Let me act like a
  scoundrel, but you mustn&rsquo;t... one is enough... and though I am a
  scoundrel, I wouldn&rsquo;t own such a sister. It&rsquo;s me or Luzhin! Go now....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you&rsquo;re out of your mind! Despot!&rdquo; roared Razumihin; but Raskolnikov
  did not and perhaps could not answer. He lay down on the sofa, and turned
  to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with interest at
  Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively started at her
  glance.
<br />
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing would induce me to go,&rdquo; she whispered in despair to Razumihin. &ldquo;I
  will stay somewhere here... escort Dounia home.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll spoil everything,&rdquo; Razumihin answered in the same whisper, losing
  patience&mdash;&ldquo;come out on to the stairs, anyway. Nastasya, show a light!
  I assure you,&rdquo; he went on in a half whisper on the stairs&mdash;&ldquo;that he
  was almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand?
  The doctor himself! Even he gave way and left him, so as not to irritate
  him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once and slipped
  off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him, at this time of
  night, and will do himself some mischief....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What are you saying?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And Avdotya Romanovna can&rsquo;t possibly be left in those lodgings without
  you. Just think where you are staying! That blackguard Pyotr Petrovitch
  couldn&rsquo;t find you better lodgings... But you know I&rsquo;ve had a little to
  drink, and that&rsquo;s what makes me... swear; don&rsquo;t mind it....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I&rsquo;ll go to the landlady here,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
  beseech her to find some corner for Dounia and me for the night. I can&rsquo;t
  leave him like that, I cannot!&rdquo;
 <br />
  This conversation took place on the landing just before the landlady&rsquo;s
  door. Nastasya lighted them from a step below. Razumihin was in
  extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earlier, while he was bringing
  Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it
  himself, and his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities he had
  imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he had
  drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with the
  two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading them, and giving them
  reasons with astonishing plainness of speech, and at almost every word he
  uttered, probably to emphasise his arguments, he squeezed their hands
  painfully as in a vise. He stared at Avdotya Romanovna without the least
  regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge
  bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew them all the
  closer to him. If they&rsquo;d told him to jump head foremost from the
  staircase, he would have done it without thought or hesitation in their
  service. Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really
  too eccentric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her Rodya
  she looked on his presence as providential, and was unwilling to notice
  all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya Romanovna shared her anxiety,
  and was not of timorous disposition, she could not see the glowing light
  in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded
  confidence inspired by Nastasya&rsquo;s account of her brother&rsquo;s queer friend,
  which prevented her from trying to run away from him, and to persuade her
  mother to do the same. She realised, too, that even running away was
  perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later, however, she was considerably
  reassured; it was characteristic of Razumihin that he showed his true
  nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so that people quickly saw
  the sort of man they had to deal with.
<br />
  &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t go to the landlady, that&rsquo;s perfect nonsense!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;If you
  stay, though you are his mother, you&rsquo;ll drive him to a frenzy, and then
  goodness knows what will happen! Listen, I&rsquo;ll tell you what I&rsquo;ll do:
  Nastasya will stay with him now, and I&rsquo;ll conduct you both home, you can&rsquo;t
  be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that way.... But
  no matter! Then I&rsquo;ll run straight back here and a quarter of an hour
  later, on my word of honour, I&rsquo;ll bring you news how he is, whether he is
  asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I&rsquo;ll run home in a twinkling&mdash;I&rsquo;ve
  a lot of friends there, all drunk&mdash;I&rsquo;ll fetch Zossimov&mdash;that&rsquo;s
  the doctor who is looking after him, he is there, too, but he is not
  drunk; he is not drunk, he is never drunk! I&rsquo;ll drag him to Rodya, and
  then to you, so that you&rsquo;ll get two reports in the hour&mdash;from the
  doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself, that&rsquo;s a very different
  thing from my account of him! If there&rsquo;s anything wrong, I swear I&rsquo;ll
  bring you here myself, but, if it&rsquo;s all right, you go to bed. And I&rsquo;ll
  spend the night here, in the passage, he won&rsquo;t hear me, and I&rsquo;ll tell
  Zossimov to sleep at the landlady&rsquo;s, to be at hand. Which is better for
  him: you or the doctor? So come home then! But the landlady is out of the
  question; it&rsquo;s all right for me, but it&rsquo;s out of the question for you: she
  wouldn&rsquo;t take you, for she&rsquo;s... for she&rsquo;s a fool... She&rsquo;d be jealous on my
  account of Avdotya Romanovna and of you, too, if you want to know... of
  Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She is an absolutely, absolutely
  unaccountable character! But I am a fool, too!... No matter! Come along!
  Do you trust me? Come, do you trust me or not?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Let us go, mother,&rdquo; said Avdotya Romanovna, &ldquo;he will certainly do what he
  has promised. He has saved Rodya already, and if the doctor really will
  consent to spend the night here, what could be better?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You see, you... you... understand me, because you are an angel!&rdquo;
   Razumihin cried in ecstasy, &ldquo;let us go! Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit
  with him with a light; I&rsquo;ll come in a quarter of an hour.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly convinced, she made no
  further resistance. Razumihin gave an arm to each and drew them down the
  stairs. He still made her uneasy, as though he was competent and
  good-natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed in
  such a condition....
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, I see you think I am in such a condition!&rdquo; Razumihin broke in upon
  her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled along the pavement with huge
  steps, so that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him, a fact he did
  not observe, however. &ldquo;Nonsense! That is... I am drunk like a fool, but
  that&rsquo;s not it; I am not drunk from wine. It&rsquo;s seeing you has turned my
  head... But don&rsquo;t mind me! Don&rsquo;t take any notice: I am talking nonsense, I
  am not worthy of you.... I am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I&rsquo;ve
  taken you home, I&rsquo;ll pour a couple of pailfuls of water over my head in
  the gutter here, and then I shall be all right.... If only you knew how I
  love you both! Don&rsquo;t laugh, and don&rsquo;t be angry! You may be angry with
  anyone, but not with me! I am his friend, and therefore I am your friend,
  too, I want to be... I had a presentiment... Last year there was a
  moment... though it wasn&rsquo;t a presentiment really, for you seem to have
  fallen from heaven. And I expect I shan&rsquo;t sleep all night... Zossimov was
  afraid a little time ago that he would go mad... that&rsquo;s why he mustn&rsquo;t be
  irritated.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do you say?&rdquo; cried the mother.
<br />
  &ldquo;Did the doctor really say that?&rdquo; asked Avdotya Romanovna, alarmed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, but it&rsquo;s not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a
  powder, I saw it, and then your coming here.... Ah! It would have been
  better if you had come to-morrow. It&rsquo;s a good thing we went away. And in
  an hour Zossimov himself will report to you about everything. He is not
  drunk! And I shan&rsquo;t be drunk.... And what made me get so tight? Because
  they got me into an argument, damn them! I&rsquo;ve sworn never to argue! They
  talk such trash! I almost came to blows! I&rsquo;ve left my uncle to preside.
  Would you believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism and
  that&rsquo;s just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as unlike
  themselves as they can. That&rsquo;s what they regard as the highest point of
  progress. If only their nonsense were their own, but as it is...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Listen!&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only added
  fuel to the flames.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you think?&rdquo; shouted Razumihin, louder than ever, &ldquo;you think I am
  attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk
  nonsense. That&rsquo;s man&rsquo;s one privilege over all creation. Through error you
  come to the truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any truth
  without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a hundred and fourteen.
  And a fine thing, too, in its way; but we can&rsquo;t even make mistakes on our
  own account! Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and I&rsquo;ll kiss you
  for it. To go wrong in one&rsquo;s own way is better than to go right in someone
  else&rsquo;s. In the first case you are a man, in the second you&rsquo;re no better
  than a bird. Truth won&rsquo;t escape you, but life can be cramped. There have
  been examples. And what are we doing now? In science, development,
  thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, experience and
  everything, everything, everything, we are still in the preparatory class
  at school. We prefer to live on other people&rsquo;s ideas, it&rsquo;s what we are
  used to! Am I right, am I right?&rdquo; cried Razumihin, pressing and shaking
  the two ladies&rsquo; hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, mercy, I do not know,&rdquo; cried poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes... though I don&rsquo;t agree with you in everything,&rdquo; added Avdotya
  Romanovna earnestly and at once uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand so
  painfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you say yes... well after that you... you...&rdquo; he cried in a
  transport, &ldquo;you are a fount of goodness, purity, sense... and perfection.
  Give me your hand... you give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands
  here at once, on my knees...&rdquo; and he fell on his knees on the pavement,
  fortunately at that time deserted.
<br />
  &ldquo;Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  cried, greatly distressed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Get up, get up!&rdquo; said Dounia laughing, though she, too, was upset.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That&rsquo;s it! Enough! I
  get up and we&rsquo;ll go on! I am a luckless fool, I am unworthy of you and
  drunk... and I am ashamed.... I am not worthy to love you, but to do
  homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And
  I&rsquo;ve done homage.... Here are your lodgings, and for that alone Rodya was
  right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch away.... How dare he! how dare he
  put you in such lodgings! It&rsquo;s a scandal! Do you know the sort of people
  they take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his betrothed? Yes?
  Well, then, I&rsquo;ll tell you, your  is a scoundrel.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting...&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  was beginning.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of it,&rdquo;
   Razumihin made haste to apologise. &ldquo;But... but you can&rsquo;t be angry with me
  for speaking so! For I speak sincerely and not because... hm, hm! That
  would be disgraceful; in fact not because I&rsquo;m in... hm! Well, anyway, I
  won&rsquo;t say why, I daren&rsquo;t.... But we all saw to-day when he came in that
  that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair curled at the
  barber&rsquo;s, not because he was in such a hurry to show his wit, but because
  he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a skin-flint and a buffoon.
  That&rsquo;s evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a fool, a fool. And is
  he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see, ladies?&rdquo; he stopped suddenly
  on the way upstairs to their rooms, &ldquo;though all my friends there are
  drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash, and
  I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last, for we are on
  the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch... is not on the right path. Though
  I&rsquo;ve been calling them all sorts of names just now, I do respect them
  all... though I don&rsquo;t respect Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and
  that bullock Zossimov, because he is an honest man and knows his work. But
  enough, it&rsquo;s all said and forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let&rsquo;s go
  on. I know this corridor, I&rsquo;ve been here, there was a scandal here at
  Number 3.... Where are you here? Which number? eight? Well, lock
  yourselves in for the night, then. Don&rsquo;t let anybody in. In a quarter of
  an hour I&rsquo;ll come back with news, and half an hour later I&rsquo;ll bring
  Zossimov, you&rsquo;ll see! Good-bye, I&rsquo;ll run.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?&rdquo; said Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry yourself, mother,&rdquo; said Dounia, taking off her hat and cape.
  &ldquo;God has sent this gentleman to our aid, though he has come from a
  drinking party. We can depend on him, I assure you. And all that he has
  done for Rodya....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring myself
  to leave Rodya?... And how different, how different I had fancied our
  meeting! How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Tears came into her eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s not that, mother. You didn&rsquo;t see, you were crying all the time.
  He is quite unhinged by serious illness&mdash;that&rsquo;s the reason.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? And how he talked
  to you, Dounia!&rdquo; said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying
  to read her thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia&rsquo;s standing up
  for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. &ldquo;I am sure
  he will think better of it to-morrow,&rdquo; she added, probing her further.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow... about that,&rdquo; Avdotya
  Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going beyond that,
  for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss.
  Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her
  without speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumihin&rsquo;s
  return, timidly watching her daughter who walked up and down the room with
  her arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was
  thinking was a habit of Avdotya Romanovna&rsquo;s and the mother was always
  afraid to break in on her daughter&rsquo;s mood at such moments.
<br />
  Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken infatuation for
  Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric condition, many people
  would have thought it justified if they had seen Avdotya Romanovna,
  especially at that moment when she was walking to and fro with folded
  arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably

    good-looking; she was tall, strikingly well-proportioned, strong and self-reliant—the latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the least detract from the grace and softness of her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother’s; there was a proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and vigour. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected a little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and almost haughty expression. Her face was always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles, how well youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible, laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a warm, open, simple-hearted, honest giant like Razumihin, who had never seen anyone like her and was not quite sober at the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Dounia for the first time transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with indignation at her brother’s insolent, cruel and ungrateful words—and his fate was sealed.
    He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna, Raskolnikov’s eccentric landlady, would be jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotya Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retained traces of her former beauty; she looked much younger than her age, indeed, which is almost always the case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to old age. Her hair had begun to grow grey and thin, there had long been little crow’s foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a great deal even of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which nothing would induce her to cross.
    Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin’s departure, there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door: he had come back.
    “I won’t come in, I haven’t time,” he hastened to say when the door was opened. “He sleeps like a top, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasya’s with him; I told her not to leave till I came. Now I am fetching Zossimov, he will report to you and then you’d better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do anything….”
    And he ran off down the corridor.
    “What a very competent and… devoted young man!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted.
    “He seems a splendid person!” Avdotya Romanovna replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down the room.
    It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women waited this time completely relying on Razumihin’s promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov. Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to Raskolnikov’s, but he came reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting Razumihin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation. He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not display the slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going on very satisfactorily. According to his observations the patient’s illness was due partly to his unfortunate material surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly also a moral origin, “was, so to speak, the product of several material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas… and so on.” Noticing stealthily that Avdotya Romanovna was following his words with close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. On Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s anxiously and timidly inquiring as to “some suspicion of insanity,” he replied with a composed and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated; that certainly the patient had some fixed idea, something approaching a monomania—he, Zossimov, was now particularly studying this interesting branch of medicine—but that it must be recollected that until to-day the patient had been in delirium and… and that no doubt the presence of his family would have a favourable effect on his recovery and distract his mind, “if only all fresh shocks can be avoided,” he added significantly. Then he got up, took leave with an impressive and affable bow, while blessings, warm gratitude, and entreaties were showered upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit and still more so with himself.
    “We’ll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!” Razumihin said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. “I’ll be with you to-morrow morning as early as possible with my report.”
    “That’s a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna,” remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street.
    “Fetching? You said fetching?” roared Razumihin and he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. “If you ever dare…. Do you understand? Do you understand?” he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him against the wall. “Do you hear?”
    “Let me go, you drunken devil,” said Zossimov, struggling and when he had let him go, he stared at him and went off into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection.
    “Of course, I am an ass,” he observed, sombre as a storm cloud, “but still… you are another.”
    “No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming of any folly.”
    They walked along in silence and only when they were close to Raskolnikov’s lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence in considerable anxiety.
    “Listen,” he said, “you’re a first-rate fellow, but among your other failings, you’re a loose fish, that I know, and a dirty one, too. You are a feeble, nervous wretch, and a mass of whims, you’re getting fat and lazy and can’t deny yourself anything—and I call that dirty because it leads one straight into the dirt. You’ve let yourself get so slack that I don’t know how it is you are still a good, even a devoted doctor. You—a doctor—sleep on a feather bed and get up at night to your patients! In another three or four years you won’t get up for your patients… But hang it all, that’s not the point!… You are going to spend to-night in the landlady’s flat here. (Hard work I’ve had to persuade her!) And I’ll be in the kitchen. So here’s a chance for you to get to know her better…. It’s not as you think! There’s not a trace of anything of the sort, brother…!”
    “But I don’t think!”
    “Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue… and yet she’s sighing and melting like wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that’s unholy! She’s most prepossessing… I’ll repay you, I’ll do anything….”
    Zossimov laughed more violently than ever.
    “Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?”
    “It won’t be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You’re a doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you won’t regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: ‘I shed hot tears.’ She likes the genuine article—and well, it all began with that song; Now you’re a regular performer, a , a Rubinstein…. I assure you, you won’t regret it!”
    “But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?”
    “Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! Besides she is not that sort at all…. Tchebarov tried that….”
    “Well then, drop her!”
    “But I can’t drop her like that!”
    “Why can’t you?”
    “Well, I can’t, that’s all about it! There’s an element of attraction here, brother.”
    “Then why have you fascinated her?”
    “I haven’t fascinated her; perhaps I was fascinated myself in my folly. But she won’t care a straw whether it’s you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing…. I can’t explain the position, brother… look here, you are good at mathematics, and working at it now… begin teaching her the integral calculus; upon my soul, I’m not joking, I’m in earnest, it’ll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh for a whole year together. I talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prussian House of Lords (for one must talk of something)—she just sighed and perspired! And you mustn’t talk of love—she’s bashful to hysterics—but just let her see you can’t tear yourself away—that’s enough. It’s fearfully comfortable; you’re quite at home, you can read, sit, lie about, write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you’re careful.”
    “But what do I want with her?”
    “Ach, I can’t make you understand! You see, you are made for each other! I have often been reminded of you!… You’ll come to it in the end! So does it matter whether it’s sooner or later? There’s the feather-bed element here, brother—ach! and not only that! There’s an attraction here—here you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of savoury fish-pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on—as snug as though you were dead, and yet you’re alive—the advantages of both at once! Well, hang it, brother, what stuff I’m talking, it’s bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up at night; so I’ll go in and look at him. But there’s no need, it’s all right. Don’t you worry yourself, yet if you like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice anything—delirium or fever—wake me at once. But there can’t be….”

      CHAPTER II


  Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o&rsquo;clock, troubled and serious. He
  found himself confronted with many new and unlooked-for perplexities. He
  had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He
  remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly
  novel experience had befallen him, that he had received an impression
  unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognised
  clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly
  unattainable&mdash;so unattainable that he felt positively ashamed of it,
  and he hastened to pass to the other more practical cares and difficulties
  bequeathed him by that &ldquo;thrice accursed yesterday.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had shown
  himself &ldquo;base and mean,&rdquo; not only because he had been drunk, but because
  he had taken advantage of the young girl&rsquo;s position to abuse her 
  in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual relations and
  obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And what right had he
  to criticise him in that hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for his
  opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Avdotya Romanovna would
  be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there must be something in him.
  The lodgings? But after all how could he know the character of the
  lodgings? He was furnishing a flat... Foo! how despicable it all was! And
  what justification was it that he was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even
  more degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out, &ldquo;that
  is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious heart&rdquo;! And would such a
  dream ever be permissible to him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a
  girl&mdash;he, the drunken noisy braggart of last night? Was it possible
  to imagine so absurd and cynical a juxtaposition? Razumihin blushed
  desperately at the very idea and suddenly the recollection forced itself
  vividly upon him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the
  landlady would be jealous of Avdotya Romanovna... that was simply
  intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt
  his hand and sent one of the bricks flying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of
  self-abasement, &ldquo;of course, all these infamies can never be wiped out or
  smoothed over... and so it&rsquo;s useless even to think of it, and I must go to
  them in silence and do my duty... in silence, too... and not ask
  forgiveness, and say nothing... for all is lost now!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more carefully than usual. He
  hadn&rsquo;t another suit&mdash;if he had had, perhaps he wouldn&rsquo;t have put it
  on. &ldquo;I would have made a point of not putting it on.&rdquo; But in any case he
  could not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no right to offend the
  feelings of others, especially when they were in need of his assistance
  and asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully. His linen
  was always decent; in that respect he was especially clean.
<br />
  He washed that morning scrupulously&mdash;he got some soap from Nastasya&mdash;he
  washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to the
  question whether to shave his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya Pavlovna had
  capital razors that had been left by her late husband), the question was
  angrily answered in the negative. &ldquo;Let it stay as it is! What if they
  think that I shaved on purpose to...? They certainly would think so! Not
  on any account!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And... the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the manners
  of a pothouse; and... and even admitting that he knew he had some of the
  essentials of a gentleman... what was there in that to be proud of?
  Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that... and all the same
  (he remembered) he, too, had done little things... not exactly dishonest,
  and yet.... And what thoughts he sometimes had; hm... and to set all that
  beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he&rsquo;d make a point
  then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and he wouldn&rsquo;t care!
  He&rsquo;d be worse!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night
  in Praskovya Pavlovna&rsquo;s parlour, came in.
<br />
  He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first.
  Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse.
  Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn&rsquo;t wake him and promised to see him
  again about eleven.
<br />
  &ldquo;If he is still at home,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;Damn it all! If one can&rsquo;t control
  one&rsquo;s patients, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether 
  will go to them, or whether  are coming here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They are coming, I think,&rdquo; said Razumihin, understanding the object of
  the question, &ldquo;and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt. I&rsquo;ll
  be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I&rsquo;ve plenty to
  do besides looking after them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;One thing worries me,&rdquo; interposed Razumihin, frowning. &ldquo;On the way home I
  talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him... all sorts of things... and
  amongst them that you were afraid that he... might become insane.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You told the ladies so, too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so
  seriously?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously? You,
  yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to him... and
  we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with your story
  about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was, perhaps, mad
  on that very point! If only I&rsquo;d known what happened then at the police
  station and that some wretch... had insulted him with this suspicion!
  Hm... I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These
  monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a mole-hill... and see their
  fancies as solid realities.... As far as I remember, it was Zametov&rsquo;s
  story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I know one case
  in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat of a little boy
  of eight, because he couldn&rsquo;t endure the jokes he made every day at table!
  And in this case his rags, the insolent police officer, the fever and this
  suspicion! All that working upon a man half frantic with hypochondria, and
  with his morbid exceptional vanity! That may well have been the
  starting-point of illness. Well, bother it all!... And, by the way, that
  Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but hm... he shouldn&rsquo;t have told all
  that last night. He is an awful chatterbox!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But whom did he tell it to? You and me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And Porfiry.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What does that matter?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his mother and sister?
  Tell them to be more careful with him to-day....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They&rsquo;ll get on all right!&rdquo; Razumihin answered reluctantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn&rsquo;t
  seem to dislike him... and they haven&rsquo;t a farthing, I suppose? eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what business is it of yours?&rdquo; Razumihin cried with annoyance. &ldquo;How
  can I tell whether they&rsquo;ve a farthing? Ask them yourself and perhaps
  you&rsquo;ll find out....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Foo! what an ass you are sometimes! Last night&rsquo;s wine has not gone off
  yet.... Good-bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna from me for my night&rsquo;s
  lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my  through
  the door; she was up at seven o&rsquo;clock, the samovar was taken into her from
  the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal interview....&rdquo;
 <br />
  At nine o&rsquo;clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev&rsquo;s
  house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They had
  risen at seven o&rsquo;clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night,
  bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had
  reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna fairly rushed at him,
  seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced timidly
  at Avdotya Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore at that moment an
  expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and
  unlooked-for respect (in place of the sneering looks and ill-disguised
  contempt he had expected), that it threw him into greater confusion than
  if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a subject for
  conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it.
<br />
  Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet waked,
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it, because &ldquo;she
  had something which it was very, very necessary to talk over beforehand.&rdquo;
   Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with
  them; they had waited to have it with him. Avdotya Romanovna rang the
  bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and they asked him to
  bring tea which was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way
  that the ladies were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously attacked the lodgings,
  but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in embarrassment and was greatly relieved
  by Pulcheria Alexandrovna&rsquo;s questions, which showered in a continual
  stream upon him.
<br />
  He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted by
  their questions, and succeeded in describing to them all the most
  important facts he knew of the last year of Raskolnikov&rsquo;s life, concluding
  with a circumstantial account of his illness. He omitted, however, many
  things, which were better omitted, including the scene at the police
  station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to his story,
  and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied his listeners, he found
  that they considered he had hardly begun.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell me, tell me! What do you think...? Excuse me, I still don&rsquo;t know
  your name!&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in hastily.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dmitri Prokofitch.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch... how he
  looks... on things in general now, that is, how can I explain, what are
  his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can,
  what are his hopes and, so to say, his dreams? Under what influences is he
  now? In a word, I should like...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?&rdquo; observed Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this,
  Dmitri Prokofitch!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Naturally,&rdquo; answered Razumihin. &ldquo;I have no mother, but my uncle comes
  every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise me, even in
  appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years&rsquo; separation
  means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion for a year
  and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and haughty, and of late&mdash;and
  perhaps for a long time before&mdash;he has been suspicious and fanciful.
  He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his
  feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely.
  Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and inhumanly
  callous; it&rsquo;s as though he were alternating between two characters.
  Sometimes he is fearfully reserved! He says he is so busy that everything
  is a hindrance, and yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn&rsquo;t jeer at
  things, not because he hasn&rsquo;t the wit, but as though he hadn&rsquo;t time to
  waste on such trifles. He never listens to what is said to him. He is
  never interested in what interests other people at any given moment. He
  thinks very highly of himself and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I
  think your arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;God grant it may,&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, distressed by
  Razumihin&rsquo;s account of her Rodya.
<br />
  And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna at last.
  He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a moment and
  looked away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the table, listening
  attentively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with her arms
  folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting in a question,
  without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not listening to what
  was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white
  transparent scarf round her neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of extreme
  poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a
  queen, he felt that he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps just
  because she was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her
  surroundings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be afraid of
  every word he uttered, every gesture he made, which was very trying for a
  man who already felt diffident.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve told us a great deal that is interesting about my brother&rsquo;s
  character... and have told it impartially. I am glad. I thought that you
  were too uncritically devoted to him,&rdquo; observed Avdotya Romanovna with a
  smile. &ldquo;I think you are right that he needs a woman&rsquo;s care,&rdquo; she added
  thoughtfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t say so; but I daresay you are right, only...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He loves no one and perhaps he never will,&rdquo; Razumihin declared
  decisively.
<br />
  &ldquo;You mean he is not capable of love?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully like your brother, in
  everything, indeed!&rdquo; he blurted out suddenly to his own surprise, but
  remembering at once what he had just before said of her brother, he turned
  as red as a crab and was overcome with confusion. Avdotya Romanovna
  couldn&rsquo;t help laughing when she looked at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You may both be mistaken about Rodya,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked,
  slightly piqued. &ldquo;I am not talking of our present difficulty, Dounia. What
  Pyotr Petrovitch writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed
  may be mistaken, but you can&rsquo;t imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch, how moody and,
  so to say, capricious he is. I never could depend on what he would do when
  he was only fifteen. And I am sure that he might do something now that
  nobody else would think of doing... Well, for instance, do you know how a
  year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly killed
  me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl&mdash;what was her name&mdash;his
  landlady&rsquo;s daughter?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Did you hear about that affair?&rdquo; asked Avdotya Romanovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you suppose&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly.
  &ldquo;Do you suppose that my tears, my entreaties, my illness, my possible
  death from grief, our poverty would have made him pause? No, he would
  calmly have disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn&rsquo;t that he doesn&rsquo;t
  love us!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He has never spoken a word of that affair to me,&rdquo; Razumihin answered
  cautiously. &ldquo;But I did hear something from Praskovya Pavlovna herself,
  though she is by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather
  strange.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And what did you hear?&rdquo; both the ladies asked at once.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, which only
  failed to take place through the girl&rsquo;s death, was not at all to Praskovya
  Pavlovna&rsquo;s liking. They say, too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact
  I am told positively ugly... and such an invalid... and queer. But she
  seems to have had some good qualities. She must have had some good
  qualities or it&rsquo;s quite inexplicable.... She had no money either and he
  wouldn&rsquo;t have considered her money.... But it&rsquo;s always difficult to judge
  in such matters.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am sure she was a good girl,&rdquo; Avdotya Romanovna observed briefly.
<br />
  &ldquo;God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I don&rsquo;t know which
  of them would have caused most misery to the other&mdash;he to her or she
  to him,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began tentatively
  questioning him about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin,
  hesitating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to the latter&rsquo;s
  annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently caused her
  uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin described it in detail again,
  but this time he added his own conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov
  for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not seeking to excuse him on
  the score of his illness.
<br />
  &ldquo;He had planned it before his illness,&rdquo; he added.
<br />
  &ldquo;I think so, too,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air. But
  she was very much surprised at hearing Razumihin express himself so
  carefully and even with a certain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch. Avdotya
  Romanovna, too, was struck by it.
<br />
  &ldquo;So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovitch?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  could not resist asking.
<br />
  &ldquo;I can have no other opinion of your daughter&rsquo;s future husband,&rdquo; Razumihin
  answered firmly and with warmth, &ldquo;and I don&rsquo;t say it simply from vulgar
  politeness, but because... simply because Avdotya Romanovna has of her own
  free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so rudely of him last
  night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and... mad besides; yes,
  mad, crazy, I lost my head completely... and this morning I am ashamed of
  it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not
  break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment they began
  to speak of Luzhin.
<br />
  Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did not know what to
  do. At last, faltering and continually glancing at her daughter, she
  confessed that she was exceedingly worried by one circumstance.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see, Dmitri Prokofitch,&rdquo; she began. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be perfectly open with
  Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course, mother,&rdquo; said Avdotya Romanovna emphatically.
<br />
  &ldquo;This is what it is,&rdquo; she began in haste, as though the permission to
  speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her mind. &ldquo;Very early this
  morning we got a note from Pyotr Petrovitch in reply to our letter
  announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station, you know;
  instead of that he sent a servant to bring us the address of these
  lodgings and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would be
  here himself this morning. But this morning this note came from him. You&rsquo;d
  better read it yourself; there is one point in it which worries me very
  much... you will soon see what that is, and... tell me your candid
  opinion, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya&rsquo;s character better than anyone
  and no one can advise us better than you can. Dounia, I must tell you,
  made her decision at once, but I still don&rsquo;t feel sure how to act and I...
  I&rsquo;ve been waiting for your opinion.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous evening and read as
  follows:
<br />
  &ldquo;Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to inform you that
  owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered unable to meet you at the
  railway station; I sent a very competent person with the same object in
  view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honour of an interview with you
  to-morrow morning by business in the Senate that does not admit of delay,
  and also that I may not intrude on your family circle while you are
  meeting your son, and Avdotya Romanovna her brother. I shall have the
  honour of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings not
  later than to-morrow evening at eight o&rsquo;clock precisely, and herewith I
  venture to present my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that
  Rodion Romanovitch may not be present at our interview&mdash;as he offered
  me a gross and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my visit to him in
  his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally
  an indispensable and circumstantial explanation upon a certain point, in
  regard to which I wish to learn your own interpretation. I have the honour
  to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet
  Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately and then
  you have only yourself to blame. I write on the assumption that Rodion
  Romanovitch who appeared so ill at my visit, suddenly recovered two hours
  later and so, being able to leave the house, may visit you also. I was
  confirmed in that belief by the testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of
  a drunken man who was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a
  young woman of notorious behaviour, he gave twenty-five roubles on the
  pretext of the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what pains you
  were at to raise that sum. Herewith expressing my special respect to your
  estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectful
  homage of
<br />
  &ldquo;Your humble servant,
<br />
  &ldquo;P. LUZHIN.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?&rdquo; began Pulcheria Alexandrovna,
  almost weeping. &ldquo;How can I ask Rodya not to come? Yesterday he insisted so
  earnestly on our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch and now we are ordered not to
  receive Rodya! He will come on purpose if he knows, and... what will
  happen then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Act on Avdotya Romanovna&rsquo;s decision,&rdquo; Razumihin answered calmly at once.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, dear me! She says... goodness knows what she says, she doesn&rsquo;t
  explain her object! She says that it would be best, at least, not that it
  would be best, but that it&rsquo;s absolutely necessary that Rodya should make a
  point of being here at eight o&rsquo;clock and that they must meet.... I didn&rsquo;t
  want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him from coming by some
  stratagem with your help... because he is so irritable.... Besides I don&rsquo;t
  understand about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he
  could have given the daughter all the money... which...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Which cost you such sacrifice, mother,&rdquo; put in Avdotya Romanovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;He was not himself yesterday,&rdquo; Razumihin said thoughtfully, &ldquo;if you only
  knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there was sense
  in it too.... Hm! He did say something, as we were going home yesterday
  evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I didn&rsquo;t understand a word....
  But last night, I myself...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him ourselves and there I
  assure you we shall see at once what&rsquo;s to be done. Besides, it&rsquo;s getting
  late&mdash;good heavens, it&rsquo;s past ten,&rdquo; she cried looking at a splendid
  gold enamelled watch which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain,
  and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress. &ldquo;A present
  from her ,&rdquo; thought Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;We must start, Dounia, we must start,&rdquo; her mother cried in a flutter. &ldquo;He
  will be thinking we are still angry after yesterday, from our coming so
  late. Merciful heavens!&rdquo;
 <br />
  While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle;
  Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as Razumihin noticed, were not
  merely shabby but had holes in them, and yet this evident poverty gave the
  two ladies an air of special dignity, which is always found in people who
  know how to wear poor clothes. Razumihin looked reverently at Dounia and
  felt proud of escorting her. &ldquo;The queen who mended her stockings in
  prison,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;must have looked then every inch a queen and even
  more a queen than at sumptuous banquets and levées.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, &ldquo;little did I think that I
  should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodya! I am afraid,
  Dmitri Prokofitch,&rdquo; she added, glancing at him timidly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid, mother,&rdquo; said Dounia, kissing her, &ldquo;better have faith in
  him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven&rsquo;t slept all night,&rdquo; exclaimed
  the poor woman.
<br />
  They came out into the street.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of
  Marfa Petrovna... she was all in white... she came up to me, took my hand,
  and shook her head at me, but so sternly as though she were blaming me....
  Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don&rsquo;t know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that
  Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s dead!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I didn&rsquo;t know; who is Marfa Petrovna?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She died suddenly; and only fancy...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Afterwards, mamma,&rdquo; put in Dounia. &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t know who Marfa Petrovna
  is.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, you don&rsquo;t know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us.
  Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don&rsquo;t know what I am thinking about these
  last few days. I look upon you really as a providence for us, and so I
  took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a
  relation.... Don&rsquo;t be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what&rsquo;s the
  matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I bruised it,&rdquo; muttered Razumihin overjoyed.
<br />
  &ldquo;I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds fault
  with me.... But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he
  is awake? Does this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you
  say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him
  with my... weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri Prokofitch, how am I to treat
  him? I feel quite distracted, you know.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t question him too much about anything if you see him frown; don&rsquo;t
  ask him too much about his health; he doesn&rsquo;t like that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here are the
  stairs.... What an awful staircase!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mother, you are quite pale, don&rsquo;t distress yourself, darling,&rdquo; said
  Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes she added: &ldquo;He ought to be
  happy at seeing you, and you are tormenting yourself so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Wait, I&rsquo;ll peep in and see whether he has waked up.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, and when they
  reached the landlady&rsquo;s door on the fourth storey, they noticed that her
  door was a tiny crack open and that two keen black eyes were watching them
  from the darkness within. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut
  with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out.


      CHAPTER III


  &ldquo;He is well, quite well!&rdquo; Zossimov cried cheerfully as they entered.
<br />
  He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as
  before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner, fully
  dressed and carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for some time
  past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed to follow the
  visitors in and stayed to listen.
<br />
  Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his condition the day
  before, but he was still pale, listless, and sombre. He looked like a
  wounded man or one who has undergone some terrible physical suffering. His
  brows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke
  little and reluctantly, as though performing a duty, and there was a
  restlessness in his movements.
<br />
  He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete
  the impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. The pale,
  sombre face lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered,
  but this only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its
  listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of suffering
  remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying his patient with all the
  zest of a young doctor beginning to practise, noticed in him no joy at the
  arrival of his mother and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden
  determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw
  later that almost every word of the following conversation seemed to touch
  on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same time he marvelled at
  the power of controlling himself and hiding his feelings in a patient who
  the previous day had, like a monomaniac, fallen into a frenzy at the
  slightest word.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, giving
  his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  radiant at once. &ldquo;And I don&rsquo;t say this ,&rdquo; he
  said, addressing Razumihin, with a friendly pressure of his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day,&rdquo; began Zossimov, much
  delighted at the ladies&rsquo; entrance, for he had not succeeded in keeping up
  a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. &ldquo;In another three or four
  days, if he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he
  was a month ago, or two... or perhaps even three. This has been coming on
  for a long while.... eh? Confess, now, that it has been perhaps your own
  fault?&rdquo; he added, with a tentative smile, as though still afraid of
  irritating him.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is very possible,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov coldly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should say, too,&rdquo; continued Zossimov with zest, &ldquo;that your complete
  recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you, I
  should like to impress upon you that it is essential to avoid the
  elementary, so to speak, fundamental causes tending to produce your morbid
  condition: in that case you will be cured, if not, it will go from bad to
  worse. These fundamental causes I don&rsquo;t know, but they must be known to
  you. You are an intelligent man, and must have observed yourself, of
  course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement coincides with your
  leaving the university. You must not be left without occupation, and so,
  work and a definite aim set before you might, I fancy, be very
  beneficial.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes; you are perfectly right.... I will make haste and return to the
  university: and then everything will go smoothly....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before
  the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified, when, glancing at his
  patient, he observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted an
  instant, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov,
  especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night.
<br />
  &ldquo;What! he saw you last night?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked, as though startled.
  &ldquo;Then you have not slept either after your journey.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o&rsquo;clock. Dounia and I never go to bed
  before two at home.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know how to thank him either,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on, suddenly
  frowning and looking down. &ldquo;Setting aside the question of payment&mdash;forgive
  me for referring to it (he turned to Zossimov)&mdash;I really don&rsquo;t know
  what I have done to deserve such special attention from you! I simply
  don&rsquo;t understand it... and... and... it weighs upon me, indeed, because I
  don&rsquo;t understand it. I tell you so candidly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be irritated.&rdquo; Zossimov forced himself to laugh. &ldquo;Assume that you
  are my first patient&mdash;well&mdash;we fellows just beginning to
  practise love our first patients as if they were our children, and some
  almost fall in love with them. And, of course, I am not rich in patients.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I say nothing about him,&rdquo; added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin,
  &ldquo;though he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood to-day,
  are you?&rdquo; shouted Razumihin.
<br />
  If he had had more penetration he would have seen that there was no trace
  of sentimentality in him, but something indeed quite the opposite. But
  Avdotya Romanovna noticed it. She was intently and uneasily watching her
  brother.
<br />
  &ldquo;As for you, mother, I don&rsquo;t dare to speak,&rdquo; he went on, as though
  repeating a lesson learned by heart. &ldquo;It is only to-day that I have been
  able to realise a little how distressed you must have been here yesterday,
  waiting for me to come back.&rdquo;
 <br />
  When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister,
  smiling without a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real
  unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at once, and warmly pressed his hand,
  overjoyed and thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her since
  their dispute the previous day. The mother&rsquo;s face lighted up with ecstatic
  happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. &ldquo;Yes,
  that is what I love him for,&rdquo; Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to
  himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. &ldquo;He has these movements.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And how well he does it all,&rdquo; the mother was thinking to herself. &ldquo;What
  generous impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he put an end to
  all the misunderstanding with his sister&mdash;simply by holding out his
  hand at the right minute and looking at her like that.... And what fine
  eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is!... He is even better looking
  than Dounia.... But, good heavens, what a suit&mdash;how terribly he&rsquo;s
  dressed!... Vasya, the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanitch&rsquo;s shop, is better
  dressed! I could rush at him and hug him... weep over him&mdash;but I am
  afraid.... Oh, dear, he&rsquo;s so strange! He&rsquo;s talking kindly, but I&rsquo;m afraid!
  Why, what am I afraid of?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Rodya, you wouldn&rsquo;t believe,&rdquo; she began suddenly, in haste to answer
  his words to her, &ldquo;how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now that it&rsquo;s
  all over and done with and we are quite happy again&mdash;I can tell you.
  Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that
  woman&mdash;ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya!... She told us at
  once that you were lying in a high fever and had just run away from the
  doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets. You
  can&rsquo;t imagine how we felt! I couldn&rsquo;t help thinking of the tragic end of
  Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father&rsquo;s&mdash;you can&rsquo;t remember
  him, Rodya&mdash;who ran out in the same way in a high fever and fell into
  the well in the court-yard and they couldn&rsquo;t pull him out till next day.
  Of course, we exaggerated things. We were on the point of rushing to find
  Pyotr Petrovitch to ask him to help.... Because we were alone, utterly
  alone,&rdquo; she said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it
  was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, although &ldquo;we
  are quite happy again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes.... Of course it&rsquo;s very annoying....&rdquo; Raskolnikov muttered in
  reply, but with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Dounia gazed
  at him in perplexity.
<br />
  &ldquo;What else was it I wanted to say?&rdquo; He went on trying to recollect. &ldquo;Oh,
  yes; mother, and you too, Dounia, please don&rsquo;t think that I didn&rsquo;t mean to
  come and see you to-day and was waiting for you to come first.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What are you saying, Rodya?&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too, was
  surprised.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is he answering us as a duty?&rdquo; Dounia wondered. &ldquo;Is he being reconciled
  and asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating a
  lesson?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing
  to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her... Nastasya... to wash out
  the blood... I&rsquo;ve only just dressed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Blood! What blood?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, nothing&mdash;don&rsquo;t be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about
  yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced upon a man who had been run over...
  a clerk...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Delirious? But you remember everything!&rdquo; Razumihin interrupted.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. &ldquo;I remember
  everything even to the slightest detail, and yet&mdash;why I did that and
  went there and said that, I can&rsquo;t clearly explain now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A familiar phenomenon,&rdquo; interposed Zossimov, &ldquo;actions are sometimes
  performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the
  actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions&mdash;it&rsquo;s
  like a dream.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps it&rsquo;s a good thing really that he should think me almost a
  madman,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too,&rdquo; observed Dounia,
  looking uneasily at Zossimov.
<br />
  &ldquo;There is some truth in your observation,&rdquo; the latter replied. &ldquo;In that
  sense we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen, but with the
  slight difference that the deranged are somewhat madder, for we must draw
  a line. A normal man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens&mdash;perhaps
  hundreds of thousands&mdash;hardly one is to be met with.&rdquo;
 <br />
  At the word &ldquo;madman,&rdquo; carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter on his
  favourite subject, everyone frowned.
<br />
  Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a
  strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!&rdquo; Razumihin
  cried hastily.
<br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo; Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. &ldquo;Oh... I got spattered with blood
  helping to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mamma, I did an
  unpardonable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away
  all the money you sent me... to his wife for the funeral. She&rsquo;s a widow
  now, in consumption, a poor creature... three little children, starving...
  nothing in the house... there&rsquo;s a daughter, too... perhaps you&rsquo;d have
  given it yourself if you&rsquo;d seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit,
  especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others one
  must have the right to do it, or else .&rdquo; He laughed, &ldquo;That&rsquo;s right, isn&rsquo;t it, Dounia?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s not,&rdquo; answered Dounia firmly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bah! you, too, have ideals,&rdquo; he muttered, looking at her almost with
  hatred, and smiling sarcastically. &ldquo;I ought to have considered that....
  Well, that&rsquo;s praiseworthy, and it&rsquo;s better for you... and if you reach a
  line you won&rsquo;t overstep, you will be unhappy... and if you overstep it,
  maybe you will be still unhappier.... But all that&rsquo;s nonsense,&rdquo; he added
  irritably, vexed at being carried away. &ldquo;I only meant to say that I beg
  your forgiveness, mother,&rdquo; he concluded, shortly and abruptly.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good,&rdquo;
   said his mother, delighted.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be too sure,&rdquo; he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile.
<br />
  A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all this
  conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the
  forgiveness, and all were feeling it.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is as though they were afraid of me,&rdquo; Raskolnikov was thinking to
  himself, looking askance at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  was indeed growing more timid the longer she kept silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much,&rdquo; flashed through his
  mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  suddenly blurted out.
<br />
  &ldquo;What Marfa Petrovna?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, mercy on us&mdash;Marfa Petrovna Svidrigaïlov. I wrote you so much
  about her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A-a-h! Yes, I remember.... So she&rsquo;s dead! Oh, really?&rdquo; he roused himself
  suddenly, as if waking up. &ldquo;What did she die of?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Only imagine, quite suddenly,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered hurriedly,
  encouraged by his curiosity. &ldquo;On the very day I was sending you that
  letter! Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been the cause
  of her death. They say he beat her dreadfully.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, were they on such bad terms?&rdquo; he asked, addressing his sister.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was always very
  patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven years of their married
  life he gave way to her, too much so indeed, in many cases. All of a
  sudden he seems to have lost patience.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven
  years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, no, he&rsquo;s an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!&rdquo; Dounia
  answered, almost with a shudder, knitting her brows, and sinking into
  thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;That had happened in the morning,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on
  hurriedly. &ldquo;And directly afterwards she ordered the horses to be harnessed
  to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to
  the town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am told....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;After the beating?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That was always her... habit; and immediately after dinner, so as not to
  be late in starting, she went to the bath-house.... You see, she was
  undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and
  she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got
  into the water when she suddenly had a stroke!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should think so,&rdquo; said Zossimov.
<br />
  &ldquo;And did he beat her badly?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What does that matter!&rdquo; put in Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;H&rsquo;m! But I don&rsquo;t know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother,&rdquo; said
  Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite of himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my dear, I don&rsquo;t know what to talk about,&rdquo; broke from Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, are you all afraid of me?&rdquo; he asked, with a constrained smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s certainly true,&rdquo; said Dounia, looking directly and sternly at her
  brother. &ldquo;Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the
  stairs.&rdquo;
 <br />
  His face worked, as though in convulsion.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don&rsquo;t be angry, please, Rodya.... Why
  did you say that, Dounia?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed&mdash;&ldquo;You
  see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the train, how we should
  meet, how we should talk over everything together.... And I was so happy,
  I did not notice the journey! But what am I saying? I am happy now.... You
  should not, Dounia.... I am happy now&mdash;simply in seeing you,
  Rodya....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hush, mother,&rdquo; he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing
  her hand. &ldquo;We shall have time to speak freely of everything!&rdquo;
 <br />
  As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned
  pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly
  chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him
  that he had just told a fearful lie&mdash;that he would never now be able
  to speak freely of everything&mdash;that he would never again be able to
   of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such
  that for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and
  not looking at anyone walked towards the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you about?&rdquo; cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm.
<br />
  He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. They were all
  looking at him in perplexity.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what are you all so dull for?&rdquo; he shouted, suddenly and quite
  unexpectedly. &ldquo;Do say something! What&rsquo;s the use of sitting like this?
  Come, do speak. Let us talk.... We meet together and sit in silence....
  Come, anything!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning again,&rdquo;
   said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is the matter, Rodya?&rdquo; asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, nothing! I remembered something,&rdquo; he answered, and suddenly laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, if you remembered something; that&rsquo;s all right!... I was beginning
  to think...&rdquo; muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. &ldquo;It is time for
  me to be off. I will look in again perhaps... if I can...&rdquo; He made his
  bows, and went out.
<br />
  &ldquo;What an excellent man!&rdquo; observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent,&rdquo; Raskolnikov began,
  suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he had not
  shown till then. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t remember where I met him before my illness.... I
  believe I have met him somewhere&mdash;&mdash;... And this is a good man,
  too,&rdquo; he nodded at Razumihin. &ldquo;Do you like him, Dounia?&rdquo; he asked her; and
  suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very much,&rdquo; answered Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Foo!&mdash;what a pig you are!&rdquo; Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible
  confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled
  faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where are you off to?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I must go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don&rsquo;t go.
  What&rsquo;s the time? Is it twelve o&rsquo;clock? What a pretty watch you have got,
  Dounia. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It was a present from Marfa Petrovna,&rdquo; answered Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;And a very expensive one!&rdquo; added Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I like that sort,&rdquo; said Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;So it is not a present from her ,&rdquo; thought Razumihin, and
  was unreasonably delighted.
<br />
  &ldquo;I thought it was Luzhin&rsquo;s present,&rdquo; observed Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and wanted to get
  married?&rdquo; he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted by
  the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke of it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes, my dear.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia and Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;H&rsquo;m, yes. What shall I tell you? I don&rsquo;t remember much indeed. She was
  such a sickly girl,&rdquo; he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again.
  &ldquo;Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was always
  dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she began
  talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very well. She
  was an ugly little thing. I really don&rsquo;t know what drew me to her then&mdash;I
  think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or
  hunchback, I believe I should have liked her better still,&rdquo; he smiled
  dreamily. &ldquo;Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, it was not only spring delirium,&rdquo; said Dounia, with warm feeling.
<br />
  He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not hear or did not
  understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up, went up
  to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place and sat down.
<br />
  &ldquo;You love her even now?&rdquo; said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched.
<br />
  &ldquo;Her? Now? Oh, yes.... You ask about her? No... that&rsquo;s all now, as it
  were, in another world... and so long ago. And indeed everything happening
  here seems somehow far away.&rdquo; He looked attentively at them. &ldquo;You, now...
  I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away... but, goodness
  knows why we are talking of that! And what&rsquo;s the use of asking about it?&rdquo;
   he added with annoyance, and biting his nails, fell into dreamy silence
  again.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It&rsquo;s like a tomb,&rdquo; said
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. &ldquo;I am
  sure it&rsquo;s quite half through your lodging you have become so melancholy.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;My lodging,&rdquo; he answered, listlessly. &ldquo;Yes, the lodging had a great deal
  to do with it.... I thought that, too.... If only you knew, though, what a
  strange thing you said just now, mother,&rdquo; he said, laughing strangely.
<br />
  A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister, with
  him after three years&rsquo; absence, this intimate tone of conversation, in
  face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything, would
  have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent matter
  which must be settled one way or the other that day&mdash;so he had
  decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, as a means of
  escape.
<br />
  &ldquo;Listen, Dounia,&rdquo; he began, gravely and drily, &ldquo;of course I beg your
  pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to tell you again that I
  do not withdraw from my chief point. It is me or Luzhin. If I am a
  scoundrel, you must not be. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease at
  once to look on you as a sister.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  cried, mournfully. &ldquo;And why do you call yourself a scoundrel? I can&rsquo;t bear
  it. You said the same yesterday.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Brother,&rdquo; Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. &ldquo;In all this
  there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at night, and found out
  the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself
  to someone and for someone. That is not the case at all. I am simply
  marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for me. Though, of
  course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to my family. But
  that is not the chief motive for my decision....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She is lying,&rdquo; he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively.
  &ldquo;Proud creature! She won&rsquo;t admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too
  haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate.... Oh,
  how I... hate them all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;In fact,&rdquo; continued Dounia, &ldquo;I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because of
  two evils I choose the less. I intend to do honestly all he expects of me,
  so I am not deceiving him.... Why did you smile just now?&rdquo; She, too,
  flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;All?&rdquo; he asked, with a malignant grin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s
  courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too
  well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too.... Why are you laughing
  again?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. You are
  intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold your
  own against me.... You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked
  with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you
  are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush for it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It is not true. I am not lying,&rdquo; cried Dounia, losing her composure. &ldquo;I
  would not marry him if I were not convinced that he esteems me and thinks
  highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I
  can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it this very
  day... and such a marriage is not a vileness, as you say! And even if you
  were right, if I really had determined on a vile action, is it not
  merciless on your part to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a
  heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is despotism; it is tyranny.
  If I ruin anyone, it is only myself.... I am not committing a murder. Why
  do you look at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what&rsquo;s
  the matter?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens! You have made him faint,&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, no, nonsense! It&rsquo;s nothing. A little giddiness&mdash;not fainting.
  You have fainting on the brain. H&rsquo;m, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In
  what way will you get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him,
  and that he... esteems you, as you said. I think you said to-day?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s letter,&rdquo; said Dounia.
<br />
  With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He took
  it with great interest, but, before opening it, he suddenly looked with a
  sort of wonder at Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;It is strange,&rdquo; he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. &ldquo;What am
  I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some
  time at his sister, as though puzzled. He opened the letter at last, still
  with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then, slowly and
  attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected something
  particular.
<br />
  &ldquo;What surprises me,&rdquo; he began, after a short pause, handing the letter to
  his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, &ldquo;is that he is a
  business man, a lawyer, and his conversation is pretentious indeed, and
  yet he writes such an uneducated letter.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They all started. They had expected something quite different.
<br />
  &ldquo;But they all write like that, you know,&rdquo; Razumihin observed, abruptly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you read it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We showed him, Rodya. We... consulted him just now,&rdquo; Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just the jargon of the courts,&rdquo; Razumihin put in. &ldquo;Legal documents
  are written like that to this day.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Legal? Yes, it&rsquo;s just legal&mdash;business language&mdash;not so very
  uneducated, and not quite educated&mdash;business language!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap
  education, he is proud indeed of having made his own way,&rdquo; Avdotya
  Romanovna observed, somewhat offended by her brother&rsquo;s tone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, if he&rsquo;s proud of it, he has reason, I don&rsquo;t deny it. You seem to be
  offended, sister, at my making only such a frivolous criticism on the
  letter, and to think that I speak of such trifling matters on purpose to
  annoy you. It is quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style
  occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things stand. There is
  one expression, &lsquo;blame yourselves&rsquo; put in very significantly and plainly,
  and there is besides a threat that he will go away at once if I am
  present. That threat to go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon you
  both if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after summoning you to
  Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can one resent such an expression
  from Luzhin, as we should if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had written it,
  or Zossimov, or one of us?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;N-no,&rdquo; answered Dounia, with more animation. &ldquo;I saw clearly that it was
  too naïvely expressed, and that perhaps he simply has no skill in
  writing... that is a true criticism, brother. I did not expect, indeed...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than perhaps he
  intended. But I must disillusion you a little. There is one expression in
  the letter, one slander about me, and rather a contemptible one. I gave
  the money last night to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed with
  trouble, and not &lsquo;on the pretext of the funeral,&rsquo; but simply to pay for
  the funeral, and not to the daughter&mdash;a young woman, as he writes, of
  notorious behaviour (whom I saw last night for the first time in my life)&mdash;but
  to the widow. In all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to
  raise dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon, that
  is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and with a very naïve
  eagerness. He is a man of intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence
  is not enough. It all shows the man and... I don&rsquo;t think he has a great
  esteem for you. I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely
  wish for your good...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only awaiting
  the evening.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then what is your decision, Rodya?&rdquo; asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was
  more uneasy than ever at the sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk.
<br />
  &ldquo;What decision?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be with us this
  evening, and that he will go away if you come. So will you... come?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you first, if you are
  not offended by such a request; and secondly, by Dounia, if she, too, is
  not offended. I will do what you think best,&rdquo; he added, drily.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her,&rdquo; Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna hastened to declare.
<br />
  &ldquo;I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to be with us at
  this interview,&rdquo; said Dounia. &ldquo;Will you come?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o&rsquo;clock,&rdquo; she said,
  addressing Razumihin. &ldquo;Mother, I am inviting him, too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided,&rdquo; added Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna, &ldquo;so be it. I shall feel easier myself. I do not like
  concealment and deception. Better let us have the whole truth.... Pyotr
  Petrovitch may be angry or not, now!&rdquo;


      CHAPTER IV


  At that moment the door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into
  the room, looking timidly about her. Everyone turned towards her with
  surprise and curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognise her.
  It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her yesterday for the
  first time, but at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such a
  dress, that his memory retained a very different image of her. Now she was
  a modestly and poorly-dressed young girl, very young, indeed, almost like
  a child, with a modest and refined manner, with a candid but somewhat
  frightened-looking face. She was wearing a very plain indoor dress, and
  had on a shabby old-fashioned hat, but she still carried a parasol.
  Unexpectedly finding the room full of people, she was not so much
  embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like a little child.
  She was even about to retreat. &ldquo;Oh... it&rsquo;s you!&rdquo; said Raskolnikov,
  extremely astonished, and he, too, was confused. He at once recollected
  that his mother and sister knew through Luzhin&rsquo;s letter of &ldquo;some young
  woman of notorious behaviour.&rdquo; He had only just been protesting against
  Luzhin&rsquo;s calumny and declaring that he had seen the girl last night for
  the first time, and suddenly she had walked in. He remembered, too, that
  he had not protested against the expression &ldquo;of notorious behaviour.&rdquo; All
  this passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brain, but looking at her
  more intently, he saw that the humiliated creature was so humiliated that
  he felt suddenly sorry for her. When she made a movement to retreat in
  terror, it sent a pang to his heart.
<br />
  &ldquo;I did not expect you,&rdquo; he said, hurriedly, with a look that made her
  stop. &ldquo;Please sit down. You come, no doubt, from Katerina Ivanovna. Allow
  me&mdash;not there. Sit here....&rdquo;
 <br />
  At Sonia&rsquo;s entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on one of
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s three chairs, close to the door, got up to allow her to
  enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa where
  Zossimov had been sitting, but feeling that the sofa which served him as a
  bed, was too  a place, he hurriedly motioned her to
  Razumihin&rsquo;s chair.
<br />
  &ldquo;You sit here,&rdquo; he said to Razumihin, putting him on the sofa.
<br />
  Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked timidly at the two
  ladies. It was evidently almost inconceivable to herself that she could
  sit down beside them. At the thought of it, she was so frightened that she
  hurriedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I... I... have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you,&rdquo; she
  began falteringly. &ldquo;I come from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to
  send. Katerina Ivanovna told me to beg you... to be at the service... in
  the morning... at Mitrofanievsky... and then... to us... to her... to do
  her the honour... she told me to beg you...&rdquo; Sonia stammered and ceased
  speaking.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will try, certainly, most certainly,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. He, too,
  stood up, and he, too, faltered and could not finish his sentence. &ldquo;Please
  sit down,&rdquo; he said, suddenly. &ldquo;I want to talk to you. You are perhaps in a
  hurry, but please, be so kind, spare me two minutes,&rdquo; and he drew up a
  chair for her.
<br />
  Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried, frightened
  look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes. Raskolnikov&rsquo;s pale face
  flushed, a shudder passed over him, his eyes glowed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; he said, firmly and insistently, &ldquo;this is Sofya Semyonovna
  Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was run
  over yesterday before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly screwed up her eyes.
  In spite of her embarrassment before Rodya&rsquo;s urgent and challenging look,
  she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dounia gazed gravely and
  intently into the poor girl&rsquo;s face, and scrutinised her with perplexity.
  Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes again, but was
  more embarrassed than ever.
<br />
  &ldquo;I wanted to ask you,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, hastily, &ldquo;how things were
  arranged yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, that was all right... it was too evident, the cause of death... they
  did not worry us... only the lodgers are angry.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;At the body&rsquo;s remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that, to-day,
  they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until to-morrow. At
  first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it&rsquo;s
  necessary...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To-day, then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church to-morrow for the
  service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She is giving a funeral lunch?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes... just a little.... She told me to thank you very much for helping
  us yesterday. But for you, we should have had nothing for the funeral.&rdquo;
 <br />
  All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with an effort, she
  controlled herself, looking down again.
<br />
  During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her carefully. She had a
  thin, very thin, pale little face, rather irregular and angular, with a
  sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called pretty, but her
  blue eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such a
  kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help being
  attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had another peculiar
  characteristic. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked almost a little
  girl&mdash;almost a child. And in some of her gestures, this childishness
  seemed almost absurd.
<br />
  &ldquo;But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such small means? Does
  she even mean to have a funeral lunch?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked, persistently
  keeping up the conversation.
<br />
  &ldquo;The coffin will be plain, of course... and everything will be plain, so
  it won&rsquo;t cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it all out, so
  that there will be enough left... and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious
  it should be so. You know one can&rsquo;t... it&rsquo;s a comfort to her... she is
  like that, you know....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I understand, I understand... of course... why do you look at my room
  like that? My mother has just said it is like a tomb.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You gave us everything yesterday,&rdquo; Sonia said suddenly, in reply, in a
  loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down in confusion. Her lips and
  chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once by
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s poor surroundings, and now these words broke out
  spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Dounia&rsquo;s eyes, and
  even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rodya,&rdquo; she said, getting up, &ldquo;we shall have dinner together, of course.
  Come, Dounia.... And you, Rodya, had better go for a little walk, and then
  rest and lie down before you come to see us.... I am afraid we have
  exhausted you....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, I&rsquo;ll come,&rdquo; he answered, getting up fussily. &ldquo;But I have
  something to see to.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But surely you will have dinner together?&rdquo; cried Razumihin, looking in
  surprise at Raskolnikov. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, I am coming... of course, of course! And you stay a minute. You
  do not want him just now, do you, mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from
  you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of dining
  with us?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Please do,&rdquo; added Dounia.
<br />
  Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all
  strangely embarrassed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good-bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like saying good-bye.
  Good-bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said good-bye again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it somehow failed to
  come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room.
<br />
  But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and following her mother
  out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a
  hurried, frightened curtsy. There was a look of poignant discomfort in her
  face, as though Avdotya Romanovna&rsquo;s courtesy and attention were oppressive
  and painful to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dounia, good-bye,&rdquo; called Raskolnikov, in the passage. &ldquo;Give me your
  hand.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?&rdquo; said Dounia, turning
  warmly and awkwardly to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Never mind, give it to me again.&rdquo; And he squeezed her fingers warmly.
<br />
  Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went off quite happy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, that&rsquo;s capital,&rdquo; he said to Sonia, going back and looking brightly
  at her. &ldquo;God give peace to the dead, the living have still to live. That
  is right, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his face. He looked at
  her for some moments in silence. The whole history of the dead father
  floated before his memory in those moments....

      &ldquo;Heavens, Dounia,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they were in
  the street, &ldquo;I really feel relieved myself at coming away&mdash;more at
  ease. How little did I think yesterday in the train that I could ever be
  glad of that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don&rsquo;t you see it? Perhaps
  worrying about us upset him. We must be patient, and much, much can be
  forgiven.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, you were not very patient!&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up,
  hotly and jealously. &ldquo;Do you know, Dounia, I was looking at you two. You
  are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You are
  both melancholy, both morose and hot-tempered, both haughty and both
  generous.... Surely he can&rsquo;t be an egoist, Dounia. Eh? When I think of
  what is in store for us this evening, my heart sinks!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr Petrovitch
  breaks it off?&rdquo; poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously.
<br />
  &ldquo;He won&rsquo;t be worth much if he does,&rdquo; answered Dounia, sharply and
  contemptuously.
<br />
  &ldquo;We did well to come away,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in. &ldquo;He
  was in a hurry about some business or other. If he gets out and has a
  breath of air... it is fearfully close in his room.... But where is one to
  get a breath of air here? The very streets here feel like shut-up rooms.
  Good heavens! what a town!... stay... this side... they will crush you&mdash;carrying
  something. Why, it is a piano they have got, I declare... how they
  push!... I am very much afraid of that young woman, too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What young woman, mother?
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it or not, but as
  soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief cause
  of the trouble....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing of the sort!&rdquo; cried Dounia, in vexation. &ldquo;What nonsense, with
  your presentiments, mother! He only made her acquaintance the evening
  before, and he did not know her when she came in.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, you will see.... She worries me; but you will see, you will see! I
  was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes. I could scarcely
  sit still in my chair when he began introducing her, do you remember? It
  seems so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like that about her, and he
  introduces her to us&mdash;to you! So he must think a great deal of her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;People will write anything. We were talked about and written about, too.
  Have you forgotten? I am sure that she is a good girl, and that it is all
  nonsense.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;God grant it may be!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer,&rdquo; Dounia snapped out,
  suddenly.
<br />
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not resumed.

      &ldquo;I will tell you what I want with you,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, drawing
  Razumihin to the window.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming,&rdquo; Sonia said
  hurriedly, preparing to depart.
<br />
  &ldquo;One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets. You are not in our way.
  I want to have another word or two with you. Listen!&rdquo; he turned suddenly
  to Razumihin again. &ldquo;You know that... what&rsquo;s his name... Porfiry
  Petrovitch?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should think so! He is a relation. Why?&rdquo; added the latter, with
  interest.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is not he managing that case... you know, about that murder?... You were
  speaking about it yesterday.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes... well?&rdquo; Razumihin&rsquo;s eyes opened wide.
<br />
  &ldquo;He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have some
  pledges there, too&mdash;trifles&mdash;a ring my sister gave me as a
  keepsake when I left home, and my father&rsquo;s silver watch&mdash;they are
  only worth five or six roubles altogether... but I value them. So what am
  I to do now? I do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was
  quaking just now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, when we spoke
  of Dounia&rsquo;s watch. It is the only thing of father&rsquo;s left us. She would be
  ill if it were lost. You know what women are. So tell me what to do. I
  know I ought to have given notice at the police station, but would it not
  be better to go straight to Porfiry? Eh? What do you think? The matter
  might be settled more quickly. You see, mother may ask for it before
  dinner.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry,&rdquo; Razumihin
  shouted in extraordinary excitement. &ldquo;Well, how glad I am. Let us go at
  once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Very well, let us go.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And he will be very, very glad to make your acquaintance. I have often
  talked to him of you at different times. I was speaking of you yesterday.
  Let us go. So you knew the old woman? So that&rsquo;s it! It is all turning out
  splendidly.... Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Sofya Semyonovna,&rdquo; corrected Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Sofya Semyonovna, this is my
  friend Razumihin, and he is a good man.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If you have to go now,&rdquo; Sonia was beginning, not looking at Razumihin at
  all, and still more embarrassed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let us go,&rdquo; decided Raskolnikov. &ldquo;I will come to you to-day, Sofya
  Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and avoided her eyes.
  Sonia gave her address, and flushed as she did so. They all went out
  together.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you lock up?&rdquo; asked Razumihin, following him on to the stairs.
<br />
  &ldquo;Never,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;I have been meaning to buy a lock for
  these two years. People are happy who have no need of locks,&rdquo; he said,
  laughing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did you find me, by the
  way?&rdquo; he added, as though he wanted to say something quite different. He
  wanted to look at her soft clear eyes, but this was not easy.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is your sister?
  Did I give her the address?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, had you forgotten?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I remember.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I had heard my father speak of you... only I did not know your name, and
  he did not know it. And now I came... and as I had learnt your name, I
  asked to-day, &lsquo;Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?&rsquo; I did not know you had
  only a room too.... Good-bye, I will tell Katerina Ivanovna.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away looking down,
  hurrying to get out of sight as soon as possible, to walk the twenty steps
  to the turning on the right and to be at last alone, and then moving
  rapidly along, looking at no one, noticing nothing, to think, to remember,
  to meditate on every word, every detail. Never, never had she felt
  anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a whole new world was opening
  before her. She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to come to her
  that day, perhaps at once!
<br />
  &ldquo;Only not to-day, please, not to-day!&rdquo; she kept muttering with a sinking
  heart, as though entreating someone, like a frightened child. &ldquo;Mercy! to
  me... to that room... he will see... oh, dear!&rdquo;
 <br />
  She was not capable at that instant of noticing an unknown gentleman who
  was watching her and following at her heels. He had accompanied her from
  the gateway. At the moment when Razumihin, Raskolnikov, and she stood
  still at parting on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing,
  started on hearing Sonia&rsquo;s words: &ldquo;and I asked where Mr. Raskolnikov
  lived?&rdquo; He turned a rapid but attentive look upon all three, especially
  upon Raskolnikov, to whom Sonia was speaking; then looked back and noted
  the house. All this was done in an instant as he passed, and trying not to
  betray his interest, he walked on more slowly as though waiting for
  something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were parting, and
  that Sonia was going home.
<br />
  &ldquo;Home? Where? I&rsquo;ve seen that face somewhere,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;I must find
  out.&rdquo;
 <br />
  At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw Sonia coming the
  same way, noticing nothing. She turned the corner. He followed her on the
  other side. After about fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her
  and kept two or three yards behind her.
<br />
  He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad high
  shoulders which made him look as though he stooped a little. He wore good
  and fashionable clothes, and looked like a gentleman of position. He
  carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement at each step; his
  gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather pleasant face with high
  cheek-bones and a fresh colour, not often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen
  hair was still abundant, and only touched here and there with grey, and
  his thick square beard was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue
  and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips were crimson. He was a
  remarkedly well-preserved man and looked much younger than his years.
<br />
  When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the only two persons on
  the pavement. He observed her dreaminess and preoccupation. On reaching
  the house where she lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed her,
  seeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right corner.
  &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; muttered the unknown gentleman, and mounted the stairs behind her.
  Only then Sonia noticed him. She reached the third storey, turned down the
  passage, and rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed in chalk,
  &ldquo;Kapernaumov, Tailor.&rdquo; &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; the stranger repeated again, wondering at
  the strange coincidence, and he rang next door, at No. 8. The doors were
  two or three yards apart.
<br />
  &ldquo;You lodge at Kapernaumov&rsquo;s,&rdquo; he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. &ldquo;He
  altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close here at Madame
  Resslich&rsquo;s. How odd!&rdquo; Sonia looked at him attentively.
<br />
  &ldquo;We are neighbours,&rdquo; he went on gaily. &ldquo;I only came to town the day before
  yesterday. Good-bye for the present.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt for some
  reason ashamed and uneasy.

      On the way to Porfiry&rsquo;s, Razumihin was obviously excited.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s capital, brother,&rdquo; he repeated several times, &ldquo;and I am glad! I am
  glad!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What are you glad about?&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought to himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t know that you pledged things at the old woman&rsquo;s, too. And... was
  it long ago? I mean, was it long since you were there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What a simple-hearted fool he is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;When was it?&rdquo; Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. &ldquo;Two or three days
  before her death it must have been. But I am not going to redeem the
  things now,&rdquo; he put in with a sort of hurried and conspicuous solicitude
  about the things. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve not more than a silver rouble left... after last
  night&rsquo;s accursed delirium!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He laid special emphasis on the delirium.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; Razumihin hastened to agree&mdash;with what was not clear.
  &ldquo;Then that&rsquo;s why you... were stuck... partly... you know in your delirium
  you were continually mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes... that&rsquo;s
  clear, it&rsquo;s all clear now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hullo! How that idea must have got about among them. Here this man will
  go to the stake for me, and I find him delighted at having it  why I spoke of rings in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have
  on all of them!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Shall we find him?&rdquo; he asked suddenly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; Razumihin answered quickly. &ldquo;He is a nice fellow, you will see,
  brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say, he is a man of polished manners,
  but I mean clumsy in a different sense. He is an intelligent fellow, very
  much so indeed, but he has his own range of ideas.... He is incredulous,
  sceptical, cynical... he likes to impose on people, or rather to make fun
  of them. His is the old, circumstantial method.... But he understands his
  work... thoroughly.... Last year he cleared up a case of murder in which
  the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very anxious to make your
  acquaintance!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;On what grounds is he so anxious?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s not exactly... you see, since you&rsquo;ve been ill I happen to have
  mentioned you several times.... So, when he heard about you... about your
  being a law student and not able to finish your studies, he said, &lsquo;What a
  pity!&rsquo; And so I concluded... from everything together, not only that;
  yesterday Zametov... you know, Rodya, I talked some nonsense on the way
  home to you yesterday, when I was drunk... I am afraid, brother, of your
  exaggerating it, you see.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right,&rdquo; he said with
  a constrained smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes.... That is, pooh, no!... But all that I said (and there was
  something else too) it was all nonsense, drunken nonsense.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried
  with exaggerated irritability. It was partly assumed, however.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. One&rsquo;s ashamed to
  speak of it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If you are ashamed, then don&rsquo;t speak of it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and Raskolnikov
  perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by what Razumihin had
  just said about Porfiry.
<br />
  &ldquo;I shall have to pull a long face with him too,&rdquo; he thought, with a
  beating heart, and he turned white, &ldquo;and do it naturally, too. But the
  most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do nothing at
  all! No,  would not be natural again.... Oh, well, we
  shall see how it turns out.... We shall see... directly. Is it a good
  thing to go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is beating,
  that&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s bad!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;In this grey house,&rdquo; said Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was at the old hag&rsquo;s
  flat yesterday... and asked about the blood? I must find that out
  instantly, as soon as I go in, find out from his face; otherwise... I&rsquo;ll
  find out, if it&rsquo;s my ruin.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I say, brother,&rdquo; he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin, with a sly
  smile, &ldquo;I have been noticing all day that you seem to be curiously
  excited. Isn&rsquo;t it so?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Excited? Not a bit of it,&rdquo; said Razumihin, stung to the quick.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, brother, I assure you it&rsquo;s noticeable. Why, you sat on your chair in
  a way you never do sit, on the edge somehow, and you seemed to be writhing
  all the time. You kept jumping up for nothing. One moment you were angry,
  and the next your face looked like a sweetmeat. You even blushed;
  especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed awfully.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? By Jove, there
  he&rsquo;s blushing again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What a pig you are!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I&rsquo;ll tell of you
  to-day. Ha-ha-ha! I&rsquo;ll make mother laugh, and someone else, too...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Listen, listen, listen, this is serious.... What next, you fiend!&rdquo;
   Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror. &ldquo;What will
  you tell them? Come, brother... foo! what a pig you are!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew how it suits you; a
  Romeo over six foot high! And how you&rsquo;ve washed to-day&mdash;you cleaned
  your nails, I declare. Eh? That&rsquo;s something unheard of! Why, I do believe
  you&rsquo;ve got pomatum on your hair! Bend down.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pig!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain himself. So laughing,
  they entered Porfiry Petrovitch&rsquo;s flat. This is what Raskolnikov wanted:
  from within they could be heard laughing as they came in, still guffawing
  in the passage.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not a word here or I&rsquo;ll... brain you!&rdquo; Razumihin whispered furiously,
  seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.


