CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

BY FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

TRANSLATED BY CONSTANCE GARNETT

Prepared and Published by:

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TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

A few words about Dostoevsky himself may help the English reader to un
derstand his work.
Dostoevsky was the son of a doctor. His parents were very hard‐
working and deeply religious people, but
so poor that they lived with their five children in only two rooms. The
father and mother spent their evenings
in reading aloud to their children, generally from books of a serious charact
er.
Though always sickly and delicate Dostoevsky
came out third in the final examination of the Petersburg school of Engineeri
ng. There he had already begun his first work, "Poor Folk."
This story was published by the poet Nekrassov in his review and was
received with acclamations. The shy, unknown youth found himself
instantly something of
a celebrity. A brilliant and successful career seemed to open before him, but
those hopes were soon dashed. In 1849 he was arrested.
Though neither by temperament nor conviction a revolutionist,
Dostoevsky was one of a little group of young men who met together
to read Fourier
and Proudhon. He was accused of "taking part in conversations against the
censorship, of reading a letter from Byelinsky to Gogol, and of knowing
of the intention to set up a printing press." Under Nicholas I. (that
"stern and
just man," as Maurice Baring calls him) this was enough, and he was
condemned to death. After eight
months' imprisonment he was with twenty‐
one others taken out to the Semyonovsky Square to be shot. Writing to his br
other

Mihail, Dostoevsky says: "They snapped words over our heads, and they
made us put on the white shirts worn by persons condemned to death. There
upon we were bound in threes to stakes, to suffer execution. Being the third
in the row, I concluded I had only a few minutes of life before me. I thought
of you and your dear ones and I contrived to kiss Plestcheiev and Dourov,
who were next to me, and to bid them farewell. Suddenly the troops beat a t
attoo, we were unbound, brought back upon the scaffold,
and informed that his Majesty had spared us our lives." The sentence was c
ommuted to hard labour.
One of the prisoners, Grigoryev, went mad as soon as he was untied, and
never regained his sanity.
The intense suffering of this experience left a lasting stamp on Dostoevsky
's mind. Though his religious temper led him in the end to accept every
suffering with resignation and to regard it as a blessing in his own case, he
constantly recurs to the subject in his writings. He describes the
awful agony of the condemned man and insists on the cruelty of
inflicting such torture. Then followed four years of penal servitude,
spent in the company of common criminals in Siberia, where he began the
"Dead House," and some years of service in a disciplinary battalion.
He had shown signs of some obscure nervous disease before his arrest
and this now developed into
violent attacks of epilepsy, from which he suffered for the rest of his life. Th
e fits occurred three or four times a year and were more frequent in periods
of great strain. In 1859 he was allowed to return to Russia. He started a jour
nal
— "Vremya," which was forbidden by the Censorship through a misundersta
nding. In 1864 he lost his first wife and his brother Mihail. He was in
terrible poverty, yet he took

upon himself the payment of his brother's debts.

He started another journal—"The Epoch," which within a few months
was also prohibited. He was weighed down
by debt, his brother's family was dependent on him, he was forced to write
at heart‐
breaking speed, and is said never to have corrected his work. The later yea
rs of his life were much softened by the tenderness and devotion of
his second wife.
In June 1880 he made his famous speech at
the unveiling of the monument to Pushkin in Moscow and he was received
with extraordinary demonstrations of love and honour.
A few months later Dostoevsky died. He was followed to the grave by a v
ast multitude of mourners, who "gave the hapless man the funeral of a king."
He is still probably the most widely read writer in Russia.
In the words of a Russian critic, who seeks to explain the feeling
inspired by Dostoevsky: "He was one
of ourselves, a man of our blood and our bone, but one who has suffered an
d has seen so much more deeply than we have his insight impresses us as wi
sdom... that wisdom of the heart which we seek that we may learn from it ho
w to live. All his other gifts came to him from nature, this he won for himsel
f and through it he became great."

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CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

 PART I

CHAPTER I

On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the
garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in
hesitation, towards K. bridge.
He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady
on the staircase. His garret was under the roof of a high, five‐
storied house and was more like a cupboard than a room. The landlady wh
o provided him with garret, dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor belo
w, and every time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door
of which invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man ha
d a sick, frightened feeling, which made him

scowl and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and
was afraid of meeting her.
This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but
for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable condition, vergi
ng on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in
himself,
and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his landlad
y, but anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his pos
ition had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had given up attending
to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do
so. Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror for him. But to be
stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip,
to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his b
rains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie—
no, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out u
nseen.
This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely a
ware of his fears.
 "I want to attempt a thing like that and am frightened by these trifles," he
thought, with an odd smile. "Hm... yes, all is in a man's hands and he
lets it all slip from cowardice, that's an axiom. It would be
interesting
to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a ne
w word is what they fear most.... But I am talking too much. It's because I c
hatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I
've learned to chatter this last month, lying for days together in my den
thinking... of Jack the Giant‐killer. Why am
I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is not seriou
s at all. It's simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a
plaything."

The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle and the p
laster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that special Petersbur
g stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in summer—
all worked painfully upon the young man's
already overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot‐
houses, which are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the dru
nken men whom he met continually, although it was a working day,
completed the
revolting misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest disgust gle
amed for a moment in the young man's refined face. He was, by the way, exc
eptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, well‐
built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank into deep t
hought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he
walked along not observing what was about him and not caring to observe it
. From time to time, he would mutter something, from the habit of talking to
himself, to which he had just confessed. At these moments he would become
conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a
tangle and that he was very weak; for two days he had scarcely tasted foo
d.
He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness woul
d have been ashamed to be seen in the
 street in such rags. In that quarter of the town, however, scarcely any
shortcoming in dress would have
created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number
of establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the trading
and working
class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the heart of
Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in
the streets that no figure, however queer, would have caused surprise. But
there was such accumulated bitterness and

contempt in the young man's heart, that, in spite of all the fastidiousness o
f youth, he minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a different
matter when he met with
acquaintances or with former fellow students,
whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken ma
n who, for some unknown reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge wa
ggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as he
drove
past: "Hey there, German hatter" bawling at the top of his voice and
pointing at him—the young man stopped
suddenly and clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall round hat from Z
immerman's, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespatter
ed, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not shame, h
owever, but quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken him.
"I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I thought
so! That's the worst of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial det
ail might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable.... It looks
absurd and that makes
it noticeable.... With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any sort of old pancake
, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears such a hat, it would be
noticed a mile off, it would be remembered.... What matters is that
people would remember it, and that would give them a clue. For
this business one should be as little conspicuous as possible.... Trifles, trif
les are what matter! Why, it's just such trifles that always ruin everything....
"
 He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the
gate of his lodging house: exactly
seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had been lost
in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in those dreams and was only
tantalising himself by
their hideous but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he

had begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the monologues i
n which he jeered at his own impotence and indecision, he had involuntaril
y come to regard this "hideous" dream as an exploit to be attempted, althou
gh he still did not realise this himself. He was positively going now for a "
rehearsal" of his project, and at every step his excitement grew more and m
ore violent.
With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house wh
ich on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the street. This
house was let out in tiny tenements and was inhabited by working people of
all kinds—tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of sorts, girls picking up
a living as best they could, petty clerks,
etc. There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and in t
he two courtyards of the house. Three or four door‐
keepers were employed on the building. The young man was very glad
to meet none of them, and at
once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the staircase. I
t was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was familiar with it already
, and knew his way, and he liked all these surroundings: in such
darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded.
"If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that
I were really going to do it?" he could not help asking himself as he reache
d the fourth storey. There his progress was barred by some porters who we
re engaged in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that the flat had
been occupied by a German clerk in the
civil service, and his family. This German was moving out then, and so
the fourth floor on this staircase would
be untenanted except by the old woman. "That's a good thing anyway," he t
hought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman's flat. The bell gave
a faint tinkle as though it

were made of tin and not of copper. The little flats in such houses
always have bells that ring like that. He
had forgotten the note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to re
mind him of something and to bring it clearly before him.... He started,
his nerves were
terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the door was opened a tiny
crack: the old woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust through the crac
k, and nothing could be seen but her little eyes, glittering in the
darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the landing, she grew
bolder, and opened the door wide. The young man stepped into the dark
entry, which was partitioned off from the
tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in silence and looking inquir
ingly at him. She was a diminutive, withered up old woman of sixty, with s
harp malignant eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizz
led hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it.
Round her thin long neck, which looked like a hen's leg, was
knotted some sort of flannel rag, and,
in spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy fur cape,
yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every instant. Th
e young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar
expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.
"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago," the young man made
haste to mutter, with a half
bow, remembering that he ought to be more polite.
"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here," the
old woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face.
"And here... I am again on the same
errand," Raskolnikov continued, a little disconcerted and surprised at the o
ld woman's mistrust. "Perhaps she is always like

that though, only I did not notice it the other time," he thought with an une
asy feeling.
 The old woman paused, as though hesitating;
then stepped on one side, and pointing to the door of the room, she said, let
ting her visitor pass in front of her:
"Step in, my good sir."
The little room into which the young man walked, with yellow paper on t
he walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly light
ed up at that moment by the setting sun.
"So the sun will shine like this then too!" flashed as it
were by chance through Raskolnikov's mind, and with a rapid glance he s
canned everything in the room, trying as far as possible to notice and reme
mber its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the room. The furnit
ure, all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a huge bent
wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a dressing‐
table with a looking‐glass fixed on it between the windows, chairs along
the walls and two or three half‐ penny prints in yellow frames,
representing German damsels with birds in their hands—that was all.
In
the corner a light was burning before a small ikon. Everything was very cl
ean; the floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything shone.
"Lizaveta's work," thought the young man. There was not a speck of dust t
o be seen in the whole flat.
"It's in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds such cleanliness,"
Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a curious glance at the cotton
curtain over the door leading into another tiny room, in which stood
the old woman's bed and chest of drawers and into which he had
never looked before. These two rooms made up the whole
flat.

"What do you want?" the old woman said

severely, coming into the room and, as before, standing in front of him so a
s to look him straight in the face.
 "I've brought something to pawn here," and he drew out of his pocket an o
ld‐fashioned flat silver watch, on the back of which was engraved a
globe; the chain was of steel.
"But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day before
yesterday."
"I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little."
"But that's for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait or to sell your pl
edge at once."
"How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?"
"You come with such trifles, my good sir, it's scarcely worth anything. I g
ave you two roubles last time for your ring and one could buy it quite new
at a jeweler's for a rouble and a half."
"Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my father's. I shall b
e getting some money soon."
"A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!"
"A rouble and a half!" cried the young man.
"Please yourself"—and the old woman handed
him back the watch. The young man took it, and was so angry that he was
on the point of going away; but
checked himself at once, remembering that there was nowhere else he coul
d go, and that he had had another object also in coming.
"Hand it over," he said roughly.
The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared behi
nd the curtain into the other room. The

young man, left standing alone in the middle of the room, listened
inquisitively, thinking. He could hear
her unlocking the chest of drawers.
 "It must be the top drawer," he reflected. "So
she carries the keys in a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a steel rin
g.... And there's one key there, three times as big as all the others, with dee
p notches; that can't be the key of the chest of drawers... then there
must be some other chest or strong‐box... that's worth knowing. Strong‐
boxes always have keys like that... but how degrading it all is."
The old woman came back.
"Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so I must take fiftee
n copecks from a rouble and a half for the month in advance. But for the
two roubles I lent you before, you owe me now twenty copecks on
the same reckoning in advance. That makes thirty‐five
copecks altogether. So I must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the
watch. Here it is."
"What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!"
"Just so."
The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at the ol
d woman, and was in no hurry to get away, as though there was still someth
ing he wanted to say or to do, but he did not himself quite know what.
"I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna
—a valuable thing—silver—a cigarette‐
box, as soon as I get it back from a friend..." he broke off in confusion.
"Well, we will talk about it then, sir."
"Good‐bye—
are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with you?" He asked h
er as casually as possible as he went out into the passage.

"What business is she of yours, my good sir?"

"Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick.... Good‐
day, Alyona Ivanovna."
 Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became
more and more intense. As he went
down the stairs, he even stopped short, two or three times, as though sudd
enly struck by some thought. When he was in the street he cried out, "Oh, G
od, how loathsome it all is! and can I, can I possibly.... No, it's nonsense, it'
s rubbish!" he added resolutely. "And how could such an
atrocious thing come into my head? What filthy things my heart is capable
of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loathsome, loathsome!—
and for a whole month I've been...." But no
words, no exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling of intens
e repulsion, which had begun to oppress and torture his heart while he was
on his way to the old woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had take
n such a definite form that he did not know what to do with
himself to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the
pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the passers‐
by, and jostling against them, and only came to his senses when he was in th
e next street. Looking round, he noticed that he was standing close to a tave
rn which was entered by steps leading from the pavement to
the basement. At that instant two drunken men came out at
the door, and abusing and supporting one another, they mounted the
steps. Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at
once. Till
that moment he had never been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and was
tormented by a burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beer, and
attributed his
sudden weakness to the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little table in
a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and

eagerly drank off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his thoughts
became clear.
"All that's nonsense," he said hopefully, "and there is nothing in it all
to worry about! It's simply
physical derangement. Just a glass of beer, a piece of dry bread— and in
one moment the brain is stronger, the mind
is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!"
But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful as
though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed roun
d in a friendly way at the people in the room. But even at that moment he ha
d a dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also not normal.
There were few people at the time in the
tavern. Besides the two drunken men he had met on the steps, a group
consisting of about five men and a girl with
a concertina had gone out at the same time. Their departure left the room qui
et and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern were a man who
appeared to be an
artisan, drunk, but not extremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his com
panion, a huge, stout man with a grey beard, in a short full‐skirted coat.
He was very drunk: and had dropped asleep on the bench; every
now and then,
he began as though in his sleep, cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apa
rt and the upper part of his body bounding about on the bench, while he hum
med some meaningless refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these:
"His wife a year he fondly loved His wife a—a year he—fondly loved."
Or suddenly waking up again:
"Walking along the crowded row He met the one he used to know."
 But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with
positive hostility and mistrust at all
these manifestations. There was another man in the room who
looked somewhat like a retired government clerk. He was sitting apart,
now and then sipping from his pot
and looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some agitatio
n.

CHAPTER II

Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided

society of every sort, more especially of late. But now all at once he felt a d
esire to be with other
people. Something new seemed to be taking place within him, and with it
he felt a sort of thirst for company. He was so weary after a whole
month of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he
longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other world, whatever it
might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of
the surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern.
The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently ca
me down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with
red turn‐over
tops coming into view each time before the rest of his person. He wore a
full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no cravat,
and his whole face
seemed smeared with oil like an iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of
about fourteen, and there was another boy

somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the counter

lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and
some fish, chopped up small,
all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close, and so heavy with the
fumes of spirits that five minutes in such
an atmosphere might well make a man drunk.
There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first mo
ment, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on Raskolni
kov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked like a retire
d clerk. The young man often recalled this impression afterwards,
and even ascribed it to presentiment.
He looked repeatedly at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was st
aring persistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At th
e other persons in the room, including the tavern‐
keeper, the clerk looked as though he were used to their company, and wear
y of it, showing a shade of condescending contempt for them as persons of
station and culture inferior to his own, with whom
it would be useless for him to converse. He was a man over
fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height, and stoutly built. His face, bloa
ted from continual drinking, was of a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with
swollen eyelids out of
which keen reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there was somethin
g very strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as though of intense
feeling—perhaps there
were even thought and intelligence, but at the same time there was a gleam
of something like madness. He was wearing an old and hopelessly ragged b
lack dress coat, with all its buttons missing except one, and that one he had
buttoned, evidently clinging to this last trace of respectability.
A crumpled shirt front, covered with spots and
stains, protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore

no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin look
ed like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respectable and like
an official about his manner too. But he was restless; he ruffled up his hair
and from time to time let his head drop into his
hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky table.
At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely:
 "May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation? Foras
much as, though your exterior would not command respect, my experience a
dmonishes me that you are a man of education and not accustomed
to drinking. I have always respected education when
in conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular counsell
or in rank. Marmeladov—
such is my name; titular counsellor. I make bold to inquire—
have you been in the service?"
"No, I am studying," answered the young man, somewhat surprised
at the grandiloquent style of
the speaker and also at being so directly addressed. In spite of the
momentary desire he had just been feeling
for company of any sort, on being actually spoken to he felt immediately hi
s habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached o
r attempted to approach him.
"A student then, or formerly a student," cried the clerk. "Just what I thoug
ht! I'm a man of experience, immense experience, sir," and he tapped
his forehead with his fingers in self‐approval. "You've been a student
or have attended some learned institution!... But allow me...." He got up, st
aggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down beside the young man, faci
ng him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke fluently and boldly,
only occasionally

losing the thread of his sentences and drawling his words. He pounced up
on Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too had not spoken to a soul for a
month.
"Honoured sir," he began almost with
solemnity, "poverty is not a vice, that's a true saying. Yet I know too that dr
unkenness is not a virtue, and that that's even truer. But beggary, honoured s
ir, beggary is a vice. In poverty you may still retain your innate nobility
of soul, but in beggary—never—
no one. For beggary a man is not chased out of human society with a stick,
he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as humiliating as possible; a
nd quite right, too, forasmuch as in beggary I am ready to be the first to
humiliate myself. Hence the pot‐
house! Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beatin
g, and my wife is a very different matter from me! Do you understand? Allo
w me to ask you another question out of simple curiosity: have you ever sp
ent a night on a hay barge, on the Neva?"
"No, I have not happened to," answered Raskolnikov. "What do you mean
?"
"Well, I've just come from one and it's the fifth night I've slept so...." He f
illed his glass, emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in fact clinging to hi
s clothes and sticking to his hair. It seemed quite probable that he had
not undressed or washed for the last five days. His
hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black nails.
His conversation seemed to excite a general
though languid interest. The boys at the counter fell to sniggering. The
innkeeper came down from the upper
room, apparently on purpose to listen to the "funny fellow" and sat down
at a little distance, yawning lazily, but
with dignity. Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure here,

and he had most likely acquired his weakness for high‐

flown speeches from the habit of frequently entering into conversation with
strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit develops into a necessity
in some drunkards,
and especially in those who are looked after sharply and kept in order at h
ome. Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify themselves a
nd even if possible obtain consideration.
"Funny fellow!" pronounced the innkeeper. "And why don't you work, wh
y aren't you at your duty, if you are in the service?"
"Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir," Marmeladov went on, addressin
g himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put that
question to him. "Why am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache to think
what a useless worm I am? A month ago when
Mr. Lebeziatnikov beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay drunk, didn't
I suffer? Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you... hm... well, t
o petition hopelessly for a loan?"
 "Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?"
"Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you
know beforehand that you will get nothing by it. You know, for instance, be
forehand with positive certainty that this man, this most reputable and
exemplary citizen, will on
no consideration give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he? For
he knows of course that I shan't pay it back. From compassion? But Mr. Le
beziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas explained the other day
that compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that's wh
at is done now in England, where there is political economy. Why, I ask yo
u, should he give it to me?