      CHAPTER V


  Raskolnikov was already entering the room. He came in looking as though he
  had the utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing again. Behind him
  Razumihin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as a peony, with
  an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and whole figure
  really were ridiculous at that moment and amply justified Raskolnikov&rsquo;s
  laughter. Raskolnikov, not waiting for an introduction, bowed to Porfiry
  Petrovitch, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquiringly at
  them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still apparently making
  desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few words to introduce
  himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and
  muttering something when he suddenly glanced again as though accidentally
  at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself: his stifled laughter
  broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried to restrain it. The
  extraordinary ferocity with which Razumihin received this &ldquo;spontaneous&rdquo;
   mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and
  naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on purpose.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fool! You fiend,&rdquo; he roared, waving his arm which at once struck a little
  round table with an empty tea-glass on it. Everything was sent flying and
  crashing.
<br />
  &ldquo;But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it&rsquo;s a loss to the Crown,&rdquo;
   Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily.
<br />
  Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry Petrovitch&rsquo;s, but
  anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment to put a natural end to
  it. Razumihin, completely put to confusion by upsetting the table and
  smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned
  sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his back to the
  company with a fiercely scowling countenance, seeing nothing. Porfiry
  Petrovitch laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but obviously looked
  for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the corner, but he rose at
  the visitors&rsquo; entrance and was standing in expectation with a smile on his
  lips, though he looked with surprise and even it seemed incredulity at the
  whole scene and at Raskolnikov with a certain embarrassment. Zametov&rsquo;s
  unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got to think of that,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;Excuse me, please,&rdquo; he began,
  affecting extreme embarrassment. &ldquo;Raskolnikov.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not at all, very pleasant to see you... and how pleasantly you&rsquo;ve come
  in.... Why, won&rsquo;t he even say good-morning?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch nodded at
  Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Upon my honour I don&rsquo;t know why he is in such a rage with me. I only told
  him as we came along that he was like Romeo... and proved it. And that was
  all, I think!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pig!&rdquo; ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round.
<br />
  &ldquo;There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he is so furious at
  the word,&rdquo; Porfiry laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you sharp lawyer!... Damn you all!&rdquo; snapped Razumihin, and suddenly
  bursting out laughing himself, he went up to Porfiry with a more cheerful
  face as though nothing had happened. &ldquo;That&rsquo;ll do! We are all fools. To
  come to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov; in the
  first place he has heard of you and wants to make your acquaintance, and
  secondly, he has a little matter of business with you. Bah! Zametov, what
  brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What does this mean?&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov uneasily.
<br />
  Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday,&rdquo; he said easily.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to
  introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other out without
  me. Where is your tobacco?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very clean linen, and
  trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short, stout
  even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had a
  large round head, particularly prominent at the back. His soft, round,
  rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish colour, but had a
  vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been good-natured
  except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery, mawkish light
  under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was
  strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, and gave it
  something far more serious than could be guessed at first sight.
<br />
  As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a little matter
  of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and sat down
  himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with
  that careful and over-serious attention which is at once oppressive and
  embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are
  discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such
  exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Raskolnikov
  explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so well satisfied with
  himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry. Porfiry
  Petrovitch did not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin, sitting opposite
  at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently, looking from one to
  the other every moment with rather excessive interest.
<br />
  &ldquo;Fool,&rdquo; Raskolnikov swore to himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;You have to give information to the police,&rdquo; Porfiry replied, with a most
  businesslike air, &ldquo;that having learnt of this incident, that is of the
  murder, you beg to inform the lawyer in charge of the case that such and
  such things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem them... or... but
  they will write to you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just the point, that at the present moment,&rdquo; Raskolnikov tried his
  utmost to feign embarrassment, &ldquo;I am not quite in funds... and even this
  trifling sum is beyond me... I only wanted, you see, for the present to
  declare that the things are mine, and that when I have money....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s no matter,&rdquo; answered Porfiry Petrovitch, receiving his explanation
  of his pecuniary position coldly, &ldquo;but you can, if you prefer, write
  straight to me, to say, that having been informed of the matter, and
  claiming such and such as your property, you beg...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;On an ordinary sheet of paper?&rdquo; Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again
  interested in the financial side of the question.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, the most ordinary,&rdquo; and suddenly Porfiry Petrovitch looked with
  obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and, as it were, winking at
  him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov&rsquo;s fancy, for it all lasted but a
  moment. There was certainly something of the sort, Raskolnikov could have
  sworn he winked at him, goodness knows why.
<br />
  &ldquo;He knows,&rdquo; flashed through his mind like lightning.
<br />
  &ldquo;Forgive my troubling you about such trifles,&rdquo; he went on, a little
  disconcerted, &ldquo;the things are only worth five roubles, but I prize them
  particularly for the sake of those from whom they came to me, and I must
  confess that I was alarmed when I heard...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zossimov that
  Porfiry was inquiring for everyone who had pledges!&rdquo; Razumihin put in with
  obvious intention.
<br />
  This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him
  with a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately
  recollected himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;You seem to be jeering at me, brother?&rdquo; he said to him, with a
  well-feigned irritability. &ldquo;I dare say I do seem to you absurdly anxious
  about such trash; but you mustn&rsquo;t think me selfish or grasping for that,
  and these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just
  now that the silver watch, though it&rsquo;s not worth a cent, is the only thing
  left us of my father&rsquo;s. You may laugh at me, but my mother is here,&rdquo; he
  turned suddenly to Porfiry, &ldquo;and if she knew,&rdquo; he turned again hurriedly
  to Razumihin, carefully making his voice tremble, &ldquo;that the watch was
  lost, she would be in despair! You know what women are!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not a bit of it! I didn&rsquo;t mean that at all! Quite the contrary!&rdquo; shouted
  Razumihin distressed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked himself
  in a tremor. &ldquo;Why did I say that about women?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, your mother is with you?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch inquired.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;When did she come?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Last night.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Porfiry paused as though reflecting.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your things would not in any case be lost,&rdquo; he went on calmly and coldly.
  &ldquo;I have been expecting you here for some time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered the
  ash-tray to Razumihin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash over
  the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be looking
  at him, and was still concerned with Razumihin&rsquo;s cigarette.
<br />
  &ldquo;What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges ?&rdquo;
   cried Razumihin.
<br />
  Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on the
  paper your name was legibly written in pencil, together with the date on
  which you left them with her...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How observant you are!&rdquo; Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, doing his very
  utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed, and suddenly
  added:
<br />
  &ldquo;I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges... that it
  must be difficult to remember them all.... But you remember them all so
  clearly, and... and...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Stupid! Feeble!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;Why did I add that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who hasn&rsquo;t come
  forward,&rdquo; Porfiry answered with hardly perceptible irony.
<br />
  &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t been quite well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in great distress about
  something. You look pale still.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am not pale at all.... No, I am quite well,&rdquo; Raskolnikov snapped out
  rudely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was mounting,
  he could not repress it. &ldquo;And in my anger I shall betray myself,&rdquo; flashed
  through his mind again. &ldquo;Why are they torturing me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not quite well!&rdquo; Razumihin caught him up. &ldquo;What next! He was unconscious
  and delirious all yesterday. Would you believe, Porfiry, as soon as our
  backs were turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave us
  the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight, delirious all
  the time! Would you believe it! Extraordinary!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Really delirious? You don&rsquo;t say so!&rdquo; Porfiry shook his head in a womanish
  way.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nonsense! Don&rsquo;t you believe it! But you don&rsquo;t believe it anyway,&rdquo;
   Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovitch did not seem to
  catch those strange words.
<br />
  &ldquo;But how could you have gone out if you hadn&rsquo;t been delirious?&rdquo; Razumihin
  got hot suddenly. &ldquo;What did you go out for? What was the object of it? And
  why on the sly? Were you in your senses when you did it? Now that all
  danger is over I can speak plainly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I was awfully sick of them yesterday.&rdquo; Raskolnikov addressed Porfiry
  suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance, &ldquo;I ran away from them to take
  lodgings where they wouldn&rsquo;t find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr.
  Zametov there saw it. I say, Mr. Zametov, was I sensible or delirious
  yesterday; settle our dispute.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hateful were his
  expression and his silence to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, but you were
  extremely irritable,&rdquo; Zametov pronounced dryly.
<br />
  &ldquo;And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to-day,&rdquo; put in Porfiry Petrovitch,
  &ldquo;that he met you very late last night in the lodging of a man who had been
  run over.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And there,&rdquo; said Razumihin, &ldquo;weren&rsquo;t you mad then? You gave your last
  penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen or
  twenty even, but keep three roubles for yourself at least, but he flung
  away all the twenty-five at once!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So that&rsquo;s
  why I was liberal yesterday.... Mr. Zametov knows I&rsquo;ve found a treasure!
  Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such
  trivialities,&rdquo; he said, turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with trembling
  lips. &ldquo;We are boring you, aren&rsquo;t we?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how you
  interest me! It&rsquo;s interesting to look on and listen... and I am really
  glad you have come forward at last.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you might give us some tea! My throat&rsquo;s dry,&rdquo; cried Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn&rsquo;t you like...
  something more essential before tea?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Get along with you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea.
<br />
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s thoughts were in a whirl. He was in terrible exasperation.
<br />
  &ldquo;The worst of it is they don&rsquo;t disguise it; they don&rsquo;t care to stand on
  ceremony! And how if you didn&rsquo;t know me at all, did you come to talk to
  Nikodim Fomitch about me? So they don&rsquo;t care to hide that they are
  tracking me like a pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face.&rdquo; He was
  shaking with rage. &ldquo;Come, strike me openly, don&rsquo;t play with me like a cat
  with a mouse. It&rsquo;s hardly civil, Porfiry Petrovitch, but perhaps I won&rsquo;t
  allow it! I shall get up and throw the whole truth in your ugly faces, and
  you&rsquo;ll see how I despise you.&rdquo; He could hardly breathe. &ldquo;And what if it&rsquo;s
  only my fancy? What if I am mistaken, and through inexperience I get angry
  and don&rsquo;t keep up my nasty part? Perhaps it&rsquo;s all unintentional. All their
  phrases are the usual ones, but there is something about them.... It all
  might be said, but there is something. Why did he say bluntly, &lsquo;With her&rsquo;?
  Why did Zametov add that I spoke artfully? Why do they speak in that tone?
  Yes, the tone.... Razumihin is sitting here, why does he see nothing? That
  innocent blockhead never does see anything! Feverish again! Did Porfiry
  wink at me just now? Of course it&rsquo;s nonsense! What could he wink for? Are
  they trying to upset my nerves or are they teasing me? Either it&rsquo;s ill
  fancy or they know! Even Zametov is rude.... Is Zametov rude? Zametov has
  changed his mind. I foresaw he would change his mind! He is at home here,
  while it&rsquo;s my first visit. Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits
  with his back to him. They&rsquo;re as thick as thieves, no doubt, over me! Not
  a doubt they were talking about me before we came. Do they know about the
  flat? If only they&rsquo;d make haste! When I said that I ran away to take a
  flat he let it pass.... I put that in cleverly about a flat, it may be of
  use afterwards.... Delirious, indeed... ha-ha-ha! He knows all about last
  night! He didn&rsquo;t know of my mother&rsquo;s arrival! The hag had written the date
  on in pencil! You are wrong, you won&rsquo;t catch me! There are no facts...
  it&rsquo;s all supposition! You produce facts! The flat even isn&rsquo;t a fact but
  delirium. I know what to say to them.... Do they know about the flat? I
  won&rsquo;t go without finding out. What did I come for? But my being angry now,
  maybe is a fact! Fool, how irritable I am! Perhaps that&rsquo;s right; to play
  the invalid.... He is feeling me. He will try to catch me. Why did I
  come?&rdquo;
 <br />
  All this flashed like lightning through his mind.
<br />
  Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather.... And I am out
  of sorts altogether,&rdquo; he began in quite a different tone, laughing to
  Razumihin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point.
  Who got the best of it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated off
  into space.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is such a
  thing as crime. I told you that we talked our heads off.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is there strange? It&rsquo;s an everyday social question,&rdquo; Raskolnikov
  answered casually.
<br />
  &ldquo;The question wasn&rsquo;t put quite like that,&rdquo; observed Porfiry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not quite, that&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; Razumihin agreed at once, getting warm and
  hurried as usual. &ldquo;Listen, Rodion, and tell us your opinion, I want to
  hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them and wanted you to help
  me. I told them you were coming.... It began with the socialist doctrine.
  You know their doctrine; crime is a protest against the abnormality of the
  social organisation and nothing more, and nothing more; no other causes
  admitted!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are wrong there,&rdquo; cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was noticeably
  animated and kept laughing as he looked at Razumihin, which made him more
  excited than ever.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing is admitted,&rdquo; Razumihin interrupted with heat.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am not wrong. I&rsquo;ll show you their pamphlets. Everything with them is
  &lsquo;the influence of environment,&rsquo; and nothing else. Their favourite phrase!
  From which it follows that, if society is normally organised, all crime
  will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest against and all
  men will become righteous in one instant. Human nature is not taken into
  account, it is excluded, it&rsquo;s not supposed to exist! They don&rsquo;t recognise
  that humanity, developing by a historical living process, will become at
  last a normal society, but they believe that a social system that has come
  out of some mathematical brain is going to organise all humanity at once
  and make it just and sinless in an instant, quicker than any living
  process! That&rsquo;s why they instinctively dislike history, &lsquo;nothing but
  ugliness and stupidity in it,&rsquo; and they explain it all as stupidity!
  That&rsquo;s why they so dislike the  process of life; they don&rsquo;t
  want a ! The living soul demands life, the soul won&rsquo;t
  obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of suspicion, the soul
  is retrograde! But what they want though it smells of death and can be
  made of India-rubber, at least is not alive, has no will, is servile and
  won&rsquo;t revolt! And it comes in the end to their reducing everything to the
  building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages in a phalanstery!
  The phalanstery is ready, indeed, but your human nature is not ready for
  the phalanstery&mdash;it wants life, it hasn&rsquo;t completed its vital
  process, it&rsquo;s too soon for the graveyard! You can&rsquo;t skip over nature by
  logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions! Cut
  away a million, and reduce it all to the question of comfort! That&rsquo;s the
  easiest solution of the problem! It&rsquo;s seductively clear and you musn&rsquo;t
  think about it. That&rsquo;s the great thing, you mustn&rsquo;t think! The whole
  secret of life in two pages of print!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, do!&rdquo; laughed Porfiry.
  &ldquo;Can you imagine,&rdquo; he turned to Raskolnikov, &ldquo;six people holding forth
  like that last night, in one room, with punch as a preliminary! No,
  brother, you are wrong, environment accounts for a great deal in crime; I
  can assure you of that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty violates a child of
  ten; was it environment drove him to it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, strictly speaking, it did,&rdquo; Porfiry observed with noteworthy
  gravity; &ldquo;a crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the
  influence of environment.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. &ldquo;Oh, if you like,&rdquo; he roared. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
  prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed to the
  Church of Ivan the Great&rsquo;s being two hundred and fifty feet high, and I
  will prove it clearly, exactly, progressively, and even with a Liberal
  tendency! I undertake to! Will you bet on it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Done! Let&rsquo;s hear, please, how he will prove it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He is always humbugging, confound him,&rdquo; cried Razumihin, jumping up and
  gesticulating. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the use of talking to you? He does all that on
  purpose; you don&rsquo;t know him, Rodion! He took their side yesterday, simply
  to make fools of them. And the things he said yesterday! And they were
  delighted! He can keep it up for a fortnight together. Last year he
  persuaded us that he was going into a monastery: he stuck to it for two
  months. Not long ago he took it into his head to declare he was going to
  get married, that he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new
  clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no bride,
  nothing, all pure fantasy!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes in
  fact that made me think of taking you in.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Are you such a good dissembler?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked carelessly.
<br />
  &ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in, too.
  Ha-ha-ha! No, I&rsquo;ll tell you the truth. All these questions about crime,
  environment, children, recall to my mind an article of yours which
  interested me at the time. &lsquo;On Crime&rsquo;... or something of the sort, I
  forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months ago in the .&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;My article? In the ?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked in
  astonishment. &ldquo;I certainly did write an article upon a book six months ago
  when I left the university, but I sent it to the .&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But it came out in the .&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And the  ceased to exist, so that&rsquo;s why it wasn&rsquo;t
  printed at the time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true; but when it ceased to exist, the  was
  amalgamated with the , and so your article appeared two
  months ago in the latter. Didn&rsquo;t you know?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov had not known.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, you might get some money out of them for the article! What a strange
  person you are! You lead such a solitary life that you know nothing of
  matters that concern you directly. It&rsquo;s a fact, I assure you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!&rdquo; cried Razumihin. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll run
  to-day to the reading-room and ask for the number. Two months ago? What
  was the date? It doesn&rsquo;t matter though, I will find it. Think of not
  telling us!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How did you find out that the article was mine? It&rsquo;s only signed with an
  initial.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the editor; I know
  him.... I was very much interested.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I analysed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and after
  the crime.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime is always
  accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but... it was not that part
  of your article that interested me so much, but an idea at the end of the
  article which I regret to say you merely suggested without working it out
  clearly. There is, if you recollect, a suggestion that there are certain
  persons who can... that is, not precisely are able to, but have a perfect
  right to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not
  for them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his
  idea.
<br />
  &ldquo;What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the
  influence of environment?&rdquo; Razumihin inquired with some alarm even.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, not exactly because of it,&rdquo; answered Porfiry. &ldquo;In his article all men
  are divided into &lsquo;ordinary&rsquo; and &lsquo;extraordinary.&rsquo; Ordinary men have to live
  in submission, have no right to transgress the law, because, don&rsquo;t you
  see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right to commit any
  crime and to transgress the law in any way, just because they are
  extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean? That can&rsquo;t be right?&rdquo; Razumihin muttered in
  bewilderment.
<br />
  Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they
  wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge.
<br />
  &ldquo;That wasn&rsquo;t quite my contention,&rdquo; he began simply and modestly. &ldquo;Yet I
  admit that you have stated it almost correctly; perhaps, if you like,
  perfectly so.&rdquo; (It almost gave him pleasure to admit this.) &ldquo;The only
  difference is that I don&rsquo;t contend that extraordinary people are always
  bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt
  whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an
  &lsquo;extraordinary&rsquo; man has the right... that is not an official right, but an
  inner right to decide in his own conscience to overstep... certain
  obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfilment
  of his idea (sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity). You
  say that my article isn&rsquo;t definite; I am ready to make it as clear as I
  can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to; very well. I maintain
  that if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made
  known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more
  men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have been in

    duty-bound… to the dozen or the hundred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I maintain in my article that all… well, legislators and leaders of men, such as Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact that, making a new law, they transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshed—often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defence of ancient law—were of use to their cause. It’s remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals—more or less, of course. Otherwise it’s hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can’t submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it’s somewhat arbitrary, but I don’t insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are divided by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter . There are, of course, innumerable sub-divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that’s their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood—that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It’s only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There’s no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me—and —till the New Jerusalem, of course!”
    “Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?”
    “I do,” Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet.
    “And… and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity.”
    “I do,” repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry.
    “And… do you believe in Lazarus’ rising from the dead?”
    “I… I do. Why do you ask all this?”
    “You believe it literally?”
    “Literally.”
    “You don’t say so…. I asked from curiosity. Excuse me. But let us go back to the question; they are not always executed. Some, on the contrary…”
    “Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in this life, and then…”
    “They begin executing other people?”
    “If it’s necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your remark is very witty.”
    “Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural anxiety of a practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn’t they adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn’t they wear something, be branded in some way? For you know if confusion arises and a member of one category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to ‘eliminate obstacles’ as you so happily expressed it, then…”
    “Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than the other.”
    “Thank you.”
    “No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only arise in the first category, that is among the ordinary people (as I perhaps unfortunately called them). In spite of their predisposition to obedience very many of them, through a playfulness of nature, sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves advanced people, ‘destroyers,’ and to push themselves into the ‘new movement,’ and this quite sincerely. Meanwhile the really people are very often unobserved by them, or even despised as reactionaries of grovelling tendencies. But I don’t think there is any considerable danger here, and you really need not be uneasy for they never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their fancy run away with them and to teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even this isn’t necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very conscientious: some perform this service for one another and others chastise themselves with their own hands…. They will impose various public acts of penitence upon themselves with a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact you’ve nothing to be uneasy about…. It’s a law of nature.”
    “Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score; but there’s another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there many people who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary people? I am ready to bow down to them, of course, but you must admit it’s alarming if there are a great many of them, eh?”
    “Oh, you needn’t worry about that either,” Raskolnikov went on in the same tone. “People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying something , are extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. One thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades and sub-divisions of men must follow with unfailing regularity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present, but I am convinced that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in ten thousand perhaps—I speak roughly, approximately—is born with some independence, and with still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have not peeped into the retort in which all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law, it cannot be a matter of chance.”
    “Why, are you both joking?” Razumihin cried at last. “There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you serious, Rodya?”
    Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no reply. And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful face.
    “Well, brother, if you are really serious… You are right, of course, in saying that it’s not new, that it’s like what we’ve read and heard a thousand times already; but what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed , and, excuse my saying so, with such fanaticism…. That, I take it, is the point of your article. But that sanction of bloodshed is to my mind… more terrible than the official, legal sanction of bloodshed….”
    “You are quite right, it is more terrible,” Porfiry agreed.
    “Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read it. You can’t think that! I shall read it.”
    “All that is not in the article, there’s only a hint of it,” said Raskolnikov.
    “Yes, yes.” Porfiry couldn’t sit still. “Your attitude to crime is pretty clear to me now, but… excuse me for my impertinence (I am really ashamed to be worrying you like this), you see, you’ve removed my anxiety as to the two grades getting mixed, but… there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy! What if some man or youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahomet—a future one of course—and suppose he begins to remove all obstacles…. He has some great enterprise before him and needs money for it… and tries to get it… do you see?”
    Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him.
    “I must admit,” he went on calmly, “that such cases certainly must arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare; young people especially.”
    “Yes, you see. Well then?”
    “What then?” Raskolnikov smiled in reply; “that’s not my fault. So it is and so it always will be. He said just now (he nodded at Razumihin) that I sanction bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There’s no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief.”
    “And what if we do catch him?”
    “Then he gets what he deserves.”
    “You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?”
    “Why do you care about that?”
    “Simply from humanity.”
    “If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment—as well as the prison.”
    “But the real geniuses,” asked Razumihin frowning, “those who have the right to murder? Oughtn’t they to suffer at all even for the blood they’ve shed?”
    “Why the word ? It’s not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth,” he added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation.
    He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled, and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison with his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Everyone got up.
    “Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like,” Porfiry Petrovitch began again, “but I can’t resist. Allow me one little question (I know I am troubling you). There is just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may not forget it.”
    “Very good, tell me your little notion,” Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale and grave before him.
    “Well, you see… I really don’t know how to express it properly…. It’s a playful, psychological idea…. When you were writing your article, surely you couldn’t have helped, he-he! fancying yourself… just a little, an ‘extraordinary’ man, uttering a in your sense…. That’s so, isn’t it?”
    “Quite possibly,” Raskolnikov answered contemptuously.
    Razumihin made a movement.
    “And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties and hardship or for some service to humanity—to overstep obstacles?… For instance, to rob and murder?”
    And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly just as before.
    “If I did I certainly should not tell you,” Raskolnikov answered with defiant and haughty contempt.
    “No, I was only interested on account of your article, from a literary point of view…”
    “Foo! how obvious and insolent that is!” Raskolnikov thought with repulsion.
    “Allow me to observe,” he answered dryly, “that I don’t consider myself a Mahomet or a Napoleon, nor any personage of that kind, and not being one of them I cannot tell you how I should act.”
    “Oh, come, don’t we all think ourselves Napoleons now in Russia?” Porfiry Petrovitch said with alarming familiarity.
    Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice.
    “Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona Ivanovna last week?” Zametov blurted out from the corner.
    Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Porfiry. Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov turned to go.
    “Are you going already?” Porfiry said amiably, holding out his hand with excessive politeness. “Very, very glad of your acquaintance. As for your request, have no uneasiness, write just as I told you, or, better still, come to me there yourself in a day or two… to-morrow, indeed. I shall be there at eleven o’clock for certain. We’ll arrange it all; we’ll have a talk. As one of the last to be , you might perhaps be able to tell us something,” he added with a most good-natured expression.
    “You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?” Raskolnikov asked sharply.
    “Oh, why? That’s not necessary for the present. You misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and… I’ve talked with all who had pledges…. I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the last…. Yes, by the way,” he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted, “I just remember, what was I thinking of?” he turned to Razumihin, “you were talking my ears off about that Nikolay… of course, I know, I know very well,” he turned to Raskolnikov, “that the fellow is innocent, but what is one to do? We had to trouble Dmitri too…. This is the point, this is all: when you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes,” answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very moment he spoke that he need not have said it.
    “Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn’t you see in a flat that stood open on a second storey, do you remember? two workmen or at least one of them? They were painting there, didn’t you notice them? It’s very, very important for them.”
    “Painters? No, I didn’t see them,” Raskolnikov answered slowly, as though ransacking his memory, while at the same instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety to conjecture as quickly as possible where the trap lay and not to overlook anything. “No, I didn’t see them, and I don’t think I noticed a flat like that open…. But on the fourth storey” (he had mastered the trap now and was triumphant) “I remember now that someone was moving out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovna’s…. I remember… I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa and they squeezed me against the wall. But painters… no, I don’t remember that there were any painters, and I don’t think that there was a flat open anywhere, no, there wasn’t.”
    “What do you mean?” Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had reflected and realised. “Why, it was on the day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was there three days before? What are you asking?”
    “Foo! I have muddled it!” Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. “Deuce take it! This business is turning my brain!” he addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. “It would be such a great thing for us to find out whether anyone had seen them between seven and eight at the flat, so I fancied you could perhaps have told us something…. I quite muddled it.”
    “Then you should be more careful,” Razumihin observed grimly.
    The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry Petrovitch saw them to the door with excessive politeness.
    They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath.

      CHAPTER VI


  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe it, I can&rsquo;t believe it!&rdquo; repeated Razumihin, trying in
  perplexity to refute Raskolnikov&rsquo;s arguments.
<br />
  They were by now approaching Bakaleyev&rsquo;s lodgings, where Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while. Razumihin
  kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited
  by the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about
  .
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t believe it, then!&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless
  smile. &ldquo;You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every
  word.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words... h&rsquo;m...
  certainly, I agree, Porfiry&rsquo;s tone was rather strange, and still more that
  wretch Zametov!... You are right, there was something about him&mdash;but
  why? Why?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He has changed his mind since last night.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would do their
  utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch you
  afterwards.... But it was all impudent and careless.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If they had had facts&mdash;I mean, real facts&mdash;or at least grounds
  for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game, in
  the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long ago besides).
  But they have no facts, not one. It is all mirage&mdash;all ambiguous.
  Simply a floating idea. So they try to throw me out by impudence. And
  perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted it out in his
  vexation&mdash;or perhaps he has some plan... he seems an intelligent man.
  Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have a
  psychology of their own, brother. But it is loathsome explaining it all.
  Stop!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And it&rsquo;s insulting, insulting! I understand you. But... since we have
  spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last&mdash;I
  am glad) I will own now frankly that I noticed it in them long ago, this
  idea. Of course the merest hint only&mdash;an insinuation&mdash;but why an
  insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they? If only you
  knew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a poor student,
  unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious
  illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul to
  speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to face
  some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; and the
  unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U. presented by Tchebarov,
  the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd
  of people, the talk about the murder of a person where he had been just
  before, and all that on an empty stomach&mdash;he might well have a
  fainting fit! And that, that is what they found it all on! Damn them! I
  understand how annoying it is, but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at
  them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in
  all directions. I&rsquo;d hit out in all directions, neatly too, and so I&rsquo;d put
  an end to it. Damn them! Don&rsquo;t be downhearted. It&rsquo;s a shame!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He really has put it well, though,&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?&rdquo; he said with
  bitterness. &ldquo;Must I really enter into explanations with them? I feel vexed
  as it is, that I condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in the
  restaurant....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, as
  one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! And as
  for Zametov...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;At last he sees through him!&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stay!&rdquo; cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. &ldquo;Stay! you
  were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wrong! How was that a trap? You
  say that the question about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done ,
  could you have said you had seen them painting the flat... and the
  workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had
  seen it. Who would own it against himself?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If I had done , I should certainly have said that I had
  seen the workmen and the flat,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance and
  obvious disgust.
<br />
  &ldquo;But why speak against yourself?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny everything
  flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little developed and
  experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that
  can&rsquo;t be avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, will introduce
  some special, unexpected turn, that will give them another significance
  and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon that I should be
  sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give an air of truth, and
  then make some explanation.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have been
  there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on the
  day of the murder at eight o&rsquo;clock. And so he would have caught you over a
  detail.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time to
  reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so
  would forget that the workmen could not have been there two days before.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But how could you forget it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are most
  easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he
  will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simpler
  the trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you
  think....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He is a knave then, if that is so!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he was struck
  by the strangeness of his own frankness, and the eagerness with which he
  had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the preceding
  conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive, from
  necessity.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am getting a relish for certain aspects!&rdquo; he thought to himself. But
  almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy, as though an
  unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on
  increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev&rsquo;s.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go in alone!&rdquo; said Raskolnikov suddenly. &ldquo;I will be back directly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where are you going? Why, we are just here.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t help it.... I will come in half an hour. Tell them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Say what you like, I will come with you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You, too, want to torture me!&rdquo; he screamed, with such bitter irritation,
  such despair in his eyes that Razumihin&rsquo;s hands dropped. He stood for some
  time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away
  in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching
  his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day,
  and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now
  alarmed at their long absence.
<br />
  When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was
  breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his unlocked
  room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed to
  the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the things; put
  his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in the hole, in every
  crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep
  breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev&rsquo;s, he suddenly fancied
  that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had
  been wrapped with the old woman&rsquo;s handwriting on it, might somehow have
  slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up
  as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him.
<br />
  He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half
  senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last and went
  quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamily
  through the gateway.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here he is himself,&rdquo; shouted a loud voice.
<br />
  He raised his head.
<br />
  The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing
  him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coat and
  a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He
  stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled
  flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and
  they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.
<br />
  The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him
  attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out of the gate
  into the street without saying a word.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your
  name and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out and he
  went away. It&rsquo;s funny.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after wondering
  for a moment he turned and went back to his room.
<br />
  Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of him
  walking along the other side of the street with the same even, deliberate
  step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in meditation. He soon
  overtook him, but for some time walked behind him. At last, moving on to a
  level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked
  at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a
  minute side by side without uttering a word.
<br />
  &ldquo;You were inquiring for me... of the porter?&rdquo; Raskolnikov said at last,
  but in a curiously quiet voice.
<br />
  The man made no answer; he didn&rsquo;t even look at him. Again they were both
  silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing.... What&rsquo;s the
  meaning of it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words
  clearly.
<br />
  The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at
  Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Murderer!&rdquo; he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice.
<br />
  Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a
  cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a
  moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they
  walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.
<br />
  The man did not look at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean... what is.... Who is a murderer?&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov
  hardly audibly.
<br />
  &ldquo; are a murderer,&rdquo; the man answered still more articulately and
  emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked
  straight into Raskolnikov&rsquo;s pale face and stricken eyes.
<br />
  They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the left without
  looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He
  saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing
  there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again
  smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph.
<br />
  With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way
  back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap
  and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving. Then
  he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched
  himself on it. So he lay for half an hour.
<br />
  He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images
  without order or coherence floated before his mind&mdash;faces of people
  he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never
  have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a
  restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in
  some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite dark,
  all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the Sunday
  bells floating in from somewhere.... The images followed one another,
  whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at,
  but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but
  it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant.... The slight
  shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation.
<br />
  He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and
  pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some time
  in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the room
  and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya&rsquo;s whisper:
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the
  door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his
  back again, clasping his hands behind his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he,
  what did he see? He has seen it all, that&rsquo;s clear. Where was he then? And
  from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And
  how could he see? Is it possible? Hm...&rdquo; continued Raskolnikov, turning
  cold and shivering, &ldquo;and the jewel case Nikolay found behind the door&mdash;was
  that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it
  into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?&rdquo; He
  felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. &ldquo;I
  ought to have known it,&rdquo; he thought with a bitter smile. &ldquo;And how dared I,
  knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed blood! I
  ought to have known beforehand.... Ah, but I did know!&rdquo; he whispered in
  despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, those men are not made so. The real  to whom all is
  permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris,  an army
  in Egypt,  half a million men in the Moscow expedition and
  gets off with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his
  death, and so  is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not
  of flesh but of bronze!&rdquo;
 <br />
  One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids,
  Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk
  under her bed&mdash;it&rsquo;s a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How
  can they digest it! It&rsquo;s too inartistic. &ldquo;A Napoleon creep under an old
  woman&rsquo;s bed! Ugh, how loathsome!&rdquo;
 <br />
  At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish
  excitement. &ldquo;The old woman is of no consequence,&rdquo; he thought, hotly and
  incoherently. &ldquo;The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what
  matters! The old woman was only an illness.... I was in a hurry to
  overstep.... I didn&rsquo;t kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the
  principle, but I didn&rsquo;t overstep, I stopped on this side.... I was only
  capable of killing. And it seems I wasn&rsquo;t even capable of that...
  Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They are
  industrious, commercial people; &lsquo;the happiness of all&rsquo; is their case. No,
  life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I don&rsquo;t
  want to wait for &lsquo;the happiness of all.&rsquo; I want to live myself, or else
  better not live at all. I simply couldn&rsquo;t pass by my mother starving,
  keeping my rouble in my pocket while I waited for the &lsquo;happiness of all.&rsquo;
  I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all and so my heart is
  at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too
  want.... Ech, I am an æsthetic louse and nothing more,&rdquo; he added suddenly,
  laughing like a madman. &ldquo;Yes, I am certainly a louse,&rdquo; he went on,
  clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with
  vindictive pleasure. &ldquo;In the first place, because I can reason that I am
  one, and secondly, because for a month past I have been troubling
  benevolent Providence, calling it to witness that not for my own fleshly
  lusts did I undertake it, but with a grand and noble object&mdash;ha-ha!
  Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible,
  weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most
  useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for the
  first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery,
  according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am utterly a louse,&rdquo;
   he added, grinding his teeth, &ldquo;is that I am perhaps viler and more
  loathsome than the louse I killed, and  that I
  should tell myself so  killing her. Can anything be compared
  with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand the
  &lsquo;prophet&rsquo; with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and &lsquo;trembling&rsquo;
  creation must obey! The &lsquo;prophet&rsquo; is right, he is right when he sets a
  battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty without
  deigning to explain! It&rsquo;s for you to obey, trembling creation, and not , for that&rsquo;s not for you!... I shall never, never forgive
  the old woman!&rdquo;
 <br />
  His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes
  were fixed on the ceiling.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mother, sister&mdash;how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I
  hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can&rsquo;t bear them near
  me.... I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember.... To embrace
  her and think if she only knew... shall I tell her then? That&rsquo;s just what
  I might do....  must be the same as I am,&rdquo; he added, straining
  himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. &ldquo;Ah, how I hate the
  old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor
  Lizaveta! Why did she come in?... It&rsquo;s strange though, why is it I
  scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn&rsquo;t killed her? Lizaveta!
  Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes.... Dear women! Why don&rsquo;t they
  weep? Why don&rsquo;t they moan? They give up everything... their eyes are soft
  and gentle.... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn&rsquo;t remember
  how he got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight had fallen
  and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a
  peculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the
  street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other
  people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and
  stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was
  distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do
  something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood
  still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to
  him. He crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away
  with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. &ldquo;Stay, did he
  really beckon?&rdquo; Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. When
  he was within ten paces he recognised him and was frightened; it was the
  same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed
  him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the
  man still did not look round. &ldquo;Does he know I am following him?&rdquo; thought
  Raskolnikov. The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov
  hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and
  sign to him. In the court-yard the man did turn round and again seemed to
  beckon him. Raskolnikov at once followed him into the yard, but the man
  was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed
  after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights above. The staircase
  seemed strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the
  moon shone through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then
  he reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters were
  at work... but how was it he did not recognise it at once? The steps of
  the man above had died away. &ldquo;So he must have stopped or hidden
  somewhere.&rdquo; He reached the third storey, should he go on? There was a
  stillness that was dreadful.... But he went on. The sound of his own
  footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be
  hiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he
  hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as
  though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour
  which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the
  chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames.
  A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the moon
  that makes it so still, weaving some mystery,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov. He
  stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent the moonlight,
  the more violently his heart beat, till it was painful. And still the same
  hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a
  splinter and all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the
  window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he noticed in the corner
  between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging
  on the wall. &ldquo;Why is that cloak here?&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;it wasn&rsquo;t there
  before....&rdquo; He went up to it quietly and felt that there was someone
  hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a
  chair in the corner, the old woman bent double so that he couldn&rsquo;t see her
  face; but it was she. He stood over her. &ldquo;She is afraid,&rdquo; he thought. He
  stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then
  another on the skull. But strange to say she did not stir, as though she
  were made of wood. He was frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look
  at her; but she, too, bent her head lower. He bent right down to the
  ground and peeped up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold
  with horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with
  noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly
  he fancied that the door from the bedroom was opened a little and that
  there was laughter and whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and
  he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force, but at
  every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew
  louder and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing
  away, but the passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood
  open and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were
  people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and
  expectation. Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the
  spot, they would not move.... He tried to scream and woke up.
<br />
  He drew a deep breath&mdash;but his dream seemed strangely to persist: his
  door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway
  watching him intently.
<br />
  Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again.
  He lay on his back without stirring.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it still a dream?&rdquo; he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly
  perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching
  him.
<br />
  He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him,
  went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on
  Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he
  put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and
  his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait
  indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen
  glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost
  whitish beard.
<br />
  Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There
  was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only
  a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable
  at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, tell me what you want.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,&rdquo; the stranger answered
  oddly, laughing calmly. &ldquo;Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, allow me to
  introduce myself....&rdquo;


      PART IV


      CHAPTER I


  &ldquo;Can this be still a dream?&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought once more.
<br />
  He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor.
<br />
  &ldquo;Svidrigaïlov! What nonsense! It can&rsquo;t be!&rdquo; he said at last aloud in
  bewilderment.
<br />
  His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I wanted to make
  your personal acquaintance, as I have already heard a great deal about you
  that is interesting and flattering; secondly, I cherish the hope that you
  may not refuse to assist me in a matter directly concerning the welfare of
  your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. For without your support she might not let
  me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against me, but with your
  assistance I reckon on...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You reckon wrongly,&rdquo; interrupted Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov made no reply.
<br />
  &ldquo;It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well, let
  me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, I don&rsquo;t consider it necessary to
  justify myself, but kindly tell me what was there particularly criminal on
  my part in all this business, speaking without prejudice, with common
  sense?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and &lsquo;insulted her
  with my infamous proposals&rsquo;&mdash;is that it? (I am anticipating you.) But
  you&rsquo;ve only to assume that I, too, am a man ... in
  a word, that I am capable of being attracted and falling in love (which
  does not depend on our will), then everything can be explained in the most
  natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I myself a victim?
  And what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my passion to
  elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest
  respect for her and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual
  happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why, probably, I was
  doing more harm to myself than anyone!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s not the point,&rdquo; Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
  simply that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We don&rsquo;t want
  to have anything to do with you. We show you the door. Go out!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov broke into a sudden laugh.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you&rsquo;re... but there&rsquo;s no getting round you,&rdquo; he said, laughing in the
  frankest way. &ldquo;I hoped to get round you, but you took up the right line at
  once!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you are trying to get round me still!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What of it? What of it?&rdquo; cried Svidrigaïlov, laughing openly. &ldquo;But this
  is what the French call , and the most innocent form of
  deception!... But still you have interrupted me; one way or another, I
  repeat again: there would never have been any unpleasantness except for
  what happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?&rdquo; Raskolnikov
  interrupted rudely.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, you&rsquo;ve heard that, too, then? You&rsquo;d be sure to, though.... But as for
  your question, I really don&rsquo;t know what to say, though my own conscience
  is quite at rest on that score. Don&rsquo;t suppose that I am in any
  apprehension about it. All was regular and in order; the medical inquiry
  diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy dinner and a
  bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing else. But I&rsquo;ll
  tell you what I have been thinking to myself of late, on my way here in
  the train, especially: didn&rsquo;t I contribute to all that... calamity,
  morally, in a way, by irritation or something of the sort. But I came to
  the conclusion that that, too, was quite out of the question.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov laughed.
<br />
  &ldquo;I wonder you trouble yourself about it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice with
  a switch&mdash;there were no marks even... don&rsquo;t regard me as a cynic,
  please; I am perfectly aware how atrocious it was of me and all that; but
  I know for certain, too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at
  my, so to say, warmth. The story of your sister had been wrung out to the
  last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna had been forced to sit
  at home; she had nothing to show herself with in the town. Besides, she
  had bored them so with that letter (you heard about her reading the
  letter). And all of a sudden those two switches fell from heaven! Her
  first act was to order the carriage to be got out.... Not to speak of the
  fact that there are cases when women are very, very glad to be insulted in
  spite of all their show of indignation. There are instances of it with
  everyone; human beings in general, indeed, greatly love to be insulted,
  have you noticed that? But it&rsquo;s particularly so with women. One might even
  say it&rsquo;s their only amusement.&rdquo;
 <br />
  At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and so
  finishing the interview. But some curiosity and even a sort of prudence
  made him linger for a moment.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are fond of fighting?&rdquo; he asked carelessly.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, not very,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov answered, calmly. &ldquo;And Marfa Petrovna and I
  scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was always
  pleased with me. I only used the whip twice in all our seven years (not
  counting a third occasion of a very ambiguous character). The first time,
  two months after our marriage, immediately after we arrived in the
  country, and the last time was that of which we are speaking. Did you
  suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary, such a slave driver? Ha,
  ha! By the way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovitch, how a few years ago,
  in those days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman, I&rsquo;ve forgotten his
  name, was put to shame everywhere, in all the papers, for having thrashed
  a German woman in the railway train. You remember? It was in those days,
  that very year I believe, the &lsquo;disgraceful action of the &rsquo; took
  place (you know, &lsquo;The Egyptian Nights,&rsquo; that public reading, you remember?
  The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden days of our youth, where are
  they?). Well, as for the gentleman who thrashed the German, I feel no
  sympathy with him, because after all what need is there for sympathy? But
  I must say that there are sometimes such provoking &lsquo;Germans&rsquo; that I don&rsquo;t
  believe there is a progressive who could quite answer for himself. No one
  looked at the subject from that point of view then, but that&rsquo;s the truly
  humane point of view, I assure you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  After saying this, Svidrigaïlov broke into a sudden laugh again.
  Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a firm purpose in his
  mind and able to keep it to himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;I expect you&rsquo;ve not talked to anyone for some days?&rdquo; he asked.
<br />
  &ldquo;Scarcely anyone. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an
  adaptable man?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a man.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your questions? Is that it?
  But why take offence? As you asked, so I answered,&rdquo; he replied, with a
  surprising expression of simplicity. &ldquo;You know, there&rsquo;s hardly anything I
  take interest in,&rdquo; he went on, as it were dreamily, &ldquo;especially now, I&rsquo;ve
  nothing to do.... You are quite at liberty to imagine though that I am
  making up to you with a motive, particularly as I told you I want to see
  your sister about something. But I&rsquo;ll confess frankly, I am very much
  bored. The last three days especially, so I am delighted to see you....
  Don&rsquo;t be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you seem to be somehow awfully
  strange yourself. Say what you like, there&rsquo;s something wrong with you, and
  now, too... not this very minute, I mean, but now, generally.... Well,
  well, I won&rsquo;t, I won&rsquo;t, don&rsquo;t scowl! I am not such a bear, you know, as
  you think.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are not a bear, perhaps, at all,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I fancy indeed that you
  are a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on occasion to
  behave like one.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am not particularly interested in anyone&rsquo;s opinion,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov
  answered, dryly and even with a shade of haughtiness, &ldquo;and therefore why
  not be vulgar at times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our
  climate... and especially if one has a natural propensity that way,&rdquo; he
  added, laughing again.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I&rsquo;ve heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, &lsquo;not
  without connections.&rsquo; What can you want with me, then, unless you&rsquo;ve some
  special object?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true that I have friends here,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov admitted, not
  replying to the chief point. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve met some already. I&rsquo;ve been lounging
  about for the last three days, and I&rsquo;ve seen them, or they&rsquo;ve seen me.
  That&rsquo;s a matter of course. I am well dressed and reckoned not a poor man;
  the emancipation of the serfs hasn&rsquo;t affected me; my property consists
  chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue has not fallen off;
  but... I am not going to see them, I was sick of them long ago. I&rsquo;ve been
  here three days and have called on no one.... What a town it is! How has
  it come into existence among us, tell me that? A town of officials and
  students of all sorts. Yes, there&rsquo;s a great deal I didn&rsquo;t notice when I
  was here eight years ago, kicking up my heels.... My only hope now is in
  anatomy, by Jove, it is!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Anatomy?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed, maybe&mdash;well,
  all that can go on without me,&rdquo; he went on, again without noticing the
  question. &ldquo;Besides, who wants to be a card-sharper?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, have you been a card-sharper then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the best
  society, eight years ago; we had a fine time. And all men of breeding, you
  know, poets, men of property. And indeed as a rule in our Russian society
  the best manners are found among those who&rsquo;ve been thrashed, have you
  noticed that? I&rsquo;ve deteriorated in the country. But I did get into prison
  for debt, through a low Greek who came from Nezhin. Then Marfa Petrovna
  turned up; she bargained with him and bought me off for thirty thousand
  silver pieces (I owed seventy thousand). We were united in lawful wedlock
  and she bore me off into the country like a treasure. You know she was
  five years older than I. She was very fond of me. For seven years I never
  left the country. And, take note, that all my life she held a document
  over me, the IOU for thirty thousand roubles, so if I were to elect to be
  restive about anything I should be trapped at once! And she would have
  done it! Women find nothing incompatible in that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;If it hadn&rsquo;t been for that, would you have given her the slip?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what to say. It was scarcely the document restrained me. I
  didn&rsquo;t want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go
  abroad, seeing I was bored, but I&rsquo;ve been abroad before, and always felt
  sick there. For no reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the sea&mdash;you
  look at them and it makes you sad. What&rsquo;s most revolting is that one is
  really sad! No, it&rsquo;s better at home. Here at least one blames others for
  everything and excuses oneself. I should have gone perhaps on an
  expedition to the North Pole, because  and hate
  drinking, and there&rsquo;s nothing left but wine. I have tried it. But, I say,
  I&rsquo;ve been told Berg is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from the
  Yusupov Garden and will take up passengers at a fee. Is it true?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, would you go up?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I... No, oh, no,&rdquo; muttered Svidrigaïlov really seeming to be deep in
  thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;What does he mean? Is he in earnest?&rdquo; Raskolnikov wondered.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, the document didn&rsquo;t restrain me,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov went on, meditatively.
  &ldquo;It was my own doing, not leaving the country, and nearly a year ago Marfa
  Petrovna gave me back the document on my name-day and made me a present of
  a considerable sum of money, too. She had a fortune, you know. &lsquo;You see
  how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovitch&rsquo;&mdash;that was actually her
  expression. You don&rsquo;t believe she used it? But do you know I managed the
  estate quite decently, they know me in the neighbourhood. I ordered books,
  too. Marfa Petrovna at first approved, but afterwards she was afraid of my
  over-studying.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you
  believe in ghosts?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What ghosts?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, ordinary ghosts.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you believe in them?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps not, .... I wouldn&rsquo;t say no exactly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you see them, then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov looked at him rather oddly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me,&rdquo; he said, twisting his mouth into
  a strange smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;How do you mean &lsquo;she is pleased to visit you&rsquo;?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral,
  an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to come here.
  The second time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey
  at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was two hours ago in
  the room where I am staying. I was alone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Were you awake?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for a
  minute and goes out at the door&mdash;always at the door. I can almost
  hear her.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you?&rdquo;
   Raskolnikov said suddenly.
<br />
  At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much
  excited.
<br />
  &ldquo;What! Did you think so?&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov asked in astonishment. &ldquo;Did you
  really? Didn&rsquo;t I say that there was something in common between us, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You never said so!&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t I?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut,
  pretending, I said to myself at once, &lsquo;Here&rsquo;s the man.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean by &lsquo;the man?&rsquo; What are you talking about?&rdquo; cried
  Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do I mean? I really don&rsquo;t know....&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov muttered
  ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled.
<br />
  For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other&rsquo;s faces.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all nonsense!&rdquo; Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. &ldquo;What does she
  say when she comes to you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and&mdash;man
  is a strange creature&mdash;it makes me angry. The first time she came in
  (I was tired you know: the funeral service, the funeral ceremony, the
  lunch afterwards. At last I was left alone in my study. I lighted a cigar
  and began to think), she came in at the door. &lsquo;You&rsquo;ve been so busy to-day,
  Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the dining-room clock,&rsquo; she
  said. All those seven years I&rsquo;ve wound that clock every week, and if I
  forgot it she would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way
  here. I got out at the station at daybreak; I&rsquo;d been asleep, tired out,
  with my eyes half open, I was drinking some coffee. I looked up and there
  was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting beside me with a pack of cards in her
  hands. &lsquo;Shall I tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovitch?&rsquo; She
  was a great hand at telling fortunes. I shall never forgive myself for not
  asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and, besides, the bell rang. I was
  sitting to-day, feeling very heavy after a miserable dinner from a
  cookshop; I was sitting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna again. She
  came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a long train. &lsquo;Good day,
  Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like my dress? Aniska can&rsquo;t make like this.&rsquo;
  (Aniska was a dressmaker in the country, one of our former serf girls who
  had been trained in Moscow, a pretty wench.) She stood turning round
  before me. I looked at the dress, and then I looked carefully, very
  carefully, at her face. &lsquo;I wonder you trouble to come to me about such
  trifles, Marfa Petrovna.&rsquo; &lsquo;Good gracious, you won&rsquo;t let one disturb you
  about anything!&rsquo; To tease her I said, &lsquo;I want to get married, Marfa
  Petrovna.&rsquo; &lsquo;That&rsquo;s just like you, Arkady Ivanovitch; it does you very
  little credit to come looking for a bride when you&rsquo;ve hardly buried your
  wife. And if you could make a good choice, at least, but I know it won&rsquo;t
  be for your happiness or hers, you will only be a laughing-stock to all
  good people.&rsquo; Then she went out and her train seemed to rustle. Isn&rsquo;t it
  nonsense, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But perhaps you are telling lies?&rdquo; Raskolnikov put in.
<br />
  &ldquo;I rarely lie,&rdquo; answered Svidrigaïlov thoughtfully, apparently not
  noticing the rudeness of the question.
<br />
  &ldquo;And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had a
  serf, Filka; just after his burial I called out forgetting &lsquo;Filka, my
  pipe!&rsquo; He came in and went to the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat
  still and thought &lsquo;he is doing it out of revenge,&rsquo; because we had a
  violent quarrel just before his death. &lsquo;How dare you come in with a hole
  in your elbow?&rsquo; I said. &lsquo;Go away, you scamp!&rsquo; He turned and went out, and
  never came again. I didn&rsquo;t tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted to
  have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You should go to a doctor.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don&rsquo;t know what&rsquo;s
  wrong; I believe I am five times as strong as you are. I didn&rsquo;t ask you
  whether you believe that ghosts are seen, but whether you believe that
  they exist.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I won&rsquo;t believe it!&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried, with positive anger.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do people generally say?&rdquo; muttered Svidrigaïlov, as though speaking
  to himself, looking aside and bowing his head. &ldquo;They say, &lsquo;You are ill, so
  what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.&rsquo; But that&rsquo;s not strictly
  logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to the sick, but that only proves
  that they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that they don&rsquo;t
  exist.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing of the sort,&rdquo; Raskolnikov insisted irritably.
<br />
  &ldquo;No? You don&rsquo;t think so?&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov went on, looking at him
  deliberately. &ldquo;But what do you say to this argument (help me with it):
  ghosts are, as it were, shreds and fragments of other worlds, the
  beginning of them. A man in health has, of course, no reason to see them,
  because he is above all a man of this earth and is bound for the sake of
  completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon as one is
  ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is broken, one
  begins to realise the possibility of another world; and the more seriously
  ill one is, the closer becomes one&rsquo;s contact with that other world, so
  that as soon as the man dies he steps straight into that world. I thought
  of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you could believe in
  that, too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe in a future life,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov sat lost in thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort,&rdquo; he
  said suddenly.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is a madman,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something
  vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it&rsquo;s one
  little room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders
  in every corner, and that&rsquo;s all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like
  that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting than that?&rdquo;
   Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of anguish.
<br />
  &ldquo;Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you know it&rsquo;s
  what I would certainly have made it,&rdquo; answered Svidrigaïlov, with a vague
  smile.
<br />
  This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov. Svidrigaïlov
  raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly began laughing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only think,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;half an hour ago we had never seen each other, we
  regarded each other as enemies; there is a matter unsettled between us;
  we&rsquo;ve thrown it aside, and away we&rsquo;ve gone into the abstract! Wasn&rsquo;t I
  right in saying that we were birds of a feather?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Kindly allow me,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on irritably, &ldquo;to ask you to explain
  why you have honoured me with your visit... and... and I am in a hurry, I
  have no time to waste. I want to go out.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to
  be married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovitch?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from mentioning her
  name? I can&rsquo;t understand how you dare utter her name in my presence, if
  you really are Svidrigaïlov.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, but I&rsquo;ve come here to speak about her; how can I avoid mentioning
  her?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Very good, speak, but make haste.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr. Luzhin,
  who is a connection of mine through my wife, if you have only seen him for
  half an hour, or heard any facts about him. He is no match for Avdotya
  Romanovna. I believe Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself generously
  and imprudently for the sake of... for the sake of her family. I fancied
  from all I had heard of you that you would be very glad if the match could
  be broken off without the sacrifice of worldly advantages. Now I know you
  personally, I am convinced of it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All this is very naïve... excuse me, I should have said impudent on your
  part,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don&rsquo;t be uneasy, Rodion
  Romanovitch, if I were working for my own advantage, I would not have
  spoken out so directly. I am not quite a fool. I will confess something
  psychologically curious about that: just now, defending my love for
  Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well, let me tell you
  that I&rsquo;ve no feeling of love now, not the slightest, so that I wonder
  myself indeed, for I really did feel something...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Through idleness and depravity,&rdquo; Raskolnikov put in.
<br />
  &ldquo;I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such qualities that
  even I could not help being impressed by them. But that&rsquo;s all nonsense, as
  I see myself now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Have you seen that long?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it the
  day before yesterday, almost at the moment I arrived in Petersburg. I
  still fancied in Moscow, though, that I was coming to try to get Avdotya
  Romanovna&rsquo;s hand and to cut out Mr. Luzhin.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and come to the object
  of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want to go out...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here and determining on a
  certain... journey, I should like to make some necessary preliminary
  arrangements. I left my children with an aunt; they are well provided for;
  and they have no need of me personally. And a nice father I should make,
  too! I have taken nothing but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago.
  That&rsquo;s enough for me. Excuse me, I am just coming to the point. Before the
  journey which may come off, I want to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It&rsquo;s not
  that I detest him so much, but it was through him I quarrelled with Marfa
  Petrovna when I learned that she had dished up this marriage. I want now
  to see Avdotya Romanovna through your mediation, and if you like in your
  presence, to explain to her that in the first place she will never gain
  anything but harm from Mr. Luzhin. Then, begging her pardon for all past
  unpleasantness, to make her a present of ten thousand roubles and so
  assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to which I believe she is
  herself not disinclined, if she could see the way to it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are certainly mad,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov not so much angered as
  astonished. &ldquo;How dare you talk like that!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, though I am not
  rich, this ten thousand roubles is perfectly free; I have absolutely no
  need for it. If Avdotya Romanovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in
  some more foolish way. That&rsquo;s the first thing. Secondly, my conscience is
  perfectly easy; I make the offer with no ulterior motive. You may not
  believe it, but in the end Avdotya Romanovna and you will know. The point
  is, that I did actually cause your sister, whom I greatly respect, some
  trouble and unpleasantness, and so, sincerely regretting it, I want&mdash;not
  to compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but simply to do
  something to her advantage, to show that I am not, after all, privileged
  to do nothing but harm. If there were a millionth fraction of
  self-interest in my offer, I should not have made it so openly; and I
  should not have offered her ten thousand only, when five weeks ago I
  offered her more, Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry a young lady,
  and that alone ought to prevent suspicion of any design on Avdotya
  Romanovna. In conclusion, let me say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is
  taking money just the same, only from another man. Don&rsquo;t be angry, Rodion
  Romanovitch, think it over coolly and quietly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he was saying this.
<br />
  &ldquo;I beg you to say no more,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov. &ldquo;In any case this is
  unpardonable impertinence.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm to his neighbour in
  this world, and is prevented from doing the tiniest bit of good by trivial
  conventional formalities. That&rsquo;s absurd. If I died, for instance, and left
  that sum to your sister in my will, surely she wouldn&rsquo;t refuse it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Very likely she would.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, no, indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be it, though ten thousand
  roubles is a capital thing to have on occasion. In any case I beg you to
  repeat what I have said to Avdotya Romanovna.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to try and see her
  myself and worry her by doing so.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know really what to say. I should like very much to see her once
  more.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t hope for it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry. But you don&rsquo;t know me. Perhaps we may become better friends.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You think we may become friends?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And why not?&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov said, smiling. He stood up and took his hat.
  &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t quite intend to disturb you and I came here without reckoning on
  it... though I was very much struck by your face this morning.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where did you see me this morning?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked uneasily.
<br />
  &ldquo;I saw you by chance.... I kept fancying there is something about you like
  me.... But don&rsquo;t be uneasy. I am not intrusive; I used to get on all right
  with card-sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great personage
  who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about Raphael&rsquo;s 
  in Madam Prilukov&rsquo;s album, and I never left Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s side for
  seven years, and I used to stay the night at Viazemsky&rsquo;s house in the Hay
  Market in the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg, perhaps.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, may I ask?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What travels?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, on that &lsquo;journey&rsquo;; you spoke of it yourself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well, that&rsquo;s a wide
  subject.... if only you knew what you are asking,&rdquo; he added, and gave a
  sudden, loud, short laugh. &ldquo;Perhaps I&rsquo;ll get married instead of the
  journey. They&rsquo;re making a match for me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How have you had time for that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I am very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once. I earnestly beg it.
  Well, good-bye for the present. Oh, yes. I have forgotten something. Tell
  your sister, Rodion Romanovitch, that Marfa Petrovna remembered her in her
  will and left her three thousand roubles. That&rsquo;s absolutely certain. Marfa
  Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, and it was done in my
  presence. Avdotya Romanovna will be able to receive the money in two or
  three weeks.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Are you telling the truth?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, tell her. Well, your servant. I am staying very near you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  As he went out, Svidrigaïlov ran up against Razumihin in the doorway.


      CHAPTER II


  It was nearly eight o&rsquo;clock. The two young men hurried to Bakaleyev&rsquo;s, to
  arrive before Luzhin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, who was that?&rdquo; asked Razumihin, as soon as they were in the street.
<br />
  &ldquo;It was Svidrigaïlov, that landowner in whose house my sister was insulted
  when she was their governess. Through his persecuting her with his
  attentions, she was turned out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. This Marfa
  Petrovna begged Dounia&rsquo;s forgiveness afterwards, and she&rsquo;s just died
  suddenly. It was of her we were talking this morning. I don&rsquo;t know why I&rsquo;m
  afraid of that man. He came here at once after his wife&rsquo;s funeral. He is
  very strange, and is determined on doing something.... We must guard
  Dounia from him... that&rsquo;s what I wanted to tell you, do you hear?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Guard her! What can he do to harm Avdotya Romanovna? Thank you, Rodya,
  for speaking to me like that.... We will, we will guard her. Where does he
  live?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you ask? What a pity! I&rsquo;ll find out, though.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Did you see him?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov after a pause.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I noticed him, I noticed him well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You did really see him? You saw him clearly?&rdquo; Raskolnikov insisted.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I remember him perfectly, I should know him in a thousand; I have a
  good memory for faces.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They were silent again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hm!... that&rsquo;s all right,&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Do you know, I
  fancied... I keep thinking that it may have been an hallucination.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean? I don&rsquo;t understand you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, you all say,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile,
  &ldquo;that I am mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am mad, and have
  only seen a phantom.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps everything that
  happened all these days may be only imagination.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again!... But what did he say, what did
  he come for?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now let me tell you my story,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;I came to you, you were asleep.
  Then we had dinner and then I went to Porfiry&rsquo;s, Zametov was still with
  him. I tried to begin, but it was no use. I couldn&rsquo;t speak in the right
  way. They don&rsquo;t seem to understand and can&rsquo;t understand, but are not a bit
  ashamed. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking to him, but it
  was still no use. He looked away and I looked away. At last I shook my
  fist in his ugly face, and told him as a cousin I&rsquo;d brain him. He merely
  looked at me, I cursed and came away. That was all. It was very stupid. To
  Zametov I didn&rsquo;t say a word. But, you see, I thought I&rsquo;d made a mess of
  it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea struck me: why should we
  trouble? Of course if you were in any danger or anything, but why need you
  care? You needn&rsquo;t care a hang for them. We shall have a laugh at them
  afterwards, and if I were in your place I&rsquo;d mystify them more than ever.
  How ashamed they&rsquo;ll be afterwards! Hang them! We can thrash them
  afterwards, but let&rsquo;s laugh at them now!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To be sure,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;But what will you say to-morrow?&rdquo; he
  thought to himself. Strange to say, till that moment it had never occurred
  to him to wonder what Razumihin would think when he knew. As he thought
  it, Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumihin&rsquo;s account of his visit to Porfiry
  had very little interest for him, so much had come and gone since then.
<br />
  In the corridor they came upon Luzhin; he had arrived punctually at eight,
  and was looking for the number, so that all three went in together without
  greeting or looking at one another. The young men walked in first, while
  Pyotr Petrovitch, for good manners, lingered a little in the passage,
  taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna came forward at once to greet
  him in the doorway, Dounia was welcoming her brother. Pyotr Petrovitch
  walked in and quite amiably, though with redoubled dignity, bowed to the
  ladies. He looked, however, as though he were a little put out and could
  not yet recover himself. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who seemed also a little
  embarrassed, hastened to make them all sit down at the round table where a
  samovar was boiling. Dounia and Luzhin were facing one another on opposite
  sides of the table. Razumihin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna, Razumihin was next to Luzhin and Raskolnikov was beside his
  sister.
<br />
  A moment&rsquo;s silence followed. Pyotr Petrovitch deliberately drew out a
  cambric handkerchief reeking of scent and blew his nose with an air of a
  benevolent man who felt himself slighted, and was firmly resolved to
  insist on an explanation. In the passage the idea had occurred to him to
  keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so give the two ladies a sharp and
  emphatic lesson and make them feel the gravity of the position. But he
  could not bring himself to do this. Besides, he could not endure
  uncertainty, and he wanted an explanation: if his request had been so
  openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that case it was
  better to find it out beforehand; it rested with him to punish them and
  there would always be time for that.
<br />
  &ldquo;I trust you had a favourable journey,&rdquo; he inquired officially of
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, very, Pyotr Petrovitch.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am gratified to hear it. And Avdotya Romanovna is not over-fatigued
  either?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am young and strong, I don&rsquo;t get tired, but it was a great strain for
  mother,&rdquo; answered Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s unavoidable! our national railways are of terrible length. &lsquo;Mother
  Russia,&rsquo; as they say, is a vast country.... In spite of all my desire to
  do so, I was unable to meet you yesterday. But I trust all passed off
  without inconvenience?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, no, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was all terribly disheartening,&rdquo; Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna hastened to declare with peculiar intonation, &ldquo;and if Dmitri
  Prokofitch had not been sent us, I really believe by God Himself, we
  should have been utterly lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofitch Razumihin,&rdquo;
   she added, introducing him to Luzhin.
<br />
  &ldquo;I had the pleasure... yesterday,&rdquo; muttered Pyotr Petrovitch with a
  hostile glance sidelong at Razumihin; then he scowled and was silent.
<br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch belonged to that class of persons, on the surface very
  polite in society, who make a great point of punctiliousness, but who,
  directly they are crossed in anything, are completely disconcerted, and
  become more like sacks of flour than elegant and lively men of society.
  Again all was silent; Raskolnikov was obstinately mute, Avdotya Romanovna
  was unwilling to open the conversation too soon. Razumihin had nothing to
  say, so Pulcheria Alexandrovna was anxious again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Marfa Petrovna is dead, have you heard?&rdquo; she began having recourse to her
  leading item of conversation.
<br />
  &ldquo;To be sure, I heard so. I was immediately informed, and I have come to
  make you acquainted with the fact that Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov set
  off in haste for Petersburg immediately after his wife&rsquo;s funeral. So at
  least I have excellent authority for believing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To Petersburg? here?&rdquo; Dounia asked in alarm and looked at her mother.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, indeed, and doubtless not without some design, having in view the
  rapidity of his departure, and all the circumstances preceding it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens! won&rsquo;t he leave Dounia in peace even here?&rdquo; cried Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna.
<br />
  &ldquo;I imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna have any grounds for
  uneasiness, unless, of course, you are yourselves desirous of getting into
  communication with him. For my part I am on my guard, and am now
  discovering where he is lodging.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Pyotr Petrovitch, you would not believe what a fright you have given
  me,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on: &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve only seen him twice, but I
  thought him terrible, terrible! I am convinced that he was the cause of
  Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s death.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s impossible to be certain about that. I have precise information. I
  do not dispute that he may have contributed to accelerate the course of
  events by the moral influence, so to say, of the affront; but as to the
  general conduct and moral characteristics of that personage, I am in
  agreement with you. I do not know whether he is well off now, and
  precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; this will be known to me within a
  very short period; but no doubt here in Petersburg, if he has any
  pecuniary resources, he will relapse at once into his old ways. He is the
  most depraved, and abjectly vicious specimen of that class of men. I have
  considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna, who was so unfortunate
  as to fall in love with him and to pay his debts eight years ago, was of
  service to him also in another way. Solely by her exertions and
  sacrifices, a criminal charge, involving an element of fantastic and
  homicidal brutality for which he might well have been sentenced to
  Siberia, was hushed up. That&rsquo;s the sort of man he is, if you care to
  know.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov listened
  attentively.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good evidence of
  this?&rdquo; Dounia asked sternly and emphatically.
<br />
  &ldquo;I only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa Petrovna. I must observe
  that from the legal point of view the case was far from clear. There was,
  and I believe still is, living here a woman called Resslich, a foreigner,
  who lent small sums of money at interest, and did other commissions, and
  with this woman Svidrigaïlov had for a long while close and mysterious
  relations. She had a relation, a niece I believe, living with her, a deaf
  and dumb girl of fifteen, or perhaps not more than fourteen. Resslich
  hated this girl, and grudged her every crust; she used to beat her
  mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging in the garret. At the
  inquest the verdict was suicide. After the usual proceedings the matter
  ended, but, later on, information was given that the child had been...
  cruelly outraged by Svidrigaïlov. It is true, this was not clearly
  established, the information was given by another German woman of loose
  character whose word could not be trusted; no statement was actually made
  to the police, thanks to Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s money and exertions; it did not
  get beyond gossip. And yet the story is a very significant one. You heard,
  no doubt, Avdotya Romanovna, when you were with them the story of the
  servant Philip who died of ill treatment he received six years ago, before
  the abolition of serfdom.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I heard, on the contrary, that this Philip hanged himself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Quite so, but what drove him, or rather perhaps disposed him, to suicide
  was the systematic persecution and severity of Mr. Svidrigaïlov.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know that,&rdquo; answered Dounia, dryly. &ldquo;I only heard a queer story
  that Philip was a sort of hypochondriac, a sort of domestic philosopher,
  the servants used to say, &lsquo;he read himself silly,&rsquo; and that he hanged
  himself partly on account of Mr. Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s mockery of him and not his
  blows. When I was there he behaved well to the servants, and they were
  actually fond of him, though they certainly did blame him for Philip&rsquo;s
  death.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I perceive, Avdotya Romanovna, that you seem disposed to undertake his
  defence all of a sudden,&rdquo; Luzhin observed, twisting his lips into an
  ambiguous smile, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s no doubt that he is an astute man, and
  insinuating where ladies are concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has
  died so strangely, is a terrible instance. My only desire has been to be
  of service to you and your mother with my advice, in view of the renewed
  efforts which may certainly be anticipated from him. For my part it&rsquo;s my
  firm conviction, that he will end in a debtor&rsquo;s prison again. Marfa
  Petrovna had not the slightest intention of settling anything substantial
  on him, having regard for his children&rsquo;s interests, and, if she left him
  anything, it would only be the merest sufficiency, something insignificant
  and ephemeral, which would not last a year for a man of his habits.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch, I beg you,&rdquo; said Dounia, &ldquo;say no more of Mr.
  Svidrigaïlov. It makes me miserable.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He has just been to see me,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for
  the first time.
<br />
  There were exclamations from all, and they all turned to him. Even Pyotr
  Petrovitch was roused.
<br />
  &ldquo;An hour and a half ago, he came in when I was asleep, waked me, and
  introduced himself,&rdquo; Raskolnikov continued. &ldquo;He was fairly cheerful and at
  ease, and quite hopes that we shall become friends. He is particularly
  anxious, by the way, Dounia, for an interview with you, at which he asked
  me to assist. He has a proposition to make to you, and he told me about
  it. He told me, too, that a week before her death Marfa Petrovna left you
  three thousand roubles in her will, Dounia, and that you can receive the
  money very shortly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. &ldquo;Pray for her
  soul, Dounia!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fact!&rdquo; broke from Luzhin.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell us, what more?&rdquo; Dounia urged Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then he said that he wasn&rsquo;t rich and all the estate was left to his
  children who are now with an aunt, then that he was staying somewhere not
  far from me, but where, I don&rsquo;t know, I didn&rsquo;t ask....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what, what does he want to propose to Dounia?&rdquo; cried Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna in a fright. &ldquo;Did he tell you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What was it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you afterwards.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention to his tea.
<br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch looked at his watch.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be in
  your way,&rdquo; he added with an air of some pique and he began getting up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go, Pyotr Petrovitch,&rdquo; said Dounia, &ldquo;you intended to spend the
  evening. Besides, you wrote yourself that you wanted to have an
  explanation with mother.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch answered impressively,
  sitting down again, but still holding his hat. &ldquo;I certainly desired an
  explanation with you and your honoured mother upon a very important point
  indeed. But as your brother cannot speak openly in my presence of some
  proposals of Mr. Svidrigaïlov, I, too, do not desire and am not able to
  speak openly... in the presence of others... of certain matters of the
  greatest gravity. Moreover, my most weighty and urgent request has been
  disregarded....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin relapsed into dignified silence.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting was
  disregarded solely at my insistance,&rdquo; said Dounia. &ldquo;You wrote that you had
  been insulted by my brother; I think that this must be explained at once,
  and you must be reconciled. And if Rodya really has insulted you, then he
   and  apologise.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch took a stronger line.
<br />
  &ldquo;There are insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which no goodwill can make us
  forget. There is a line in everything which it is dangerous to overstep;
  and when it has been overstepped, there is no return.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That wasn&rsquo;t what I was speaking of exactly, Pyotr Petrovitch,&rdquo; Dounia
  interrupted with some impatience. &ldquo;Please understand that our whole future
  depends now on whether all this is explained and set right as soon as
  possible. I tell you frankly at the start that I cannot look at it in any
  other light, and if you have the least regard for me, all this business
  must be ended to-day, however hard that may be. I repeat that if my
  brother is to blame he will ask your forgiveness.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am surprised at your putting the question like that,&rdquo; said Luzhin,
  getting more and more irritated. &ldquo;Esteeming, and so to say, adoring you, I
  may at the same time, very well indeed, be able to dislike some member of
  your family. Though I lay claim to the happiness of your hand, I cannot
  accept duties incompatible with...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, don&rsquo;t be so ready to take offence, Pyotr Petrovitch,&rdquo; Dounia
  interrupted with feeling, &ldquo;and be the sensible and generous man I have
  always considered, and wish to consider, you to be. I&rsquo;ve given you a great
  promise, I am your betrothed. Trust me in this matter and, believe me, I
  shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming the part of judge is
  as much a surprise for my brother as for you. When I insisted on his
  coming to our interview to-day after your letter, I told him nothing of
  what I meant to do. Understand that, if you are not reconciled, I must
  choose between you&mdash;it must be either you or he. That is how the
  question rests on your side and on his. I don&rsquo;t want to be mistaken in my
  choice, and I must not be. For your sake I must break off with my brother,
  for my brother&rsquo;s sake I must break off with you. I can find out for
  certain now whether he is a brother to me, and I want to know it; and of
  you, whether I am dear to you, whether you esteem me, whether you are the
  husband for me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Avdotya Romanovna,&rdquo; Luzhin declared huffily, &ldquo;your words are of too much
  consequence to me; I will say more, they are offensive in view of the
  position I have the honour to occupy in relation to you. To say nothing of
  your strange and offensive setting me on a level with an impertinent boy,
  you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to me. You say &lsquo;you or
  he,&rsquo; showing thereby of how little consequence I am in your eyes... I
  cannot let this pass considering the relationship and... the obligations
  existing between us.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What!&rdquo; cried Dounia, flushing. &ldquo;I set your interest beside all that has
  hitherto been most precious in my life, what has made up the 
  of my life, and here you are offended at my making too 
  account of you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumihin fidgeted, but Pyotr Petrovitch
  did not accept the reproof; on the contrary, at every word he became more
  persistent and irritable, as though he relished it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Love for the future partner of your life, for your husband, ought to
  outweigh your love for your brother,&rdquo; he pronounced sententiously, &ldquo;and in
  any case I cannot be put on the same level.... Although I said so
  emphatically that I would not speak openly in your brother&rsquo;s presence,
  nevertheless, I intend now to ask your honoured mother for a necessary
  explanation on a point of great importance closely affecting my dignity.
  Your son,&rdquo; he turned to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, &ldquo;yesterday in the presence
  of Mr. Razsudkin (or... I think that&rsquo;s it? excuse me I have forgotten your
  surname,&rdquo; he bowed politely to Razumihin) &ldquo;insulted me by misrepresenting
  the idea I expressed to you in a private conversation, drinking coffee,
  that is, that marriage with a poor girl who has had experience of trouble
  is more advantageous from the conjugal point of view than with one who has
  lived in luxury, since it is more profitable for the moral character. Your
  son intentionally exaggerated the significance of my words and made them
  ridiculous, accusing me of malicious intentions, and, as far as I could
  see, relied upon your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself
  happy, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, if it is possible for you to convince me of
  an opposite conclusion, and thereby considerately reassure me. Kindly let
  me know in what terms precisely you repeated my words in your letter to
  Rodion Romanovitch.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t remember,&rdquo; faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. &ldquo;I repeated them as I
  understood them. I don&rsquo;t know how Rodya repeated them to you, perhaps he
  exaggerated.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He could not have exaggerated them, except at your instigation.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity, &ldquo;the
  proof that Dounia and I did not take your words in a very bad sense is the
  fact that we are here.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good, mother,&rdquo; said Dounia approvingly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then this is my fault again,&rdquo; said Luzhin, aggrieved.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Pyotr Petrovitch, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself have
  just written what was false about him,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna added,
  gaining courage.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t remember writing anything false.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You wrote,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin, &ldquo;that I gave
  money yesterday not to the widow of the man who was killed, as was the
  fact, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen till yesterday). You
  wrote this to make dissension between me and my family, and for that
  object added coarse expressions about the conduct of a girl whom you don&rsquo;t
  know. All that is mean slander.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me, sir,&rdquo; said Luzhin, quivering with fury. &ldquo;I enlarged upon your
  qualities and conduct in my letter solely in response to your sister&rsquo;s and
  mother&rsquo;s inquiries, how I found you, and what impression you made on me.
  As for what you&rsquo;ve alluded to in my letter, be so good as to point out one
  word of falsehood, show, that is, that you didn&rsquo;t throw away your money,
  and that there are not worthless persons in that family, however
  unfortunate.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To my thinking, you, with all your virtues, are not worth the little
  finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you throw stones.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Would you go so far then as to let her associate with your mother and
  sister?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down to-day
  with mother and Dounia.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Rodya!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dounia crimsoned, Razumihin knitted
  his brows. Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm.
<br />
  &ldquo;You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;whether it is
  possible for us to agree. I hope now that this question is at an end, once
  and for all. I will withdraw, that I may not hinder the pleasures of
  family intimacy, and the discussion of secrets.&rdquo; He got up from his chair
  and took his hat. &ldquo;But in withdrawing, I venture to request that for the
  future I may be spared similar meetings, and, so to say, compromises. I
  appeal particularly to you, honoured Pulcheria Alexandrovna, on this
  subject, the more as my letter was addressed to you and to no one else.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended.
<br />
  &ldquo;You seem to think we are completely under your authority, Pyotr
  Petrovitch. Dounia has told you the reason your desire was disregarded,
  she had the best intentions. And indeed you write as though you were
  laying commands upon me. Are we to consider every desire of yours as a
  command? Let me tell you on the contrary that you ought to show particular
  delicacy and consideration for us now, because we have thrown up
  everything, and have come here relying on you, and so we are in any case
  in a sense in your hands.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at the present
  moment, when the news has come of Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s legacy, which seems
  indeed very apropos, judging from the new tone you take to me,&rdquo; he added
  sarcastically.
<br />
  &ldquo;Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that you were
  reckoning on our helplessness,&rdquo; Dounia observed irritably.
<br />
  &ldquo;But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I particularly desire not
  to hinder your discussion of the secret proposals of Arkady Ivanovitch
  Svidrigaïlov, which he has entrusted to your brother and which have, I
  perceive, a great and possibly a very agreeable interest for you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
<br />
  Razumihin could not sit still on his chair.
<br />
  &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you ashamed now, sister?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am ashamed, Rodya,&rdquo; said Dounia. &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch, go away,&rdquo; she
  turned to him, white with anger.
<br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch had apparently not at all expected such a conclusion. He
  had too much confidence in himself, in his power and in the helplessness
  of his victims. He could not believe it even now. He turned pale, and his
  lips quivered.
<br />
  &ldquo;Avdotya Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after such a dismissal,
  then, you may reckon on it, I will never come back. Consider what you are
  doing. My word is not to be shaken.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What insolence!&rdquo; cried Dounia, springing up from her seat. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want
  you to come back again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What! So that&rsquo;s how it stands!&rdquo; cried Luzhin, utterly unable to the last
  moment to believe in the rupture and so completely thrown out of his
  reckoning now. &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s how it stands! But do you know, Avdotya
  Romanovna, that I might protest?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What right have you to speak to her like that?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  intervened hotly. &ldquo;And what can you protest about? What rights have you?
  Am I to give my Dounia to a man like you? Go away, leave us altogether! We
  are to blame for having agreed to a wrong action, and I above all....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna,&rdquo; Luzhin stormed in a
  frenzy, &ldquo;by your promise, and now you deny it and... besides... I have
  been led on account of that into expenses....&rdquo;
 <br />
  This last complaint was so characteristic of Pyotr Petrovitch, that
  Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the effort of restraining it, could
  not help breaking into laughter. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna was furious.
<br />
  &ldquo;Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of our trunk? But the conductor
  brought it for nothing for you. Mercy on us, we have bound you! What are
  you thinking about, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was you bound us, hand and foot,
  not we!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Enough, mother, no more please,&rdquo; Avdotya Romanovna implored. &ldquo;Pyotr
  Petrovitch, do be kind and go!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am going, but one last word,&rdquo; he said, quite unable to control himself.
  &ldquo;Your mamma seems to have entirely forgotten that I made up my mind to
  take you, so to speak, after the gossip of the town had spread all over
  the district in regard to your reputation. Disregarding public opinion for
  your sake and reinstating your reputation, I certainly might very well
  reckon on a fitting return, and might indeed look for gratitude on your
  part. And my eyes have only now been opened! I see myself that I may have
  acted very, very recklessly in disregarding the universal verdict....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Does the fellow want his head smashed?&rdquo; cried Razumihin, jumping up.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are a mean and spiteful man!&rdquo; cried Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not a word! Not a movement!&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov, holding Razumihin back;
  then going close up to Luzhin, &ldquo;Kindly leave the room!&rdquo; he said quietly
  and distinctly, &ldquo;and not a word more or...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face that
  worked with anger, then he turned, went out, and rarely has any man
  carried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against
  Raskolnikov. Him, and him alone, he blamed for everything. It is
  noteworthy that as he went downstairs he still imagined that his case was
  perhaps not utterly lost, and that, so far as the ladies were concerned,
  all might &ldquo;very well indeed&rdquo; be set right again.


      CHAPTER III


  The fact was that up to the last moment he had never expected such an
  ending; he had been overbearing to the last degree, never dreaming that
  two destitute and defenceless women could escape from his control. This
  conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit to the
  point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, who had made his way up from
  insignificance, was morbidly given to self-admiration, had the highest
  opinion of his intelligence and capacities, and sometimes even gloated in
  solitude over his image in the glass. But what he loved and valued above
  all was the money he had amassed by his labour, and by all sorts of
  devices: that money made him the equal of all who had been his superiors.
<br />
  When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he had decided to take her in
  spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch had spoken with perfect sincerity
  and had, indeed, felt genuinely indignant at such &ldquo;black ingratitude.&rdquo; And
  yet, when he made Dounia his offer, he was fully aware of the
  groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had been everywhere
  contradicted by Marfa Petrovna, and was by then disbelieved by all the
  townspeople, who were warm in Dounia&rsquo;a defence. And he would not have
  denied that he knew all that at the time. Yet he still thought highly of
  his own resolution in lifting Dounia to his level and regarded it as
  something heroic. In speaking of it to Dounia, he had let out the secret
  feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not understand that others
  should fail to admire it too. He had called on Raskolnikov with the
  feelings of a benefactor who is about to reap the fruits of his good deeds
  and to hear agreeable flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he
  considered himself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised.
<br />
  Dounia was simply essential to him; to do without her was unthinkable. For
  many years he had had voluptuous dreams of marriage, but he had gone on
  waiting and amassing money. He brooded with relish, in profound secret,
  over the image of a girl&mdash;virtuous, poor (she must be poor), very
  young, very pretty, of good birth and education, very timid, one who had
  suffered much, and was completely humbled before him, one who would all
  her life look on him as her saviour, worship him, admire him and only him.
  How many scenes, how many amorous episodes he had imagined on this
  seductive and playful theme, when his work was over! And, behold, the
  dream of so many years was all but realised; the beauty and education of
  Avdotya Romanovna had impressed him; her helpless position had been a
  great allurement; in her he had found even more than he dreamed of. Here
  was a girl of pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior
  to his own (he felt that), and this creature would be slavishly grateful
  all her life for his heroic condescension, and would humble herself in the
  dust before him, and he would have absolute, unbounded power over her!...
  Not long before, he had, too, after long reflection and hesitation, made
  an important change in his career and was now entering on a wider circle
  of business. With this change his cherished dreams of rising into a higher
  class of society seemed likely to be realised.... He was, in fact,
  determined to try his fortune in Petersburg. He knew that women could do a
  very great deal. The fascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated
  woman might make his way easier, might do wonders in attracting people to
  him, throwing an aureole round him, and now everything was in ruins! This
  sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it was like a
  hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit masterful, had not
  even time to speak out, had simply made a joke, been carried away&mdash;and
  it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dounia in his
  own way; he already possessed her in his dreams&mdash;and all at once! No!
  The next day, the very next day, it must all be set right, smoothed over,
  settled. Above all he must crush that conceited milksop who was the cause
  of it all. With a sick feeling he could not help recalling Razumihin too,
  but, he soon reassured himself on that score; as though a fellow like that
  could be put on a level with him! The man he really dreaded in earnest was
  Svidrigaïlov.... He had, in short, a great deal to attend to....

      &ldquo;No, I, I am more to blame than anyone!&rdquo; said Dounia, kissing and
  embracing her mother. &ldquo;I was tempted by his money, but on my honour,
  brother, I had no idea he was such a base man. If I had seen through him
  before, nothing would have tempted me! Don&rsquo;t blame me, brother!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;God has delivered us! God has delivered us!&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  muttered, but half consciously, as though scarcely able to realise what
  had happened.
<br />
  They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only now
  and then Dounia turned white and frowned, remembering what had passed.
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad: she
  had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terrible misfortune.
  Razumihin was delighted. He did not yet dare to express his joy fully, but
  he was in a fever of excitement as though a ton-weight had fallen off his
  heart. Now he had the right to devote his life to them, to serve them....
  Anything might happen now! But he felt afraid to think of further
  possibilities and dared not let his imagination range. But Raskolnikov sat
  still in the same place, almost sullen and indifferent. Though he had been
  the most insistent on getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least
  concerned at what had happened. Dounia could not help thinking that he was
  still angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him timidly.
<br />
  &ldquo;What did Svidrigaïlov say to you?&rdquo; said Dounia, approaching him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
<br />
  Raskolnikov raised his head.
<br />
  &ldquo;He wants to make you a present of ten thousand roubles and he desires to
  see you once in my presence.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;See her! On no account!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. &ldquo;And how dare he
  offer her money!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather dryly) his conversation with
  Svidrigaïlov, omitting his account of the ghostly visitations of Marfa
  Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk.
<br />
  &ldquo;What answer did you give him?&rdquo; asked Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that he
  would do his utmost to obtain an interview with you without my help. He
  assured me that his passion for you was a passing infatuation, now he has
  no feeling for you. He doesn&rsquo;t want you to marry Luzhin.... His talk was
  altogether rather muddled.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I must confess I don&rsquo;t quite understand him. He offers you ten thousand,
  and yet says he is not well off. He says he is going away, and in ten
  minutes he forgets he has said it. Then he says he is going to be married
  and has already fixed on the girl.... No doubt he has a motive, and
  probably a bad one. But it&rsquo;s odd that he should be so clumsy about it if
  he had any designs against you.... Of course, I refused this money on your
  account, once for all. Altogether, I thought him very strange.... One
  might almost think he was mad. But I may be mistaken; that may only be the
  part he assumes. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems to have made a great
  impression on him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;God rest her soul,&rdquo; exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. &ldquo;I shall always,
  always pray for her! Where should we be now, Dounia, without this three
  thousand! It&rsquo;s as though it had fallen from heaven! Why, Rodya, this
  morning we had only three roubles in our pocket and Dounia and I were just
  planning to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowing from that man until
  he offered help.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s offer. She still stood
  meditating.
<br />
  &ldquo;He has got some terrible plan,&rdquo; she said in a half whisper to herself,
  almost shuddering.
<br />
  Raskolnikov noticed this disproportionate terror.
<br />
  &ldquo;I fancy I shall have to see him more than once again,&rdquo; he said to Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;We will watch him! I will track him out!&rdquo; cried Razumihin, vigorously. &ldquo;I
  won&rsquo;t lose sight of him. Rodya has given me leave. He said to me himself
  just now. &lsquo;Take care of my sister.&rsquo; Will you give me leave, too, Avdotya
  Romanovna?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of anxiety did not leave
  her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna gazed at her timidly, but the three
  thousand roubles had obviously a soothing effect on her.
<br />
  A quarter of an hour later, they were all engaged in a lively
  conversation. Even Raskolnikov listened attentively for some time, though
  he did not talk. Razumihin was the speaker.
<br />
  &ldquo;And why, why should you go away?&rdquo; he flowed on ecstatically. &ldquo;And what
  are you to do in a little town? The great thing is, you are all here
  together and you need one another&mdash;you do need one another, believe
  me. For a time, anyway.... Take me into partnership, and I assure you
  we&rsquo;ll plan a capital enterprise. Listen! I&rsquo;ll explain it all in detail to
  you, the whole project! It all flashed into my head this morning, before
  anything had happened... I tell you what; I have an uncle, I must
  introduce him to you (a most accommodating and respectable old man). This
  uncle has got a capital of a thousand roubles, and he lives on his pension
  and has no need of that money. For the last two years he has been
  bothering me to borrow it from him and pay him six per cent. interest. I
  know what that means; he simply wants to help me. Last year I had no need
  of it, but this year I resolved to borrow it as soon as he arrived. Then
  you lend me another thousand of your three and we have enough for a start,
  so we&rsquo;ll go into partnership, and what are we going to do?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Then Razumihin began to unfold his project, and he explained at length
  that almost all our publishers and booksellers know nothing at all of what
  they are selling, and for that reason they are usually bad publishers, and
  that any decent publications pay as a rule and give a profit, sometimes a
  considerable one. Razumihin had, indeed, been dreaming of setting up as a
  publisher. For the last two years he had been working in publishers&rsquo;
  offices, and knew three European languages well, though he had told
  Raskolnikov six days before that he was &ldquo;schwach&rdquo; in German with an object
  of persuading him to take half his translation and half the payment for
  it. He had told a lie then, and Raskolnikov knew he was lying.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the chief
  means of success&mdash;money of our own!&rdquo; cried Razumihin warmly. &ldquo;Of
  course there will be a lot of work, but we will work, you, Avdotya
  Romanovna, I, Rodion.... You get a splendid profit on some books nowadays!
  And the great point of the business is that we shall know just what wants
  translating, and we shall be translating, publishing, learning all at
  once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two years I&rsquo;ve
  been scuttling about among the publishers, and now I know every detail of
  their business. You need not be a saint to make pots, believe me! And why,
  why should we let our chance slip! Why, I know&mdash;and I kept the secret&mdash;two
  or three books which one might get a hundred roubles simply for thinking
  of translating and publishing. Indeed, and I would not take five hundred
  for the very idea of one of them. And what do you think? If I were to tell
  a publisher, I dare say he&rsquo;d hesitate&mdash;they are such blockheads! And
  as for the business side, printing, paper, selling, you trust to me, I
  know my way about. We&rsquo;ll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In any
  case it will get us our living and we shall get back our capital.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia&rsquo;s eyes shone.
<br />
  &ldquo;I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know nothing about it, of course,&rdquo; put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna, &ldquo;it
  may be a good idea, but again God knows. It&rsquo;s new and untried. Of course,
  we must remain here at least for a time.&rdquo; She looked at Rodya.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you think, brother?&rdquo; said Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;I think he&rsquo;s got a very good idea,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;Of course, it&rsquo;s too
  soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bring out five
  or six books and be sure of success. I know of one book myself which would
  be sure to go well. And as for his being able to manage it, there&rsquo;s no
  doubt about that either. He knows the business.... But we can talk it over
  later....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; cried Razumihin. &ldquo;Now, stay, there&rsquo;s a flat here in this house,
  belonging to the same owner. It&rsquo;s a special flat apart, not communicating
  with these lodgings. It&rsquo;s furnished, rent moderate, three rooms. Suppose
  you take them to begin with. I&rsquo;ll pawn your watch to-morrow and bring you
  the money, and everything can be arranged then. You can all three live
  together, and Rodya will be with you. But where are you off to, Rodya?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What, Rodya, you are going already?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in
  dismay.
<br />
  &ldquo;At such a minute?&rdquo; cried Razumihin.
<br />
  Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held his cap in
  his hand, he was preparing to leave them.
<br />
  &ldquo;One would think you were burying me or saying good-bye for ever,&rdquo; he said
  somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did not turn out a smile.
  &ldquo;But who knows, perhaps it is the last time we shall see each other...&rdquo; he
  let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and it somehow was
  uttered aloud.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is the matter with you?&rdquo; cried his mother.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where are you going, Rodya?&rdquo; asked Dounia rather strangely.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;m quite obliged to...&rdquo; he answered vaguely, as though hesitating
  what he would say. But there was a look of sharp determination in his
  white face.
<br />
  &ldquo;I meant to say... as I was coming here... I meant to tell you, mother,
  and you, Dounia, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I feel
  ill, I am not at peace.... I will come afterwards, I will come of
  myself... when it&rsquo;s possible. I remember you and love you.... Leave me,
  leave me alone. I decided this even before... I&rsquo;m absolutely resolved on
  it. Whatever may come to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be
  alone. Forget me altogether, it&rsquo;s better. Don&rsquo;t inquire about me. When I
  can, I&rsquo;ll come of myself or... I&rsquo;ll send for you. Perhaps it will all come
  back, but now if you love me, give me up... else I shall begin to hate
  you, I feel it.... Good-bye!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and his sister
  were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was also.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be as before!&rdquo; cried his poor
  mother.
<br />
  He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Dounia
  overtook him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Brother, what are you doing to mother?&rdquo; she whispered, her eyes flashing
  with indignation.
<br />
  He looked dully at her.
<br />
  &ldquo;No matter, I shall come.... I&rsquo;m coming,&rdquo; he muttered in an undertone, as
  though not fully conscious of what he was saying, and he went out of the
  room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wicked, heartless egoist!&rdquo; cried Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don&rsquo;t you see it? You&rsquo;re
  heartless after that!&rdquo; Razumihin whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand
  tightly. &ldquo;I shall be back directly,&rdquo; he shouted to the horror-stricken
  mother, and he ran out of the room.
<br />
  Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage.
<br />
  &ldquo;I knew you would run after me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Go back to them&mdash;be with
  them... be with them to-morrow and always.... I... perhaps I shall come...
  if I can. Good-bye.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And without holding out his hand he walked away.
<br />
  &ldquo;But where are you going? What are you doing? What&rsquo;s the matter with you?
  How can you go on like this?&rdquo; Razumihin muttered, at his wits&rsquo; end.
<br />
  Raskolnikov stopped once more.
<br />
  &ldquo;Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tell you.
  Don&rsquo;t come to see me. Maybe I&rsquo;ll come here.... Leave me, but  them. Do you understand me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the lamp. For a
  minute they were looking at one another in silence. Razumihin remembered
  that minute all his life. Raskolnikov&rsquo;s burning and intent eyes grew more
  penetrating every moment, piercing into his soul, into his consciousness.
  Suddenly Razumihin started. Something strange, as it were, passed between
  them.... Some idea, some hint, as it were, slipped, something awful,
  hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides.... Razumihin turned pale.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you understand now?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, his face twitching nervously.
  &ldquo;Go back, go to them,&rdquo; he said suddenly, and turning quickly, he went out
  of the house.
<br />
  I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back to the ladies, how
  he soothed them, how he protested that Rodya needed rest in his illness,
  protested that Rodya was sure to come, that he would come every day, that
  he was very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated, that he,
  Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the best doctor,
  a consultation.... In fact from that evening Razumihin took his place with
  them as a son and a brother.


      CHAPTER IV


  Raskolnikov went straight to the house on the canal bank where Sonia
  lived. It was an old green house of three storeys. He found the porter and
  obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts of Kapernaumov,
  the tailor. Having found in the corner of the courtyard the entrance to
  the dark and narrow staircase, he mounted to the second floor and came out
  into a gallery that ran round the whole second storey over the yard. While
  he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn for
  Kapernaumov&rsquo;s door, a door opened three paces from him; he mechanically
  took hold of it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who is there?&rdquo; a woman&rsquo;s voice asked uneasily.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s I... come to see you,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov and he walked into the
  tiny entry.
<br />
  On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper candlestick.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s you! Good heavens!&rdquo; cried Sonia weakly, and she stood rooted to the
  spot.
<br />
  &ldquo;Which is your room? This way?&rdquo; and Raskolnikov, trying not to look at
  her, hastened in.
<br />
  A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set down the
  candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood before him inexpressibly
  agitated and apparently frightened by his unexpected visit. The colour
  rushed suddenly to her pale face and tears came into her eyes... She felt
  sick and ashamed and happy, too.... Raskolnikov turned away quickly and
  sat on a chair by the table. He scanned the room in a rapid glance.
<br />
  It was a large but exceedingly low-pitched room, the only one let by the
  Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door led in the wall on the left. In
  the opposite side on the right hand wall was another door, always kept
  locked. That led to the next flat, which formed a separate lodging.
  Sonia&rsquo;s room looked like a barn; it was a very irregular quadrangle and
  this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three windows looking out
  on to the canal ran aslant so that one corner formed a very acute angle,
  and it was difficult to see in it without very strong light. The other
  corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in
  the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead, beside it,
  nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal table covered by a blue cloth
  stood against the same wall, close to the door into the other flat. Two
  rush-bottom chairs stood by the table. On the opposite wall near the acute
  angle stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers looking, as it were,
  lost in a desert. That was all there was in the room. The yellow,
  scratched and shabby wall-paper was black in the corners. It must have
  been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There was every sign of
  poverty; even the bedstead had no curtain.
<br />
  Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so attentively and
  unceremoniously scrutinising her room, and even began at last to tremble
  with terror, as though she was standing before her judge and the arbiter
  of her destinies.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am late.... It&rsquo;s eleven, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; he asked, still not lifting his
  eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; muttered Sonia, &ldquo;oh yes, it is,&rdquo; she added, hastily, as though in
  that lay her means of escape. &ldquo;My landlady&rsquo;s clock has just struck... I
  heard it myself....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to you for the last time,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on gloomily,
  although this was the first time. &ldquo;I may perhaps not see you again...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Are you... going away?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know... to-morrow....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then you are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna to-morrow?&rdquo; Sonia&rsquo;s voice
  shook.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. I shall know to-morrow morning.... Never mind that: I&rsquo;ve
  come to say one word....&rdquo;
 <br />
  He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was
  sitting down while she was all the while standing before him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why are you standing? Sit down,&rdquo; he said in a changed voice, gentle and
  friendly.
<br />
  She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compassionately at her.
<br />
  &ldquo;How thin you are! What a hand! Quite transparent, like a dead hand.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have always been like that,&rdquo; she said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Even when you lived at home?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course, you were,&rdquo; he added abruptly and the expression of his face
  and the sound of his voice changed again suddenly.
<br />
  He looked round him once more.
<br />
  &ldquo;You rent this room from the Kapernaumovs?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They live there, through that door?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.... They have another room like this.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;All in one room?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should be afraid in your room at night,&rdquo; he observed gloomily.
<br />
  &ldquo;They are very good people, very kind,&rdquo; answered Sonia, who still seemed
  bewildered, &ldquo;and all the furniture, everything... everything is theirs.
  And they are very kind and the children, too, often come to see me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;They all stammer, don&rsquo;t they?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.... He stammers and he&rsquo;s lame. And his wife, too.... It&rsquo;s not exactly
  that she stammers, but she can&rsquo;t speak plainly. She is a very kind woman.
  And he used to be a house serf. And there are seven children... and it&rsquo;s
  only the eldest one that stammers and the others are simply ill... but
  they don&rsquo;t stammer.... But where did you hear about them?&rdquo; she added with
  some surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;Your father told me, then. He told me all about you.... And how you went
  out at six o&rsquo;clock and came back at nine and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt
  down by your bed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia was confused.
<br />
  &ldquo;I fancied I saw him to-day,&rdquo; she whispered hesitatingly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whom?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Father. I was walking in the street, out there at the corner, about ten
  o&rsquo;clock and he seemed to be walking in front. It looked just like him. I
  wanted to go to Katerina Ivanovna....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You were walking in the streets?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Sonia whispered abruptly, again overcome with confusion and looking
  down.
<br />
  &ldquo;Katerina Ivanovna used to beat you, I dare say?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh no, what are you saying? No!&rdquo; Sonia looked at him almost with dismay.
<br />
  &ldquo;You love her, then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Love her? Of course!&rdquo; said Sonia with plaintive emphasis, and she clasped
  her hands in distress. &ldquo;Ah, you don&rsquo;t.... If you only knew! You see, she
  is quite like a child.... Her mind is quite unhinged, you see... from
  sorrow. And how clever she used to be... how generous... how kind! Ah, you
  don&rsquo;t understand, you don&rsquo;t understand!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia said this as though in despair, wringing her hands in excitement and
  distress. Her pale cheeks flushed, there was a look of anguish in her
  eyes. It was clear that she was stirred to the very depths, that she was
  longing to speak, to champion, to express something. A sort of 
  compassion, if one may so express it, was reflected in every feature of
  her face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Beat me! how can you? Good heavens, beat me! And if she did beat me, what
  then? What of it? You know nothing, nothing about it.... She is so
  unhappy... ah, how unhappy! And ill.... She is seeking righteousness, she
  is pure. She has such faith that there must be righteousness everywhere
  and she expects it.... And if you were to torture her, she wouldn&rsquo;t do
  wrong. She doesn&rsquo;t see that it&rsquo;s impossible for people to be righteous and
  she is angry at it. Like a child, like a child. She is good!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And what will happen to you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia looked at him inquiringly.
<br />
  &ldquo;They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on your hands before,
  though.... And your father came to you to beg for drink. Well, how will it
  be now?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; Sonia articulated mournfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;Will they stay there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.... They are in debt for the lodging, but the landlady, I
  hear, said to-day that she wanted to get rid of them, and Katerina
  Ivanovna says that she won&rsquo;t stay another minute.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How is it she is so bold? She relies upon you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, no, don&rsquo;t talk like that.... We are one, we live like one.&rdquo; Sonia was
  agitated again and even angry, as though a canary or some other little
  bird were to be angry. &ldquo;And what could she do? What, what could she do?&rdquo;
   she persisted, getting hot and excited. &ldquo;And how she cried to-day! Her
  mind is unhinged, haven&rsquo;t you noticed it? At one minute she is worrying
  like a child that everything should be right to-morrow, the lunch and all
  that.... Then she is wringing her hands, spitting blood, weeping, and all
  at once she will begin knocking her head against the wall, in despair.
  Then she will be comforted again. She builds all her hopes on you; she
  says that you will help her now and that she will borrow a little money
  somewhere and go to her native town with me and set up a boarding school
  for the daughters of gentlemen and take me to superintend it, and we will
  begin a new splendid life. And she kisses and hugs me, comforts me, and
  you know she has such faith, such faith in her fancies! One can&rsquo;t
  contradict her. And all the day long she has been washing, cleaning,
  mending. She dragged the wash tub into the room with her feeble hands and
  sank on the bed, gasping for breath. We went this morning to the shops to
  buy shoes for Polenka and Lida for theirs are quite worn out. Only the
  money we&rsquo;d reckoned wasn&rsquo;t enough, not nearly enough. And she picked out
  such dear little boots, for she has taste, you don&rsquo;t know. And there in
  the shop she burst out crying before the shopmen because she hadn&rsquo;t
  enough.... Ah, it was sad to see her....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, after that I can understand your living like this,&rdquo; Raskolnikov
  said with a bitter smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;And aren&rsquo;t you sorry for them? Aren&rsquo;t you sorry?&rdquo; Sonia flew at him
  again. &ldquo;Why, I know, you gave your last penny yourself, though you&rsquo;d seen
  nothing of it, and if you&rsquo;d seen everything, oh dear! And how often, how
  often I&rsquo;ve brought her to tears! Only last week! Yes, I! Only a week
  before his death. I was cruel! And how often I&rsquo;ve done it! Ah, I&rsquo;ve been
  wretched at the thought of it all day!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia wrung her hands as she spoke at the pain of remembering it.
<br />
  &ldquo;You were cruel?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I&mdash;I. I went to see them,&rdquo; she went on, weeping, &ldquo;and father
  said, &lsquo;read me something, Sonia, my head aches, read to me, here&rsquo;s a
  book.&rsquo; He had a book he had got from Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, he
  lives there, he always used to get hold of such funny books. And I said,
  &lsquo;I can&rsquo;t stay,&rsquo; as I didn&rsquo;t want to read, and I&rsquo;d gone in chiefly to show
  Katerina Ivanovna some collars. Lizaveta, the pedlar, sold me some collars
  and cuffs cheap, pretty, new, embroidered ones. Katerina Ivanovna liked
  them very much; she put them on and looked at herself in the glass and was
  delighted with them. &lsquo;Make me a present of them, Sonia,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;please
  do.&rsquo; &lsquo;,&rsquo; she said, she wanted them so much. And when could
  she wear them? They just reminded her of her old happy days. She looked at
  herself in the glass, admired herself, and she has no clothes at all, no
  things of her own, hasn&rsquo;t had all these years! And she never asks anyone
  for anything; she is proud, she&rsquo;d sooner give away everything. And these
  she asked for, she liked them so much. And I was sorry to give them. &lsquo;What
  use are they to you, Katerina Ivanovna?&rsquo; I said. I spoke like that to her,
  I ought not to have said that! She gave me such a look. And she was so
  grieved, so grieved at my refusing her. And it was so sad to see.... And
  she was not grieved for the collars, but for my refusing, I saw that. Ah,
  if only I could bring it all back, change it, take back those words! Ah,
  if I... but it&rsquo;s nothing to you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Did you know Lizaveta, the pedlar?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.... Did you know her?&rdquo; Sonia asked with some surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;Katerina Ivanovna is in consumption, rapid consumption; she will soon
  die,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov after a pause, without answering her question.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, no, no, no!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his hands, as though imploring that
  she should not.
<br />
  &ldquo;But it will be better if she does die.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, not better, not at all better!&rdquo; Sonia unconsciously repeated in
  dismay.
<br />
  &ldquo;And the children? What can you do except take them to live with you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; cried Sonia, almost in despair, and she put her hands
  to her head.
<br />
  It was evident that that idea had very often occurred to her before and he
  had only roused it again.
<br />
  &ldquo;And, what, if even now, while Katerina Ivanovna is alive, you get ill and
  are taken to the hospital, what will happen then?&rdquo; he persisted
  pitilessly.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can you? That cannot be!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Sonia&rsquo;s face worked with awful terror.
<br />
  &ldquo;Cannot be?&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on with a harsh smile. &ldquo;You are not insured
  against it, are you? What will happen to them then? They will be in the
  street, all of them, she will cough and beg and knock her head against
  some wall, as she did to-day, and the children will cry.... Then she will
  fall down, be taken to the police station and to the hospital, she will
  die, and the children...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, no.... God will not let it be!&rdquo; broke at last from Sonia&rsquo;s
  overburdened bosom.
<br />
  She listened, looking imploringly at him, clasping her hands in dumb
  entreaty, as though it all depended upon him.
<br />
  Raskolnikov got up and began to walk about the room. A minute passed.
  Sonia was standing with her hands and her head hanging in terrible
  dejection.
<br />
  &ldquo;And can&rsquo;t you save? Put by for a rainy day?&rdquo; he asked, stopping suddenly
  before her.
<br />
  &ldquo;No,&rdquo; whispered Sonia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Of course not. Have you tried?&rdquo; he added almost ironically.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And it didn&rsquo;t come off! Of course not! No need to ask.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And again he paced the room. Another minute passed.
<br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t get money every day?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia was more confused than ever and colour rushed into her face again.
<br />
  &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she whispered with a painful effort.
<br />
  &ldquo;It will be the same with Polenka, no doubt,&rdquo; he said suddenly.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, no! It can&rsquo;t be, no!&rdquo; Sonia cried aloud in desperation, as though she
  had been stabbed. &ldquo;God would not allow anything so awful!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He lets others come to it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, no! God will protect her, God!&rdquo; she repeated beside herself.
<br />
  &ldquo;But, perhaps, there is no God at all,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered with a sort
  of malignance, laughed and looked at her.
<br />
  Sonia&rsquo;s face suddenly changed; a tremor passed over it. She looked at him
  with unutterable reproach, tried to say something, but could not speak and
  broke into bitter, bitter sobs, hiding her face in her hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;You say Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s mind is unhinged; your own mind is unhinged,&rdquo;
   he said after a brief silence.
<br />
  Five minutes passed. He still paced up and down the room in silence, not
  looking at her. At last he went up to her; his eyes glittered. He put his
  two hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her tearful face. His
  eyes were hard, feverish and piercing, his lips were twitching. All at
  once he bent down quickly and dropping to the ground, kissed her foot.
  Sonia drew back from him as from a madman. And certainly he looked like a
  madman.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you doing to me?&rdquo; she muttered, turning pale, and a sudden
  anguish clutched at her heart.
<br />
  He stood up at once.
<br />
  &ldquo;I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffering of
  humanity,&rdquo; he said wildly and walked away to the window. &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; he
  added, turning to her a minute later. &ldquo;I said just now to an insolent man
  that he was not worth your little finger... and that I did my sister
  honour making her sit beside you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ach, you said that to them! And in her presence?&rdquo; cried Sonia,
  frightened. &ldquo;Sit down with me! An honour! Why, I&rsquo;m... dishonourable....
  Ah, why did you say that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said that of you, but
  because of your great suffering. But you are a great sinner, that&rsquo;s true,&rdquo;
   he added almost solemnly, &ldquo;and your worst sin is that you have destroyed
  and betrayed yourself . Isn&rsquo;t that fearful? Isn&rsquo;t it
  fearful that you are living in this filth which you loathe so, and at the
  same time you know yourself (you&rsquo;ve only to open your eyes) that you are
  not helping anyone by it, not saving anyone from anything? Tell me,&rdquo; he
  went on almost in a frenzy, &ldquo;how this shame and degradation can exist in
  you side by side with other, opposite, holy feelings? It would be better,
  a thousand times better and wiser to leap into the water and end it all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what would become of them?&rdquo; Sonia asked faintly, gazing at him with
  eyes of anguish, but not seeming surprised at his suggestion.
<br />
  Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her face; so she
  must have had that thought already, perhaps many times, and earnestly she
  had thought out in her despair how to end it and so earnestly, that now
  she scarcely wondered at his suggestion. She had not even noticed the
  cruelty of his words. (The significance of his reproaches and his peculiar
  attitude to her shame she had, of course, not noticed either, and that,
  too, was clear to him.) But he saw how monstrously the thought of her
  disgraceful, shameful position was torturing her and had long tortured
  her. &ldquo;What, what,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;could hitherto have hindered her from
  putting an end to it?&rdquo; Only then he realised what those poor little orphan
  children and that pitiful half-crazy Katerina Ivanovna, knocking her head
  against the wall in her consumption, meant for Sonia.
<br />
  But, nevertheless, it was clear to him again that with her character and
  the amount of education she had after all received, she could not in any
  case remain so. He was still confronted by the question, how could she
  have remained so long in that position without going out of her mind,
  since she could not bring herself to jump into the water? Of course he
  knew that Sonia&rsquo;s position was an exceptional case, though unhappily not
  unique and not infrequent, indeed; but that very exceptionalness, her
  tinge of education, her previous life might, one would have thought, have
  killed her at the first step on that revolting path. What held her up&mdash;surely
  not depravity? All that infamy had obviously only touched her
  mechanically, not one drop of real depravity had penetrated to her heart;
  he saw that. He saw through her as she stood before him....
<br />
  &ldquo;There are three ways before her,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;the canal, the madhouse,
  or... at last to sink into depravity which obscures the mind and turns the
  heart to stone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a sceptic, he was young,
  abstract, and therefore cruel, and so he could not help believing that the
  last end was the most likely.
<br />
  &ldquo;But can that be true?&rdquo; he cried to himself. &ldquo;Can that creature who has
  still preserved the purity of her spirit be consciously drawn at last into
  that sink of filth and iniquity? Can the process already have begun? Can
  it be that she has only been able to bear it till now, because vice has
  begun to be less loathsome to her? No, no, that cannot be!&rdquo; he cried, as
  Sonia had just before. &ldquo;No, what has kept her from the canal till now is
  the idea of sin and they, the children.... And if she has not gone out of
  her mind... but who says she has not gone out of her mind? Is she in her
  senses? Can one talk, can one reason as she does? How can she sit on the
  edge of the abyss of loathsomeness into which she is slipping and refuse
  to listen when she is told of danger? Does she expect a miracle? No doubt
  she does. Doesn&rsquo;t that all mean madness?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that explanation indeed
  better than any other. He began looking more intently at her.
<br />
  &ldquo;So you pray to God a great deal, Sonia?&rdquo; he asked her.
<br />
  Sonia did not speak; he stood beside her waiting for an answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;What should I be without God?&rdquo; she whispered rapidly, forcibly, glancing
  at him with suddenly flashing eyes, and squeezing his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, so that is it!&rdquo; he thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;And what does God do for you?&rdquo; he asked, probing her further.
<br />
  Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not answer. Her weak
  chest kept heaving with emotion.
<br />
  &ldquo;Be silent! Don&rsquo;t ask! You don&rsquo;t deserve!&rdquo; she cried suddenly, looking
  sternly and wrathfully at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it, that&rsquo;s it,&rdquo; he repeated to himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;He does everything,&rdquo; she whispered quickly, looking down again.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the way out! That&rsquo;s the explanation,&rdquo; he decided, scrutinising her
  with eager curiosity, with a new, strange, almost morbid feeling. He gazed
  at that pale, thin, irregular, angular little face, those soft blue eyes,
  which could flash with such fire, such stern energy, that little body
  still shaking with indignation and anger&mdash;and it all seemed to him
  more and more strange, almost impossible. &ldquo;She is a religious maniac!&rdquo; he
  repeated to himself.
<br />
  There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had noticed it every
  time he paced up and down the room. Now he took it up and looked at it. It
  was the New Testament in the Russian translation. It was bound in leather,
  old and worn.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where did you get that?&rdquo; he called to her across the room.
<br />
  She was still standing in the same place, three steps from the table.
<br />
  &ldquo;It was brought me,&rdquo; she answered, as it were unwillingly, not looking at
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Who brought it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Lizaveta, I asked her for it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Lizaveta! strange!&rdquo; he thought.
<br />
  Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more wonderful every
  moment. He carried the book to the candle and began to turn over the
  pages.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where is the story of Lazarus?&rdquo; he asked suddenly.
<br />
  Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not answer. She was
  standing sideways to the table.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She stole a glance at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are not looking in the right place.... It&rsquo;s in the fourth gospel,&rdquo;
   she whispered sternly, without looking at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Find it and read it to me,&rdquo; he said. He sat down with his elbow on the
  table, leaned his head on his hand and looked away sullenly, prepared to
  listen.
<br />
  &ldquo;In three weeks&rsquo; time they&rsquo;ll welcome me in the madhouse! I shall be there
  if I am not in a worse place,&rdquo; he muttered to himself.
<br />
  Sonia heard Raskolnikov&rsquo;s request distrustfully and moved hesitatingly to
  the table. She took the book however.
<br />
  &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t you read it?&rdquo; she asked, looking up at him across the table.
<br />
  Her voice became sterner and sterner.
<br />
  &ldquo;Long ago.... When I was at school. Read!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And haven&rsquo;t you heard it in church?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I... haven&rsquo;t been. Do you often go?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;N-no,&rdquo; whispered Sonia.
<br />
  Raskolnikov smiled.
<br />
  &ldquo;I understand.... And you won&rsquo;t go to your father&rsquo;s funeral to-morrow?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too... I had a requiem service.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;For whom?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe.&rdquo;
 <br />
  His nerves were more and more strained. His head began to go round.
<br />
  &ldquo;Were you friends with Lizaveta?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.... She was good... she used to come... not often... she couldn&rsquo;t....
  We used to read together and... talk. She will see God.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was something new
  again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta and both of them&mdash;religious
  maniacs.
<br />
  &ldquo;I shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It&rsquo;s infectious!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Read!&rdquo; he cried irritably and insistently.
<br />
  Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly dared to read
  to him. He looked almost with exasperation at the &ldquo;unhappy lunatic.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What for? You don&rsquo;t believe?...&rdquo; she whispered softly and as it were
  breathlessly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Read! I want you to,&rdquo; he persisted. &ldquo;You used to read to Lizaveta.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands were shaking, her
  voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin and could not bring out the
  first syllable.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany...&rdquo; she forced
  herself at last to read, but at the third word her voice broke like an
  overstrained string. There was a catch in her breath.
<br />
  Raskolnikov saw in part why Sonia could not bring herself to read to him
  and the more he saw this, the more roughly and irritably he insisted on
  her doing so. He understood only too well how painful it was for her to
  betray and unveil all that was her . He understood that these
  feelings really were her , which she had kept
  perhaps for years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived with an unhappy
  father and a distracted stepmother crazed by grief, in the midst of
  starving children and unseemly abuse and reproaches. But at the same time
  he knew now and knew for certain that, although it filled her with dread
  and suffering, yet she had a tormenting desire to read and to read to 
  that he might hear it, and to read  whatever might come of
  it!... He read this in her eyes, he could see it in her intense emotion.
  She mastered herself, controlled the spasm in her throat and went on
  reading the eleventh chapter of St. John. She went on to the nineteenth
  verse:
<br />
  &ldquo;And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to comfort them concerning
  their brother.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming went and met Him:
  but Mary sat still in the house.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother
  had not died.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I know that even now whatsoever Thou wilt ask of God, God will give
  it Thee....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Then she stopped again with a shamefaced feeling that her voice would
  quiver and break again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Jesus said unto her, thy brother shall rise again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Martha saith unto Him, I know that he shall rise again in the
  resurrection, at the last day.
<br />
  &ldquo;Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that
  believeth in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live.
<br />
  &ldquo;And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die. Believest thou
  this?
<br />
  &ldquo;She saith unto Him,&rdquo;
 <br />
  (And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and forcibly as
  though she were making a public confession of faith.)
<br />
  &ldquo;Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of God Which
  should come into the world.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She stopped and looked up quickly at him, but controlling herself went on
  reading. Raskolnikov sat without moving, his elbows on the table and his
  eyes turned away. She read to the thirty-second verse.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell down at His
  feet, saying unto Him, Lord if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not
  died.
<br />
  &ldquo;When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which
  came with her, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled,
<br />
  &ldquo;And said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto Him, Lord, come and see.
<br />
  &ldquo;Jesus wept.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then said the Jews, behold how He loved him!
<br />
  &ldquo;And some of them said, could not this Man which opened the eyes of the
  blind, have caused that even this man should not have died?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov turned and looked at her with emotion. Yes, he had known it!
  She was trembling in a real physical fever. He had expected it. She was
  getting near the story of the greatest miracle and a feeling of immense
  triumph came over her. Her voice rang out like a bell; triumph and joy
  gave it power. The lines danced before her eyes, but she knew what she was
  reading by heart. At the last verse &ldquo;Could not this Man which opened the
  eyes of the blind...&rdquo; dropping her voice she passionately reproduced the
  doubt, the reproach and censure of the blind disbelieving Jews, who in
  another moment would fall at His feet as though struck by thunder, sobbing
  and believing.... &ldquo;And &mdash;too, is blinded and
  unbelieving, he, too, will hear, he, too, will believe, yes, yes! At once,
  now,&rdquo; was what she was dreaming, and she was quivering with happy
  anticipation.
<br />
  &ldquo;Jesus therefore again groaning in Himself cometh to the grave. It was a
  cave, and a stone lay upon it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was
  dead, saith unto Him, Lord by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead
  four days.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She laid emphasis on the word .
<br />
  &ldquo;Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldest believe,
  thou shouldest see the glory of God?
<br />
  &ldquo;Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And
  Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, Father, I thank Thee that Thou hast
  heard Me.
<br />
  &ldquo;And I knew that Thou hearest Me always; but because of the people which
  stand by I said it, that they may believe that Thou hast sent Me.
<br />
  &ldquo;And when He thus had spoken, He cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come
  forth.
<br />
  &ldquo;And he that was dead came forth.&rdquo;
 <br />
  (She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as though she were
  seeing it before her eyes.)
<br />
  &ldquo;Bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about with
  a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him and let him go.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen the things which
  Jesus did believed on Him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She could read no more, closed the book and got up from her chair quickly.
<br />
  &ldquo;That is all about the raising of Lazarus,&rdquo; she whispered severely and
  abruptly, and turning away she stood motionless, not daring to raise her
  eyes to him. She still trembled feverishly. The candle-end was flickering
  out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the poverty-stricken
  room the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely been reading
  together the eternal book. Five minutes or more passed.
<br />
  &ldquo;I came to speak of something,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said aloud, frowning. He got
  up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes to him in silence. His face was
  particularly stern and there was a sort of savage determination in it.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have abandoned my family to-day,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;my mother and sister. I am
  not going to see them. I&rsquo;ve broken with them completely.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting with his mother and
  sister had left a great impression which she could not analyse. She heard
  his news almost with horror.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have only you now,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;Let us go together.... I&rsquo;ve come to you,
  we are both accursed, let us go our way together!&rdquo;
 <br />
  His eyes glittered &ldquo;as though he were mad,&rdquo; Sonia thought, in her turn.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go where?&rdquo; she asked in alarm and she involuntarily stepped back.
<br />
  &ldquo;How do I know? I only know it&rsquo;s the same road, I know that and nothing
  more. It&rsquo;s the same goal!&rdquo;
 <br />
  She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only that he was
  terribly, infinitely unhappy.
<br />
  &ldquo;No one of them will understand, if you tell them, but I have understood.
  I need you, that is why I have come to you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand,&rdquo; whispered Sonia.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll understand later. Haven&rsquo;t you done the same? You, too, have
  transgressed... have had the strength to transgress. You have laid hands
  on yourself, you have destroyed a life...  (it&rsquo;s all the
  same!). You might have lived in spirit and understanding, but you&rsquo;ll end
  in the Hay Market.... But you won&rsquo;t be able to stand it, and if you remain
  alone you&rsquo;ll go out of your mind like me. You are like a mad creature
  already. So we must go together on the same road! Let us go!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What for? What&rsquo;s all this for?&rdquo; said Sonia, strangely and violently
  agitated by his words.
<br />
  &ldquo;What for? Because you can&rsquo;t remain like this, that&rsquo;s why! You must look
  things straight in the face at last, and not weep like a child and cry
  that God won&rsquo;t allow it. What will happen, if you should really be taken
  to the hospital to-morrow? She is mad and in consumption, she&rsquo;ll soon die
  and the children? Do you mean to tell me Polenka won&rsquo;t come to grief?
  Haven&rsquo;t you seen children here at the street corners sent out by their
  mothers to beg? I&rsquo;ve found out where those mothers live and in what
  surroundings. Children can&rsquo;t remain children there! At seven the child is
  vicious and a thief. Yet children, you know, are the image of Christ:
  &lsquo;theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.&rsquo; He bade us honour and love them, they
  are the humanity of the future....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s to be done, what&rsquo;s to be done?&rdquo; repeated Sonia, weeping
  hysterically and wringing her hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s to be done? Break what must be broken, once for all, that&rsquo;s all,
  and take the suffering on oneself. What, you don&rsquo;t understand? You&rsquo;ll
  understand later.... Freedom and power, and above all, power! Over all
  trembling creation and all the ant-heap!... That&rsquo;s the goal, remember
  that! That&rsquo;s my farewell message. Perhaps it&rsquo;s the last time I shall speak
  to you. If I don&rsquo;t come to-morrow, you&rsquo;ll hear of it all, and then
  remember these words. And some day later on, in years to come, you&rsquo;ll
  understand perhaps what they meant. If I come to-morrow, I&rsquo;ll tell you who
  killed Lizaveta.... Good-bye.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia started with terror.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, do you know who killed her?&rdquo; she asked, chilled with horror, looking
  wildly at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know and will tell... you, only you. I have chosen you out. I&rsquo;m not
  coming to you to ask forgiveness, but simply to tell you. I chose you out
  long ago to hear this, when your father talked of you and when Lizaveta
  was alive, I thought of it. Good-bye, don&rsquo;t shake hands. To-morrow!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He went out. Sonia gazed at him as at a madman. But she herself was like
  one insane and felt it. Her head was going round.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens, how does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those words
  mean? It&rsquo;s awful!&rdquo; But at the same time  did not enter her
  head, not for a moment! &ldquo;Oh, he must be terribly unhappy!... He has
  abandoned his mother and sister.... What for? What has happened? And what
  had he in his mind? What did he say to her? He had kissed her foot and
  said... said (yes, he had said it clearly) that he could not live without
  her.... Oh, merciful heavens!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She jumped up from
  time to time, wept and wrung her hands, then sank again into feverish
  sleep and dreamt of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna and Lizaveta, of reading
  the gospel and him... him with pale face, with burning eyes... kissing her
  feet, weeping.
<br />
  On the other side of the door on the right, which divided Sonia&rsquo;s room
  from Madame Resslich&rsquo;s flat, was a room which had long stood empty. A card
  was fixed on the gate and a notice stuck in the windows over the canal
  advertising it to let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the room&rsquo;s being
  uninhabited. But all that time Mr. Svidrigaïlov had been standing,
  listening at the door of the empty room. When Raskolnikov went out he
  stood still, thought a moment, went on tiptoe to his own room which
  adjoined the empty one, brought a chair and noiselessly carried it to the
  door that led to Sonia&rsquo;s room. The conversation had struck him as
  interesting and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed it&mdash;so much so
  that he brought a chair that he might not in the future, to-morrow, for
  instance, have to endure the inconvenience of standing a whole hour, but
  might listen in comfort.


      CHAPTER V


  When next morning at eleven o&rsquo;clock punctually Raskolnikov went into the
  department of the investigation of criminal causes and sent his name in to
  Porfiry Petrovitch, he was surprised at being kept waiting so long: it was
  at least ten minutes before he was summoned. He had expected that they
  would pounce upon him. But he stood in the waiting-room, and people, who
  apparently had nothing to do with him, were continually passing to and fro
  before him. In the next room which looked like an office, several clerks
  were sitting writing and obviously they had no notion who or what
  Raskolnikov might be. He looked uneasily and suspiciously about him to see
  whether there was not some guard, some mysterious watch being kept on him
  to prevent his escape. But there was nothing of the sort: he saw only the
  faces of clerks absorbed in petty details, then other people, no one
  seemed to have any concern with him. He might go where he liked for them.
  The conviction grew stronger in him that if that enigmatic man of
  yesterday, that phantom sprung out of the earth, had seen everything, they
  would not have let him stand and wait like that. And would they have
  waited till he elected to appear at eleven? Either the man had not yet
  given information, or... or simply he knew nothing, had seen nothing (and
  how could he have seen anything?) and so all that had happened to him the
  day before was again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and overstrained
  imagination. This conjecture had begun to grow strong the day before, in
  the midst of all his alarm and despair. Thinking it all over now and
  preparing for a fresh conflict, he was suddenly aware that he was
  trembling&mdash;and he felt a rush of indignation at the thought that he
  was trembling with fear at facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovitch. What he
  dreaded above all was meeting that man again; he hated him with an
  intense, unmitigated hatred and was afraid his hatred might betray him.
  His indignation was such that he ceased trembling at once; he made ready
  to go in with a cold and arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep as
  silent as possible, to watch and listen and for once at least to control
  his overstrained nerves. At that moment he was summoned to Porfiry
  Petrovitch.
<br />
  He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study. His study was a room
  neither large nor small, furnished with a large writing-table, that stood
  before a sofa, upholstered in checked material, a bureau, a bookcase in
  the corner and several chairs&mdash;all government furniture, of polished
  yellow wood. In the further wall there was a closed door, beyond it there
  were no doubt other rooms. On Raskolnikov&rsquo;s entrance Porfiry Petrovitch
  had at once closed the door by which he had come in and they remained
  alone. He met his visitor with an apparently genial and good-tempered air,
  and it was only after a few minutes that Raskolnikov saw signs of a
  certain awkwardness in him, as though he had been thrown out of his
  reckoning or caught in something very secret.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, my dear fellow! Here you are... in our domain&rdquo;... began Porfiry,
  holding out both hands to him. &ldquo;Come, sit down, old man... or perhaps you
  don&rsquo;t like to be called &lsquo;my dear fellow&rsquo; and &lsquo;old man!&rsquo;&mdash;? Please don&rsquo;t think it too familiar.... Here, on the sofa.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. &ldquo;In our domain,&rdquo; the
  apologies for familiarity, the French phrase , were all
  characteristic signs.
<br />
  &ldquo;He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one&mdash;he drew it
  back in time,&rdquo; struck him suspiciously. Both were watching each other, but
  when their eyes met, quick as lightning they looked away.
<br />
  &ldquo;I brought you this paper... about the watch. Here it is. Is it all right
  or shall I copy it again?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What? A paper? Yes, yes, don&rsquo;t be uneasy, it&rsquo;s all right,&rdquo; Porfiry
  Petrovitch said as though in haste, and after he had said it he took the
  paper and looked at it. &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s all right. Nothing more is needed,&rdquo; he
  declared with the same rapidity and he laid the paper on the table.
<br />
  A minute later when he was talking of something else he took it from the
  table and put it on his bureau.
<br />
  &ldquo;I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me... formally...
  about my acquaintance with the murdered woman?&rdquo; Raskolnikov was beginning
  again. &ldquo;Why did I put in &lsquo;I believe&rsquo;&rdquo; passed through his mind in a flash.
  &ldquo;Why am I so uneasy at having put in that &lsquo;&rsquo;?&rdquo; came in a
  second flash. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact
  with Porfiry, at the first words, at the first looks, had grown in an
  instant to monstrous proportions, and that this was fearfully dangerous.
  His nerves were quivering, his emotion was increasing. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s bad, it&rsquo;s
  bad! I shall say too much again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, yes! There&rsquo;s no hurry, there&rsquo;s no hurry,&rdquo; muttered Porfiry
  Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the table without any apparent aim, as
  it were making dashes towards the window, the bureau and the table, at one
  moment avoiding Raskolnikov&rsquo;s suspicious glance, then again standing still
  and looking him straight in the face.
<br />
  His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball rolling from
  one side to the other and rebounding back.
<br />
  &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve plenty of time. Do you smoke? have you your own? Here, a
  cigarette!&rdquo; he went on, offering his visitor a cigarette. &ldquo;You know I am
  receiving you here, but my own quarters are through there, you know, my
  government quarters. But I am living outside for the time, I had to have
  some repairs done here. It&rsquo;s almost finished now.... Government quarters,
  you know, are a capital thing. Eh, what do you think?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, a capital thing,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost
  ironically.
<br />
  &ldquo;A capital thing, a capital thing,&rdquo; repeated Porfiry Petrovitch, as though
  he had just thought of something quite different. &ldquo;Yes, a capital thing,&rdquo;
   he almost shouted at last, suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping
  short two steps from him.
<br />
  This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its ineptitude with the
  serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned upon his visitor.
<br />
  But this stirred Raskolnikov&rsquo;s spleen more than ever and he could not
  resist an ironical and rather incautious challenge.
<br />
  &ldquo;Tell me, please,&rdquo; he asked suddenly, looking almost insolently at him and
  taking a kind of pleasure in his own insolence. &ldquo;I believe it&rsquo;s a sort of
  legal rule, a sort of legal tradition&mdash;for all investigating lawyers&mdash;to
  begin their attack from afar, with a trivial, or at least an irrelevant
  subject, so as to encourage, or rather, to divert the man they are
  cross-examining, to disarm his caution and then all at once to give him an
  unexpected knock-down blow with some fatal question. Isn&rsquo;t that so? It&rsquo;s a
  sacred tradition, mentioned, I fancy, in all the manuals of the art?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes.... Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke about government
  quarters... eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch screwed up his eyes and winked; a
  good-humoured, crafty look passed over his face. The wrinkles on his
  forehead were smoothed out, his eyes contracted, his features broadened
  and he suddenly went off into a nervous prolonged laugh, shaking all over
  and looking Raskolnikov straight in the face. The latter forced himself to
  laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing, broke into such
  a guffaw that he turned almost crimson, Raskolnikov&rsquo;s repulsion overcame
  all precaution; he left off laughing, scowled and stared with hatred at
  Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his intentionally prolonged
  laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on both sides, however, for
  Porfiry Petrovitch seemed to be laughing in his visitor&rsquo;s face and to be
  very little disturbed at the annoyance with which the visitor received it.
  The latter fact was very significant in Raskolnikov&rsquo;s eyes: he saw that
  Porfiry Petrovitch had not been embarrassed just before either, but that
  he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a trap; that there must be
  something, some motive here unknown to him; that, perhaps, everything was
  in readiness and in another moment would break upon him...
<br />
  He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat and took his
  cap.
<br />
  &ldquo;Porfiry Petrovitch,&rdquo; he began resolutely, though with considerable
  irritation, &ldquo;yesterday you expressed a desire that I should come to you
  for some inquiries&rdquo; (he laid special stress on the word &ldquo;inquiries&rdquo;). &ldquo;I
  have come and if you have anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow me
  to withdraw. I have no time to spare.... I have to be at the funeral of
  that man who was run over, of whom you... know also,&rdquo; he added, feeling
  angry at once at having made this addition and more irritated at his
  anger. &ldquo;I am sick of it all, do you hear? and have long been. It&rsquo;s partly
  what made me ill. In short,&rdquo; he shouted, feeling that the phrase about his
  illness was still more out of place, &ldquo;in short, kindly examine me or let
  me go, at once. And if you must examine me, do so in the proper form! I
  will not allow you to do so otherwise, and so meanwhile, good-bye, as we
  have evidently nothing to keep us now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I question you about?&rdquo; cackled
  Porfiry Petrovitch with a change of tone, instantly leaving off laughing.
  &ldquo;Please don&rsquo;t disturb yourself,&rdquo; he began fidgeting from place to place
  and fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no hurry, there&rsquo;s no
  hurry, it&rsquo;s all nonsense. Oh, no, I&rsquo;m very glad you&rsquo;ve come to see me at
  last... I look upon you simply as a visitor. And as for my confounded
  laughter, please excuse it, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion Romanovitch? That
  is your name?... It&rsquo;s my nerves, you tickled me so with your witty
  observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake with laughter like an
  india-rubber ball for half an hour at a time.... I&rsquo;m often afraid of an
  attack of paralysis. Do sit down. Please do, or I shall think you are
  angry...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still frowning
  angrily. He did sit down, but still held his cap.
<br />
  &ldquo;I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion Romanovitch,&rdquo;
   Porfiry Petrovitch continued, moving about the room and again avoiding his
  visitor&rsquo;s eyes. &ldquo;You see, I&rsquo;m a bachelor, a man of no consequence and not
  used to society; besides, I have nothing before me, I&rsquo;m set, I&rsquo;m running
  to seed and... and have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that in our
  Petersburg circles, if two clever men meet who are not intimate, but
  respect each other, like you and me, it takes them half an hour before
  they can find a subject for conversation&mdash;they are dumb, they sit
  opposite each other and feel awkward. Everyone has subjects of
  conversation, ladies for instance... people in high society always have
  their subjects of conversation, , but people of the
  middle sort like us, thinking people that is, are always tongue-tied and
  awkward. What is the reason of it? Whether it is the lack of public
  interest, or whether it is we are so honest we don&rsquo;t want to deceive one
  another, I don&rsquo;t know. What do you think? Do put down your cap, it looks
  as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfortable... I am so
  delighted...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in silence with a
  serious frowning face to the vague and empty chatter of Porfiry
  Petrovitch. &ldquo;Does he really want to distract my attention with his silly
  babble?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t offer you coffee here; but why not spend five minutes with a
  friend?&rdquo; Porfiry pattered on, &ldquo;and you know all these official duties...
  please don&rsquo;t mind my running up and down, excuse it, my dear fellow, I am
  very much afraid of offending you, but exercise is absolutely
  indispensable for me. I&rsquo;m always sitting and so glad to be moving about
  for five minutes... I suffer from my sedentary life... I always intend to
  join a gymnasium; they say that officials of all ranks, even Privy
  Councillors, may be seen skipping gaily there; there you have it, modern
  science... yes, yes.... But as for my duties here, inquiries and all such
  formalities... you mentioned inquiries yourself just now... I assure you
  these interrogations are sometimes more embarrassing for the interrogator
  than for the interrogated.... You made the observation yourself just now
  very aptly and wittily.&rdquo; (Raskolnikov had made no observation of the
  kind.) &ldquo;One gets into a muddle! A regular muddle! One keeps harping on the
  same note, like a drum! There is to be a reform and we shall be called by
  a different name, at least, he-he-he! And as for our legal tradition, as
  you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree with you. Every prisoner on
  trial, even the rudest peasant, knows that they begin by disarming him
  with irrelevant questions (as you so happily put it) and then deal him a
  knock-down blow, he-he-he!&mdash;your felicitous comparison, he-he! So you
  really imagined that I meant by &lsquo;government quarters&rsquo;... he-he! You are an
  ironical person. Come. I won&rsquo;t go on! Ah, by the way, yes! One word leads
  to another. You spoke of formality just now, apropos of the inquiry, you
  know. But what&rsquo;s the use of formality? In many cases it&rsquo;s nonsense.
  Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets a good deal more out of it. One
  can always fall back on formality, allow me to assure you. And after all,
  what does it amount to? An examining lawyer cannot be bounded by formality
  at every step. The work of investigation is, so to speak, a free art in
  its own way, he-he-he!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He had simply babbled on uttering
  empty phrases, letting slip a few enigmatic words and again reverting to
  incoherence. He was almost running about the room, moving his fat little
  legs quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his right hand
  behind his back, while with his left making gesticulations that were
  extraordinarily incongruous with his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed
  that as he ran about the room he seemed twice to stop for a moment near
  the door, as though he were listening.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is he expecting anything?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are certainly quite right about it,&rdquo; Porfiry began gaily, looking
  with extraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov (which startled him and
  instantly put him on his guard); &ldquo;certainly quite right in laughing so
  wittily at our legal forms, he-he! Some of these elaborate psychological
  methods are exceedingly ridiculous and perhaps useless, if one adheres too
  closely to the forms. Yes... I am talking of forms again. Well, if I
  recognise, or more strictly speaking, if I suspect someone or other to be
  a criminal in any case entrusted to me... you&rsquo;re reading for the law, of
  course, Rodion Romanovitch?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I was...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future&mdash;though don&rsquo;t
  suppose I should venture to instruct you after the articles you publish
  about crime! No, I simply make bold to state it by way of fact, if I took
  this man or that for a criminal, why, I ask, should I worry him
  prematurely, even though I had evidence against him? In one case I may be
  bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another may be in quite
  a different position, you know, so why shouldn&rsquo;t I let him walk about the
  town a bit? he-he-he! But I see you don&rsquo;t quite understand, so I&rsquo;ll give
  you a clearer example. If I put him in prison too soon, I may very likely
  give him, so to speak, moral support, he-he! You&rsquo;re laughing?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov had no idea of laughing. He was sitting with compressed lips,
  his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry Petrovitch&rsquo;s.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yet that is the case, with some types especially, for men are so
  different. You say &lsquo;evidence&rsquo;. Well, there may be evidence. But evidence,
  you know, can generally be taken two ways. I am an examining lawyer and a
  weak man, I confess it. I should like to make a proof, so to say,
  mathematically clear. I should like to make a chain of evidence such as
  twice two are four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable proof! And if I
  shut him up too soon&mdash;even though I might be convinced  was
  the man, I should very likely be depriving myself of the means of getting
  further evidence against him. And how? By giving him, so to speak, a
  definite position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his mind at
  rest, so that he will retreat into his shell. They say that at Sevastopol,
  soon after Alma, the clever people were in a terrible fright that the
  enemy would attack openly and take Sevastopol at once. But when they saw
  that the enemy preferred a regular siege, they were delighted, I am told
  and reassured, for the thing would drag on for two months at least. You&rsquo;re
  laughing, you don&rsquo;t believe me again? Of course, you&rsquo;re right, too. You&rsquo;re
  right, you&rsquo;re right. These are special cases, I admit. But you must
  observe this, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, the general case, the case for
  which all legal forms and rules are intended, for which they are
  calculated and laid down in books, does not exist at all, for the reason
  that every case, every crime, for instance, so soon as it actually occurs,
  at once becomes a thoroughly special case and sometimes a case unlike any
  that&rsquo;s gone before. Very comic cases of that sort sometimes occur. If I
  leave one man quite alone, if I don&rsquo;t touch him and don&rsquo;t worry him, but
  let him know or at least suspect every moment that I know all about it and
  am watching him day and night, and if he is in continual suspicion and
  terror, he&rsquo;ll be bound to lose his head. He&rsquo;ll come of himself, or maybe
  do something which will make it as plain as twice two are four&mdash;it&rsquo;s
  delightful. It may be so with a simple peasant, but with one of our sort,
  an intelligent man cultivated on a certain side, it&rsquo;s a dead certainty.
  For, my dear fellow, it&rsquo;s a very important matter to know on what side a
  man is cultivated. And then there are nerves, there are nerves, you have
  overlooked them! Why, they are all sick, nervous and irritable!... And
  then how they all suffer from spleen! That I assure you is a regular
  gold-mine for us. And it&rsquo;s no anxiety to me, his running about the town
  free! Let him, let him walk about for a bit! I know well enough that I&rsquo;ve
  caught him and that he won&rsquo;t escape me. Where could he escape to, he-he?
  Abroad, perhaps? A Pole will escape abroad, but not here, especially as I
  am watching and have taken measures. Will he escape into the depths of the
  country perhaps? But you know, peasants live there, real rude Russian
  peasants. A modern cultivated man would prefer prison to living with such
  strangers as our peasants. He-he! But that&rsquo;s all nonsense, and on the
  surface. It&rsquo;s not merely that he has nowhere to run to, he is 
  unable to escape me, he-he! What an expression! Through a law of nature he
  can&rsquo;t escape me if he had anywhere to go. Have you seen a butterfly round
  a candle? That&rsquo;s how he will keep circling and circling round me. Freedom
  will lose its attractions. He&rsquo;ll begin to brood, he&rsquo;ll weave a tangle
  round himself, he&rsquo;ll worry himself to death! What&rsquo;s more he will provide
  me with a mathematical proof&mdash;if I only give him long enough
  interval.... And he&rsquo;ll keep circling round me, getting nearer and nearer
  and then&mdash;flop! He&rsquo;ll fly straight into my mouth and I&rsquo;ll swallow
  him, and that will be very amusing, he-he-he! You don&rsquo;t believe me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, still gazing with
  the same intensity into Porfiry&rsquo;s face.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a lesson,&rdquo; he thought, turning cold. &ldquo;This is beyond the cat playing
  with a mouse, like yesterday. He can&rsquo;t be showing off his power with no
  motive... prompting me; he is far too clever for that... he must have
  another object. What is it? It&rsquo;s all nonsense, my friend, you are
  pretending, to scare me! You&rsquo;ve no proofs and the man I saw had no real
  existence. You simply want to make me lose my head, to work me up
  beforehand and so to crush me. But you are wrong, you won&rsquo;t do it! But why
  give me such a hint? Is he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my
  friend, you are wrong, you won&rsquo;t do it even though you have some trap for
  me... let us see what you have in store for me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown ordeal. At times he
  longed to fall on Porfiry and strangle him. This anger was what he dreaded
  from the beginning. He felt that his parched lips were flecked with foam,
  his heart was throbbing. But he was still determined not to speak till the
  right moment. He realised that this was the best policy in his position,
  because instead of saying too much he would be irritating his enemy by his
  silence and provoking him into speaking too freely. Anyhow, this was what
  he hoped for.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I see you don&rsquo;t believe me, you think I am playing a harmless joke on
  you,&rdquo; Porfiry began again, getting more and more lively, chuckling at
  every instant and again pacing round the room. &ldquo;And to be sure you&rsquo;re
  right: God has given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in
  other people; a buffoon; but let me tell you, and I repeat it, excuse an
  old man, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, you are a man still young, so to say,
  in your first youth and so you put intellect above everything, like all
  young people. Playful wit and abstract arguments fascinate you and that&rsquo;s
  for all the world like the old Austrian , as far as I
  can judge of military matters, that is: on paper they&rsquo;d beaten Napoleon
  and taken him prisoner, and there in their study they worked it all out in
  the cleverest fashion, but look you, General Mack surrendered with all his
  army, he-he-he! I see, I see, Rodion Romanovitch, you are laughing at a
  civilian like me, taking examples out of military history! But I can&rsquo;t
  help it, it&rsquo;s my weakness. I am fond of military science. And I&rsquo;m ever so
  fond of reading all military histories. I&rsquo;ve certainly missed my proper
  career. I ought to have been in the army, upon my word I ought. I
  shouldn&rsquo;t have been a Napoleon, but I might have been a major, he-he!
  Well, I&rsquo;ll tell you the whole truth, my dear fellow, about this , I mean: actual fact and a man&rsquo;s temperament, my dear sir, are
  weighty matters and it&rsquo;s astonishing how they sometimes deceive the
  sharpest calculation! I&mdash;listen to an old man&mdash;am speaking
  seriously, Rodion Romanovitch&rdquo; (as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch, who
  was scarcely five-and-thirty, actually seemed to have grown old; even his
  voice changed and he seemed to shrink together) &ldquo;Moreover, I&rsquo;m a candid
  man... am I a candid man or not? What do you say? I fancy I really am: I
  tell you these things for nothing and don&rsquo;t even expect a reward for it,
  he-he! Well, to proceed, wit in my opinion is a splendid thing, it is, so
  to say, an adornment of nature and a consolation of life, and what tricks
  it can play! So that it sometimes is hard for a poor examining lawyer to
  know where he is, especially when he&rsquo;s liable to be carried away by his
  own fancy, too, for you know he is a man after all! But the poor fellow is
  saved by the criminal&rsquo;s temperament, worse luck for him! But young people
  carried away by their own wit don&rsquo;t think of that &lsquo;when they overstep all
  obstacles,&rsquo; as you wittily and cleverly expressed it yesterday. He will
  lie&mdash;that is, the man who is a , the incognito,
  and he will lie well, in the cleverest fashion; you might think he would
  triumph and enjoy the fruits of his wit, but at the most interesting, the
  most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course there may be illness and a
  stuffy room as well, but anyway! Anyway he&rsquo;s given us the idea! He lied
  incomparably, but he didn&rsquo;t reckon on his temperament. That&rsquo;s what betrays
  him! Another time he will be carried away by his playful wit into making
  fun of the man who suspects him, he will turn pale as it were on purpose
  to mislead, but his paleness will be , too much like the
  real thing, again he has given us an idea! Though his questioner may be
  deceived at first, he will think differently next day if he is not a fool,
  and, of course, it is like that at every step! He puts himself forward
  where he is not wanted, speaks continually when he ought to keep silent,
  brings in all sorts of allegorical allusions, he-he! Comes and asks why
  didn&rsquo;t you take me long ago? he-he-he! And that can happen, you know, with
  the cleverest man, the psychologist, the literary man. The temperament
  reflects everything like a mirror! Gaze into it and admire what you see!
  But why are you so pale, Rodion Romanovitch? Is the room stuffy? Shall I
  open the window?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t trouble, please,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov and he suddenly broke into
  a laugh. &ldquo;Please don&rsquo;t trouble.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly he too laughed.
  Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly checking his hysterical
  laughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;Porfiry Petrovitch,&rdquo; he began, speaking loudly and distinctly, though his
  legs trembled and he could scarcely stand. &ldquo;I see clearly at last that you
  actually suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister Lizaveta.
  Let me tell you for my part that I am sick of this. If you find that you
  have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then prosecute me,
  arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered at to my face and
  worried...&rdquo;
 <br />
  His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could not restrain his
  voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t allow it!&rdquo; he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. &ldquo;Do
  you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won&rsquo;t allow it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens! What does it mean?&rdquo; cried Porfiry Petrovitch, apparently
  quite frightened. &ldquo;Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, what is the matter
  with you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t allow it,&rdquo; Raskolnikov shouted again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hush, my dear man! They&rsquo;ll hear and come in. Just think, what could we
  say to them?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch whispered in horror, bringing his face
  close to Raskolnikov&rsquo;s.
<br />
  &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t allow it, I won&rsquo;t allow it,&rdquo; Raskolnikov repeated mechanically,
  but he too spoke in a sudden whisper.
<br />
  Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window.
<br />
  &ldquo;Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my dear fellow. You&rsquo;re
  ill!&rdquo; and he was running to the door to call for some when he found a
  decanter of water in the corner. &ldquo;Come, drink a little,&rdquo; he whispered,
  rushing up to him with the decanter. &ldquo;It will be sure to do you good.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Porfiry Petrovitch&rsquo;s alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov
  was silent and began looking at him with wild curiosity. He did not take
  the water, however.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you&rsquo;ll drive yourself out of your
  mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some water, do drink a little.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to his
  lips, but set it on the table again with disgust.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, you&rsquo;ve had a little attack! You&rsquo;ll bring back your illness again, my
  dear fellow,&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch cackled with friendly sympathy, though he
  still looked rather disconcerted. &ldquo;Good heavens, you must take more care
  of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me yesterday&mdash;I
  know, I know, I&rsquo;ve a nasty, ironical temper, but what they made of it!...
  Good heavens, he came yesterday after you&rsquo;d been. We dined and he talked
  and talked away, and I could only throw up my hands in despair! Did he
  come from you? But do sit down, for mercy&rsquo;s sake, sit down!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went,&rdquo; Raskolnikov
  answered sharply.
<br />
  &ldquo;You knew?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I knew. What of it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than that about you; I
  know about everything. I know how you went  at night
  when it was dark and how you rang the bell and asked about the blood, so
  that the workmen and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I
  understand your state of mind at that time... but you&rsquo;ll drive yourself
  mad like that, upon my word! You&rsquo;ll lose your head! You&rsquo;re full of
  generous indignation at the wrongs you&rsquo;ve received, first from destiny,
  and then from the police officers, and so you rush from one thing to
  another to force them to speak out and make an end of it all, because you
  are sick of all this suspicion and foolishness. That&rsquo;s so, isn&rsquo;t it? I
  have guessed how you feel, haven&rsquo;t I? Only in that way you&rsquo;ll lose your
  head and Razumihin&rsquo;s, too; he&rsquo;s too  a man for such a position,
  you must know that. You are ill and he is good and your illness is
  infectious for him... I&rsquo;ll tell you about it when you are more
  yourself.... But do sit down, for goodness&rsquo; sake. Please rest, you look
  shocking, do sit down.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov sat down; he no longer shivered, he was hot all over. In
  amazement he listened with strained attention to Porfiry Petrovitch who
  still seemed frightened as he looked after him with friendly solicitude.
  But he did not believe a word he said, though he felt a strange
  inclination to believe. Porfiry&rsquo;s unexpected words about the flat had
  utterly overwhelmed him. &ldquo;How can it be, he knows about the flat then,&rdquo; he
  thought suddenly, &ldquo;and he tells it me himself!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, in our legal practice there was a case almost exactly similar, a
  case of morbid psychology,&rdquo; Porfiry went on quickly. &ldquo;A man confessed to
  murder and how he kept it up! It was a regular hallucination; he brought
  forward facts, he imposed upon everyone and why? He had been partly, but
  only partly, unintentionally the cause of a murder and when he knew that
  he had given the murderers the opportunity, he sank into dejection, it got
  on his mind and turned his brain, he began imagining things and he
  persuaded himself that he was the murderer. But at last the High Court of
  Appeal went into it and the poor fellow was acquitted and put under proper
  care. Thanks to the Court of Appeal! Tut-tut-tut! Why, my dear fellow, you
  may drive yourself into delirium if you have the impulse to work upon your
  nerves, to go ringing bells at night and asking about blood! I&rsquo;ve studied
  all this morbid psychology in my practice. A man is sometimes tempted to
  jump out of a window or from a belfry. Just the same with bell-ringing....
  It&rsquo;s all illness, Rodion Romanovitch! You have begun to neglect your
  illness. You should consult an experienced doctor, what&rsquo;s the good of that
  fat fellow? You are lightheaded! You were delirious when you did all
  this!&rdquo;
 <br />
  For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything going round.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it possible, is it possible,&rdquo; flashed through his mind, &ldquo;that he is
  still lying? He can&rsquo;t be, he can&rsquo;t be.&rdquo; He rejected that idea, feeling to
  what a degree of fury it might drive him, feeling that that fury might
  drive him mad.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing,&rdquo; he cried, straining every
  faculty to penetrate Porfiry&rsquo;s game, &ldquo;I was quite myself, do you hear?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday you were not delirious,
  you were particularly emphatic about it! I understand all you can tell me!
  A-ach!... Listen, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow. If you were actually
  a criminal, or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business, would you
  insist that you were not delirious but in full possession of your
  faculties? And so emphatically and persistently? Would it be possible?
  Quite impossible, to my thinking. If you had anything on your conscience,
  you certainly ought to insist that you were delirious. That&rsquo;s so, isn&rsquo;t
  it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  There was a note of slyness in this inquiry. Raskolnikov drew back on the
  sofa as Porfiry bent over him and stared in silent perplexity at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Another thing about Razumihin&mdash;you certainly ought to have said that
  he came of his own accord, to have concealed your part in it! But you
  don&rsquo;t conceal it! You lay stress on his coming at your instigation.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his back.
<br />
  &ldquo;You keep telling lies,&rdquo; he said slowly and weakly, twisting his lips into
  a sickly smile, &ldquo;you are trying again to show that you know all my game,
  that you know all I shall say beforehand,&rdquo; he said, conscious himself that
  he was not weighing his words as he ought. &ldquo;You want to frighten me... or
  you are simply laughing at me...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He still stared at him as he said this and again there was a light of
  intense hatred in his eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;You keep lying,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You know perfectly well that the best policy
  for the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly as possible... to conceal
  as little as possible. I don&rsquo;t believe you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What a wily person you are!&rdquo; Porfiry tittered, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s no catching you;
  you&rsquo;ve a perfect monomania. So you don&rsquo;t believe me? But still you do
  believe me, you believe a quarter; I&rsquo;ll soon make you believe the whole,
  because I have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you good.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s lips trembled.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I do,&rdquo; went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov&rsquo;s arm genially, &ldquo;you
  must take care of your illness. Besides, your mother and sister are here
  now; you must think of them. You must soothe and comfort them and you do
  nothing but frighten them...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What has that to do with you? How do you know it? What concern is it of
  yours? You are keeping watch on me and want to let me know it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good heavens! Why, I learnt it all from you yourself! You don&rsquo;t notice
  that in your excitement you tell me and others everything. From Razumihin,
  too, I learnt a number of interesting details yesterday. No, you
  interrupted me, but I must tell you that, for all your wit, your
  suspiciousness makes you lose the common-sense view of things. To return
  to bell-ringing, for instance. I, an examining lawyer, have betrayed a
  precious thing like that, a real fact (for it is a fact worth having), and
  you see nothing in it! Why, if I had the slightest suspicion of you,
  should I have acted like that? No, I should first have disarmed your
  suspicions and not let you see I knew of that fact, should have diverted
  your attention and suddenly have dealt you a knock-down blow (your
  expression) saying: &lsquo;And what were you doing, sir, pray, at ten or nearly
  eleven at the murdered woman&rsquo;s flat and why did you ring the bell and why
  did you ask about blood? And why did you invite the porters to go with you
  to the police station, to the lieutenant?&rsquo; That&rsquo;s how I ought to have
  acted if I had a grain of suspicion of you. I ought to have taken your
  evidence in due form, searched your lodging and perhaps have arrested you,
  too... so I have no suspicion of you, since I have not done that! But you
  can&rsquo;t look at it normally and you see nothing, I say again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovitch could not fail to perceive
  it.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are lying all the while,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know your object, but
  you are lying. You did not speak like that just now and I cannot be
  mistaken!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am lying?&rdquo; Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but preserving a
  good-humoured and ironical face, as though he were not in the least
  concerned at Raskolnikov&rsquo;s opinion of him. &ldquo;I am lying... but how did I
  treat you just now, I, the examining lawyer? Prompting you and giving you
  every means for your defence; illness, I said, delirium, injury,
  melancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it? Ah! He-he-he!
  Though, indeed, all those psychological means of defence are not very
  reliable and cut both ways: illness, delirium, I don&rsquo;t remember&mdash;that&rsquo;s
  all right, but why, my good sir, in your illness and in your delirium were
  you haunted by just those delusions and not by any others? There may have
  been others, eh? He-he-he!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Briefly,&rdquo; he said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet and in so
  doing pushing Porfiry back a little, &ldquo;briefly, I want to know, do you
  acknowledge me perfectly free from suspicion or not? Tell me, Porfiry
  Petrovitch, tell me once for all and make haste!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What a business I&rsquo;m having with you!&rdquo; cried Porfiry with a perfectly
  good-humoured, sly and composed face. &ldquo;And why do you want to know, why do
  you want to know so much, since they haven&rsquo;t begun to worry you? Why, you
  are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so uneasy? Why do you
  force yourself upon us, eh? He-he-he!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I repeat,&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried furiously, &ldquo;that I can&rsquo;t put up with it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;With what? Uncertainty?&rdquo; interrupted Porfiry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t jeer at me! I won&rsquo;t have it! I tell you I won&rsquo;t have it. I can&rsquo;t
  and I won&rsquo;t, do you hear, do you hear?&rdquo; he shouted, bringing his fist down
  on the table again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hush! Hush! They&rsquo;ll overhear! I warn you seriously, take care of
  yourself. I am not joking,&rdquo; Porfiry whispered, but this time there was not
  the look of old womanish good nature and alarm in his face. Now he was
  peremptory, stern, frowning and for once laying aside all mystification.
<br />
  But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered, suddenly fell
  into actual frenzy, but, strange to say, he again obeyed the command to
  speak quietly, though he was in a perfect paroxysm of fury.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will not allow myself to be tortured,&rdquo; he whispered, instantly
  recognising with hatred that he could not help obeying the command and
  driven to even greater fury by the thought. &ldquo;Arrest me, search me, but
  kindly act in due form and don&rsquo;t play with me! Don&rsquo;t dare!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry about the form,&rdquo; Porfiry interrupted with the same sly smile,
  as it were, gloating with enjoyment over Raskolnikov. &ldquo;I invited you to
  see me quite in a friendly way.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you hear? And, here, I
  take my cap and go. What will you say now if you mean to arrest me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He took up his cap and went to the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;And won&rsquo;t you see my little surprise?&rdquo; chuckled Porfiry, again taking him
  by the arm and stopping him at the door.
<br />
  He seemed to become more playful and good-humoured which maddened
  Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;What surprise?&rdquo; he asked, standing still and looking at Porfiry in alarm.
<br />
  &ldquo;My little surprise, it&rsquo;s sitting there behind the door, he-he-he!&rdquo; (He
  pointed to the locked door.) &ldquo;I locked him in that he should not escape.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is it? Where? What?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened it, but it was
  locked.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s locked, here is the key!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he brought a key out of his pocket.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are lying,&rdquo; roared Raskolnikov without restraint, &ldquo;you lie, you
  damned punchinello!&rdquo; and he rushed at Porfiry who retreated to the other
  door, not at all alarmed.
<br />
  &ldquo;I understand it all! You are lying and mocking so that I may betray
  myself to you...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear Rodion
  Romanovitch. You are in a passion. Don&rsquo;t shout, I shall call the clerks.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are lying! Call the clerks! You knew I was ill and tried to work me
  into a frenzy to make me betray myself, that was your object! Produce your
  facts! I understand it all. You&rsquo;ve no evidence, you have only wretched
  rubbishly suspicions like Zametov&rsquo;s! You knew my character, you wanted to
  drive me to fury and then to knock me down with priests and deputies....
  Are you waiting for them? eh! What are you waiting for? Where are they?
  Produce them?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why deputies, my good man? What things people will imagine! And to do so
  would not be acting in form as you say, you don&rsquo;t know the business, my
  dear fellow.... And there&rsquo;s no escaping form, as you see,&rdquo; Porfiry
  muttered, listening at the door through which a noise could be heard.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, they&rsquo;re coming,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve sent for them! You
  expected them! Well, produce them all: your deputies, your witnesses, what
  you like!... I am ready!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected
  that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovitch could have looked for such
  a conclusion to their interview.