And yet though I know beforehand that he won't, I set off to him and..."
"Why do you go?" put in Raskolnikov.
"Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man mu
st have somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must g
o somewhere! When my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket, th
en I had to go... (for my daughter has a yellow passport)," he added in pare
nthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness at the young man. "No matter, sir,
no matter!" he went on hurriedly and with apparent composure when
both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the innkeeper smiled
—"No matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of their heads; for
everyone knows everything about
it already, and all that is secret is made open. And I accept it all, not with c
ontempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it! 'Behold the man!' Excuse me,
young man, can you.... No, to put it more strongly and more distinctly; not c
an you but dare you, looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?"
The young man did not answer a word.
"Well," the orator began again stolidly and with even increased dignity,
after waiting for the laughter in
the room to subside. "Well, so be it, I am a pig, but she is a lady! I have
the semblance of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my spouse, is a
person of education and
an officer's daughter. Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel, but she is a wom
an of a noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by education. And yet...
oh, if only she felt for
me! Honoured sir, honoured sir, you know every man ought to have at
least one place where people feel for him! But Katerina Ivanovna,
though she is magnanimous, she
is unjust.... And yet, although I realise that when she pulls my hair she
only does it out of pity—for I repeat without

being ashamed, she pulls my hair, young man," he declared with

redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering again
—"but, my God, if she would but once.... But no, no! It's all in vain and it's
no use talking! No use talking! For more than once, my wish did come true
and more than once she has felt for me but... such is my fate and I am a bea
st by nature!"
"Rather!" assented the innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov struck his fi
st resolutely on the table.
"Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you know, I have sold her very
stockings for drink? Not her shoes—that would be more or less in
the order of things, but
her stockings, her stockings I have sold for drink! Her mohair shawl I sold
for drink, a present to her long ago, her own property, not mine; and we liv
e in a cold room and she caught cold this winter and has begun
coughing and spitting blood too. We have three little children
and Katerina Ivanovna is at work from morning till night; she is scrubbing
and cleaning and washing
the children, for she's been used to cleanliness from a child. But her chest i
s
weak and she has a tendency to consumption and I feel it! Do you suppos
e I don't feel it? And the more I drink the more I feel it. That's why I drink t
oo. I try to find sympathy and feeling in drink.... I drink so that I may suffer t
wice as much!" And as though in despair he laid his head down on the tabl
e.
 "Young man," he went on, raising his head again, "in your face I seem to r
ead some trouble of mind. When you came in I read it, and that was why I a
ddressed you at once. For in unfolding to you the story of my life, I do not
wish to make myself a laughing‐stock before these
idle listeners, who indeed know all about it already, but I am looking for a
man of feeling and education. Know then that

my wife was educated in a high‐class school for the daughters of

noblemen, and on leaving she danced
the shawl dance before the governor and other personages for which she
was presented with a gold medal and
a certificate of merit. The medal... well, the medal of course was sold—
long ago, hm... but the certificate of merit is in her trunk still and not
long ago she showed it to our landlady. And although she is most
continually on
bad terms with the landlady, yet she wanted to tell someone or other of her
past honours and of the happy days that are gone. I don't condemn her for it
, I don't blame her, for the one thing left her is recollection of the past, and
all the rest is dust and ashes. Yes, yes, she is a lady of spirit, proud and det
ermined. She scrubs the floors herself and has nothing but black bread to
eat, but won't allow herself to be treated with disrespect. That's why
she would
not overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov's rudeness to her, and so when he gave her
a beating for it, she took to her bed more from the hurt to her feelings than f
rom the blows. She was a widow when I married her, with three
children,
one smaller than the other. She married her first husband, an infantry office
r, for love, and ran away with him from her father's house. She was exceedi
ngly fond of her husband; but he gave way to cards, got into trouble and wit
h that he died. He used to beat her at the end: and although she paid him
back, of which I have authentic
documentary evidence, to this day she speaks of him with tears and she thr
ows him up to me; and I am glad, I am glad that, though only in imagination,
she should think of herself as having once been happy.... And she was left a
t his death with three children in a wild and remote district where I happen
ed to be at the time; and she was left in such hopeless poverty that, althoug
h I have seen many ups and downs of all sort,
 I don't feel equal to describing it even. Her relations had all thrown her
off. And she was proud, too,
excessively proud.... And then, honoured sir, and then, I, being at the time a
widower, with a daughter of fourteen left me by my first wife, offered her m
y hand, for I could not bear the sight of such suffering. You can judge the ext
remity of her calamities, that she, a woman of education and culture and dist
inguished family, should have consented to be my wife. But she did!
Weeping and sobbing and wringing
her hands, she married me! For she had nowhere to turn! Do you
understand, sir, do you understand what it
means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn? No, that you don't underst
and yet.... And for a whole year, I performed my duties conscientiously and
faithfully, and did not touch this" (he tapped the jug with his finger),
"for I have feelings. But even so, I could not please her; and then I lost my
place too, and that through no fault of mine
but through changes in the office; and then I did touch it!... It will be a year a
nd a half ago soon since we found ourselves at last after many wanderings a
nd numerous calamities in this magnificent capital, adorned with
innumerable monuments. Here I obtained a situation.... I obtained it and
I lost it again. Do you understand? This time it
was through my own fault I lost it: for my weakness had come out.... We hav
e now part of a room at Amalia Fyodorovna Lippevechsel's; and what we l
ive upon and what we pay our rent with, I could not say. There are a lot of p
eople living there besides ourselves. Dirt and disorder, a perfect Bedlam...
hm... yes... And meanwhile my daughter by my first wife has grown up; and
what my daughter has had to put up with from her step‐
mother whilst she was growing up, I won't speak of. For, though Katerina Iv
anovna is full of generous feelings, she is a spirited lady, irritable and

short—tempered.... Yes. But it's no use going over

that! Sonia, as you may well fancy, has had no education. I did make an
effort four years ago to give her a course of geography and
universal history, but as I was not
very well up in those subjects myself and we had no suitable books, and w
hat books we had... hm, anyway we have not even those now, so all our inst
ruction came to an end. We stopped at Cyrus of Persia. Since she has attain
ed years of maturity, she has read other books of romantic tendency and of
late she had read with great interest a book she got through Mr.
Lebeziatnikov, Lewes' Physiology—do you know it?—
and even recounted extracts from it to us: and
that's the whole of her education. And now may I venture to address you,
honoured sir, on my own account with a private question. Do you suppose t
hat a respectable poor girl can earn much by honest work? Not fifteen farthi
ngs a day can she earn, if she is respectable and has no special talent and
that without putting her work down for
an instant! And what's more, Ivan Ivanitch Klopstock the civil counsellor
—have you heard of him?—has not to this day paid her for the half‐
dozen linen shirts she made him and drove her roughly away, stamping and
reviling her, on the pretext that the shirt collars were not made like
the pattern and were put in askew. And there are the little ones hungry....
And Katerina Ivanovna walking up
and down and wringing her hands, her cheeks flushed red, as they always a
re in that disease: 'Here you live with us,' says she, 'you eat and drink and a
re kept warm and you do nothing to help.' And much she gets to eat and drin
k when there is not a crust for the little ones for three days! I was lying at t
he time... well, what of it! I was lying drunk and I heard my Sonia speaking
(she is a gentle creature with a soft little voice... fair hair and such a pale, t
hin little face).

She said: 'Katerina Ivanovna, am I really to do a thing like that?' And Dar
ya Frantsovna, a woman of evil character and very well known to the police
, had two or three times tried to get at her through the landlady. 'And why no
t?' said Katerina Ivanovna with a jeer, 'you are
something mighty precious to be so careful of!' But don't blame her, don't bl
ame her, honoured sir, don't blame her! She was not herself when she spoke,
but driven to distraction by her illness and the crying of the hungry children
; and it was said more to wound her than anything else.... For that's
Katerina Ivanovna's character, and when
children cry, even from hunger, she falls to beating them at once. At six o'clo
ck I saw Sonia get up, put on her kerchief and her cape, and go out of the ro
om and about nine o'clock she came back. She walked straight up to Katerin
a Ivanovna and she laid thirty roubles on the table before her
in silence. She did not utter a word, she did not even look at her, she
simply picked up our big
green drap de damesshawl (we have a shawl, made of drap de dames), pu
t it over her head and face and lay down on the bed with her face to the
wall; only her little shoulders and her body kept shuddering.... And I
went on lying there, just as before.... And then I saw, young man, I
saw
Katerina Ivanovna, in the same silence go up to Sonia's little bed; she was
on her knees all the evening kissing Sonia's feet, and would not get up, and t
hen they both fell asleep in each other's arms... together, together... yes... and
I... lay drunk."
Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice
had failed him. Then he hurriedly filled his glass, drank, and cleared his thr
oat.
"Since then, sir," he went on after a brief pause—"Since
then, owing to an unfortunate occurrence and through

information given by evil‐intentioned persons—in

all which Darya Frantsovna took a leading part on the pretext that she
had been treated with want of respect—
since then my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has been forced to take a yello
w ticket, and owing to that she is unable to go on living with us. For our
landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna would not hear of it (though she had
backed up
Darya Frantsovna before) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too... hm.... All the troubl
e between him and Katerina Ivanovna was on
Sonia's account. At first he was for making up to
Sonia himself and then all of a sudden he stood on his dignity: 'how,' said h
e, 'can a highly educated man like me live in the same rooms with a girl
like that?' And
Katerina Ivanovna would not let it pass, she stood up for her... and so that's
how it happened. And Sonia comes to us now, mostly after dark; she
comforts Katerina Ivanovna and gives her all she can.... She has a
room at the Kapernaumovs' the tailors, she lodges with
them; Kapernaumov is a lame man with a cleft palate and all of his numero
us family have cleft palates too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate. They a
ll live in one room, but Sonia has her own, partitioned off.... Hm... yes... ver
y poor people and all with cleft palates... yes. Then I got up in
the morning, and put on my rags, lifted up my hands to heaven and set off
to his excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch.
His excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch, do you know him? No? Well, then, it's a
man of God you don't know. He is wax... wax before the face of the Lord; e
ven as wax melteth!... His eyes were dim when he heard my story.
'Marmeladov,
once already you have deceived my expectations... I'll take you once more o
n my own responsibility'—
that's what he said, 'remember,' he said, 'and now you can go.' I
kissed the dust at his feet—in thought only, for in reality he would

not have allowed me to do it, being a statesman and a man of modern

political and enlightened ideas. I
returned home, and when I announced that I'd been taken back into the serv
ice and should receive a salary, heavens, what a to‐do there was!..."
Marmeladov stopped again in violent excitement. At that moment a
whole party of revellers already drunk came in from the street, and
the sounds of a
hired concertina and the cracked piping voice of a child of seven singing "T
he Hamlet" were heard in the entry. The room was filled with noise. The
tavern‐keeper and the boys were busy with the new‐
comers. Marmeladov paying no attention to the new arrivals continued
his story.
He appeared by now to be extremely weak, but as he became more and
more drunk, he became more and
more talkative. The recollection of his recent success in getting the
situation seemed to revive him, and was positively reflected in a sort
of radiance on his face. Raskolnikov
listened attentively.
 "That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes.... As soon as Katerina Ivanovna and
Sonia heard of it, mercy on us, it was
as though I stepped into the kingdom of Heaven. It used to be: you can lie l
ike a beast, nothing but abuse. Now they were walking on tiptoe,
hushing the children. 'Semyon Zaharovitch is tired with his work at
the office, he
is resting, shh!' They made me coffee before I went to work and boiled cre
am for me! They began to get real cream for me, do you hear that? And
how they managed to get together the money for a decent outfit—
eleven roubles, fifty copecks, I can't guess. Boots, cotton shirt‐fronts
— most magnificent, a uniform, they got up all in splendid style, for
eleven roubles and a half. The first morning
I came back from the office I found Katerina Ivanovna had

cooked two courses for dinner—soup and salt meat with horse radish—
which we had never dreamed of till then.
She had not any dresses... none at all, but she got herself up as though she
were going on a visit; and not that she'd anything to do it with, she
smartened herself up
with nothing at all, she'd done her hair nicely, put on a clean collar of
some sort, cuffs, and there she was, quite a different person, she was
younger and better
looking. Sonia, my little darling, had only helped with money 'for the time,'
she said, 'it won't do for me to come and see you too often. After dark mayb
e when no one can see.' Do you hear, do you hear? I lay down for a nap afte
r dinner and what do you think: though Katerina Ivanovna
had quarrelled to the last degree with our landlady
Amalia Fyodorovna only a week before, she could not resist then asking he
r in to coffee. For two hours they were sitting, whispering together. 'Semyon
Zaharovitch is in the service again, now, and receiving a salary,' says she, '
and he went himself to his excellency and his excellency himself came out
to him, made all the others wait and led
Semyon Zaharovitch by the hand before everybody into his study.' Do you
hear, do you hear? 'To be sure,' says he, 'Semyon Zaharovitch,
remembering your past services,' says
he, 'and in spite of your propensity to that foolish weakness, since you pro
mise now and since moreover we've got on badly without you,' (do you hear
, do you hear;) 'and so,' says he, 'I rely now on your word as a gentleman.' A
nd all that, let me tell you, she has simply made up for herself, and not
simply out of wantonness, for the sake
of bragging; no, she believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her own
fancies, upon my word she does! And I don't blame her for it, no, I don't bla
me her!... Six days ago when I brought her my first earnings in full—
twenty‐three

roubles forty copecks altogether—she called me

her poppet: 'poppet,' said she, 'my little poppet.' And when we were by ou
rselves, you understand? You would not think me a beauty, you would
not think much of me as
a husband, would you?... Well, she pinched my cheek, 'my little poppet,' sa
id she."
Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin began to twit
ch. He controlled himself however. The tavern, the degraded appearance
of the man, the
five nights in the hay barge, and the pot of spirits, and yet this poignant
love for his wife and children bewildered his listener. Raskolnikov
listened intently but with a
sick sensation. He felt vexed that he had come here.
"Honoured sir, honoured sir," cried Marmeladov recovering himself
—"Oh, sir, perhaps all this seems
a laughing matter to you, as it does to others, and perhaps I am only worryi
ng you with the stupidity of all the trivial details of my home life, but it is n
ot a laughing matter to me. For I can feel it all.... And the whole of that heav
enly day of my life and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting dream
s of how I would arrange it all, and how I would dress all the children, and
how I should give her rest, and how I should rescue my own daughter
from dishonour and restore her to the bosom of her family.... And a great d
eal more.... Quite excusable, sir. Well, then, sir" (Marmeladov suddenly ga
ve a sort of start, raised his head and gazed intently at his listener) "well, o
n the very next day after all those dreams, that is to say, exactly five days a
go, in the evening, by a cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I stole from K
aterina Ivanovna the key of her box, took out what was left of my earnings,
how much it was I have forgotten, and now look at me, all of you! It's the fi
fth day since I left home, and they are looking for me
 there and it's the end of my employment, and my uniform is lying in a tave
rn on the Egyptian bridge. I exchanged it for the garments I have on...
and it's the end of everything!"
Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, closed
his eyes and leaned heavily with
his elbow on the table. But a minute later his face suddenly changed and
with a certain assumed slyness
and affectation of bravado, he glanced at Raskolnikov, laughed and said:
"This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for a pick‐me‐
up! He‐he‐he!"
"You don't say she gave it to you?" cried one of the new‐comers;
he shouted the words and went off into a guffaw.
"This very quart was bought with her money," Marmeladov
declared, addressing himself exclusively
to Raskolnikov. "Thirty copecks she gave me with her own hands, her last,
all she had, as I saw.... She said nothing, she only looked at me without a
word.... Not on earth, but up yonder... they grieve over men, they weep, but
they don't blame them, they don't blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts mo
re when they
don't blame! Thirty copecks yes! And maybe she needs them now, eh? What
do you think, my dear sir? For now she's got to keep up her appearance. It
costs money, that smartness, that special smartness, you know? Do you und
erstand? And there's pomatum, too, you see, she must have things; petticoats
, starched ones, shoes, too, real jaunty ones to show off her foot when she h
as to step over a puddle. Do you understand, sir, do you understand
what all that smartness means? And here
I, her own father, here I took thirty copecks of that money for a drink! And I
am drinking it! And I have already drunk

it! Come, who will have pity on a man like me, eh? Are you sorry for me,
sir, or not? Tell me, sir, are you sorry or not? He‐he‐he!"
 He would have filled his glass, but there was no drink left. The pot was e
mpty.
"What are you to be pitied for?" shouted the tavern‐
keeper who was again near them.
Shouts of laughter and even oaths followed. The laughter and the
oaths came from those who
were listening and also from those who had heard nothing but were simply
looking at the figure of the discharged government clerk.
"To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?" Marmeladov suddenly
declaimed, standing up with his
arm outstretched, as though he had been only waiting for that question.
"Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! there's nothing to pity me for! I ough
t to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, oh judge, cruc
ify me but pity me! And then I will go of myself to be crucified, for it's not
merry‐
making I seek but tears and tribulation!... Do you suppose, you that sell, that
this pint of yours has been sweet to me? It was tribulation I sought at the bo
ttom of it, tears and tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted it; but H
e will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who
has understood all men and all things, He is the One, He too is the judge. He
will come in that day and He will ask: 'Where is the daughter who gave
herself for her cross, consumptive step‐mother and for the little
children of another? Where is the daughter who had pity upon the filthy
drunkard, her earthly father, undismayed by
his beastliness?' And He will say, 'Come to me! I have already forgiven thee
once.... I have forgiven thee once.... Thy sins

which are many are forgiven thee for thou hast

loved much....' And he will forgive my Sonia, He will forgive, I know it...
I felt it in my heart when I was with her just now! And He will judge and w
ill forgive all, the good and the evil, the wise and the meek.... And when He
has done with all of them, then He will summon us. 'You too come forth,'
He will say, 'Come forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye weak ones, come fort
h, ye children of shame!' And we shall all come forth, without shame
and shall stand before
him. And He will say unto us, 'Ye are swine, made in the Image of the Beas
t and with his mark; but come ye also!' And the wise ones and those of unde
rstanding will say, 'Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?' And He w
ill say, 'This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is why I receive them,
oh ye of understanding, that not one of
them believed himself to be worthy of this.' And He will hold out His hand
s to us and we shall fall down before him... and we shall weep... and we sh
all understand all things! Then we shall understand all!... and all will
understand,
Katerina Ivanovna even... she will understand.... Lord, Thy kingdom come!
" And he sank down on the bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no
one, apparently oblivious of
his surroundings and plunged in deep thought. His words had created a
certain impression; there was a moment
of silence; but soon laughter and oaths were heard again.
"That's his notion!"
"Talked himself silly!"
"A fine clerk he is!"
And so on, and so on.
"Let us go, sir," said Marmeladov all at once, raising his head and addres
sing Raskolnikov
—"come along with me... Kozel's house, looking into the yard. I'm going to
Katerina Ivanovna—time I did."

Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting to go and he had meant to
help him. Marmeladov was much unsteadier on his legs than in his
speech and
leaned heavily on the young man. They had two or three hundred paces to
go. The drunken man was more and
more overcome by dismay and confusion as they drew nearer the house.
"It's not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now,"
he muttered in agitation
—"and that she will begin pulling my hair. What does my hair matter! Both
er my hair! That's what I say! Indeed it will be better if she does
begin pulling it, that's not what I am afraid of... it's her eyes I am afraid
of... yes, her eyes... the red on her cheeks,
too, frightens me... and her breathing too.... Have you noticed how people
in that disease breathe... when they
are excited? I am frightened of the children's crying, too.... For if Sonia
has not taken them food... I don't know
what's happened! I don't know! But blows I am not afraid of.... Know, sir, t
hat such blows are not a pain to me, but even an enjoyment. In fact I can't ge
t on without it.... It's better so. Let her strike me, it relieves her heart... it's b
etter so... There is the house. The house of Kozel, the cabinet‐
maker... a German, well‐to‐do. Lead the way!"
They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The staircase got d
arker and darker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o'clock and
although in summer
in Petersburg there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at the top of the st
airs.
A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A very poor‐
looking room about ten paces long was lighted up by a candle‐end; the
whole of it was
visible from the entrance. It was all in disorder, littered up with rags of all
sorts, especially children's garments. Across the

furthest corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Behind it probably

was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and
a sofa covered with American leather, full of holes, before which
stood an old deal kitchen‐
table, unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the table stood a
smoldering tallow‐candle in an iron candlestick. It appeared that the
family had a room to themselves, not part of a room, but their room
was practically a passage. The door leading to the other rooms, or rather c
upboards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel's flat was divided stood half
open, and there was
shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed to be playing cards
and drinking tea there. Words of the
most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.
Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather
tall, slim and graceful woman,
terribly emaciated, with magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic flush
in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little room, pressing her
hands against her chest; her lips were parched and her breathing came
in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes glittered as in
fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And that
consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the candle‐
end playing upon it made a
sickening impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov about thirty years old an
d was certainly a strange wife for Marmeladov.... She had not heard them a
nd did not notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost in thought,
hearing and
seeing nothing. The room was close, but she had not opened the window; a
stench rose from the staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed.
From the inner rooms clouds
of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not close the door
. The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep,

sitting curled up on the floor with her head on the sofa. A boy a year olde
r stood crying and shaking in the corner, probably he had just had a beating.
Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wearing a thin and
ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere pelisse flung over her bare
shoulders, long outgrown and barely reaching
her knees. Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her brother's neck. She
was trying to comfort him, whispering something to him, and doing
all she could to keep
him from whimpering again. At the same time her large dark eyes, which
looked larger still from the thinness of her frightened face, were
watching her mother with
alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the door, but dropped on his knees in the
very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The woman seeing a st
ranger stopped indifferently facing him, coming to herself for a moment and
 apparently wondering what he had come for. But evidently
she decided that he was going into the next room, as he had to pass through
hers to get there. Taking no further notice of him, she walked towards the o
uter door to close it and uttered a sudden scream on seeing her
husband on his knees in the doorway.
"Ah!" she cried out in a frenzy, "he has come back! The criminal! the mon
ster!... And where is the money? What's in your pocket, show me! And
your clothes are
all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the money! Speak!"
And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively and
obediently held up both arms
to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there.
"Where is the money?" she cried
—"Mercy on us, can he have drunk it all? There were twelve silver rouble
s left in the chest!" and in a fury she seized him by the hair and

dragged him into the room. Marmeladov seconded

her efforts by meekly crawling along on his knees.
"And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, but is a positive
con‐so‐la‐tion, ho‐nou‐
red sir," he called out, shaken to and fro by his hair and even once striking
the ground with his forehead. The child asleep on the floor woke up, and be
gan to cry. The boy in the corner losing all control began trembling and scr
eaming and rushed to his sister in violent terror, almost in a fit. The eldest g
irl was shaking like a leaf.
"He's drunk it! he's drunk it all," the poor
woman screamed in despair—"and his clothes are gone! And they are
hungry, hungry!"—and wringing her hands
she pointed to the children. "Oh, accursed life! And you, are you not
ashamed?"—she pounced all at once upon Raskolnikov
—"from the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have been
drinking with him, too! Go away!"
 The young man was hastening away without uttering a word. The inner
door was thrown wide open and inquisitive faces were peering in at
it. Coarse laughing faces with pipes and cigarettes and
heads wearing caps thrust themselves in at the doorway. Further in could b
e seen figures in dressing gowns flung open, in costumes of unseemly
scantiness, some of them with cards in
their hands. They were particularly diverted, when Marmeladov,
dragged about by his hair, shouted that
it was a consolation to him. They even began to come into the room; at last
a sinister shrill outcry was heard: this came from Amalia Lippevechsel her
self pushing her way amongst them and trying to restore order after her own
fashion and for the hundredth time to frighten the poor woman by ordering
her with coarse abuse to clear out of

the room next day. As he went out, Raskolnikov had time to put his hand i
nto his pocket, to snatch up the coppers he had received in exchange for his
rouble in the tavern and to lay them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards
on the stairs, he changed his mind and would have gone back.
"What a stupid thing I've done," he thought to himself, "they have Sonia a
nd I want it myself." But reflecting that it would be impossible to take it ba
ck now and that in any case he would not have taken it, he dismissed it with
a wave of his hand and went back to his lodging. "Sonia wants
pomatum too," he said as he walked along the street, and he laughed
malignantly—"such smartness costs money.... Hm! And maybe Sonia
herself will be bankrupt to‐day, for there is always a risk, hunting
big game... digging for gold... then they would all be without a crust to‐
morrow except for my money. Hurrah for Sonia! What a mine they've dug th
ere! And they're making the most of it! Yes, they are making the most of it! T
hey've wept over it and grown used to it. Man grows used
to everything, the scoundrel!"
He sank into thought.
"And what if I am wrong," he cried suddenly after
a moment's thought. "What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general,
I mean, the whole race of mankind—
then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial terrors and there are no barri
ers and it's all as it should be."