      CHAPTER VI


  When he remembered the scene afterwards, this is how Raskolnikov saw it.
<br />
  The noise behind the door increased, and suddenly the door was opened a
  little.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. &ldquo;Why, I gave orders...&rdquo;
 <br />
  For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident that there were
  several persons at the door, and that they were apparently pushing
  somebody back.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily.
<br />
  &ldquo;The prisoner Nikolay has been brought,&rdquo; someone answered.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! What&rsquo;s he doing here? How
  irregular!&rdquo; cried Porfiry, rushing to the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;But he...&rdquo; began the same voice, and suddenly ceased.
<br />
  Two seconds, not more, were spent in actual struggle, then someone gave a
  violent shove, and then a man, very pale, strode into the room.
<br />
  This man&rsquo;s appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared straight
  before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his
  eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though
  he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching.
<br />
  He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim,
  his hair cut in round crop, with thin spare features. The man whom he had
  thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the
  shoulder; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away.
<br />
  Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them tried
  to get in. All this took place almost instantaneously.
<br />
  &ldquo;Go away, it&rsquo;s too soon! Wait till you are sent for!... Why have you
  brought him so soon?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch muttered, extremely annoyed, and
  as it were thrown out of his reckoning.
<br />
  But Nikolay suddenly knelt down.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; cried Porfiry, surprised.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer,&rdquo; Nikolay articulated
  suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking fairly loudly.
<br />
  For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been struck dumb; even
  the warder stepped back, mechanically retreated to the door, and stood
  immovable.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his momentary
  stupefaction.
<br />
  &ldquo;I... am the murderer,&rdquo; repeated Nikolay, after a brief pause.
<br />
  &ldquo;What... you... what... whom did you kill?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch was
  obviously bewildered.
<br />
  Nikolay again was silent for a moment.
<br />
  &ldquo;Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I... killed... with an
  axe. Darkness came over me,&rdquo; he added suddenly, and was again silent.
<br />
  He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood for some moments
  as though meditating, but suddenly roused himself and waved back the
  uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he
  looked towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring wildly
  at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolay
  to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and seeming unable to restrain
  himself darted at the latter.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re in too great a hurry,&rdquo; he shouted at him, almost angrily. &ldquo;I
  didn&rsquo;t ask you what came over you.... Speak, did you kill them?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am the murderer.... I want to give evidence,&rdquo; Nikolay pronounced.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ach! What did you kill them with?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;An axe. I had it ready.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Nikolay did not understand the question.
<br />
  &ldquo;Did you do it alone?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it you ran downstairs
  like that at the time? The porters met you both!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It was to put them off the scent... I ran after Mitka,&rdquo; Nikolay replied
  hurriedly, as though he had prepared the answer.
<br />
  &ldquo;I knew it!&rdquo; cried Porfiry, with vexation. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not his own tale he is
  telling,&rdquo; he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested
  on Raskolnikov again.
<br />
  He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had
  forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback.
<br />
  &ldquo;My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!&rdquo; he flew up to him, &ldquo;this won&rsquo;t
  do; I&rsquo;m afraid you must go... it&rsquo;s no good your staying... I will... you
  see, what a surprise!... Good-bye!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;I suppose you didn&rsquo;t expect it?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov who, though he had not
  yet fully grasped the situation, had regained his courage.
<br />
  &ldquo;You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling!
  He-he!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I am; I didn&rsquo;t expect it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to be
  gone.
<br />
  &ldquo;And your little surprise, aren&rsquo;t you going to show it to me?&rdquo; Raskolnikov
  said, sarcastically.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You are an ironical
  person! Come, till we meet!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I believe we can say !&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s in God&rsquo;s hands,&rdquo; muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile.
<br />
  As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people were
  looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from  house,
  whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there
  waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of
  Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running
  after him, out of breath.
<br />
  &ldquo;One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it&rsquo;s in God&rsquo;s hands,
  but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask
  you... so we shall meet again, shan&rsquo;t we?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Shan&rsquo;t we?&rdquo; he added again.
<br />
  He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out.
<br />
  &ldquo;You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I
  lost my temper,&rdquo; began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage
  that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t mention it, don&rsquo;t mention it,&rdquo; Porfiry replied, almost gleefully.
  &ldquo;I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet
  again. If it&rsquo;s God&rsquo;s will, we may see a great deal of one another.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And will get to know each other through and through?&rdquo; added Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes; know each other through and through,&rdquo; assented Porfiry Petrovitch,
  and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Now you&rsquo;re
  going to a birthday party?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To a funeral.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what to wish you,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, who had begun to
  descend the stairs, but looked back again. &ldquo;I should like to wish you
  success, but your office is such a comical one.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why comical?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick
  up his ears at this.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay
  psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been
  at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now
  that he has confessed, you&rsquo;ll begin vivisecting him again. &lsquo;You are
  lying,&rsquo; you&rsquo;ll say. &lsquo;You are not the murderer! You can&rsquo;t be! It&rsquo;s not your
  own tale you are telling!&rsquo; You must admit it&rsquo;s a comical business!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was
  not his own tale he was telling?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How could I help noticing it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You&rsquo;ve really a
  playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say
  that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, of Gogol.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So shall I.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on
  getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to
  collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was
  stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing&mdash;something
  beyond his understanding. But Nikolay&rsquo;s confession was an actual fact. The
  consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could
  not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till
  then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the
  danger was imminent.
<br />
  But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him. Remembering,
  sketchily, the main outlines of his recent scene with Porfiry, he could
  not help shuddering again with horror. Of course, he did not yet know all
  Porfiry&rsquo;s aims, he could not see into all his calculations. But he had
  already partly shown his hand, and no one knew better than Raskolnikov how
  terrible Porfiry&rsquo;s &ldquo;lead&rdquo; had been for him. A little more and he 
  have given himself away completely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous
  temperament and from the first glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though
  playing a bold game, was bound to win. There&rsquo;s no denying that Raskolnikov
  had compromised himself seriously, but no  had come to light
  as yet; there was nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the
  position? Wasn&rsquo;t he mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had
  he really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really
  been expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not
  been for the unexpected appearance of Nikolay?
<br />
  Porfiry had shown almost all his cards&mdash;of course, he had risked
  something in showing them&mdash;and if he had really had anything up his
  sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would have shown that, too. What was
  that &ldquo;surprise&rdquo;? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have
  concealed anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His
  yesterday&rsquo;s visitor? What had become of him? Where was he to-day? If
  Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be connected with him....
<br />
  He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his
  hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his cap,
  thought a minute, and went to the door.
<br />
  He had a sort of presentiment that for to-day, at least, he might consider
  himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense almost of joy; he wanted to
  make haste to Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s. He would be too late for the funeral,
  of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there at
  once he would see Sonia.
<br />
  He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile came for a moment
  on to his lips.
<br />
  &ldquo;To-day! To-day,&rdquo; he repeated to himself. &ldquo;Yes, to-day! So it must be....&rdquo;
 <br />
  But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of itself. He
  started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly, and there
  suddenly appeared a figure&mdash;yesterday&rsquo;s visitor .
<br />
  The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without speaking, and
  took a step forward into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday;
  the same figure, the same dress, but there was a great change in his face;
  he looked dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his hand up to
  his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have looked exactly
  like a peasant woman.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov, numb with terror. The man was still
  silent, but suddenly he bowed down almost to the ground, touching it with
  his finger.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I have sinned,&rdquo; the man articulated softly.
<br />
  &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;By evil thoughts.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They looked at one another.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and bade the porters go to
  the police station and asked about the blood, I was vexed that they let
  you go and took you for drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep. And
  remembering the address we came here yesterday and asked for you....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Who came?&rdquo; Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to recollect.
<br />
  &ldquo;I did, I&rsquo;ve wronged you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then you come from that house?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I was standing at the gate with them... don&rsquo;t you remember? We have
  carried on our trade in that house for years past. We cure and prepare
  hides, we take work home... most of all I was vexed....&rdquo;
 <br />
  And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the gateway came
  clearly before Raskolnikov&rsquo;s mind; he recollected that there had been
  several people there besides the porters, women among them. He remembered
  one voice had suggested taking him straight to the police-station. He
  could not recall the face of the speaker, and even now he did not
  recognise it, but he remembered that he had turned round and made him some
  answer....
<br />
  So this was the solution of yesterday&rsquo;s horror. The most awful thought was
  that he had been actually almost lost, had almost done for himself on
  account of such a  circumstance. So this man could tell
  nothing except his asking about the flat and the blood stains. So Porfiry,
  too, had nothing but that , no facts but this 
  which , nothing positive. So if no more facts come to
  light (and they must not, they must not!) then... then what can they do to
  him? How can they convict him, even if they arrest him? And Porfiry then
  had only just heard about the flat and had not known about it before.
<br />
  &ldquo;Was it you who told Porfiry... that I&rsquo;d been there?&rdquo; he cried, struck by
  a sudden idea.
<br />
  &ldquo;What Porfiry?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The head of the detective department?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes. The porters did not go there, but I went.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To-day?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I got there two minutes before you. And I heard, I heard it all, how he
  worried you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where? What? When?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, in the next room. I was sitting there all the time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What? Why, then you were the surprise? But how could it happen? Upon my
  word!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I saw that the porters did not want to do what I said,&rdquo; began the man;
  &ldquo;for it&rsquo;s too late, said they, and maybe he&rsquo;ll be angry that we did not
  come at the time. I was vexed and I lost my sleep, and I began making
  inquiries. And finding out yesterday where to go, I went to-day. The first
  time I went he wasn&rsquo;t there, when I came an hour later he couldn&rsquo;t see me.
  I went the third time, and they showed me in. I informed him of
  everything, just as it happened, and he began skipping about the room and
  punching himself on the chest. &lsquo;What do you scoundrels mean by it? If I&rsquo;d
  known about it I should have arrested him!&rsquo; Then he ran out, called
  somebody and began talking to him in the corner, then he turned to me,
  scolding and questioning me. He scolded me a great deal; and I told him
  everything, and I told him that you didn&rsquo;t dare to say a word in answer to
  me yesterday and that you didn&rsquo;t recognise me. And he fell to running
  about again and kept hitting himself on the chest, and getting angry and
  running about, and when you were announced he told me to go into the next
  room. &lsquo;Sit there a bit,&rsquo; he said. &lsquo;Don&rsquo;t move, whatever you may hear.&rsquo; And
  he set a chair there for me and locked me in. &lsquo;Perhaps,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;I may
  call you.&rsquo; And when Nikolay&rsquo;d been brought he let me out as soon as you
  were gone. &lsquo;I shall send for you again and question you,&rsquo; he said.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And did he question Nikolay while you were there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He got rid of me as he did of you, before he spoke to Nikolay.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed down, touching the ground
  with his finger.
<br />
  &ldquo;Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;May God forgive you,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov.
<br />
  And as he said this, the man bowed down again, but not to the ground,
  turned slowly and went out of the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;It all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways,&rdquo; repeated Raskolnikov,
  and he went out more confident than ever.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now we&rsquo;ll make a fight for it,&rdquo; he said, with a malicious smile, as he
  went down the stairs. His malice was aimed at himself; with shame and
  contempt he recollected his &ldquo;cowardice.&rdquo;


      PART V


      CHAPTER I


  The morning that followed the fateful interview with Dounia and her mother
  brought sobering influences to bear on Pyotr Petrovitch. Intensely
  unpleasant as it was, he was forced little by little to accept as a fact
  beyond recall what had seemed to him only the day before fantastic and
  incredible. The black snake of wounded vanity had been gnawing at his
  heart all night. When he got out of bed, Pyotr Petrovitch immediately
  looked in the looking-glass. He was afraid that he had jaundice. However
  his health seemed unimpaired so far, and looking at his noble,
  clear-skinned countenance which had grown fattish of late, Pyotr
  Petrovitch for an instant was positively comforted in the conviction that
  he would find another bride and, perhaps, even a better one. But coming
  back to the sense of his present position, he turned aside and spat
  vigorously, which excited a sarcastic smile in Andrey Semyonovitch
  Lebeziatnikov, the young friend with whom he was staying. That smile Pyotr
  Petrovitch noticed, and at once set it down against his young friend&rsquo;s
  account. He had set down a good many points against him of late. His anger
  was redoubled when he reflected that he ought not to have told Andrey
  Semyonovitch about the result of yesterday&rsquo;s interview. That was the
  second mistake he had made in temper, through impulsiveness and
  irritability.... Moreover, all that morning one unpleasantness followed
  another. He even found a hitch awaiting him in his legal case in the
  senate. He was particularly irritated by the owner of the flat which had
  been taken in view of his approaching marriage and was being redecorated
  at his own expense; the owner, a rich German tradesman, would not
  entertain the idea of breaking the contract which had just been signed and
  insisted on the full forfeit money, though Pyotr Petrovitch would be
  giving him back the flat practically redecorated. In the same way the
  upholsterers refused to return a single rouble of the instalment paid for
  the furniture purchased but not yet removed to the flat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Am I to get married simply for the sake of the furniture?&rdquo; Pyotr
  Petrovitch ground his teeth and at the same time once more he had a gleam
  of desperate hope. &ldquo;Can all that be really so irrevocably over? Is it no
  use to make another effort?&rdquo; The thought of Dounia sent a voluptuous pang
  through his heart. He endured anguish at that moment, and if it had been
  possible to slay Raskolnikov instantly by wishing it, Pyotr Petrovitch
  would promptly have uttered the wish.
<br />
  &ldquo;It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money,&rdquo; he thought, as he
  returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov&rsquo;s room, &ldquo;and why on earth was I such
  a Jew? It was false economy! I meant to keep them without a penny so that
  they should turn to me as their providence, and look at them! foo! If I&rsquo;d
  spent some fifteen hundred roubles on them for the trousseau and presents,
  on knick-knacks, dressing-cases, jewellery, materials, and all that sort
  of trash from Knopp&rsquo;s and the English shop, my position would have been
  better and... stronger! They could not have refused me so easily! They are
  the sort of people that would feel bound to return money and presents if
  they broke it off; and they would find it hard to do it! And their
  conscience would prick them: how can we dismiss a man who has hitherto
  been so generous and delicate?.... H&rsquo;m! I&rsquo;ve made a blunder.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And grinding his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovitch called himself a fool&mdash;but
  not aloud, of course.
<br />
  He returned home, twice as irritated and angry as before. The preparations
  for the funeral dinner at Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s excited his curiosity as he
  passed. He had heard about it the day before; he fancied, indeed, that he
  had been invited, but absorbed in his own cares he had paid no attention.
  Inquiring of Madame Lippevechsel who was busy laying the table while
  Katerina Ivanovna was away at the cemetery, he heard that the
  entertainment was to be a great affair, that all the lodgers had been
  invited, among them some who had not known the dead man, that even Andrey
  Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov was invited in spite of his previous quarrel
  with Katerina Ivanovna, that he, Pyotr Petrovitch, was not only invited,
  but was eagerly expected as he was the most important of the lodgers.
  Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with great ceremony in spite of
  the recent unpleasantness, and so she was very busy with preparations and
  was taking a positive pleasure in them; she was moreover dressed up to the
  nines, all in new black silk, and she was proud of it. All this suggested
  an idea to Pyotr Petrovitch and he went into his room, or rather
  Lebeziatnikov&rsquo;s, somewhat thoughtful. He had learnt that Raskolnikov was
  to be one of the guests.
<br />
  Andrey Semyonovitch had been at home all the morning. The attitude of
  Pyotr Petrovitch to this gentleman was strange, though perhaps natural.
  Pyotr Petrovitch had despised and hated him from the day he came to stay
  with him and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. He had not
  come to stay with him on his arrival in Petersburg simply from parsimony,
  though that had been perhaps his chief object. He had heard of Andrey
  Semyonovitch, who had once been his ward, as a leading young progressive
  who was taking an important part in certain interesting circles, the
  doings of which were a legend in the provinces. It had impressed Pyotr
  Petrovitch. These powerful omniscient circles who despised everyone and
  showed everyone up had long inspired in him a peculiar but quite vague
  alarm. He had not, of course, been able to form even an approximate notion
  of what they meant. He, like everyone, had heard that there were,
  especially in Petersburg, progressives of some sort, nihilists and so on,
  and, like many people, he exaggerated and distorted the significance of
  those words to an absurd degree. What for many years past he had feared
  more than anything was  and this was the chief ground
  for his continual uneasiness at the thought of transferring his business
  to Petersburg. He was afraid of this as little children are sometimes
  panic-stricken. Some years before, when he was just entering on his own
  career, he had come upon two cases in which rather important personages in
  the province, patrons of his, had been cruelly shown up. One instance had
  ended in great scandal for the person attacked and the other had very
  nearly ended in serious trouble. For this reason Pyotr Petrovitch intended
  to go into the subject as soon as he reached Petersburg and, if necessary,
  to anticipate contingencies by seeking the favour of &ldquo;our younger
  generation.&rdquo; He relied on Andrey Semyonovitch for this and before his
  visit to Raskolnikov he had succeeded in picking up some current phrases.
  He soon discovered that Andrey Semyonovitch was a commonplace simpleton,
  but that by no means reassured Pyotr Petrovitch. Even if he had been
  certain that all the progressives were fools like him, it would not have
  allayed his uneasiness. All the doctrines, the ideas, the systems, with
  which Andrey Semyonovitch pestered him had no interest for him. He had his
  own object&mdash;he simply wanted to find out at once what was happening
  . Had these people any power or not? Had he anything to fear
  from them? Would they expose any enterprise of his? And what precisely was
  now the object of their attacks? Could he somehow make up to them and get
  round them if they really were powerful? Was this the thing to do or not?
  Couldn&rsquo;t he gain something through them? In fact hundreds of questions
  presented themselves.
<br />
  Andrey Semyonovitch was an anæmic, scrofulous little man, with strangely
  flaxen mutton-chop whiskers of which he was very proud. He was a clerk and
  had almost always something wrong with his eyes. He was rather
  soft-hearted, but self-confident and sometimes extremely conceited in
  speech, which had an absurd effect, incongruous with his little figure. He
  was one of the lodgers most respected by Amalia Ivanovna, for he did not
  get drunk and paid regularly for his lodgings. Andrey Semyonovitch really
  was rather stupid; he attached himself to the cause of progress and &ldquo;our
  younger generation&rdquo; from enthusiasm. He was one of the numerous and varied
  legion of dullards, of half-animate abortions, conceited, half-educated
  coxcombs, who attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to
  vulgarise it and who caricature every cause they serve, however sincerely.
<br />
  Though Lebeziatnikov was so good-natured, he, too, was beginning to
  dislike Pyotr Petrovitch. This happened on both sides unconsciously.
  However simple Andrey Semyonovitch might be, he began to see that Pyotr
  Petrovitch was duping him and secretly despising him, and that &ldquo;he was not
  the right sort of man.&rdquo; He had tried expounding to him the system of
  Fourier and the Darwinian theory, but of late Pyotr Petrovitch began to
  listen too sarcastically and even to be rude. The fact was he had begun
  instinctively to guess that Lebeziatnikov was not merely a commonplace
  simpleton, but, perhaps, a liar, too, and that he had no connections of
  any consequence even in his own circle, but had simply picked things up
  third-hand; and that very likely he did not even know much about his own
  work of propaganda, for he was in too great a muddle. A fine person he
  would be to show anyone up! It must be noted, by the way, that Pyotr
  Petrovitch had during those ten days eagerly accepted the strangest praise
  from Andrey Semyonovitch; he had not protested, for instance, when Andrey
  Semyonovitch belauded him for being ready to contribute to the
  establishment of the new &ldquo;commune,&rdquo; or to abstain from christening his
  future children, or to acquiesce if Dounia were to take a lover a month
  after marriage, and so on. Pyotr Petrovitch so enjoyed hearing his own
  praises that he did not disdain even such virtues when they were
  attributed to him.
<br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch had had occasion that morning to realise some
  five-per-cent bonds and now he sat down to the table and counted over
  bundles of notes. Andrey Semyonovitch who hardly ever had any money walked
  about the room pretending to himself to look at all those bank notes with
  indifference and even contempt. Nothing would have convinced Pyotr
  Petrovitch that Andrey Semyonovitch could really look on the money
  unmoved, and the latter, on his side, kept thinking bitterly that Pyotr
  Petrovitch was capable of entertaining such an idea about him and was,
  perhaps, glad of the opportunity of teasing his young friend by reminding
  him of his inferiority and the great difference between them.
<br />
  He found him incredibly inattentive and irritable, though he, Andrey
  Semyonovitch, began enlarging on his favourite subject, the foundation of
  a new special &ldquo;commune.&rdquo; The brief remarks that dropped from Pyotr
  Petrovitch between the clicking of the beads on the reckoning frame
  betrayed unmistakable and discourteous irony. But the &ldquo;humane&rdquo; Andrey
  Semyonovitch ascribed Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s ill-humour to his recent breach
  with Dounia and he was burning with impatience to discourse on that theme.
  He had something progressive to say on the subject which might console his
  worthy friend and &ldquo;could not fail&rdquo; to promote his development.
<br />
  &ldquo;There is some sort of festivity being prepared at that... at the widow&rsquo;s,
  isn&rsquo;t there?&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch asked suddenly, interrupting Andrey
  Semyonovitch at the most interesting passage.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, don&rsquo;t you know? Why, I was telling you last night what I think about
  all such ceremonies. And she invited you too, I heard. You were talking to
  her yesterday...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should never have expected that beggarly fool would have spent on this
  feast all the money she got from that other fool, Raskolnikov. I was
  surprised just now as I came through at the preparations there, the wines!
  Several people are invited. It&rsquo;s beyond everything!&rdquo; continued Pyotr
  Petrovitch, who seemed to have some object in pursuing the conversation.
  &ldquo;What? You say I am asked too? When was that? I don&rsquo;t remember. But I
  shan&rsquo;t go. Why should I? I only said a word to her in passing yesterday of
  the possibility of her obtaining a year&rsquo;s salary as a destitute widow of a
  government clerk. I suppose she has invited me on that account, hasn&rsquo;t
  she? He-he-he!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t intend to go either,&rdquo; said Lebeziatnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I should think not, after giving her a thrashing! You might well
  hesitate, he-he!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Who thrashed? Whom?&rdquo; cried Lebeziatnikov, flustered and blushing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna a month ago. I heard so yesterday...
  so that&rsquo;s what your convictions amount to... and the woman question, too,
  wasn&rsquo;t quite sound, he-he-he!&rdquo; and Pyotr Petrovitch, as though comforted,
  went back to clicking his beads.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all slander and nonsense!&rdquo; cried Lebeziatnikov, who was always
  afraid of allusions to the subject. &ldquo;It was not like that at all, it was
  quite different. You&rsquo;ve heard it wrong; it&rsquo;s a libel. I was simply
  defending myself. She rushed at me first with her nails, she pulled out
  all my whiskers.... It&rsquo;s permissable for anyone, I should hope, to defend
  himself and I never allow anyone to use violence to me on principle, for
  it&rsquo;s an act of despotism. What was I to do? I simply pushed her back.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He-he-he!&rdquo; Luzhin went on laughing maliciously.
<br />
  &ldquo;You keep on like that because you are out of humour yourself.... But
  that&rsquo;s nonsense and it has nothing, nothing whatever to do with the woman
  question! You don&rsquo;t understand; I used to think, indeed, that if women are
  equal to men in all respects, even in strength (as is maintained now)
  there ought to be equality in that, too. Of course, I reflected afterwards
  that such a question ought not really to arise, for there ought not to be
  fighting and in the future society fighting is unthinkable... and that it
  would be a queer thing to seek for equality in fighting. I am not so
  stupid... though, of course, there is fighting... there won&rsquo;t be later,
  but at present there is... confound it! How muddled one gets with you!
  It&rsquo;s not on that account that I am not going. I am not going on principle,
  not to take part in the revolting convention of memorial dinners, that&rsquo;s
  why! Though, of course, one might go to laugh at it.... I am sorry there
  won&rsquo;t be any priests at it. I should certainly go if there were.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then you would sit down at another man&rsquo;s table and insult it and those
  who invited you. Eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Certainly not insult, but protest. I should do it with a good object. I
  might indirectly assist the cause of enlightenment and propaganda. It&rsquo;s a
  duty of every man to work for enlightenment and propaganda and the more
  harshly, perhaps, the better. I might drop a seed, an idea.... And
  something might grow up from that seed. How should I be insulting them?
  They might be offended at first, but afterwards they&rsquo;d see I&rsquo;d done them a
  service. You know, Terebyeva (who is in the community now) was blamed
  because when she left her family and... devoted... herself, she wrote to
  her father and mother that she wouldn&rsquo;t go on living conventionally and
  was entering on a free marriage and it was said that that was too harsh,
  that she might have spared them and have written more kindly. I think
  that&rsquo;s all nonsense and there&rsquo;s no need of softness; on the contrary,
  what&rsquo;s wanted is protest. Varents had been married seven years, she
  abandoned her two children, she told her husband straight out in a letter:
  &lsquo;I have realised that I cannot be happy with you. I can never forgive you
  that you have deceived me by concealing from me that there is another
  organisation of society by means of the communities. I have only lately
  learned it from a great-hearted man to whom I have given myself and with
  whom I am establishing a community. I speak plainly because I consider it
  dishonest to deceive you. Do as you think best. Do not hope to get me
  back, you are too late. I hope you will be happy.&rsquo; That&rsquo;s how letters like
  that ought to be written!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Is that Terebyeva the one you said had made a third free marriage?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s only the second, really! But what if it were the fourth, what if
  it were the fifteenth, that&rsquo;s all nonsense! And if ever I regretted the
  death of my father and mother, it is now, and I sometimes think if my
  parents were living what a protest I would have aimed at them! I would
  have done something on purpose... I would have shown them! I would have
  astonished them! I am really sorry there is no one!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To surprise! He-he! Well, be that as you will,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch
  interrupted, &ldquo;but tell me this; do you know the dead man&rsquo;s daughter, the
  delicate-looking little thing? It&rsquo;s true what they say about her, isn&rsquo;t
  it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What of it? I think, that is, it is my own personal conviction that this
  is the normal condition of women. Why not? I mean, . In
  our present society it is not altogether normal, because it is compulsory,
  but in the future society it will be perfectly normal, because it will be
  voluntary. Even as it is, she was quite right: she was suffering and that
  was her asset, so to speak, her capital which she had a perfect right to
  dispose of. Of course, in the future society there will be no need of
  assets, but her part will have another significance, rational and in
  harmony with her environment. As to Sofya Semyonovna personally, I regard
  her action as a vigorous protest against the organisation of society, and
  I respect her deeply for it; I rejoice indeed when I look at her!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I was told that you got her turned out of these lodgings.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Lebeziatnikov was enraged.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s another slander,&rdquo; he yelled. &ldquo;It was not so at all! That was all
  Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s invention, for she did not understand! And I never
  made love to Sofya Semyonovna! I was simply developing her, entirely
  disinterestedly, trying to rouse her to protest.... All I wanted was her
  protest and Sofya Semyonovna could not have remained here anyway!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Have you asked her to join your community?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You keep on laughing and very inappropriately, allow me to tell you. You
  don&rsquo;t understand! There is no such rôle in a community. The community is
  established that there should be no such rôles. In a community, such a
  rôle is essentially transformed and what is stupid here is sensible there,
  what, under present conditions, is unnatural becomes perfectly natural in
  the community. It all depends on the environment. It&rsquo;s all the environment
  and man himself is nothing. And I am on good terms with Sofya Semyonovna
  to this day, which is a proof that she never regarded me as having wronged
  her. I am trying now to attract her to the community, but on quite, quite
  a different footing. What are you laughing at? We are trying to establish
  a community of our own, a special one, on a broader basis. We have gone
  further in our convictions. We reject more! And meanwhile I&rsquo;m still
  developing Sofya Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful character!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And you take advantage of her fine character, eh? He-he!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, no! Oh, no! On the contrary.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, on the contrary! He-he-he! A queer thing to say!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Believe me! Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel it strange myself
  how timid, chaste and modern she is with me!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And you, of course, are developing her... he-he! trying to prove to her
  that all that modesty is nonsense?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not at all, not at all! How coarsely, how stupidly&mdash;excuse me saying
  so&mdash;you misunderstand the word development! Good heavens, how...
  crude you still are! We are striving for the freedom of women and you have
  only one idea in your head.... Setting aside the general question of
  chastity and feminine modesty as useless in themselves and indeed
  prejudices, I fully accept her chastity with me, because that&rsquo;s for her to
  decide. Of course if she were to tell me herself that she wanted me, I
  should think myself very lucky, because I like the girl very much; but as
  it is, no one has ever treated her more courteously than I, with more
  respect for her dignity... I wait in hopes, that&rsquo;s all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You had much better make her a present of something. I bet you never
  thought of that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t understand, as I&rsquo;ve told you already! Of course, she is in such
  a position, but it&rsquo;s another question. Quite another question! You simply
  despise her. Seeing a fact which you mistakenly consider deserving of
  contempt, you refuse to take a humane view of a fellow creature. You don&rsquo;t
  know what a character she is! I am only sorry that of late she has quite
  given up reading and borrowing books. I used to lend them to her. I am
  sorry, too, that with all the energy and resolution in protesting&mdash;which
  she has already shown once&mdash;she has little self-reliance, little, so
  to say, independence, so as to break free from certain prejudices and
  certain foolish ideas. Yet she thoroughly understands some questions, for
  instance about kissing of hands, that is, that it&rsquo;s an insult to a woman
  for a man to kiss her hand, because it&rsquo;s a sign of inequality. We had a
  debate about it and I described it to her. She listened attentively to an
  account of the workmen&rsquo;s associations in France, too. Now I am explaining
  the question of coming into the room in the future society.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And what&rsquo;s that, pray?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We had a debate lately on the question: Has a member of the community the
  right to enter another member&rsquo;s room, whether man or woman, at any time...
  and we decided that he has!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It might be at an inconvenient moment, he-he!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Lebeziatnikov was really angry.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are always thinking of something unpleasant,&rdquo; he cried with aversion.
  &ldquo;Tfoo! How vexed I am that when I was expounding our system, I referred
  prematurely to the question of personal privacy! It&rsquo;s always a
  stumbling-block to people like you, they turn it into ridicule before they
  understand it. And how proud they are of it, too! Tfoo! I&rsquo;ve often
  maintained that that question should not be approached by a novice till he
  has a firm faith in the system. And tell me, please, what do you find so
  shameful even in cesspools? I should be the first to be ready to clean out
  any cesspool you like. And it&rsquo;s not a question of self-sacrifice, it&rsquo;s
  simply work, honourable, useful work which is as good as any other and
  much better than the work of a Raphael and a Pushkin, because it is more
  useful.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And more honourable, more honourable, he-he-he!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean by &lsquo;more honourable&rsquo;? I don&rsquo;t understand such
  expressions to describe human activity. &lsquo;More honourable,&rsquo; &lsquo;nobler&rsquo;&mdash;all
  those are old-fashioned prejudices which I reject. Everything which is  to mankind is honourable. I only understand one word: !
  You can snigger as much as you like, but that&rsquo;s so!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch laughed heartily. He had finished counting the money and
  was putting it away. But some of the notes he left on the table. The
  &ldquo;cesspool question&rdquo; had already been a subject of dispute between them.
  What was absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov really angry, while it
  amused Luzhin and at that moment he particularly wanted to anger his young
  friend.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s your ill-luck yesterday that makes you so ill-humoured and
  annoying,&rdquo; blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who in spite of his &ldquo;independence&rdquo;
   and his &ldquo;protests&rdquo; did not venture to oppose Pyotr Petrovitch and still
  behaved to him with some of the respect habitual in earlier years.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better tell me this,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted with haughty
  displeasure, &ldquo;can you... or rather are you really friendly enough with
  that young person to ask her to step in here for a minute? I think they&rsquo;ve
  all come back from the cemetery... I heard the sound of steps... I want to
  see her, that young person.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov asked with surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I want to. I am leaving here to-day or to-morrow and therefore I
  wanted to speak to her about... However, you may be present during the
  interview. It&rsquo;s better you should be, indeed. For there&rsquo;s no knowing what
  you might imagine.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t imagine anything. I only asked and, if you&rsquo;ve anything to say to
  her, nothing is easier than to call her in. I&rsquo;ll go directly and you may
  be sure I won&rsquo;t be in your way.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Five minutes later Lebeziatnikov came in with Sonia. She came in very much
  surprised and overcome with shyness as usual. She was always shy in such
  circumstances and was always afraid of new people, she had been as a child
  and was even more so now.... Pyotr Petrovitch met her &ldquo;politely and
  affably,&rdquo; but with a certain shade of bantering familiarity which in his
  opinion was suitable for a man of his respectability and weight in dealing
  with a creature so young and so  as she. He hastened to
  &ldquo;reassure&rdquo; her and made her sit down facing him at the table. Sonia sat
  down, looked about her&mdash;at Lebeziatnikov, at the notes lying on the
  table and then again at Pyotr Petrovitch and her eyes remained riveted on
  him. Lebeziatnikov was moving to the door. Pyotr Petrovitch signed to
  Sonia to remain seated and stopped Lebeziatnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come?&rdquo; he asked him in a whisper.
<br />
  &ldquo;Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him just come in.... Why?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and not to leave me
  alone with this... young woman. I only want a few words with her, but God
  knows what they may make of it. I shouldn&rsquo;t like Raskolnikov to repeat
  anything.... You understand what I mean?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I understand!&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov saw the point. &ldquo;Yes, you are right.... Of
  course, I am convinced personally that you have no reason to be uneasy,
  but... still, you are right. Certainly I&rsquo;ll stay. I&rsquo;ll stand here at the
  window and not be in your way... I think you are right...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch returned to the sofa, sat down opposite Sonia, looked
  attentively at her and assumed an extremely dignified, even severe
  expression, as much as to say, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t you make any mistake, madam.&rdquo; Sonia
  was overwhelmed with embarrassment.
<br />
  &ldquo;In the first place, Sofya Semyonovna, will you make my excuses to your
  respected mamma.... That&rsquo;s right, isn&rsquo;t it? Katerina Ivanovna stands in
  the place of a mother to you?&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch began with great dignity,
  though affably.
<br />
  It was evident that his intentions were friendly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Quite so, yes; the place of a mother,&rdquo; Sonia answered, timidly and
  hurriedly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then will you make my apologies to her? Through inevitable circumstances
  I am forced to be absent and shall not be at the dinner in spite of your
  mamma&rsquo;s kind invitation.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes... I&rsquo;ll tell her... at once.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Sonia hastily jumped up from her seat.
<br />
  &ldquo;Wait, that&rsquo;s not all,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch detained her, smiling at her
  simplicity and ignorance of good manners, &ldquo;and you know me little, my dear
  Sofya Semyonovna, if you suppose I would have ventured to trouble a person
  like you for a matter of so little consequence affecting myself only. I
  have another object.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia sat down hurriedly. Her eyes rested again for an instant on the
  grey-and-rainbow-coloured notes that remained on the table, but she
  quickly looked away and fixed her eyes on Pyotr Petrovitch. She felt it
  horribly indecorous, especially for , to look at another
  person&rsquo;s money. She stared at the gold eye-glass which Pyotr Petrovitch
  held in his left hand and at the massive and extremely handsome ring with
  a yellow stone on his middle finger. But suddenly she looked away and, not
  knowing where to turn, ended by staring Pyotr Petrovitch again straight in
  the face. After a pause of still greater dignity he continued.
<br />
  &ldquo;I chanced yesterday in passing to exchange a couple of words with
  Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. That was sufficient to enable me to
  ascertain that she is in a position&mdash;preternatural, if one may so
  express it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes... preternatural...&rdquo; Sonia hurriedly assented.
<br />
  &ldquo;Or it would be simpler and more comprehensible to say, ill.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, simpler and more comprehen... yes, ill.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Quite so. So then from a feeling of humanity and so to speak compassion,
  I should be glad to be of service to her in any way, foreseeing her
  unfortunate position. I believe the whole of this poverty-stricken family
  depends now entirely on you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Allow me to ask,&rdquo; Sonia rose to her feet, &ldquo;did you say something to her
  yesterday of the possibility of a pension? Because she told me you had
  undertaken to get her one. Was that true?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not in the slightest, and indeed it&rsquo;s an absurdity! I merely hinted at
  her obtaining temporary assistance as the widow of an official who had
  died in the service&mdash;if only she has patronage... but apparently your
  late parent had not served his full term and had not indeed been in the
  service at all of late. In fact, if there could be any hope, it would be
  very ephemeral, because there would be no claim for assistance in that
  case, far from it.... And she is dreaming of a pension already,
  he-he-he!... A go-ahead lady!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, she is. For she is credulous and good-hearted, and she believes
  everything from the goodness of her heart and... and... and she is like
  that... yes... You must excuse her,&rdquo; said Sonia, and again she got up to
  go.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you haven&rsquo;t heard what I have to say.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I haven&rsquo;t heard,&rdquo; muttered Sonia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then sit down.&rdquo; She was terribly confused; she sat down again a third
  time.
<br />
  &ldquo;Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I should be glad,
  as I have said before, so far as lies in my power, to be of service, that
  is, so far as is in my power, not more. One might for instance get up a
  subscription for her, or a lottery, something of the sort, such as is
  always arranged in such cases by friends or even outsiders desirous of
  assisting people. It was of that I intended to speak to you; it might be
  done.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes... God will repay you for it,&rdquo; faltered Sonia, gazing intently
  at Pyotr Petrovitch.
<br />
  &ldquo;It might be, but we will talk of it later. We might begin it to-day, we
  will talk it over this evening and lay the foundation so to speak. Come to
  me at seven o&rsquo;clock. Mr. Lebeziatnikov, I hope, will assist us. But there
  is one circumstance of which I ought to warn you beforehand and for which
  I venture to trouble you, Sofya Semyonovna, to come here. In my opinion
  money cannot be, indeed it&rsquo;s unsafe to put it into Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s own
  hands. The dinner to-day is a proof of that. Though she has not, so to
  speak, a crust of bread for to-morrow and... well, boots or shoes, or
  anything; she has bought to-day Jamaica rum, and even, I believe, Madeira
  and... and coffee. I saw it as I passed through. To-morrow it will all
  fall upon you again, they won&rsquo;t have a crust of bread. It&rsquo;s absurd,
  really, and so, to my thinking, a subscription ought to be raised so that
  the unhappy widow should not know of the money, but only you, for
  instance. Am I right?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know... this is only to-day, once in her life.... She was so
  anxious to do honour, to celebrate the memory.... And she is very
  sensible... but just as you think and I shall be very, very... they will
  all be... and God will reward... and the orphans...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia burst into tears.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very well, then, keep it in mind; and now will you accept for the benefit
  of your relation the small sum that I am able to spare, from me
  personally. I am very anxious that my name should not be mentioned in
  connection with it. Here... having so to speak anxieties of my own, I
  cannot do more...&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Pyotr Petrovitch held out to Sonia a ten-rouble note carefully
  unfolded. Sonia took it, flushed crimson, jumped up, muttered something
  and began taking leave. Pyotr Petrovitch accompanied her ceremoniously to
  the door. She got out of the room at last, agitated and distressed, and
  returned to Katerina Ivanovna, overwhelmed with confusion.
<br />
  All this time Lebeziatnikov had stood at the window or walked about the
  room, anxious not to interrupt the conversation; when Sonia had gone he
  walked up to Pyotr Petrovitch and solemnly held out his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;I heard and  everything,&rdquo; he said, laying stress on the last
  verb. &ldquo;That is honourable, I mean to say, it&rsquo;s humane! You wanted to avoid
  gratitude, I saw! And although I cannot, I confess, in principle
  sympathise with private charity, for it not only fails to eradicate the
  evil but even promotes it, yet I must admit that I saw your action with
  pleasure&mdash;yes, yes, I like it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all nonsense,&rdquo; muttered Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted,
  looking carefully at Lebeziatnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s not nonsense! A man who has suffered distress and annoyance as
  you did yesterday and who yet can sympathise with the misery of others,
  such a man... even though he is making a social mistake&mdash;is still
  deserving of respect! I did not expect it indeed of you, Pyotr Petrovitch,
  especially as according to your ideas... oh, what a drawback your ideas
  are to you! How distressed you are for instance by your ill-luck
  yesterday,&rdquo; cried the simple-hearted Lebeziatnikov, who felt a return of
  affection for Pyotr Petrovitch. &ldquo;And, what do you want with marriage, with
   marriage, my dear, noble Pyotr Petrovitch? Why do you cling
  to this  of marriage? Well, you may beat me if you like,
  but I am glad, positively glad it hasn&rsquo;t come off, that you are free, that
  you are not quite lost for humanity.... you see, I&rsquo;ve spoken my mind!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Because I don&rsquo;t want in your free marriage to be made a fool of and to
  bring up another man&rsquo;s children, that&rsquo;s why I want legal marriage,&rdquo; Luzhin
  replied in order to make some answer.
<br />
  He seemed preoccupied by something.
<br />
  &ldquo;Children? You referred to children,&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov started off like a
  warhorse at the trumpet call. &ldquo;Children are a social question and a
  question of first importance, I agree; but the question of children has
  another solution. Some refuse to have children altogether, because they
  suggest the institution of the family. We&rsquo;ll speak of children later, but
  now as to the question of honour, I confess that&rsquo;s my weak point. That
  horrid, military, Pushkin expression is unthinkable in the dictionary of
  the future. What does it mean indeed? It&rsquo;s nonsense, there will be no
  deception in a free marriage! That is only the natural consequence of a
  legal marriage, so to say, its corrective, a protest. So that indeed it&rsquo;s
  not humiliating... and if I ever, to suppose an absurdity, were to be
  legally married, I should be positively glad of it. I should say to my
  wife: &lsquo;My dear, hitherto I have loved you, now I respect you, for you&rsquo;ve
  shown you can protest!&rsquo; You laugh! That&rsquo;s because you are incapable of
  getting away from prejudices. Confound it all! I understand now where the
  unpleasantness is of being deceived in a legal marriage, but it&rsquo;s simply a
  despicable consequence of a despicable position in which both are
  humiliated. When the deception is open, as in a free marriage, then it
  does not exist, it&rsquo;s unthinkable. Your wife will only prove how she
  respects you by considering you incapable of opposing her happiness and
  avenging yourself on her for her new husband. Damn it all! I sometimes
  dream if I were to be married, pfoo! I mean if I were to marry, legally or
  not, it&rsquo;s just the same, I should present my wife with a lover if she had
  not found one for herself. &lsquo;My dear,&rsquo; I should say, &lsquo;I love you, but even
  more than that I desire you to respect me. See!&rsquo; Am I not right?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch sniggered as he listened, but without much merriment. He
  hardly heard it indeed. He was preoccupied with something else and even
  Lebeziatnikov at last noticed it. Pyotr Petrovitch seemed excited and
  rubbed his hands. Lebeziatnikov remembered all this and reflected upon it
  afterwards.


      CHAPTER II


  It would be difficult to explain exactly what could have originated the
  idea of that senseless dinner in Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s disordered brain.
  Nearly ten of the twenty roubles, given by Raskolnikov for Marmeladov&rsquo;s
  funeral, were wasted upon it. Possibly Katerina Ivanovna felt obliged to
  honour the memory of the deceased &ldquo;suitably,&rdquo; that all the lodgers, and
  still more Amalia Ivanovna, might know &ldquo;that he was in no way their
  inferior, and perhaps very much their superior,&rdquo; and that no one had the
  right &ldquo;to turn up his nose at him.&rdquo; Perhaps the chief element was that
  peculiar &ldquo;poor man&rsquo;s pride,&rdquo; which compels many poor people to spend their
  last savings on some traditional social ceremony, simply in order to do
  &ldquo;like other people,&rdquo; and not to &ldquo;be looked down upon.&rdquo; It is very
  probable, too, that Katerina Ivanovna longed on this occasion, at the
  moment when she seemed to be abandoned by everyone, to show those
  &ldquo;wretched contemptible lodgers&rdquo; that she knew &ldquo;how to do things, how to
  entertain&rdquo; and that she had been brought up &ldquo;in a genteel, she might
  almost say aristocratic colonel&rsquo;s family&rdquo; and had not been meant for
  sweeping floors and washing the children&rsquo;s rags at night. Even the poorest
  and most broken-spirited people are sometimes liable to these paroxysms of
  pride and vanity which take the form of an irresistible nervous craving.
  And Katerina Ivanovna was not broken-spirited; she might have been killed
  by circumstance, but her spirit could not have been broken, that is, she
  could not have been intimidated, her will could not be crushed. Moreover
  Sonia had said with good reason that her mind was unhinged. She could not
  be said to be insane, but for a year past she had been so harassed that
  her mind might well be overstrained. The later stages of consumption are
  apt, doctors tell us, to affect the intellect.
<br />
  There was no great variety of wines, nor was there Madeira; but wine there
  was. There was vodka, rum and Lisbon wine, all of the poorest quality but
  in sufficient quantity. Besides the traditional rice and honey, there were
  three or four dishes, one of which consisted of pancakes, all prepared in
  Amalia Ivanovna&rsquo;s kitchen. Two samovars were boiling, that tea and punch
  might be offered after dinner. Katerina Ivanovna had herself seen to
  purchasing the provisions, with the help of one of the lodgers, an
  unfortunate little Pole who had somehow been stranded at Madame
  Lippevechsel&rsquo;s. He promptly put himself at Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s disposal
  and had been all that morning and all the day before running about as fast
  as his legs could carry him, and very anxious that everyone should be
  aware of it. For every trifle he ran to Katerina Ivanovna, even hunting
  her out at the bazaar, at every instant called her &ldquo;.&rdquo; She was
  heartily sick of him before the end, though she had declared at first that
  she could not have got on without this &ldquo;serviceable and magnanimous man.&rdquo;
   It was one of Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s characteristics to paint everyone she
  met in the most glowing colours. Her praises were so exaggerated as
  sometimes to be embarrassing; she would invent various circumstances to
  the credit of her new acquaintance and quite genuinely believe in their
  reality. Then all of a sudden she would be disillusioned and would rudely
  and contemptuously repulse the person she had only a few hours before been
  literally adoring. She was naturally of a gay, lively and peace-loving
  disposition, but from continual failures and misfortunes she had come to
  desire so  that all should live in peace and joy and should
  not  to break the peace, that the slightest jar, the smallest
  disaster reduced her almost to frenzy, and she would pass in an instant
  from the brightest hopes and fancies to cursing her fate and raving, and
  knocking her head against the wall.
<br />
  Amalia Ivanovna, too, suddenly acquired extraordinary importance in
  Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s eyes and was treated by her with extraordinary
  respect, probably only because Amalia Ivanovna had thrown herself heart
  and soul into the preparations. She had undertaken to lay the table, to
  provide the linen, crockery, etc., and to cook the dishes in her kitchen,
  and Katerina Ivanovna had left it all in her hands and gone herself to the
  cemetery. Everything had been well done. Even the table-cloth was nearly
  clean; the crockery, knives, forks and glasses were, of course, of all
  shapes and patterns, lent by different lodgers, but the table was properly
  laid at the time fixed, and Amalia Ivanovna, feeling she had done her work
  well, had put on a black silk dress and a cap with new mourning ribbons
  and met the returning party with some pride. This pride, though
  justifiable, displeased Katerina Ivanovna for some reason: &ldquo;as though the
  table could not have been laid except by Amalia Ivanovna!&rdquo; She disliked
  the cap with new ribbons, too. &ldquo;Could she be stuck up, the stupid German,
  because she was mistress of the house, and had consented as a favour to
  help her poor lodgers! As a favour! Fancy that! Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s father
  who had been a colonel and almost a governor had sometimes had the table
  set for forty persons, and then anyone like Amalia Ivanovna, or rather
  Ludwigovna, would not have been allowed into the kitchen.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Katerina Ivanovna, however, put off expressing her feelings for the time
  and contented herself with treating her coldly, though she decided
  inwardly that she would certainly have to put Amalia Ivanovna down and set
  her in her proper place, for goodness only knew what she was fancying
  herself. Katerina Ivanovna was irritated too by the fact that hardly any
  of the lodgers invited had come to the funeral, except the Pole who had
  just managed to run into the cemetery, while to the memorial dinner the
  poorest and most insignificant of them had turned up, the wretched
  creatures, many of them not quite sober. The older and more respectable of
  them all, as if by common consent, stayed away. Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin,
  for instance, who might be said to be the most respectable of all the
  lodgers, did not appear, though Katerina Ivanovna had the evening before
  told all the world, that is Amalia Ivanovna, Polenka, Sonia and the Pole,
  that he was the most generous, noble-hearted man with a large property and
  vast connections, who had been a friend of her first husband&rsquo;s, and a
  guest in her father&rsquo;s house, and that he had promised to use all his
  influence to secure her a considerable pension. It must be noted that when
  Katerina Ivanovna exalted anyone&rsquo;s connections and fortune, it was without
  any ulterior motive, quite disinterestedly, for the mere pleasure of
  adding to the consequence of the person praised. Probably &ldquo;taking his cue&rdquo;
   from Luzhin, &ldquo;that contemptible wretch Lebeziatnikov had not turned up
  either. What did he fancy himself? He was only asked out of kindness and
  because he was sharing the same room with Pyotr Petrovitch and was a
  friend of his, so that it would have been awkward not to invite him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Among those who failed to appear were &ldquo;the genteel lady and her
  old-maidish daughter,&rdquo; who had only been lodgers in the house for the last
  fortnight, but had several times complained of the noise and uproar in
  Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s room, especially when Marmeladov had come back drunk.
  Katerina Ivanovna heard this from Amalia Ivanovna who, quarrelling with
  Katerina Ivanovna, and threatening to turn the whole family out of doors,
  had shouted at her that they &ldquo;were not worth the foot&rdquo; of the honourable
  lodgers whom they were disturbing. Katerina Ivanovna determined now to
  invite this lady and her daughter, &ldquo;whose foot she was not worth,&rdquo; and who
  had turned away haughtily when she casually met them, so that they might
  know that &ldquo;she was more noble in her thoughts and feelings and did not
  harbour malice,&rdquo; and might see that she was not accustomed to her way of
  living. She had proposed to make this clear to them at dinner with
  allusions to her late father&rsquo;s governorship, and also at the same time to
  hint that it was exceedingly stupid of them to turn away on meeting her.
  The fat colonel-major (he was really a discharged officer of low rank) was
  also absent, but it appeared that he had been &ldquo;not himself&rdquo; for the last
  two days. The party consisted of the Pole, a wretched looking clerk with a
  spotty face and a greasy coat, who had not a word to say for himself, and
  smelt abominably, a deaf and almost blind old man who had once been in the
  post office and who had been from immemorial ages maintained by someone at
  Amalia Ivanovna&rsquo;s.
<br />
  A retired clerk of the commissariat department came, too; he was drunk,
  had a loud and most unseemly laugh and only fancy&mdash;was without a
  waistcoat! One of the visitors sat straight down to the table without even
  greeting Katerina Ivanovna. Finally one person having no suit appeared in
  his dressing-gown, but this was too much, and the efforts of Amalia
  Ivanovna and the Pole succeeded in removing him. The Pole brought with
  him, however, two other Poles who did not live at Amalia Ivanovna&rsquo;s and
  whom no one had seen here before. All this irritated Katerina Ivanovna
  intensely. &ldquo;For whom had they made all these preparations then?&rdquo; To make
  room for the visitors the children had not even been laid for at the
  table; but the two little ones were sitting on a bench in the furthest
  corner with their dinner laid on a box, while Polenka as a big girl had to
  look after them, feed them, and keep their noses wiped like well-bred
  children&rsquo;s.
<br />
  Katerina Ivanovna, in fact, could hardly help meeting her guests with
  increased dignity, and even haughtiness. She stared at some of them with
  special severity, and loftily invited them to take their seats. Rushing to
  the conclusion that Amalia Ivanovna must be responsible for those who were
  absent, she began treating her with extreme nonchalance, which the latter
  promptly observed and resented. Such a beginning was no good omen for the
  end. All were seated at last.
<br />
  Raskolnikov came in almost at the moment of their return from the
  cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly delighted to see him, in the first
  place, because he was the one &ldquo;educated visitor, and, as everyone knew,
  was in two years to take a professorship in the university,&rdquo; and secondly
  because he immediately and respectfully apologised for having been unable
  to be at the funeral. She positively pounced upon him, and made him sit on
  her left hand (Amalia Ivanovna was on her right). In spite of her
  continual anxiety that the dishes should be passed round correctly and
  that everyone should taste them, in spite of the agonising cough which
  interrupted her every minute and seemed to have grown worse during the
  last few days, she hastened to pour out in a half whisper to Raskolnikov
  all her suppressed feelings and her just indignation at the failure of the
  dinner, interspersing her remarks with lively and uncontrollable laughter
  at the expense of her visitors and especially of her landlady.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all that cuckoo&rsquo;s fault! You know whom I mean? Her, her!&rdquo; Katerina
  Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady. &ldquo;Look at her, she&rsquo;s making round
  eyes, she feels that we are talking about her and can&rsquo;t understand. Pfoo,
  the owl! Ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) And what does she put on that cap
  for? (Cough-cough-cough.) Have you noticed that she wants everyone to
  consider that she is patronising me and doing me an honour by being here?
  I asked her like a sensible woman to invite people, especially those who
  knew my late husband, and look at the set of fools she has brought! The
  sweeps! Look at that one with the spotty face. And those wretched Poles,
  ha-ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) Not one of them has ever poked his nose in
  here, I&rsquo;ve never set eyes on them. What have they come here for, I ask
  you? There they sit in a row. Hey, !&rdquo; she cried suddenly to one
  of them, &ldquo;have you tasted the pancakes? Take some more! Have some beer!
  Won&rsquo;t you have some vodka? Look, he&rsquo;s jumped up and is making his bows,
  they must be quite starved, poor things. Never mind, let them eat! They
  don&rsquo;t make a noise, anyway, though I&rsquo;m really afraid for our landlady&rsquo;s
  silver spoons... Amalia Ivanovna!&rdquo; she addressed her suddenly, almost
  aloud, &ldquo;if your spoons should happen to be stolen, I won&rsquo;t be responsible,
  I warn you! Ha-ha-ha!&rdquo; She laughed turning to Raskolnikov, and again
  nodding towards the landlady, in high glee at her sally. &ldquo;She didn&rsquo;t
  understand, she didn&rsquo;t understand again! Look how she sits with her mouth
  open! An owl, a real owl! An owl in new ribbons, ha-ha-ha!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Here her laugh turned again to an insufferable fit of coughing that lasted
  five minutes. Drops of perspiration stood out on her forehead and her
  handkerchief was stained with blood. She showed Raskolnikov the blood in
  silence, and as soon as she could get her breath began whispering to him
  again with extreme animation and a hectic flush on her cheeks.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, I gave her the most delicate instructions, so to speak, for
  inviting that lady and her daughter, you understand of whom I am speaking?
  It needed the utmost delicacy, the greatest nicety, but she has managed
  things so that that fool, that conceited baggage, that provincial
  nonentity, simply because she is the widow of a major, and has come to try
  and get a pension and to fray out her skirts in the government offices,
  because at fifty she paints her face (everybody knows it)... a creature
  like that did not think fit to come, and has not even answered the
  invitation, which the most ordinary good manners required! I can&rsquo;t
  understand why Pyotr Petrovitch has not come? But where&rsquo;s Sonia? Where has
  she gone? Ah, there she is at last! what is it, Sonia, where have you
  been? It&rsquo;s odd that even at your father&rsquo;s funeral you should be so
  unpunctual. Rodion Romanovitch, make room for her beside you. That&rsquo;s your
  place, Sonia... take what you like. Have some of the cold entrée with
  jelly, that&rsquo;s the best. They&rsquo;ll bring the pancakes directly. Have they
  given the children some? Polenka, have you got everything?
  (Cough-cough-cough.) That&rsquo;s all right. Be a good girl, Lida, and, Kolya,
  don&rsquo;t fidget with your feet; sit like a little gentleman. What are you
  saying, Sonia?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia hastened to give her Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s apologies, trying to speak
  loud enough for everyone to hear and carefully choosing the most
  respectful phrases which she attributed to Pyotr Petrovitch. She added
  that Pyotr Petrovitch had particularly told her to say that, as soon as he
  possibly could, he would come immediately to discuss  alone
  with her and to consider what could be done for her, etc., etc.
<br />
  Sonia knew that this would comfort Katerina Ivanovna, would flatter her
  and gratify her pride. She sat down beside Raskolnikov; she made him a
  hurried bow, glancing curiously at him. But for the rest of the time she
  seemed to avoid looking at him or speaking to him. She seemed
  absent-minded, though she kept looking at Katerina Ivanovna, trying to
  please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna had been able to get
  mourning; Sonia was wearing dark brown, and Katerina Ivanovna had on her
  only dress, a dark striped cotton one.
<br />
  The message from Pyotr Petrovitch was very successful. Listening to Sonia
  with dignity, Katerina Ivanovna inquired with equal dignity how Pyotr
  Petrovitch was, then at once whispered almost aloud to Raskolnikov that it
  certainly would have been strange for a man of Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s position
  and standing to find himself in such &ldquo;extraordinary company,&rdquo; in spite of
  his devotion to her family and his old friendship with her father.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s why I am so grateful to you, Rodion Romanovitch, that you have not
  disdained my hospitality, even in such surroundings,&rdquo; she added almost
  aloud. &ldquo;But I am sure that it was only your special affection for my poor
  husband that has made you keep your promise.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Then once more with pride and dignity she scanned her visitors, and
  suddenly inquired aloud across the table of the deaf man: &ldquo;Wouldn&rsquo;t he
  have some more meat, and had he been given some wine?&rdquo; The old man made no
  answer and for a long while could not understand what he was asked, though
  his neighbours amused themselves by poking and shaking him. He simply
  gazed about him with his mouth open, which only increased the general
  mirth.
<br />
  &ldquo;What an imbecile! Look, look! Why was he brought? But as to Pyotr
  Petrovitch, I always had confidence in him,&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna continued,
  &ldquo;and, of course, he is not like...&rdquo; with an extremely stern face she
  addressed Amalia Ivanovna so sharply and loudly that the latter was quite
  disconcerted, &ldquo;not like your dressed up draggletails whom my father would
  not have taken as cooks into his kitchen, and my late husband would have
  done them honour if he had invited them in the goodness of his heart.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, he was fond of drink, he was fond of it, he did drink!&rdquo; cried the
  commissariat clerk, gulping down his twelfth glass of vodka.
<br />
  &ldquo;My late husband certainly had that weakness, and everyone knows it,&rdquo;
   Katerina Ivanovna attacked him at once, &ldquo;but he was a kind and honourable
  man, who loved and respected his family. The worst of it was his good
  nature made him trust all sorts of disreputable people, and he drank with
  fellows who were not worth the sole of his shoe. Would you believe it,
  Rodion Romanovitch, they found a gingerbread cock in his pocket; he was
  dead drunk, but he did not forget the children!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A cock? Did you say a cock?&rdquo; shouted the commissariat clerk.
<br />
  Katerina Ivanovna did not vouchsafe a reply. She sighed, lost in thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;No doubt you think, like everyone, that I was too severe with him,&rdquo; she
  went on, addressing Raskolnikov. &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s not so! He respected me, he
  respected me very much! He was a kind-hearted man! And how sorry I was for
  him sometimes! He would sit in a corner and look at me, I used to feel so
  sorry for him, I used to want to be kind to him and then would think to
  myself: &lsquo;Be kind to him and he will drink again,&rsquo; it was only by severity
  that you could keep him within bounds.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, he used to get his hair pulled pretty often,&rdquo; roared the
  commissariat clerk again, swallowing another glass of vodka.
<br />
  &ldquo;Some fools would be the better for a good drubbing, as well as having
  their hair pulled. I am not talking of my late husband now!&rdquo; Katerina
  Ivanovna snapped at him.
<br />
  The flush on her cheeks grew more and more marked, her chest heaved. In
  another minute she would have been ready to make a scene. Many of the
  visitors were sniggering, evidently delighted. They began poking the
  commissariat clerk and whispering something to him. They were evidently
  trying to egg him on.
<br />
  &ldquo;Allow me to ask what are you alluding to,&rdquo; began the clerk, &ldquo;that is to
  say, whose... about whom... did you say just now... But I don&rsquo;t care!
  That&rsquo;s nonsense! Widow! I forgive you.... Pass!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he took another drink of vodka.
<br />
  Raskolnikov sat in silence, listening with disgust. He only ate from
  politeness, just tasting the food that Katerina Ivanovna was continually
  putting on his plate, to avoid hurting her feelings. He watched Sonia
  intently. But Sonia became more and more anxious and distressed; she, too,
  foresaw that the dinner would not end peaceably, and saw with terror
  Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s growing irritation. She knew that she, Sonia, was the
  chief reason for the &lsquo;genteel&rsquo; ladies&rsquo; contemptuous treatment of Katerina
  Ivanovna&rsquo;s invitation. She had heard from Amalia Ivanovna that the mother
  was positively offended at the invitation and had asked the question: &ldquo;How
  could she let her daughter sit down beside ?&rdquo;
   Sonia had a feeling that Katerina Ivanovna had already heard this and an
  insult to Sonia meant more to Katerina Ivanovna than an insult to herself,
  her children, or her father, Sonia knew that Katerina Ivanovna would not
  be satisfied now, &ldquo;till she had shown those draggletails that they were
  both...&rdquo; To make matters worse someone passed Sonia, from the other end of
  the table, a plate with two hearts pierced with an arrow, cut out of black
  bread. Katerina Ivanovna flushed crimson and at once said aloud across the
  table that the man who sent it was &ldquo;a drunken ass!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Amalia Ivanovna was foreseeing something amiss, and at the same time
  deeply wounded by Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s haughtiness, and to restore the
  good-humour of the company and raise herself in their esteem she began,
  apropos of nothing, telling a story about an acquaintance of hers &ldquo;Karl
  from the chemist&rsquo;s,&rdquo; who was driving one night in a cab, and that &ldquo;the
  cabman wanted him to kill, and Karl very much begged him not to kill, and
  wept and clasped hands, and frightened and from fear pierced his heart.&rdquo;
   Though Katerina Ivanovna smiled, she observed at once that Amalia Ivanovna
  ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian; the latter was still more
  offended, and she retorted that her &ldquo; was a very
  important man, and always went with his hands in pockets.&rdquo; Katerina
  Ivanovna could not restrain herself and laughed so much that Amalia
  Ivanovna lost patience and could scarcely control herself.
<br />
  &ldquo;Listen to the owl!&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna whispered at once, her good-humour
  almost restored, &ldquo;she meant to say he kept his hands in his pockets, but
  she said he put his hands in people&rsquo;s pockets. (Cough-cough.) And have you
  noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that all these Petersburg foreigners, the
  Germans especially, are all stupider than we! Can you fancy anyone of us
  telling how &lsquo;Karl from the chemist&rsquo;s&rsquo; &lsquo;pierced his heart from fear&rsquo; and
  that the idiot, instead of punishing the cabman, &lsquo;clasped his hands and
  wept, and much begged.&rsquo; Ah, the fool! And you know she fancies it&rsquo;s very
  touching and does not suspect how stupid she is! To my thinking that
  drunken commissariat clerk is a great deal cleverer, anyway one can see
  that he has addled his brains with drink, but you know, these foreigners
  are always so well behaved and serious.... Look how she sits glaring! She
  is angry, ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.)&rdquo;
 <br />
  Regaining her good-humour, Katerina Ivanovna began at once telling
  Raskolnikov that when she had obtained her pension, she intended to open a
  school for the daughters of gentlemen in her native town T&mdash;&mdash;.
  This was the first time she had spoken to him of the project, and she
  launched out into the most alluring details. It suddenly appeared that
  Katerina Ivanovna had in her hands the very certificate of honour of which
  Marmeladov had spoken to Raskolnikov in the tavern, when he told him that
  Katerina Ivanovna, his wife, had danced the shawl dance before the
  governor and other great personages on leaving school. This certificate of
  honour was obviously intended now to prove Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s right to
  open a boarding-school; but she had armed herself with it chiefly with the
  object of overwhelming &ldquo;those two stuck-up draggletails&rdquo; if they came to
  the dinner, and proving incontestably that Katerina Ivanovna was of the
  most noble, &ldquo;she might even say aristocratic family, a colonel&rsquo;s daughter
  and was far superior to certain adventuresses who have been so much to the
  fore of late.&rdquo; The certificate of honour immediately passed into the hands
  of the drunken guests, and Katerina Ivanovna did not try to retain it, for
  it actually contained the statement , that her
  father was of the rank of a major, and also a companion of an order, so
  that she really was almost the daughter of a colonel.
<br />
  Warming up, Katerina Ivanovna proceeded to enlarge on the peaceful and
  happy life they would lead in T&mdash;&mdash;, on the gymnasium teachers
  whom she would engage to give lessons in her boarding-school, one a most
  respectable old Frenchman, one Mangot, who had taught Katerina Ivanovna
  herself in old days and was still living in T&mdash;&mdash;, and would no
  doubt teach in her school on moderate terms. Next she spoke of Sonia who
  would go with her to T&mdash;&mdash; and help her in all her plans. At
  this someone at the further end of the table gave a sudden guffaw.
<br />
  Though Katerina Ivanovna tried to appear to be disdainfully unaware of it,
  she raised her voice and began at once speaking with conviction of Sonia&rsquo;s
  undoubted ability to assist her, of &ldquo;her gentleness, patience, devotion,
  generosity and good education,&rdquo; tapping Sonia on the cheek and kissing her
  warmly twice. Sonia flushed crimson, and Katerina Ivanovna suddenly burst
  into tears, immediately observing that she was &ldquo;nervous and silly, that
  she was too much upset, that it was time to finish, and as the dinner was
  over, it was time to hand round the tea.&rdquo;
 <br />
  At that moment, Amalia Ivanovna, deeply aggrieved at taking no part in the
  conversation, and not being listened to, made one last effort, and with
  secret misgivings ventured on an exceedingly deep and weighty observation,
  that &ldquo;in the future boarding-school she would have to pay particular
  attention to , and that there certainly must be a good 
  to look after the linen, and secondly that the young ladies must not
  novels at night read.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Katerina Ivanovna, who certainly was upset and very tired, as well as
  heartily sick of the dinner, at once cut short Amalia Ivanovna, saying
  &ldquo;she knew nothing about it and was talking nonsense, that it was the
  business of the laundry maid, and not of the directress of a high-class
  boarding-school to look after , and as for novel-reading,
  that was simply rudeness, and she begged her to be silent.&rdquo; Amalia
  Ivanovna fired up and getting angry observed that she only &ldquo;meant her
  good,&rdquo; and that &ldquo;she had meant her very good,&rdquo; and that &ldquo;it was long since
  she had paid her  for the lodgings.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Katerina Ivanovna at once &ldquo;set her down,&rdquo; saying that it was a lie to say
  she wished her good, because only yesterday when her dead husband was
  lying on the table, she had worried her about the lodgings. To this Amalia
  Ivanovna very appropriately observed that she had invited those ladies,
  but &ldquo;those ladies had not come, because those ladies  ladies and
  cannot come to a lady who is not a lady.&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna at once
  pointed out to her, that as she was a slut she could not judge what made
  one really a lady. Amalia Ivanovna at once declared that her &ldquo; was a very, very important man, and both hands in pockets went,
  and always used to say: &lsquo;Poof! poof!&rsquo;&rdquo; and she leapt up from the table to
  represent her father, sticking her hands in her pockets, puffing her
  cheeks, and uttering vague sounds resembling &ldquo;poof! poof!&rdquo; amid loud
  laughter from all the lodgers, who purposely encouraged Amalia Ivanovna,
  hoping for a fight.
<br />
  But this was too much for Katerina Ivanovna, and she at once declared, so
  that all could hear, that Amalia Ivanovna probably never had a father, but
  was simply a drunken Petersburg Finn, and had certainly once been a cook
  and probably something worse. Amalia Ivanovna turned as red as a lobster
  and squealed that perhaps Katerina Ivanovna never had a father, &ldquo;but she
  had a  and that he wore a long coat and always said
  poof-poof-poof!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Katerina Ivanovna observed contemptuously that all knew what her family
  was and that on that very certificate of honour it was stated in print
  that her father was a colonel, while Amalia Ivanovna&rsquo;s father&mdash;if she
  really had one&mdash;was probably some Finnish milkman, but that probably
  she never had a father at all, since it was still uncertain whether her
  name was Amalia Ivanovna or Amalia Ludwigovna.
<br />
  At this Amalia Ivanovna, lashed to fury, struck the table with her fist,
  and shrieked that she was Amalia Ivanovna, and not Ludwigovna, &ldquo;that her
   was named Johann and that he was a burgomeister, and that
  Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s  was quite never a burgomeister.&rdquo; Katerina
  Ivanovna rose from her chair, and with a stern and apparently calm voice
  (though she was pale and her chest was heaving) observed that &ldquo;if she
  dared for one moment to set her contemptible wretch of a father on a level
  with her papa, she, Katerina Ivanovna, would tear her cap off her head and
  trample it under foot.&rdquo; Amalia Ivanovna ran about the room, shouting at
  the top of her voice, that she was mistress of the house and that Katerina
  Ivanovna should leave the lodgings that minute; then she rushed for some
  reason to collect the silver spoons from the table. There was a great
  outcry and uproar, the children began crying. Sonia ran to restrain
  Katerina Ivanovna, but when Amalia Ivanovna shouted something about &ldquo;the
  yellow ticket,&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna pushed Sonia away, and rushed at the
  landlady to carry out her threat.
<br />
  At that minute the door opened, and Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin appeared on
  the threshold. He stood scanning the party with severe and vigilant eyes.
  Katerina Ivanovna rushed to him.