CHAPTER III

He waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But his sleep had not
refreshed him; he waked up bilious, irritable, ill‐
tempered, and looked with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a r
oom about six paces in length. It had a poverty‐
stricken appearance with its dusty yellow paper peeling off the walls, and it
was so low‐
pitched that a man of more than average height was ill at ease in it and felt e
very moment that he would knock his head against the ceiling. The furniture
was in keeping with the room: there were three old chairs, rather rickety; a
painted table in the corner on which lay a few manuscripts and books; the d
ust that lay thick upon them showed that they had been long untouched. A big
clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and half the floor space
of the room; it was once covered with chintz, but was now in rags and serv
ed Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he was, without un
dressing, without sheets, wrapped in his old student's overcoat, with his
head on one little pillow, under which he heaped up all the linen he
had, clean and dirty, by way of a bolster. A little table stood in front of the s
ofa.
It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of
disorder, but to Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this was positive
ly agreeable. He had got completely away from everyone, like a tortoise
in its shell, and even the sight of a servant girl who had to wait
upon him and looked sometimes into his room made him writhe
with nervous irritation. He was in the condition that overtakes
some monomaniacs entirely concentrated upon one thing. His landlady ha
d for the last fortnight given up sending

him in meals, and he had not yet thought of expostulating with her, though
he went without his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only servant, was rather
 pleased at the lodger's mood and had entirely given up sweeping and doing
his room, only once a week or so she would stray into
his room with a broom. She waked him up that day.
"Get up, why are you asleep?" she called to him. "It's past nine, I have br
ought you some tea; will you have a cup? I should think you're fairly starvin
g?"
Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognised Nastasya.
"From the landlady, eh?" he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting u
p on the sofa.
"From the landlady, indeed!"
She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak and stale tea and
laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side of it.
"Here, Nastasya, take it please," he said, fumbling in his pocket (for he h
ad slept in his clothes) and taking out a handful of coppers
—"run and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the p
ork‐butcher's."
"The loaf I'll fetch you this very minute, but wouldn't you rather have som
e cabbage soup instead of sausage? It's capital soup, yesterday's. I saved it
for you yesterday, but you came in late. It's fine soup."
When the soup had been brought, and he had begun upon it, Nastasya
sat down beside him on the sofa
and began chatting. She was a country peasant‐
woman and a very talkative one.
"Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police about you," she sai
d.
He scowled.
"To the police? What does she want?"

"You don't pay her money and you won't turn out of the room. That's what
she wants, to be sure."
 "The devil, that's the last straw," he muttered, grinding his teeth, "no, that
would not suit me... just now. She is a fool," he added aloud. "I'll go and tal
k to her to‐day."
"Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if you are so clever, d
o you lie here like a sack and have nothing to show for it? One time you use
d to go out, you say, to teach children. But why is it you do nothing now?"
"I am doing..." Raskolnikov began sullenly and reluctantly.
"What are you doing?"
"Work..."
"What sort of work?"
"I am thinking," he answered seriously after a pause.
Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter. She was given to
laughter and when anything amused her,
she laughed inaudibly, quivering and shaking all over till she felt ill.
"And have you made much money by your thinking?" she managed to artic
ulate at last.
"One can't go out to give lessons without boots. And I'm sick of it."
"Don't quarrel with your bread and butter."
"They pay so little for lessons. What's the use of a few coppers?" he ans
wered, reluctantly, as though replying to his own thought.
"And you want to get a fortune all at once?"
He looked at her strangely.
"Yes, I want a fortune," he answered firmly, after a brief
pause.
"Don't be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall I
 get you the loaf or not?"

"As you please."

"Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday when you
were out."
"A letter? for me! from whom?"
"I can't say. I gave three copecks of my own to
the postman for it. Will you pay me back?"
"Then bring it to me, for God's sake, bring it,"
cried Raskolnikov greatly excited—"good God!"
A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it: from his mother, fr
om the province of R——. He turned pale when he took it. It was a
long while since he had received a letter, but another feeling also
suddenly stabbed his heart.
"Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness' sake; here are your three
copecks, but for goodness' sake, make haste and go!"
The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to open it in her pre
sence; he wanted to be left alone with this letter. When Nastasya had gone
out, he lifted it quickly to his lips and kissed it; then he gazed
intently at the address, the small, sloping handwriting, so dear
and familiar, of the mother who had once taught him to read and write.
He delayed; he seemed almost afraid
of something. At last he opened it; it was a thick heavy letter, weighing ove
r two ounces, two large sheets of note paper were covered with very small
handwriting.
"My dear Rodya," wrote his mother—"it's two months since I last had
a talk with you by letter which
has distressed me and even kept me awake at night, thinking. But I am
sure you will not blame me for my
inevitable silence. You know how I love you; you are all we have to look t
o, Dounia and I, you are our all, our one hope, our one stay. What a grief it
was to me when I heard that you

had given up the university some months ago, for want of means to keep y
ourself and that you had lost your lessons and your other work! How
could I help you out of
my hundred and twenty roubles a year pension? The fifteen roubles I sent
you four months ago I borrowed, as
you know, on security of my pension, from Vassily Ivanovitch Vahrushin a
merchant of this town. He is a kind‐hearted
man and was a friend of your father's too. But
having given him the right to receive the pension, I had to wait till the debt
was paid off and that is only just done, so that I've been unable to send you
anything all this time. But now, thank God, I believe I shall be able to send
you something more and in fact we may congratulate ourselves on our goo
d fortune now, of which I hasten to inform you. In the first place, would you
have guessed, dear Rodya, that your sister has been living with me for the l
ast six weeks and we shall not be separated in the future. Thank God, her s
ufferings are over, but I will tell you everything in order, so that you may kn
ow just how everything has happened and all that we have hitherto conceal
ed from you. When you wrote to me two months ago that you had heard that
Dounia had a great deal to put up with in
the Svidrigraïlovs' house, when you wrote that and asked me to tell you all
about it—
what could I write in answer to you? If I had written the whole truth to you,
I dare say you would have thrown up everything and have come to us, eve
n if you had to walk all the way, for I know
your character and your feelings, and you would not let your sister be insul
ted. I was in despair myself, but what could I do? And, besides, I did not kn
ow the whole truth myself then. What made it all so difficult was that
Dounia
received a hundred roubles in advance when she took the place as govern
ess in their family, on condition of part of
 her salary being deducted every month, and so it
was impossible to throw up the situation without repaying the debt. This su
m (now I can explain it all to you, my precious Rodya) she took chiefly in o
rder to send you sixty roubles, which you needed so terribly then and which
you received from us last year. We deceived you then, writing that this mo
ney came from Dounia's savings, but that was not so, and now I tell you all
about it, because, thank God, things have suddenly changed for the better, a
nd that you may know how Dounia loves you and what a heart she has. At f
irst indeed Mr. Svidrigaïlov treated her very rudely and used to make disre
spectful and jeering remarks at table.... But I don't want to go into all those
painful details, so as not to worry you for nothing when it is now all over. I
n short, in spite of the kind and generous behaviour of Marfa Petrovna,
Mr. Svidrigaïlov's wife, and all the rest of
the household, Dounia had a very hard time, especially when Mr. Svidriga
ïlov, relapsing into his old regimental habits, was under the influence of Ba
cchus. And how do you think it was all explained later on? Would you belie
ve that the crazy fellow had conceived a passion for Dounia from the begin
ning, but had concealed it under a show of rudeness and contempt.
Possibly he was ashamed and
horrified himself at his own flighty hopes, considering his years and his be
ing the father of a family; and that made him angry with Dounia. And possib
ly, too, he hoped by his rude and sneering behaviour to hide the truth from o
thers. But at last he lost all control and had the face to make Dounia an
open and shameful proposal, promising her all sorts
of inducements and offering, besides, to throw up everything and take her t
o another estate of his, or even abroad. You can imagine all she went throug
h! To leave her situation at once was impossible not only on account
of the money

debt, but also to spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna, whose

suspicions would have been aroused: and then Dounia would have
been the cause of a rupture in the family. And it would have meant
a terrible scandal
for Dounia too; that would have been inevitable. There were various other
reasons owing to which Dounia could not hope to escape from that
awful house for another
six weeks. You know Dounia, of course; you know how clever she is and
what a strong will she has. Dounia can endure a great deal and even in the
most difficult cases she has the fortitude to maintain her firmness. She did n
ot even write
to me about everything for fear of upsetting me, although we were constan
tly in communication. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accid
entally overheard her husband imploring Dounia in the garden, and,
putting quite a wrong interpretation on the position, threw
the blame upon her, believing her to be the cause of it all. An awful scene t
ook place between them on the spot in the garden; Marfa Petrovna went so
far as to strike Dounia, refused to hear anything and was shouting at
her for a whole hour and then gave orders that Dounia should be packed
off at once to me in a plain peasant's cart,
into which they flung all her things, her linen and her clothes, all pell‐
mell, without folding it up and packing it. And a heavy shower of rain came
on, too, and Dounia, insulted and put to shame, had to drive with a peasant
in an open cart all the seventeen versts into town. Only think
now what answer could I have sent to the letter I received from
you two months ago and what could I have written? I was in despair; I da
red not write to you the truth because you would have been very unhappy,
mortified and indignant, and yet what could you do? You could only perhap
s ruin yourself, and, besides, Dounia would not allow it; and fill
 up my letter with trifles when my heart was so full
of sorrow, I could not. For a whole month the town was full of gossip abou
t this scandal, and it came to such a pass that Dounia and I dared not even g
o to church on account of the contemptuous looks, whispers, and even rema
rks made aloud about us. All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody even b
owed to us in the street, and I learnt that some shopmen and clerks were int
ending to insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates of our house with
pitch, so that the landlord began to tell us we must leave. All this was set g
oing by Marfa Petrovna who managed to slander Dounia and throw dirt at h
er in every family. She knows everyone in the neighbourhood, and that mont
h she was continually coming into the town, and as she is
rather talkative and fond of gossiping about her family affairs and particula
rly of complaining to all and each of her husband—
which is not at all right—
so in a short time she had spread her story not only in the town, but over the
whole surrounding district. It made me ill, but
Dounia bore it better than I did, and if only you could have seen how she e
ndured it all and tried to comfort me and cheer me up! She is an angel! But
by God's mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr. Svidrigaïlov returned to
his senses and repented and, probably feeling sorry for Dounia, he laid be
fore Marfa Petrovna a complete and unmistakable proof of Dounia's innoce
nce, in the form of a letter Dounia had been forced to write and give to
him, before
Marfa Petrovna came upon them in the garden. This letter, which remained
in Mr. Svidrigaïlov's hands after her departure, she had written to refuse p
ersonal explanations and secret interviews, for which he was entreating her
. In that letter she reproached him with great heat and indignation for the ba
seness of his behaviour in regard to Marfa Petrovna,

reminding him that he was the father and head of a family and telling him
how infamous it was of him to torment and make unhappy a defenceless
girl, unhappy
enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter was so nobly and touchingly
written that I sobbed when I read it and to this day I cannot read it without
tears. Moreover, the evidence of the servants, too, cleared Dounia's reputat
ion; they had seen and known a great deal more than Mr. Svidrigaïlov had
himself supposed—
as indeed is always the case with servants. Marfa Petrovna was completely
taken aback, and 'again crushed' as she said herself to us, but she
was completely convinced of Dounia's innocence. The
very next day, being Sunday, she went straight to the Cathedral, knelt down
and prayed with tears to Our Lady to give her strength to bear this new tria
l and to do her duty. Then she came straight from the Cathedral to us,
told us the whole story, wept bitterly and, fully penitent,
she embraced Dounia and besought her to forgive her.
The same morning without any delay, she went round to all the houses in th
e town and everywhere, shedding tears, she asserted in the most flattering t
erms Dounia's innocence and the nobility of her feelings and
her behavior. What was more, she showed and read to everyone the letter i
n Dounia's own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigaïlov and
even allowed them to take copies of it—
which I must say I think was superfluous. In this way she was busy for seve
ral days in driving about the whole town, because some people had taken
offence through precedence having been given
to others. And therefore they had to take turns, so that in every house she
was expected before she arrived, and everyone knew that on such
and such a day
Marfa Petrovna would be reading the letter in such and such a place and p
eople assembled for every reading of it, even

many who had heard it several times already both in their own houses an
d in other people's. In my opinion a great deal, a very great deal of all
this was unnecessary;
but that's Marfa Petrovna's character. Anyway she succeeded in completely
re‐establishing Dounia's reputation and the whole ignominy of this
affair rested as an
indelible disgrace upon her husband, as the only person to blame, so that I
really began to feel sorry for him; it was really treating the crazy fellow too
harshly. Dounia was at once asked to give lessons in several families, but
she refused. All of a sudden everyone began to treat her with marked respe
ct and all this did much to bring about the event by which, one may say,
our whole fortunes are
now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya, that Dounia has a suitor and
 that she has already consented to marry him. I hasten to tell you all about th
e matter, and though it has been arranged without asking your consent, I thin
k you will not be aggrieved with me or with your sister on that account, for
you will see that we could not wait and put off our decision till we heard f
rom you. And you could not have judged all the facts without being on the s
pot. This was how it happened. He is already of the rank of
a counsellor, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, and is distantly related to
Marfa Petrovna, who has been very active in bringing the match
about. It began with his
expressing through her his desire to make our acquaintance. He was prope
rly received, drank coffee with us and the very next day he sent us a letter i
n which he very courteously made an offer and begged for a speedy and de
cided answer. He is a very busy man and is in a great hurry to get
to Petersburg, so that every moment is precious to him. At first, of
course, we were greatly surprised, as it had
all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. We thought and

talked it over the whole day. He is a well‐to‐

do man, to be depended upon, he has two posts in the government and has
already made his fortune. It is true that he is forty‐
five years old, but he is of a fairly prepossessing appearance and might stil
l be thought attractive by women, and he is altogether a very respectable an
d presentable man, only he seems a little morose and somewhat
conceited. But
possibly that may only be the impression he makes at first sight. And
beware, dear Rodya, when he comes
to Petersburg, as he shortly will do, beware of judging him too hastily and
severely, as your way is, if there is anything you do not like in him at first s
ight. I give you this warning, although I feel sure that he will make a
favourable impression upon you. Moreover, in order to understand any
man one must be deliberate and careful to avoid forming prejudices
and mistaken ideas, which are very difficult to correct and get over
afterwards. And
Pyotr Petrovitch, judging by many indications, is a thoroughly estimable m
an. At his first visit, indeed, he told us that he was a practical man, but still
he shares, as he expressed it, many of the convictions 'of our most
rising
generation' and he is an opponent of all prejudices. He said a good deal m
ore, for he seems a little conceited and likes to be listened to, but
this is scarcely a vice. I, of
course, understood very little of it, but Dounia explained to me that, though
he is not a man of great education, he is clever and seems to be good‐
natured. You know your
sister's character, Rodya. She is a resolute, sensible, patient and generous
girl, but she has a passionate heart, as I know very well. Of course, there is
no great love either on his side, or on hers, but Dounia is a clever girl and
has the heart of an angel, and will make it her duty to make her husband ha
ppy who on his side will make her happiness

his care. Of that we have no good reason to doubt, though it must be admi
tted the matter has been arranged in great haste. Besides he is a man of grea
t prudence and he will see, to be sure, of himself, that his own happiness w
ill be the more secure, the happier Dounia is with him. And as for some de
fects of character, for some habits and even certain differences of opinion
—which indeed are inevitable even in the happiest marriages—
Dounia has said that, as regards all that, she relies on herself,
that there is nothing to be uneasy about, and that she is ready to put up with
a great deal, if only their future relationship can be an honourable and strai
ghtforward one. He struck me, for instance, at first, as rather abrupt, but tha
t may well come from his being an outspoken man, and that is no doubt ho
w it is. For instance, at his second visit, after he had received Dounia's
consent, in the course of conversation, he declared that before
making
Dounia's acquaintance, he had made up his mind to marry a girl of good re
putation, without dowry and, above all, one who had experienced poverty,
because, as he explained, a man ought not to be indebted to his wife, but tha
t it is better for a wife to look upon her husband as her benefactor. I must a
dd that he expressed it more nicely and politely than I have done, for I have
forgotten his actual phrases and only remember the meaning. And, besides,
it was obviously not said of design, but slipped out in the heat of conversat
ion, so that he tried afterwards to correct himself and smooth
 it over, but all the same it did strike me as somewhat rude, and I said so a
fterwards to Dounia. But Dounia was vexed, and answered that 'words
are not deeds,' and that, of course, is perfectly true. Dounia did not
sleep all night before she made up her mind, and, thinking that I
was asleep, she got out of bed and was walking up and down

the room all night; at last she knelt down before the ikon and prayed long
and fervently and in the morning she told me that she had decided.
"I have mentioned already that Pyotr Petrovitch is just setting off for
Petersburg, where he has a great deal
of business, and he wants to open a legal bureau. He has been occupied
for many years in conducting civil
and commercial litigation, and only the other day he won an important case
. He has to be in Petersburg because he has an important case before the Se
nate. So, Rodya dear, he may be of the greatest use to you, in every way ind
eed, and Dounia and I have agreed that from this very day you could
definitely enter upon your career and
might consider that your future is marked out and assured for you. Oh, if on
ly this comes to pass! This would be such a benefit that we could only look
upon it as a providential blessing. Dounia is dreaming of nothing else.
We
have even ventured already to drop a few words on the subject to Pyotr Pe
trovitch. He was cautious in his answer, and said that, of course, as he
could not get on without a secretary, it would be better to be paying
a salary to a relation than to a stranger, if only the former were fitted for
the duties (as though there could be doubt of
your being fitted!) but then he expressed doubts whether your studies at the
university would leave you time for work at his office. The matter dropped
for the time, but Dounia is thinking of nothing else now. She has been
in a sort
of fever for the last few days, and has already made a regular plan for your
becoming in the end an associate and even a partner in Pyotr Petrovitch's b
usiness, which might well be, seeing that you are a student of law. I am in c
omplete agreement with her, Rodya, and share all her plans and hopes,
and think there is every probability of realising
 them. And in spite of Pyotr Petrovitch's evasiveness, very natural at prese
nt (since he does not know you), Dounia is firmly persuaded that she will g
ain everything by her good influence over her future husband; this she is rec
koning upon. Of course we are careful not to talk of any of these more rem
ote plans to Pyotr Petrovitch, especially of your becoming his partner. He i
s a practical man and might take this very coldly, it might all seem to
him simply a day‐
dream. Nor has either Dounia or I breathed a word to him
of the great hopes we have of his helping us to pay for your university stu
dies; we have not spoken of it in the first place, because it will come to pas
s of itself, later on, and he will no doubt without wasting words offer to do
it of himself, (as though he could refuse Dounia that)
the more readily since you may by your own efforts become his right hand
in the office, and receive this assistance not as a charity, but as a salary
earned by your own
work. Dounia wants to arrange it all like this and I quite agree with her. An
d we have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that is, because I part
icularly wanted you to feel on an equal footing when you first meet him. W
hen Dounia spoke to him with enthusiasm about you, he
answered that one could never judge of a man without seeing him close, fo
r oneself, and that he looked forward to forming his own opinion when
he makes your acquaintance. Do you know, my precious Rodya, I
think that perhaps
for some reasons (nothing to do with Pyotr Petrovitch though, simply for
my own personal, perhaps old‐
womanish, fancies) I should do better to go on living by myself, apart, than
with them, after the wedding. I am convinced that he will be generous and
delicate enough to invite me and to urge me to remain with my daughter for
the future, and if he has said nothing about it hitherto, it is simply because it

has been taken for granted; but I shall refuse. I have noticed more
than once in my life that husbands don't quite get on with their mothers‐
in‐
law, and I don't want to be the least bit in anyone's way, and for my own sa
ke, too, would rather be quite independent, so long as I have
a crust of bread of my own, and such children as you and Dounia. If possib
le, I would settle somewhere near you, for the most joyful piece of news, d
ear Rodya, I have kept for the end of my letter: know then, my dear boy, tha
t we may, perhaps, be all together in a very short time and
may embrace one another again after a separation of almost three years! It
is settled for certain that Dounia and I are to set off for Petersburg, exactl
y when I don't know, but very, very soon, possibly in a week. It all
depends on
Pyotr Petrovitch who will let us know when he has had time to
look round him in Petersburg. To suit his
own arrangements he is anxious to have the ceremony as soon as possible,
even before the fast of Our Lady, if it could be managed, or if that is too so
on to be ready, immediately after. Oh, with what happiness I shall
press you to my heart! Dounia is all excitement at the joyful thought
of seeing you, she said one day in joke that she would
be ready to marry Pyotr Petrovitch for that alone. She is an angel! She is n
ot writing anything to you now, and has only told me to write that she has so
much, so much to tell you that she is not going to take up her pen now, for a
few lines would tell you nothing, and it would only mean upsetting herself
; she bids me send you her love and innumerable kisses. But although we sh
all be meeting so soon, perhaps I shall send you as much money as I can in
a day or two. Now that everyone has heard that Dounia is to
marry Pyotr Petrovitch, my credit has suddenly improved and I know that
Afanasy Ivanovitch will trust me now even to

seventy‐
five roubles on the security of my pension, so that perhaps I shall be able to
send you twenty‐
five or even thirty roubles. I would send you more, but I am uneasy about o
ur travelling expenses; for though Pyotr Petrovitch has been so kind as to un
dertake part of the expenses of the journey, that is to say, he has taken upon
himself the conveyance of our bags and big trunk (which will
be conveyed through some acquaintances of his), we
must reckon upon some expense on our arrival in Petersburg, where we ca
n't be left without a halfpenny, at least for the first few days. But we have c
alculated it all, Dounia and I, to the last penny, and we see that the journey
will not cost very much. It is only ninety versts from us to the railway and
we have come to an agreement with a driver we know, so as to be in readin
ess; and from there Dounia and I can travel quite comfortably third
class. So that I may very likely be able to send to you not twenty‐
five, but thirty roubles. But enough; I have covered two sheets already and
there is no space left for more; our whole history, but so many events
have happened! And now, my
precious Rodya, I embrace you and send you a mother's blessing till we m
eet. Love Dounia your sister, Rodya; love her as she loves you and
understand that she loves you beyond everything, more than herself.
She is an angel and you, Rodya, you are everything to us—
our one hope, our one consolation. If only you are happy, we shall be happy
. Do you still say your prayers, Rodya, and believe in the mercy of our Cre
ator and our Redeemer? I am afraid in my heart that you may have been
visited by the new spirit of infidelity that is abroad to‐
day; If it is so, I pray for you. Remember, dear boy, how in your childhood,
when your father was living, you used to lisp your prayers at my knee, and
how happy we all were in those days. Good‐bye, till

we meet then—I embrace you warmly, warmly, with many

kisses.
"Yours till death,

"PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV."

Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolnikov's face
was wet with tears; but when
he finished it, his face was pale and distorted and a bitter, wrathful and mali
gnant smile was on his lips. He laid his head down on his threadbare dirty p
illow and pondered, pondered a long time. His heart was beating violently,
and his brain was in a turmoil. At last he felt cramped
and stifled in the little yellow room that was like a cupboard or a box. His e
yes and his mind craved for space. He took up his hat and went out, this tim
e without dread of meeting anyone; he had forgotten his dread. He
turned in the direction of the Vassilyevsky Ostrov, walking
along Vassilyevsky Prospect, as though hastening on
some business, but he walked, as his habit was, without noticing his way, m
uttering and even speaking aloud to himself, to the astonishment of the
passers‐by. Many of them took him to be drunk.

Ebd
E‐BooksDirectory.com

CHAPTER IV

His mother's letter had been a torture to him, but as regards the chief fact i
n it, he had felt not one moment's hesitation, even whilst he was reading
the letter.
The essential question was settled, and irrevocably settled, in his mind: "Ne
ver such a marriage while I am alive and Mr. Luzhin be damned!" "The
thing is perfectly clear,"
he muttered to himself, with a malignant smile anticipating the triumph of hi
s decision. "No, mother, no, Dounia, you won't deceive me! and then they ap
ologise for not asking my advice and for taking the decision without me! I d
are say! They imagine it is arranged now and can't be broken off; but we wil
l see whether it can or not! A magnificent excuse: 'Pyotr Petrovitch is such a
busy man that even his wedding has to be in post‐
haste, almost by express.' No, Dounia, I see it all and I know what you wan
t to say to me; and I know too what you were thinking about, when you walk
ed up and down all night, and what your
prayers were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan who stands in mother's
bedroom. Bitter is the ascent to Golgotha.... Hm... so it is finally settled;
you have determined to marry
a sensible business man, Avdotya Romanovna, one who has a fortune (has
already made his fortune, that is so much more solid and impressive) a
man who holds
two government posts and who shares the ideas of our most rising generatio
n, as mother writes, and who seems to be kind, as Dounia herself
observes. That seems
beats everything! And that very Dounia for that very 'seems' is marrying him
! Splendid! splendid!
"... But I should like to know why mother has written to me about 'our
most rising generation'? Simply as a

descriptive touch, or with the idea of prepossessing me in favour of Mr.

Luzhin? Oh, the cunning of them! I should like to know one thing more: how
far they were open with one another that day and night and all this
time
since? Was it all put into words, or did both understand that they had the s
ame thing at heart and in their minds, so that there was no need to speak of i
t aloud, and better not to speak of it. Most likely it was partly like
that, from mother's letter it's evident: he struck her as rude a little,
and mother in her simplicity took her observations
to Dounia. And she was sure to be vexed and 'answered her
angrily.' I should think so! Who would not be
angered when it was quite clear without any naïve questions and when it w
as understood that it was useless to discuss it.
And why does she write to me, 'love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you
more than herself'? Has she a secret conscience‐prick at sacrificing
her daughter to her
son? 'You are our one comfort, you are everything to us.' Oh, mother!"
His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he had happened to mee
t Mr. Luzhin at the moment, he might have murdered him.
"Hm... yes, that's true," he continued, pursuing
the whirling ideas that chased each other in his brain, "it is true that 'it nee
ds time and care to get to know a man,' but there is no mistake about Mr. Lu
zhin. The chief thing is he is 'a man of business and seems kind,' that was s
omething, wasn't it, to send the bags and big box for them! A kind man, no
doubt after that! But his bride and her mother are to drive in a peasant's ca
rt covered with sacking (I know, I have been driven in it). No matter! It is o
nly ninety versts and then they can 'travel very comfortably, third class,' for
a thousand versts! Quite right, too. One must cut one's coat

according to one's cloth, but what about you, Mr. Luzhin? She is your
bride.... And you must be aware that
her mother has to raise money on her pension for the journey. To be sure
it's a matter of business, a partnership for mutual benefit, with equal
shares and expenses;—food and drink provided, but pay for your
tobacco.
The business man has got the better of them, too. The luggage will cost
less than their fares and very likely go
for nothing. How is it that they don't both see all that, or is it that they don't
want to see? And they are pleased, pleased! And to think that this is only th
e first blossoming, and that the real fruits are to come! But what really matt
ers is not the stinginess, is not the meanness, but the tone of
the whole thing. For that will be the tone after marriage, it's a foretaste of
it. And mother too, why should she be so lavish? What will she
have by the time she gets
to Petersburg? Three silver roubles or two 'paper ones' as she says.... that
old woman... hm. What does she expect to live upon in Petersburg afterwa
rds? She has her reasons already for guessing that she could not live with
Dounia after the marriage, even for the first few months. The good man has
no doubt let slip something on that subject also, though mother would deny
it: 'I shall refuse,' says she. On whom is she reckoning then? Is she counting
on what is left of her hundred and twenty roubles of pension when Afanas
y Ivanovitch's debt is paid? She knits
woollen shawls and embroiders cuffs, ruining her old eyes. And all her sh
awls don't add more than twenty roubles a year to her hundred and twenty, I
know that. So she is building all her hopes all the time on Mr. Luzhin's gen
erosity; 'he will offer it of himself, he will press it on me.' You may wait a
long time for that! That's how it always is with these Schilleresque
noble hearts; till the last moment every

goose is a swan with them, till the last moment, they hope for the best and
will see nothing wrong, and although they have an inkling of the other side
of the picture, yet they won't face the truth till they are forced to; the
very thought of it makes them shiver; they thrust the
truth away with both hands, until the man they deck out in false colours put
s a fool's cap on them with his own hands. I should like to know whether M
r. Luzhin has any orders of merit; I bet he has the Anna in his buttonhole and
that he puts it on when he goes to dine with contractors
or merchants. He will be sure to have it for his wedding, too! Enough of hi
m, confound him!
"Well,... mother I don't wonder at, it's like her, God bless her, but
how could Dounia? Dounia darling,
as though I did not know you! You were nearly twenty when I saw you last:
I understood you then. Mother writes that 'Dounia can put up with a great d
eal.' I know that very well. I knew that two years and a half ago, and for the
last two and a half years I have been thinking about it, thinking of just that,
that 'Dounia can put up with a great deal.' If she could put up with Mr. Svid
rigaïlov and all the rest of it, she certainly can put up with a great
deal. And now mother and she have taken it into their heads that she can
put up with Mr. Luzhin, who propounds the theory of the superiority of
wives raised from destitution and
owing everything to their husband's bounty—
who propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted that he 'let it s
lip,' though he is a sensible man, (yet maybe it was not a slip at all, but he
meant to make himself clear as soon as possible) but Dounia, Dounia? She
understands the man, of course, but she will have to live with the man. Why
! she'd live on black bread and water, she would not sell her soul, she wou
ld not barter her moral freedom for comfort;

she would not barter it for all Schleswig‐Holstein, much less Mr.
Luzhin's money. No, Dounia was not that
sort when I knew her and... she is still the same, of course! Yes, there's no
denying, the Svidrigaïlovs are a bitter pill! It's a bitter thing to spend
one's life a governess in
the provinces for two hundred roubles, but I know she would rather be a ni
gger on a plantation or a Lett with a German master than degrade her soul,
and her moral dignity, by binding herself for ever to a man whom she
does not respect and with whom she has nothing in common—for her
own advantage. And if Mr. Luzhin had been of unalloyed gold, or
one huge diamond, she would
never have consented to become his legal concubine. Why is she consentin
g then? What's the point of it? What's
the answer? It's clear enough: for herself, for her comfort, to save her life s
he would not sell herself, but for someone else she is doing it! For one she
loves, for one she adores, she will sell herself! That's what it all amounts t
o; for her brother, for her mother, she will sell herself! She will sell everyt
hing! In such cases, 'we overcome our moral feeling if necessary,' freedom,
peace, conscience even, all, all are brought into the market. Let my life go,
if only my dear ones may be happy! More than that, we become casuists,
we learn to be Jesuitical and for a time maybe we can soothe
ourselves, we can persuade ourselves that it
is one's duty for a good object. That's just like us, it's as clear as daylight.
It's clear that Rodion
Romanovitch Raskolnikov is the central figure in the business, and no one
else. Oh, yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in the university, mak
e him a partner in the office, make his whole future secure; perhaps he may
even be a rich man later on, prosperous, respected, and may even end his l
ife a famous man! But my mother? It's all Rodya, precious
 Rodya, her first born! For such a son who would
not sacrifice such a daughter! Oh, loving, over‐
partial hearts! Why, for his sake we would not shrink even from Sonia's fat
e. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the eternal victim so long as the world lasts.
Have you taken the measure of your sacrifice, both of you? Is it right? Can y
ou bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in it? And let me tell you,
Dounia, Sonia's life is no worse than life with Mr. Luzhin. 'There can be no
question of love,' mother writes. And what if there can be no respect either,
if on the contrary there is aversion, contempt, repulsion, what then? So you
will have to 'keep up your appearance,' too. Is not that so? Do you understan
d what that smartness means? Do you understand that the Luzhin
smartness is just the
same thing as Sonia's and may be worse, viler, baser, because in your case,
Dounia, it's a bargain for luxuries, after all, but with Sonia it's simply a que
stion of starvation. It has to be paid for, it has to be paid for, Dounia, this sm
artness. And what if it's more than you can bear afterwards, if
you regret it? The bitterness, the misery, the curses, the tears hidden from
all the world, for you are not a
Marfa Petrovna. And how will your mother feel then? Even now she is une
asy, she is worried, but then, when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes, indee
d, what have you taken me for? I won't have your sacrifice, Dounia, I won't
have it, mother! It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it shall not, it shall not
! I won't accept it!"
He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood still.
"It shall not be? But what are you going to do
to prevent it? You'll forbid it? And what right have you? What can you
promise them on your side to give you such
a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you will devote to them when y
ou have finishedyour studies and obtained a

post? Yes, we have heard all that before, and that's

all words, but now? Now something must be done, now, do you understand
that? And what are you doing now? You are living upon them. They
borrow on their
hundred roubles pension. They borrow from the Svidrigaïlovs. How are
you going to save them from Svidrigaïlovs,
from Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, oh, future millionaire Zeus who would
arrange their lives for them? In another ten years? In another ten years,
mother will be blind
with knitting shawls, maybe with weeping too. She will be worn to a
shadow with fasting; and my sister? Imagine for a moment what may
have become of your sister in
ten years? What may happen to her during those ten years? Can you fancy?
"
So he tortured himself, fretting himself with
such questions, and finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these ques
tions were not new ones suddenly confronting him, they were old familiar a
ches. It was long since they had first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long,
long ago his present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and gath
ered strength, it had matured and concentrated, until it had taken the
form of a fearful, frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured his
heart and mind, clamouring insistently for an answer. Now his
mother's letter had burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear that he mus
t not now suffer passively, worrying himself over unsolved questions, but t
hat he must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly. Anyway he
must decide on something, or else...
"Or throw up life altogether!" he cried suddenly, in a frenzy
—"accept one's lot humbly as it is, once for all and stifle everything in one
self, giving up all claim to activity, life and love!"

"Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when

you have absolutely nowhere to
turn?" Marmeladov's question came suddenly into his mind, "for every ma
n must have somewhere to turn...."
He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had had yesterday, slippe
d back into his mind. But he did not start at the thought recurring to him, for
he knew, he had felt beforehand, that it must come back, he was expecting
it; besides it was not only yesterday's thought. The difference was
that a month ago, yesterday even,
the thought was a mere dream: but now... now it appeared not a dream at
all, it had taken a new menacing and
quite unfamiliar shape, and he suddenly became aware of this himself.... H
e felt a hammering in his head, and there was a darkness before his eyes.
He looked round hurriedly, he was searching
for something. He wanted to sit down and was looking for a seat; he was
walking along the K—— Boulevard. There was a seat about a
hundred paces in front of him.
He walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way he met with a little a
dventure which absorbed all his attention. Looking for the seat, he had
noticed a woman
walking some twenty paces in front of him, but at first he took no more noti
ce of her than of other objects that crossed his path. It had happened to him
many times going home not to notice the road by which he was going,
and he
was accustomed to walk like that. But there was at first sight something so
strange about the woman in front of him, that gradually his attention was riv
eted upon her, at first reluctantly and, as it were, resentfully, and then more
and more intently. He felt a sudden desire to find out what it was that
was so strange about the woman. In the
first place, she appeared to be a girl quite young, and she was

walking in the great heat bareheaded and with no parasol or gloves, wavi
ng her arms about in an absurd way. She had on a dress of some light
silky material, but put
on strangely awry, not properly hooked up, and torn open at the top of the s
kirt, close to the waist: a great piece was rent and hanging loose. A little ke
rchief was flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting on one side. The girl
was walking unsteadily, too, stumbling and staggering from side to
side. She drew Raskolnikov's whole attention at
last. He overtook the girl at the seat, but, on reaching it, she dropped dow
n on it, in the corner; she let her head sink on the back of the seat and
closed her
eyes, apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her closely, he saw at o
nce that she was completely drunk. It was a strange and shocking sight. He
could hardly believe that he was not mistaken. He saw before him the face
of a quite young, fair‐haired girl—sixteen, perhaps not more
than fifteen, years old, pretty little face, but flushed and heavy looking and,
as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to know what she was doing; s
he crossed one leg over the other, lifting it indecorously, and showed
every sign of being unconscious that she was in the street.
Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to leave her, and
stood facing her in perplexity.
This boulevard was never much frequented; and now, at two o'clock, in the
stifling heat, it was quite deserted. And yet on the further side of the boule
vard, about fifteen paces away, a gentleman was standing on the edge
of the pavement. He, too, would apparently have liked
to approach the girl with some object of his own. He, too, had probably se
en her in the distance and had followed her, but found Raskolnikov in
his way. He looked angrily at him, though he tried to escape his
notice, and stood

impatiently biding his time, till the unwelcome man in rags should have
moved away. His intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a
plump, thickly‐
set man, about thirty, fashionably dressed, with a high colour, red lips and
moustaches. Raskolnikov felt furious; he had a sudden longing to insult this
fat dandy in some way. He left the girl for a moment and walked
towards the gentleman.
"Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What do you want here?"
he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing, spluttering with
rage.
"What do you mean?" the gentleman asked sternly,
scowling in haughty astonishment.
"Get away, that's what I mean."
"How dare you, you low fellow!"
He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his
 fists, without reflecting that the stout gentleman was a match for
two men like himself. But at that instant
someone seized him from behind, and a police constable
stood between them.
"That's enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in
a public place. What do you want? Who are you?" he asked Raskolnikov st
ernly, noticing his rags.
Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight‐ forward, sensible,
soldierly face, with grey moustaches and whiskers.
"You are just the man I want," Raskolnikov
cried, catching at his arm. "I am a student, Raskolnikov.... You may as
well know that too," he added, addressing
the gentleman, "come along, I have something to show you."
And taking the policeman by the hand he drew
him towards the seat.

"Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down the boulevard.
There is no telling who and what she is, she does not look like a professio
nal. It's more likely she has been given drink and deceived somewhere... fo
r the first time... you understand? and they've put her out into the street like
that. Look at the way her dress is torn, and the way it has been put on:
she has been dressed by somebody, she has not dressed herself, and
dressed
by unpractised hands, by a man's hands; that's evident. And now look there
: I don't know that dandy with whom I was going to fight, I see him for the f
irst time, but he, too, has seen her on the road, just now, drunk, not knowing
what she is doing, and now he is very eager to get hold of her, to get her a
way somewhere while she is in this state... that's certain, believe me, I
am not wrong. I saw him
myself watching her and following her, but I prevented him, and he is just
waiting for me to go away. Now he has walked away a little, and is standin
g still, pretending to make a cigarette.... Think how can we keep her out of
his hands, and how are we to get her home?"
The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout gentleman was easy to unde
rstand, he turned to consider the girl. The policeman bent over to examine h
er more closely, and his face worked with genuine compassion.
"Ah, what a pity!" he said, shaking his head
—"why, she is quite a child! She has been deceived, you can see that at on
ce. Listen, lady," he began addressing her, "where
do you live?" The girl opened her weary and sleepy‐
looking eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and waved her hand.
"Here," said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket
and finding twenty copecks, "here, call a cab and tell him to drive her to h
er address. The only thing is to find out her address!"

"Missy, missy!" the policeman began again, taking the money. "I'll fetch
you a cab and take you home
myself. Where shall I take you, eh? Where do you live?"
"Go away! They won't let me alone," the girl muttered, and once more wa
ved her hand.
"Ach, ach, how shocking! It's shameful, missy, it's a shame!" He
shook his head again, shocked, sympathetic and indignant.
"It's a difficult job," the policeman said to Raskolnikov, and as he did so,
he looked him up and down in a rapid glance. He, too, must have seemed a
strange figure to him: dressed in rags and handing him money!
"Did you meet her far from here?" he asked him.
"I tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering, just here, in the bou
levard. She only just reached the seat and sank down on it."
"Ah, the shameful things that are done in the
world nowadays, God have mercy on us! An innocent creature like that, dr
unk already! She has been deceived, that's a sure thing. See how her dress h
as been torn too.... Ah, the vice one sees nowadays! And as likely as not sh
e belongs to gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe.... There are many like that n
owadays. She looks refined, too, as though she were a lady," and he bent o
ver her once more.
Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, "looking like ladies
and refined" with pretensions to gentility and smartness....
"The chief thing is," Raskolnikov persisted, "to keep her out of this scoun
drel's hands! Why should he outrage her! It's as clear as day what he is afte
r; ah, the brute, he is not moving off!"
Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him.
The gentleman heard him, and seemed about to fly into a rage

again, but thought better of it, and confined himself to a contemptuous

look. He then walked slowly another ten paces away and again halted.
"Keep her out of his hands we can," said the constable thoughtfully, "if on
ly she'd tell us where to take her, but as it is.... Missy, hey, missy!" he bent
over her once more.
She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him intently, as thoug
h realising something, got up from the seat and walked away in the directio
n from which she had come. "Oh shameful wretches, they won't let me alon
e!" she said, waving her hand again. She walked
quickly, though staggering as before. The dandy followed her, but along an
other avenue, keeping his eye on her.
"Don't be anxious, I won't let him have her,"
the policeman said resolutely, and he set off after them.
"Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!" he repeated aloud, sighing.
At that moment something seemed to
sting Raskolnikov; in an instant a complete revulsion of feeling came over
him.
"Hey, here!" he shouted after the policeman.
The latter turned round.
 "Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her go! Let him amuse himsel
f." He pointed at the dandy, "What is it to do with you?"
The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him open‐
eyed. Raskolnikov laughed.
"Well!" ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture of contempt, and
he walked after the dandy and the
girl, probably taking Raskolnikov for a madman or something
even worse.
"He has carried off my twenty copecks," Raskolnikov
murmured angrily when he was left alone. "Well, let him

take as much from the other fellow to allow him to have

the girl and so let it end. And why did I want to interfere? Is it for me to h
elp? Have I any right to help? Let them devour each other alive—
what is to me? How did I dare to give him twenty copecks? Were they mine
?"
In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched. He sat down on the
deserted seat. His thoughts strayed aimlessly.... He found it hard to fix his
mind on anything at that moment. He longed to forget himself
altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and begin life
anew....
"Poor girl!" he said, looking at the empty corner where she had sat
—"She will come to herself and weep, and then her mother will find out....
She will give her a beating, a horrible, shameful beating and then maybe, tu
rn her out of doors.... And even if she does not, the Darya Frantsovnas will
get wind of it, and the girl will soon be slipping out on the sly here and
there. Then there will be the hospital directly (that's always the luck
of those girls
with respectable mothers, who go wrong on the sly) and then... again the
hospital... drink... the taverns... and more hospital, in two or three years
—
a wreck, and her life over at eighteen or nineteen.... Have not I seen cases l
ike that? And how have they been brought to it? Why, they've all come to it
like that. Ugh! But what does it matter? That's as it should be, they tell us.
A certain percentage, they tell us, must every year go... that way... to the de
vil, I suppose, so that the rest may remain chaste, and not be
interfered with. A percentage! What splendid words they have; they are
so scientific, so consolatory.... Once you've
said 'percentage' there's nothing more to worry about. If we had any other
word... maybe we might feel more uneasy....

But what if Dounia were one of the percentage! Of another one if not that
one?
"But where am I going?" he thought suddenly. "Strange, I came out for so
mething. As soon as I had read the letter I came out.... I was going to
Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to Razumihin.
That's what it was... now I remember. What for, though? And what put the i
dea of going to Razumihin into my head just now? That's curious."
He wondered at himself. Razumihin was one of his old
comrades at the university. It was remarkable
that Raskolnikov had hardly any friends at the university; he kept aloof fro
m everyone, went to see no one, and did not welcome anyone who came
to see him, and indeed everyone soon gave him up. He took no part
in the students' gatherings, amusements or conversations.
He worked with great intensity without sparing himself, and he was respec
ted for this, but no one liked him. He was very poor, and there was a
sort of haughty pride
and reserve about him, as though he were keeping something to himself.
He seemed to some of his comrades to look
down upon them all as children, as though he
were superior in development, knowledge and convictions, as though their
beliefs and interests were beneath him.
With Razumihin he had got on, or, at least, he was more unreserved
and communicative with him. Indeed it was
 impossible to be on any other terms with Razumihin. He was an
exceptionally good‐humoured and candid youth, good‐
natured to the point of simplicity, though both depth and dignity lay conceal
ed under that simplicity. The better of his comrades understood this, and all
were fond of him. He was extremely intelligent, though he was
certainly rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking appearance
—tall, thin, blackhaired and always badly

shaved. He was sometimes uproarious and was reputed to be of great

physical strength. One night, when out in a festive company, he had
with one blow laid a
gigantic policeman on his back. There was no limit to his drinking powers,
but he could abstain from drink altogether; he sometimes went too
far in his pranks; but he could do without pranks altogether. Another
thing striking about Razumihin, no failure distressed him, and it
seemed as though no unfavourable
circumstances could crush him. He could lodge anywhere, and bear the extr
emes of cold and hunger. He was very poor, and kept himself entirely on w
hat he could earn by work of one sort or another. He knew of no end of reso
urces by which to earn money. He spent one whole winter without
lighting his stove,
and used to declare that he liked it better, because one slept more soundly i
n the cold. For the present he, too, had been obliged to give up the universit
y, but it was only for a time, and he was working with all his might to save
enough to return to his studies again. Raskolnikov had not been to see him f
or the last four months, and Razumihin did not even know his address.
About two months before,
they had met in the street, but Raskolnikov had turned away and even cross
ed to the other side that he might not be observed. And though Razumihin no
ticed him, he passed him by, as he did not want to annoy him.