      CHAPTER III


  &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;protect me... you at least! Make this
  foolish woman understand that she can&rsquo;t behave like this to a lady in
  misfortune... that there is a law for such things.... I&rsquo;ll go to the
  governor-general himself.... She shall answer for it.... Remembering my
  father&rsquo;s hospitality protect these orphans.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Allow me, madam.... Allow me.&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch waved her off. &ldquo;Your papa
  as you are well aware I had not the honour of knowing&rdquo; (someone laughed
  aloud) &ldquo;and I do not intend to take part in your everlasting squabbles
  with Amalia Ivanovna.... I have come here to speak of my own affairs...
  and I want to have a word with your stepdaughter, Sofya... Ivanovna, I
  think it is? Allow me to pass.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch, edging by her, went to the opposite corner where Sonia
  was.
<br />
  Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she was, as though
  thunderstruck. She could not understand how Pyotr Petrovitch could deny
  having enjoyed her father&rsquo;s hospitality. Though she had invented it
  herself, she believed in it firmly by this time. She was struck too by the
  businesslike, dry and even contemptuous menacing tone of Pyotr Petrovitch.
  All the clamour gradually died away at his entrance. Not only was this
  &ldquo;serious business man&rdquo; strikingly incongruous with the rest of the party,
  but it was evident, too, that he had come upon some matter of consequence,
  that some exceptional cause must have brought him and that therefore
  something was going to happen. Raskolnikov, standing beside Sonia, moved
  aside to let him pass; Pyotr Petrovitch did not seem to notice him. A
  minute later Lebeziatnikov, too, appeared in the doorway; he did not come
  in, but stood still, listening with marked interest, almost wonder, and
  seemed for a time perplexed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it&rsquo;s a matter of some
  importance,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch observed, addressing the company generally.
  &ldquo;I am glad indeed to find other persons present. Amalia Ivanovna, I humbly
  beg you as mistress of the house to pay careful attention to what I have
  to say to Sofya Ivanovna. Sofya Ivanovna,&rdquo; he went on, addressing Sonia,
  who was very much surprised and already alarmed, &ldquo;immediately after your
  visit I found that a hundred-rouble note was missing from my table, in the
  room of my friend Mr. Lebeziatnikov. If in any way whatever you know and
  will tell us where it is now, I assure you on my word of honour and call
  all present to witness that the matter shall end there. In the opposite
  case I shall be compelled to have recourse to very serious measures and
  then... you must blame yourself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Complete silence reigned in the room. Even the crying children were still.
  Sonia stood deadly pale, staring at Luzhin and unable to say a word. She
  seemed not to understand. Some seconds passed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, how is it to be then?&rdquo; asked Luzhin, looking intently at her.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.... I know nothing about it,&rdquo; Sonia articulated faintly at
  last.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, you know nothing?&rdquo; Luzhin repeated and again he paused for some
  seconds. &ldquo;Think a moment, mademoiselle,&rdquo; he began severely, but still, as
  it were, admonishing her. &ldquo;Reflect, I am prepared to give you time for
  consideration. Kindly observe this: if I were not so entirely convinced I
  should not, you may be sure, with my experience venture to accuse you so
  directly. Seeing that for such direct accusation before witnesses, if
  false or even mistaken, I should myself in a certain sense be made
  responsible, I am aware of that. This morning I changed for my own
  purposes several five-per-cent securities for the sum of approximately
  three thousand roubles. The account is noted down in my pocket-book. On my
  return home I proceeded to count the money&mdash;as Mr. Lebeziatnikov will
  bear witness&mdash;and after counting two thousand three hundred roubles I
  put the rest in my pocket-book in my coat pocket. About five hundred
  roubles remained on the table and among them three notes of a hundred
  roubles each. At that moment you entered (at my invitation)&mdash;and all
  the time you were present you were exceedingly embarrassed; so that three
  times you jumped up in the middle of the conversation and tried to make
  off. Mr. Lebeziatnikov can bear witness to this. You yourself,
  mademoiselle, probably will not refuse to confirm my statement that I
  invited you through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, solely in order to discuss with you
  the hopeless and destitute position of your relative, Katerina Ivanovna
  (whose dinner I was unable to attend), and the advisability of getting up
  something of the nature of a subscription, lottery or the like, for her
  benefit. You thanked me and even shed tears. I describe all this as it
  took place, primarily to recall it to your mind and secondly to show you
  that not the slightest detail has escaped my recollection. Then I took a
  ten-rouble note from the table and handed it to you by way of first
  instalment on my part for the benefit of your relative. Mr. Lebeziatnikov
  saw all this. Then I accompanied you to the door&mdash;you being still in
  the same state of embarrassment&mdash;after which, being left alone with
  Mr. Lebeziatnikov I talked to him for ten minutes&mdash;then Mr.
  Lebeziatnikov went out and I returned to the table with the money lying on
  it, intending to count it and to put it aside, as I proposed doing before.
  To my surprise one hundred-rouble note had disappeared. Kindly consider
  the position. Mr. Lebeziatnikov I cannot suspect. I am ashamed to allude
  to such a supposition. I cannot have made a mistake in my reckoning, for
  the minute before your entrance I had finished my accounts and found the
  total correct. You will admit that recollecting your embarrassment, your
  eagerness to get away and the fact that you kept your hands for some time
  on the table, and taking into consideration your social position and the
  habits associated with it, I was, so to say, with horror and positively
  against my will,  to entertain a suspicion&mdash;a cruel,
  but justifiable suspicion! I will add further and repeat that in spite of
  my positive conviction, I realise that I run a certain risk in making this
  accusation, but as you see, I could not let it pass. I have taken action
  and I will tell you why: solely, madam, solely, owing to your black
  ingratitude! Why! I invite you for the benefit of your destitute relative,
  I present you with my donation of ten roubles and you, on the spot, repay
  me for all that with such an action. It is too bad! You need a lesson.
  Reflect! Moreover, like a true friend I beg you&mdash;and you could have
  no better friend at this moment&mdash;think what you are doing, otherwise
  I shall be immovable! Well, what do you say?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have taken nothing,&rdquo; Sonia whispered in terror, &ldquo;you gave me ten
  roubles, here it is, take it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, untied a corner of it,
  took out the ten-rouble note and gave it to Luzhin.
<br />
  &ldquo;And the hundred roubles you do not confess to taking?&rdquo; he insisted
  reproachfully, not taking the note.
<br />
  Sonia looked about her. All were looking at her with such awful, stern,
  ironical, hostile eyes. She looked at Raskolnikov... he stood against the
  wall, with his arms crossed, looking at her with glowing eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; broke from Sonia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to send word to the police and therefore I
  humbly beg you meanwhile to send for the house porter,&rdquo; Luzhin said softly
  and even kindly.
<br />
  &ldquo;! I knew she was the thief,&rdquo; cried Amalia
  Ivanovna, throwing up her hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;You knew it?&rdquo; Luzhin caught her up, &ldquo;then I suppose you had some reason
  before this for thinking so. I beg you, worthy Amalia Ivanovna, to
  remember your words which have been uttered before witnesses.&rdquo;
 <br />
  There was a buzz of loud conversation on all sides. All were in movement.
<br />
  &ldquo;What!&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna, suddenly realising the position, and she
  rushed at Luzhin. &ldquo;What! You accuse her of stealing? Sonia? Ah, the
  wretches, the wretches!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And running to Sonia she flung her wasted arms round her and held her as
  in a vise.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sonia! how dared you take ten roubles from him? Foolish girl! Give it to
  me! Give me the ten roubles at once&mdash;here!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And snatching the note from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it up and
  flung it straight into Luzhin&rsquo;s face. It hit him in the eye and fell on
  the ground. Amalia Ivanovna hastened to pick it up. Pyotr Petrovitch lost
  his temper.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hold that mad woman!&rdquo; he shouted.
<br />
  At that moment several other persons, besides Lebeziatnikov, appeared in
  the doorway, among them the two ladies.
<br />
  &ldquo;What! Mad? Am I mad? Idiot!&rdquo; shrieked Katerina Ivanovna. &ldquo;You are an
  idiot yourself, pettifogging lawyer, base man! Sonia, Sonia take his
  money! Sonia a thief! Why, she&rsquo;d give away her last penny!&rdquo; and Katerina
  Ivanovna broke into hysterical laughter. &ldquo;Did you ever see such an idiot?&rdquo;
   she turned from side to side. &ldquo;And you too?&rdquo; she suddenly saw the
  landlady, &ldquo;and you too, sausage eater, you declare that she is a thief,
  you trashy Prussian hen&rsquo;s leg in a crinoline! She hasn&rsquo;t been out of this
  room: she came straight from you, you wretch, and sat down beside me,
  everyone saw her. She sat here, by Rodion Romanovitch. Search her! Since
  she&rsquo;s not left the room, the money would have to be on her! Search her,
  search her! But if you don&rsquo;t find it, then excuse me, my dear fellow,
  you&rsquo;ll answer for it! I&rsquo;ll go to our Sovereign, to our Sovereign, to our
  gracious Tsar himself, and throw myself at his feet, to-day, this minute!
  I am alone in the world! They would let me in! Do you think they wouldn&rsquo;t?
  You&rsquo;re wrong, I will get in! I will get in! You reckoned on her meekness!
  You relied upon that! But I am not so submissive, let me tell you! You&rsquo;ve
  gone too far yourself. Search her, search her!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Katerina Ivanovna in a frenzy shook Luzhin and dragged him towards
  Sonia.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am ready, I&rsquo;ll be responsible... but calm yourself, madam, calm
  yourself. I see that you are not so submissive!... Well, well, but as to
  that...&rdquo; Luzhin muttered, &ldquo;that ought to be before the police... though
  indeed there are witnesses enough as it is.... I am ready.... But in any
  case it&rsquo;s difficult for a man... on account of her sex.... But with the
  help of Amalia Ivanovna... though, of course, it&rsquo;s not the way to do
  things.... How is it to be done?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;As you will! Let anyone who likes search her!&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna.
  &ldquo;Sonia, turn out your pockets! See! Look, monster, the pocket is empty,
  here was her handkerchief! Here is the other pocket, look! D&rsquo;you see,
  d&rsquo;you see?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And Katerina Ivanovna turned&mdash;or rather snatched&mdash;both pockets
  inside out. But from the right pocket a piece of paper flew out and
  describing a parabola in the air fell at Luzhin&rsquo;s feet. Everyone saw it,
  several cried out. Pyotr Petrovitch stooped down, picked up the paper in
  two fingers, lifted it where all could see it and opened it. It was a
  hundred-rouble note folded in eight. Pyotr Petrovitch held up the note
  showing it to everyone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thief! Out of my lodging. Police, police!&rdquo; yelled Amalia Ivanovna. &ldquo;They
  must to Siberia be sent! Away!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Exclamations arose on all sides. Raskolnikov was silent, keeping his eyes
  fixed on Sonia, except for an occasional rapid glance at Luzhin. Sonia
  stood still, as though unconscious. She was hardly able to feel surprise.
  Suddenly the colour rushed to her cheeks; she uttered a cry and hid her
  face in her hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, it wasn&rsquo;t I! I didn&rsquo;t take it! I know nothing about it,&rdquo; she cried
  with a heartrending wail, and she ran to Katerina Ivanovna, who clasped
  her tightly in her arms, as though she would shelter her from all the
  world.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sonia! Sonia! I don&rsquo;t believe it! You see, I don&rsquo;t believe it!&rdquo; she cried
  in the face of the obvious fact, swaying her to and fro in her arms like a
  baby, kissing her face continually, then snatching at her hands and
  kissing them, too, &ldquo;you took it! How stupid these people are! Oh dear! You
  are fools, fools,&rdquo; she cried, addressing the whole room, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t know,
  you don&rsquo;t know what a heart she has, what a girl she is! She take it, she?
  She&rsquo;d sell her last rag, she&rsquo;d go barefoot to help you if you needed it,
  that&rsquo;s what she is! She has the yellow passport because my children were
  starving, she sold herself for us! Ah, husband, husband! Do you see? Do
  you see? What a memorial dinner for you! Merciful heavens! Defend her, why
  are you all standing still? Rodion Romanovitch, why don&rsquo;t you stand up for
  her? Do you believe it, too? You are not worth her little finger, all of
  you together! Good God! Defend her now, at least!&rdquo;
 <br />
  The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed to produce a
  great effect on her audience. The agonised, wasted, consumptive face, the
  parched blood-stained lips, the hoarse voice, the tears unrestrained as a
  child&rsquo;s, the trustful, childish and yet despairing prayer for help were so
  piteous that everyone seemed to feel for her. Pyotr Petrovitch at any rate
  was at once moved to .
<br />
  &ldquo;Madam, madam, this incident does not reflect upon you!&rdquo; he cried
  impressively, &ldquo;no one would take upon himself to accuse you of being an
  instigator or even an accomplice in it, especially as you have proved her
  guilt by turning out her pockets, showing that you had no previous idea of
  it. I am most ready, most ready to show compassion, if poverty, so to
  speak, drove Sofya Semyonovna to it, but why did you refuse to confess,
  mademoiselle? Were you afraid of the disgrace? The first step? You lost
  your head, perhaps? One can quite understand it.... But how could you have
  lowered yourself to such an action? Gentlemen,&rdquo; he addressed the whole
  company, &ldquo;gentlemen! Compassionate and, so to say, commiserating these
  people, I am ready to overlook it even now in spite of the personal insult
  lavished upon me! And may this disgrace be a lesson to you for the
  future,&rdquo; he said, addressing Sonia, &ldquo;and I will carry the matter no
  further. Enough!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch stole a glance at Raskolnikov. Their eyes met, and the
  fire in Raskolnikov&rsquo;s seemed ready to reduce him to ashes. Meanwhile
  Katerina Ivanovna apparently heard nothing. She was kissing and hugging
  Sonia like a madwoman. The children, too, were embracing Sonia on all
  sides, and Polenka&mdash;though she did not fully understand what was
  wrong&mdash;was drowned in tears and shaking with sobs, as she hid her
  pretty little face, swollen with weeping, on Sonia&rsquo;s shoulder.
<br />
  &ldquo;How vile!&rdquo; a loud voice cried suddenly in the doorway.
<br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch looked round quickly.
<br />
  &ldquo;What vileness!&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov repeated, staring him straight in the face.
<br />
  Pyotr Petrovitch gave a positive start&mdash;all noticed it and recalled
  it afterwards. Lebeziatnikov strode into the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;And you dared to call me as witness?&rdquo; he said, going up to Pyotr
  Petrovitch.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean? What are you talking about?&rdquo; muttered Luzhin.
<br />
  &ldquo;I mean that you... are a slanderer, that&rsquo;s what my words mean!&rdquo;
   Lebeziatnikov said hotly, looking sternly at him with his short-sighted
  eyes.
<br />
  He was extremely angry. Raskolnikov gazed intently at him, as though
  seizing and weighing each word. Again there was a silence. Pyotr
  Petrovitch indeed seemed almost dumbfounded for the first moment.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you mean that for me,...&rdquo; he began, stammering. &ldquo;But what&rsquo;s the matter
  with you? Are you out of your mind?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m in my mind, but you are a scoundrel! Ah, how vile! I have heard
  everything. I kept waiting on purpose to understand it, for I must own
  even now it is not quite logical.... What you have done it all for I can&rsquo;t
  understand.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, what have I done then? Give over talking in your nonsensical
  riddles! Or maybe you are drunk!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You may be a drunkard, perhaps, vile man, but I am not! I never touch
  vodka, for it&rsquo;s against my convictions. Would you believe it, he, he
  himself, with his own hands gave Sofya Semyonovna that hundred-rouble note&mdash;I
  saw it, I was a witness, I&rsquo;ll take my oath! He did it, he!&rdquo; repeated
  Lebeziatnikov, addressing all.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you crazy, milksop?&rdquo; squealed Luzhin. &ldquo;She is herself before you&mdash;she
  herself here declared just now before everyone that I gave her only ten
  roubles. How could I have given it to her?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I saw it, I saw it,&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov repeated, &ldquo;and though it is against my
  principles, I am ready this very minute to take any oath you like before
  the court, for I saw how you slipped it in her pocket. Only like a fool I
  thought you did it out of kindness! When you were saying good-bye to her
  at the door, while you held her hand in one hand, with the other, the
  left, you slipped the note into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Luzhin turned pale.
<br />
  &ldquo;What lies!&rdquo; he cried impudently, &ldquo;why, how could you, standing by the
  window, see the note? You fancied it with your short-sighted eyes. You are
  raving!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I didn&rsquo;t fancy it. And though I was standing some way off, I saw it
  all. And though it certainly would be hard to distinguish a note from the
  window&mdash;that&rsquo;s true&mdash;I knew for certain that it was a
  hundred-rouble note, because, when you were going to give Sofya Semyonovna
  ten roubles, you took up from the table a hundred-rouble note (I saw it
  because I was standing near then, and an idea struck me at once, so that I
  did not forget you had it in your hand). You folded it and kept it in your
  hand all the time. I didn&rsquo;t think of it again until, when you were getting
  up, you changed it from your right hand to your left and nearly dropped
  it! I noticed it because the same idea struck me again, that you meant to
  do her a kindness without my seeing. You can fancy how I watched you and I
  saw how you succeeded in slipping it into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it,
  I&rsquo;ll take my oath.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Lebeziatnikov was almost breathless. Exclamations arose on all hands
  chiefly expressive of wonder, but some were menacing in tone. They all
  crowded round Pyotr Petrovitch. Katerina Ivanovna flew to Lebeziatnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was mistaken in you! Protect her! You are the only one to take her
  part! She is an orphan. God has sent you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Katerina Ivanovna, hardly knowing what she was doing, sank on her knees
  before him.
<br />
  &ldquo;A pack of nonsense!&rdquo; yelled Luzhin, roused to fury, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s all nonsense
  you&rsquo;ve been talking! &lsquo;An idea struck you, you didn&rsquo;t think, you noticed&rsquo;&mdash;what
  does it amount to? So I gave it to her on the sly on purpose? What for?
  With what object? What have I to do with this...?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What for? That&rsquo;s what I can&rsquo;t understand, but that what I am telling you
  is the fact, that&rsquo;s certain! So far from my being mistaken, you infamous
  criminal man, I remember how, on account of it, a question occurred to me
  at once, just when I was thanking you and pressing your hand. What made
  you put it secretly in her pocket? Why you did it secretly, I mean? Could
  it be simply to conceal it from me, knowing that my convictions are
  opposed to yours and that I do not approve of private benevolence, which
  effects no radical cure? Well, I decided that you really were ashamed of
  giving such a large sum before me. Perhaps, too, I thought, he wants to
  give her a surprise, when she finds a whole hundred-rouble note in her
  pocket. (For I know, some benevolent people are very fond of decking out
  their charitable actions in that way.) Then the idea struck me, too, that
  you wanted to test her, to see whether, when she found it, she would come
  to thank you. Then, too, that you wanted to avoid thanks and that, as the
  saying is, your right hand should not know... something of that sort, in
  fact. I thought of so many possibilities that I put off considering it,
  but still thought it indelicate to show you that I knew your secret. But
  another idea struck me again that Sofya Semyonovna might easily lose the
  money before she noticed it, that was why I decided to come in here to
  call her out of the room and to tell her that you put a hundred roubles in
  her pocket. But on my way I went first to Madame Kobilatnikov&rsquo;s to take
  them the &lsquo;General Treatise on the Positive Method&rsquo; and especially to
  recommend Piderit&rsquo;s article (and also Wagner&rsquo;s); then I come on here and
  what a state of things I find! Now could I, could I, have all these ideas
  and reflections if I had not seen you put the hundred-rouble note in her
  pocket?&rdquo;
 <br />
  When Lebeziatnikov finished his long-winded harangue with the logical
  deduction at the end, he was quite tired, and the perspiration streamed
  from his face. He could not, alas, even express himself correctly in
  Russian, though he knew no other language, so that he was quite exhausted,
  almost emaciated after this heroic exploit. But his speech produced a
  powerful effect. He had spoken with such vehemence, with such conviction
  that everyone obviously believed him. Pyotr Petrovitch felt that things
  were going badly with him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is it to do with me if silly ideas did occur to you?&rdquo; he shouted,
  &ldquo;that&rsquo;s no evidence. You may have dreamt it, that&rsquo;s all! And I tell you,
  you are lying, sir. You are lying and slandering from some spite against
  me, simply from pique, because I did not agree with your free-thinking,
  godless, social propositions!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But this retort did not benefit Pyotr Petrovitch. Murmurs of disapproval
  were heard on all sides.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s your line now, is it!&rdquo; cried Lebeziatnikov, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s nonsense!
  Call the police and I&rsquo;ll take my oath! There&rsquo;s only one thing I can&rsquo;t
  understand: what made him risk such a contemptible action. Oh, pitiful,
  despicable man!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I can explain why he risked such an action, and if necessary, I, too,
  will swear to it,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said at last in a firm voice, and he
  stepped forward.
<br />
  He appeared to be firm and composed. Everyone felt clearly, from the very
  look of him that he really knew about it and that the mystery would be
  solved.
<br />
  &ldquo;Now I can explain it all to myself,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, addressing
  Lebeziatnikov. &ldquo;From the very beginning of the business, I suspected that
  there was some scoundrelly intrigue at the bottom of it. I began to
  suspect it from some special circumstances known to me only, which I will
  explain at once to everyone: they account for everything. Your valuable
  evidence has finally made everything clear to me. I beg all, all to
  listen. This gentleman (he pointed to Luzhin) was recently engaged to be
  married to a young lady&mdash;my sister, Avdotya Romanovna Raskolnikov.
  But coming to Petersburg he quarrelled with me, the day before yesterday,
  at our first meeting and I drove him out of my room&mdash;I have two
  witnesses to prove it. He is a very spiteful man.... The day before
  yesterday I did not know that he was staying here, in your room, and that
  consequently on the very day we quarrelled&mdash;the day before yesterday&mdash;he
  saw me give Katerina Ivanovna some money for the funeral, as a friend of
  the late Mr. Marmeladov. He at once wrote a note to my mother and informed
  her that I had given away all my money, not to Katerina Ivanovna but to
  Sofya Semyonovna, and referred in a most contemptible way to the...
  character of Sofya Semyonovna, that is, hinted at the character of my
  attitude to Sofya Semyonovna. All this you understand was with the object
  of dividing me from my mother and sister, by insinuating that I was
  squandering on unworthy objects the money which they had sent me and which
  was all they had. Yesterday evening, before my mother and sister and in
  his presence, I declared that I had given the money to Katerina Ivanovna
  for the funeral and not to Sofya Semyonovna and that I had no acquaintance
  with Sofya Semyonovna and had never seen her before, indeed. At the same
  time I added that he, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, with all his virtues, was
  not worth Sofya Semyonovna&rsquo;s little finger, though he spoke so ill of her.
  To his question&mdash;would I let Sofya Semyonovna sit down beside my
  sister, I answered that I had already done so that day. Irritated that my
  mother and sister were unwilling to quarrel with me at his insinuations,
  he gradually began being unpardonably rude to them. A final rupture took
  place and he was turned out of the house. All this happened yesterday
  evening. Now I beg your special attention: consider: if he had now
  succeeded in proving that Sofya Semyonovna was a thief, he would have
  shown to my mother and sister that he was almost right in his suspicions,
  that he had reason to be angry at my putting my sister on a level with
  Sofya Semyonovna, that, in attacking me, he was protecting and preserving
  the honour of my sister, his betrothed. In fact he might even, through all
  this, have been able to estrange me from my family, and no doubt he hoped
  to be restored to favour with them; to say nothing of revenging himself on
  me personally, for he has grounds for supposing that the honour and
  happiness of Sofya Semyonovna are very precious to me. That was what he
  was working for! That&rsquo;s how I understand it. That&rsquo;s the whole reason for
  it and there can be no other!&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was like this, or somewhat like this, that Raskolnikov wound up his
  speech which was followed very attentively, though often interrupted by
  exclamations from his audience. But in spite of interruptions he spoke
  clearly, calmly, exactly, firmly. His decisive voice, his tone of
  conviction and his stern face made a great impression on everyone.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, that&rsquo;s it,&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov assented gleefully, &ldquo;that must be it,
  for he asked me, as soon as Sofya Semyonovna came into our room, whether
  you were here, whether I had seen you among Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s guests. He
  called me aside to the window and asked me in secret. It was essential for
  him that you should be here! That&rsquo;s it, that&rsquo;s it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Luzhin smiled contemptuously and did not speak. But he was very pale. He
  seemed to be deliberating on some means of escape. Perhaps he would have
  been glad to give up everything and get away, but at the moment this was
  scarcely possible. It would have implied admitting the truth of the
  accusations brought against him. Moreover, the company, which had already
  been excited by drink, was now too much stirred to allow it. The
  commissariat clerk, though indeed he had not grasped the whole position,
  was shouting louder than anyone and was making some suggestions very
  unpleasant to Luzhin. But not all those present were drunk; lodgers came
  in from all the rooms. The three Poles were tremendously excited and were
  continually shouting at him: &ldquo;The  is a !&rdquo; and
  muttering threats in Polish. Sonia had been listening with strained
  attention, though she too seemed unable to grasp it all; she seemed as
  though she had just returned to consciousness. She did not take her eyes
  off Raskolnikov, feeling that all her safety lay in him. Katerina Ivanovna
  breathed hard and painfully and seemed fearfully exhausted. Amalia
  Ivanovna stood looking more stupid than anyone, with her mouth wide open,
  unable to make out what had happened. She only saw that Pyotr Petrovitch
  had somehow come to grief.
<br />
  Raskolnikov was attempting to speak again, but they did not let him.
  Everyone was crowding round Luzhin with threats and shouts of abuse. But
  Pyotr Petrovitch was not intimidated. Seeing that his accusation of Sonia
  had completely failed, he had recourse to insolence:
<br />
  &ldquo;Allow me, gentlemen, allow me! Don&rsquo;t squeeze, let me pass!&rdquo; he said,
  making his way through the crowd. &ldquo;And no threats, if you please! I assure
  you it will be useless, you will gain nothing by it. On the contrary,
  you&rsquo;ll have to answer, gentlemen, for violently obstructing the course of
  justice. The thief has been more than unmasked, and I shall prosecute. Our
  judges are not so blind and... not so drunk, and will not believe the
  testimony of two notorious infidels, agitators, and atheists, who accuse
  me from motives of personal revenge which they are foolish enough to
  admit.... Yes, allow me to pass!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let me find a trace of you in my room! Kindly leave at once, and
  everything is at an end between us! When I think of the trouble I&rsquo;ve been
  taking, the way I&rsquo;ve been expounding... all this fortnight!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I told you myself to-day that I was going, when you tried to keep me; now
  I will simply add that you are a fool. I advise you to see a doctor for
  your brains and your short sight. Let me pass, gentlemen!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He forced his way through. But the commissariat clerk was unwilling to let
  him off so easily: he picked up a glass from the table, brandished it in
  the air and flung it at Pyotr Petrovitch; but the glass flew straight at
  Amalia Ivanovna. She screamed, and the clerk, overbalancing, fell heavily
  under the table. Pyotr Petrovitch made his way to his room and half an
  hour later had left the house. Sonia, timid by nature, had felt before
  that day that she could be ill-treated more easily than anyone, and that
  she could be wronged with impunity. Yet till that moment she had fancied
  that she might escape misfortune by care, gentleness and submissiveness
  before everyone. Her disappointment was too great. She could, of course,
  bear with patience and almost without murmur anything, even this. But for
  the first minute she felt it too bitter. In spite of her triumph and her
  justification&mdash;when her first terror and stupefaction had passed and
  she could understand it all clearly&mdash;the feeling of her helplessness
  and of the wrong done to her made her heart throb with anguish and she was
  overcome with hysterical weeping. At last, unable to bear any more, she
  rushed out of the room and ran home, almost immediately after Luzhin&rsquo;s
  departure. When amidst loud laughter the glass flew at Amalia Ivanovna, it
  was more than the landlady could endure. With a shriek she rushed like a
  fury at Katerina Ivanovna, considering her to blame for everything.
<br />
  &ldquo;Out of my lodgings! At once! Quick march!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And with these words she began snatching up everything she could lay her
  hands on that belonged to Katerina Ivanovna, and throwing it on the floor.
  Katerina Ivanovna, pale, almost fainting, and gasping for breath, jumped
  up from the bed where she had sunk in exhaustion and darted at Amalia
  Ivanovna. But the battle was too unequal: the landlady waved her away like
  a feather.
<br />
  &ldquo;What! As though that godless calumny was not enough&mdash;this vile
  creature attacks me! What! On the day of my husband&rsquo;s funeral I am turned
  out of my lodging! After eating my bread and salt she turns me into the
  street, with my orphans! Where am I to go?&rdquo; wailed the poor woman, sobbing
  and gasping. &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; she cried with flashing eyes, &ldquo;is there no
  justice upon earth? Whom should you protect if not us orphans? We shall
  see! There is law and justice on earth, there is, I will find it! Wait a
  bit, godless creature! Polenka, stay with the children, I&rsquo;ll come back.
  Wait for me, if you have to wait in the street. We will see whether there
  is justice on earth!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And throwing over her head that green shawl which Marmeladov had mentioned
  to Raskolnikov, Katerina Ivanovna squeezed her way through the disorderly
  and drunken crowd of lodgers who still filled the room, and, wailing and
  tearful, she ran into the street&mdash;with a vague intention of going at
  once somewhere to find justice. Polenka with the two little ones in her
  arms crouched, terrified, on the trunk in the corner of the room, where
  she waited trembling for her mother to come back. Amalia Ivanovna raged
  about the room, shrieking, lamenting and throwing everything she came
  across on the floor. The lodgers talked incoherently, some commented to
  the best of their ability on what had happened, others quarrelled and
  swore at one another, while others struck up a song....
<br />
  &ldquo;Now it&rsquo;s time for me to go,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Well, Sofya
  Semyonovna, we shall see what you&rsquo;ll say now!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he set off in the direction of Sonia&rsquo;s lodgings.


      CHAPTER IV


  Raskolnikov had been a vigorous and active champion of Sonia against
  Luzhin, although he had such a load of horror and anguish in his own
  heart. But having gone through so much in the morning, he found a sort of
  relief in a change of sensations, apart from the strong personal feeling
  which impelled him to defend Sonia. He was agitated too, especially at
  some moments, by the thought of his approaching interview with Sonia: he
   to tell her who had killed Lizaveta. He knew the terrible
  suffering it would be to him and, as it were, brushed away the thought of
  it. So when he cried as he left Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s, &ldquo;Well, Sofya
  Semyonovna, we shall see what you&rsquo;ll say now!&rdquo; he was still superficially
  excited, still vigorous and defiant from his triumph over Luzhin. But,
  strange to say, by the time he reached Sonia&rsquo;s lodging, he felt a sudden
  impotence and fear. He stood still in hesitation at the door, asking
  himself the strange question: &ldquo;Must he tell her who killed Lizaveta?&rdquo; It
  was a strange question because he felt at the very time not only that he
  could not help telling her, but also that he could not put off the
  telling. He did not yet know why it must be so, he only  it,
  and the agonising sense of his impotence before the inevitable almost
  crushed him. To cut short his hesitation and suffering, he quickly opened
  the door and looked at Sonia from the doorway. She was sitting with her
  elbows on the table and her face in her hands, but seeing Raskolnikov she
  got up at once and came to meet him as though she were expecting him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What would have become of me but for you?&rdquo; she said quickly, meeting him
  in the middle of the room.
<br />
  Evidently she was in haste to say this to him. It was what she had been
  waiting for.
<br />
  Raskolnikov went to the table and sat down on the chair from which she had
  only just risen. She stood facing him, two steps away, just as she had
  done the day before.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, Sonia?&rdquo; he said, and felt that his voice was trembling, &ldquo;it was all
  due to &lsquo;your social position and the habits associated with it.&rsquo; Did you
  understand that just now?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Her face showed her distress.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only don&rsquo;t talk to me as you did yesterday,&rdquo; she interrupted him. &ldquo;Please
  don&rsquo;t begin it. There is misery enough without that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She made haste to smile, afraid that he might not like the reproach.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was silly to come away from there. What is happening there now? I
  wanted to go back directly, but I kept thinking that... you would come.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was turning them out of their lodging and
  that Katerina Ivanovna had run off somewhere &ldquo;to seek justice.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; cried Sonia, &ldquo;let&rsquo;s go at once....&rdquo;
 <br />
  And she snatched up her cape.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s everlastingly the same thing!&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, irritably. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve
  no thought except for them! Stay a little with me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But... Katerina Ivanovna?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t lose Katerina Ivanovna, you may be sure, she&rsquo;ll come to you
  herself since she has run out,&rdquo; he added peevishly. &ldquo;If she doesn&rsquo;t find
  you here, you&rsquo;ll be blamed for it....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia sat down in painful suspense. Raskolnikov was silent, gazing at the
  floor and deliberating.
<br />
  &ldquo;This time Luzhin did not want to prosecute you,&rdquo; he began, not looking at
  Sonia, &ldquo;but if he had wanted to, if it had suited his plans, he would have
  sent you to prison if it had not been for Lebeziatnikov and me. Ah?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she assented in a faint voice. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she repeated, preoccupied and
  distressed.
<br />
  &ldquo;But I might easily not have been there. And it was quite an accident
  Lebeziatnikov&rsquo;s turning up.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia was silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;And if you&rsquo;d gone to prison, what then? Do you remember what I said
  yesterday?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Again she did not answer. He waited.
<br />
  &ldquo;I thought you would cry out again &lsquo;don&rsquo;t speak of it, leave off.&rsquo;&rdquo;
   Raskolnikov gave a laugh, but rather a forced one. &ldquo;What, silence again?&rdquo;
   he asked a minute later. &ldquo;We must talk about something, you know. It would
  be interesting for me to know how you would decide a certain &lsquo;problem&rsquo; as
  Lebeziatnikov would say.&rdquo; (He was beginning to lose the thread.) &ldquo;No,
  really, I am serious. Imagine, Sonia, that you had known all Luzhin&rsquo;s
  intentions beforehand. Known, that is, for a fact, that they would be the
  ruin of Katerina Ivanovna and the children and yourself thrown in&mdash;since
  you don&rsquo;t count yourself for anything&mdash;Polenka too... for she&rsquo;ll go
  the same way. Well, if suddenly it all depended on your decision whether
  he or they should go on living, that is whether Luzhin should go on living
  and doing wicked things, or Katerina Ivanovna should die? How would you
  decide which of them was to die? I ask you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia looked uneasily at him. There was something peculiar in this
  hesitating question, which seemed approaching something in a roundabout
  way.
<br />
  &ldquo;I felt that you were going to ask some question like that,&rdquo; she said,
  looking inquisitively at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;I dare say you did. But how is it to be answered?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why do you ask about what could not happen?&rdquo; said Sonia reluctantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then it would be better for Luzhin to go on living and doing wicked
  things? You haven&rsquo;t dared to decide even that!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I can&rsquo;t know the Divine Providence.... And why do you ask what can&rsquo;t
  be answered? What&rsquo;s the use of such foolish questions? How could it happen
  that it should depend on my decision&mdash;who has made me a judge to
  decide who is to live and who is not to live?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, if the Divine Providence is to be mixed up in it, there is no doing
  anything,&rdquo; Raskolnikov grumbled morosely.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better say straight out what you want!&rdquo; Sonia cried in distress.
  &ldquo;You are leading up to something again.... Can you have come simply to
  torture me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She could not control herself and began crying bitterly. He looked at her
  in gloomy misery. Five minutes passed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Of course you&rsquo;re right, Sonia,&rdquo; he said softly at last. He was suddenly
  changed. His tone of assumed arrogance and helpless defiance was gone.
  Even his voice was suddenly weak. &ldquo;I told you yesterday that I was not
  coming to ask forgiveness and almost the first thing I&rsquo;ve said is to ask
  forgiveness.... I said that about Luzhin and Providence for my own sake. I
  was asking forgiveness, Sonia....&rdquo;
 <br />
  He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and incomplete in his
  pale smile. He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands.
<br />
  And suddenly a strange, surprising sensation of a sort of bitter hatred
  for Sonia passed through his heart. As it were wondering and frightened of
  this sensation, he raised his head and looked intently at her; but he met
  her uneasy and painfully anxious eyes fixed on him; there was love in
  them; his hatred vanished like a phantom. It was not the real feeling; he
  had taken the one feeling for the other. It only meant that 
  minute had come.
<br />
  He hid his face in his hands again and bowed his head. Suddenly he turned
  pale, got up from his chair, looked at Sonia, and without uttering a word
  sat down mechanically on her bed.
<br />
  His sensations that moment were terribly like the moment when he had stood
  over the old woman with the axe in his hand and felt that &ldquo;he must not
  lose another minute.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; asked Sonia, dreadfully frightened.
<br />
  He could not utter a word. This was not at all, not at all the way he had
  intended to &ldquo;tell&rdquo; and he did not understand what was happening to him
  now. She went up to him, softly, sat down on the bed beside him and
  waited, not taking her eyes off him. Her heart throbbed and sank. It was
  unendurable; he turned his deadly pale face to her. His lips worked,
  helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang of terror passed through
  Sonia&rsquo;s heart.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; she repeated, drawing a little away from him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing, Sonia, don&rsquo;t be frightened.... It&rsquo;s nonsense. It really is
  nonsense, if you think of it,&rdquo; he muttered, like a man in delirium. &ldquo;Why
  have I come to torture you?&rdquo; he added suddenly, looking at her. &ldquo;Why,
  really? I keep asking myself that question, Sonia....&rdquo;
 <br />
  He had perhaps been asking himself that question a quarter of an hour
  before, but now he spoke helplessly, hardly knowing what he said and
  feeling a continual tremor all over.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, how you are suffering!&rdquo; she muttered in distress, looking intently at
  him.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all nonsense.... Listen, Sonia.&rdquo; He suddenly smiled, a pale helpless
  smile for two seconds. &ldquo;You remember what I meant to tell you yesterday?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia waited uneasily.
<br />
  &ldquo;I said as I went away that perhaps I was saying good-bye for ever, but
  that if I came to-day I would tell you who... who killed Lizaveta.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She began trembling all over.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, here I&rsquo;ve come to tell you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then you really meant it yesterday?&rdquo; she whispered with difficulty. &ldquo;How
  do you know?&rdquo; she asked quickly, as though suddenly regaining her reason.
<br />
  Sonia&rsquo;s face grew paler and paler, and she breathed painfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;I know.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She paused a minute.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have they found him?&rdquo; she asked timidly.
<br />
  &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then how do you know about ?&rdquo; she asked again, hardly audibly
  and again after a minute&rsquo;s pause.
<br />
  He turned to her and looked very intently at her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Guess,&rdquo; he said, with the same distorted helpless smile.
<br />
  A shudder passed over her.
<br />
  &ldquo;But you... why do you frighten me like this?&rdquo; she said, smiling like a
  child.
<br />
  &ldquo;I must be a great friend of ... since I know,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went
  on, still gazing into her face, as though he could not turn his eyes away.
  &ldquo;He... did not mean to kill that Lizaveta... he... killed her
  accidentally.... He meant to kill the old woman when she was alone and he
  went there... and then Lizaveta came in... he killed her too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Another awful moment passed. Both still gazed at one another.
<br />
  &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t guess, then?&rdquo; he asked suddenly, feeling as though he were
  flinging himself down from a steeple.
<br />
  &ldquo;N-no...&rdquo; whispered Sonia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take a good look.&rdquo;
 <br />
  As soon as he had said this again, the same familiar sensation froze his
  heart. He looked at her and all at once seemed to see in her face the face
  of Lizaveta. He remembered clearly the expression in Lizaveta&rsquo;s face, when
  he approached her with the axe and she stepped back to the wall, putting
  out her hand, with childish terror in her face, looking as little children
  do when they begin to be frightened of something, looking intently and
  uneasily at what frightens them, shrinking back and holding out their
  little hands on the point of crying. Almost the same thing happened now to
  Sonia. With the same helplessness and the same terror, she looked at him
  for a while and, suddenly putting out her left hand, pressed her fingers
  faintly against his breast and slowly began to get up from the bed, moving
  further from him and keeping her eyes fixed even more immovably on him.
  Her terror infected him. The same fear showed itself on his face. In the
  same way he stared at her and almost with the same  smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you guessed?&rdquo; he whispered at last.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; broke in an awful wail from her bosom.
<br />
  She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in the pillows, but a moment
  later she got up, moved quickly to him, seized both his hands and,
  gripping them tight in her thin fingers, began looking into his face again
  with the same intent stare. In this last desperate look she tried to look
  into him and catch some last hope. But there was no hope; there was no
  doubt remaining; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when she recalled that
  moment, she thought it strange and wondered why she had seen at once that
  there was no doubt. She could not have said, for instance, that she had
  foreseen something of the sort&mdash;and yet now, as soon as he told her,
  she suddenly fancied that she had really foreseen this very thing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Stop, Sonia, enough! don&rsquo;t torture me,&rdquo; he begged her miserably.
<br />
  It was not at all, not at all like this he had thought of telling her, but
  this is how it happened.
<br />
  She jumped up, seeming not to know what she was doing, and, wringing her
  hands, walked into the middle of the room; but quickly went back and sat
  down again beside him, her shoulder almost touching his. All of a sudden
  she started as though she had been stabbed, uttered a cry and fell on her
  knees before him, she did not know why.
<br />
  &ldquo;What have you done&mdash;what have you done to yourself?&rdquo; she said in
  despair, and, jumping up, she flung herself on his neck, threw her arms
  round him, and held him tightly.
<br />
  Raskolnikov drew back and looked at her with a mournful smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are a strange girl, Sonia&mdash;you kiss me and hug me when I tell
  you about that.... You don&rsquo;t think what you are doing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There is no one&mdash;no one in the whole world now so unhappy as you!&rdquo;
   she cried in a frenzy, not hearing what he said, and she suddenly broke
  into violent hysterical weeping.
<br />
  A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his heart and softened it at
  once. He did not struggle against it. Two tears started into his eyes and
  hung on his eyelashes.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then you won&rsquo;t leave me, Sonia?&rdquo; he said, looking at her almost with
  hope.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, no, never, nowhere!&rdquo; cried Sonia. &ldquo;I will follow you, I will follow
  you everywhere. Oh, my God! Oh, how miserable I am!... Why, why didn&rsquo;t I
  know you before! Why didn&rsquo;t you come before? Oh, dear!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Here I have come.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, now! What&rsquo;s to be done now?... Together, together!&rdquo; she repeated as
  it were unconsciously, and she hugged him again. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll follow you to
  Siberia!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He recoiled at this, and the same hostile, almost haughty smile came to
  his lips.
<br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps I don&rsquo;t want to go to Siberia yet, Sonia,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  Sonia looked at him quickly.
<br />
  Again after her first passionate, agonising sympathy for the unhappy man
  the terrible idea of the murder overwhelmed her. In his changed tone she
  seemed to hear the murderer speaking. She looked at him bewildered. She
  knew nothing as yet, why, how, with what object it had been. Now all these
  questions rushed at once into her mind. And again she could not believe
  it: &ldquo;He, he is a murderer! Could it be true?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the meaning of it? Where am I?&rdquo; she said in complete bewilderment,
  as though still unable to recover herself. &ldquo;How could you, you, a man like
  you.... How could you bring yourself to it?... What does it mean?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, well&mdash;to plunder. Leave off, Sonia,&rdquo; he answered wearily, almost
  with vexation.
<br />
  Sonia stood as though struck dumb, but suddenly she cried:
<br />
  &ldquo;You were hungry! It was... to help your mother? Yes?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, Sonia, no,&rdquo; he muttered, turning away and hanging his head. &ldquo;I was
  not so hungry.... I certainly did want to help my mother, but... that&rsquo;s
  not the real thing either.... Don&rsquo;t torture me, Sonia.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia clasped her hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;Could it, could it all be true? Good God, what a truth! Who could believe
  it? And how could you give away your last farthing and yet rob and murder!
  Ah,&rdquo; she cried suddenly, &ldquo;that money you gave Katerina Ivanovna... that
  money.... Can that money...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, Sonia,&rdquo; he broke in hurriedly, &ldquo;that money was not it. Don&rsquo;t worry
  yourself! That money my mother sent me and it came when I was ill, the day
  I gave it to you.... Razumihin saw it... he received it for me.... That
  money was mine&mdash;my own.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia listened to him in bewilderment and did her utmost to comprehend.
<br />
  &ldquo;And  money.... I don&rsquo;t even know really whether there was any
  money,&rdquo; he added softly, as though reflecting. &ldquo;I took a purse off her
  neck, made of chamois leather... a purse stuffed full of something... but
  I didn&rsquo;t look in it; I suppose I hadn&rsquo;t time.... And the things&mdash;chains
  and trinkets&mdash;I buried under a stone with the purse next morning in a
  yard off the V&mdash;&mdash; Prospect. They are all there now....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia strained every nerve to listen.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then why... why, you said you did it to rob, but you took nothing?&rdquo; she
  asked quickly, catching at a straw.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.... I haven&rsquo;t yet decided whether to take that money or
  not,&rdquo; he said, musing again; and, seeming to wake up with a start, he gave
  a brief ironical smile. &ldquo;Ach, what silly stuff I am talking, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  The thought flashed through Sonia&rsquo;s mind, wasn&rsquo;t he mad? But she dismissed
  it at once. &ldquo;No, it was something else.&rdquo; She could make nothing of it,
  nothing.
<br />
  &ldquo;Do you know, Sonia,&rdquo; he said suddenly with conviction, &ldquo;let me tell you:
  if I&rsquo;d simply killed because I was hungry,&rdquo; laying stress on every word
  and looking enigmatically but sincerely at her, &ldquo;I should be 
  now. You must believe that! What would it matter to you,&rdquo; he cried a
  moment later with a sort of despair, &ldquo;what would it matter to you if I
  were to confess that I did wrong? What do you gain by such a stupid
  triumph over me? Ah, Sonia, was it for that I&rsquo;ve come to you to-day?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Again Sonia tried to say something, but did not speak.
<br />
  &ldquo;I asked you to go with me yesterday because you are all I have left.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Go where?&rdquo; asked Sonia timidly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not to steal and not to murder, don&rsquo;t be anxious,&rdquo; he smiled bitterly.
  &ldquo;We are so different.... And you know, Sonia, it&rsquo;s only now, only this
  moment that I understand  I asked you to go with me yesterday!
  Yesterday when I said it I did not know where. I asked you for one thing,
  I came to you for one thing&mdash;not to leave me. You won&rsquo;t leave me,
  Sonia?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She squeezed his hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?&rdquo; he cried a minute
  later in despair, looking with infinite anguish at her. &ldquo;Here you expect
  an explanation from me, Sonia; you are sitting and waiting for it, I see
  that. But what can I tell you? You won&rsquo;t understand and will only suffer
  misery... on my account! Well, you are crying and embracing me again. Why
  do you do it? Because I couldn&rsquo;t bear my burden and have come to throw it
  on another: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can you love such
  a mean wretch?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But aren&rsquo;t you suffering, too?&rdquo; cried Sonia.
<br />
  Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an
  instant softened it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sonia, I have a bad heart, take note of that. It may explain a great
  deal. I have come because I am bad. There are men who wouldn&rsquo;t have come.
  But I am a coward and... a mean wretch. But... never mind! That&rsquo;s not the
  point. I must speak now, but I don&rsquo;t know how to begin.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He paused and sank into thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ach, we are so different,&rdquo; he cried again, &ldquo;we are not alike. And why,
  why did I come? I shall never forgive myself that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, no, it was a good thing you came,&rdquo; cried Sonia. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s better I should
  know, far better!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He looked at her with anguish.
<br />
  &ldquo;What if it were really that?&rdquo; he said, as though reaching a conclusion.
  &ldquo;Yes, that&rsquo;s what it was! I wanted to become a Napoleon, that is why I
  killed her.... Do you understand now?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;N-no,&rdquo; Sonia whispered naïvely and timidly. &ldquo;Only speak, speak, I shall
  understand, I shall understand !&rdquo; she kept begging him.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll understand? Very well, we shall see!&rdquo; He paused and was for some
  time lost in meditation.
<br />
  &ldquo;It was like this: I asked myself one day this question&mdash;what if
  Napoleon, for instance, had happened to be in my place, and if he had not
  had Toulon nor Egypt nor the passage of Mont Blanc to begin his career
  with, but instead of all those picturesque and monumental things, there
  had simply been some ridiculous old hag, a pawnbroker, who had to be
  murdered too to get money from her trunk (for his career, you understand).
  Well, would he have brought himself to that if there had been no other
  means? Wouldn&rsquo;t he have felt a pang at its being so far from monumental
  and... and sinful, too? Well, I must tell you that I worried myself
  fearfully over that &lsquo;question&rsquo; so that I was awfully ashamed when I
  guessed at last (all of a sudden, somehow) that it would not have given
  him the least pang, that it would not even have struck him that it was not
  monumental... that he would not have seen that there was anything in it to
  pause over, and that, if he had had no other way, he would have strangled
  her in a minute without thinking about it! Well, I too... left off
  thinking about it... murdered her, following his example. And that&rsquo;s
  exactly how it was! Do you think it funny? Yes, Sonia, the funniest thing
  of all is that perhaps that&rsquo;s just how it was.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia did not think it at all funny.
<br />
  &ldquo;You had better tell me straight out... without examples,&rdquo; she begged,
  still more timidly and scarcely audibly.
<br />
  He turned to her, looked sadly at her and took her hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are right again, Sonia. Of course that&rsquo;s all nonsense, it&rsquo;s almost
  all talk! You see, you know of course that my mother has scarcely
  anything, my sister happened to have a good education and was condemned to
  drudge as a governess. All their hopes were centered on me. I was a
  student, but I couldn&rsquo;t keep myself at the university and was forced for a
  time to leave it. Even if I had lingered on like that, in ten or twelve
  years I might (with luck) hope to be some sort of teacher or clerk with a
  salary of a thousand roubles&rdquo; (he repeated it as though it were a lesson)
  &ldquo;and by that time my mother would be worn out with grief and anxiety and I
  could not succeed in keeping her in comfort while my sister... well, my
  sister might well have fared worse! And it&rsquo;s a hard thing to pass
  everything by all one&rsquo;s life, to turn one&rsquo;s back upon everything, to
  forget one&rsquo;s mother and decorously accept the insults inflicted on one&rsquo;s
  sister. Why should one? When one has buried them to burden oneself with
  others&mdash;wife and children&mdash;and to leave them again without a
  farthing? So I resolved to gain possession of the old woman&rsquo;s money and to
  use it for my first years without worrying my mother, to keep myself at
  the university and for a little while after leaving it&mdash;and to do
  this all on a broad, thorough scale, so as to build up a completely new
  career and enter upon a new life of independence.... Well... that&rsquo;s
  all.... Well, of course in killing the old woman I did wrong.... Well,
  that&rsquo;s enough.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He struggled to the end of his speech in exhaustion and let his head sink.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s not it, that&rsquo;s not it,&rdquo; Sonia cried in distress. &ldquo;How could
  one... no, that&rsquo;s not right, not right.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You see yourself that it&rsquo;s not right. But I&rsquo;ve spoken truly, it&rsquo;s the
  truth.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;As though that could be the truth! Good God!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve only killed a louse, Sonia, a useless, loathsome, harmful creature.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A human being&mdash;a louse!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I too know it wasn&rsquo;t a louse,&rdquo; he answered, looking strangely at her.
  &ldquo;But I am talking nonsense, Sonia,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been talking nonsense
  a long time.... That&rsquo;s not it, you are right there. There were quite,
  quite other causes for it! I haven&rsquo;t talked to anyone for so long,
  Sonia.... My head aches dreadfully now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  His eyes shone with feverish brilliance. He was almost delirious; an
  uneasy smile strayed on his lips. His terrible exhaustion could be seen
  through his excitement. Sonia saw how he was suffering. She too was
  growing dizzy. And he talked so strangely; it seemed somehow
  comprehensible, but yet... &ldquo;But how, how! Good God!&rdquo; And she wrung her
  hands in despair.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, Sonia, that&rsquo;s not it,&rdquo; he began again suddenly, raising his head, as
  though a new and sudden train of thought had struck and as it were roused
  him&mdash;&ldquo;that&rsquo;s not it! Better... imagine&mdash;yes, it&rsquo;s certainly
  better&mdash;imagine that I am vain, envious, malicious, base, vindictive
  and... well, perhaps with a tendency to insanity. (Let&rsquo;s have it all out
  at once! They&rsquo;ve talked of madness already, I noticed.) I told you just
  now I could not keep myself at the university. But do you know that
  perhaps I might have done? My mother would have sent me what I needed for
  the fees and I could have earned enough for clothes, boots and food, no
  doubt. Lessons had turned up at half a rouble. Razumihin works! But I
  turned sulky and wouldn&rsquo;t. (Yes, sulkiness, that&rsquo;s the right word for it!)
  I sat in my room like a spider. You&rsquo;ve been in my den, you&rsquo;ve seen it....
  And do you know, Sonia, that low ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul
  and the mind? Ah, how I hated that garret! And yet I wouldn&rsquo;t go out of
  it! I wouldn&rsquo;t on purpose! I didn&rsquo;t go out for days together, and I
  wouldn&rsquo;t work, I wouldn&rsquo;t even eat, I just lay there doing nothing. If
  Nastasya brought me anything, I ate it, if she didn&rsquo;t, I went all day
  without; I wouldn&rsquo;t ask, on purpose, from sulkiness! At night I had no
  light, I lay in the dark and I wouldn&rsquo;t earn money for candles. I ought to
  have studied, but I sold my books; and the dust lies an inch thick on the
  notebooks on my table. I preferred lying still and thinking. And I kept
  thinking.... And I had dreams all the time, strange dreams of all sorts,
  no need to describe! Only then I began to fancy that... No, that&rsquo;s not it!
  Again I am telling you wrong! You see I kept asking myself then: why am I
  so stupid that if others are stupid&mdash;and I know they are&mdash;yet I
  won&rsquo;t be wiser? Then I saw, Sonia, that if one waits for everyone to get
  wiser it will take too long.... Afterwards I understood that that would
  never come to pass, that men won&rsquo;t change and that nobody can alter it and
  that it&rsquo;s not worth wasting effort over it. Yes, that&rsquo;s so. That&rsquo;s the law
  of their nature, Sonia,... that&rsquo;s so!... And I know now, Sonia, that
  whoever is strong in mind and spirit will have power over them. Anyone who
  is greatly daring is right in their eyes. He who despises most things will
  be a lawgiver among them and he who dares most of all will be most in the
  right! So it has been till now and so it will always be. A man must be
  blind not to see it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Though Raskolnikov looked at Sonia as he said this, he no longer cared
  whether she understood or not. The fever had complete hold of him; he was
  in a sort of gloomy ecstasy (he certainly had been too long without
  talking to anyone). Sonia felt that his gloomy creed had become his faith
  and code.
<br />
  &ldquo;I divined then, Sonia,&rdquo; he went on eagerly, &ldquo;that power is only
  vouchsafed to the man who dares to stoop and pick it up. There is only one
  thing, one thing needful: one has only to dare! Then for the first time in
  my life an idea took shape in my mind which no one had ever thought of
  before me, no one! I saw clear as daylight how strange it is that not a
  single person living in this mad world has had the daring to go straight
  for it all and send it flying to the devil! I... I wanted ... and I killed her. I only wanted to have the daring, Sonia!
  That was the whole cause of it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh hush, hush,&rdquo; cried Sonia, clasping her hands. &ldquo;You turned away from
  God and God has smitten you, has given you over to the devil!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Then Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and all this became
  clear to me, was it a temptation of the devil, eh?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hush, don&rsquo;t laugh, blasphemer! You don&rsquo;t understand, you don&rsquo;t
  understand! Oh God! He won&rsquo;t understand!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Hush, Sonia! I am not laughing. I know myself that it was the devil
  leading me. Hush, Sonia, hush!&rdquo; he repeated with gloomy insistence. &ldquo;I
  know it all, I have thought it all over and over and whispered it all over
  to myself, lying there in the dark.... I&rsquo;ve argued it all over with
  myself, every point of it, and I know it all, all! And how sick, how sick
  I was then of going over it all! I have kept wanting to forget it and make
  a new beginning, Sonia, and leave off thinking. And you don&rsquo;t suppose that
  I went into it headlong like a fool? I went into it like a wise man, and
  that was just my destruction. And you mustn&rsquo;t suppose that I didn&rsquo;t know,
  for instance, that if I began to question myself whether I had the right
  to gain power&mdash;I certainly hadn&rsquo;t the right&mdash;or that if I asked
  myself whether a human being is a louse it proved that it wasn&rsquo;t so for
  me, though it might be for a man who would go straight to his goal without
  asking questions.... If I worried myself all those days, wondering whether
  Napoleon would have done it or not, I felt clearly of course that I wasn&rsquo;t
  Napoleon. I had to endure all the agony of that battle of ideas, Sonia,
  and I longed to throw it off: I wanted to murder without casuistry, to
  murder for my own sake, for myself alone! I didn&rsquo;t want to lie about it
  even to myself. It wasn&rsquo;t to help my mother I did the murder&mdash;that&rsquo;s
  nonsense&mdash;I didn&rsquo;t do the murder to gain wealth and power and to
  become a benefactor of mankind. Nonsense! I simply did it; I did the
  murder for myself, for myself alone, and whether I became a benefactor to
  others, or spent my life like a spider catching men in my web and sucking
  the life out of men, I couldn&rsquo;t have cared at that moment.... And it was
  not the money I wanted, Sonia, when I did it. It was not so much the money
  I wanted, but something else.... I know it all now.... Understand me!
  Perhaps I should never have committed a murder again. I wanted to find out
  something else; it was something else led me on. I wanted to find out then
  and quickly whether I was a louse like everybody else or a man. Whether I
  can step over barriers or not, whether I dare stoop to pick up or not,
  whether I am a trembling creature or whether I have the ...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To kill? Have the right to kill?&rdquo; Sonia clasped her hands.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ach, Sonia!&rdquo; he cried irritably and seemed about to make some retort, but
  was contemptuously silent. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t interrupt me, Sonia. I want to prove one
  thing only, that the devil led me on then and he has shown me since that I
  had not the right to take that path, because I am just such a louse as all
  the rest. He was mocking me and here I&rsquo;ve come to you now! Welcome your
  guest! If I were not a louse, should I have come to you? Listen: when I
  went then to the old woman&rsquo;s I only went to .... You may be sure
  of that!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And you murdered her!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But how did I murder her? Is that how men do murders? Do men go to commit
  a murder as I went then? I will tell you some day how I went! Did I murder
  the old woman? I murdered myself, not her! I crushed myself once for all,
  for ever.... But it was the devil that killed that old woman, not I.
  Enough, enough, Sonia, enough! Let me be!&rdquo; he cried in a sudden spasm of
  agony, &ldquo;let me be!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head in his hands as in
  a vise.
<br />
  &ldquo;What suffering!&rdquo; A wail of anguish broke from Sonia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, what am I to do now?&rdquo; he asked, suddenly raising his head and
  looking at her with a face hideously distorted by despair.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you to do?&rdquo; she cried, jumping up, and her eyes that had been
  full of tears suddenly began to shine. &ldquo;Stand up!&rdquo; (She seized him by the
  shoulder, he got up, looking at her almost bewildered.) &ldquo;Go at once, this
  very minute, stand at the cross-roads, bow down, first kiss the earth
  which you have defiled and then bow down to all the world and say to all
  men aloud, &lsquo;I am a murderer!&rsquo; Then God will send you life again. Will you
  go, will you go?&rdquo; she asked him, trembling all over, snatching his two
  hands, squeezing them tight in hers and gazing at him with eyes full of
  fire.
<br />
  He was amazed at her sudden ecstasy.
<br />
  &ldquo;You mean Siberia, Sonia? I must give myself up?&rdquo; he asked gloomily.
<br />
  &ldquo;Suffer and expiate your sin by it, that&rsquo;s what you must do.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No! I am not going to them, Sonia!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But how will you go on living? What will you live for?&rdquo; cried Sonia, &ldquo;how
  is it possible now? Why, how can you talk to your mother? (Oh, what will
  become of them now?) But what am I saying? You have abandoned your mother
  and your sister already. He has abandoned them already! Oh, God!&rdquo; she
  cried, &ldquo;why, he knows it all himself. How, how can he live by himself!
  What will become of you now?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be a child, Sonia,&rdquo; he said softly. &ldquo;What wrong have I done them?
  Why should I go to them? What should I say to them? That&rsquo;s only a
  phantom.... They destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a
  virtue. They are knaves and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not going to them. And
  what should I say to them&mdash;that I murdered her, but did not dare to
  take the money and hid it under a stone?&rdquo; he added with a bitter smile.
  &ldquo;Why, they would laugh at me, and would call me a fool for not getting it.
  A coward and a fool! They wouldn&rsquo;t understand and they don&rsquo;t deserve to
  understand. Why should I go to them? I won&rsquo;t. Don&rsquo;t be a child, Sonia....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It will be too much for you to bear, too much!&rdquo; she repeated, holding out
  her hands in despairing supplication.
<br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps I&rsquo;ve been unfair to myself,&rdquo; he observed gloomily, pondering,
  &ldquo;perhaps after all I am a man and not a louse and I&rsquo;ve been in too great a
  hurry to condemn myself. I&rsquo;ll make another fight for it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  A haughty smile appeared on his lips.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a burden to bear! And your whole life, your whole life!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I shall get used to it,&rdquo; he said grimly and thoughtfully. &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; he
  began a minute later, &ldquo;stop crying, it&rsquo;s time to talk of the facts: I&rsquo;ve
  come to tell you that the police are after me, on my track....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ach!&rdquo; Sonia cried in terror.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, why do you cry out? You want me to go to Siberia and now you are
  frightened? But let me tell you: I shall not give myself up. I shall make
  a struggle for it and they won&rsquo;t do anything to me. They&rsquo;ve no real
  evidence. Yesterday I was in great danger and believed I was lost; but
  to-day things are going better. All the facts they know can be explained
  two ways, that&rsquo;s to say I can turn their accusations to my credit, do you
  understand? And I shall, for I&rsquo;ve learnt my lesson. But they will
  certainly arrest me. If it had not been for something that happened, they
  would have done so to-day for certain; perhaps even now they will arrest
  me to-day.... But that&rsquo;s no matter, Sonia; they&rsquo;ll let me out again... for
  there isn&rsquo;t any real proof against me, and there won&rsquo;t be, I give you my
  word for it. And they can&rsquo;t convict a man on what they have against me.
  Enough.... I only tell you that you may know.... I will try to manage
  somehow to put it to my mother and sister so that they won&rsquo;t be
  frightened.... My sister&rsquo;s future is secure, however, now, I believe...
  and my mother&rsquo;s must be too.... Well, that&rsquo;s all. Be careful, though. Will
  you come and see me in prison when I am there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, I will, I will.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been
  cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia
  and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it
  suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a strange and
  awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that all his hopes
  rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering,
  and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he
  was immeasurably unhappier than before.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sonia,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you&rsquo;d better not come and see me when I am in prison.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia did not answer, she was crying. Several minutes passed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you a cross on you?&rdquo; she asked, as though suddenly thinking of it.
<br />
  He did not at first understand the question.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, of course not. Here, take this one, of cypress wood. I have another,
  a copper one that belonged to Lizaveta. I changed with Lizaveta: she gave
  me her cross and I gave her my little ikon. I will wear Lizaveta&rsquo;s now and
  give you this. Take it... it&rsquo;s mine! It&rsquo;s mine, you know,&rdquo; she begged him.
  &ldquo;We will go to suffer together, and together we will bear our cross!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Give it me,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov.
<br />
  He did not want to hurt her feelings. But immediately he drew back the
  hand he held out for the cross.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not now, Sonia. Better later,&rdquo; he added to comfort her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes, better,&rdquo; she repeated with conviction, &ldquo;when you go to meet
  your suffering, then put it on. You will come to me, I&rsquo;ll put it on you,
  we will pray and go together.&rdquo;
 <br />
  At that moment someone knocked three times at the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sofya Semyonovna, may I come in?&rdquo; they heard in a very familiar and
  polite voice.
<br />
  Sonia rushed to the door in a fright. The flaxen head of Mr. Lebeziatnikov
  appeared at the door.