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E‐BooksDirectory.com
 CHAPTER V

"Of course, I've been meaning lately to go

to Razumihin's to ask for work, to ask him to get me lessons or something...
" Raskolnikov thought, "but what help can he be to me now? Suppose he get
s me lessons, suppose he shares his last farthing with me, if he has any farth
ings, so that I could get some boots and make myself tidy enough to give le
ssons... hm... Well and what then? What shall I do with the few coppers I ea
rn? That's not what I want now. It's really absurd for me to go to Razumihin
...."
The question why he was now going to Razumihin agitated him
even more than he was himself aware;
he kept uneasily seeking for some sinister significance in this apparently or
dinary action.
"Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find a way out by mean
s of Razumihin alone?" he asked himself in perplexity.
He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long
musing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a
fantastic thought came into his head.
"Hm... to Razumihin's," he said all at once, calmly, as though he had reac
hed a final determination. "I shall go to Razumihin's of course, but... not no
w. I shall go to him... on the next day after It, when It will be over and ever
ything will begin afresh...."
And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.
"After It," he shouted, jumping up from the seat, "but is It really going
to happen? Is it possible it really
will happen?" He left the seat, and went off almost at a run; he meant to tur
n back, homewards, but the thought of going

home suddenly filled him with intense loathing; in

that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all this had for a month past
been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.
 His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel shivering
; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he began almost unco
nsciously, from some inner craving, to stare at all the objects before
him,
as though looking for something to distract his attention; but he did not succ
eed, and kept dropping every moment into brooding. When with a start he li
fted his head again and looked round, he forgot at once what he had
just
been thinking about and even where he was going. In this way he walked ri
ght across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came out on to the Lesser Neva, crossed th
e bridge and turned towards the islands. The greenness and freshness
were at
first restful to his weary eyes after the dust of the town and the huge houses
that hemmed him in and weighed upon him. Here there were no taverns,
no stifling closeness, no stench. But soon these new pleasant
sensations
passed into morbid irritability. Sometimes he stood still before a brightly
painted summer villa standing among
green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw in the distance smartly dr
essed women on the verandahs and balconies, and children running in
the gardens. The
flowers especially caught his attention; he gazed at them longer than at anyt
hing. He was met, too, by luxurious carriages and by men and women on ho
rseback; he watched them with curious eyes and forgot about them before th
ey had vanished from his sight. Once he stood still and counted his money;
he found he had thirty copecks. "Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya
for the letter, so I must have given forty‐
seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs yesterday,"

he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown reason, but he soon forgot

with what object he had taken the money out of his pocket. He recalled it o
n passing an eating‐house or tavern, and felt that he was hungry....
Going into
the tavern he drank a glass of vodka and ate a pie of some sort. He
finished eating it as he walked away. It was a
long while since he had taken vodka and it had an effect upon him at once,
though he only drank a wineglassful. His legs felt suddenly heavy and a
great drowsiness came upon him. He turned homewards, but reaching
Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped completely exhausted, turned off
the road into the bushes, sank down upon the grass
and instantly fell asleep.
In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality,
vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous ima
ges are created, but the setting and the whole picture are so truth‐
like and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, but so artistically
consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin or
Turgenev even, could never have
invented them in the waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in
the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and dera
nged nervous system.
Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was
back in his childhood in the little town of his birth. He was
a child about seven years old, walking into the
country with his father on the evening of a holiday. It was a grey and heavy
day, the country was exactly as he remembered it; indeed he recalled it far
more vividly in his dream than he had done in memory. The little town stoo
d on a level flat as bare as the hand, not even a willow near it; only in the f
ar distance, a copse lay, a dark blur on the very edge of the horizon. A few
paces beyond the last market garden

stood a tavern, a big tavern, which had always aroused in him a feeling o
f aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it with his father. There was al
ways a crowd there, always shouting, laughter and abuse, hideous hoarse si
nging and often fighting. Drunken and horrible‐
looking figures were hanging about the tavern. He used to cling close
to his father, trembling all over when he met them. Near
the tavern the road became a dusty track, the dust of which was always
black. It was a winding road, and about a hundred paces further on,
it turned to the right to
the graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard stood a stone church with a g
reen cupola where he used to go to mass two or three times a year with
his father and
mother, when a service was held in memory of his grandmother, who had l
ong been dead, and whom he had never seen. On these occasions they used
to take on a white dish tied up in a table napkin a special sort of rice puddi
ng with raisins stuck in it in the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the
old‐
fashioned, unadorned ikons and the old priest with the shaking head. Near h
is grandmother's grave, which was marked by a stone, was the little
grave of his younger brother who had died at six months old. He
did not
remember him at all, but he had been told about his little brother, and wh
enever he visited the graveyard he used religiously and reverently to
cross himself and to
bow down and kiss the little grave. And now he dreamt that he was walkin
g with his father past the tavern on the way to the graveyard; he was
holding his father's hand
and looking with dread at the tavern. A peculiar circumstance attracted his
attention: there seemed to be some kind of festivity going on, there were
crowds of gaily
dressed townspeople, peasant women, their husbands, and riff‐
raff of all sorts, all singing and all more or less drunk. Near the
 entrance of the tavern stood a cart, but a strange cart. It was one of those
big carts usually drawn by heavy cart‐
horses and laden with casks of wine or other heavy goods. He always like
d looking at those great cart‐
horses, with their long manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing alo
ng a perfect mountain with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier
going with a load than without it. But now, strange to say, in the shafts of s
uch a cart he saw a thin little sorrel beast, one of those peasants' nags whic
h he had often seen straining their utmost under a heavy load of wood or
hay, especially when the wheels
were stuck in the mud or in a rut. And the peasants would beat them so cru
elly, sometimes even about the nose and eyes, and he felt so sorry, so sorry
for them that he almost cried, and his mother always used to take him away
from the window. All of a sudden there was a great uproar
of shouting, singing and the balalaïka, and from the tavern a number of
big and very drunken peasants came
out, wearing red and blue shirts and coats thrown over their shoulders.
"Get in, get in!" shouted one of them, a young thick‐
necked peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot. "I'll take you all, get in!"

But at once there was an outbreak of laughter

and exclamations in the crowd.
"Take us all with a beast like that!"
"Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in
such a cart?"
"And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!"
"Get in, I'll take you all," Mikolka shouted again, leaping first into the car
t, seizing the reins and standing straight up in front. "The bay has gone with
Matvey," he shouted from the cart
—"and this brute, mates, is just breaking my
 heart, I feel as if I could kill her. She's just eating her head off. Get in, I te
ll you! I'll make her gallop! She'll gallop!" and he picked up the whip, prep
aring himself with relish to flog the little mare.
"Get in! Come along!" The crowd laughed. "D'you hear, she'll gallop!"
"Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years!"
"She'll jog along!"
"Don't you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, get ready!"
"All right! Give it to her!"
They all clambered into Mikolka's cart, laughing
and making jokes. Six men got in and there was still room for more. They h
auled in a fat, rosy‐
cheeked woman. She was dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded headd
ress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and laughing. The crow
d round them was laughing too and indeed, how could they help laughing?
That wretched nag was to drag all the cartload of them at a gallop! Two yo
ung fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready to help
Mikolka. With the cry of "now," the mare tugged with all her might, but far
from galloping, could scarcely move forward; she struggled with her legs,
gasping and shrinking from the blows of the three whips which were showe
red upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and in the crowd was redou
bled, but Mikolka flew into a rage and
furiously thrashed the mare, as though he supposed she really could gallop.

"Let me get in, too, mates," shouted a young man in the crowd whose app
etite was aroused.

"Get in, all get in," cried Mikolka, "she will draw you all.
I'll beat her to death!" And he thrashed and thrashed at the
mare, beside himself with fury.
 "Father, father," he cried, "father, what are they doing? Father, they are be
ating the poor horse!"
"Come along, come along!" said his father. "They are drunken and
foolish, they are in fun; come away,
don't look!" and he tried to draw him away, but he tore himself away from
his hand, and, beside himself with horror, ran to the horse. The poor beast
was in a bad way. She was gasping, standing still, then tugging again
and almost falling.
"Beat her to death," cried Mikolka, "it's come to that. I'll do for her!"
"What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?"
shouted an old man in the crowd.
"Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling such a car
tload," said another.
"You'll kill her," shouted the third.
"Don't meddle! It's my property, I'll do what I choose. Get in, more of you
! Get in, all of you! I will have her go at a gallop!..."
All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered everything: the
mare, roused by the shower of blows, began feebly kicking. Even
the old man could not
help smiling. To think of a wretched little beast like that trying to kick!
Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to
the mare to beat her about the ribs. One ran each side.
"Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes," cried
Mikolka.
"Give us a song, mates," shouted someone in the cart
and everyone in the cart joined in a riotous song, jingling a
 tambourine and whistling. The woman went on cracking nuts and laughing
.
... He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her being whipped acr
oss the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he felt choking, his tears wer
e streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with the whip across the face, h
e did not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he rushed up to
the grey‐headed old man with the grey beard, who was shaking his
head in disapproval.
One woman seized him by the hand and would have taken him away, but he
tore himself from her and ran back to the mare. She was almost at the last g
asp, but began kicking
once more.
"I'll teach you to kick," Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw down the
whip, bent forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a long, thick s
haft, he took hold of one end with both hands and with an effort brandished
it over the mare.
"He'll crush her," was shouted round him. "He'll kill
her!"
"It's my property," shouted Mikolka and brought
the shaft down with a swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy thud.
"Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you
stopped?" shouted voices in the crowd.
And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second time on th
e spine of the luckless mare. She sank back on her haunches, but lurched
forward and
tugged forward with all her force, tugged first on one side and then on the
other, trying to move the cart. But the
six whips were attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raised
again and fell upon her a third time, then a

fourth, with heavy measured blows. Mikolka was in a fury

 that he could not kill her at one blow.
"She's a tough one," was shouted in the crowd.
"She'll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her," said an a
dmiring spectator in the crowd.
"Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off," shouted a third.
"I'll show you! Stand off," Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw down t
he shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron crowbar. "Look ou
t," he shouted, and with all his might he dealt a stunning blow at the poor m
are. The blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull, but the bar f
ell again with a swinging blow on her back and she fell on the ground like
a log.
"Finish her off," shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of the c
art. Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized anything they
could come across
— whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dying mare. Mikolka stood on one si
de and began dealing random blows with the crowbar. The mare stretched
out her head, drew a long breath and died.
"You butchered her," someone shouted in the crowd.
"Why wouldn't she gallop then?"
"My property!" shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the
bar in his hands. He stood as
though regretting that he had nothing more to beat.
"No mistake about it, you are not a Christian," many voices were shouting
in the crowd.
But the poor boy, beside himself, made his
way, screaming, through the crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round he
r bleeding dead head and kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips.... Th
en he jumped up and flew in a frenzy with his little fists out at
Mikolka. At that
 instant his father, who had been running after
him, snatched him up and carried him out of the crowd.
"Come along, come! Let us go home," he said to him.
"Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!"
he sobbed, but his voice broke and the words came in shrieks from his pan
ting chest.
"They are drunk.... They are brutal... it's not
our business!" said his father. He put his arms round his father but he felt c
hoked, choked. He tried to draw a breath, to cry out—and woke up.
He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and s
tood up in terror.
"Thank God, that was only a dream," he said,
sitting down under a tree and drawing deep breaths. "But what is it? Is it s
ome fever coming on? Such a hideous dream!"
He felt utterly broken: darkness and confusion were in his soul. He rested
his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands.
"Good God!" he cried, "can it be, can it be, that I shall really take an axe,
that I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open... that I shall tread in
the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble; hide, all spattered
in the blood... with the axe.... Good God, can it be?"
He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.
"But why am I going on like this?" he continued, sitting up again, as it we
re in profound amazement. "I knew that I could never bring myself to it,
so what have I
been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday, yesterday, when I went to
make that... experiment, yesterday I
realised completely that I could never bear to do it.... Why am I going over
it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I
said myself that it was base,

loathsome, vile, vile... the very thought of it made me feel

 sick and filled me with horror.
"No, I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Granted, granted that there is no fla
w in all that reasoning, that all that I have concluded this last month is
clear as day, true
as arithmetic.... My God! Anyway I couldn't bring myself to it! I couldn't d
o it, I couldn't do it! Why, why then am I still...?"
He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though surprised at
finding himself in this place, and
went towards the bridge. He was pale, his eyes glowed, he was exhausted
in every limb, but he seemed suddenly to breathe more easily. He
felt he had cast off that
fearful burden that had so long been weighing upon him, and all at once the
re was a sense of relief and peace in his soul. "Lord," he prayed, "show
me my path—I renounce that accursed... dream of mine."
Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the glowi
ng red sun setting in the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness he was not co
nscious of fatigue. It was as though an abscess that had been forming
for
a month past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom, freedom! He was f
ree from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession!
Later on, when he recalled that time and all that happened to him
during those days, minute by
minute, point by point, he was superstitiously impressed by one circumstanc
e, which, though in itself not very exceptional, always seemed to him afterw
ards the predestined turning‐
point of his fate. He could never understand and explain to himself why, wh
en he was tired and worn out, when it would have been more convenient for
him to go home by the shortest and most direct way, he had returned by the
Hay Market where he had no need to go. It was obviously

and quite unnecessarily out of his way, though not much so. It is true that i
t happened to him dozens of times to return home without noticing what
streets he
passed through. But why, he was always asking himself, why had such an i
mportant, such a decisive and at the same time such an absolutely chance m
eeting happened in the Hay Market (where he had moreover no reason to g
o) at the very hour, the very minute of his life when he was just in the very
mood and in the very circumstances in which that meeting was able to exert
the gravest and most decisive influence on his whole destiny? As
though it had been lying in wait for him on purpose!
It was about nine o'clock when he crossed the
Hay Market. At the tables and the barrows, at the booths and the shops,
all the market people were closing their establishments or clearing
away and packing up their wares and, like their customers, were
going home. Rag pickers and costermongers of all kinds were
crowding round the taverns in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Hay
Market. Raskolnikov particularly liked this place and the neighbouring alle
ys, when he wandered aimlessly in the streets. Here his rags did not attract
contemptuous attention, and one could walk about in any attire without sca
ndalising people. At the corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had
two tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, etc. They,
too, had got up to go home, but were lingering in conversation with
a
friend, who had just come up to them. This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna,
or, as everyone called her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of the old
pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna, whom Raskolnikov had visited the
previous day to pawn his watch and make his experiment.... He
already knew all about Lizaveta and she knew him a little too. She was a

single woman of about thirty‐five, tall, clumsy,

timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was a complete slave and went i
n fear and trembling of her sister, who made her work day and night,
and even beat her. She
was standing with a bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening
earnestly and doubtfully. They were talking
of something with special warmth. The moment Raskolnikov caught sight
of her, he was overcome by a
strange sensation as it were of intense astonishment, though there was nothi
ng astonishing about this meeting.
 "You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna," the huck
ster was saying aloud. "Come round to‐
morrow about seven. They will be here too."
"To‐
morrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to make
up her mind.
"Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna,"
gabbled the huckster's wife, a lively
little woman. "I look at you, you are like some little babe. And she is not y
our own sister either‐nothing but a step‐
sister and what a hand she keeps over you!"
"But this time don't say a word to Alyona Ivanovna," her husband
interrupted; "that's my advice, but
come round to us without asking. It will be worth your while. Later on you
r sister herself may have a notion."
"Am I to come?"
"About seven o'clock to‐
morrow. And they will be here. You will be able to decide for yourself."
"And we'll have a cup of tea," added his wife.
"All right, I'll come," said Lizaveta, still pondering, and she began slowl
y moving away.
Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly,
unnoticed, trying not to miss a word.
His first amazement was followed by a thrill of horror, like a

shiver running down his spine. He had learnt, he

had suddenly quite unexpectedly learnt, that the next day at seven o'clock
Lizaveta, the old woman's sister and
only companion, would be away from home and that therefore at seven
o'clock precisely the old woman would be left alone.
 He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in like a man condem
ned to death. He thought of nothing and was incapable of thinking; but
he felt suddenly in
his whole being that he had no more freedom of thought, no will, and that
everything was suddenly and irrevocably decided.
Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, he coul
d not reckon on a more certain step towards the success of the plan than that
which had just presented itself. In any case, it would have been difficult to
find out beforehand and with certainty, with
greater exactness and less risk, and without dangerous inquiries and investi
gations, that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whose life an
attempt was contemplated, would be at home and entirely alone.

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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 to
wn and been reduced to poverty were selling their household goods and clo
thes, all women's things. As the things would have fetched little in the
market, they were looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta's business.
She undertook such jobs and
was frequently employed, as she was very honest and always fixed a fair pr
ice and stuck to it. She spoke as a rule little and, as we have said already, s
he was very submissive and timid.
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'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 st
range idea was pecking at his brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very
much absorbed him.
Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he d
id 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.
"She is first‐
rate," he said. "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 takin
g a pledge for a rouble. Lots of our fellows have had dealings with her. Bu
t she is an awful old harpy...."
 And he began describing how spiteful and
uncertain she was, how if you were only a day late with your interest the p
ledge was lost; how she gave a quarter of the value of an article and took fi
ve 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 w
as continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small
child, though Lizaveta was at least six feet high.
"There's a phenomenon for you," cried the student and he laughed.

They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her with a
peculiar relish and was
continually laughing and the officer listened with great interest and asked hi
m 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 ki
nd without her sister's permission. The old woman had already made her wi
ll, and Lizaveta knew of it, and by this will she would not get a farthing; not
hing but the movables, chairs and so on; all the money was left to a monaste
ry in the province of N
——, that prayers might be said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower
rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouth in appearance, remarka
bly 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 studen
t expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact
that Lizaveta was continually with child.
"But you say she is hideous?" observed the officer.
"Yes, she is so dark‐skinned and looks like a
soldier dressed up, but you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a go
od‐
natured face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it is that lots of people
are attracted by her. She is such a soft, gentle creature, ready to put up with
anything, always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile
is really very sweet."
"You seem to find her attractive yourself," laughed the officer.

"From her queerness. No, I'll tell you what. I could kill that damned old
woman and make off with her money, I assure you, without the faintest
conscience‐prick," the student added with warmth. The officer
laughed again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!
"Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,"
the student said hotly. "I was joking of 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 und
erstand? You understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand," answered the officer, watching his excited comp
anion attentively.
"Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for w
ant of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good deed
s could be done and helped, on that old woman's money which will be buri
ed in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on the
right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from ruin, from
vice, from the Lock hospitals—and all with her money. Kill her,
take
her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of humanity
and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny crime be
wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands
would be saved from
corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives in exchange—
it's simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of that sickly, stupid,
ill‐
natured old woman in the balance of existence! No more than the life of a l
ouse, of a black‐
beetle, less in fact because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing ou
t the lives of others; the other day

she bit Lizaveta's finger out of spite; it almost had to be amputated."

"Of course she does not deserve to live," remarked the officer, "but there
it is, it's nature."
"Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but for t
hat, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that, there
would never have been a single great man. They talk of duty, conscience
—I don't want to say anything against duty and conscience;—but the point
is, what do we mean by them. Stay, I
have another question to ask you. Listen!"
"No, you stay, I'll ask you a question. Listen!"
"Well?"
"You are talking and speechifying away, but tell
me, would you kill the old woman yourself?"
"Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it.... It's nothing to do wit
h me...."
"But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there's no justice about it.... L
et us have another game."
Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary youthf
ul 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 v
ery moment when his own brain was just conceiving... the very same ideas
? 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 ab
out 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 b
een 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 h
e was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised with reli
ef that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over h
im, as it were crushing him.
He slept an extraordinarily long time and
without dreaming. Nastasya, coming into his room at ten o'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.
"My goodness, how he sleeps!" she cried indignantly. "And he is always
asleep."
He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in his ga
rret and sank back on the sofa again.
"Going to sleep again," cried Nastasya. "Are you ill, eh?"
He made no reply.
"Do you want some tea?"
"Afterwards," he said with an effort, closing his
eyes again and turning to the wall.
Nastasya stood over him.
"Perhaps he really is ill," she said, turned and went out. She came in agai
n at two o'clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood
untouched. Nastasya
felt positively offended and began wrathfully rousing him.
"Why are you lying like a log?" she shouted, looking at him with repulsion
.
 He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and
stared at the floor.
"Are you ill or not?" asked Nastasya and again received no answer. "You'
d better go out and get a breath of air," she said after a pause. "Will you eat
it or not?"
"Afterwards," he said weakly. "You can go."
And he motioned her out.
She remained a little longer, looked at him
with compassion and went out.
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, t
ook up a spoon and began to eat.
He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite, as it were mechan
ically. His head ached less. After his meal he stretched himself on the sofa a
gain, 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 Egyp
t, in some sort of oasis. The caravan was resting, the camels were peacefull
y 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 gurgl
ing close by. And it was so cool, it was wonderful, wonderful, blue, cold w
ater 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 bea
t 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—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 thi
s 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 p
aper. 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 throug
h 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 h
ead of the axe in the noose, and it would hang quietly under his arm on the i
nside. Putting his hand in his coat pocket, he could hold the end of the handl
e all the way, so that it did not swing; and as the coat was very full, a regul
ar sack in fact, it could not be seen from outside that he was holding someth
ing with the hand that was in

the pocket. This noose, too, he had designed a fortnight

before.
When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little opening bet
ween his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and drew out the ple
dge, 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 add
ed 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 th
at it would be very difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert the attenti
on 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 "thing" was made of wood. All this had been stored by him beforehand
under the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when he heard someone
suddenly about in the yard.
"It struck six long ago."
"Long ago! My God!"
He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and began to descend hi
s thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had still the most imp
ortant thing to do—
to steal the axe from the kitchen. That the deed must be done with an axe he
had decided long ago. He had also a pocket pruning‐
knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still less on his own strength, a
nd so resolved finally on the

axe. We may note in passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the final reso
lutions taken by him in the matter; they had one strange characteristic: the m
ore 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.
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 unsettle
d points and uncertainties remained. As
for getting the axe, that trifling business cost him no anxiety, for nothing co
uld be easier. Nastasya was continually out of the house, especially in the e
venings; she would run in to the neighbours or to a shop, and always left th
e 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 late
r (when everything was over) go in and put it back again. But these were d
oubtful points. Supposing he returned an hour later to put it back, and Nasta
sya 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—
that would mean suspicion or at least grounds for suspicion.
But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and in
deed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off trifling
details, until he could believe in it all. 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 "com
e, let us go and try it—why dream about it!"—
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 co
uld 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 w
ere forcing and drawing him to it.
At first—long before indeed—he had been
much occupied with one question; why almost all crimes are so badly conc
ealed 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 attacke
d a man like a disease, developed gradually and reached its highest point ju
st 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 i
ndividual case, and then passed off like any other disease. The question wh
ether 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.
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 "not a crime...." We will omit all the process by means of
which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have run too far ahead already.
... We may add only that the practical, purely material difficulties of the aff
air occupied a secondary position in his mind. "One has but to keep all one
'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...." But this preparation had never been
begun. His final decisions were what he came to trust least, and when the h
our struck, it all came to pass quite differently, as it were accidentally and
unexpectedly.
One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even
left the staircase. When he reached the
landlady's kitchen, the door of which was open as usual, he glanced
cautiously in to see whether, in
Nastasya's absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether the d
oor to her own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when he w
ent 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, taki
ng linen out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she left off han
ging 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. B
ut it was the end of everything; he had not the axe! He was overwhelmed.