      CHAPTER V


  Lebeziatnikov looked perturbed.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to you, Sofya Semyonovna,&rdquo; he began. &ldquo;Excuse me... I thought I
  should find you,&rdquo; he said, addressing Raskolnikov suddenly, &ldquo;that is, I
  didn&rsquo;t mean anything... of that sort... But I just thought... Katerina
  Ivanovna has gone out of her mind,&rdquo; he blurted out suddenly, turning from
  Raskolnikov to Sonia.
<br />
  Sonia screamed.
<br />
  &ldquo;At least it seems so. But... we don&rsquo;t know what to do, you see! She came
  back&mdash;she seems to have been turned out somewhere, perhaps beaten....
  So it seems at least,... She had run to your father&rsquo;s former chief, she
  didn&rsquo;t find him at home: he was dining at some other general&rsquo;s.... Only
  fancy, she rushed off there, to the other general&rsquo;s, and, imagine, she was
  so persistent that she managed to get the chief to see her, had him
  fetched out from dinner, it seems. You can imagine what happened. She was
  turned out, of course; but, according to her own story, she abused him and
  threw something at him. One may well believe it.... How it is she wasn&rsquo;t
  taken up, I can&rsquo;t understand! Now she is telling everyone, including
  Amalia Ivanovna; but it&rsquo;s difficult to understand her, she is screaming
  and flinging herself about.... Oh yes, she shouts that since everyone has
  abandoned her, she will take the children and go into the street with a
  barrel-organ, and the children will sing and dance, and she too, and
  collect money, and will go every day under the general&rsquo;s window... &lsquo;to let
  everyone see well-born children, whose father was an official, begging in
  the street.&rsquo; She keeps beating the children and they are all crying. She
  is teaching Lida to sing &lsquo;My Village,&rsquo; the boy to dance, Polenka the same.
  She is tearing up all the clothes, and making them little caps like
  actors; she means to carry a tin basin and make it tinkle, instead of
  music.... She won&rsquo;t listen to anything.... Imagine the state of things!
  It&rsquo;s beyond anything!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Lebeziatnikov would have gone on, but Sonia, who had heard him almost
  breathless, snatched up her cloak and hat, and ran out of the room,
  putting on her things as she went. Raskolnikov followed her and
  Lebeziatnikov came after him.
<br />
  &ldquo;She has certainly gone mad!&rdquo; he said to Raskolnikov, as they went out
  into the street. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t want to frighten Sofya Semyonovna, so I said
  &lsquo;it seemed like it,&rsquo; but there isn&rsquo;t a doubt of it. They say that in
  consumption the tubercles sometimes occur in the brain; it&rsquo;s a pity I know
  nothing of medicine. I did try to persuade her, but she wouldn&rsquo;t listen.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Did you talk to her about the tubercles?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not precisely of the tubercles. Besides, she wouldn&rsquo;t have understood!
  But what I say is, that if you convince a person logically that he has
  nothing to cry about, he&rsquo;ll stop crying. That&rsquo;s clear. Is it your
  conviction that he won&rsquo;t?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Life would be too easy if it were so,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Excuse me, excuse me; of course it would be rather difficult for Katerina
  Ivanovna to understand, but do you know that in Paris they have been
  conducting serious experiments as to the possibility of curing the insane,
  simply by logical argument? One professor there, a scientific man of
  standing, lately dead, believed in the possibility of such treatment. His
  idea was that there&rsquo;s nothing really wrong with the physical organism of
  the insane, and that insanity is, so to say, a logical mistake, an error
  of judgment, an incorrect view of things. He gradually showed the madman
  his error and, would you believe it, they say he was successful? But as he
  made use of douches too, how far success was due to that treatment remains
  uncertain.... So it seems at least.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov had long ceased to listen. Reaching the house where he lived,
  he nodded to Lebeziatnikov and went in at the gate. Lebeziatnikov woke up
  with a start, looked about him and hurried on.
<br />
  Raskolnikov went into his little room and stood still in the middle of it.
  Why had he come back here? He looked at the yellow and tattered paper, at
  the dust, at his sofa.... From the yard came a loud continuous knocking;
  someone seemed to be hammering... He went to the window, rose on tiptoe
  and looked out into the yard for a long time with an air of absorbed
  attention. But the yard was empty and he could not see who was hammering.
  In the house on the left he saw some open windows; on the window-sills
  were pots of sickly-looking geraniums. Linen was hung out of the
  windows... He knew it all by heart. He turned away and sat down on the
  sofa.
<br />
  Never, never had he felt himself so fearfully alone!
<br />
  Yes, he felt once more that he would perhaps come to hate Sonia, now that
  he had made her more miserable.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why had he gone to her to beg for her tears? What need had he to poison
  her life? Oh, the meanness of it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I will remain alone,&rdquo; he said resolutely, &ldquo;and she shall not come to the
  prison!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Five minutes later he raised his head with a strange smile. That was a
  strange thought.
<br />
  &ldquo;Perhaps it really would be better in Siberia,&rdquo; he thought suddenly.
<br />
  He could not have said how long he sat there with vague thoughts surging
  through his mind. All at once the door opened and Dounia came in. At first
  she stood still and looked at him from the doorway, just as he had done at
  Sonia; then she came in and sat down in the same place as yesterday, on
  the chair facing him. He looked silently and almost vacantly at her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be angry, brother; I&rsquo;ve only come for one minute,&rdquo; said Dounia.
<br />
  Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were bright and soft.
  He saw that she too had come to him with love.
<br />
  &ldquo;Brother, now I know all, . Dmitri Prokofitch has explained and
  told me everything. They are worrying and persecuting you through a stupid
  and contemptible suspicion.... Dmitri Prokofitch told me that there is no
  danger, and that you are wrong in looking upon it with such horror. I
  don&rsquo;t think so, and I fully understand how indignant you must be, and that
  that indignation may have a permanent effect on you. That&rsquo;s what I am
  afraid of. As for your cutting yourself off from us, I don&rsquo;t judge you, I
  don&rsquo;t venture to judge you, and forgive me for having blamed you for it. I
  feel that I too, if I had so great a trouble, should keep away from
  everyone. I shall tell mother nothing , but I shall talk
  about you continually and shall tell her from you that you will come very
  soon. Don&rsquo;t worry about her;  will set her mind at rest; but don&rsquo;t
  you try her too much&mdash;come once at least; remember that she is your
  mother. And now I have come simply to say&rdquo; (Dounia began to get up) &ldquo;that
  if you should need me or should need... all my life or anything... call
  me, and I&rsquo;ll come. Good-bye!&rdquo;
 <br />
  She turned abruptly and went towards the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Dounia!&rdquo; Raskolnikov stopped her and went towards her. &ldquo;That Razumihin,
  Dmitri Prokofitch, is a very good fellow.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia flushed slightly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; she asked, waiting a moment.
<br />
  &ldquo;He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real love....
  Good-bye, Dounia.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia flushed crimson, then suddenly she took alarm.
<br />
  &ldquo;But what does it mean, brother? Are we really parting for ever that
  you... give me such a parting message?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Never mind.... Good-bye.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He turned away, and walked to the window. She stood a moment, looked at
  him uneasily, and went out troubled.
<br />
  No, he was not cold to her. There was an instant (the very last one) when
  he had longed to take her in his arms and  to her, and
  even  her, but he had not dared even to touch her hand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Afterwards she may shudder when she remembers that I embraced her, and
  will feel that I stole her kiss.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And would  stand that test?&rdquo; he went on a few minutes later to
  himself. &ldquo;No, she wouldn&rsquo;t; girls like that can&rsquo;t stand things! They never
  do.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he thought of Sonia.
<br />
  There was a breath of fresh air from the window. The daylight was fading.
  He took up his cap and went out.
<br />
  He could not, of course, and would not consider how ill he was. But all
  this continual anxiety and agony of mind could not but affect him. And if
  he were not lying in high fever it was perhaps just because this continual
  inner strain helped to keep him on his legs and in possession of his
  faculties. But this artificial excitement could not last long.
<br />
  He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A special form of misery had
  begun to oppress him of late. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute
  about it; but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about it; it
  brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a
  foretaste of an eternity &ldquo;on a square yard of space.&rdquo; Towards evening this
  sensation usually began to weigh on him more heavily.
<br />
  &ldquo;With this idiotic, purely physical weakness, depending on the sunset or
  something, one can&rsquo;t help doing something stupid! You&rsquo;ll go to Dounia, as
  well as to Sonia,&rdquo; he muttered bitterly.
<br />
  He heard his name called. He looked round. Lebeziatnikov rushed up to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Only fancy, I&rsquo;ve been to your room looking for you. Only fancy, she&rsquo;s
  carried out her plan, and taken away the children. Sofya Semyonovna and I
  have had a job to find them. She is rapping on a frying-pan and making the
  children dance. The children are crying. They keep stopping at the
  cross-roads and in front of shops; there&rsquo;s a crowd of fools running after
  them. Come along!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And Sonia?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked anxiously, hurrying after Lebeziatnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Simply frantic. That is, it&rsquo;s not Sofya Semyonovna&rsquo;s frantic, but
  Katerina Ivanovna, though Sofya Semyonova&rsquo;s frantic too. But Katerina
  Ivanovna is absolutely frantic. I tell you she is quite mad. They&rsquo;ll be
  taken to the police. You can fancy what an effect that will have.... They
  are on the canal bank, near the bridge now, not far from Sofya
  Semyonovna&rsquo;s, quite close.&rdquo;
 <br />
  On the canal bank near the bridge and not two houses away from the one
  where Sonia lodged, there was a crowd of people, consisting principally of
  gutter children. The hoarse broken voice of Katerina Ivanovna could be
  heard from the bridge, and it certainly was a strange spectacle likely to
  attract a street crowd. Katerina Ivanovna in her old dress with the green
  shawl, wearing a torn straw hat, crushed in a hideous way on one side, was
  really frantic. She was exhausted and breathless. Her wasted consumptive
  face looked more suffering than ever, and indeed out of doors in the
  sunshine a consumptive always looks worse than at home. But her excitement
  did not flag, and every moment her irritation grew more intense. She
  rushed at the children, shouted at them, coaxed them, told them before the
  crowd how to dance and what to sing, began explaining to them why it was
  necessary, and driven to desperation by their not understanding, beat
  them.... Then she would make a rush at the crowd; if she noticed any
  decently dressed person stopping to look, she immediately appealed to him
  to see what these children &ldquo;from a genteel, one may say aristocratic,
  house&rdquo; had been brought to. If she heard laughter or jeering in the crowd,
  she would rush at once at the scoffers and begin squabbling with them.
  Some people laughed, others shook their heads, but everyone felt curious
  at the sight of the madwoman with the frightened children. The frying-pan
  of which Lebeziatnikov had spoken was not there, at least Raskolnikov did
  not see it. But instead of rapping on the pan, Katerina Ivanovna began
  clapping her wasted hands, when she made Lida and Kolya dance and Polenka
  sing. She too joined in the singing, but broke down at the second note
  with a fearful cough, which made her curse in despair and even shed tears.
  What made her most furious was the weeping and terror of Kolya and Lida.
  Some effort had been made to dress the children up as street singers are
  dressed. The boy had on a turban made of something red and white to look
  like a Turk. There had been no costume for Lida; she simply had a red
  knitted cap, or rather a night cap that had belonged to Marmeladov,
  decorated with a broken piece of white ostrich feather, which had been
  Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s grandmother&rsquo;s and had been preserved as a family
  possession. Polenka was in her everyday dress; she looked in timid
  perplexity at her mother, and kept at her side, hiding her tears. She
  dimly realised her mother&rsquo;s condition, and looked uneasily about her. She
  was terribly frightened of the street and the crowd. Sonia followed
  Katerina Ivanovna, weeping and beseeching her to return home, but Katerina
  Ivanovna was not to be persuaded.
<br />
  &ldquo;Leave off, Sonia, leave off,&rdquo; she shouted, speaking fast, panting and
  coughing. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know what you ask; you are like a child! I&rsquo;ve told
  you before that I am not coming back to that drunken German. Let everyone,
  let all Petersburg see the children begging in the streets, though their
  father was an honourable man who served all his life in truth and
  fidelity, and one may say died in the service.&rdquo; (Katerina Ivanovna had by
  now invented this fantastic story and thoroughly believed it.) &ldquo;Let that
  wretch of a general see it! And you are silly, Sonia: what have we to eat?
  Tell me that. We have worried you enough, I won&rsquo;t go on so! Ah, Rodion
  Romanovitch, is that you?&rdquo; she cried, seeing Raskolnikov and rushing up to
  him. &ldquo;Explain to this silly girl, please, that nothing better could be
  done! Even organ-grinders earn their living, and everyone will see at once
  that we are different, that we are an honourable and bereaved family
  reduced to beggary. And that general will lose his post, you&rsquo;ll see! We
  shall perform under his windows every day, and if the Tsar drives by, I&rsquo;ll
  fall on my knees, put the children before me, show them to him, and say
  &lsquo;Defend us father.&rsquo; He is the father of the fatherless, he is merciful,
  he&rsquo;ll protect us, you&rsquo;ll see, and that wretch of a general.... Lida, ! Kolya, you&rsquo;ll dance again. Why are you whimpering?
  Whimpering again! What are you afraid of, stupid? Goodness, what am I to
  do with them, Rodion Romanovitch? If you only knew how stupid they are!
  What&rsquo;s one to do with such children?&rdquo;
 <br />
  And she, almost crying herself&mdash;which did not stop her uninterrupted,
  rapid flow of talk&mdash;pointed to the crying children. Raskolnikov tried
  to persuade her to go home, and even said, hoping to work on her vanity,
  that it was unseemly for her to be wandering about the streets like an
  organ-grinder, as she was intending to become the principal of a
  boarding-school.
<br />
  &ldquo;A boarding-school, ha-ha-ha! A castle in the air,&rdquo; cried Katerina
  Ivanovna, her laugh ending in a cough. &ldquo;No, Rodion Romanovitch, that dream
  is over! All have forsaken us!... And that general.... You know, Rodion
  Romanovitch, I threw an inkpot at him&mdash;it happened to be standing in
  the waiting-room by the paper where you sign your name. I wrote my name,
  threw it at him and ran away. Oh, the scoundrels, the scoundrels! But
  enough of them, now I&rsquo;ll provide for the children myself, I won&rsquo;t bow down
  to anybody! She has had to bear enough for us!&rdquo; she pointed to Sonia.
  &ldquo;Polenka, how much have you got? Show me! What, only two farthings! Oh,
  the mean wretches! They give us nothing, only run after us, putting their
  tongues out. There, what is that blockhead laughing at?&rdquo; (She pointed to a
  man in the crowd.) &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all because Kolya here is so stupid; I have such
  a bother with him. What do you want, Polenka? Tell me in French, . Why, I&rsquo;ve taught you, you know some phrases. Else how are
  you to show that you are of good family, well brought-up children, and not
  at all like other organ-grinders? We aren&rsquo;t going to have a Punch and Judy
  show in the street, but to sing a genteel song.... Ah, yes,... What are we
  to sing? You keep putting me out, but we... you see, we are standing here,
  Rodion Romanovitch, to find something to sing and get money, something
  Kolya can dance to.... For, as you can fancy, our performance is all
  impromptu.... We must talk it over and rehearse it all thoroughly, and
  then we shall go to Nevsky, where there are far more people of good
  society, and we shall be noticed at once. Lida knows &lsquo;My Village&rsquo; only,
  nothing but &lsquo;My Village,&rsquo; and everyone sings that. We must sing something
  far more genteel.... Well, have you thought of anything, Polenka? If only
  you&rsquo;d help your mother! My memory&rsquo;s quite gone, or I should have thought
  of something. We really can&rsquo;t sing &lsquo;An Hussar.&rsquo; Ah, let us sing in French,
  &lsquo;Cinq sous,&rsquo; I have taught it you, I have taught it you. And as it is in
  French, people will see at once that you are children of good family, and
  that will be much more touching.... You might sing &lsquo;Marlborough s&rsquo;en
  va-t-en guerre,&rsquo; for that&rsquo;s quite a child&rsquo;s song and is sung as a lullaby
  in all the aristocratic houses.
<br />
  &ldquo;...&rdquo; she
  began singing. &ldquo;But no, better sing &lsquo;Cinq sous.&rsquo; Now, Kolya, your hands on
  your hips, make haste, and you, Lida, keep turning the other way, and
  Polenka and I will sing and clap our hands!
<br />
  &ldquo;.&rdquo;
 <br />
  (Cough-cough-cough!) &ldquo;Set your dress straight, Polenka, it&rsquo;s slipped down
  on your shoulders,&rdquo; she observed, panting from coughing. &ldquo;Now it&rsquo;s
  particularly necessary to behave nicely and genteelly, that all may see
  that you are well-born children. I said at the time that the bodice should
  be cut longer, and made of two widths. It was your fault, Sonia, with your
  advice to make it shorter, and now you see the child is quite deformed by
  it.... Why, you&rsquo;re all crying again! What&rsquo;s the matter, stupids? Come,
  Kolya, begin. Make haste, make haste! Oh, what an unbearable child!
<br />
  &ldquo;Cinq sous, cinq sous.
<br />
  &ldquo;A policeman again! What do you want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  A policeman was indeed forcing his way through the crowd. But at that
  moment a gentleman in civilian uniform and an overcoat&mdash;a
  solid-looking official of about fifty with a decoration on his neck (which
  delighted Katerina Ivanovna and had its effect on the policeman)&mdash;approached
  and without a word handed her a green three-rouble note. His face wore a
  look of genuine sympathy. Katerina Ivanovna took it and gave him a polite,
  even ceremonious, bow.
<br />
  &ldquo;I thank you, honoured sir,&rdquo; she began loftily. &ldquo;The causes that have
  induced us (take the money, Polenka: you see there are generous and
  honourable people who are ready to help a poor gentlewoman in distress).
  You see, honoured sir, these orphans of good family&mdash;I might even say
  of aristocratic connections&mdash;and that wretch of a general sat eating
  grouse... and stamped at my disturbing him. &lsquo;Your excellency,&rsquo; I said,
  &lsquo;protect the orphans, for you knew my late husband, Semyon Zaharovitch,
  and on the very day of his death the basest of scoundrels slandered his
  only daughter.&rsquo;... That policeman again! Protect me,&rdquo; she cried to the
  official. &ldquo;Why is that policeman edging up to me? We have only just run
  away from one of them. What do you want, fool?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s forbidden in the streets. You mustn&rsquo;t make a disturbance.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s you&rsquo;re making a disturbance. It&rsquo;s just the same as if I were
  grinding an organ. What business is it of yours?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You have to get a licence for an organ, and you haven&rsquo;t got one, and in
  that way you collect a crowd. Where do you lodge?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What, a license?&rdquo; wailed Katerina Ivanovna. &ldquo;I buried my husband to-day.
  What need of a license?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Calm yourself, madam, calm yourself,&rdquo; began the official. &ldquo;Come along; I
  will escort you.... This is no place for you in the crowd. You are ill.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Honoured sir, honoured sir, you don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; screamed Katerina Ivanovna.
  &ldquo;We are going to the Nevsky.... Sonia, Sonia! Where is she? She is crying
  too! What&rsquo;s the matter with you all? Kolya, Lida, where are you going?&rdquo;
   she cried suddenly in alarm. &ldquo;Oh, silly children! Kolya, Lida, where are
  they off to?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Kolya and Lida, scared out of their wits by the crowd, and their mother&rsquo;s
  mad pranks, suddenly seized each other by the hand, and ran off at the
  sight of the policeman who wanted to take them away somewhere. Weeping and
  wailing, poor Katerina Ivanovna ran after them. She was a piteous and
  unseemly spectacle, as she ran, weeping and panting for breath. Sonia and
  Polenka rushed after them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Bring them back, bring them back, Sonia! Oh stupid, ungrateful
  children!... Polenka! catch them.... It&rsquo;s for your sakes I...&rdquo;
 <br />
  She stumbled as she ran and fell down.
<br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;s cut herself, she&rsquo;s bleeding! Oh, dear!&rdquo; cried Sonia, bending over
  her.
<br />
  All ran up and crowded around. Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov were the
  first at her side, the official too hastened up, and behind him the
  policeman who muttered, &ldquo;Bother!&rdquo; with a gesture of impatience, feeling
  that the job was going to be a troublesome one.
<br />
  &ldquo;Pass on! Pass on!&rdquo; he said to the crowd that pressed forward.
<br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;s dying,&rdquo; someone shouted.
<br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;s gone out of her mind,&rdquo; said another.
<br />
  &ldquo;Lord have mercy upon us,&rdquo; said a woman, crossing herself. &ldquo;Have they
  caught the little girl and the boy? They&rsquo;re being brought back, the elder
  one&rsquo;s got them.... Ah, the naughty imps!&rdquo;
 <br />
  When they examined Katerina Ivanovna carefully, they saw that she had not
  cut herself against a stone, as Sonia thought, but that the blood that
  stained the pavement red was from her chest.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve seen that before,&rdquo; muttered the official to Raskolnikov and
  Lebeziatnikov; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s consumption; the blood flows and chokes the
  patient. I saw the same thing with a relative of my own not long ago...
  nearly a pint of blood, all in a minute.... What&rsquo;s to be done though? She
  is dying.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;This way, this way, to my room!&rdquo; Sonia implored. &ldquo;I live here!... See,
  that house, the second from here.... Come to me, make haste,&rdquo; she turned
  from one to the other. &ldquo;Send for the doctor! Oh, dear!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Thanks to the official&rsquo;s efforts, this plan was adopted, the policeman
  even helping to carry Katerina Ivanovna. She was carried to Sonia&rsquo;s room,
  almost unconscious, and laid on the bed. The blood was still flowing, but
  she seemed to be coming to herself. Raskolnikov, Lebeziatnikov, and the
  official accompanied Sonia into the room and were followed by the
  policeman, who first drove back the crowd which followed to the very door.
  Polenka came in holding Kolya and Lida, who were trembling and weeping.
  Several persons came in too from the Kapernaumovs&rsquo; room; the landlord, a
  lame one-eyed man of strange appearance with whiskers and hair that stood
  up like a brush, his wife, a woman with an everlastingly scared
  expression, and several open-mouthed children with wonder-struck faces.
  Among these, Svidrigaïlov suddenly made his appearance. Raskolnikov looked
  at him with surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not
  having noticed him in the crowd. A doctor and priest wore spoken of. The
  official whispered to Raskolnikov that he thought it was too late now for
  the doctor, but he ordered him to be sent for. Kapernaumov ran himself.
<br />
  Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna had regained her breath. The bleeding ceased
  for a time. She looked with sick but intent and penetrating eyes at Sonia,
  who stood pale and trembling, wiping the sweat from her brow with a
  handkerchief. At last she asked to be raised. They sat her up on the bed,
  supporting her on both sides.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where are the children?&rdquo; she said in a faint voice. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve brought them,
  Polenka? Oh the sillies! Why did you run away.... Och!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She moved her eyes,
  looking about her.
<br />
  &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s how you live, Sonia! Never once have I been in your room.&rdquo;
 <br />
  She looked at her with a face of suffering.
<br />
  &ldquo;We have been your ruin, Sonia. Polenka, Lida, Kolya, come here! Well,
  here they are, Sonia, take them all! I hand them over to you, I&rsquo;ve had
  enough! The ball is over.&rdquo; (Cough!) &ldquo;Lay me down, let me die in peace.&rdquo;
 <br />
  They laid her back on the pillow.
<br />
  &ldquo;What, the priest? I don&rsquo;t want him. You haven&rsquo;t got a rouble to spare. I
  have no sins. God must forgive me without that. He knows how I have
  suffered.... And if He won&rsquo;t forgive me, I don&rsquo;t care!&rdquo;
 <br />
  She sank more and more into uneasy delirium. At times she shuddered,
  turned her eyes from side to side, recognised everyone for a minute, but
  at once sank into delirium again. Her breathing was hoarse and difficult,
  there was a sort of rattle in her throat.
<br />
  &ldquo;I said to him, your excellency,&rdquo; she ejaculated, gasping after each word.
  &ldquo;That Amalia Ludwigovna, ah! Lida, Kolya, hands on your hips, make haste!
   Tap with your heels, be a graceful
  child!
<br />
  &ldquo;
<br />
  &ldquo;What next? That&rsquo;s the thing to sing.
<br />
  &ldquo;
<br />
  &ldquo;What an idea!  What things the fool invents!
  Ah, yes!
<br />
  &ldquo;In the heat of midday in the vale of Dagestan.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, how I loved it! I loved that song to distraction, Polenka! Your
  father, you know, used to sing it when we were engaged.... Oh those days!
  Oh that&rsquo;s the thing for us to sing! How does it go? I&rsquo;ve forgotten. Remind
  me! How was it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She was violently excited and tried to sit up. At last, in a horribly
  hoarse, broken voice, she began, shrieking and gasping at every word, with
  a look of growing terror.
<br />
  &ldquo;In the heat of midday!... in the vale!... of Dagestan!... With lead in my
  breast!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Your excellency!&rdquo; she wailed suddenly with a heart-rending scream and a
  flood of tears, &ldquo;protect the orphans! You have been their father&rsquo;s
  guest... one may say aristocratic....&rdquo; She started, regaining
  consciousness, and gazed at all with a sort of terror, but at once
  recognised Sonia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sonia, Sonia!&rdquo; she articulated softly and caressingly, as though
  surprised to find her there. &ldquo;Sonia darling, are you here, too?&rdquo;
 <br />
  They lifted her up again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Enough! It&rsquo;s over! Farewell, poor thing! I am done for! I am broken!&rdquo; she
  cried with vindictive despair, and her head fell heavily back on the
  pillow.
<br />
  She sank into unconsciousness again, but this time it did not last long.
  Her pale, yellow, wasted face dropped back, her mouth fell open, her leg
  moved convulsively, she gave a deep, deep sigh and died.
<br />
  Sonia fell upon her, flung her arms about her, and remained motionless
  with her head pressed to the dead woman&rsquo;s wasted bosom. Polenka threw
  herself at her mother&rsquo;s feet, kissing them and weeping violently. Though
  Kolya and Lida did not understand what had happened, they had a feeling
  that it was something terrible; they put their hands on each other&rsquo;s
  little shoulders, stared straight at one another and both at once opened
  their mouths and began screaming. They were both still in their fancy
  dress; one in a turban, the other in the cap with the ostrich feather.
<br />
  And how did &ldquo;the certificate of merit&rdquo; come to be on the bed beside
  Katerina Ivanovna? It lay there by the pillow; Raskolnikov saw it.
<br />
  He walked away to the window. Lebeziatnikov skipped up to him.
<br />
  &ldquo;She is dead,&rdquo; he said.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rodion Romanovitch, I must have two words with you,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov,
  coming up to them.
<br />
  Lebeziatnikov at once made room for him and delicately withdrew.
  Svidrigaïlov drew Raskolnikov further away.
<br />
  &ldquo;I will undertake all the arrangements, the funeral and that. You know
  it&rsquo;s a question of money and, as I told you, I have plenty to spare. I
  will put those two little ones and Polenka into some good orphan asylum,
  and I will settle fifteen hundred roubles to be paid to each on coming of
  age, so that Sofya Semyonovna need have no anxiety about them. And I will
  pull her out of the mud too, for she is a good girl, isn&rsquo;t she? So tell
  Avdotya Romanovna that that is how I am spending her ten thousand.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is your motive for such benevolence?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah! you sceptical person!&rdquo; laughed Svidrigaïlov. &ldquo;I told you I had no
  need of that money. Won&rsquo;t you admit that it&rsquo;s simply done from humanity?
  She wasn&rsquo;t &lsquo;a louse,&rsquo; you know&rdquo; (he pointed to the corner where the dead
  woman lay), &ldquo;was she, like some old pawnbroker woman? Come, you&rsquo;ll agree,
  is Luzhin to go on living, and doing wicked things or is she to die? And
  if I didn&rsquo;t help them, Polenka would go the same way.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He said this with an air of a sort of gay winking slyness, keeping his
  eyes fixed on Raskolnikov, who turned white and cold, hearing his own
  phrases, spoken to Sonia. He quickly stepped back and looked wildly at
  Svidrigaïlov.
<br />
  &ldquo;How do you know?&rdquo; he whispered, hardly able to breathe.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, I lodge here at Madame Resslich&rsquo;s, the other side of the wall. Here
  is Kapernaumov, and there lives Madame Resslich, an old and devoted friend
  of mine. I am a neighbour.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; continued Svidrigaïlov, shaking with laughter. &ldquo;I assure you on my
  honour, dear Rodion Romanovitch, that you have interested me enormously. I
  told you we should become friends, I foretold it. Well, here we have. And
  you will see what an accommodating person I am. You&rsquo;ll see that you can
  get on with me!&rdquo;


      PART VI


      CHAPTER I


  A strange period began for Raskolnikov: it was as though a fog had fallen
  upon him and wrapped him in a dreary solitude from which there was no
  escape. Recalling that period long after, he believed that his mind had
  been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, till
  the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had been mistaken about
  many things at that time, for instance as to the date of certain events.
  Anyway, when he tried later on to piece his recollections together, he
  learnt a great deal about himself from what other people told him. He had
  mixed up incidents and had explained events as due to circumstances which
  existed only in his imagination. At times he was a prey to agonies of
  morbid uneasiness, amounting sometimes to panic. But he remembered, too,
  moments, hours, perhaps whole days, of complete apathy, which came upon
  him as a reaction from his previous terror and might be compared with the
  abnormal insensibility, sometimes seen in the dying. He seemed to be
  trying in that latter stage to escape from a full and clear understanding
  of his position. Certain essential facts which required immediate
  consideration were particularly irksome to him. How glad he would have
  been to be free from some cares, the neglect of which would have
  threatened him with complete, inevitable ruin.
<br />
  He was particularly worried about Svidrigaïlov, he might be said to be
  permanently thinking of Svidrigaïlov. From the time of Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s too
  menacing and unmistakable words in Sonia&rsquo;s room at the moment of Katerina
  Ivanovna&rsquo;s death, the normal working of his mind seemed to break down. But
  although this new fact caused him extreme uneasiness, Raskolnikov was in
  no hurry for an explanation of it. At times, finding himself in a solitary
  and remote part of the town, in some wretched eating-house, sitting alone
  lost in thought, hardly knowing how he had come there, he suddenly thought
  of Svidrigaïlov. He recognised suddenly, clearly, and with dismay that he
  ought at once to come to an understanding with that man and to make what
  terms he could. Walking outside the city gates one day, he positively
  fancied that they had fixed a meeting there, that he was waiting for
  Svidrigaïlov. Another time he woke up before daybreak lying on the ground
  under some bushes and could not at first understand how he had come there.
<br />
  But during the two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s death, he had
  two or three times met Svidrigaïlov at Sonia&rsquo;s lodging, where he had gone
  aimlessly for a moment. They exchanged a few words and made no reference
  to the vital subject, as though they were tacitly agreed not to speak of
  it for a time.
<br />
  Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s body was still lying in the coffin, Svidrigaïlov was
  busy making arrangements for the funeral. Sonia too was very busy. At
  their last meeting Svidrigaïlov informed Raskolnikov that he had made an
  arrangement, and a very satisfactory one, for Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s
  children; that he had, through certain connections, succeeded in getting
  hold of certain personages by whose help the three orphans could be at
  once placed in very suitable institutions; that the money he had settled
  on them had been of great assistance, as it is much easier to place
  orphans with some property than destitute ones. He said something too
  about Sonia and promised to come himself in a day or two to see
  Raskolnikov, mentioning that &ldquo;he would like to consult with him, that
  there were things they must talk over....&rdquo;
 <br />
  This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs. Svidrigaïlov
  looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly, after a brief pause, dropping
  his voice, asked: &ldquo;But how is it, Rodion Romanovitch; you don&rsquo;t seem
  yourself? You look and you listen, but you don&rsquo;t seem to understand. Cheer
  up! We&rsquo;ll talk things over; I am only sorry, I&rsquo;ve so much to do of my own
  business and other people&rsquo;s. Ah, Rodion Romanovitch,&rdquo; he added suddenly,
  &ldquo;what all men need is fresh air, fresh air... more than anything!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He moved to one side to make way for the priest and server, who were
  coming up the stairs. They had come for the requiem service. By
  Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s orders it was sung twice a day punctually. Svidrigaïlov
  went his way. Raskolnikov stood still a moment, thought, and followed the
  priest into Sonia&rsquo;s room. He stood at the door. They began quietly, slowly
  and mournfully singing the service. From his childhood the thought of
  death and the presence of death had something oppressive and mysteriously
  awful; and it was long since he had heard the requiem service. And there
  was something else here as well, too awful and disturbing. He looked at
  the children: they were all kneeling by the coffin; Polenka was weeping.
  Behind them Sonia prayed, softly and, as it were, timidly weeping.
<br />
  &ldquo;These last two days she hasn&rsquo;t said a word to me, she hasn&rsquo;t glanced at
  me,&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The sunlight was bright in the room;
  the incense rose in clouds; the priest read, &ldquo;Give rest, oh Lord....&rdquo;
   Raskolnikov stayed all through the service. As he blessed them and took
  his leave, the priest looked round strangely. After the service,
  Raskolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his hands and let her head
  sink on his shoulder. This slight friendly gesture bewildered Raskolnikov.
  It seemed strange to him that there was no trace of repugnance, no trace
  of disgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the furthest limit of
  self-abnegation, at least so he interpreted it.
<br />
  Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt
  very miserable. If it had been possible to escape to some solitude, he
  would have thought himself lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life
  there. But although he had almost always been by himself of late, he had
  never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out of the town on to
  the high road, once he had even reached a little wood, but the lonelier
  the place was, the more he seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near
  him. It did not frighten him, but greatly annoyed him, so that he made
  haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to enter
  restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thoroughfares. There he felt
  easier and even more solitary. One day at dusk he sat for an hour
  listening to songs in a tavern and he remembered that he positively
  enjoyed it. But at last he had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again, as
  though his conscience smote him. &ldquo;Here I sit listening to singing, is that
  what I ought to be doing?&rdquo; he thought. Yet he felt at once that that was
  not the only cause of his uneasiness; there was something requiring
  immediate decision, but it was something he could not clearly understand
  or put into words. It was a hopeless tangle. &ldquo;No, better the struggle
  again! Better Porfiry again... or Svidrigaïlov.... Better some challenge
  again... some attack. Yes, yes!&rdquo; he thought. He went out of the tavern and
  rushed away almost at a run. The thought of Dounia and his mother suddenly
  reduced him almost to a panic. That night he woke up before morning among
  some bushes in Krestovsky Island, trembling all over with fever; he walked
  home, and it was early morning when he arrived. After some hours&rsquo; sleep
  the fever left him, but he woke up late, two o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon.
<br />
  He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s funeral had been fixed for that
  day, and was glad that he was not present at it. Nastasya brought him some
  food; he ate and drank with appetite, almost with greediness. His head was
  fresher and he was calmer than he had been for the last three days. He
  even felt a passing wonder at his previous attacks of panic.
<br />
  The door opened and Razumihin came in.
<br />
  &ldquo;Ah, he&rsquo;s eating, then he&rsquo;s not ill,&rdquo; said Razumihin. He took a chair and
  sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov.
<br />
  He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with evident
  annoyance, but without hurry or raising his voice. He looked as though he
  had some special fixed determination.
<br />
  &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; he began resolutely. &ldquo;As far as I am concerned, you may all go
  to hell, but from what I see, it&rsquo;s clear to me that I can&rsquo;t make head or
  tail of it; please don&rsquo;t think I&rsquo;ve come to ask you questions. I don&rsquo;t
  want to know, hang it! If you begin telling me your secrets, I dare say I
  shouldn&rsquo;t stay to listen, I should go away cursing. I have only come to
  find out once for all whether it&rsquo;s a fact that you are mad? There is a
  conviction in the air that you are mad or very nearly so. I admit I&rsquo;ve
  been disposed to that opinion myself, judging from your stupid, repulsive
  and quite inexplicable actions, and from your recent behavior to your
  mother and sister. Only a monster or a madman could treat them as you
  have; so you must be mad.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;When did you see them last?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Just now. Haven&rsquo;t you seen them since then? What have you been doing with
  yourself? Tell me, please. I&rsquo;ve been to you three times already. Your
  mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She had made up her mind to
  come to you; Avdotya Romanovna tried to prevent her; she wouldn&rsquo;t hear a
  word. &lsquo;If he is ill, if his mind is giving way, who can look after him
  like his mother?&rsquo; she said. We all came here together, we couldn&rsquo;t let her
  come alone all the way. We kept begging her to be calm. We came in, you
  weren&rsquo;t here; she sat down, and stayed ten minutes, while we stood waiting
  in silence. She got up and said: &lsquo;If he&rsquo;s gone out, that is, if he is
  well, and has forgotten his mother, it&rsquo;s humiliating and unseemly for his
  mother to stand at his door begging for kindness.&rsquo; She returned home and
  took to her bed; now she is in a fever. &lsquo;I see,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;that he has
  time for .&rsquo; She means by  Sofya Semyonovna,
  your betrothed or your mistress, I don&rsquo;t know. I went at once to Sofya
  Semyonovna&rsquo;s, for I wanted to know what was going on. I looked round, I
  saw the coffin, the children crying, and Sofya Semyonovna trying them on
  mourning dresses. No sign of you. I apologised, came away, and reported to
  Avdotya Romanovna. So that&rsquo;s all nonsense and you haven&rsquo;t got a girl; the
  most likely thing is that you are mad. But here you sit, guzzling boiled
  beef as though you&rsquo;d not had a bite for three days. Though as far as that
  goes, madmen eat too, but though you have not said a word to me yet... you
  are not mad! That I&rsquo;d swear! Above all, you are not mad! So you may go to
  hell, all of you, for there&rsquo;s some mystery, some secret about it, and I
  don&rsquo;t intend to worry my brains over your secrets. So I&rsquo;ve simply come to
  swear at you,&rdquo; he finished, getting up, &ldquo;to relieve my mind. And I know
  what to do now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What do you mean to do now?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What business is it of yours what I mean to do?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are going in for a drinking bout.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How... how did you know?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, it&rsquo;s pretty plain.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Razumihin paused for a minute.
<br />
  &ldquo;You always have been a very rational person and you&rsquo;ve never been mad,
  never,&rdquo; he observed suddenly with warmth. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re right: I shall drink.
  Good-bye!&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he moved to go out.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was talking with my sister&mdash;the day before yesterday, I think it
  was&mdash;about you, Razumihin.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;About me! But... where can you have seen her the day before yesterday?&rdquo;
   Razumihin stopped short and even turned a little pale.
<br />
  One could see that his heart was throbbing slowly and violently.
<br />
  &ldquo;She came here by herself, sat there and talked to me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She did!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What did you say to her... I mean, about me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I told her you were a very good, honest, and industrious man. I didn&rsquo;t
  tell her you love her, because she knows that herself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She knows that herself?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, it&rsquo;s pretty plain. Wherever I might go, whatever happened to me,
  you would remain to look after them. I, so to speak, give them into your
  keeping, Razumihin. I say this because I know quite well how you love her,
  and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I know that she too may love
  you and perhaps does love you already. Now decide for yourself, as you
  know best, whether you need go in for a drinking bout or not.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Rodya! You see... well.... Ach, damn it! But where do you mean to go? Of
  course, if it&rsquo;s all a secret, never mind.... But I... I shall find out the
  secret... and I am sure that it must be some ridiculous nonsense and that
  you&rsquo;ve made it all up. Anyway you are a capital fellow, a capital
  fellow!...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That was just what I wanted to add, only you interrupted, that that was a
  very good decision of yours not to find out these secrets. Leave it to
  time, don&rsquo;t worry about it. You&rsquo;ll know it all in time when it must be.
  Yesterday a man said to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh air,
  fresh air. I mean to go to him directly to find out what he meant by
  that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Razumihin stood lost in thought and excitement, making a silent
  conclusion.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a political conspirator! He must be. And he&rsquo;s on the eve of some
  desperate step, that&rsquo;s certain. It can only be that! And... and Dounia
  knows,&rdquo; he thought suddenly.
<br />
  &ldquo;So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you,&rdquo; he said, weighing each syllable,
  &ldquo;and you&rsquo;re going to see a man who says we need more air, and so of course
  that letter... that too must have something to do with it,&rdquo; he concluded
  to himself.
<br />
  &ldquo;What letter?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She got a letter to-day. It upset her very much&mdash;very much indeed.
  Too much so. I began speaking of you, she begged me not to. Then... then
  she said that perhaps we should very soon have to part... then she began
  warmly thanking me for something; then she went to her room and locked
  herself in.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;She got a letter?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, and you didn&rsquo;t know? hm...&rdquo;
 <br />
  They were both silent.
<br />
  &ldquo;Good-bye, Rodion. There was a time, brother, when I.... Never mind,
  good-bye. You see, there was a time.... Well, good-bye! I must be off too.
  I am not going to drink. There&rsquo;s no need now.... That&rsquo;s all stuff!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He hurried out; but when he had almost closed the door behind him, he
  suddenly opened it again, and said, looking away:
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, by the way, do you remember that murder, you know Porfiry&rsquo;s, that old
  woman? Do you know the murderer has been found, he has confessed and given
  the proofs. It&rsquo;s one of those very workmen, the painter, only fancy! Do
  you remember I defended them here? Would you believe it, all that scene of
  fighting and laughing with his companions on the stairs while the porter
  and the two witnesses were going up, he got up on purpose to disarm
  suspicion. The cunning, the presence of mind of the young dog! One can
  hardly credit it; but it&rsquo;s his own explanation, he has confessed it all.
  And what a fool I was about it! Well, he&rsquo;s simply a genius of hypocrisy
  and resourcefulness in disarming the suspicions of the lawyers&mdash;so
  there&rsquo;s nothing much to wonder at, I suppose! Of course people like that
  are always possible. And the fact that he couldn&rsquo;t keep up the character,
  but confessed, makes him easier to believe in. But what a fool I was! I
  was frantic on their side!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Tell me, please, from whom did you hear that, and why does it interest
  you so?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked with unmistakable agitation.
<br />
  &ldquo;What next? You ask me why it interests me!... Well, I heard it from
  Porfiry, among others... It was from him I heard almost all about it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;From Porfiry?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;From Porfiry.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What... what did he say?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked in dismay.
<br />
  &ldquo;He gave me a capital explanation of it. Psychologically, after his
  fashion.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He explained it? Explained it himself?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, yes; good-bye. I&rsquo;ll tell you all about it another time, but now I&rsquo;m
  busy. There was a time when I fancied... But no matter, another time!...
  What need is there for me to drink now? You have made me drunk without
  wine. I am drunk, Rodya! Good-bye, I&rsquo;m going. I&rsquo;ll come again very soon.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He went out.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a political conspirator, there&rsquo;s not a doubt about it,&rdquo; Razumihin
  decided, as he slowly descended the stairs. &ldquo;And he&rsquo;s drawn his sister in;
  that&rsquo;s quite, quite in keeping with Avdotya Romanovna&rsquo;s character. There
  are interviews between them!... She hinted at it too... So many of her
  words.... and hints... bear that meaning! And how else can all this tangle
  be explained? Hm! And I was almost thinking... Good heavens, what I
  thought! Yes, I took leave of my senses and I wronged him! It was his
  doing, under the lamp in the corridor that day. Pfoo! What a crude, nasty,
  vile idea on my part! Nikolay is a brick, for confessing.... And how clear
  it all is now! His illness then, all his strange actions... before this,
  in the university, how morose he used to be, how gloomy.... But what&rsquo;s the
  meaning now of that letter? There&rsquo;s something in that, too, perhaps. Whom
  was it from? I suspect...! No, I must find out!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He thought of Dounia, realising all he had heard and his heart throbbed,
  and he suddenly broke into a run.
<br />
  As soon as Razumihin went out, Raskolnikov got up, turned to the window,
  walked into one corner and then into another, as though forgetting the
  smallness of his room, and sat down again on the sofa. He felt, so to
  speak, renewed; again the struggle, so a means of escape had come.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, a means of escape had come! It had been too stifling, too cramping,
  the burden had been too agonising. A lethargy had come upon him at times.
  From the moment of the scene with Nikolay at Porfiry&rsquo;s he had been
  suffocating, penned in without hope of escape. After Nikolay&rsquo;s confession,
  on that very day had come the scene with Sonia; his behaviour and his last
  words had been utterly unlike anything he could have imagined beforehand;
  he had grown feebler, instantly and fundamentally! And he had agreed at
  the time with Sonia, he had agreed in his heart he could not go on living
  alone with such a thing on his mind!
<br />
  &ldquo;And Svidrigaïlov was a riddle... He worried him, that was true, but
  somehow not on the same point. He might still have a struggle to come with
  Svidrigaïlov. Svidrigaïlov, too, might be a means of escape; but Porfiry
  was a different matter.
<br />
  &ldquo;And so Porfiry himself had explained it to Razumihin, had explained it .
  He had begun bringing in his damned psychology again! Porfiry? But to
  think that Porfiry should for one moment believe that Nikolay was guilty,
  after what had passed between them before Nikolay&rsquo;s appearance, after that
  tête-à-tête interview, which could have only  explanation?
  (During those days Raskolnikov had often recalled passages in that scene
  with Porfiry; he could not bear to let his mind rest on it.) Such words,
  such gestures had passed between them, they had exchanged such glances,
  things had been said in such a tone and had reached such a pass, that
  Nikolay, whom Porfiry had seen through at the first word, at the first
  gesture, could not have shaken his conviction.
<br />
  &ldquo;And to think that even Razumihin had begun to suspect! The scene in the
  corridor under the lamp had produced its effect then. He had rushed to
  Porfiry.... But what had induced the latter to receive him like that? What
  had been his object in putting Razumihin off with Nikolay? He must have
  some plan; there was some design, but what was it? It was true that a long
  time had passed since that morning&mdash;too long a time&mdash;and no
  sight nor sound of Porfiry. Well, that was a bad sign....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the room, still pondering. It was
  the first time for a long while that he had felt clear in his mind, at
  least. &ldquo;I must settle Svidrigaïlov,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;and as soon as possible;
  he, too, seems to be waiting for me to come to him of my own accord.&rdquo; And
  at that moment there was such a rush of hate in his weary heart that he
  might have killed either of those two&mdash;Porfiry or Svidrigaïlov. At
  least he felt that he would be capable of doing it later, if not now.
<br />
  &ldquo;We shall see, we shall see,&rdquo; he repeated to himself.
<br />
  But no sooner had he opened the door than he stumbled upon Porfiry himself
  in the passage. He was coming in to see him. Raskolnikov was dumbfounded
  for a minute, but only for one minute. Strange to say, he was not very
  much astonished at seeing Porfiry and scarcely afraid of him. He was
  simply startled, but was quickly, instantly, on his guard. &ldquo;Perhaps this
  will mean the end? But how could Porfiry have approached so quietly, like
  a cat, so that he had heard nothing? Could he have been listening at the
  door?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t expect a visitor, Rodion Romanovitch,&rdquo; Porfiry explained,
  laughing. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been meaning to look in a long time; I was passing by and
  thought why not go in for five minutes. Are you going out? I won&rsquo;t keep
  you long. Just let me have one cigarette.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Sit down, Porfiry Petrovitch, sit down.&rdquo; Raskolnikov gave his visitor a
  seat with so pleased and friendly an expression that he would have
  marvelled at himself, if he could have seen it.
<br />
  The last moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man will
  sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet
  when the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear.
<br />
  Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and looked at him
  without flinching. Porfiry screwed up his eyes and began lighting a
  cigarette.
<br />
  &ldquo;Speak, speak,&rdquo; seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov&rsquo;s heart.
  &ldquo;Come, why don&rsquo;t you speak?&rdquo;


      CHAPTER II


  &ldquo;Ah these cigarettes!&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch ejaculated at last, having
  lighted one. &ldquo;They are pernicious, positively pernicious, and yet I can&rsquo;t
  give them up! I cough, I begin to have tickling in my throat and a
  difficulty in breathing. You know I am a coward, I went lately to Dr. B&mdash;&mdash;n;
  he always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He positively
  laughed looking at me; he sounded me: &lsquo;Tobacco&rsquo;s bad for you,&rsquo; he said,
  &lsquo;your lungs are affected.&rsquo; But how am I to give it up? What is there to
  take its place? I don&rsquo;t drink, that&rsquo;s the mischief, he-he-he, that I
  don&rsquo;t. Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovitch, everything is
  relative!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, he&rsquo;s playing his professional tricks again,&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought
  with disgust. All the circumstances of their last interview suddenly came
  back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that had come upon him
  then.
<br />
  &ldquo;I came to see you the day before yesterday, in the evening; you didn&rsquo;t
  know?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch went on, looking round the room. &ldquo;I came into
  this very room. I was passing by, just as I did to-day, and I thought I&rsquo;d
  return your call. I walked in as your door was wide open, I looked round,
  waited and went out without leaving my name with your servant. Don&rsquo;t you
  lock your door?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s face grew more and more gloomy. Porfiry seemed to guess his
  state of mind.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to have it out with you, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow! I
  owe you an explanation and must give it to you,&rdquo; he continued with a
  slight smile, just patting Raskolnikov&rsquo;s knee.
<br />
  But almost at the same instant a serious and careworn look came into his
  face; to his surprise Raskolnikov saw a touch of sadness in it. He had
  never seen and never suspected such an expression in his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rodion Romanovitch.
  Our first interview, too, was a strange one; but then... and one thing
  after another! This is the point: I have perhaps acted unfairly to you; I
  feel it. Do you remember how we parted? Your nerves were unhinged and your
  knees were shaking and so were mine. And, you know, our behaviour was
  unseemly, even ungentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, above all, in any
  case, gentlemen; that must be understood. Do you remember what we came
  to?... and it was quite indecorous.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is he up to, what does he take me for?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked himself in
  amazement, raising his head and looking with open eyes on Porfiry.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve decided openness is better between us,&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch went on,
  turning his head away and dropping his eyes, as though unwilling to
  disconcert his former victim and as though disdaining his former wiles.
  &ldquo;Yes, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Nikolay
  put a stop to it, or I don&rsquo;t know what we might not have come to. That
  damned workman was sitting at the time in the next room&mdash;can you
  realise that? You know that, of course; and I am aware that he came to you
  afterwards. But what you supposed then was not true: I had not sent for
  anyone, I had made no kind of arrangements. You ask why I hadn&rsquo;t? What
  shall I say to you? it had all come upon me so suddenly. I had scarcely
  sent for the porters (you noticed them as you went out, I dare say). An
  idea flashed upon me; I was firmly convinced at the time, you see, Rodion
  Romanovitch. Come, I thought&mdash;even if I let one thing slip for a
  time, I shall get hold of something else&mdash;I shan&rsquo;t lose what I want,
  anyway. You are nervously irritable, Rodion Romanovitch, by temperament;
  it&rsquo;s out of proportion with other qualities of your heart and character,
  which I flatter myself I have to some extent divined. Of course I did
  reflect even then that it does not always happen that a man gets up and
  blurts out his whole story. It does happen sometimes, if you make a man
  lose all patience, though even then it&rsquo;s rare. I was capable of realising
  that. If I only had a fact, I thought, the least little fact to go upon,
  something I could lay hold of, something tangible, not merely
  psychological. For if a man is guilty, you must be able to get something
  substantial out of him; one may reckon upon most surprising results
  indeed. I was reckoning on your temperament, Rodion Romanovitch, on your
  temperament above all things! I had great hopes of you at that time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what are you driving at now?&rdquo; Raskolnikov muttered at last, asking
  the question without thinking.
<br />
  &ldquo;What is he talking about?&rdquo; he wondered distractedly, &ldquo;does he really take
  me to be innocent?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What am I driving at? I&rsquo;ve come to explain myself, I consider it my duty,
  so to speak. I want to make clear to you how the whole business, the whole
  misunderstanding arose. I&rsquo;ve caused you a great deal of suffering, Rodion
  Romanovitch. I am not a monster. I understand what it must mean for a man
  who has been unfortunate, but who is proud, imperious and above all,
  impatient, to have to bear such treatment! I regard you in any case as a
  man of noble character and not without elements of magnanimity, though I
  don&rsquo;t agree with all your convictions. I wanted to tell you this first,
  frankly and quite sincerely, for above all I don&rsquo;t want to deceive you.
  When I made your acquaintance, I felt attracted by you. Perhaps you will
  laugh at my saying so. You have a right to. I know you disliked me from
  the first and indeed you&rsquo;ve no reason to like me. You may think what you
  like, but I desire now to do all I can to efface that impression and to
  show that I am a man of heart and conscience. I speak sincerely.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Porfiry Petrovitch made a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a rush of
  renewed alarm. The thought that Porfiry believed him to be innocent began
  to make him uneasy.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail,&rdquo; Porfiry
  Petrovitch went on. &ldquo;Indeed, I could scarcely attempt it. To begin with
  there were rumours. Through whom, how, and when those rumours came to
  me... and how they affected you, I need not go into. My suspicions were
  aroused by a complete accident, which might just as easily not have
  happened. What was it? Hm! I believe there is no need to go into that
  either. Those rumours and that accident led to one idea in my mind. I
  admit it openly&mdash;for one may as well make a clean breast of it&mdash;I
  was the first to pitch on you. The old woman&rsquo;s notes on the pledges and
  the rest of it&mdash;that all came to nothing. Yours was one of a hundred.
  I happened, too, to hear of the scene at the office, from a man who
  described it capitally, unconsciously reproducing the scene with great
  vividness. It was just one thing after another, Rodion Romanovitch, my
  dear fellow! How could I avoid being brought to certain ideas? From a
  hundred rabbits you can&rsquo;t make a horse, a hundred suspicions don&rsquo;t make a
  proof, as the English proverb says, but that&rsquo;s only from the rational
  point of view&mdash;you can&rsquo;t help being partial, for after all a lawyer
  is only human. I thought, too, of your article in that journal, do you
  remember, on your first visit we talked of it? I jeered at you at the
  time, but that was only to lead you on. I repeat, Rodion Romanovitch, you
  are ill and impatient. That you were bold, headstrong, in earnest and...
  had felt a great deal I recognised long before. I, too, have felt the
  same, so that your article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on
  sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and suppressed
  enthusiasm. And that proud suppressed enthusiasm in young people is
  dangerous! I jeered at you then, but let me tell you that, as a literary
  amateur, I am awfully fond of such first essays, full of the heat of
  youth. There is a mistiness and a chord vibrating in the mist. Your
  article is absurd and fantastic, but there&rsquo;s a transparent sincerity, a
  youthful incorruptible pride and the daring of despair in it. It&rsquo;s a
  gloomy article, but that&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s fine in it. I read your article and put
  it aside, thinking as I did so &lsquo;that man won&rsquo;t go the common way.&rsquo; Well, I
  ask you, after that as a preliminary, how could I help being carried away
  by what followed? Oh, dear, I am not saying anything, I am not making any
  statement now. I simply noted it at the time. What is there in it? I
  reflected. There&rsquo;s nothing in it, that is really nothing and perhaps
  absolutely nothing. And it&rsquo;s not at all the thing for the prosecutor to
  let himself be carried away by notions: here I have Nikolay on my hands
  with actual evidence against him&mdash;you may think what you like of it,
  but it&rsquo;s evidence. He brings in his psychology, too; one has to consider
  him, too, for it&rsquo;s a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining this to
  you? That you may understand, and not blame my malicious behaviour on that
  occasion. It was not malicious, I assure you, he-he! Do you suppose I
  didn&rsquo;t come to search your room at the time? I did, I did, he-he! I was
  here when you were lying ill in bed, not officially, not in my own person,
  but I was here. Your room was searched to the last thread at the first
  suspicion; but ! I thought to myself, now that man will
  come, will come of himself and quickly, too; if he&rsquo;s guilty, he&rsquo;s sure to
  come. Another man wouldn&rsquo;t, but he will. And you remember how Mr.
  Razumihin began discussing the subject with you? We arranged that to
  excite you, so we purposely spread rumours, that he might discuss the case
  with you, and Razumihin is not a man to restrain his indignation. Mr.
  Zametov was tremendously struck by your anger and your open daring. Think
  of blurting out in a restaurant &lsquo;I killed her.&rsquo; It was too daring, too
  reckless. I thought so myself, if he is guilty he will be a formidable
  opponent. That was what I thought at the time. I was expecting you. But
  you simply bowled Zametov over and... well, you see, it all lies in this&mdash;that
  this damnable psychology can be taken two ways! Well, I kept expecting
  you, and so it was, you came! My heart was fairly throbbing. Ach!
<br />
  &ldquo;Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in, do you
  remember? I saw it all plain as daylight, but if I hadn&rsquo;t expected you so
  specially, I should not have noticed anything in your laughter. You see
  what influence a mood has! Mr. Razumihin then&mdash;ah, that stone, that
  stone under which the things were hidden! I seem to see it somewhere in a
  kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden, you told Zametov and
  afterwards you repeated that in my office? And when we began picking your
  article to pieces, how you explained it! One could take every word of
  yours in two senses, as though there were another meaning hidden.
<br />
  &ldquo;So in this way, Rodion Romanovitch, I reached the furthest limit, and
  knocking my head against a post, I pulled myself up, asking myself what I
  was about. After all, I said, you can take it all in another sense if you
  like, and it&rsquo;s more natural so, indeed. I couldn&rsquo;t help admitting it was
  more natural. I was bothered! &lsquo;No, I&rsquo;d better get hold of some little
  fact&rsquo; I said. So when I heard of the bell-ringing, I held my breath and
  was all in a tremor. &lsquo;Here is my little fact,&rsquo; thought I, and I didn&rsquo;t
  think it over, I simply wouldn&rsquo;t. I would have given a thousand roubles at
  that minute to have seen you with my own eyes, when you walked a hundred
  paces beside that workman, after he had called you murderer to your face,
  and you did not dare to ask him a question all the way. And then what
  about your trembling, what about your bell-ringing in your illness, in
  semi-delirium?
<br />
  &ldquo;And so, Rodion Romanovitch, can you wonder that I played such pranks on
  you? And what made you come at that very minute? Someone seemed to have
  sent you, by Jove! And if Nikolay had not parted us... and do you remember
  Nikolay at the time? Do you remember him clearly? It was a thunderbolt, a
  regular thunderbolt! And how I met him! I didn&rsquo;t believe in the
  thunderbolt, not for a minute. You could see it for yourself; and how
  could I? Even afterwards, when you had gone and he began making very, very
  plausible answers on certain points, so that I was surprised at him
  myself, even then I didn&rsquo;t believe his story! You see what it is to be as
  firm as a rock! No, thought I, . What has Nikolay got to
  do with it!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Razumihin told me just now that you think Nikolay guilty and had yourself
  assured him of it....&rdquo;
 <br />
  His voice failed him, and he broke off. He had been listening in
  indescribable agitation, as this man who had seen through and through him,
  went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it and did not believe
  it. In those still ambiguous words he kept eagerly looking for something
  more definite and conclusive.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mr. Razumihin!&rdquo; cried Porfiry Petrovitch, seeming glad of a question from
  Raskolnikov, who had till then been silent. &ldquo;He-he-he! But I had to put
  Mr. Razumihin off; two is company, three is none. Mr. Razumihin is not the
  right man, besides he is an outsider. He came running to me with a pale
  face.... But never mind him, why bring him in? To return to Nikolay, would
  you like to know what sort of a type he is, how I understand him, that is?
  To begin with, he is still a child and not exactly a coward, but something
  by way of an artist. Really, don&rsquo;t laugh at my describing him so. He is
  innocent and responsive to influence. He has a heart, and is a fantastic
  fellow. He sings and dances, he tells stories, they say, so that people
  come from other villages to hear him. He attends school too, and laughs
  till he cries if you hold up a finger to him; he will drink himself
  senseless&mdash;not as a regular vice, but at times, when people treat
  him, like a child. And he stole, too, then, without knowing it himself,
  for &lsquo;How can it be stealing, if one picks it up?&rsquo; And do you know he is an
  Old Believer, or rather a dissenter? There have been Wanderers[*] in his
  family, and he was for two years in his village under the spiritual
  guidance of a certain elder. I learnt all this from Nikolay and from his
  fellow villagers. And what&rsquo;s more, he wanted to run into the wilderness!
  He was full of fervour, prayed at night, read the old books, &lsquo;the true&rsquo;
  ones, and read himself crazy.
<br />
 [*] A religious sect.&mdash;TRANSLATOR&rsquo;S NOTE.


    “Petersburg had a great effect upon him, especially the women and the wine. He responds to everything and he forgot the elder and all that. I learnt that an artist here took a fancy to him, and used to go and see him, and now this business came upon him.
    “Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He ran away! How can one get over the idea the people have of Russian legal proceedings? The very word ‘trial’ frightens some of them. Whose fault is it? We shall see what the new juries will do. God grant they do good! Well, in prison, it seems, he remembered the venerable elder; the Bible, too, made its appearance again. Do you know, Rodion Romanovitch, the force of the word ‘suffering’ among some of these people! It’s not a question of suffering for someone’s benefit, but simply, ‘one must suffer.’ If they suffer at the hands of the authorities, so much the better. In my time there was a very meek and mild prisoner who spent a whole year in prison always reading his Bible on the stove at night and he read himself crazy, and so crazy, do you know, that one day, apropos of nothing, he seized a brick and flung it at the governor; though he had done him no harm. And the way he threw it too: aimed it a yard on one side on purpose, for fear of hurting him. Well, we know what happens to a prisoner who assaults an officer with a weapon. So ‘he took his suffering.’
    “So I suspect now that Nikolay wants to take his suffering or something of the sort. I know it for certain from facts, indeed. Only he doesn’t know that I know. What, you don’t admit that there are such fantastic people among the peasants? Lots of them. The elder now has begun influencing him, especially since he tried to hang himself. But he’ll come and tell me all himself. You think he’ll hold out? Wait a bit, he’ll take his words back. I am waiting from hour to hour for him to come and abjure his evidence. I have come to like that Nikolay and am studying him in detail. And what do you think? He-he! He answered me very plausibly on some points, he obviously had collected some evidence and prepared himself cleverly. But on other points he is simply at sea, knows nothing and doesn’t even suspect that he doesn’t know!
    “No, Rodion Romanovitch, Nikolay doesn’t come in! This is a fantastic, gloomy business, a modern case, an incident of to-day when the heart of man is troubled, when the phrase is quoted that blood ‘renews,’ when comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish dreams, a heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the first stage, but resolution of a special kind: he resolved to do it like jumping over a precipice or from a bell tower and his legs shook as he went to the crime. He forgot to shut the door after him, and murdered two people for a theory. He committed the murder and couldn’t take the money, and what he did manage to snatch up he hid under a stone. It wasn’t enough for him to suffer agony behind the door while they battered at the door and rung the bell, no, he had to go to the empty lodging, half delirious, to recall the bell-ringing, he wanted to feel the cold shiver over again…. Well, that we grant, was through illness, but consider this: he is a murderer, but looks upon himself as an honest man, despises others, poses as injured innocence. No, that’s not the work of a Nikolay, my dear Rodion Romanovitch!”
    All that had been said before had sounded so like a recantation that these words were too great a shock. Raskolnikov shuddered as though he had been stabbed.
    “Then… who then… is the murderer?” he asked in a breathless voice, unable to restrain himself.
    Porfiry Petrovitch sank back in his chair, as though he were amazed at the question.
    “Who is the murderer?” he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears. “Why, , Rodion Romanovitch! You are the murderer,” he added, almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction.
    Raskolnikov leapt from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds and sat down again without uttering a word. His face twitched convulsively.
    “Your lip is twitching just as it did before,” Porfiry Petrovitch observed almost sympathetically. “You’ve been misunderstanding me, I think, Rodion Romanovitch,” he added after a brief pause, “that’s why you are so surprised. I came on purpose to tell you everything and deal openly with you.”
    “It was not I murdered her,” Raskolnikov whispered like a frightened child caught in the act.
    “No, it was you, you Rodion Romanovitch, and no one else,” Porfiry whispered sternly, with conviction.
    They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten minutes. Raskolnikov put his elbow on the table and passed his fingers through his hair. Porfiry Petrovitch sat quietly waiting. Suddenly Raskolnikov looked scornfully at Porfiry.
    “You are at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovitch! Your old method again. I wonder you don’t get sick of it!”
    “Oh, stop that, what does that matter now? It would be a different matter if there were witnesses present, but we are whispering alone. You see yourself that I have not come to chase and capture you like a hare. Whether you confess it or not is nothing to me now; for myself, I am convinced without it.”
    “If so, what did you come for?” Raskolnikov asked irritably. “I ask you the same question again: if you consider me guilty, why don’t you take me to prison?”
    “Oh, that’s your question! I will answer you, point for point. In the first place, to arrest you so directly is not to my interest.”
    “How so? If you are convinced you ought….”
    “Ach, what if I am convinced? That’s only my dream for the time. Why should I put you in safety? You know that’s it, since you ask me to do it. If I confront you with that workman for instance and you say to him ‘were you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I simply took you to be drunk, and you were drunk, too.’ Well, what could I answer, especially as your story is a more likely one than his? for there’s nothing but psychology to support his evidence—that’s almost unseemly with his ugly mug, while you hit the mark exactly, for the rascal is an inveterate drunkard and notoriously so. And I have myself admitted candidly several times already that that psychology can be taken in two ways and that the second way is stronger and looks far more probable, and that apart from that I have as yet nothing against you. And though I shall put you in prison and indeed have come—quite contrary to etiquette—to inform you of it beforehand, yet I tell you frankly, also contrary to etiquette, that it won’t be to my advantage. Well, secondly, I’ve come to you because…”
    “Yes, yes, secondly?” Raskolnikov was listening breathless.
    “Because, as I told you just now, I consider I owe you an explanation. I don’t want you to look upon me as a monster, as I have a genuine liking for you, you may believe me or not. And in the third place I’ve come to you with a direct and open proposition—that you should surrender and confess. It will be infinitely more to your advantage and to my advantage too, for my task will be done. Well, is this open on my part or not?”
    Raskolnikov thought a minute.
    “Listen, Porfiry Petrovitch. You said just now you have nothing but psychology to go on, yet now you’ve gone on mathematics. Well, what if you are mistaken yourself, now?”
    “No, Rodion Romanovitch, I am not mistaken. I have a little fact even then, Providence sent it me.”
    “What little fact?”
    “I won’t tell you what, Rodion Romanovitch. And in any case, I haven’t the right to put it off any longer, I must arrest you. So think it over: it makes no difference to me and so I speak only for your sake. Believe me, it will be better, Rodion Romanovitch.”
    Raskolnikov smiled malignantly.
    “That’s not simply ridiculous, it’s positively shameless. Why, even if I were guilty, which I don’t admit, what reason should I have to confess, when you tell me yourself that I shall be in greater safety in prison?”
    “Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, don’t put too much faith in words, perhaps prison will not be altogether a restful place. That’s only theory and my theory, and what authority am I for you? Perhaps, too, even now I am hiding something from you? I can’t lay bare everything, he-he! And how can you ask what advantage? Don’t you know how it would lessen your sentence? You would be confessing at a moment when another man has taken the crime on himself and so has muddled the whole case. Consider that! I swear before God that I will so arrange that your confession shall come as a complete surprise. We will make a clean sweep of all these psychological points, of a suspicion against you, so that your crime will appear to have been something like an aberration, for in truth it was an aberration. I am an honest man, Rodion Romanovitch, and will keep my word.”
    Raskolnikov maintained a mournful silence and let his head sink dejectedly. He pondered a long while and at last smiled again, but his smile was sad and gentle.
    “No!” he said, apparently abandoning all attempt to keep up appearances with Porfiry, “it’s not worth it, I don’t care about lessening the sentence!”
    “That’s just what I was afraid of!” Porfiry cried warmly and, as it seemed, involuntarily. “That’s just what I feared, that you wouldn’t care about the mitigation of sentence.”
    Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him.
    “Ah, don’t disdain life!” Porfiry went on. “You have a great deal of it still before you. How can you say you don’t want a mitigation of sentence? You are an impatient fellow!”
    “A great deal of what lies before me?”
    “Of life. What sort of prophet are you, do you know much about it? Seek and ye shall find. This may be God’s means for bringing you to Him. And it’s not for ever, the bondage….”
    “The time will be shortened,” laughed Raskolnikov.
    “Why, is it the bourgeois disgrace you are afraid of? It may be that you are afraid of it without knowing it, because you are young! But anyway shouldn’t be afraid of giving yourself up and confessing.”
    “Ach, hang it!” Raskolnikov whispered with loathing and contempt, as though he did not want to speak aloud.
    He got up again as though he meant to go away, but sat down again in evident despair.
    “Hang it, if you like! You’ve lost faith and you think that I am grossly flattering you; but how long has your life been? How much do you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be not at all original! It turned out something base, that’s true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base! At least you didn’t deceive yourself for long, you went straight to the furthest point at one bound. How do I regard you? I regard you as one of those men who would stand and smile at their torturer while he cuts their entrails out, if only they have found faith or God. Find it and you will live. You have long needed a change of air. Suffering, too, is a good thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolay is right in wanting to suffer. I know you don’t believe in it—but don’t be over-wise; fling yourself straight into life, without deliberation; don’t be afraid—the flood will bear you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again. What bank? How can I tell? I only believe that you have long life before you. I know that you take all my words now for a set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember them after. They may be of use some time. That’s why I speak. It’s as well that you only killed the old woman. If you’d invented another theory you might perhaps have done something a thousand times more hideous. You ought to thank God, perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God is saving you for something. But keep a good heart and have less fear! Are you afraid of the great expiation before you? No, it would be shameful to be afraid of it. Since you have taken such a step, you must harden your heart. There is justice in it. You must fulfil the demands of justice. I know that you don’t believe it, but indeed, life will bring you through. You will live it down in time. What you need now is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air!”
    Raskolnikov positively started.
    “But who are you? what prophet are you? From the height of what majestic calm do you proclaim these words of wisdom?”
    “Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that’s all. A man perhaps of feeling and sympathy, maybe of some knowledge too, but my day is over. But you are a different matter, there is life waiting for you. Though, who knows? maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke and come to nothing. Come, what does it matter, that you will pass into another class of men? It’s not comfort you regret, with your heart! What of it that perhaps no one will see you for so long? It’s not time, but yourself that will decide that. Be the sun and all will see you. The sun has before all to be the sun. Why are you smiling again? At my being such a Schiller? I bet you’re imagining that I am trying to get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am, he-he-he! Perhaps you’d better not believe my word, perhaps you’d better never believe it altogether—I’m made that way, I confess it. But let me add, you can judge for yourself, I think, how far I am a base sort of man and how far I am honest.”
    “When do you mean to arrest me?”
    “Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over, my dear fellow, and pray to God. It’s more in your interest, believe me.”
    “And what if I run away?” asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile.
    “No, you won’t run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable dissenter would run away, the flunkey of another man’s thought, for you’ve only to show him the end of your little finger and he’ll be ready to believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you’ve ceased to believe in your theory already, what will you run away with? And what would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for you, and what you need more than anything in life is a definite position, an atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere would you have? If you ran away, you’d come back to yourself. And if I put you in prison—say you’ve been there a month, or two, or three—remember my word, you’ll confess of yourself and perhaps to your own surprise. You won’t know an hour beforehand that you are coming with a confession. I am convinced that you will decide, ‘to take your suffering.’ You don’t believe my words now, but you’ll come to it of yourself. For suffering, Rodion Romanovitch, is a great thing. Never mind my having grown fat, I know all the same. Don’t laugh at it, there’s an idea in suffering, Nikolay is right. No, you won’t run away, Rodion Romanovitch.”
    Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovitch also rose.
    “Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine, if only we don’t have a storm. Though it would be a good thing to freshen the air.”
    He, too, took his cap.
    “Porfiry Petrovitch, please don’t take up the notion that I have confessed to you to-day,” Raskolnikov pronounced with sullen insistence. “You’re a strange man and I have listened to you from simple curiosity. But I have admitted nothing, remember that!”
    “Oh, I know that, I’ll remember. Look at him, he’s trembling! Don’t be uneasy, my dear fellow, have it your own way. Walk about a bit, you won’t be able to walk too far. If anything happens, I have one request to make of you,” he added, dropping his voice. “It’s an awkward one, but important. If anything were to happen (though indeed I don’t believe in it and think you quite incapable of it), yet in case you were taken during these forty or fifty hours with the notion of putting an end to the business in some other way, in some fantastic fashion—laying hands on yourself—(it’s an absurd proposition, but you must forgive me for it) do leave a brief but precise note, only two lines, and mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come, till we meet! Good thoughts and sound decisions to you!”
    Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Raskolnikov. The latter went to the window and waited with irritable impatience till he calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away. Then he too went hurriedly out of the room.

      CHAPTER III


  He hurried to Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s. What he had to hope from that man he did not
  know. But that man had some hidden power over him. Having once recognised
  this, he could not rest, and now the time had come.
<br />
  On the way, one question particularly worried him: had Svidrigaïlov been
  to Porfiry&rsquo;s?
<br />
  As far as he could judge, he would swear to it, that he had not. He
  pondered again and again, went over Porfiry&rsquo;s visit; no, he hadn&rsquo;t been,
  of course he hadn&rsquo;t.
<br />
  But if he had not been yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for the present he
  fancied he couldn&rsquo;t. Why? He could not have explained, but if he could, he
  would not have wasted much thought over it at the moment. It all worried
  him and at the same time he could not attend to it. Strange to say, none
  would have believed it perhaps, but he only felt a faint vague anxiety
  about his immediate future. Another, much more important anxiety tormented
  him&mdash;it concerned himself, but in a different, more vital way.
  Moreover, he was conscious of immense moral fatigue, though his mind was
  working better that morning than it had done of late.
<br />
  And was it worth while, after all that had happened, to contend with these
  new trivial difficulties? Was it worth while, for instance, to manoeuvre
  that Svidrigaïlov should not go to Porfiry&rsquo;s? Was it worth while to
  investigate, to ascertain the facts, to waste time over anyone like
  Svidrigaïlov?
<br />
  Oh, how sick he was of it all!
<br />
  And yet he was hastening to Svidrigaïlov; could he be expecting something
   from him, information, or means of escape? Men will catch at
  straws! Was it destiny or some instinct bringing them together? Perhaps it
  was only fatigue, despair; perhaps it was not Svidrigaïlov but some other
  whom he needed, and Svidrigaïlov had simply presented himself by chance.
  Sonia? But what should he go to Sonia for now? To beg her tears again? He
  was afraid of Sonia, too. Sonia stood before him as an irrevocable
  sentence. He must go his own way or hers. At that moment especially he did
  not feel equal to seeing her. No, would it not be better to try
  Svidrigaïlov? And he could not help inwardly owning that he had long felt
  that he must see him for some reason.
<br />
  But what could they have in common? Their very evil-doing could not be of
  the same kind. The man, moreover, was very unpleasant, evidently depraved,
  undoubtedly cunning and deceitful, possibly malignant. Such stories were
  told about him. It is true he was befriending Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s
  children, but who could tell with what motive and what it meant? The man
  always had some design, some project.
<br />
  There was another thought which had been continually hovering of late
  about Raskolnikov&rsquo;s mind, and causing him great uneasiness. It was so
  painful that he made distinct efforts to get rid of it. He sometimes
  thought that Svidrigaïlov was dogging his footsteps. Svidrigaïlov had
  found out his secret and had had designs on Dounia. What if he had them
  still? Wasn&rsquo;t it practically certain that he had? And what if, having
  learnt his secret and so having gained power over him, he were to use it
  as a weapon against Dounia?
<br />
  This idea sometimes even tormented his dreams, but it had never presented
  itself so vividly to him as on his way to Svidrigaïlov. The very thought
  moved him to gloomy rage. To begin with, this would transform everything,
  even his own position; he would have at once to confess his secret to
  Dounia. Would he have to give himself up perhaps to prevent Dounia from
  taking some rash step? The letter? This morning Dounia had received a
  letter. From whom could she get letters in Petersburg? Luzhin, perhaps?
  It&rsquo;s true Razumihin was there to protect her, but Razumihin knew nothing
  of the position. Perhaps it was his duty to tell Razumihin? He thought of
  it with repugnance.
<br />
  In any case he must see Svidrigaïlov as soon as possible, he decided
  finally. Thank God, the details of the interview were of little
  consequence, if only he could get at the root of the matter; but if
  Svidrigaïlov were capable... if he were intriguing against Dounia&mdash;then...
<br />
  Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had passed through that month that
  he could only decide such questions in one way; &ldquo;then I shall kill him,&rdquo;
   he thought in cold despair.
<br />
  A sudden anguish oppressed his heart, he stood still in the middle of the
  street and began looking about to see where he was and which way he was
  going. He found himself in X. Prospect, thirty or forty paces from the Hay
  Market, through which he had come. The whole second storey of the house on
  the left was used as a tavern. All the windows were wide open; judging
  from the figures moving at the windows, the rooms were full to
  overflowing. There were sounds of singing, of clarionet and violin, and
  the boom of a Turkish drum. He could hear women shrieking. He was about to
  turn back wondering why he had come to the X. Prospect, when suddenly at
  one of the end windows he saw Svidrigaïlov, sitting at a tea-table right
  in the open window with a pipe in his mouth. Raskolnikov was dreadfully
  taken aback, almost terrified. Svidrigaïlov was silently watching and
  scrutinising him and, what struck Raskolnikov at once, seemed to be
  meaning to get up and slip away unobserved. Raskolnikov at once pretended
  not to have seen him, but to be looking absent-mindedly away, while he
  watched him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was beating violently.
  Yet, it was evident that Svidrigaïlov did not want to be seen. He took the
  pipe out of his mouth and was on the point of concealing himself, but as
  he got up and moved back his chair, he seemed to have become suddenly
  aware that Raskolnikov had seen him, and was watching him. What had passed
  between them was much the same as what happened at their first meeting in
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s room. A sly smile came into Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s face and grew
  broader and broader. Each knew that he was seen and watched by the other.
  At last Svidrigaïlov broke into a loud laugh.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, well, come in if you want me; I am here!&rdquo; he shouted from the
  window.
<br />
  Raskolnikov went up into the tavern. He found Svidrigaïlov in a tiny back
  room, adjoining the saloon in which merchants, clerks and numbers of
  people of all sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables to the
  desperate bawling of a chorus of singers. The click of billiard balls
  could be heard in the distance. On the table before Svidrigaïlov stood an
  open bottle and a glass half full of champagne. In the room he found also
  a boy with a little hand organ, a healthy-looking red-cheeked girl of
  eighteen, wearing a tucked-up striped skirt, and a Tyrolese hat with
  ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other room, she was singing some
  servants&rsquo; hall song in a rather husky contralto, to the accompaniment of
  the organ.
<br />
  &ldquo;Come, that&rsquo;s enough,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov stopped her at Raskolnikov&rsquo;s entrance.
  The girl at once broke off and stood waiting respectfully. She had sung
  her guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful expression in her
  face.
<br />
  &ldquo;Hey, Philip, a glass!&rdquo; shouted Svidrigaïlov.
<br />
  &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t drink anything,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;As you like, I didn&rsquo;t mean it for you. Drink, Katia! I don&rsquo;t want
  anything more to-day, you can go.&rdquo; He poured her out a full glass, and
  laid down a yellow note.
<br />
  Katia drank off her glass of wine, as women do, without putting it down,
  in twenty gulps, took the note and kissed Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s hand, which he
  allowed quite seriously. She went out of the room and the boy trailed
  after her with the organ. Both had been brought in from the street.
  Svidrigaïlov had not been a week in Petersburg, but everything about him
  was already, so to speak, on a patriarchal footing; the waiter, Philip,
  was by now an old friend and very obsequious.
<br />
  The door leading to the saloon had a lock on it. Svidrigaïlov was at home
  in this room and perhaps spent whole days in it. The tavern was dirty and
  wretched, not even second-rate.
<br />
  &ldquo;I was going to see you and looking for you,&rdquo; Raskolnikov began, &ldquo;but I
  don&rsquo;t know what made me turn from the Hay Market into the X. Prospect just
  now. I never take this turning. I turn to the right from the Hay Market.
  And this isn&rsquo;t the way to you. I simply turned and here you are. It is
  strange!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you say at once &lsquo;it&rsquo;s a miracle&rsquo;?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Because it may be only chance.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s the way with all you folk,&rdquo; laughed Svidrigaïlov. &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t
  admit it, even if you do inwardly believe it a miracle! Here you say that
  it may be only chance. And what cowards they all are here, about having an
  opinion of their own, you can&rsquo;t fancy, Rodion Romanovitch. I don&rsquo;t mean
  you, you have an opinion of your own and are not afraid to have it. That&rsquo;s
  how it was you attracted my curiosity.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Nothing else?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s enough, you know,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov was obviously exhilarated,
  but only slightly so, he had not had more than half a glass of wine.
<br />
  &ldquo;I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of having
  what you call an opinion of my own,&rdquo; observed Raskolnikov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, well, it was a different matter. Everyone has his own plans. And
  apropos of the miracle let me tell you that I think you have been asleep
  for the last two or three days. I told you of this tavern myself, there is
  no miracle in your coming straight here. I explained the way myself, told
  you where it was, and the hours you could find me here. Do you remember?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t remember,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov with surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;I believe you. I told you twice. The address has been stamped
  mechanically on your memory. You turned this way mechanically and yet
  precisely according to the direction, though you are not aware of it. When
  I told you then, I hardly hoped you understood me. You give yourself away
  too much, Rodion Romanovitch. And another thing, I&rsquo;m convinced there are
  lots of people in Petersburg who talk to themselves as they walk. This is
  a town of crazy people. If only we had scientific men, doctors, lawyers
  and philosophers might make most valuable investigations in Petersburg
  each in his own line. There are few places where there are so many gloomy,
  strong and queer influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The mere
  influences of climate mean so much. And it&rsquo;s the administrative centre of
  all Russia and its character must be reflected on the whole country. But
  that is neither here nor there now. The point is that I have several times
  watched you. You walk out of your house&mdash;holding your head high&mdash;twenty
  paces from home you let it sink, and fold your hands behind your back. You
  look and evidently see nothing before nor beside you. At last you begin
  moving your lips and talking to yourself, and sometimes you wave one hand
  and declaim, and at last stand still in the middle of the road. That&rsquo;s not
  at all the thing. Someone may be watching you besides me, and it won&rsquo;t do
  you any good. It&rsquo;s nothing really to do with me and I can&rsquo;t cure you, but,
  of course, you understand me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Do you know that I am being followed?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov, looking
  inquisitively at him.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, I know nothing about it,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov, seeming surprised.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, then, let us leave me alone,&rdquo; Raskolnikov muttered, frowning.
<br />
  &ldquo;Very good, let us leave you alone.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You had better tell me, if you come here to drink, and directed me twice
  to come here to you, why did you hide, and try to get away just now when I
  looked at the window from the street? I saw it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He-he! And why was it you lay on your sofa with closed eyes and pretended
  to be asleep, though you were wide awake while I stood in your doorway? I
  saw it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I may have had... reasons. You know that yourself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And I may have had my reasons, though you don&rsquo;t know them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov dropped his right elbow on the table, leaned his chin in the
  fingers of his right hand, and stared intently at Svidrigaïlov. For a full
  minute he scrutinised his face, which had impressed him before. It was a
  strange face, like a mask; white and red, with bright red lips, with a
  flaxen beard, and still thick flaxen hair. His eyes were somehow too blue
  and their expression somehow too heavy and fixed. There was something
  awfully unpleasant in that handsome face, which looked so wonderfully
  young for his age. Svidrigaïlov was smartly dressed in light summer
  clothes and was particularly dainty in his linen. He wore a huge ring with
  a precious stone in it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have I got to bother myself about you, too, now?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov
  suddenly, coming with nervous impatience straight to the point. &ldquo;Even
  though perhaps you are the most dangerous man if you care to injure me, I
  don&rsquo;t want to put myself out any more. I will show you at once that I
  don&rsquo;t prize myself as you probably think I do. I&rsquo;ve come to tell you at
  once that if you keep to your former intentions with regard to my sister
  and if you think to derive any benefit in that direction from what has
  been discovered of late, I will kill you before you get me locked up. You
  can reckon on my word. You know that I can keep it. And in the second
  place if you want to tell me anything&mdash;for I keep fancying all this
  time that you have something to tell me&mdash;make haste and tell it, for
  time is precious and very likely it will soon be too late.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why in such haste?&rdquo; asked Svidrigaïlov, looking at him curiously.
<br />
  &ldquo;Everyone has his plans,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered gloomily and impatiently.
<br />
  &ldquo;You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at the first question
  you refuse to answer,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov observed with a smile. &ldquo;You keep
  fancying that I have aims of my own and so you look at me with suspicion.
  Of course it&rsquo;s perfectly natural in your position. But though I should
  like to be friends with you, I shan&rsquo;t trouble myself to convince you of
  the contrary. The game isn&rsquo;t worth the candle and I wasn&rsquo;t intending to
  talk to you about anything special.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What did you want me, for, then? It was you who came hanging about me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, simply as an interesting subject for observation. I liked the
  fantastic nature of your position&mdash;that&rsquo;s what it was! Besides you
  are the brother of a person who greatly interested me, and from that
  person I had in the past heard a very great deal about you, from which I
  gathered that you had a great influence over her; isn&rsquo;t that enough?
  Ha-ha-ha! Still I must admit that your question is rather complex, and is
  difficult for me to answer. Here, you, for instance, have come to me not
  only for a definite object, but for the sake of hearing something new.
  Isn&rsquo;t that so? Isn&rsquo;t that so?&rdquo; persisted Svidrigaïlov with a sly smile.
  &ldquo;Well, can&rsquo;t you fancy then that I, too, on my way here in the train was
  reckoning on you, on your telling me something new, and on my making some
  profit out of you! You see what rich men we are!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What profit could you make?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How can I tell you? How do I know? You see in what a tavern I spend all
  my time and it&rsquo;s my enjoyment, that&rsquo;s to say it&rsquo;s no great enjoyment, but
  one must sit somewhere; that poor Katia now&mdash;you saw her?... If only
  I had been a glutton now, a club gourmand, but you see I can eat this.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He pointed to a little table in the corner where the remnants of a
  terrible-looking beef-steak and potatoes lay on a tin dish.
<br />
  &ldquo;Have you dined, by the way? I&rsquo;ve had something and want nothing more. I
  don&rsquo;t drink, for instance, at all. Except for champagne I never touch
  anything, and not more than a glass of that all the evening, and even that
  is enough to make my head ache. I ordered it just now to wind myself up,
  for I am just going off somewhere and you see me in a peculiar state of
  mind. That was why I hid myself just now like a schoolboy, for I was
  afraid you would hinder me. But I believe,&rdquo; he pulled out his watch, &ldquo;I
  can spend an hour with you. It&rsquo;s half-past four now. If only I&rsquo;d been
  something, a landowner, a father, a cavalry officer, a photographer, a
  journalist... I am nothing, no specialty, and sometimes I am positively
  bored. I really thought you would tell me something new.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what are you, and why have you come here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What am I? You know, a gentleman, I served for two years in the cavalry,
  then I knocked about here in Petersburg, then I married Marfa Petrovna and
  lived in the country. There you have my biography!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are a gambler, I believe?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, a poor sort of gambler. A card-sharper&mdash;not a gambler.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You have been a card-sharper then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ve been a card-sharper too.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you get thrashed sometimes?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It did happen. Why?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, you might have challenged them... altogether it must have been
  lively.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t contradict you, and besides I am no hand at philosophy. I confess
  that I hastened here for the sake of the women.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov smiled with engaging candour. &ldquo;What of it? You
  seem to find something wrong in my speaking like that about women?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You ask whether I find anything wrong in vice?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Vice! Oh, that&rsquo;s what you are after! But I&rsquo;ll answer you in order, first
  about women in general; you know I am fond of talking. Tell me, what
  should I restrain myself for? Why should I give up women, since I have a
  passion for them? It&rsquo;s an occupation, anyway.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;So you hope for nothing here but vice?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, very well, for vice then. You insist on its being vice. But anyway I
  like a direct question. In this vice at least there is something
  permanent, founded indeed upon nature and not dependent on fantasy,
  something present in the blood like an ever-burning ember, for ever
  setting one on fire and, maybe, not to be quickly extinguished, even with
  years. You&rsquo;ll agree it&rsquo;s an occupation of a sort.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s nothing to rejoice at, it&rsquo;s a disease and a dangerous one.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s what you think, is it! I agree, that it is a disease like
  everything that exceeds moderation. And, of course, in this one must
  exceed moderation. But in the first place, everybody does so in one way or
  another, and in the second place, of course, one ought to be moderate and
  prudent, however mean it may be, but what am I to do? If I hadn&rsquo;t this, I
  might have to shoot myself. I am ready to admit that a decent man ought to
  put up with being bored, but yet...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And could you shoot yourself?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, come!&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov parried with disgust. &ldquo;Please don&rsquo;t speak of it,&rdquo;
   he added hurriedly and with none of the bragging tone he had shown in all
  the previous conversation. His face quite changed. &ldquo;I admit it&rsquo;s an
  unpardonable weakness, but I can&rsquo;t help it. I am afraid of death and I
  dislike its being talked of. Do you know that I am to a certain extent a
  mystic?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, the apparitions of Marfa Petrovna! Do they still go on visiting you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t talk of them; there have been no more in Petersburg, confound
  them!&rdquo; he cried with an air of irritation. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s rather talk of that...
  though... H&rsquo;m! I have not much time, and can&rsquo;t stay long with you, it&rsquo;s a
  pity! I should have found plenty to tell you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s your engagement, a woman?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, a woman, a casual incident.... No, that&rsquo;s not what I want to talk
  of.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And the hideousness, the filthiness of all your surroundings, doesn&rsquo;t
  that affect you? Have you lost the strength to stop yourself?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And do you pretend to strength, too? He-he-he! You surprised me just now,
  Rodion Romanovitch, though I knew beforehand it would be so. You preach to
  me about vice and æsthetics! You&mdash;a Schiller, you&mdash;an idealist!
  Of course that&rsquo;s all as it should be and it would be surprising if it were
  not so, yet it is strange in reality.... Ah, what a pity I have no time,
  for you&rsquo;re a most interesting type! And, by-the-way, are you fond of
  Schiller? I am awfully fond of him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But what a braggart you are,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said with some disgust.
<br />
  &ldquo;Upon my word, I am not,&rdquo; answered Svidrigaïlov laughing. &ldquo;However, I
  won&rsquo;t dispute it, let me be a braggart, why not brag, if it hurts no one?
  I spent seven years in the country with Marfa Petrovna, so now when I come
  across an intelligent person like you&mdash;intelligent and highly
  interesting&mdash;I am simply glad to talk and, besides, I&rsquo;ve drunk that
  half-glass of champagne and it&rsquo;s gone to my head a little. And besides,
  there&rsquo;s a certain fact that has wound me up tremendously, but about that
  I... will keep quiet. Where are you off to?&rdquo; he asked in alarm.
<br />
  Raskolnikov had begun getting up. He felt oppressed and stifled and, as it
  were, ill at ease at having come here. He felt convinced that Svidrigaïlov
  was the most worthless scoundrel on the face of the earth.
<br />
  &ldquo;A-ach! Sit down, stay a little!&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov begged. &ldquo;Let them bring you
  some tea, anyway. Stay a little, I won&rsquo;t talk nonsense, about myself, I
  mean. I&rsquo;ll tell you something. If you like I&rsquo;ll tell you how a woman tried
  &lsquo;to save&rsquo; me, as you would call it? It will be an answer to your first
  question indeed, for the woman was your sister. May I tell you? It will
  help to spend the time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Tell me, but I trust that you...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low fellow like me,
  Avdotya Romanovna can only excite the deepest respect.&rdquo;


      CHAPTER IV


  &ldquo;You know perhaps&mdash;yes, I told you myself,&rdquo; began Svidrigaïlov, &ldquo;that
  I was in the debtors&rsquo; prison here, for an immense sum, and had not any
  expectation of being able to pay it. There&rsquo;s no need to go into
  particulars how Marfa Petrovna bought me out; do you know to what a point
  of insanity a woman can sometimes love? She was an honest woman, and very
  sensible, although completely uneducated. Would you believe that this
  honest and jealous woman, after many scenes of hysterics and reproaches,
  condescended to enter into a kind of contract with me which she kept
  throughout our married life? She was considerably older than I, and
  besides, she always kept a clove or something in her mouth. There was so
  much swinishness in my soul and honesty too, of a sort, as to tell her
  straight out that I couldn&rsquo;t be absolutely faithful to her. This
  confession drove her to frenzy, but yet she seems in a way to have liked
  my brutal frankness. She thought it showed I was unwilling to deceive her
  if I warned her like this beforehand and for a jealous woman, you know,
  that&rsquo;s the first consideration. After many tears an unwritten contract was
  drawn up between us: first, that I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and
  would always be her husband; secondly, that I would never absent myself
  without her permission; thirdly, that I would never set up a permanent
  mistress; fourthly, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna gave me a free hand
  with the maidservants, but only with her secret knowledge; fifthly, God
  forbid my falling in love with a woman of our class; sixthly, in case I&mdash;which
  God forbid&mdash;should be visited by a great serious passion I was bound
  to reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. On this last score, however, Marfa
  Petrovna was fairly at ease. She was a sensible woman and so she could not
  help looking upon me as a dissolute profligate incapable of real love. But
  a sensible woman and a jealous woman are two very different things, and
  that&rsquo;s where the trouble came in. But to judge some people impartially we
  must renounce certain preconceived opinions and our habitual attitude to
  the ordinary people about us. I have reason to have faith in your judgment
  rather than in anyone&rsquo;s. Perhaps you have already heard a great deal that
  was ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. She certainly had some
  very ridiculous ways, but I tell you frankly that I feel really sorry for
  the innumerable woes of which I was the cause. Well, and that&rsquo;s enough, I
  think, by way of a decorous  for the most tender
  wife of a most tender husband. When we quarrelled, I usually held my
  tongue and did not irritate her and that gentlemanly conduct rarely failed
  to attain its object, it influenced her, it pleased her, indeed. These
  were times when she was positively proud of me. But your sister she
  couldn&rsquo;t put up with, anyway. And however she came to risk taking such a
  beautiful creature into her house as a governess. My explanation is that
  Marfa Petrovna was an ardent and impressionable woman and simply fell in
  love herself&mdash;literally fell in love&mdash;with your sister. Well,
  little wonder&mdash;look at Avdotya Romanovna! I saw the danger at the
  first glance and what do you think, I resolved not to look at her even.
  But Avdotya Romanovna herself made the first step, would you believe it?
  Would you believe it too that Marfa Petrovna was positively angry with me
  at first for my persistent silence about your sister, for my careless
  reception of her continual adoring praises of Avdotya Romanovna. I don&rsquo;t
  know what it was she wanted! Well, of course, Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya
  Romanovna every detail about me. She had the unfortunate habit of telling
  literally everyone all our family secrets and continually complaining of
  me; how could she fail to confide in such a delightful new friend? I
  expect they talked of nothing else but me and no doubt Avdotya Romanovna
  heard all those dark mysterious rumours that were current about me.... I
  don&rsquo;t mind betting that you too have heard something of the sort already?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have. Luzhin charged you with having caused the death of a child. Is
  that true?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t refer to those vulgar tales, I beg,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov with disgust
  and annoyance. &ldquo;If you insist on wanting to know about all that idiocy, I
  will tell you one day, but now...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I was told too about some footman of yours in the country whom you
  treated badly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I beg you to drop the subject,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov interrupted again with
  obvious impatience.
<br />
  &ldquo;Was that the footman who came to you after death to fill your pipe?...
  you told me about it yourself.&rdquo; Raskolnikov felt more and more irritated.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov looked at him attentively and Raskolnikov fancied he caught a
  flash of spiteful mockery in that look. But Svidrigaïlov restrained
  himself and answered very civilly:
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested and shall feel
  it my duty to satisfy your curiosity at the first opportunity. Upon my
  soul! I see that I really might pass for a romantic figure with some
  people. Judge how grateful I must be to Marfa Petrovna for having repeated
  to Avdotya Romanovna such mysterious and interesting gossip about me. I
  dare not guess what impression it made on her, but in any case it worked
  in my interests. With all Avdotya Romanovna&rsquo;s natural aversion and in
  spite of my invariably gloomy and repellent aspect&mdash;she did at least
  feel pity for me, pity for a lost soul. And if once a girl&rsquo;s heart is
  moved to , it&rsquo;s more dangerous than anything. She is bound to
  want to &lsquo;save him,&rsquo; to bring him to his senses, and lift him up and draw
  him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and usefulness&mdash;well,
  we all know how far such dreams can go. I saw at once that the bird was
  flying into the cage of herself. And I too made ready. I think you are
  frowning, Rodion Romanovitch? There&rsquo;s no need. As you know, it all ended
  in smoke. (Hang it all, what a lot I am drinking!) Do you know, I always,
  from the very beginning, regretted that it wasn&rsquo;t your sister&rsquo;s fate to be
  born in the second or third century A.D., as the daughter of a reigning
  prince or some governor or pro-consul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly
  have been one of those who would endure martyrdom and would have smiled
  when they branded her bosom with hot pincers. And she would have gone to
  it of herself. And in the fourth or fifth century she would have walked
  away into the Egyptian desert and would have stayed there thirty years
  living on roots and ecstasies and visions. She is simply thirsting to face
  some torture for someone, and if she can&rsquo;t get her torture, she&rsquo;ll throw
  herself out of a window. I&rsquo;ve heard something of a Mr. Razumihin&mdash;he&rsquo;s
  said to be a sensible fellow; his surname suggests it, indeed. He&rsquo;s
  probably a divinity student. Well, he&rsquo;d better look after your sister! I
  believe I understand her, and I am proud of it. But at the beginning of an
  acquaintance, as you know, one is apt to be more heedless and stupid. One
  doesn&rsquo;t see clearly. Hang it all, why is she so handsome? It&rsquo;s not my
  fault. In fact, it began on my side with a most irresistible physical
  desire. Avdotya Romanovna is awfully chaste, incredibly and phenomenally
  so. Take note, I tell you this about your sister as a fact. She is almost
  morbidly chaste, in spite of her broad intelligence, and it will stand in
  her way. There happened to be a girl in the house then, Parasha, a
  black-eyed wench, whom I had never seen before&mdash;she had just come
  from another village&mdash;very pretty, but incredibly stupid: she burst
  into tears, wailed so that she could be heard all over the place and
  caused scandal. One day after dinner Avdotya Romanovna followed me into an
  avenue in the garden and with flashing eyes  on my leaving
  poor Parasha alone. It was almost our first conversation by ourselves. I,
  of course, was only too pleased to obey her wishes, tried to appear
  disconcerted, embarrassed, in fact played my part not badly. Then came
  interviews, mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties,
  supplications, even tears&mdash;would you believe it, even tears? Think
  what the passion for propaganda will bring some girls to! I, of course,
  threw it all on my destiny, posed as hungering and thirsting for light,
  and finally resorted to the most powerful weapon in the subjection of the
  female heart, a weapon which never fails one. It&rsquo;s the well-known resource&mdash;flattery.
  Nothing in the world is harder than speaking the truth and nothing easier
  than flattery. If there&rsquo;s the hundredth part of a false note in speaking
  the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble. But if all,
  to the last note, is false in flattery, it is just as agreeable, and is
  heard not without satisfaction. It may be a coarse satisfaction, but still
  a satisfaction. And however coarse the flattery, at least half will be
  sure to seem true. That&rsquo;s so for all stages of development and classes of
  society. A vestal virgin might be seduced by flattery. I can never
  remember without laughter how I once seduced a lady who was devoted to her
  husband, her children, and her principles. What fun it was and how little
  trouble! And the lady really had principles&mdash;of her own, anyway. All
  my tactics lay in simply being utterly annihilated and prostrate before
  her purity. I flattered her shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in
  getting a pressure of the hand, even a glance from her, I would reproach
  myself for having snatched it by force, and would declare that she had
  resisted, so that I could never have gained anything but for my being so
  unprincipled. I maintained that she was so innocent that she could not
  foresee my treachery, and yielded to me unconsciously, unawares, and so
  on. In fact, I triumphed, while my lady remained firmly convinced that she
  was innocent, chaste, and faithful to all her duties and obligations and
  had succumbed quite by accident. And how angry she was with me when I
  explained to her at last that it was my sincere conviction that she was
  just as eager as I. Poor Marfa Petrovna was awfully weak on the side of
  flattery, and if I had only cared to, I might have had all her property
  settled on me during her lifetime. (I am drinking an awful lot of wine now
  and talking too much.) I hope you won&rsquo;t be angry if I mention now that I
  was beginning to produce the same effect on Avdotya Romanovna. But I was
  stupid and impatient and spoiled it all. Avdotya Romanovna had several
  times&mdash;and one time in particular&mdash;been greatly displeased by
  the expression of my eyes, would you believe it? There was sometimes a
  light in them which frightened her and grew stronger and stronger and more
  unguarded till it was hateful to her. No need to go into detail, but we
  parted. There I acted stupidly again. I fell to jeering in the coarsest
  way at all such propaganda and efforts to convert me; Parasha came on to
  the scene again, and not she alone; in fact there was a tremendous to-do.
  Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, if you could only see how your sister&rsquo;s eyes can
  flash sometimes! Never mind my being drunk at this moment and having had a
  whole glass of wine. I am speaking the truth. I assure you that this
  glance has haunted my dreams; the very rustle of her dress was more than I
  could stand at last. I really began to think that I might become
  epileptic. I could never have believed that I could be moved to such a
  frenzy. It was essential, indeed, to be reconciled, but by then it was
  impossible. And imagine what I did then! To what a pitch of stupidity a
  man can be brought by frenzy! Never undertake anything in a frenzy, Rodion
  Romanovitch. I reflected that Avdotya Romanovna was after all a beggar
  (ach, excuse me, that&rsquo;s not the word... but does it matter if it expresses
  the meaning?), that she lived by her work, that she had her mother and you
  to keep (ach, hang it, you are frowning again), and I resolved to offer
  her all my money&mdash;thirty thousand roubles I could have realised then&mdash;if
  she would run away with me here, to Petersburg. Of course I should have
  vowed eternal love, rapture, and so on. Do you know, I was so wild about
  her at that time that if she had told me to poison Marfa Petrovna or to
  cut her throat and to marry herself, it would have been done at once! But
  it ended in the catastrophe of which you know already. You can fancy how
  frantic I was when I heard that Marfa Petrovna had got hold of that
  scoundrelly attorney, Luzhin, and had almost made a match between them&mdash;which
  would really have been just the same thing as I was proposing. Wouldn&rsquo;t
  it? Wouldn&rsquo;t it? I notice that you&rsquo;ve begun to be very attentive... you
  interesting young man....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov struck the table with his fist impatiently. He was flushed.
  Raskolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne
  that he had sipped almost unconsciously was affecting him&mdash;and he
  resolved to take advantage of the opportunity. He felt very suspicious of
  Svidrigaïlov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that you have come
  to Petersburg with designs on my sister,&rdquo; he said directly to
  Svidrigaïlov, in order to irritate him further.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, nonsense,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov, seeming to rouse himself. &ldquo;Why, I told
  you... besides your sister can&rsquo;t endure me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I am certain that she can&rsquo;t, but that&rsquo;s not the point.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Are you so sure that she can&rsquo;t?&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov screwed up his eyes and
  smiled mockingly. &ldquo;You are right, she doesn&rsquo;t love me, but you can never
  be sure of what has passed between husband and wife or lover and mistress.
  There&rsquo;s always a little corner which remains a secret to the world and is
  only known to those two. Will you answer for it that Avdotya Romanovna
  regarded me with aversion?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;From some words you&rsquo;ve dropped, I notice that you still have designs&mdash;and
  of course evil ones&mdash;on Dounia and mean to carry them out promptly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What, have I dropped words like that?&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov asked in naïve
  dismay, taking not the slightest notice of the epithet bestowed on his
  designs.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, you are dropping them even now. Why are you so frightened? What are
  you so afraid of now?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Me&mdash;afraid? Afraid of you? You have rather to be afraid of me, . But what nonsense.... I&rsquo;ve drunk too much though, I see that. I
  was almost saying too much again. Damn the wine! Hi! there, water!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He snatched up the champagne bottle and flung it without ceremony out of
  the window. Philip brought the water.
<br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all nonsense!&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov, wetting a towel and putting it
  to his head. &ldquo;But I can answer you in one word and annihilate all your
  suspicions. Do you know that I am going to get married?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You told me so before.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Did I? I&rsquo;ve forgotten. But I couldn&rsquo;t have told you so for certain for I
  had not even seen my betrothed; I only meant to. But now I really have a
  betrothed and it&rsquo;s a settled thing, and if it weren&rsquo;t that I have business
  that can&rsquo;t be put off, I would have taken you to see them at once, for I
  should like to ask your advice. Ach, hang it, only ten minutes left! See,
  look at the watch. But I must tell you, for it&rsquo;s an interesting story, my
  marriage, in its own way. Where are you off to? Going again?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I&rsquo;m not going away now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Not at all? We shall see. I&rsquo;ll take you there, I&rsquo;ll show you my
  betrothed, only not now. For you&rsquo;ll soon have to be off. You have to go to
  the right and I to the left. Do you know that Madame Resslich, the woman I
  am lodging with now, eh? I know what you&rsquo;re thinking, that she&rsquo;s the woman
  whose girl they say drowned herself in the winter. Come, are you
  listening? She arranged it all for me. You&rsquo;re bored, she said, you want
  something to fill up your time. For, you know, I am a gloomy, depressed
  person. Do you think I&rsquo;m light-hearted? No, I&rsquo;m gloomy. I do no harm, but
  sit in a corner without speaking a word for three days at a time. And that
  Resslich is a sly hussy, I tell you. I know what she has got in her mind;
  she thinks I shall get sick of it, abandon my wife and depart, and she&rsquo;ll
  get hold of her and make a profit out of her&mdash;in our class, of
  course, or higher. She told me the father was a broken-down retired
  official, who has been sitting in a chair for the last three years with
  his legs paralysed. The mamma, she said, was a sensible woman. There is a
  son serving in the provinces, but he doesn&rsquo;t help; there is a daughter,
  who is married, but she doesn&rsquo;t visit them. And they&rsquo;ve two little nephews
  on their hands, as though their own children were not enough, and they&rsquo;ve
  taken from school their youngest daughter, a girl who&rsquo;ll be sixteen in
  another month, so that then she can be married. She was for me. We went
  there. How funny it was! I present myself&mdash;a landowner, a widower, of
  a well-known name, with connections, with a fortune. What if I am fifty
  and she is not sixteen? Who thinks of that? But it&rsquo;s fascinating, isn&rsquo;t
  it? It is fascinating, ha-ha! You should have seen how I talked to the
  papa and mamma. It was worth paying to have seen me at that moment. She
  comes in, curtseys, you can fancy, still in a short frock&mdash;an
  unopened bud! Flushing like a sunset&mdash;she had been told, no doubt. I
  don&rsquo;t know how you feel about female faces, but to my mind these sixteen
  years, these childish eyes, shyness and tears of bashfulness are better
  than beauty; and she is a perfect little picture, too. Fair hair in little
  curls, like a lamb&rsquo;s, full little rosy lips, tiny feet, a charmer!...
  Well, we made friends. I told them I was in a hurry owing to domestic
  circumstances, and the next day, that is the day before yesterday, we were
  betrothed. When I go now I take her on my knee at once and keep her
  there.... Well, she flushes like a sunset and I kiss her every minute. Her
  mamma of course impresses on her that this is her husband and that this
  must be so. It&rsquo;s simply delicious! The present betrothed condition is
  perhaps better than marriage. Here you have what is called , ha-ha! I&rsquo;ve talked to her twice, she is far from a fool.
  Sometimes she steals a look at me that positively scorches me. Her face is
  like Raphael&rsquo;s Madonna. You know, the Sistine Madonna&rsquo;s face has something
  fantastic in it, the face of mournful religious ecstasy. Haven&rsquo;t you
  noticed it? Well, she&rsquo;s something in that line. The day after we&rsquo;d been
  betrothed, I bought her presents to the value of fifteen hundred roubles&mdash;a
  set of diamonds and another of pearls and a silver dressing-case as large
  as this, with all sorts of things in it, so that even my Madonna&rsquo;s face
  glowed. I sat her on my knee, yesterday, and I suppose rather too
  unceremoniously&mdash;she flushed crimson and the tears started, but she
  didn&rsquo;t want to show it. We were left alone, she suddenly flung herself on
  my neck (for the first time of her own accord), put her little arms round
  me, kissed me, and vowed that she would be an obedient, faithful, and good
  wife, would make me happy, would devote all her life, every minute of her
  life, would sacrifice everything, everything, and that all she asks in
  return is my , and that she wants &lsquo;nothing, nothing more
  from me, no presents.&rsquo; You&rsquo;ll admit that to hear such a confession, alone,
  from an angel of sixteen in a muslin frock, with little curls, with a
  flush of maiden shyness in her cheeks and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes
  is rather fascinating! Isn&rsquo;t it fascinating? It&rsquo;s worth paying for, isn&rsquo;t
  it? Well... listen, we&rsquo;ll go to see my betrothed, only not just now!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;The fact is this monstrous difference in age and development excites your
  sensuality! Will you really make such a marriage?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, of course. Everyone thinks of himself, and he lives most gaily who
  knows best how to deceive himself. Ha-ha! But why are you so keen about
  virtue? Have mercy on me, my good friend. I am a sinful man. Ha-ha-ha!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But you have provided for the children of Katerina Ivanovna. Though...
  though you had your own reasons.... I understand it all now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am always fond of children, very fond of them,&rdquo; laughed Svidrigaïlov.
  &ldquo;I can tell you one curious instance of it. The first day I came here I
  visited various haunts, after seven years I simply rushed at them. You
  probably notice that I am not in a hurry to renew acquaintance with my old
  friends. I shall do without them as long as I can. Do you know, when I was
  with Marfa Petrovna in the country, I was haunted by the thought of these
  places where anyone who knows his way about can find a great deal. Yes,
  upon my soul! The peasants have vodka, the educated young people, shut out
  from activity, waste themselves in impossible dreams and visions and are
  crippled by theories; Jews have sprung up and are amassing money, and all
  the rest give themselves up to debauchery. From the first hour the town
  reeked of its familiar odours. I chanced to be in a frightful den&mdash;I
  like my dens dirty&mdash;it was a dance, so called, and there was a 
  such as I never saw in my day. Yes, there you have progress. All of a
  sudden I saw a little girl of thirteen, nicely dressed, dancing with a
  specialist in that line, with another one . Her mother was
  sitting on a chair by the wall. You can&rsquo;t fancy what a  that
  was! The girl was ashamed, blushed, at last felt insulted, and began to
  cry. Her partner seized her and began whirling her round and performing
  before her; everyone laughed and&mdash;I like your public, even the 
  public&mdash;they laughed and shouted, &lsquo;Serves her right&mdash;serves her
  right! Shouldn&rsquo;t bring children!&rsquo; Well, it&rsquo;s not my business whether that
  consoling reflection was logical or not. I at once fixed on my plan, sat
  down by the mother, and began by saying that I too was a stranger and that
  people here were ill-bred and that they couldn&rsquo;t distinguish decent folks
  and treat them with respect, gave her to understand that I had plenty of
  money, offered to take them home in my carriage. I took them home and got
  to know them. They were lodging in a miserable little hole and had only
  just arrived from the country. She told me that she and her daughter could
  only regard my acquaintance as an honour. I found out that they had
  nothing of their own and had come to town upon some legal business. I
  proffered my services and money. I learnt that they had gone to the
  dancing saloon by mistake, believing that it was a genuine dancing class.
  I offered to assist in the young girl&rsquo;s education in French and dancing.
  My offer was accepted with enthusiasm as an honour&mdash;and we are still
  friendly.... If you like, we&rsquo;ll go and see them, only not just now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Stop! Enough of your vile, nasty anecdotes, depraved vile, sensual man!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! 
  But you know I shall tell you these things on purpose, for the pleasure of
  hearing your outcries!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I dare say. I can see I am ridiculous myself,&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov
  angrily.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov laughed heartily; finally he called Philip, paid his bill,
  and began getting up.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, but I am drunk, ,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s been a
  pleasure.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I should rather think it must be a pleasure!&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov, getting
  up. &ldquo;No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn-out profligate to describe such
  adventures with a monstrous project of the same sort in his mind&mdash;especially
  under such circumstances and to such a man as me.... It&rsquo;s stimulating!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, if you come to that,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov answered, scrutinising
  Raskolnikov with some surprise, &ldquo;if you come to that, you are a thorough
  cynic yourself. You&rsquo;ve plenty to make you so, anyway. You can understand a
  great deal... and you can do a great deal too. But enough. I sincerely
  regret not having had more talk with you, but I shan&rsquo;t lose sight of
  you.... Only wait a bit.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov walked out after
  him. Svidrigaïlov was not however very drunk, the wine had affected him
  for a moment, but it was passing off every minute. He was preoccupied with
  something of importance and was frowning. He was apparently excited and
  uneasy in anticipation of something. His manner to Raskolnikov had changed
  during the last few minutes, and he was ruder and more sneering every
  moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He became
  very suspicious of Svidrigaïlov and resolved to follow him.
<br />
  They came out on to the pavement.
<br />
  &ldquo;You go to the right, and I to the left, or if you like, the other way.
  Only , may we meet again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  And he walked to the right towards the Hay Market.


      CHAPTER V


  Raskolnikov walked after him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this?&rdquo; cried Svidrigaïlov turning round, &ldquo;I thought I said...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Both stood still and gazed at one another, as though measuring their
  strength.
<br />
  &ldquo;From all your half tipsy stories,&rdquo; Raskolnikov observed harshly, &ldquo;I am 
  that you have not given up your designs on my sister, but are pursuing
  them more actively than ever. I have learnt that my sister received a
  letter this morning. You have hardly been able to sit still all this
  time.... You may have unearthed a wife on the way, but that means nothing.
  I should like to make certain myself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and of what he
  wished to make certain.
<br />
  &ldquo;Upon my word! I&rsquo;ll call the police!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Call away!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s
  face changed. Having satisfied himself that Raskolnikov was not frightened
  at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and friendly air.
<br />
  &ldquo;What a fellow! I purposely refrained from referring to your affair,
  though I am devoured by curiosity. It&rsquo;s a fantastic affair. I&rsquo;ve put it
  off till another time, but you&rsquo;re enough to rouse the dead.... Well, let
  us go, only I warn you beforehand I am only going home for a moment, to
  get some money; then I shall lock up the flat, take a cab and go to spend
  the evening at the Islands. Now, now are you going to follow me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m coming to your lodgings, not to see you but Sofya Semyonovna, to say
  I&rsquo;m sorry not to have been at the funeral.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s as you like, but Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. She has taken
  the three children to an old lady of high rank, the patroness of some
  orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the old lady by
  depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the three children of
  Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution as well. I told her
  too the story of Sofya Semyonovna in full detail, suppressing nothing. It
  produced an indescribable effect on her. That&rsquo;s why Sofya Semyonovna has
  been invited to call to-day at the X. Hotel where the lady is staying for
  the time.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No matter, I&rsquo;ll come all the same.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;As you like, it&rsquo;s nothing to me, but I won&rsquo;t come with you; here we are
  at home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with suspicion just
  because I have shown such delicacy and have not so far troubled you with
  questions... you understand? It struck you as extraordinary; I don&rsquo;t mind
  betting it&rsquo;s that. Well, it teaches one to show delicacy!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And to listen at doors!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s it, is it?&rdquo; laughed Svidrigaïlov. &ldquo;Yes, I should have been
  surprised if you had let that pass after all that has happened. Ha-ha!
  Though I did understand something of the pranks you had been up to and
  were telling Sofya Semyonovna about, what was the meaning of it? Perhaps I
  am quite behind the times and can&rsquo;t understand. For goodness&rsquo; sake,
  explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You couldn&rsquo;t have heard anything. You&rsquo;re making it all up!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But I&rsquo;m not talking about that (though I did hear something). No, I&rsquo;m
  talking of the way you keep sighing and groaning now. The Schiller in you
  is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at doors. If
  that&rsquo;s how you feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance:
  you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you are convinced that
  one mustn&rsquo;t listen at doors, but one may murder old women at one&rsquo;s
  pleasure, you&rsquo;d better be off to America and make haste. Run, young man!
  There may still be time. I&rsquo;m speaking sincerely. Haven&rsquo;t you the money?
  I&rsquo;ll give you the fare.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not thinking of that at all,&rdquo; Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust.
<br />
  &ldquo;I understand (but don&rsquo;t put yourself out, don&rsquo;t discuss it if you don&rsquo;t
  want to). I understand the questions you are worrying over&mdash;moral
  ones, aren&rsquo;t they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. They are
  nothing to you now, ha-ha! You&rsquo;ll say you are still a man and a citizen.
  If so you ought not to have got into this coil. It&rsquo;s no use taking up a
  job you are not fit for. Well, you&rsquo;d better shoot yourself, or don&rsquo;t you
  want to?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You seem trying to enrage me, to make me leave you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What a queer fellow! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You see,
  that&rsquo;s the way to Sofya Semyonovna. Look, there is no one at home. Don&rsquo;t
  you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with him. Here is
  Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is rather deaf. Has she gone
  out? Where? Did you hear? She is not in and won&rsquo;t be till late in the
  evening probably. Well, come to my room; you wanted to come and see me,
  didn&rsquo;t you? Here we are. Madame Resslich&rsquo;s not at home. She is a woman who
  is always busy, an excellent woman I assure you.... She might have been of
  use to you if you had been a little more sensible. Now, see! I take this
  five-per-cent bond out of the bureau&mdash;see what a lot I&rsquo;ve got of them
  still&mdash;this one will be turned into cash to-day. I mustn&rsquo;t waste any
  more time. The bureau is locked, the flat is locked, and here we are again
  on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I&rsquo;m going to the Islands. Would you
  like a lift? I&rsquo;ll take this carriage. Ah, you refuse? You are tired of it!
  Come for a drive! I believe it will come on to rain. Never mind, we&rsquo;ll put
  down the hood....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his
  suspicions were at least for that moment unjust. Without answering a word
  he turned and walked back towards the Hay Market. If he had only turned
  round on his way he might have seen Svidrigaïlov get out not a hundred
  paces off, dismiss the cab and walk along the pavement. But he had turned
  the corner and could see nothing. Intense disgust drew him away from
  Svidrigaïlov.
<br />
  &ldquo;To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that
  coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and blackguard!&rdquo; he cried.
<br />
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there was
  something about Svidrigaïlov which gave him a certain original, even a
  mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced
  that Svidrigaïlov would not leave her in peace. But it was too tiresome
  and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this.
<br />
  When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before he sank, as usual,
  into deep thought. On the bridge he stood by the railing and began gazing
  at the water. And his sister was standing close by him.
<br />
  He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by without seeing
  her. Dounia had never met him like this in the street before and was
  struck with dismay. She stood still and did not know whether to call to
  him or not. Suddenly she saw Svidrigaïlov coming quickly from the
  direction of the Hay Market.
<br />
  He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go on to the bridge,
  but stood aside on the pavement, doing all he could to avoid Raskolnikov&rsquo;s
  seeing him. He had observed Dounia for some time and had been making signs
  to her. She fancied he was signalling to beg her not to speak to her
  brother, but to come to him.
<br />
  That was what Dounia did. She stole by her brother and went up to
  Svidrigaïlov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let us make haste away,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov whispered to her, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want
  Rodion Romanovitch to know of our meeting. I must tell you I&rsquo;ve been
  sitting with him in the restaurant close by, where he looked me up and I
  had great difficulty in getting rid of him. He has somehow heard of my
  letter to you and suspects something. It wasn&rsquo;t you who told him, of
  course, but if not you, who then?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, we&rsquo;ve turned the corner now,&rdquo; Dounia interrupted, &ldquo;and my brother
  won&rsquo;t see us. I have to tell you that I am going no further with you.
  Speak to me here. You can tell it all in the street.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;In the first place, I can&rsquo;t say it in the street; secondly, you must hear
  Sofya Semyonovna too; and, thirdly, I will show you some papers.... Oh
  well, if you won&rsquo;t agree to come with me, I shall refuse to give any
  explanation and go away at once. But I beg you not to forget that a very
  curious secret of your beloved brother&rsquo;s is entirely in my keeping.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigaïlov with searching
  eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you afraid of?&rdquo; he observed quietly. &ldquo;The town is not the
  country. And even in the country you did me more harm than I did you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Have you prepared Sofya Semyonovna?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I have not said a word to her and am not quite certain whether she is
  at home now. But most likely she is. She has buried her stepmother to-day:
  she is not likely to go visiting on such a day. For the time I don&rsquo;t want
  to speak to anyone about it and I half regret having spoken to you. The
  slightest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal in a thing like this. I live
  there in that house, we are coming to it. That&rsquo;s the porter of our house&mdash;he
  knows me very well; you see, he&rsquo;s bowing; he sees I&rsquo;m coming with a lady
  and no doubt he has noticed your face already and you will be glad of that
  if you are afraid of me and suspicious. Excuse my putting things so
  coarsely. I haven&rsquo;t a flat to myself; Sofya Semyonovna&rsquo;s room is next to
  mine&mdash;she lodges in the next flat. The whole floor is let out in
  lodgings. Why are you frightened like a child? Am I really so terrible?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s lips were twisted in a condescending smile; but he was in
  no smiling mood. His heart was throbbing and he could scarcely breathe. He
  spoke rather loud to cover his growing excitement. But Dounia did not
  notice this peculiar excitement, she was so irritated by his remark that
  she was frightened of him like a child and that he was so terrible to her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Though I know that you are not a man... of honour, I am not in the least
  afraid of you. Lead the way,&rdquo; she said with apparent composure, but her
  face was very pale.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov stopped at Sonia&rsquo;s room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Allow me to inquire whether she is at home.... She is not. How
  unfortunate! But I know she may come quite soon. If she&rsquo;s gone out, it can
  only be to see a lady about the orphans. Their mother is dead.... I&rsquo;ve
  been meddling and making arrangements for them. If Sofya Semyonovna does
  not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to you, to-day if you like.
  This is my flat. These are my two rooms. Madame Resslich, my landlady, has
  the next room. Now, look this way. I will show you my chief piece of
  evidence: this door from my bedroom leads into two perfectly empty rooms,
  which are to let. Here they are... You must look into them with some
  attention.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms. Dounia was looking
  about her mistrustfully, but saw nothing special in the furniture or
  position of the rooms. Yet there was something to observe, for instance,
  that Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s flat was exactly between two sets of almost
  uninhabited apartments. His rooms were not entered directly from the
  passage, but through the landlady&rsquo;s two almost empty rooms. Unlocking a
  door leading out of his bedroom, Svidrigaïlov showed Dounia the two empty
  rooms that were to let. Dounia stopped in the doorway, not knowing what
  she was called to look upon, but Svidrigaïlov hastened to explain.
<br />
  &ldquo;Look here, at this second large room. Notice that door, it&rsquo;s locked. By
  the door stands a chair, the only one in the two rooms. I brought it from
  my rooms so as to listen more conveniently. Just the other side of the
  door is Sofya Semyonovna&rsquo;s table; she sat there talking to Rodion
  Romanovitch. And I sat here listening on two successive evenings, for two
  hours each time&mdash;and of course I was able to learn something, what do
  you think?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You listened?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I did. Now come back to my room; we can&rsquo;t sit down here.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sitting-room and offered her a
  chair. He sat down at the opposite side of the table, at least seven feet
  from her, but probably there was the same glow in his eyes which had once
  frightened Dounia so much. She shuddered and once more looked about her
  distrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture; she evidently did not wish
  to betray her uneasiness. But the secluded position of Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s
  lodging had suddenly struck her. She wanted to ask whether his landlady at
  least were at home, but pride kept her from asking. Moreover, she had
  another trouble in her heart incomparably greater than fear for herself.
  She was in great distress.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here is your letter,&rdquo; she said, laying it on the table. &ldquo;Can it be true
  what you write? You hint at a crime committed, you say, by my brother. You
  hint at it too clearly; you daren&rsquo;t deny it now. I must tell you that I&rsquo;d
  heard of this stupid story before you wrote and don&rsquo;t believe a word of
  it. It&rsquo;s a disgusting and ridiculous suspicion. I know the story and why
  and how it was invented. You can have no proofs. You promised to prove it.
  Speak! But let me warn you that I don&rsquo;t believe you! I don&rsquo;t believe you!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the colour rushed
  to her face.
<br />
  &ldquo;If you didn&rsquo;t believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my rooms?
  Why have you come? Simply from curiosity?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t torment me. Speak, speak!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no denying that you are a brave girl. Upon my word, I thought you
  would have asked Mr. Razumihin to escort you here. But he was not with you
  nor anywhere near. I was on the look-out. It&rsquo;s spirited of you, it proves
  you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovitch. But everything is divine in
  you.... About your brother, what am I to say to you? You&rsquo;ve just seen him
  yourself. What did you think of him?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Surely that&rsquo;s not the only thing you are building on?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, not on that, but on his own words. He came here on two successive
  evenings to see Sofya Semyonovna. I&rsquo;ve shown you where they sat. He made a
  full confession to her. He is a murderer. He killed an old woman, a
  pawnbroker, with whom he had pawned things himself. He killed her sister
  too, a pedlar woman called Lizaveta, who happened to come in while he was
  murdering her sister. He killed them with an axe he brought with him. He
  murdered them to rob them and he did rob them. He took money and various
  things.... He told all this, word for word, to Sofya Semyonovna, the only
  person who knows his secret. But she has had no share by word or deed in
  the murder; she was as horrified at it as you are now. Don&rsquo;t be anxious,
  she won&rsquo;t betray him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It cannot be,&rdquo; muttered Dounia, with white lips. She gasped for breath.
  &ldquo;It cannot be. There was not the slightest cause, no sort of ground....
  It&rsquo;s a lie, a lie!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;He robbed her, that was the cause, he took money and things. It&rsquo;s true
  that by his own admission he made no use of the money or things, but hid
  them under a stone, where they are now. But that was because he dared not
  make use of them.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it?&rdquo; cried Dounia, and
  she jumped up from the chair. &ldquo;Why, you know him, and you&rsquo;ve seen him, can
  he be a thief?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She seemed to be imploring Svidrigaïlov; she had entirely forgotten her
  fear.
<br />
  &ldquo;There are thousands and millions of combinations and possibilities,
  Avdotya Romanovna. A thief steals and knows he is a scoundrel, but I&rsquo;ve
  heard of a gentleman who broke open the mail. Who knows, very likely he
  thought he was doing a gentlemanly thing! Of course I should not have
  believed it myself if I&rsquo;d been told of it as you have, but I believe my
  own ears. He explained all the causes of it to Sofya Semyonovna too, but
  she did not believe her ears at first, yet she believed her own eyes at
  last.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What... were the causes?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. Here&rsquo;s... how shall I tell you?&mdash;A
  theory of a sort, the same one by which I for instance consider that a
  single misdeed is permissible if the principal aim is right, a solitary
  wrongdoing and hundreds of good deeds! It&rsquo;s galling too, of course, for a
  young man of gifts and overweening pride to know that if he had, for
  instance, a paltry three thousand, his whole career, his whole future
  would be differently shaped and yet not to have that three thousand. Add
  to that, nervous irritability from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from
  rags, from a vivid sense of the charm of his social position and his
  sister&rsquo;s and mother&rsquo;s position too. Above all, vanity, pride and vanity,
  though goodness knows he may have good qualities too.... I am not blaming
  him, please don&rsquo;t think it; besides, it&rsquo;s not my business. A special
  little theory came in too&mdash;a theory of a sort&mdash;dividing mankind,
  you see, into material and superior persons, that is persons to whom the
  law does not apply owing to their superiority, who make laws for the rest
  of mankind, the material, that is. It&rsquo;s all right as a theory, . Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is,
  what affected him was that a great many men of genius have not hesitated
  at wrongdoing, but have overstepped the law without thinking about it. He
  seems to have fancied that he was a genius too&mdash;that is, he was
  convinced of it for a time. He has suffered a great deal and is still
  suffering from the idea that he could make a theory, but was incapable of
  boldly overstepping the law, and so he is not a man of genius. And that&rsquo;s
  humiliating for a young man of any pride, in our day especially....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But remorse? You deny him any moral feeling then? Is he like that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, everything is in a muddle now; not that it was
  ever in very good order. Russians in general are broad in their ideas,
  Avdotya Romanovna, broad like their land and exceedingly disposed to the
  fantastic, the chaotic. But it&rsquo;s a misfortune to be broad without a
  special genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk we had together on this
  subject, sitting in the evenings on the terrace after supper? Why, you
  used to reproach me with breadth! Who knows, perhaps we were talking at
  the very time when he was lying here thinking over his plan. There are no
  sacred traditions amongst us, especially in the educated class, Avdotya
  Romanovna. At the best someone will make them up somehow for himself out
  of books or from some old chronicle. But those are for the most part the
  learned and all old fogeys, so that it would be almost ill-bred in a man
  of society. You know my opinions in general, though. I never blame anyone.
  I do nothing at all, I persevere in that. But we&rsquo;ve talked of this more
  than once before. I was so happy indeed as to interest you in my
  opinions.... You are very pale, Avdotya Romanovna.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I know his theory. I read that article of his about men to whom all is
  permitted. Razumihin brought it to me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mr. Razumihin? Your brother&rsquo;s article? In a magazine? Is there such an
  article? I didn&rsquo;t know. It must be interesting. But where are you going,
  Avdotya Romanovna?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I want to see Sofya Semyonovna,&rdquo; Dounia articulated faintly. &ldquo;How do I go
  to her? She has come in, perhaps. I must see her at once. Perhaps she...&rdquo;
 <br />
  Avdotya Romanovna could not finish. Her breath literally failed her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Sofya Semyonovna will not be back till night, at least I believe not. She
  was to have been back at once, but if not, then she will not be in till
  quite late.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, then you are lying! I see... you were lying... lying all the time....
  I don&rsquo;t believe you! I don&rsquo;t believe you!&rdquo; cried Dounia, completely losing
  her head.
<br />
  Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair which Svidrigaïlov made haste to
  give her.
<br />
  &ldquo;Avdotya Romanovna, what is it? Control yourself! Here is some water.
  Drink a little....&rdquo;
 <br />
  He sprinkled some water over her. Dounia shuddered and came to herself.
<br />
  &ldquo;It has acted violently,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov muttered to himself, frowning.
  &ldquo;Avdotya Romanovna, calm yourself! Believe me, he has friends. We will
  save him. Would you like me to take him abroad? I have money, I can get a
  ticket in three days. And as for the murder, he will do all sorts of good
  deeds yet, to atone for it. Calm yourself. He may become a great man yet.
  Well, how are you? How do you feel?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Cruel man! To be able to jeer at it! Let me go...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in at
  that door and now it is locked. When did you manage to lock it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;We couldn&rsquo;t be shouting all over the flat on such a subject. I am far
  from jeering; it&rsquo;s simply that I&rsquo;m sick of talking like this. But how can
  you go in such a state? Do you want to betray him? You will drive him to
  fury, and he will give himself up. Let me tell you, he is already being
  watched; they are already on his track. You will simply be giving him
  away. Wait a little: I saw him and was talking to him just now. He can
  still be saved. Wait a bit, sit down; let us think it over together. I
  asked you to come in order to discuss it alone with you and to consider it
  thoroughly. But do sit down!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;How can you save him? Can he really be saved?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia sat down. Svidrigaïlov sat down beside her.
<br />
  &ldquo;It all depends on you, on you, on you alone,&rdquo; he began with glowing eyes,
  almost in a whisper and hardly able to utter the words for emotion.
<br />
  Dounia drew back from him in alarm. He too was trembling all over.
<br />
  &ldquo;You... one word from you, and he is saved. I... I&rsquo;ll save him. I have
  money and friends. I&rsquo;ll send him away at once. I&rsquo;ll get a passport, two
  passports, one for him and one for me. I have friends... capable
  people.... If you like, I&rsquo;ll take a passport for you... for your
  mother.... What do you want with Razumihin? I love you too.... I love you
  beyond everything.... Let me kiss the hem of your dress, let me, let
  me.... The very rustle of it is too much for me. Tell me, &lsquo;do that,&rsquo; and
  I&rsquo;ll do it. I&rsquo;ll do everything. I will do the impossible. What you
  believe, I will believe. I&rsquo;ll do anything&mdash;anything! Don&rsquo;t, don&rsquo;t
  look at me like that. Do you know that you are killing me?...&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was almost beginning to rave.... Something seemed suddenly to go to his
  head. Dounia jumped up and rushed to the door.
<br />
  &ldquo;Open it! Open it!&rdquo; she called, shaking the door. &ldquo;Open it! Is there no
  one there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov got up and came to himself. His still trembling lips slowly
  broke into an angry mocking smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;There is no one at home,&rdquo; he said quietly and emphatically. &ldquo;The landlady
  has gone out, and it&rsquo;s waste of time to shout like that. You are only
  exciting yourself uselessly.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, base man!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I have lost the key and cannot find it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;This is an outrage,&rdquo; cried Dounia, turning pale as death. She rushed to
  the furthest corner, where she made haste to barricade herself with a
  little table.
<br />
  She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on her tormentor and watched
  every movement he made.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov remained standing at the other end of the room facing her. He
  was positively composed, at least in appearance, but his face was pale as
  before. The mocking smile did not leave his face.
<br />
  &ldquo;You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna. In that case you may be
  sure I&rsquo;ve taken measures. Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. The
  Kapernaumovs are far away&mdash;there are five locked rooms between. I am
  at least twice as strong as you are and I have nothing to fear, besides.
  For you could not complain afterwards. You surely would not be willing
  actually to betray your brother? Besides, no one would believe you. How
  should a girl have come alone to visit a solitary man in his lodgings? So
  that even if you do sacrifice your brother, you could prove nothing. It is
  very difficult to prove an assault, Avdotya Romanovna.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Scoundrel!&rdquo; whispered Dounia indignantly.
<br />
  &ldquo;As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a general
  proposition. It&rsquo;s my personal conviction that you are perfectly right&mdash;violence
  is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have no remorse even
  if... you were willing to save your brother of your own accord, as I
  suggest to you. You would be simply submitting to circumstances, to
  violence, in fact, if we must use that word. Think about it. Your
  brother&rsquo;s and your mother&rsquo;s fate are in your hands. I will be your
  slave... all my life... I will wait here.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from Dounia. She had
  not the slightest doubt now of his unbending determination. Besides, she
  knew him. Suddenly she pulled out of her pocket a revolver, cocked it and
  laid it in her hand on the table. Svidrigaïlov jumped up.
<br />
  &ldquo;Aha! So that&rsquo;s it, is it?&rdquo; he cried, surprised but smiling maliciously.
  &ldquo;Well, that completely alters the aspect of affairs. You&rsquo;ve made things
  wonderfully easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna. But where did you get the
  revolver? Was it Mr. Razumihin? Why, it&rsquo;s my revolver, an old friend! And
  how I&rsquo;ve hunted for it! The shooting lessons I&rsquo;ve given you in the country
  have not been thrown away.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not your revolver, it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, whom you killed,
  wretch! There was nothing of yours in her house. I took it when I began to
  suspect what you were capable of. If you dare to advance one step, I swear
  I&rsquo;ll kill you.&rdquo; She was frantic.
<br />
  &ldquo;But your brother? I ask from curiosity,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov, still
  standing where he was.
<br />
  &ldquo;Inform, if you want to! Don&rsquo;t stir! Don&rsquo;t come nearer! I&rsquo;ll shoot! You
  poisoned your wife, I know; you are a murderer yourself!&rdquo; She held the
  revolver ready.
<br />
  &ldquo;Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You did! You hinted it yourself; you talked to me of poison.... I know
  you went to get it... you had it in readiness.... It was your doing.... It
  must have been your doing.... Scoundrel!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake... you would
  have been the cause.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You are lying! I hated you always, always....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened to me
  in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you remember that
  moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a lie,&rdquo; there was a flash of fury in Dounia&rsquo;s eyes, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s a lie
  and a libel!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A lie? Well, if you like, it&rsquo;s a lie. I made it up. Women ought not to be
  reminded of such things,&rdquo; he smiled. &ldquo;I know you will shoot, you pretty
  wild creature. Well, shoot away!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him, measuring the
  distance and awaiting the first movement on his part. Her lower lip was
  white and quivering and her big black eyes flashed like fire. He had never
  seen her so handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment she
  raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and there was a pang of anguish
  in his heart. He took a step forward and a shot rang out. The bullet
  grazed his hair and flew into the wall behind. He stood still and laughed
  softly.
<br />
  &ldquo;The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head. What&rsquo;s this?
  Blood?&rdquo; he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood, which flowed in
  a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed to have just grazed
  the skin.
<br />
  Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigaïlov not so much in
  terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what
  she was doing and what was going on.
<br />
  &ldquo;Well, you missed! Fire again, I&rsquo;ll wait,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov softly, still
  smiling, but gloomily. &ldquo;If you go on like that, I shall have time to seize
  you before you cock again.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let me be,&rdquo; she cried in despair. &ldquo;I swear I&rsquo;ll shoot again. I... I&rsquo;ll
  kill you.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well... at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don&rsquo;t... then.&rdquo;
   His eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dounia shot again: it
  missed fire.
<br />
  &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge
  there. Get it ready, I&rsquo;ll wait.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild
  determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set eyes. Dounia saw
  that he would sooner die than let her go. &ldquo;And... now, of course she would
  kill him, at two paces!&rdquo; Suddenly she flung away the revolver.
<br />
  &ldquo;She&rsquo;s dropped it!&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov with surprise, and he drew a deep
  breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart&mdash;perhaps not
  only the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it at that
  moment. It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more
  bitter, which he could not himself have defined.
<br />
  He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not
  resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with suppliant eyes. He
  tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to utter a
  sound.
<br />
  &ldquo;Let me go,&rdquo; Dounia implored. Svidrigaïlov shuddered. Her voice now was
  quite different.
<br />
  &ldquo;Then you don&rsquo;t love me?&rdquo; he asked softly. Dounia shook her head.
<br />
  &ldquo;And... and you can&rsquo;t? Never?&rdquo; he whispered in despair.
<br />
  &ldquo;Never!&rdquo;
 <br />
  There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of
  Svidrigaïlov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly he
  withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it.
  Another moment passed.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s the key.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the table
  behind him, without turning or looking at Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;Take it! Make haste!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dounia went up to the table to
  take the key.
<br />
  &ldquo;Make haste! Make haste!&rdquo; repeated Svidrigaïlov, still without turning or
  moving. But there seemed a terrible significance in the tone of that &ldquo;make
  haste.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Dounia understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the door, unlocked it
  quickly and rushed out of the room. A minute later, beside herself, she
  ran out on to the canal bank in the direction of X. Bridge.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov remained three minutes standing at the window. At last he
  slowly turned, looked about him and passed his hand over his forehead. A
  strange smile contorted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of
  despair. The blood, which was already getting dry, smeared his hand. He
  looked angrily at it, then wetted a towel and washed his temple. The
  revolver which Dounia had flung away lay near the door and suddenly caught
  his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a little pocket
  three-barrel revolver of old-fashioned construction. There were still two
  charges and one capsule left in it. It could be fired again. He thought a
  little, put the revolver in his pocket, took his hat and went out.