"What made me think," he reflected, as he went under the gateway, "what

made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment! Wh
y, why, why did I assume this so certainly?"
He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have
laughed at himself in his anger.... A dull animal rage boiled
within him.
He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into
the street, to go a walk for appearance' sake was revolting; to go back to
his room, even more revolting. "And what a chance I have lost for
ever!" he muttered,
standing aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter's little dark
room, which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter's
room, two paces away from
him, something shining under the bench to the right caught his eye.... He look
ed about him—
nobody. He approached the room on tiptoe, went down two steps into it and
in a faint voice called the porter. "Yes, not at home!
Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the door is wide open." 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! "When reason fails, the devil helps!" he thought
with a strange grin. This chance raised his spirits extraordinarily.
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. "Good heavens! I had the money
the day before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!" A curse ros
e from the bottom of his soul.

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 sam
e time to go someway round, so as to approach the house from the other side
....
When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes t
hought 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 th
e 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 incl
ined to live in those parts of the town where there are no gardens nor founta
ins; 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. "What nonsense!"
he thought, "better think of nothing at all!"
 "So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that me
ets them on the way," flashed through his mind, but simply flashed, like light
ning; 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. "What! can it be half‐
past seven? Impossible, it must be fast!"
Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very mom
ent, 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 wa
ggon had scarcely had time to drive through into the yard, before he had sli
pped in a flash to the right. On the other side of the waggon he could hear s
houting and quarrelling; but no one noticed him and no one met him. Many
windows looking into that huge quadrangular yard were open at that momen
t, but he did not raise his head—
he had not the strength to. The staircase leading to the old woman's room w
as close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was already on the stairs....

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 d
id not glance at him. He stood still, thought a minute and went on.
"Of course it would be better if they had not been here, but... it's two store
ys above them."
And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the
flat opposite, the empty one. The
flat underneath the old woman's was apparently empty also; the visiting ca
rd nailed on the door had been torn off— they had gone away!... He was
out of breath. For
one instant the thought floated through his mind "Shall I go back?" But he m
ade no answer and began listening at the old woman's door, a dead silence.
 Then he listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently... then lo
oked about him for the last time, pulled himself together, drew himself up,
and once more tried the axe in the noose. "Am I very pale?" he
wondered. "Am I not evidently agitated?

She is mistrustful.... Had I better wait a little longer... till my heart leaves
off thumping?"
But his heart did not leave off. On the 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 l
ater he rang again, more loudly.
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 hea
rd 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 an
d 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 no
t have the appearance of hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly, soberly, a
nd 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 suc
h cunning, for his mind was as it were clouded at moments and he was almo
st 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 sus
picious eyes stared at him out of the darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost his he
ad and nearly made a great mistake.
 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 g
o 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 somet
hing, but seemed unable to speak and stared with open eyes at him.
"Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna," he began, trying to speak easily, but hi
s voice would not obey him, it broke and shook. "I have come... I have brou
ght something... but we'd better come in... to the light...."
And leaving her, he passed straight into the
room uninvited. The old woman ran after him; her tongue was unloosed.
"Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you
want?"
"Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov... here, I brought yo
u the pledge I promised the other day..." And he held out the pledge.
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 n
ot say a word for another half minute, he thought he would have run away f
rom her.
"Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?" he said suddenl
y, also with malice. "Take it if you like, if not I'll go elsewhere, I am in a hu
rry."
 He had not even thought of saying this, but it
was suddenly said of itself. The old woman recovered herself, and her
visitor's resolute tone evidently restored her confidence.
"But why, my good sir, all of a minute.... What is it?" she asked, looking a
t the pledge.
"The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know."
She held out her hand.
"But how pale you are, to be sure... and your hands are trembling too? Ha
ve you been bathing, or what?"
"Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help getting pale... if you've no
thing to eat," he added, with difficulty articulating the words.
His strength was failing him again. But his
answer sounded like the truth; the old woman took the pledge.
"What is it?" she asked once more,
scanning Raskolnikov intently, and weighing the pledge in her hand.
"A thing... cigarette case.... Silver.... Look at it."
"It does not seem somehow like silver.... How he has
wrapped it up!"
Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all her w
indows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him altogether for so
me 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 le
t the axe slip and fall.... A sudden giddiness came over him.
 "But what has he tied it up like this for?" the old woman
cried with vexation and moved towards him.
He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe quite out, swung it wi
th both arms, scarcely conscious of himself, and almost without effort,
almost mechanically, brought the blunt side down on her head. He seemed n
ot to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he had once brought the axe
down, his strength returned to him.
The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light hair, streaked
with grey, thickly smeared with grease, was plaited in a rat's tail and fasten
ed 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 ve
ry faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on the floor, raising her hands to h
er head. In one hand she still held "the pledge." Then he dealt her
another
and another blow with the blunt side and on the same spot. The blood gushe
d as from an overturned glass, the body fell back. He stepped back, let it fal
l, and at once bent over her face; she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be start
ing out of their sockets, the brow and the whole face were drawn and contor
ted convulsively.
He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her po
cket (trying to avoid the streaming body)—the same right‐
hand pocket from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in ful
l 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 th
e 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 bed
room with them. It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy imag
es. 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. Leavi
ng the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and lift
ed it once more over the old woman, but did not bring it
down. There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and examinin
g 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 tugg
ed at it, but the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soake
d with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but somethin
g held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised the axe agai
n to cut the string from above on the body, but did not dare, and with difficu
lty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood, after two minutes' hurried ef
fort, he
 cut the string and took it off without touching the body with the axe; he wa
s not mistaken—
it was a purse. On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and on
e of copper, and an image in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy c
hamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed very f
ull; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it, flung the crosse
s on the old woman's body and rushed back into the bedroom, this time taki
ng the axe with him.
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 w
ould 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 thi
s 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. A
nd so it was; there was a good‐
sized box under the bed, at least a yard in length, with an arched lid covere
d 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. "It's red, and on red blood will be
less noticeable," the thought passed through his mind; then he

suddenly came to himself. "Good God, am I going out of my senses?" he t

hought with terror.
 But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a
gold watch slipped from under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them all
over. There turned out to be various articles
made of gold among the clothes—probably all pledges, unredeemed
or waiting to be redeemed—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....
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 fo
r a minute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited hold
ing his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of the bed
room.
In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a
big bundle in her arms. She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sist
er, white as a sheet and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing h
im 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 sti
ll 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'
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 ov
er 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 th
e 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 u
p her bundle, dropped it again and ran into the entry.
Fear gained more and more mastery over
him, especially after this second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to ru
n 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 o
vercome 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 u
p, and not from fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had do
ne. The feeling of loathing especially surged up within him and grew strong
er every minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even into the r
oom for anything in the world.
But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take p
ossession 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 buck
et 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, sn
atched a piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the window, and bega
n washing his hands in the bucket. When they were clean, he took out the ax
e, 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 w
as hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and then he was a long while attent
ively examining the axe at the window. There was no trace left on it, only t
he 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 ki
tchen, 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 roo
m, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind—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.
"Good God!" he muttered "I must fly, fly," and he rushed into the entry. But
here a shock of terror awaited him such as he had never known before.
He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer doo
r from the stairs, at which he had not long before waited and rung, was stan
ding unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all the time, a
ll that time! The old woman had not shut it after
him perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen

Lizaveta afterwards! And how could he, how could he have

failed to reflect that she must have come in somehow! She
could not have come through the wall!
He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.
"But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away...."
He unfastened the latch, opened the door and
began listening on the staircase.
He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the
gateway, two voices were loudly and
shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding. "What are they about?" 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 bega
n going downstairs humming a tune. "How is it they all make such a
noise?" flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door
and waited. At last all was still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a
step towards the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps.
The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but he rem
embered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he began
for some reason
to suspect that this was someone coming there, to the fourth floor, to the ol
d woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar, significant? The
steps were heavy, even
and unhurried. Now he had passed the first floor, now he was mounting h
igher, 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 on
ce that he was turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is bein
g pursued, nearly caught and

will be killed, and is rooted to the spot and cannot even

move one's arms.
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 hi
m. 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 vis
itor was by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one ano
ther, as he had just before been standing with the old woman, when the door
divided them and he was listening.
The visitor panted several times. "He must be a big, fat man," thought Ras
kolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream indeed. The
visitor took hold of the
bell and rang it loudly.
As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of
something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite
seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged
violently
and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror at th
e hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every minute th
at the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem possible, so viol
ently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the fastening, but he might
be aware of it. A giddiness came over him again. "I shall fall down!"
flashed through his mind, but the unknown began to speak and he
recovered himself at
once.
"What's up? Are they asleep or murdered? D‐
damn them!" he bawled in a thick voice, "Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old
witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my beauty! open
the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?"

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.
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.
"You don't say there's no one at home," the new‐comer cried in a
cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the
first visitor, who still went on pulling the bell. "Good evening, Koch."
"From his voice he must be quite young," thought Raskolnikov.
"Who the devil can tell? I've almost broken the lock," answered Koch. "B
ut how do you come to know me?
"Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times running at billiard
s at Gambrinus'."
"Oh!"
 "So they are not at home? That's queer. It's awfully stupid though.
Where could the old woman have gone? I've come on business."
"Yes; and I have business with her, too."
"Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aie—aie!
And I was hoping to get some money!" cried the young
man.
"We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this
time for? The old witch fixed the time for me to come
herself. It's out of my way. And where the devil she can have got to, I can'
t make out. She sits here from year's end to year's end, the old hag; her legs
are bad and yet here all of a sudden she is out for a walk!"
"Hadn't we better ask the porter?"
"What?"
"Where she's gone and when she'll be back."

"Hm.... Damn it all!... We might ask.... But you know she never does go a
nywhere."
And he once more tugged at the door‐handle.
"Damn it all. There's nothing to be done, we must go!"
"Stay!" cried the young man suddenly. "Do you see how the door shakes i
f you pull it?"
"Well?"
"That shows it's not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how
the hook clanks?"
"Well?"
 "Why, don't you see? That proves that one of them is at home. If they
were all out, they would have locked
the door from the outside with the key and not with the hook from inside. T
here, do you hear how the hook is clanking? To fasten the hook on the insid
e they must be at home, don't you see. So there they are sitting inside and do
n't open the door!"
"Well! And so they must be!" cried Koch, astonished. "What are they abo
ut in there?" And he began furiously shaking the door.
"Stay!" cried the young man again. "Don't pull at it! There must be
something wrong.... Here, you've
been ringing and pulling at the door and still they don't open! So either they
've both fainted or..."
"What?"
"I tell you what. Let's go fetch the porter, let him wake
them up."
"All right."
Both were going down.
"Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter."
"What for?"
"Well, you'd better."
"All right."

"I'm studying the law you see! It's evident, e‐vi‐dent there's
something wrong here!" the young man
cried hotly, and he ran downstairs.
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 f
astened by the hook. Then puffing and panting he bent down and began look
ing at the keyhole: but the key was in the lock on the inside and so nothing c
ould be
seen.
Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was in a sort of deliri
um. He was even making ready to fight when they should come in. While the
y 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 wa
s tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them, while they could not open the do
or! "Only make haste!" was the thought that flashed through his mind.
"But what the devil is he about?..." Time was passing, one minute, and an
other—no one came. Koch began to be restless.
"What the devil?" 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 a
way.
"Good heavens! What am I to do?"
Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door—
there was no sound. Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closin
g the door as thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs.

He had gone down three flights when he

suddenly heard a loud voice below—
where could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going back to t
he flat.
"Hey there! Catch the brute!"
Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting,
and rather fell than ran down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.
"Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!"
 The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was s
till. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast began
noisily mounting the
stairs. There were three or four of them. He distinguished the ringing voice
of the young man. "They!"
Filled with despair he went straight to meet
them, feeling "come what must!" If they stopped him—all was lost; if
they let him pass—all was lost too; they
would remember him. They were approaching; they were only a flight fro
m him—
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 ha
d 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 ha
d 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 stair
s.
No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through t
he gateway and turned to the left in the
street.

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 succee
ded 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 upstair
s. And meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much, though the next turni
ng was still nearly a hundred yards away. "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!"
At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive. He
re 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. "My word, he has been going
it!" someone shouted at him when he came out on the canal
bank.
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 wa
s almost falling from fatigue, he went
a long way round so as to get home from quite a different direction.
He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his
house! he was already on the staircase

before he recollected the axe. And yet he had a very grave problem
before 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 r
estore the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody's yard. But it all ha
ppened fortunately, the door of the porter'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, "
What do you want?" he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. Bu
t 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 befo
re. He met no one, not a soul, afterwards on the way to his room; the landla
dy's door was shut. When he was in his room, he flung himself on the sofa j
ust as he was—
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 on
e, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts....

Ebd
E‐BooksDirectory.com

PART II

CHAPTER I

So he lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed to wake up, and at s
uch moments he noticed that it was far into the night, but it did not occur to h
im to get up. At last he noticed that it was beginning to get light. He was lyin
g on his back, still dazed from his recent oblivion. Fearful, despairing cries
rose shrilly from the street, sounds which he heard every night, indeed, unde
r his window after two o'clock. They woke him up now.
"Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns," he thought, "it's past
two o'clock," and at once he leaped up, as though someone had pulled him f
rom the sofa.
"What! Past two o'clock!"
He sat down on the sofa—and instantly recollected everything! All
at once, in one flash, he recollected everything.
 For the first moment he thought he was going mad. A dreadful chill came o
ver him; but the chill was from the fever that had begun long before in his sl
eep. Now he was suddenly taken with violent shivering, so that his
teeth chattered and all his limbs were shaking. He opened the door and
began listening—everything in the house was asleep. With amazement
he gazed at himself and everything in the room around him,
wondering how
he could have come in the night before without fastening the

door, and have flung himself on the sofa

without undressing, without even taking his hat off. It had fallen off and wa
s lying on the floor near his pillow.
"If anyone had come in, what would he have thought? That I'm drunk but...
"
He rushed to the window. There was light enough, and he began hurriedly
looking himself all over from head to foot, all his clothes; were there no tra
ces? 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.
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 trou
sers. He picked up a big claspknife and cut off the frayed threads.
There seemed to be nothing more.
Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he had taken out of t
he old woman's box were still in his pockets! He had not thought till then of
taking them out and hiding them! He had not even thought of them while he
was examining his clothes! What next? Instantly
he rushed to take them out and fling them on the table. When he had pulled o
ut everything, and turned the pocket inside out to be sure there was nothing l
eft, he carried the whole heap to the corner. The paper had come off the bott
om of the wall and hung there in tatters. He began stuffing all the things into
the hole under the paper: "They're in! All out of sight, and the purse too!" he
thought gleefully, getting up and gazing blankly at the hole which bulged out
 more than ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with horror;
"My God!" he whispered in despair: "what's the matter
with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to hide things?"

He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had only thought of mo

ney, and so had not prepared a hiding‐place.
"But now, now, what am I glad of?" he thought, "Is that hiding things? My
reason's deserting me—simply!"
He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once shaken by
another unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically he drew from a
chair beside him his
old student's winter coat, which was still warm though almost in rags, cover
ed himself up with it and once more sank into drowsiness and delirium. He
lost consciousness.
Not more than five minutes had passed when
he jumped up a second time, and at once pounced in a frenzy on his clothes
again.
"How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I have not tak
en the loop off the armhole! I forgot it, forgot a thing like that! Such a piece
of evidence!"
He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw the bits amon
g his linen under the pillow.
"Pieces of torn linen couldn't rouse suspicion, whatever happened; I think
not, I think not, any way!" 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 hi
m, began to be an insufferable torture.
"Surely it isn't beginning already! Surely it isn't
my punishment coming upon me? It is!"
 The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers
were actually lying on the floor in the middle of the room, where anyone co
ming in would see them!
 "What is the matter with me!" he cried again, like one distraught.
Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes were c
overed 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. "Ah! Then there
must be blood on the pocket too, for I put the wet purse in my pocket!"
In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!—
there were traces, stains on the lining of the pocket!
"So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some sense and
memory, since I guessed it of myself," he thought triumphantly, with a
deep sigh of relief;
"it's simply the weakness of fever, a moment's delirium," and he tore the
whole lining out of the left pocket of
his trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the sock
which poked out from the boot, he
fancied there were traces! He flung off his boots; "traces indeed! The tip o
f the sock was soaked with blood;" he must have unwarily stepped into that
pool.... "But what am I to do with this now? Where am I to put the sock an
d rags and pocket?"
He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the room.

"In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of
all. Burn them? But what can I burn them with? There are
no matches even. No, better go out and throw it all away somewhere.
Yes, better throw it away," he
repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, "and at once, this minute, without
lingering..."

But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again

the unbearable icy shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over hi
m.
And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to "g
o off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so that it may b
e out of sight and done with, at once, at once!" Several times he tried to rise
from the sofa, but could not.
He was thoroughly waked up at last by a
violent knocking at his door.
"Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps
sleeping here!" shouted Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. "For w
hole days together he's snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell y
ou. It's past ten."
"Maybe he's not at home," said a man's voice.
"Ha! that's the porter's voice.... What does he want?"
He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a positive
pain.
"Then who can have latched the door?"
retorted Nastasya. "He's taken to bolting himself in! As if he were worth ste
aling! Open, you stupid, wake up!"
"What do they want? Why the porter? All's discovered. Resist or open? C
ome what may!..."
He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.
His room was so small that he could undo the latch
without leaving the bed. Yes; the porter and
Nastasya were standing there.
Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and de
sperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey folded paper s
ealed with bottle‐
wax.
 "A notice from the office," he announced, as he gave
him the paper.

"From what office?"

"A summons to the police office, of course. You know
which office."
"To the police?... What for?..."
"How can I tell? You're sent for, so you go."
The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to g
o away.
"He's downright ill!" observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him. The
porter turned his head for a moment. "He's been in a fever since yesterday,
" she added.
Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without
opening it. "Don't you get up then," Nastasya went on
compassionately, seeing that he
was letting his feet down from the sofa. "You're ill, and so don't go; there's
no such hurry. What have you got there?"
He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his trouser
s, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep with them in h
is hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it, he remembered that half waking up i
n his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand and so fallen asleep a
gain.
"Look at the rags he's collected and sleeps with them, as though he has go
t hold of a treasure..."
And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.
Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his eyes intently
upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational reflection at that mo
ment, he felt that no one would behave like that with a person who
was going to be arrested. "But... the police?"
"You'd better have some tea! Yes? I'll bring it, there's some left."
"No... I'm going; I'll go at once," he muttered, getting on
to his feet.

"Why, you'll never get downstairs!"

"Yes, I'll go."
"As you please."
She followed the porter out.
At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags.
"There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt, and
rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion could
distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed,
thank God!" Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice
and began reading; he was a long while 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.
"But when has such a thing happened? I never
have anything to do with the police! And why just to‐
day?" he thought in agonising bewilderment. "Good God, only get it over s
oon!"
He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into laughter—
not at the idea of prayer, but at himself.
He began, hurriedly dressing. "If I'm lost, I am lost, I don't care! Shall I
put the sock on?" he
suddenly wondered, "it will get dustier still and the traces will be gone."
 But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in loathing and h
orror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no other socks, he picked it
up and put it on again—and again he laughed.
"That's all conventional, that's all relative, merely a way of looking at it,"
he thought in a flash, but only on the top surface of his mind, while he
was shuddering all
over, "there, I've got it on! I have finished by getting it on!"

But his laughter was quickly followed by despair.

"No, it's too much for me..." he thought. His legs shook. "From fear," he m
uttered. His head swam and ached with fever. "It's a trick! They want to
decoy me there
and confound me over everything," he mused, as he went out on to the
stairs—"the worst of it is I'm almost light‐
headed... I may blurt out something stupid..."
On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things just as they
were in the hole in the wall, "and very likely, it's on purpose to search when
I'm out," he thought, and stopped short. But he was possessed by such desp
air, such cynicism of misery, if one may so call it, that with a wave of his ha
nd he went on. "Only to get it over!"
In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain had
fallen all those days. Again 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—
as a man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out into the street on a brigh
t sunny day.
When he reached the turning into the street, in
an agony of trepidation he looked down it... at the house... and at once ave
rted his eyes.
"If they question me, perhaps I'll simply tell,"
he thought, as he drew near the police‐station.
 The police‐
station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had lately been moved to new ro
oms on the fourth floor of a new house. He had been once for a moment in th
e 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. "A
house‐porter, no doubt; so

then, the office is here," and he began ascending the stairs on the chance.
He did not want to ask questions of anyone.
"I'll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything..." he thought, as he re
ached the fourth floor.
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, policem
en, 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.
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.
"What is it?"
He showed the notice he had received.
 "You are a student?" the man asked, glancing at the
notice.
"Yes, formerly a student."
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.
"There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no
interest in anything," thought Raskolnikov.
"Go in there to the head clerk," said the clerk, pointing
towards the furthest room.

He went into that room—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, p
oorly dressed in mourning, sat at the table opposite the chief clerk, writing s
omething at his dictation. The other, a very stout, buxom woman with a pur
plish‐red, blotchy face, excessively smartly dressed with
a brooch on her bosom as big as a saucer, was standing on one side, appare
ntly waiting for something. Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head cler
k. The latter glanced at it, said: "Wait a minute," and went on attending to th
e lady in mourning.
He breathed more freely. "It can't be that!"
By degrees he began to regain confidence, he
kept urging himself to have courage and be calm.
"Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and
I may betray myself! Hm... it's a pity there's no air here," he added, "it's
stifling.... It makes one's head dizzier than ever... and one's mind too..."
He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was
 afraid of losing his self‐control; he tried to catch at something and
fix his mind on it, something
quite irrelevant, but he could not succeed in this at all. Yet the head clerk g
reatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him and guess somethin
g from his face.
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 wo
rds in French to a foreigner who was in the room, and said them fairly corr
ectly.

"Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down," 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.
"Ich danke," said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk she sank into t
he chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with white lace floated about the tab
le 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.
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 fe
ll 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 th
e 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 a
t 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 positiv
ely affronted.
"What do you want?" he shouted,
apparently astonished that such a ragged fellow was not annihilated by the
majesty of his glance.
"I was summoned... by a notice..." Raskolnikov faltered.

"For the recovery of money due, from the student," the head clerk interfe
red hurriedly, tearing himself from his papers. "Here!" and he flung Raskol
nikov a document and pointed out the place. "Read that!"
"Money? What money?" thought Raskolnikov,
"but... then... it's certainly not that."
And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden
intense indescribable relief. A load was lifted from his back.
"And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?" shouted the
assistant superintendent, seeming for
some unknown reason more and more aggrieved. "You are told to come at
nine, and now it's twelve!"
"The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour ago," Raskolnikov
answered loudly over his shoulder. To his own surprise he, too, grew sudd
enly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. "And it's enough that I have co
me here ill with fever."
"Kindly refrain from shouting!"
"I'm not shouting, I'm speaking very quietly, it's
you who are shouting at me. I'm a student, and allow no one to shout at me.
"
The assistant superintendent was so furious that
for the first minute he could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped up from
his seat.
"Be silent! You are in a government office. Don't
be impudent, sir!"
"You're in a government office, too," cried Raskolnikov, "and you're smo
king a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect to all of
us."
He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.
The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant superinten
dent was obviously disconcerted.

"That's not your business!" he shouted at last with unnatural

loudness. "Kindly make the declaration demanded of you. Show him.
Alexandr Grigorievitch. There is a complaint against you! You don't
pay your debts! You're a fine bird!"
But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at the pap
er, in haste to find an explanation. He read it once, and a second time,
and still did not understand.
"What is this?" he asked the head clerk.
"It is for the recovery of money on an I O U, a writ. You must either pay it
, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give a written declaration when you
can pay it, and at the same time an undertaking not to leave the capital with
out payment, and nor to sell or conceal your property.
The creditor is at liberty to sell your property, and
proceed against you according to the law."
"But I... am not in debt to anyone!"
"That's not our business. Here, an I O U for a hundred and fifteen roubles,
legally attested, and due for payment, has been brought us for recovery,
given by you to the widow of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine months
ago,
and paid over by the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov. We therefore
summon you, hereupon."
 "But she is my landlady!"
"And what if she is your landlady?"
The head clerk looked at him with a
condescending smile of compassion, and at the same time with a certain tri
umph, as at a novice under fire for the first time—
as though he would say: "Well, how do you feel now?" But what did he car
e 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, with
out 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's disrespect, still
fuming and
obviously anxious to keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the unfortun
ate smart lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came in with an e
xceedingly silly smile.
"You shameful hussy!" he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice.
(The lady in mourning had left the office.) "What was going on at
your house last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you'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 y
ou off the eleventh! And here you are again, again, you... you...!"
The paper fell out of Raskolnikov'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.
"Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk was
beginning anxiously, but stopped short, for he knew from experience that th
e enraged assistant could not be stopped except by force.
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 mo
ved uneasily, and curtsied incessantly, waiting impatiently for a chance of p
utting in her word: and at last she found it.
"There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain," she
pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speaking Russian
confidently, though with a
strong German accent, "and no sort of scandal, and his honour came
drunk, and it's the whole truth I am telling,
Mr. Captain, and I am not to blame.... Mine is an honourable house, Mr.
Captain, and honourable behaviour,
Mr. Captain, and I always, always dislike any scandal myself. But he came
quite tipsy, and asked for three bottles again, and then he lifted up one
leg, and began playing
the pianoforte with one foot, and that is not at all right in an honourable ho
use, and he ganz broke the piano, and it was very bad manners indeed and
I said so. And he took up a bottle and began hitting everyone with it. And t
hen 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 chee
k. 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 sque
aling 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, h
e tore sein rock. And then he shouted that man muss pay him fifteen roubl
es damages. And I did pay him, Mr. Captain,
five roubles for sein rock. And he is an ungentlemanly visitor and caused
all the scandal. 'I will show you up,' he said, 'for I can write to all the pape
rs about you.'"

"Then he was an author?"

"Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in
an honourable house...."
"Now then! Enough! I have told you already..."
"Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk repeated significantly.
The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head
clerk slightly shook his head.
"... So I tell you this, most respectable Luise Ivanovna, and I tell it you fo
r the last time," the assistant went on. "If there is a scandal in your honoura
ble 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 auth
or took five roubles for his coat‐tail in an 'honourable house'? A nice
set, these authors!"
And he cast a contemptuous glance at
Raskolnikov. "There was a scandal the other day in a restaurant, too. An au
thor had eaten his dinner and would not pay; 'I'll write a satire on you,' says
he. And there was another of them on a steamer last week used the most di
sgraceful language to the respectable family of
a civil councillor, his wife and daughter. And there was one of them
turned out of a confectioner'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?"
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, sh
e fluttered out of the office.

"Again thunder and lightning—a hurricane!"

said Nikodim Fomitch to Ilya Petrovitch in a civil and friendly tone. "You
are aroused again, you are fuming again! I heard it on the stairs!"
"Well, what then!" Ilya Petrovitch drawled with gentlemanly
nonchalance; and he walked with some papers to another table, with
a jaunty swing of
his shoulders at each step. "Here, if you will kindly look: an author, or a st
udent, has been one at least, does not pay his debts, has given an I O U, wo
n't clear out of his room, and complaints are constantly being lodged agains
t him, and here he has been pleased to make a protest against my smoking i
n his presence! He behaves like a cad himself, and just look at him,
please. Here's the gentleman, and very attractive he is!"
"Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go off like powder, yo
u can't bear a slight, I daresay you took offence at something and went too f
ar yourself," continued Nikodim Fomitch, turning affably to Raskolnikov. "
But you were wrong there; he is a capital fellow, I assure you, but explosi
ve, explosive! He gets hot, fires up, boils over, and no stopping him! And th
en it's all over! And at the bottom he's a heart of gold! His nickname in the r
egiment was the Explosive Lieutenant...."
"And what a regiment it was, too," cried Ilya Petrovitch, much gratified a
t this agreeable banter, though still sulky.
Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say
something exceptionally pleasant to them all. "Excuse me, Captain," he
began easily, suddenly addressing Nikodim Fomitch, "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't underst
and this I O U at all. She is asking me to pay her on this I O U. How am I to
pay her? Judge for yourselves!..."
"But that is not our business, you know," the head clerk was observing.
"Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to explain..."
Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing Nikodim Fomitch, but
trying his best to address
Ilya Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently appeared to be rummagi
ng among his papers and to be contemptuously oblivious of him.
"Allow me to
explain that I have been living with her for nearly three years and at first...
at first... for why should I not confess 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... tha
t 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..."
"Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we've no time to waste,
" Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and with a note of triumph; but
Raskolnikov stopped
him hotly, though he suddenly found it exceedingly difficult to speak.
"But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain... how it all happened..
. In my turn... though I agree with you... it is unnecessary. But a year ago,
the girl died of typhus.
I remained lodging there as before, and when my landlady
 moved into her present quarters, she said to me... and in a friendly way...
that she had complete trust in me, but still, would I not give her an I O U for
one hundred and fifteen roubles, all the debt I owed her. She said if only I
gave her that, she would trust me again, as much as I liked, and that she
would never, never—those were her own words
— make use of that I O U till I could pay of myself... and now, when I have
lost my lessons and have nothing to eat, she takes action against me. What a
m I to say to that?"
"All these affecting details are no business of ours." Ilya Petrovitch
interrupted rudely. "You must give a
written undertaking but as for your love affairs and all these tragic events,
we have nothing to do with that."
"Come now... you are harsh," muttered
Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at the table and also beginning to write. He
looked a little ashamed.
"Write!" said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.
"Write what?" the latter asked, gruffly.
"I will dictate to you."
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 any
one's opinion, and this revulsion took place in a flash, in one instant. If he h
ad 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 no
t have found one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A gloomy s
ensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took conscious f
orm in his soul. It was not the meanness of his sentimental effusions
before Ilya
 Petrovitch, nor the meanness of the latter's triumph over him that had caus
ed this sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh, what had he to do now with his o
wn 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 p
eople 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 a
ny circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange and awful
sensation. And what was most agonising—it was more a sensation than
a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising of all the sensati
ons he had known in his life.
The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration, that h
e 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.
"But you can't write, you can hardly hold the pen," observed the
head clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. "Are you ill?"
"Yes, I am giddy. Go on!"
"That's all. Sign it."
The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others.
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 hi
m the things in the hole in the corner. The impulse was so strong that he got
up from his seat to carry it out. "Hadn't I better think a minute?" flashed thro
ugh his mind. "No, better cast off the burden without thinking." But all at o
nce he stood still, rooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking
eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words reached him:
"It's impossible, they'll both be released. To begin with, the whole story c
ontradicts 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 an
d 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 b
een going with such an object? As for Koch, he spent half an hour at the sil
versmith's below, before he went up to the old woman and he left him at ex
actly a quarter to eight. Now just consider..."
"But excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction? They state thems
elves that they knocked and the door was locked; yet three minutes later wh
en they went up with the porter, it turned out the door was unfastened."
"That's just it; the murderer must have been there and bolted himself in;
and they'd have caught him for
a certainty if Koch had not been an ass and gone to look for the porter
too. He must have seized the interval to get downstairs and slip by
them somehow. Koch keeps

crossing himself and saying: 'If I had been there, he would have jumped o
ut and killed me with his axe.' He is going to have a thanksgiving service—
ha, ha!"
"And no one saw the murderer?"
"They might well not see him; the house is a regular Noah's Ark," said the
head clerk, who was listening.
"It's clear, quite clear," Nikodim Fomitch repeated warmly.
 "No, it is anything but clear," Ilya Petrovitch maintained.
Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did n
ot reach it....
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 fr
om the chair.
"What's this? Are you ill?" Nikodim Fomitch asked, rather sharply.
"He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing," said the head clerk,
settling back in his place, and taking up his work again.
"Have you been ill long?" cried Ilya Petrovitch from his place, where he,
too, was looking through papers. He had, of course, come to look at the sic
k man when he fainted, but retired at once when he recovered.
"Since yesterday," muttered Raskolnikov in reply.
"Did you go out yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Though you were ill?"
"Yes."
"At what time?"

"About seven."
"And where did you go, my I ask?"
"Along the street."
"Short and clear."
 Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had
answered sharply, jerkily, without dropping his black feverish eyes before
Ilya Petrovitch's stare.
"He can scarcely stand upright. And you..."
Nikodim Fomitch was beginning.
"No matter," Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather peculiarly.
Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further
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.
"Very well, then," concluded Ilya Petrovitch, "we will not detain you."
Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of
eager conversation on his departure, and above the rest rose the questionin
g voice of Nikodim Fomitch. In the street, his faintness passed off complete
ly.
"A search—
there will be a search at once," he repeated to himself, hurrying home. "The
brutes! they suspect."
His former terror mastered him completely again.

Ebd
E‐BooksDirectory.com

CHAPTER II

"And what if there has been a search already? What if I find them in my r
oom?"
But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had peeped in.
Even Nastasya had not touched it. But heavens! how could he have
left all those things in the hole?
He rushed to the 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 differen
t 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?
That had long been settled: "Fling them into the canal, and all traces hidde
n in the water, the thing would be at an end." So he had decided in the night
of his delirium when several times he had had the impulse to get up and
go 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 s
everal times at the steps running down to the water, but he could not think o
f carrying out his plan; either rafts stood at the steps' 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 f
or 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. "Why is it, or can it be my fancy
?" he thought.
 At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to the Neva. The
re 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 wondere
d 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 aw
are of it. He certainly must make haste.
He walked towards the Neva along V
—— Prospect, but on the way another idea struck him. "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?" 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
—— Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left a passage leading bet
ween 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 wi
th 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's or
carpenter'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, "Standing here strictly forbidden." This was all
the better, for there would
be nothing suspicious about his going in. "Here I could throw it all in a hea
p and get away!"
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.
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.
Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense, almost unb
earable joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had in the police‐
office. "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!" 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 th
e K—— 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: "Damn him!"
 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—
and for the first time, indeed, during the last two months.
"Damn it all!" he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury.
"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 a
ll, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! It is not that at all!"

Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly

simple question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.
"If it all has really been done deliberately and
not idiotically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did n
ot even glance into the purse and don't know what I had there, for which
I have undergone
these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy degrading
business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water the purse toget
her with all the things which I had not seen either... how's that?"
Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and it wa
s 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.
"It is because I am very ill," he decided grimly at last, "I have been worry
ing and fretting myself, and I don't know what I am doing.... Yesterday and th
e day before yesterday and all this time I have been worrying myself.... I sha
ll get well and I shall not worry.... But what if I don't get well at all? Good
God, how sick I am of it all!"
 He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some distracti
on, 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—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....
He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near t
he bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. "Why, he lives here, in that house," he th
ought, "why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it'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 da
y before yesterday that I would go and see him the day after; well, and so I
will! Besides I really cannot go further now."
He went up to Razumihin's room on the fifth floor.
The latter was at home in his 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.
"Is it you?" he cried. He looked his comrade up
and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. "As hard up as all that!
Why, brother, you've cut me out!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov's
rags. "Come sit down, you are tired, I'll be bound."
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.
 "Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?"
He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
"Never mind," he said, "I have come for this: I have no lessons.... I wante
d,... but I don't really want lessons...."
"But I say! You are delirious, you know!"
Razumihin observed, watching him carefully.
"No, I am not."

Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to

Razumihin'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 chok
ed with rage at himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin's threshold.
"Good‐bye," he said abruptly, and walked to the door.
"Stop, stop! You queer fish."
"I don't want to," said the other, again pulling away his hand.
"Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is.
.. almost insulting! I won't let you go like that."
"Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help.
.. to begin... because you are kinder than anyone—
cleverer, I mean, and can judge... and now I see that I want nothing. Do you
hear? Nothing at all... no one's services... no one's sympathy. I am by mysel
f... alone. Come, that's enough. Leave me alone."
"Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all
I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don't care about that, but
there's a bookseller, Heruvimov—
and he takes the place of a lesson. I would not exchange him for five lesson
s. He's doing publishing of a kind, and issuing natural science manuals and
what a circulation they have! The very titles are worth the money! You alw
ays maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fool
s than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkl
ing of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of
the German text—in my opinion, the crudest

charlatanism; it discusses the question, 'Is woman

a human being?' And, of course, triumphantly proves that she is.
Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as
a contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand th
ese two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title hal
f a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six rou
bles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles for the job, and
I've had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are
going to begin a translation
about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals out of the second part
of Les Confessions we have marked
for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind
of Radishchev. You may be sure I
don't contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like to do the second
signature of 'Is woman a human being?' If
you would, take the German and pens and paper—all those are provided,
and take three roubles; for as I have had
six roubles in advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for
your share. And when you have finished
the signature there will be another three roubles for you. And please don't
think I am doing you a service; quite
the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begi
n 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 comf
ort is, that it's bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, ma
ybe it's sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?"
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 t
he next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs to Razumihin's again and l
aying on the table the German
 article and the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.

"Are you raving, or what?" Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last. "W
hat farce is this? You'll drive me crazy too... what did you come to see me f
or, damn you?"
"I don't want... translation," muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
"Then what the devil do you want?" shouted Razumihin from above.
Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.
"Hey, there! Where are you living?"
No answer.
"Well, confound you then!"
But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the
Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an
unpleasant incident.
A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent la
sh on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses'
hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing
(for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the b
ridge in the traffic).
He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course.
"Serves him right!"
"A pickpocket I dare say."
"Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpos
e; and you have to answer for him."
"It's a regular profession, that's what it is."
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 carr
ying a green parasol.
"Take it, my good man, in Christ's name."
He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From his
dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking a
lms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to th
e blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and t
urned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a c
loud 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 e
very 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—generally on his way home—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 p
erplexities, 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 stopp
ed at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could thin
k 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—
all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old imp
ressions and that picture and himself and all, all.... He felt as though he wer
e flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an
unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the pi
ece 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.
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 so
fa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion....
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 hear
d.
He could never have imagined such brutality,
such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the f
ighting, 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 b
eaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite an
d 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—
it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the lan
dlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps—
that'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, excl
amations, knocking, doors banging. "But why, why, and how could it be?" h
e repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too di
stinctly! And they would come to him then next, "for no doubt... it's all abo
ut that... about yesterday.... Good God!" 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. "Can he have gone away?
Good Lord!" 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 the
m—almost all the inmates of the
block. "But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here
!"
Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He l
ay 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. Nastas
ya 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 bega
n to lay out what she had brought—bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.
"You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You've been
trudging about all day, and you're shaking with fever."
 "Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?"
She looked intently at him.
"Who beat the landlady?"
"Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch,
the assistant superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he ill‐
treating her like that, and... why was he here?"
Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a lo
ng time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
"Nastasya, why don't you speak?" he said timidly at last in a weak voice.

"It's the blood," she answered at last softly, as though speaking to herself.

"Blood? What blood?" he muttered, growing white and turning towards th

e wall.
Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
"Nobody has been beating the landlady," she declared at last in a firm, re
solute voice.
He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
"I heard it myself.... I was not asleep... I was sitting up," he said still
more timidly. "I listened a long while.
The assistant superintendent came.... Everyone ran out on to the stairs from
all the flats."

"No one has been here. That's the blood crying in your ears. When there's
no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying things.... Will you eat
something?"
He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.
"Give me something to drink... Nastasya."
 She went downstairs and returned with a white
earthenware jug of water. He remembered
only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck.
Then followed forgetfulness.

CHAPTER III

He was not completely 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 roo
m; 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 h
e seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, an
d this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lyi
ng there a

month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of that—
of that he had no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forg
otten something he ought to remember. He worried and
tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank int
o awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run aw
ay, but someone always prevented him
by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he retu
rned to complete consciousness.
It happened at ten o'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 inquisiti
vely. 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.
"Who is this, Nastasya?" he asked, pointing to the
young man.
"I say, he's himself again!" she said.
"He is himself," echoed the man.
Concluding that he had returned to his senses,
the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dre
aded conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all ba
d‐looking, fat and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good‐
natured from fatness and laziness, and absurdly bashful.
"Who... are you?" 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 ca
me in.

"What a cabin it is!" he cried. "I am always knocking my head. You call
this a lodging! So you are
conscious, brother? I've just heard the news from Pashenka."
"He has just come to," said Nastasya.
"Just come to," echoed the man again, with a smile.
"And who are you?" Razumihin asked,
suddenly addressing him. "My name is Vrazumihin, at your service; not Ra
zumihin, as I am always called, but Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; an
d he is my friend. And who are you?"
"I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I'
ve come on business."
"Please sit down." Razumihin seated himself on the
 other side of the table. "It's a good thing you've come to, brother," he
went on to Raskolnikov. "For the last
four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you te
a in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember
Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at once it was
nothing serious— something seemed to have gone to your head.
Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not
had enough beer and radish, but it'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't keep you," he said, a
ddressing the man again. "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?"
"That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please, sir. Th
at was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too."
"He was more intelligent than you, don't you think so?"

"Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am."

"Quite so; go on."
"At your mamma's request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of who
m I presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent to you fro
m our office," the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. "If you are in
an intelligible condition, I've thirty‐five roubles to remit
to you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at
your mamma's request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions.
Do you know him, sir?"
"Yes, I remember... Vahrushin," Raskolnikov said dreamily.
"You hear, he knows Vahrushin," cried Razumihin. "He is in 'an
intelligible condition'! And I see you are an intelligent man too.
Well, it's always pleasant to hear words of wisdom."
"That's the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the request
of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in the same man
ner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and sent instructions to Se
myon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you thirty‐
five roubles in the hope of better to come."
"That 'hoping for better to come' is the best
thing you've said, though 'your mamma' is not bad either. Come then, what
do you say? Is he fully conscious, eh?"
"That's all right. If only he can sign this little paper."
"He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?"
"Yes, here's the book."
"Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I'll hold you. Take the pen and scribb
le 'Raskolnikov' for him. For just now, brother, money is sweeter to us than
treacle."
"I don't want it," said Raskolnikov, pushing away the
pen.

"Not want it?"

"I won't sign it."
"How the devil can you do without signing it?"
"I don't want... the money."
"Don't want the money! Come, brother, that's nonsense, I bear witness. D
on't trouble, please, it's only that he is on his travels again. But that's pretty
common with him at all times though.... You are a man of judgment and we
will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and he will sign it
. Here."
"But I can come another time."
"No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment.... Now,
Rodya, don't keep your visitor, you see he is waiting," and he made ready t
o hold Raskolnikov's hand in earnest.
 "Stop, I'll do it alone," said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name.

The messenger took out the money and went away.

"Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?"
"Yes," answered Raskolnikov.
"Is there any soup?"
"Some of yesterday's," answered Nastasya, who
was still standing there.
"With potatoes and rice in it?"
"Yes."
"I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea."
"Very well."
Raskolnikov looked at all this with
profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his
mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. "I believe I am not
wandering. I believe it's reality," he thought.