      CHAPTER VI


  He spent that evening till ten o&rsquo;clock going from one low haunt to
  another. Katia too turned up and sang another gutter song, how a certain
<br />
  &ldquo;villain and tyrant,&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;began kissing Katia.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers and the
  waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to these clerks
  by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to the left and the
  other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure garden, where he
  paid for their entrance. There was one lanky three-year-old pine-tree and
  three bushes in the garden, besides a &ldquo;Vauxhall,&rdquo; which was in reality a
  drinking-bar where tea too was served, and there were a few green tables
  and chairs standing round it. A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken
  but exceedingly depressed German clown from Munich with a red nose
  entertained the public. The clerks quarrelled with some other clerks and a
  fight seemed imminent. Svidrigaïlov was chosen to decide the dispute. He
  listened to them for a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that
  there was no possibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed
  certain was that one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded
  in selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with his
  companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon
  belonging to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the affair began to seem
  troublesome. Svidrigaïlov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of
  the garden. It was about six o&rsquo;clock. He had not drunk a drop of wine all
  this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than
  anything.
<br />
  It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-clouds came over the
  sky about ten o&rsquo;clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain came down
  like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in
  streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and each flash
  lasted while one could count five.
<br />
  Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the bureau,
  took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then, putting the
  money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but, looking out
  of the window and listening to the thunder and the rain, he gave up the
  idea, took up his hat and went out of the room without locking the door.
  He went straight to Sonia. She was at home.
<br />
  She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. She was
  giving them tea. She received Svidrigaïlov in respectful silence, looking
  wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at once in
  indescribable terror.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him. She
  timidly prepared to listen.
<br />
  &ldquo;I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov, &ldquo;and as
  I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some
  arrangements. Well, did you see the lady to-day? I know what she said to
  you, you need not tell me.&rdquo; (Sonia made a movement and blushed.) &ldquo;Those
  people have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and your
  brother, they are really provided for and the money assigned to them I&rsquo;ve
  put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgments. You had better
  take charge of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here, take them!
  Well now, that&rsquo;s settled. Here are three 5-per-cent bonds to the value of
  three thousand roubles. Take those for yourself, entirely for yourself,
  and let that be strictly between ourselves, so that no one knows of it,
  whatever you hear. You will need the money, for to go on living in the old
  way, Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and besides there is no need for it now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and my stepmother,&rdquo;
   said Sonia hurriedly, &ldquo;and if I&rsquo;ve said so little... please don&rsquo;t
  consider...&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s enough! that&rsquo;s enough!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am very grateful to you, but I
  don&rsquo;t need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don&rsquo;t think me
  ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please don&rsquo;t waste words
  over it. I haven&rsquo;t time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovitch has
  two alternatives: a bullet in the brain or Siberia.&rdquo; (Sonia looked wildly
  at him, and started.) &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be uneasy, I know all about it from himself
  and I am not a gossip; I won&rsquo;t tell anyone. It was good advice when you
  told him to give himself up and confess. It would be much better for him.
  Well, if it turns out to be Siberia, he will go and you will follow him.
  That&rsquo;s so, isn&rsquo;t it? And if so, you&rsquo;ll need money. You&rsquo;ll need it for him,
  do you understand? Giving it to you is the same as my giving it to him.
  Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay what&rsquo;s owing. I heard you.
  How can you undertake such obligations so heedlessly, Sofya Semyonovna? It
  was Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s debt and not yours, so you ought not to have taken
  any notice of the German woman. You can&rsquo;t get through the world like that.
  If you are ever questioned about me&mdash;to-morrow or the day after you
  will be asked&mdash;don&rsquo;t say anything about my coming to see you now and
  don&rsquo;t show the money to anyone or say a word about it. Well, now
  good-bye.&rdquo; (He got up.) &ldquo;My greetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way,
  you&rsquo;d better put the money for the present in Mr. Razumihin&rsquo;s keeping. You
  know Mr. Razumihin? Of course you do. He&rsquo;s not a bad fellow. Take it to
  him to-morrow or... when the time comes. And till then, hide it
  carefully.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at Svidrigaïlov.
  She longed to speak, to ask a question, but for the first moments she did
  not dare and did not know how to begin.
<br />
  &ldquo;How can you... how can you be going now, in such rain?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain! Ha, ha! Good-bye,
  Sofya Semyonovna, my dear! Live and live long, you will be of use to
  others. By the way... tell Mr. Razumihin I send my greetings to him. Tell
  him Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov sends his greetings. Be sure to.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety and vague
  apprehension.
<br />
  It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven, he
  made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still
  persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flat where the
  parents of his betrothed lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky Island. He
  knocked some time before he was admitted, and his visit at first caused
  great perturbation; but Svidrigaïlov could be very fascinating when he
  liked, so that the first, and indeed very intelligent surmise of the
  sensible parents that Svidrigaïlov had probably had so much to drink that
  he did not know what he was doing vanished immediately. The decrepit
  father was wheeled in to see Svidrigaïlov by the tender and sensible
  mother, who as usual began the conversation with various irrelevant
  questions. She never asked a direct question, but began by smiling and
  rubbing her hands and then, if she were obliged to ascertain something&mdash;for
  instance, when Svidrigaïlov would like to have the wedding&mdash;she would
  begin by interested and almost eager questions about Paris and the court
  life there, and only by degrees brought the conversation round to Third
  Street. On other occasions this had of course been very impressive, but
  this time Arkady Ivanovitch seemed particularly impatient, and insisted on
  seeing his betrothed at once, though he had been informed, to begin with,
  that she had already gone to bed. The girl of course appeared.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov informed her at once that he was obliged by very important
  affairs to leave Petersburg for a time, and therefore brought her fifteen
  thousand roubles and begged her accept them as a present from him, as he
  had long been intending to make her this trifling present before their
  wedding. The logical connection of the present with his immediate
  departure and the absolute necessity of visiting them for that purpose in
  pouring rain at midnight was not made clear. But it all went off very
  well; even the inevitable ejaculations of wonder and regret, the
  inevitable questions were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other
  hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and was reinforced by tears
  from the most sensible of mothers. Svidrigaïlov got up, laughed, kissed
  his betrothed, patted her cheek, declared he would soon come back, and
  noticing in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, a sort of earnest
  dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, though he felt sincere anger
  inwardly at the thought that his present would be immediately locked up in
  the keeping of the most sensible of mothers. He went away, leaving them
  all in a state of extraordinary excitement, but the tender mamma, speaking
  quietly in a half whisper, settled some of the most important of their
  doubts, concluding that Svidrigaïlov was a great man, a man of great
  affairs and connections and of great wealth&mdash;there was no knowing
  what he had in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away
  money just as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing surprising
  about it. Of course it was strange that he was wet through, but
  Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric, and all these people of
  high society didn&rsquo;t think of what was said of them and didn&rsquo;t stand on
  ceremony. Possibly, indeed, he came like that on purpose to show that he
  was not afraid of anyone. Above all, not a word should be said about it,
  for God knows what might come of it, and the money must be locked up, and
  it was most fortunate that Fedosya, the cook, had not left the kitchen.
  And above all not a word must be said to that old cat, Madame Resslich,
  and so on and so on. They sat up whispering till two o&rsquo;clock, but the girl
  went to bed much earlier, amazed and rather sorrowful.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed the bridge on the way
  back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a roaring wind. He
  began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the black waters of the
  Little Neva with a look of special interest, even inquiry. But he soon
  felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and went towards Y.
  Prospect. He walked along that endless street for a long time, almost half
  an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but
  continually looking for something on the right side of the street. He had
  noticed passing through this street lately that there was a hotel
  somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly large, and its name
  he remembered was something like Adrianople. He was not mistaken: the
  hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken place that he could not fail
  to see it even in the dark. It was a long, blackened wooden building, and
  in spite of the late hour there were lights in the windows and signs of
  life within. He went in and asked a ragged fellow who met him in the
  corridor for a room. The latter, scanning Svidrigaïlov, pulled himself
  together and led him at once to a close and tiny room in the distance, at
  the end of the corridor, under the stairs. There was no other, all were
  occupied. The ragged fellow looked inquiringly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is there tea?&rdquo; asked Svidrigaïlov.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What else is there?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Veal, vodka, savouries.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Bring me tea and veal.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And you want nothing else?&rdquo; he asked with apparent surprise.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing, nothing.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.
<br />
  &ldquo;It must be a nice place,&rdquo; thought Svidrigaïlov. &ldquo;How was it I didn&rsquo;t know
  it? I expect I look as if I came from a café chantant and have had some
  adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stayed here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a room
  so low-pitched that Svidrigaïlov could only just stand up in it; it had
  one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain-stained chair and
  table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they were made of
  planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty that the pattern was
  indistinguishable, though the general colour&mdash;yellow&mdash;could
  still be made out. One of the walls was cut short by the sloping ceiling,
  though the room was not an attic but just under the stairs.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank into
  thought. But a strange persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shout
  in the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had not ceased from
  the moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding and
  almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he saw
  light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The
  room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One of them,
  a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing in the pose
  of an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart to preserve his
  balance, and smiting himself on the breast. He reproached the other with
  being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. He declared that he had
  taken the other out of the gutter and he could turn him out when he liked,
  and that only the finger of Providence sees it all. The object of his
  reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the air of a man who wants
  dreadfully to sneeze, but can&rsquo;t. He sometimes turned sheepish and befogged
  eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not the slightest idea what he was
  talking about and scarcely heard it. A candle was burning down on the
  table; there were wine-glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, bread and
  cucumber, and glasses with the dregs of stale tea. After gazing
  attentively at this, Svidrigaïlov turned away indifferently and sat down
  on the bed.
<br />
  The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking him
  again whether he didn&rsquo;t want anything more, and again receiving a negative
  reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigaïlov made haste to drink a glass of tea
  to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish. He
  took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the
  bed. He was annoyed. &ldquo;It would have been better to be well for the
  occasion,&rdquo; he thought with a smile. The room was close, the candle burnt
  dimly, the wind was roaring outside, he heard a mouse scratching in the
  corner and the room smelt of mice and of leather. He lay in a sort of
  reverie: one thought followed another. He felt a longing to fix his
  imagination on something. &ldquo;It must be a garden under the window,&rdquo; he
  thought. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a sound of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees on a
  stormy night, in the dark! They give one a horrid feeling.&rdquo; He remembered
  how he had disliked it when he passed Petrovsky Park just now. This
  reminded him of the bridge over the Little Neva and he felt cold again as
  he had when standing there. &ldquo;I never have liked water,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;even
  in a landscape,&rdquo; and he suddenly smiled again at a strange idea: &ldquo;Surely
  now all these questions of taste and comfort ought not to matter, but I&rsquo;ve
  become more particular, like an animal that picks out a special place...
  for such an occasion. I ought to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I
  suppose it seemed dark, cold, ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant
  sensations!... By the way, why haven&rsquo;t I put out the candle?&rdquo; he blew it
  out. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve gone to bed next door,&rdquo; he thought, not seeing the light at
  the crack. &ldquo;Well, now, Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up;
  it&rsquo;s dark, and the very time and place for you. But now you won&rsquo;t come!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on
  Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin&rsquo;s
  keeping. &ldquo;I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to tease
  myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He&rsquo;s gone through a good
  deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he&rsquo;s got over his
  nonsense. But now he&rsquo;s  eager for life. These young men are
  contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him please himself,
  it&rsquo;s nothing to do with me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia&rsquo;s image rose before him, and
  a shudder ran over him. &ldquo;No, I must give up all that now,&rdquo; he thought,
  rousing himself. &ldquo;I must think of something else. It&rsquo;s queer and funny. I
  never had a great hatred for anyone, I never particularly desired to
  avenge myself even, and that&rsquo;s a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad sign. I never
  liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper&mdash;that&rsquo;s a bad sign
  too. And the promises I made her just now, too&mdash;Damnation! But&mdash;who
  knows?&mdash;perhaps she would have made a new man of me somehow....&rdquo;
 <br />
  He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia&rsquo;s image rose
  before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time, she had
  lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that he might
  have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand to defend
  herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that instant he
  felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his heart...
<br />
  &ldquo;Aïe! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly something
  seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He started. &ldquo;Ugh!
  hang it! I believe it&rsquo;s a mouse,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s the veal I left on
  the table.&rdquo; He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the blanket, get up,
  get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over his leg again. He
  pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking with feverish chill
  he bent down to examine the bed: there was nothing. He shook the blanket
  and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet. He tried to catch it, but
  the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without leaving the bed, slipped
  between his fingers, ran over his hand and suddenly darted under the
  pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one instant felt something leap
  on his chest and dart over his body and down his back under his shirt. He
  trembled nervously and woke up.
<br />
  The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket
  as before. The wind was howling under the window. &ldquo;How disgusting,&rdquo; he
  thought with annoyance.
<br />
  He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window.
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s better not to sleep at all,&rdquo; he decided. There was a cold damp
  draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the blanket
  over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and
  did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps
  of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into
  drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind
  that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of
  persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images of
  flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot
  day, a holiday&mdash;Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the
  English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going
  round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds
  of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated
  with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows
  nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their
  bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them,
  but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and
  again everywhere&mdash;at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on
  the balcony itself&mdash;were flowers. The floors were strewn with
  freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air
  came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the
  middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a
  coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick
  white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the
  flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and
  pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair
  hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and
  already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble
  too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish
  misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no
  holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the
  girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken.
  And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and
  amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited
  disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally
  disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled....
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the window.
  He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously into the
  little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with his shirt,
  as though with frost. Under the window there must have been something like
  a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too, probably there
  were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of rain flew in at
  the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as in a cellar, so that
  he could only just make out some dark blurs of objects. Svidrigaïlov,
  bending down with elbows on the window-sill, gazed for five minutes into
  the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed by a second one, resounded in
  the darkness of the night. &ldquo;Ah, the signal! The river is overflowing,&rdquo; he
  thought. &ldquo;By morning it will be swirling down the street in the lower
  parts, flooding the basements and cellars. The cellar rats will swim out,
  and men will curse in the rain and wind as they drag their rubbish to
  their upper storeys. What time is it now?&rdquo; And he had hardly thought it
  when, somewhere near, a clock on the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck
  three.
<br />
  &ldquo;Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I&rsquo;ll go out at once straight
  to the park. I&rsquo;ll choose a great bush there drenched with rain, so that as
  soon as one&rsquo;s shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on one&rsquo;s head.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his
  waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle,
  into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep
  somewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay him
  for the room and leave the hotel. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the best minute; I couldn&rsquo;t choose
  a better.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without finding
  anyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner
  between an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange object
  which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little
  girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her clothes
  as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid of
  Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her big black
  eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have been crying a
  long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child&rsquo;s face was pale
  and tired, she was numb with cold. &ldquo;How can she have come here? She must
  have hidden here and not slept all night.&rdquo; He began questioning her. The
  child suddenly becoming animated, chattered away in her baby language,
  something about &ldquo;mammy&rdquo; and that &ldquo;mammy would beat her,&rdquo; and about some
  cup that she had &ldquo;bwoken.&rdquo; The child chattered on without stopping. He
  could only guess from what she said that she was a neglected child, whose
  mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped and
  frightened her; that the child had broken a cup of her mother&rsquo;s and was so
  frightened that she had run away the evening before, had hidden for a long
  while somewhere outside in the rain, at last had made her way in here,
  hidden behind the cupboard and spent the night there, crying and trembling
  from the damp, the darkness and the fear that she would be badly beaten
  for it. He took her in his arms, went back to his room, sat her on the
  bed, and began undressing her. The torn shoes which she had on her
  stockingless feet were as wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all
  night. When he had undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up
  and wrapped her in the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at
  once. Then he sank into dreary musing again.
<br />
  &ldquo;What folly to trouble myself,&rdquo; he decided suddenly with an oppressive
  feeling of annoyance. &ldquo;What idiocy!&rdquo; In vexation he took up the candle to
  go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away.
  &ldquo;Damn the child!&rdquo; he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again to
  see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully. The
  child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket, and her
  pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed brighter
  and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a flush of fever,&rdquo;
   thought Svidrigaïlov. It was like the flush from drinking, as though she
  had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were hot and
  glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long black
  eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a sly crafty
  eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little girl were
  not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile.
  The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to control
  them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin, a broad
  grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quite unchildish
  face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the shameless face of
  a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they turned a glowing,
  shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited him.... There was
  something infinitely hideous and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in
  such nastiness in the face of a child. &ldquo;What, at five years old?&rdquo;
   Svidrigaïlov muttered in genuine horror. &ldquo;What does it mean?&rdquo; And now she
  turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding out her arms....
  &ldquo;Accursed child!&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand to strike her, but
  at that moment he woke up.
<br />
  He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not
  been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at the windows.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve had nightmare all night!&rdquo; He got up angrily, feeling utterly
  shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could
  see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up, put
  on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket,
  he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket and
  in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few lines in large
  letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his elbows on the
  table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some flies woke up
  and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared
  at them and at last with his free right hand began trying to catch one. He
  tried till he was tired, but could not catch it. At last, realising that
  he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he started, got up and walked
  resolutely out of the room. A minute later he was in the street.
<br />
  A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along the
  slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing
  the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the
  wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the
  bush.... He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think of
  something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street. The
  bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with their
  closed shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and he began
  to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and read each
  carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and came to a
  big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail
  between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead drunk,
  across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower stood up
  on the left. &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; he shouted, &ldquo;here is a place. Why should it be
  Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness anyway....&rdquo;
 <br />
  He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where
  there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of the
  house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped
  in a grey soldier&rsquo;s coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He
  cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His face wore that
  perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly printed on all
  faces of Jewish race without exception. They both, Svidrigaïlov and
  Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. At last
  it struck Achilles as irregular for a man not drunk to be standing three
  steps from him, staring and not saying a word.
<br />
  &ldquo;What do you want here?&rdquo; he said, without moving or changing his position.
<br />
  &ldquo;Nothing, brother, good morning,&rdquo; answered Svidrigaïlov.
<br />
  &ldquo;This isn&rsquo;t the place.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I am going to foreign parts, brother.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To foreign parts?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;To America.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;America.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his
  eyebrows.
<br />
  &ldquo;I say, this is not the place for such jokes!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t it be the place?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Because it isn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Well, brother, I don&rsquo;t mind that. It&rsquo;s a good place. When you are asked,
  you just say he was going, he said, to America.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He put the revolver to his right temple.
<br />
  &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t do it here, it&rsquo;s not the place,&rdquo; cried Achilles, rousing
  himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.
<br />
  Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.


      CHAPTER VII


  The same day, about seven o&rsquo;clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his
  way to his mother&rsquo;s and sister&rsquo;s lodging&mdash;the lodging in Bakaleyev&rsquo;s
  house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from the
  street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still hesitating
  whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back: his decision
  was taken.
<br />
  &ldquo;Besides, it doesn&rsquo;t matter, they still know nothing,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;and
  they are used to thinking of me as eccentric.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a
  night&rsquo;s rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the
  inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all
  the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a
  decision.
<br />
  He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dounia was not at
  home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria Alexandrovna
  was speechless with joy and surprise; then she took him by the hand and
  drew him into the room.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here you are!&rdquo; she began, faltering with joy. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be angry with me,
  Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing not
  crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I&rsquo;ve got into
  such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I&rsquo;ve been like that ever since your
  father&rsquo;s death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be tired;
  I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I was in the rain yesterday, mother....&rdquo; Raskolnikov began.
<br />
  &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, &ldquo;you thought I was
  going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to; don&rsquo;t be
  anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now I&rsquo;ve learned the ways here
  and truly I see for myself that they are better. I&rsquo;ve made up my mind once
  for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to give an
  account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have, or what
  ideas you are hatching; so it&rsquo;s not for me to keep nudging your elbow,
  asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why am I running
  to and fro as though I were crazy...? I am reading your article in the
  magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch brought it to me.
  Directly I saw it I cried out to myself: &lsquo;There, foolish one,&rsquo; I thought,
  &lsquo;that&rsquo;s what he is busy about; that&rsquo;s the solution of the mystery! Learned
  people are always like that. He may have some new ideas in his head just
  now; he is thinking them over and I worry him and upset him.&rsquo; I read it,
  my dear, and of course there was a great deal I did not understand; but
  that&rsquo;s only natural&mdash;how should I?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Show me, mother.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. Incongruous as
  it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and
  bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he
  sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a
  moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed with
  anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding months. He
  flung the article on the table with disgust and anger.
<br />
  &ldquo;But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you will
  very soon be one of the leading&mdash;if not the leading man&mdash;in the
  world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You don&rsquo;t
  know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how
  could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but believing it&mdash;what
  do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazines&mdash;the first
  time poems (I&rsquo;ve got the manuscript and will show you) and the second time
  a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it out) and how we prayed that
  they should be taken&mdash;they weren&rsquo;t! I was breaking my heart, Rodya,
  six or seven days ago over your food and your clothes and the way you are
  living. But now I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any
  position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you don&rsquo;t care
  about that for the present and you are occupied with much more important
  matters....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Dounia&rsquo;s not at home, mother?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, Rodya. I often don&rsquo;t see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri Prokofitch
  comes to see me, it&rsquo;s so good of him, and he always talks about you. He
  loves you and respects you, my dear. I don&rsquo;t say that Dounia is very
  wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has her ways and I
  have mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and I never have any
  secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia has far too much
  sense, and besides she loves you and me... but I don&rsquo;t know what it will
  all lead to. You&rsquo;ve made me so happy by coming now, Rodya, but she has
  missed you by going out; when she comes in I&rsquo;ll tell her: &lsquo;Your brother
  came in while you were out. Where have you been all this time?&rsquo; You
  mustn&rsquo;t spoil me, Rodya, you know; come when you can, but if you can&rsquo;t, it
  doesn&rsquo;t matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway, that you are fond of me,
  that will be enough for me. I shall read what you write, I shall hear
  about you from everyone, and sometimes you&rsquo;ll come yourself to see me.
  What could be better? Here you&rsquo;ve come now to comfort your mother, I see
  that.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
<br />
  &ldquo;Here I am again! Don&rsquo;t mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I sitting
  here?&rdquo; she cried, jumping up. &ldquo;There is coffee and I don&rsquo;t offer you any.
  Ah, that&rsquo;s the selfishness of old age. I&rsquo;ll get it at once!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Mother, don&rsquo;t trouble, I am going at once. I haven&rsquo;t come for that.
  Please listen to me.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.
<br />
  &ldquo;Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are
  told about me, will you always love me as you do now?&rdquo; he asked suddenly
  from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and
  not weighing them.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question?
  Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn&rsquo;t believe
  anyone, I should refuse to listen.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to assure you that I&rsquo;ve always loved you and I am glad that we
  are alone, even glad Dounia is out,&rdquo; he went on with the same impulse. &ldquo;I
  have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you must believe
  that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all you thought
  about me, that I was cruel and didn&rsquo;t care about you, was all a mistake. I
  shall never cease to love you.... Well, that&rsquo;s enough: I thought I must do
  this and begin with this....&rdquo;
 <br />
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her bosom
  and weeping gently.
<br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what is wrong with you, Rodya,&rdquo; she said at last. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been
  thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now I see that
  there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that&rsquo;s why you are
  miserable. I&rsquo;ve foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking
  about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister
  lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I
  caught something, but I couldn&rsquo;t make it out. I felt all the morning as
  though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting
  something, and now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You are
  going away somewhere?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need me. And
  Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly&mdash;and Sofya
  Semyonovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon
  her as a daughter even... Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together.
  But... where... are you going?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Good-bye, mother.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What, to-day?&rdquo; she cried, as though losing him for ever.
<br />
  &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t stay, I must go now....&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;And can&rsquo;t I come with you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer perhaps will reach
  Him.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That&rsquo;s right, that&rsquo;s right.
  Oh, God, what are we doing?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one there, that he
  was alone with his mother. For the first time after all those awful months
  his heart was softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet and
  both wept, embracing. And she was not surprised and did not question him
  this time. For some days she had realised that something awful was
  happening to her son and that now some terrible minute had come for him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Rodya, my darling, my first born,&rdquo; she said sobbing, &ldquo;now you are just as
  when you were little. You would run like this to me and hug me and kiss
  me. When your father was living and we were poor, you comforted us simply
  by being with us and when I buried your father, how often we wept together
  at his grave and embraced, as now. And if I&rsquo;ve been crying lately, it&rsquo;s
  that my mother&rsquo;s heart had a foreboding of trouble. The first time I saw
  you, that evening, you remember, as soon as we arrived here, I guessed
  simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and to-day when I opened the
  door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had come. Rodya, Rodya,
  you are not going away to-day?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll come again?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes... I&rsquo;ll come.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Rodya, don&rsquo;t be angry, I don&rsquo;t dare to question you. I know I mustn&rsquo;t.
  Only say two words to me&mdash;is it far where you are going?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Very far.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;What God sends... only pray for me.&rdquo; Raskolnikov went to the door, but
  she clutched him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face worked
  with terror.
<br />
  &ldquo;Enough, mother,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come.
<br />
  &ldquo;Not for ever, it&rsquo;s not yet for ever? You&rsquo;ll come, you&rsquo;ll come to-morrow?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I will, I will, good-bye.&rdquo; He tore himself away at last.
<br />
  It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in the morning.
  Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he made haste. He wanted to finish all
  before sunset. He did not want to meet anyone till then. Going up the
  stairs he noticed that Nastasya rushed from the samovar to watch him
  intently. &ldquo;Can anyone have come to see me?&rdquo; he wondered. He had a
  disgusted vision of Porfiry. But opening his door he saw Dounia. She was
  sitting alone, plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had been
  waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway. She rose from the
  sofa in dismay and stood up facing him. Her eyes, fixed upon him, betrayed
  horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at once that
  she knew.
<br />
  &ldquo;Am I to come in or go away?&rdquo; he asked uncertainly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were both waiting for you. We
  thought that you would be sure to come there.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a chair.
<br />
  &ldquo;I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have liked at this
  moment to be able to control myself.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He glanced at her mistrustfully.
<br />
  &ldquo;Where were you all night?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind
  once for all, and several times I walked by the Neva, I remember that I
  wanted to end it all there, but... I couldn&rsquo;t make up my mind,&rdquo; he
  whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again.
<br />
  &ldquo;Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofya Semyonovna and I.
  Then you still have faith in life? Thank God, thank God!&rdquo;
 <br />
  Raskolnikov smiled bitterly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t faith, but I have just been weeping in mother&rsquo;s arms; I haven&rsquo;t
  faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me. I don&rsquo;t know how it is,
  Dounia, I don&rsquo;t understand it.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Have you been at mother&rsquo;s? Have you told her?&rdquo; cried Dounia,
  horror-stricken. &ldquo;Surely you haven&rsquo;t done that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;No, I didn&rsquo;t tell her... in words; but she understood a great deal. She
  heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it
  already. Perhaps I did wrong in going to see her. I don&rsquo;t know why I did
  go. I am a contemptible person, Dounia.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering! You are, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought of
  drowning myself, Dounia, but as I looked into the water, I thought that if
  I had considered myself strong till now I&rsquo;d better not be afraid of
  disgrace,&rdquo; he said, hurrying on. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s pride, Dounia.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Pride, Rodya.&rdquo;
 <br />
  There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes; he seemed to be glad to
  think that he was still proud.
<br />
  &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water?&rdquo; he
  asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh, Rodya, hush!&rdquo; cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted for two minutes.
  He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor; Dounia stood at the other end of
  the table and looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he got up.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s late, it&rsquo;s time to go! I am going at once to give myself up. But I
  don&rsquo;t know why I am going to give myself up.&rdquo;
 <br />
  Big tears fell down her cheeks.
<br />
  &ldquo;You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand to me?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You doubted it?&rdquo;
 <br />
  She threw her arms round him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you half expiating your crime by facing the suffering?&rdquo; she cried,
  holding him close and kissing him.
<br />
  &ldquo;Crime? What crime?&rdquo; he cried in sudden fury. &ldquo;That I killed a vile
  noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman, of use to no one!... Killing her
  was atonement for forty sins. She was sucking the life out of poor people.
  Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not thinking of
  expiating it, and why are you all rubbing it in on all sides? &lsquo;A crime! a
  crime!&rsquo; Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my cowardice, now that I
  have decided to face this superfluous disgrace. It&rsquo;s simply because I am
  contemptible and have nothing in me that I have decided to, perhaps too
  for my advantage, as that... Porfiry... suggested!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, you have shed blood?&rdquo; cried
  Dounia in despair.
<br />
  &ldquo;Which all men shed,&rdquo; he put in almost frantically, &ldquo;which flows and has
  always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, and for which men
  are crowned in the Capitol and are called afterwards benefactors of
  mankind. Look into it more carefully and understand it! I too wanted to do
  good to men and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds to make
  up for that one piece of stupidity, not stupidity even, simply clumsiness,
  for the idea was by no means so stupid as it seems now that it has
  failed.... (Everything seems stupid when it fails.) By that stupidity I
  only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take the first
  step, to obtain means, and then everything would have been smoothed over
  by benefits immeasurable in comparison.... But I... I couldn&rsquo;t carry out
  even the first step, because I am contemptible, that&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s the matter!
  And yet I won&rsquo;t look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I should have
  been crowned with glory, but now I&rsquo;m trapped.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s not so, not so! Brother, what are you saying?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Ah, it&rsquo;s not picturesque, not æsthetically attractive! I fail to
  understand why bombarding people by regular siege is more honourable. The
  fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotence. I&rsquo;ve never, never
  recognised this more clearly than now, and I am further than ever from
  seeing that what I did was a crime. I&rsquo;ve never, never been stronger and
  more convinced than now.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as he uttered his
  last explanation, he happened to meet Dounia&rsquo;s eyes and he saw such
  anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt that he had,
  anyway, made these two poor women miserable, that he was, anyway, the
  cause...
<br />
  &ldquo;Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I cannot be forgiven if
  I am guilty). Good-bye! We won&rsquo;t dispute. It&rsquo;s time, high time to go.
  Don&rsquo;t follow me, I beseech you, I have somewhere else to go.... But you go
  at once and sit with mother. I entreat you to! It&rsquo;s my last request of
  you. Don&rsquo;t leave her at all; I left her in a state of anxiety, that she is
  not fit to bear; she will die or go out of her mind. Be with her!
  Razumihin will be with you. I&rsquo;ve been talking to him.... Don&rsquo;t cry about
  me: I&rsquo;ll try to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a murderer.
  Perhaps I shall some day make a name. I won&rsquo;t disgrace you, you will see;
  I&rsquo;ll still show.... Now good-bye for the present,&rdquo; he concluded hurriedly,
  noticing again a strange expression in Dounia&rsquo;s eyes at his last words and
  promises. &ldquo;Why are you crying? Don&rsquo;t cry, don&rsquo;t cry: we are not parting
  for ever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I&rsquo;d forgotten!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it and took from
  between the pages a little water-colour portrait on ivory. It was the
  portrait of his landlady&rsquo;s daughter, who had died of fever, that strange
  girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate
  expressive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait and gave it to
  Dounia.
<br />
  &ldquo;I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her,&rdquo; he said
  thoughtfully. &ldquo;To her heart I confided much of what has since been so
  hideously realised. Don&rsquo;t be uneasy,&rdquo; he returned to Dounia, &ldquo;she was as
  much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great point
  is that everything now is going to be different, is going to be broken in
  two,&rdquo; he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. &ldquo;Everything,
  everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself? They say it is
  necessary for me to suffer! What&rsquo;s the object of these senseless
  sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when I am crushed
  by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty years&rsquo; penal
  servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I consenting to
  that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood looking at the
  Neva at daybreak to-day!&rdquo;
 <br />
  At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but she loved him. She
  walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look at him
  again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned and for the last
  time their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him, he motioned
  her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the corner
  abruptly.
<br />
  &ldquo;I am wicked, I see that,&rdquo; he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment
  later of his angry gesture to Dounia. &ldquo;But why are they so fond of me if I
  don&rsquo;t deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved me and I too
  had never loved anyone! 
  But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek that I
  shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word that I am a
  criminal? Yes, that&rsquo;s it, that&rsquo;s it, that&rsquo;s what they are sending me there
  for, that&rsquo;s what they want. Look at them running to and fro about the
  streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart and, worse
  still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they&rsquo;d be wild with righteous
  indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could be
  humbled before all of them, indiscriminately&mdash;humbled by conviction.
  And yet why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual
  bondage crush him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should he
  live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be so? It
  was the hundredth time perhaps that he had asked himself that question
  since the previous evening, but still he went.


      CHAPTER VIII


  When he went into Sonia&rsquo;s room, it was already getting dark. All day Sonia
  had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety. Dounia had been waiting with
  her. She had come to her that morning, remembering Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s words
  that Sonia knew. We will not describe the conversation and tears of the
  two girls, and how friendly they became. Dounia gained one comfort at
  least from that interview, that her brother would not be alone. He had
  gone to her, Sonia, first with his confession; he had gone to her for
  human fellowship when he needed it; she would go with him wherever fate
  might send him. Dounia did not ask, but she knew it was so. She looked at
  Sonia almost with reverence and at first almost embarrassed her by it.
  Sonia was almost on the point of tears. She felt herself, on the contrary,
  hardly worthy to look at Dounia. Dounia&rsquo;s gracious image when she had
  bowed to her so attentively and respectfully at their first meeting in
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s room had remained in her mind as one of the fairest visions
  of her life.
<br />
  Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to her brother&rsquo;s
  room to await him there; she kept thinking that he would come there first.
  When she had gone, Sonia began to be tortured by the dread of his
  committing suicide, and Dounia too feared it. But they had spent the day
  trying to persuade each other that that could not be, and both were less
  anxious while they were together. As soon as they parted, each thought of
  nothing else. Sonia remembered how Svidrigaïlov had said to her the day
  before that Raskolnikov had two alternatives&mdash;Siberia or... Besides
  she knew his vanity, his pride and his lack of faith.
<br />
  &ldquo;Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear of death to
  make him live?&rdquo; she thought at last in despair.
<br />
  Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, looking
  intently out of the window, but from it she could see nothing but the
  unwhitewashed blank wall of the next house. At last when she began to feel
  sure of his death&mdash;he walked into the room.
<br />
  She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face she turned
  pale.
<br />
  &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, smiling. &ldquo;I have come for your cross, Sonia. It
  was you told me to go to the cross-roads; why is it you are frightened now
  it&rsquo;s come to that?&rdquo;
 <br />
  Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange to her; a cold
  shiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and the
  words were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoid
  meeting her eyes.
<br />
  &ldquo;You see, Sonia, I&rsquo;ve decided that it will be better so. There is one
  fact.... But it&rsquo;s a long story and there&rsquo;s no need to discuss it. But do
  you know what angers me? It annoys me that all those stupid brutish faces
  will be gaping at me directly, pestering me with their stupid questions,
  which I shall have to answer&mdash;they&rsquo;ll point their fingers at me....
  Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of him. I&rsquo;d rather go
  to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how I shall surprise him, what a
  sensation I shall make! But I must be cooler; I&rsquo;ve become too irritable of
  late. You know I was nearly shaking my fist at my sister just now, because
  she turned to take a last look at me. It&rsquo;s a brutal state to be in! Ah!
  what am I coming to! Well, where are the crosses?&rdquo;
 <br />
  He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still or
  concentrate his attention on anything; his ideas seemed to gallop after
  one another, he talked incoherently, his hands trembled slightly.
<br />
  Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses, one of cypress
  wood and one of copper. She made the sign of the cross over herself and
  over him, and put the wooden cross on his neck.
<br />
  &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the symbol of my taking up the cross,&rdquo; he laughed. &ldquo;As though I had
  not suffered much till now! The wooden cross, that is the peasant one; the
  copper one, that is Lizaveta&rsquo;s&mdash;you will wear yourself, show me! So
  she had it on... at that moment? I remember two things like these too, a
  silver one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the old woman&rsquo;s neck.
  Those would be appropriate now, really, those are what I ought to put on
  now.... But I am talking nonsense and forgetting what matters; I&rsquo;m somehow
  forgetful.... You see I have come to warn you, Sonia, so that you might
  know... that&rsquo;s all&mdash;that&rsquo;s all I came for. But I thought I had more
  to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I am going to prison and
  you&rsquo;ll have your wish. Well, what are you crying for? You too? Don&rsquo;t.
  Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!&rdquo;
 <br />
  But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked at her. &ldquo;Why is
  she grieving too?&rdquo; he thought to himself. &ldquo;What am I to her? Why does she
  weep? Why is she looking after me, like my mother or Dounia? She&rsquo;ll be my
  nurse.&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;Cross yourself, say at least one prayer,&rdquo; Sonia begged in a timid broken
  voice.
<br />
  &ldquo;Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia, sincerely....&rdquo;
 <br />
  But he wanted to say something quite different.
<br />
  He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her shawl and put it over
  her head. It was the green  shawl of which Marmeladov
  had spoken, &ldquo;the family shawl.&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought of that looking at it,
  but he did not ask. He began to feel himself that he was certainly
  forgetting things and was disgustingly agitated. He was frightened at
  this. He was suddenly struck too by the thought that Sonia meant to go
  with him.
<br />
  &ldquo;What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I&rsquo;ll go alone,&rdquo;
   he cried in cowardly vexation, and almost resentful, he moved towards the
  door. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the use of going in procession?&rdquo; he muttered going out.
<br />
  Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said
  good-bye to her; he had forgotten her. A poignant and rebellious doubt
  surged in his heart.
<br />
  &ldquo;Was it right, was it right, all this?&rdquo; he thought again as he went down
  the stairs. &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t he stop and retract it all... and not go?&rdquo;
 <br />
  But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he mustn&rsquo;t ask
  himself questions. As he turned into the street he remembered that he had
  not said good-bye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle of the room
  in her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shouted at her, and he
  stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, another thought dawned
  upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike him then.
<br />
  &ldquo;Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told her&mdash;on
  business; on what business? I had no sort of business! To tell her I was
  ; but where was the need? Do I love her? No, no, I drove her
  away just now like a dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I&rsquo;ve sunk!
  No, I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heart
  ached! I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me, some
  friendly face to see! And I dared to believe in myself, to dream of what I
  would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretch, contemptible!&rdquo;
 <br />
  He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. But on
  reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along it went to
  the Hay Market.
<br />
  He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object and
  could not fix his attention on anything; everything slipped away. &ldquo;In
  another week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this
  bridge, how shall I look at the canal then? I should like to remember
  this!&rdquo; slipped into his mind. &ldquo;Look at this sign! How shall I read those
  letters then? It&rsquo;s written here &lsquo;Campany,&rsquo; that&rsquo;s a thing to remember,
  that letter , and to look at it again in a month&mdash;how shall I
  look at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then?... How trivial
  it all must be, what I am fretting about now! Of course it must all be
  interesting... in its way... (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) I am
  becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I ashamed? Foo! how
  people shove! that fat man&mdash;a German he must be&mdash;who pushed
  against me, does he know whom he pushed? There&rsquo;s a peasant woman with a
  baby, begging. It&rsquo;s curious that she thinks me happier than she is. I
  might give her something, for the incongruity of it. Here&rsquo;s a five copeck
  piece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here... take it, my
  good woman!&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;God bless you,&rdquo; the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice.
<br />
  He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very distasteful to be in
  a crowd, but he walked just where he saw most people. He would have given
  anything in the world to be alone; but he knew himself that he would not
  have remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and disorderly in
  the crowd; he kept trying to dance and falling down. There was a ring
  round him. Raskolnikov squeezed his way through the crowd, stared for some
  minutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a short jerky laugh. A minute
  later he had forgotten him and did not see him, though he still stared. He
  moved away at last, not remembering where he was; but when he got into the
  middle of the square an emotion suddenly came over him, overwhelming him
  body and mind.
<br />
  He suddenly recalled Sonia&rsquo;s words, &ldquo;Go to the cross-roads, bow down to
  the people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned against it too, and say
  aloud to the whole world, &lsquo;I am a murderer.&rsquo;&rdquo; He trembled, remembering
  that. And the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especially of
  the last hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that he positively
  clutched at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensation. It came
  over him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and
  spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and the
  tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot....
<br />
  He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth, and
  kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture. He got up and bowed down
  a second time.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s boozed,&rdquo; a youth near him observed.
<br />
  There was a roar of laughter.
<br />
  &ldquo;He&rsquo;s going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good-bye to his children
  and his country. He&rsquo;s bowing down to all the world and kissing the great
  city of St. Petersburg and its pavement,&rdquo; added a workman who was a little
  drunk.
<br />
  &ldquo;Quite a young man, too!&rdquo; observed a third.
<br />
  &ldquo;And a gentleman,&rdquo; someone observed soberly.
<br />
  &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no knowing who&rsquo;s a gentleman and who isn&rsquo;t nowadays.&rdquo;
 <br />
  These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, &ldquo;I am a
  murderer,&rdquo; which were perhaps on the point of dropping from his lips, died
  away. He bore these remarks quietly, however, and, without looking round,
  he turned down a street leading to the police office. He had a glimpse of
  something on the way which did not surprise him; he had felt that it must
  be so. The second time he bowed down in the Hay Market he saw, standing
  fifty paces from him on the left, Sonia. She was hiding from him behind
  one of the wooden shanties in the market-place. She had followed him then
  on his painful way! Raskolnikov at that moment felt and knew once for all
  that Sonia was with him for ever and would follow him to the ends of the
  earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung his heart... but he was just
  reaching the fatal place.
<br />
  He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to mount to the third
  storey. &ldquo;I shall be some time going up,&rdquo; he thought. He felt as though the
  fateful moment was still far off, as though he had plenty of time left for
  consideration.
<br />
  Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on the spiral
  stairs, again the open doors of the flats, again the same kitchens and the
  same fumes and stench coming from them. Raskolnikov had not been here
  since that day. His legs were numb and gave way under him, but still they
  moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take breath, to collect himself,
  so as to enter . &ldquo;But why? what for?&rdquo; he wondered,
  reflecting. &ldquo;If I must drink the cup what difference does it make? The
  more revolting the better.&rdquo; He imagined for an instant the figure of the
  &ldquo;explosive lieutenant,&rdquo; Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actually going to him?
  Couldn&rsquo;t he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch? Couldn&rsquo;t he turn back
  and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch&rsquo;s lodgings? At least then it would be
  done privately.... No, no! To the &ldquo;explosive lieutenant&rdquo;! If he must drink
  it, drink it off at once.
<br />
  Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office. There
  were very few people in it this time&mdash;only a house porter and a
  peasant. The doorkeeper did not even peep out from behind his screen.
  Raskolnikov walked into the next room. &ldquo;Perhaps I still need not speak,&rdquo;
   passed through his mind. Some sort of clerk not wearing a uniform was
  settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner another clerk was
  seating himself. Zametov was not there, nor, of course, Nikodim Fomitch.
<br />
  &ldquo;No one in?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau.
<br />
  &ldquo;Whom do you want?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I scent the
  Russian... how does it go on in the fairy tale... I&rsquo;ve forgotten! &lsquo;At your
  service!&rsquo;&rdquo; a familiar voice cried suddenly.
<br />
  Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. He had
  just come in from the third room. &ldquo;It is the hand of fate,&rdquo; thought
  Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Why is he here?&rdquo;
 <br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve come to see us? What about?&rdquo; cried Ilya Petrovitch. He was
  obviously in an exceedingly good humour and perhaps a trifle exhilarated.
  &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s on business you are rather early.[*] It&rsquo;s only a chance that I am
  here... however I&rsquo;ll do what I can. I must admit, I... what is it, what is
  it? Excuse me....&rdquo;
 <br />
 [*] Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that it is after
 sunset, and that the last time Raskolnikov visited the
 police office at two in the afternoon he was reproached for
 coming too late.&mdash;TRANSLATOR.


    “Raskolnikov.”
    “Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn’t imagine I’d forgotten? Don’t think I am like that… Rodion Ro—Ro—Rodionovitch, that’s it, isn’t it?”
    “Rodion Romanovitch.”
    “Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovitch! I was just getting at it. I made many inquiries about you. I assure you I’ve been genuinely grieved since that… since I behaved like that… it was explained to me afterwards that you were a literary man… and a learned one too… and so to say the first steps… Mercy on us! What literary or scientific man does not begin by some originality of conduct! My wife and I have the greatest respect for literature, in my wife it’s a genuine passion! Literature and art! If only a man is a gentleman, all the rest can be gained by talents, learning, good sense, genius. As for a hat—well, what does a hat matter? I can buy a hat as easily as I can a bun; but what’s under the hat, what the hat covers, I can’t buy that! I was even meaning to come and apologise to you, but thought maybe you’d… But I am forgetting to ask you, is there anything you want really? I hear your family have come?”
    “Yes, my mother and sister.”
    “I’ve even had the honour and happiness of meeting your sister—a highly cultivated and charming person. I confess I was sorry I got so hot with you. There it is! But as for my looking suspiciously at your fainting fit—that affair has been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and fanaticism! I understand your indignation. Perhaps you are changing your lodging on account of your family’s arriving?”
    “No, I only looked in… I came to ask… I thought that I should find Zametov here.”
    “Oh, yes! Of course, you’ve made friends, I heard. Well, no, Zametov is not here. Yes, we’ve lost Zametov. He’s not been here since yesterday… he quarrelled with everyone on leaving… in the rudest way. He is a feather-headed youngster, that’s all; one might have expected something from him, but there, you know what they are, our brilliant young men. He wanted to go in for some examination, but it’s only to talk and boast about it, it will go no further than that. Of course it’s a very different matter with you or Mr. Razumihin there, your friend. Your career is an intellectual one and you won’t be deterred by failure. For you, one may say, all the attractions of life —you are an ascetic, a monk, a hermit!… A book, a pen behind your ear, a learned research—that’s where your spirit soars! I am the same way myself…. Have you read Livingstone’s Travels?”
    “No.”
    “Oh, I have. There are a great many Nihilists about nowadays, you know, and indeed it is not to be wondered at. What sort of days are they? I ask you. But we thought… you are not a Nihilist of course? Answer me openly, openly!”
    “N-no…”
    “Believe me, you can speak openly to me as you would to yourself! Official duty is one thing but… you are thinking I meant to say is quite another? No, you’re wrong! It’s not friendship, but the feeling of a man and a citizen, the feeling of humanity and of love for the Almighty. I may be an official, but I am always bound to feel myself a man and a citizen…. You were asking about Zametov. Zametov will make a scandal in the French style in a house of bad reputation, over a glass of champagne… that’s all your Zametov is good for! While I’m perhaps, so to speak, burning with devotion and lofty feelings, and besides I have rank, consequence, a post! I am married and have children, I fulfil the duties of a man and a citizen, but who is he, may I ask? I appeal to you as a man ennobled by education… Then these midwives, too, have become extraordinarily numerous.”
    Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The words of Ilya Petrovitch, who had obviously been dining, were for the most part a stream of empty sounds for him. But some of them he understood. He looked at him inquiringly, not knowing how it would end.
    “I mean those crop-headed wenches,” the talkative Ilya Petrovitch continued. “Midwives is my name for them. I think it a very satisfactory one, ha-ha! They go to the Academy, study anatomy. If I fall ill, am I to send for a young lady to treat me? What do you say? Ha-ha!” Ilya Petrovitch laughed, quite pleased with his own wit. “It’s an immoderate zeal for education, but once you’re educated, that’s enough. Why abuse it? Why insult honourable people, as that scoundrel Zametov does? Why did he insult me, I ask you? Look at these suicides, too, how common they are, you can’t fancy! People spend their last halfpenny and kill themselves, boys and girls and old people. Only this morning we heard about a gentleman who had just come to town. Nil Pavlitch, I say, what was the name of that gentleman who shot himself?”
    “Svidrigaïlov,” someone answered from the other room with drowsy listlessness.
    Raskolnikov started.
    “Svidrigaïlov! Svidrigaïlov has shot himself!” he cried.
    “What, do you know Svidrigaïlov?”
    “Yes… I knew him…. He hadn’t been here long.”
    “Yes, that’s so. He had lost his wife, was a man of reckless habits and all of a sudden shot himself, and in such a shocking way…. He left in his notebook a few words: that he dies in full possession of his faculties and that no one is to blame for his death. He had money, they say. How did you come to know him?”
    “I… was acquainted… my sister was governess in his family.”
    “Bah-bah-bah! Then no doubt you can tell us something about him. You had no suspicion?”
    “I saw him yesterday… he… was drinking wine; I knew nothing.”
    Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him and was stifling him.
    “You’ve turned pale again. It’s so stuffy here…”
    “Yes, I must go,” muttered Raskolnikov. “Excuse my troubling you….”
    “Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It’s a pleasure to see you and I am glad to say so.”
    Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand.
    “I only wanted… I came to see Zametov.”
    “I understand, I understand, and it’s a pleasure to see you.”
    “I… am very glad… good-bye,” Raskolnikov smiled.
    He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness and did not know what he was doing. He began going down the stairs, supporting himself with his right hand against the wall. He fancied that a porter pushed past him on his way upstairs to the police office, that a dog in the lower storey kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung a rolling-pin at it and shouted. He went down and out into the yard. There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia, pale and horror-stricken. She looked wildly at him. He stood still before her. There was a look of poignant agony, of despair, in her face. She clasped her hands. His lips worked in an ugly, meaningless smile. He stood still a minute, grinned and went back to the police office.
    Ilya Petrovitch had sat down and was rummaging among some papers. Before him stood the same peasant who had pushed by on the stairs.
    “Hulloa! Back again! have you left something behind? What’s the matter?”
    Raskolnikov, with white lips and staring eyes, came slowly nearer. He walked right to the table, leaned his hand on it, tried to say something, but could not; only incoherent sounds were audible.
    “You are feeling ill, a chair! Here, sit down! Some water!”
    Raskolnikov dropped on to a chair, but he kept his eyes fixed on the face of Ilya Petrovitch, which expressed unpleasant surprise. Both looked at one another for a minute and waited. Water was brought.
    “It was I…” began Raskolnikov.
    “Drink some water.”
    Raskolnikov refused the water with his hand, and softly and brokenly, but distinctly said:
    “”
    Ilya Petrovitch opened his mouth. People ran up on all sides.
    Raskolnikov repeated his statement.

      EPILOGUE


      I


  Siberia. On the banks of a broad solitary river stands a town, one of the
  administrative centres of Russia; in the town there is a fortress, in the
  fortress there is a prison. In the prison the second-class convict Rodion
  Raskolnikov has been confined for nine months. Almost a year and a half
  has passed since his crime.
<br />
  There had been little difficulty about his trial. The criminal adhered
  exactly, firmly, and clearly to his statement. He did not confuse nor
  misrepresent the facts, nor soften them in his own interest, nor omit the
  smallest detail. He explained every incident of the murder, the secret of
   (the piece of wood with a strip of metal) which was
  found in the murdered woman&rsquo;s hand. He described minutely how he had taken
  her keys, what they were like, as well as the chest and its contents; he
  explained the mystery of Lizaveta&rsquo;s murder; described how Koch and, after
  him, the student knocked, and repeated all they had said to one another;
  how he afterwards had run downstairs and heard Nikolay and Dmitri
  shouting; how he had hidden in the empty flat and afterwards gone home. He
  ended by indicating the stone in the yard off the Voznesensky Prospect
  under which the purse and the trinkets were found. The whole thing, in
  fact, was perfectly clear. The lawyers and the judges were very much
  struck, among other things, by the fact that he had hidden the trinkets
  and the purse under a stone, without making use of them, and that, what
  was more, he did not now remember what the trinkets were like, or even how
  many there were. The fact that he had never opened the purse and did not
  even know how much was in it seemed incredible. There turned out to be in
  the purse three hundred and seventeen roubles and sixty copecks. From
  being so long under the stone, some of the most valuable notes lying
  uppermost had suffered from the damp. They were a long while trying to
  discover why the accused man should tell a lie about this, when about
  everything else he had made a truthful and straightforward confession.
  Finally some of the lawyers more versed in psychology admitted that it was
  possible he had really not looked into the purse, and so didn&rsquo;t know what
  was in it when he hid it under the stone. But they immediately drew the
  deduction that the crime could only have been committed through temporary
  mental derangement, through homicidal mania, without object or the pursuit
  of gain. This fell in with the most recent fashionable theory of temporary
  insanity, so often applied in our days in criminal cases. Moreover
  Raskolnikov&rsquo;s hypochondriacal condition was proved by many witnesses, by
  Dr. Zossimov, his former fellow students, his landlady and her servant.
  All this pointed strongly to the conclusion that Raskolnikov was not quite
  like an ordinary murderer and robber, but that there was another element
  in the case.
<br />
  To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this opinion, the
  criminal scarcely attempted to defend himself. To the decisive question as
  to what motive impelled him to the murder and the robbery, he answered
  very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miserable
  position, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to provide for his
  first steps in life by the help of the three thousand roubles he had
  reckoned on finding. He had been led to the murder through his shallow and
  cowardly nature, exasperated moreover by privation and failure. To the
  question what led him to confess, he answered that it was his heartfelt
  repentance. All this was almost coarse....
<br />
  The sentence however was more merciful than could have been expected,
  perhaps partly because the criminal had not tried to justify himself, but
  had rather shown a desire to exaggerate his guilt. All the strange and
  peculiar circumstances of the crime were taken into consideration. There
  could be no doubt of the abnormal and poverty-stricken condition of the
  criminal at the time. The fact that he had made no use of what he had
  stolen was put down partly to the effect of remorse, partly to his
  abnormal mental condition at the time of the crime. Incidentally the
  murder of Lizaveta served indeed to confirm the last hypothesis: a man
  commits two murders and forgets that the door is open! Finally, the
  confession, at the very moment when the case was hopelessly muddled by the
  false evidence given by Nikolay through melancholy and fanaticism, and
  when, moreover, there were no proofs against the real criminal, no
  suspicions even (Porfiry Petrovitch fully kept his word)&mdash;all this
  did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances, too, in the
  prisoner&rsquo;s favour came out quite unexpectedly. Razumihin somehow
  discovered and proved that while Raskolnikov was at the university he had
  helped a poor consumptive fellow student and had spent his last penny on
  supporting him for six months, and when this student died, leaving a
  decrepit old father whom he had maintained almost from his thirteenth
  year, Raskolnikov had got the old man into a hospital and paid for his
  funeral when he died. Raskolnikov&rsquo;s landlady bore witness, too, that when
  they had lived in another house at Five Corners, Raskolnikov had rescued
  two little children from a house on fire and was burnt in doing so. This
  was investigated and fairly well confirmed by many witnesses. These facts
  made an impression in his favour.
<br />
  And in the end the criminal was, in consideration of extenuating
  circumstances, condemned to penal servitude in the second class for a term
  of eight years only.
<br />
  At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov&rsquo;s mother fell ill. Dounia
  and Razumihin found it possible to get her out of Petersburg during the
  trial. Razumihin chose a town on the railway not far from Petersburg, so
  as to be able to follow every step of the trial and at the same time to
  see Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria Alexandrovna&rsquo;s
  illness was a strange nervous one and was accompanied by a partial
  derangement of her intellect.
<br />
  When Dounia returned from her last interview with her brother, she had
  found her mother already ill, in feverish delirium. That evening Razumihin
  and she agreed what answers they must make to her mother&rsquo;s questions about
  Raskolnikov and made up a complete story for her mother&rsquo;s benefit of his
  having to go away to a distant part of Russia on a business commission,
  which would bring him in the end money and reputation.
<br />
  But they were struck by the fact that Pulcheria Alexandrovna never asked
  them anything on the subject, neither then nor thereafter. On the
  contrary, she had her own version of her son&rsquo;s sudden departure; she told
  them with tears how he had come to say good-bye to her, hinting that she
  alone knew many mysterious and important facts, and that Rodya had many
  very powerful enemies, so that it was necessary for him to be in hiding.
  As for his future career, she had no doubt that it would be brilliant when
  certain sinister influences could be removed. She assured Razumihin that
  her son would be one day a great statesman, that his article and brilliant
  literary talent proved it. This article she was continually reading, she
  even read it aloud, almost took it to bed with her, but scarcely asked
  where Rodya was, though the subject was obviously avoided by the others,
  which might have been enough to awaken her suspicions.
<br />
  They began to be frightened at last at Pulcheria Alexandrovna&rsquo;s strange
  silence on certain subjects. She did not, for instance, complain of
  getting no letters from him, though in previous years she had only lived
  on the hope of letters from her beloved Rodya. This was the cause of great
  uneasiness to Dounia; the idea occurred to her that her mother suspected
  that there was something terrible in her son&rsquo;s fate and was afraid to ask,
  for fear of hearing something still more awful. In any case, Dounia saw
  clearly that her mother was not in full possession of her faculties.
<br />
  It happened once or twice, however, that Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave such
  a turn to the conversation that it was impossible to answer her without
  mentioning where Rodya was, and on receiving unsatisfactory and suspicious
  answers she became at once gloomy and silent, and this mood lasted for a
  long time. Dounia saw at last that it was hard to deceive her and came to
  the conclusion that it was better to be absolutely silent on certain
  points; but it became more and more evident that the poor mother suspected
  something terrible. Dounia remembered her brother&rsquo;s telling her that her
  mother had overheard her talking in her sleep on the night after her
  interview with Svidrigaïlov and before the fatal day of the confession:
  had not she made out something from that? Sometimes days and even weeks of
  gloomy silence and tears would be succeeded by a period of hysterical
  animation, and the invalid would begin to talk almost incessantly of her
  son, of her hopes of his future.... Her fancies were sometimes very
  strange. They humoured her, pretended to agree with her (she saw perhaps
  that they were pretending), but she still went on talking.
<br />
  Five months after Raskolnikov&rsquo;s confession, he was sentenced. Razumihin
  and Sonia saw him in prison as often as it was possible. At last the
  moment of separation came. Dounia swore to her brother that the separation
  should not be for ever, Razumihin did the same. Razumihin, in his youthful
  ardour, had firmly resolved to lay the foundations at least of a secure
  livelihood during the next three or four years, and saving up a certain
  sum, to emigrate to Siberia, a country rich in every natural resource and
  in need of workers, active men and capital. There they would settle in the
  town where Rodya was and all together would begin a new life. They all
  wept at parting.
<br />
  Raskolnikov had been very dreamy for a few days before. He asked a great
  deal about his mother and was constantly anxious about her. He worried so
  much about her that it alarmed Dounia. When he heard about his mother&rsquo;s
  illness he became very gloomy. With Sonia he was particularly reserved all
  the time. With the help of the money left to her by Svidrigaïlov, Sonia
  had long ago made her preparations to follow the party of convicts in
  which he was despatched to Siberia. Not a word passed between Raskolnikov
  and her on the subject, but both knew it would be so. At the final
  leave-taking he smiled strangely at his sister&rsquo;s and Razumihin&rsquo;s fervent
  anticipations of their happy future together when he should come out of
  prison. He predicted that their mother&rsquo;s illness would soon have a fatal
  ending. Sonia and he at last set off.
<br />
  Two months later Dounia was married to Razumihin. It was a quiet and
  sorrowful wedding; Porfiry Petrovitch and Zossimov were invited however.
  During all this period Razumihin wore an air of resolute determination.
  Dounia put implicit faith in his carrying out his plans and indeed she
  could not but believe in him. He displayed a rare strength of will. Among
  other things he began attending university lectures again in order to take
  his degree. They were continually making plans for the future; both
  counted on settling in Siberia within five years at least. Till then they
  rested their hopes on Sonia.
<br />
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna was delighted to give her blessing to Dounia&rsquo;s
  marriage with Razumihin; but after the marriage she became even more
  melancholy and anxious. To give her pleasure Razumihin told her how
  Raskolnikov had looked after the poor student and his decrepit father and
  how a year ago he had been burnt and injured in rescuing two little
  children from a fire. These two pieces of news excited Pulcheria
  Alexandrovna&rsquo;s disordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She was
  continually talking about them, even entering into conversation with
  strangers in the street, though Dounia always accompanied her. In public
  conveyances and shops, wherever she could capture a listener, she would
  begin the discourse about her son, his article, how he had helped the
  student, how he had been burnt at the fire, and so on! Dounia did not know
  how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her morbid excitement, there
  was the risk of someone&rsquo;s recalling Raskolnikov&rsquo;s name and speaking of the
  recent trial. Pulcheria Alexandrovna found out the address of the mother
  of the two children her son had saved and insisted on going to see her.
<br />
  At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She would sometimes
  begin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One
  morning she declared that by her reckoning Rodya ought soon to be home,
  that she remembered when he said good-bye to her he said that they must
  expect him back in nine months. She began to prepare for his coming, began
  to do up her room for him, to clean the furniture, to wash and put up new
  hangings and so on. Dounia was anxious, but said nothing and helped her to
  arrange the room. After a fatiguing day spent in continual fancies, in
  joyful day-dreams and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken ill in the
  night and by morning she was feverish and delirious. It was brain fever.
  She died within a fortnight. In her delirium she dropped words which
  showed that she knew a great deal more about her son&rsquo;s terrible fate than
  they had supposed.
<br />
  For a long time Raskolnikov did not know of his mother&rsquo;s death, though a
  regular correspondence had been maintained from the time he reached
  Siberia. It was carried on by means of Sonia, who wrote every month to the
  Razumihins and received an answer with unfailing regularity. At first they
  found Sonia&rsquo;s letters dry and unsatisfactory, but later on they came to
  the conclusion that the letters could not be better, for from these
  letters they received a complete picture of their unfortunate brother&rsquo;s
  life. Sonia&rsquo;s letters were full of the most matter-of-fact detail, the
  simplest and clearest description of all Raskolnikov&rsquo;s surroundings as a
  convict. There was no word of her own hopes, no conjecture as to the
  future, no description of her feelings. Instead of any attempt to
  interpret his state of mind and inner life, she gave the simple facts&mdash;that
  is, his own words, an exact account of his health, what he asked for at
  their interviews, what commission he gave her and so on. All these facts
  she gave with extraordinary minuteness. The picture of their unhappy
  brother stood out at last with great clearness and precision. There could
  be no mistake, because nothing was given but facts.
<br />
  But Dounia and her husband could get little comfort out of the news,
  especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was constantly sullen and not
  ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave him
  from their letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother and that
  when, seeing that he had guessed the truth, she told him at last of her
  death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly affected by
  it, not externally at any rate. She told them that, although he seemed so
  wrapped up in himself and, as it were, shut himself off from everyone&mdash;he
  took a very direct and simple view of his new life; that he understood his
  position, expected nothing better for the time, had no ill-founded hopes
  (as is so common in his position) and scarcely seemed surprised at
  anything in his surroundings, so unlike anything he had known before. She
  wrote that his health was satisfactory; he did his work without shirking
  or seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent about food, but except on
  Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that at last he had been glad to
  accept some money from her, Sonia, to have his own tea every day. He
  begged her not to trouble about anything else, declaring that all this
  fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote further that in prison he
  shared the same room with the rest, that she had not seen the inside of
  their barracks, but concluded that they were crowded, miserable and
  unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a rug under him and was
  unwilling to make any other arrangement. But that he lived so poorly and
  roughly, not from any plan or design, but simply from inattention and
  indifference.
<br />
  Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her visits,
  had almost been vexed with her indeed for coming, unwilling to talk and
  rude to her. But that in the end these visits had become a habit and
  almost a necessity for him, so that he was positively distressed when she
  was ill for some days and could not visit him. She used to see him on
  holidays at the prison gates or in the guard-room, to which he was brought
  for a few minutes to see her. On working days she would go to see him at
  work either at the workshops or at the brick kilns, or at the sheds on the
  banks of the Irtish.
<br />
  About herself, Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some
  acquaintances in the town, that she did sewing, and, as there was scarcely
  a dressmaker in the town, she was looked upon as an indispensable person
  in many houses. But she did not mention that the authorities were, through
  her, interested in Raskolnikov; that his task was lightened and so on.
<br />
  At last the news came (Dounia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and
  uneasiness in the preceding letters) that he held aloof from everyone,
  that his fellow prisoners did not like him, that he kept silent for days
  at a time and was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia wrote that
  he had been taken very seriously ill and was in the convict ward of the
  hospital.


      II


  He was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not the
  hard labour, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patched clothes that
  crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships! he was
  even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at least reckon
  on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to him&mdash;the thin
  cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a student he had
  often not had even that. His clothes were warm and suited to his manner of
  life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed of his shaven head
  and parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia? Sonia was afraid of
  him, how could he be ashamed before her? And yet he was ashamed even
  before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with his contemptuous rough
  manner. But it was not his shaven head and his fetters he was ashamed of:
  his pride had been stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him
  ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He
  could have borne anything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged
  himself severely, and his exasperated conscience found no particularly
  terrible fault in his past, except a simple  which might
  happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so
  hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate, and
  must humble himself and submit to &ldquo;the idiocy&rdquo; of a sentence, if he were
  anyhow to be at peace.
<br />
  Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a continual
  sacrifice leading to nothing&mdash;that was all that lay before him. And
  what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be
  thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had
  he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist?
  Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for
  the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had
  always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was
  just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a
  man to whom more was permissible than to others.
<br />
  And if only fate would have sent him repentance&mdash;burning repentance
  that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance,
  the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he
  would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been
  life. But he did not repent of his crime.
<br />
  At least he might have found relief in raging at his stupidity, as he had
  raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought him to prison. But now in
  prison, , he thought over and criticised all his actions
  again and by no means found them so blundering and so grotesque as they
  had seemed at the fatal time.
<br />
  &ldquo;In what way,&rdquo; he asked himself, &ldquo;was my theory stupider than others that
  have swarmed and clashed from the beginning of the world? One has only to
  look at the thing quite independently, broadly, and uninfluenced by
  commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem so... strange. Oh,
  sceptics and halfpenny philosophers, why do you halt half-way!
<br />
  &ldquo;Why does my action strike them as so horrible?&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;Is
  it because it was a crime? What is meant by crime? My conscience is at
  rest. Of course, it was a legal crime, of course, the letter of the law
  was broken and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the
  law... and that&rsquo;s enough. Of course, in that case many of the benefactors
  of mankind who snatched power for themselves instead of inheriting it
  ought to have been punished at their first steps. But those men succeeded
  and so , and I didn&rsquo;t, and so I had no right to have
  taken that step.&rdquo;
 <br />
  It was only in that that he recognised his criminality, only in the fact
  that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it.
<br />
  He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed himself? Why had
  he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the desire to
  live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not Svidrigaïlov
  overcome it, although he was afraid of death?
<br />
  In misery he asked himself this question, and could not understand that,
  at the very time he had been standing looking into the river, he had
  perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself and his
  convictions. He didn&rsquo;t understand that that consciousness might be the
  promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of his future
  resurrection.
<br />
  He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he could
  not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at his
  fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and prized
  it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than
  in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of them, the tramps
  for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine,
  for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot,
  which the tramp had marked three years before, and longed to see again, as
  he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green grass round it and
  the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he saw still more inexplicable
  examples.
<br />
  In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not
  want to see; he lived as it were with downcast eyes. It was loathsome and
  unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was much that surprised
  him and he began, as it were involuntarily, to notice much that he had not
  suspected before. What surprised him most of all was the terrible
  impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest. They seemed to be a
  different species, and he looked at them and they at him with distrust and
  hostility. He felt and knew the reasons of his isolation, but he would
  never have admitted till then that those reasons were so deep and strong.
  There were some Polish exiles, political prisoners, among them. They
  simply looked down upon all the rest as ignorant churls; but Raskolnikov
  could not look upon them like that. He saw that these ignorant men were in
  many respects far wiser than the Poles. There were some Russians who were
  just as contemptuous, a former officer and two seminarists. Raskolnikov
  saw their mistake as clearly. He was disliked and avoided by everyone;
  they even began to hate him at last&mdash;why, he could not tell. Men who
  had been far more guilty despised and laughed at his crime.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a gentleman,&rdquo; they used to say. &ldquo;You shouldn&rsquo;t hack about with an
  axe; that&rsquo;s not a gentleman&rsquo;s work.&rdquo;
 <br />
  The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacrament with his
  gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke out
  one day, he did not know how. All fell on him at once in a fury.
<br />
  &ldquo;You&rsquo;re an infidel! You don&rsquo;t believe in God,&rdquo; they shouted. &ldquo;You ought to
  be killed.&rdquo;
 <br />
  He had never talked to them about God nor his belief, but they wanted to
  kill him as an infidel. He said nothing. One of the prisoners rushed at
  him in a perfect frenzy. Raskolnikov awaited him calmly and silently; his
  eyebrows did not quiver, his face did not flinch. The guard succeeded in
  intervening between him and his assailant, or there would have been
  bloodshed.
<br />
  There was another question he could not decide: why were they all so fond
  of Sonia? She did not try to win their favour; she rarely met them,
  sometimes only she came to see him at work for a moment. And yet everybody
  knew her, they knew that she had come out to follow , knew how
  and where she lived. She never gave them money, did them no particular
  services. Only once at Christmas she sent them all presents of pies and
  rolls. But by degrees closer relations sprang up between them and Sonia.
  She would write and post letters for them to their relations. Relations of
  the prisoners who visited the town, at their instructions, left with Sonia
  presents and money for them. Their wives and sweethearts knew her and used
  to visit her. And when she visited Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of
  the prisoners on the road, they all took off their hats to her. &ldquo;Little
  mother Sofya Semyonovna, you are our dear, good little mother,&rdquo; coarse
  branded criminals said to that frail little creature. She would smile and
  bow to them and everyone was delighted when she smiled. They even admired
  her gait and turned round to watch her walking; they admired her too for
  being so little, and, in fact, did not know what to admire her most for.
  They even came to her for help in their illnesses.
<br />
  He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When he
  was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish and
  delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a terrible new
  strange plague that had come to Europe from the depths of Asia. All were
  to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some new sorts of microbes were
  attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were endowed with
  intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became at once mad and
  furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual and so
  completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never had they
  considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their moral
  convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples went
  mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand one
  another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched looking
  at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They
  did not know how to judge and could not agree what to consider evil and
  what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed
  each other in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies
  against one another, but even on the march the armies would begin
  attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and the soldiers would
  fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each other.
  The alarm bell was ringing all day long in the towns; men rushed together,
  but why they were summoned and who was summoning them no one knew. The
  most ordinary trades were abandoned, because everyone proposed his own
  ideas, his own improvements, and they could not agree. The land too was
  abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed on something, swore to keep together,
  but at once began on something quite different from what they had
  proposed. They accused one another, fought and killed each other. There
  were conflagrations and famine. All men and all things were involved in
  destruction. The plague spread and moved further and further. Only a few
  men could be saved in the whole world. They were a pure chosen people,
  destined to found a new race and a new life, to renew and purify the
  earth, but no one had seen these men, no one had heard their words and
  their voices.
<br />
  Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory so
  miserably, the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so long. The
  second week after Easter had come. There were warm bright spring days; in
  the prison ward the grating windows under which the sentinel paced were
  opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during his illness;
  each time she had to obtain permission, and it was difficult. But she
  often used to come to the hospital yard, especially in the evening,
  sometimes only to stand a minute and look up at the windows of the ward.
<br />
  One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. On
  waking up he chanced to go to the window, and at once saw Sonia in the
  distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone.
  Something stabbed him to the heart at that minute. He shuddered and moved
  away from the window. Next day Sonia did not come, nor the day after; he
  noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last he was discharged. On
  reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that Sofya Semyonovna was
  lying ill at home and was unable to go out.
<br />
  He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that her
  illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her, Sonia
  sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better, that she
  had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and see him at
  his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.
<br />
  Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o&rsquo;clock, he
  went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster and
  where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only three of
  them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to
  fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and laying it in the
  kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river bank, sat down on a
  heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the wide deserted river. From
  the high bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of singing
  floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in
  sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads&rsquo; tents. There
  there was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here;
  there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and
  his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed
  into day-dreams, into contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague
  restlessness excited and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him;
  she had come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite
  early; the morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old burnous and
  the green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, it was thinner
  and paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand
  with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand to
  him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would repel
  it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always seemed vexed
  to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout her visit.
  Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply grieved. But now
  their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance at her and dropped his
  eyes on the ground without speaking. They were alone, no one had seen
  them. The guard had turned away for the time.
<br />
  How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to seize
  him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms round her knees.
  For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she turned pale. She
  jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same moment she
  understood, and a light of infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew
  and had no doubt that he loved her beyond everything and that at last the
  moment had come....
<br />
  They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They were
  both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of
  a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by
  love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the
  other.
<br />
  They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to
  wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before them!
  But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his being, while
  she&mdash;she only lived in his life.
<br />
  On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov
  lay on his plank bed and thought of her. He had even fancied that day that
  all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him differently; he
  had even entered into talk with them and they answered him in a friendly
  way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound to be so. Wasn&rsquo;t
  everything now bound to be changed?
<br />
  He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her and
  wounded her heart. He remembered her pale and thin little face. But these
  recollections scarcely troubled him now; he knew with what infinite love
  he would now repay all her sufferings. And what were all,  the
  agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentence and
  imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an external,
  strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not think for long
  together of anything that evening, and he could not have analysed anything
  consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the place of
  theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.
<br />
  Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The
  book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the raising
  of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him about
  religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to
  his great surprise she had not once approached the subject and had not
  even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it himself not long
  before his illness and she brought him the book without a word. Till now
  he had not opened it.
<br />
  He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: &ldquo;Can her
  convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations at least....&rdquo;
 <br />
  She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill
  again. But she was so happy&mdash;and so unexpectedly happy&mdash;that she
  was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years,  seven
  years! At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both
  ready to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did
  not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he
  would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving,
  great suffering.
<br />
  But that is the beginning of a new story&mdash;the story of the gradual
  renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing
  from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life.
  That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended.


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