In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with

the soup, and announced that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup
she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and s
o on. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was cle
an.
"It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us
up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them."
"Well, you are a cool hand," muttered Nastasya, and she departed to carry
out his orders.
Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile Razum
ihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his left
arm round Raskolnikov's head, although he was able to sit up, and with his r
ight 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.
Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
"And will you have tea?"
"Yes."
"Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea
we may venture on without the faculty. But here is the beer!" He moved ba
ck 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.
"I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now," he mumbled
with his mouth full of beef, "and it's all Pashenka, your dear little landlady,
who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don't ask for it,
but, of

course, I don't object. And here's Nastasya with the tea. She is a quick gir
l. Nastasya, my dear, won't you have some beer?"
"Get along with your nonsense!"
"A cup of tea, then?"
"A cup of tea, maybe."
"Pour it out. Stay, I'll pour it out myself. Sit down."
He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As befo
re, he put his left arm round the sick man's head, raised him up and gave hi
m tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly,
as though this process was the principal and most effective means
towards his friend'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 anim
al, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a t
ime, 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 ov
ercome 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 not
e of it.
"Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to‐day to make him some
raspberry tea," said Razumihin,
going back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again.
"And where is she to get raspberries for you?" asked Nastasya, balancing
a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of su
gar.

"She'll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of things have
been happening while you have been laid up. When you decamped in that r
ascally way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to f
ind you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran about ma
king inquiries for you! This lodging of yours I had forgotten, though I
never remembered it,
indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I could
only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov's house. I kept
trying to find that Harlamov's house, and afterwards it turned out that
it was not Harlamov's, but Buch's. How one muddles up
sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the
address bureau next day, and only fancy, in
two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there."
"My name!"
 "I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while I
was there. Well, it's a long story. But as soon as I did land on this place, I s
oon got to know all your affairs—
all, all, brother, I know everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the
acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house‐
porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in
the police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here knows
...."
"He's got round her," Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.
"Why don't you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?"
"You are a one!" Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. "I am n
ot Nikiforovna, but Petrovna," she added suddenly, recovering from her mir
th.

"I'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... prep
ossessing. Eh, what do you think?"
Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his
eyes fixed upon him, full of alarm.
"And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect," Razumihin went
on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.
"Ah, the sly dog!" Nastasya shrieked again.
This conversation afforded her unspeakable delight.
"It's a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way at first.
You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak, a
most
unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character later.... How
could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending you you
r dinner? And that I O U? You must have been mad to sign an I O U. And tha
t promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was
alive?... I know all about it! But I see that's a delicate matter and I
am an ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know Praskovy
a Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would think at first sight?"
"No," mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better t
o keep up the conversation.
"She isn't, is she?" cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out of him
. "But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially, essentially an una
ccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a loss, I assure you.... She m
ust 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 fro
m the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of symbolism sprung up be
tween us, a sort of algebra or

what not! I don't understand it! Well, that's all nonsense. Only, seeing that
you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and t
hat through the young lady'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'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."
"It was base of me to say that.... My mother herself is almost a beggar... a
nd I told a lie to keep my lodging... and be fed," Raskolnikov said loudly an
d distinctly.
"Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr.
Tchebarov turns up, a business
man. Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her own acc
ount, she is too retiring; but the business man is by no means retiring,
and first thing he puts
the question, 'Is there any hope of realising the I O U?' Answer: there is,
because he has a mother who would save
her Rodya with her hundred and twenty‐
five roubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who wou
ld go into bondage for his sake. That's what he was
building upon.... Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affai
rs now, my dear boy—it's not for nothing that you were so open with
Pashenka when you were her prospective son‐in‐
law, and I say all this as a friend.... But I tell you what it is; an honest and s
ensitive man is open; and a business man 'listens and goes on eating' you up
. Well, then she gave the I O U by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and
without hesitation he made a
formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him
up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned
between me and Pashenka, and I

insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I
went security for you, brother. Do
you understand? We called Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the
I O U back from him, and here I have
the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it,
you see I have torn it."
Razumihin put the note on the table.
Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word.
Even Razumihin felt a twinge.
"I see, brother," he said a moment later, "that I have been playing the fool
again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I believe I have onl
y made you cross."
"Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?" Raskolnikov
asked, after a moment's pause without turning his head.
"Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zameto
v one day."
"Zametov? The head clerk? What for?" Raskolnikov
turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
"What's the matter with you?... What are you
upset about? He wanted to make your acquaintance because I talked to him
a lot about you.... How could I have found out so much except from him? H
e is a capital fellow, brother, first‐rate... in his own way, of course.
Now we are friends—
see each other almost every day. I have moved into this part, you know. I ha
ve only just moved. I've been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or
twice.... Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?
"Did I say anything in delirium?"
"I should think so! You were beside yourself."
"What did I rave about?"

"What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about.... Wel
l, brother, now I must not lose time. To work." He got up from the table and
took up his cap.
"What did I rave about?"
"How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let
out some secret? Don't worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess.
But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about ear‐rings and chains, and
about Krestovsky Island,
and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant su
perintendent. And another thing that was of special interest to you was your
own sock. You whined, 'Give me my sock.' Zametov hunted all about your
room for your socks, and with his own scented, ring‐bedecked fingers he
gave you the rag. And only then were
you comforted, and for the next twenty‐
four hours you held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it fro
m you. It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And th
en 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 i
s nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, t
o see whether he wants a drink or anything
else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good‐bye!"
"He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he's a deep one!"
said Nastasya as he went out; then she opened the door and stood
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.
 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 w
ork? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.
"Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What if
they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up, and t
hen they will come in and tell me that it's been discovered long ago and that
they have only... What am I to do now? That's what
I've forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered
a minute ago."
He stood in the middle of the room and gazed
in miserable bewilderment about him; he walked to the 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—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.
"Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police off
ice? Where's the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I looked
at
my sock then, too, but now... now I have been ill. But what did Zametov co
me for?
Why did Razumihin bring him?" he muttered, helplessly sitting on the sofa
again. "What does it mean? Am I still in
 delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real.... Ah, I remember; I must escap
e! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes... but where? And
where are my clothes? I've no boots. They've taken them away! They've hid
den them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat—
they passed that over! And here is money on the table, thank God! And here'
s the I O U... I'll take the money and go and take another lodging. They won
't find me!... Yes, but the address bureau? They'll find me, Razumihin will fi
nd me. Better escape altogether... far away... to America, and let them do th
eir worst! And take the I O U... it would be of use there.... What else shall I

take? They think I am ill! They don't know that I can 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 wat
ch there—
policemen! What's this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!"
He snatched up the bottle, which still contained
a glassful of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a fl
ame 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 c
ame 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, ragge
d greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.
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.

"Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!" Razu
mihin shouted down the stairs. "You shall have the account directly."
"What time is it?" asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.
 "Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it's almost evening, it will be six o'cl
ock directly. You have slept more than six hours."
"Good heavens! Have I?"
"And why not? It will do you good. What's the hurry? A tryst, is it? We've
all time before us. I've been waiting for the last three hours for you; I've be
en up twice and found you asleep. I've called on Zossimov twice; not
at
home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And I've been out on my o
wn business, too. You know I've been moving to‐
day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But
that's no matter, to business. Give me
the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how do you feel now, b
rother?"
"I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?"
"I tell you I've been waiting for the last three hours."
"No, before."
"How do you mean?"
"How long have you been coming here?"
"Why I told you all about it this morning. Don't you remember?"
Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like
a dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Ra
zumihin.
"Hm!" said the latter, "he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were not qu
ite yourself. Now you are better for

your sleep.... You really look much better. First‐

rate! Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy."
He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.
 "Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For we
must make a man of you. Let's
begin from the top. Do you see this cap?" he said, taking out of the bundle
a fairly good though cheap and ordinary cap. "Let me try it on."
"Presently, afterwards," said Raskolnikov, waving it off pettishly.
"Come, Rodya, my boy, don't oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I
shan't sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without measure. Just right!"
he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, "just your size! A proper head‐
covering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in its own way. T
olstyakov, 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 f
rom slavish politeness, but it's simply because he is ashamed of his
bird's nest; he is such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are
two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston"—he took from the
corner Raskolnikov's old, battered hat, which for some unknown reason, h
e called a Palmerston
—"or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it
, Nastasya!" he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did
not speak.
"Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say," answered Nastasya.
"Twenty copecks, silly!" he cried, offended. "Why, nowadays you
would cost more than that—
eighty copecks! And that only because it has been worn. And it's

bought on condition that when's it's worn out, they will give you another n
ext 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," and he e
xhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen m
aterial. "No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; a
nd a waistcoat to match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn really is a
n improvement, it's softer, smoother.... You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the g
reat thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you
 don't insist on having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your p
urse; and it's the same with this purchase. It's summer now, so I've been bu
ying summer things—
warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw the
se away in any case... especially as they will be done for by then from thei
r own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of luxury. Come, price t
hem! 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's; if you've bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for yo
u 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'll last a couple of mo
nths, for it's foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary of the English
Embassy sold them last week—he had only worn them six days, but he
was very short of cash. Price—a rouble and a half. A bargain?"
"But perhaps they won't fit," observed Nastasya.
"Not fit? Just look!" and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov's
old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. "I did not go empty‐
handed—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, eigh
ty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty‐five copecks the suit—
together three roubles five copecks—a rouble and a half for the boots—
for, you see, they are very good—and that makes four roubles fifty‐
five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes—they were bought in
the lo—which makes exactly nine roubles fifty‐five copecks. Forty‐
five copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you are s
et up with a complete new rig‐
out, for your overcoat will serve, and even has a style of its own. That co
mes from getting one's clothes from Sharmer's! As for your socks and other
things, I leave them to you; we've twenty‐
five roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don't yo
u worry. I tell you she'll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let me cha
nge your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with
your shirt."
"Let me be! I don't want to!" Raskolnikov waved him
off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin's efforts to be playful abou
t his purchases.
"Come, brother, don't tell me I've been trudging around for nothing,"
Razumihin insisted. "Nastasya, don't be bashful, but help me—that's
it," and in spite
of Raskolnikov's resistance he changed his linen. The latter sank back on
the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.
"It will be long before I get rid of them," he thought. "What money was al
l that bought with?" he asked at last, gazing at the wall.

"Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, yo
ur mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?"
"I remember now," said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumi
hin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.
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 foun
d him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.
"I've been to you twice to‐
day, brother. You see, he's come to himself," cried Razumihin.
"I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?" said Zossimov to
Raskolnikov, watching him carefully
and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably a
s he could.

"He is still depressed," Razumihin went on. "We've just changed his linen
and he almost cried."
"That's very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish it....
His pulse is first‐rate. Is your head still aching, eh?"
"I am well, I am perfectly well!" Raskolnikov declared positively and irr
itably. 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.
"Very good.... Going on all right," he said lazily. "Has he eaten anything?"

They told him, and asked what he might have.

"He may have anything... soup, tea... mushrooms
and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he'd better not have meat
either, and... but no need to tell you that!" Razumihin and he looked at
each other. "No more medicine or anything. I'll look at him again to‐
morrow. Perhaps, to‐day even... but never mind..."
"To‐
morrow evening I shall take him for a walk," said Razumihin. "We are goin
g to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Crystal."
 "I would not disturb him to‐
morrow at all, but I don't know... a little, maybe... but we'll see."
"Ach, what a nuisance! I've got a house‐warming party to‐
night; it's only a step from here. Couldn't he come? He could lie on the sofa.
You are coming?" Razumihin said to Zossimov. "Don't forget, you promise
d."
"All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?"
"Oh, nothing—
tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie... just our friends."
"And who?"

"All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and
he is new too—he only arrived
in Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We meet once in fiv
e years."
"What is he?"
"He's been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a
little pension. He is sixty‐five—not worth talking about.... But I am
fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation
Department here... But you know him."
"Is he a relation of yours, too?"
"A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled
once, won't you come then?"
"I don't care a damn for him."
"So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a gover
nment clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov."
"Do tell me, please, what you or he"—Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov
—"can have in common with this Zametov?"
 "Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by
principles, as it were by springs; you
won't venture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice fellow,
that's the only principle I go upon. Zametov is a delightful person."
"Though he does take bribes."
"Well, he does! and what of it? I don't care if he does take bribes," Razu
mihin cried with unnatural irritability. "I don't praise him for taking bribes.
I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all w
ays
— are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn't be worth a bak
ed onion myself... perhaps with you thrown in."

"That's too little; I'd give two for you."

"And I wouldn't give more than one for you. No more of your jokes! Zam
etov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him not re
pel him. You'll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. On
e has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you
progressive dullards! You don't understand. You harm
yourselves running another man down.... But if you want to know, we reall
y have something in common."
"I should like to know what."
"Why, it's all about a house‐
painter.... We are getting him out of a mess! Though indeed there's nothing t
o fear now. The matter is absolutely self‐evident. We only put on steam."
"A painter?"
"Why, haven't I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then about
the murder of the old pawnbroker‐
woman. Well, the painter is mixed up in it..."
"Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it... par
tly... for one reason.... I read about it in the papers, too...."
 "Lizaveta was murdered, too," Nastasya blurted out, suddenly
addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in
the room all the time, standing by the door listening.
"Lizaveta," murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
"Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn't you know her? She used to come
here. She mended a shirt for you, too."
Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the
dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lin
es on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many s
callops 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 obsti
nately at the flower.
"But what about the painter?" Zossimov interrupted Nastasya's
chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.
"Why, he was accused of the murder," Razumihin went on hotly.
"Was there evidence against him then?"
"Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that's what we ha
ve to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and Pestryak
ov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it's all done, it makes one sick, though
it's not one's business! Pestryakov may be coming to‐
night.... By the way, Rodya, you've heard about the business already; it hap
pened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office w
hile they were talking about it."
Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir.
"But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What
a busybody you are!" Zossimov observed.
"Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway," shouted Razumihin, bringi
ng his fist down on the table. "What's the most offensive is not their lying—
one can always forgive lying—lying is a delightful thing, for it leads
to truth— 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—that was their logic!"
"But don't excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not help
that.... And, by the way, I've met that man Koch. He used to buy unredeemed
pledges from the old woman? Eh?"

"Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession

of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It's their sick
ening rotten, petrified routine.... And this case might be the means of introd
ucing a new method. One can show from the psychological data alone how
to get on the track of the real man. 'We have facts,' they say. But facts are n
ot everything—at least half the business lies in how you interpret them!"
"Can you interpret them, then?"
"Anyway, one can't hold one's tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible f
eeling, that one might be a help if only.... Eh! Do you know the details of th
e case?"
"I am waiting to hear about the painter."
"Oh, yes! Well, here's the story. Early on the third day after the murder, w
hen they were still dandling Koch and Pestryakov—though they
accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaff‐
an unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram‐
shop facing the house, brought to the police office
a jeweller's case containing some gold ear‐
rings, and told a long rigamarole. 'The day before yesterday, just after eight
o'clock'—mark the day and the hour!—'a journeyman house‐
painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see me already that day, brought me thi
s box of gold ear‐
rings and stones, and asked me to give him two roubles for them. When I a
sked him where he got them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I d
id not ask him anything more.' I am telling you Dushkin's story. 'I gave him a
 note'—a rouble that is
—'for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would with another. It wou
ld all come to the same thing
— he'd spend it on drink, so the thing had better be with me. The further yo
u hide it the quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any r
umours, I'll take it to the

police.' Of course, that's all taradiddle; he lies like a horse, for I know thi
s Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he
did not cheat Nikolay out of a thirty‐
rouble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply afraid. But no
matter, to return to Dushkin's story. 'I've known this peasant, Nikolay Deme
ntyev, 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 cou
ple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with h
im then. And the next day I heard that someone had murdered Alyona Ivano
vna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt s
uspicious about the ear‐
rings at once, for I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I wen
t to the house, and began to make careful inquiries without saying a word t
o anyone. First of all I asked, "Is Nikolay here?" Dmitri told me that Nikola
y 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't see him agai
n 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'— that's Dushkin
's tale—'but I found out what I could about
the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight o'cl
ock this morning'—that was the third day, you understand—'I saw
Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not to say very drunk—
he could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and di
d not
 speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep on
a bench and our two boys. "Have you seen

Dmitri?" said I. "No, I haven't," said he. "And you've not been here either
?" "Not since the day before yesterday," said he. "And where did you sleep
last night?" "In Peski, with the Kolomensky men." "And where did you get t
hose ear‐
rings?" I asked. "I found them in the street," and the way he said it was a bit
queer; he did not look at me. "Did you hear what happened that very evenin
g, at that very hour, on that same staircase?" said I. "No," said he, "I had not
heard," and all the while he was listening, his
eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him
all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. "
Wait a bit, Nikolay," said I, "won't you have a drink?" And I signed to the b
oy 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—
it was his doing, as clear as could be....'"
"I should think so," said Zossimov.
"Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay; they
detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kol
omensky 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, take
n 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 t
he wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a noose of his sash fro
m the beam, stood on a block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the
noose. The woman screeched her hardest; people ran in. 'So
that's what you are up to!' 'Take me,' he says, 'to such‐and‐
such a police officer; I'll confess everything.' Well, they took him to that pol
ice station—that is here—with a suitable escort.

So they asked him this and that, how old he is, 'twenty‐
two,' and so on. At the question, 'When you were working with Dmitri,
didn't you see anyone on the staircase at such‐and‐such a time?'—
answer: 'To be sure folks
may have gone up and down, but I did not notice them.' 'And didn't you hear
anything, any noise, and so on?' 'We heard nothing special.' 'And did you he
ar, Nikolay, that on the same day Widow So‐and‐
so and her sister were murdered and robbed?' 'I never knew a thing
about it. The first I heard of it was
from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before yesterday.' 'And where did you find
the ear‐
rings?' 'I found them on the pavement.' 'Why didn't you go to work with Dmi
tri the other day?' 'Because I was drinking.'
'And where were you drinking?' 'Oh, in such‐and‐
such a place.' 'Why did you run away from Dushkin's?' 'Because I was awfu
lly frightened.' 'What were you frightened of?' 'That I should be accused.' 'H
ow could you be frightened, if you felt free from guilt?' Now, Zossimov, you
may not believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I know i
t for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to that?"
"Well, anyway, there's the evidence."
"I am not talking of the evidence now, I am
talking about that question, of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they sq
ueezed and squeezed him and he confessed: 'I did not find it in the street, but
in the flat where I was painting with Dmitri.' 'And how was that?' 'Why, D
mitri and I were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go,
and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him.
I ran after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right
against the porter and some gentlemen—and how
many gentlemen were there I don't remember. And the porter
 swore at me, and the other porter swore, too, and the porter's
wife came out, and swore at us, too; and
a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us, too, for D
mitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri's hair and knocked
him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, caught me by the hair an
d began beating me. But we did it all not for temper but in a friendly way, f
or 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 ther
e in the passage, in the corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw
it lying there wrapped up
in paper. I took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them, and in the
box were the ear‐rings....'"
"Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?" Raskolnikov
cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he slo
wly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand.
"Yes... why? What's the matter? What's
wrong?" Razumihin, too, got up from his seat.
"Nothing," Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. All were sil
ent for a while.
"He must have waked from a dream," Razumihin said at last, looking
inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly shook his head.
"Well, go on," said Zossimov. "What next?"
"What next? As soon as he saw the ear‐rings, forgetting Dmitri and
everything, he took up his cap and ran
to Dushkin and, as we know, got a rouble from him. He told a lie saying
he found them in the street, and went off drinking. He keeps
repeating his old story about
the murder: 'I know nothing of it, never heard of it till the day
 before yesterday.' 'And why didn't you come to the police till now?' 'I wa
s frightened.' 'And why did you try to hang yourself?' 'From anxiety.' 'What
anxiety?' 'That I should be accused of it.' Well, that's the whole story. And n
ow what do you suppose they deduced from that?"
"Why, there's no supposing. There's a clue, such as it is, a fact. You woul
dn't have your painter set free?"
"Now they've simply taken him for the murderer. They haven't a shadow
of doubt."
"That's nonsense. You are excited. But what about the ear‐
rings? You must admit that, if on the very same day and hour ear‐
rings from the old woman's box have come into Nikolay's hands, they
must have come there somehow. That's a good deal in such a case."
"How did they get there? How did they get there?" cried Razumihin. "Ho
w can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more
opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature—
how can you fail to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don't y
ou see at once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy
truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us—
he stepped on the box and picked it up."
"The holy truth! But didn't he own himself that he told a lie at first?"
"Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and Pestryakov and
the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was sitt
ing in the porter's lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab
at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm, that is eight
or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on the ground, was lying on
him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his hair, beating him, too. They la
y right across the way, blocking the thoroughfare. They were

sworn at on all sides while they 'like children' (the very words of the
witnesses) were falling over one another, squealing, fighting and
laughing with the funniest
faces, and, chasing one another like children, they ran into the street. Now
take careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm w
hen 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 as
k you one question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and chi
ldish scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning, robb
ery? They'd just killed them, not five or ten minutes before, for
the bodies were still warm, and at once, leaving the flat open, knowing tha
t people would go there at once, flinging away their booty, they rolled abou
t like children, laughing and attracting general attention. And there are
a dozen witnesses to swear to that!"
"Of course it is strange! It's impossible, indeed, but..."
"No, brother, no buts. And if the ear‐
rings being found in Nikolay's hands at the very day and hour of the murder
constitutes an important piece of circumstantial evidence against him—
although the explanation given by him accounts for it, and therefore
it does not tell seriously against him—
one must take into consideration the facts which prove him innocent, especi
ally as they are facts that
cannot be denied. And do you suppose, from the character of our legal sy
stem, that they will accept, or that they are in a position to accept, this
fact—resting simply on a psychological impossibility—
as irrefutable and conclusively breaking down the circumstantial
evidence for the prosecution? No, they won't accept it,
they certainly won't, because they found the jewel‐
case and the man tried to hang himself, 'which he could not have done

if he hadn't felt guilty.' That's the point, that's what excites me, you must u
nderstand!"
"Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof is
there that the box came from the old woman?"
"That's been proved," said Razumihin with
apparent reluctance, frowning. "Koch recognised the jewel‐
case and gave the name of the owner, who proved conclusively that it was
his."
 "That's bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolay at the time that
Koch and Pestryakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence
about that?"
"Nobody did see him," Razumihin answered with vexation. "That's
the worst of it. Even Koch and
Pestryakov did not notice them on their way
upstairs, though, indeed, their evidence could not have been worth much. Th
ey 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."
"Hm!... So the only evidence for the defence is that they were beating one
another and laughing. That constitutes a strong presumption, but... How do
you explain the facts yourself?"
"How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It's clear. At any rate, t
he 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. K
och, like an ass, did not stay at the door; so the murderer popped out and ra
n down, too; for he had no other way of escape. He hid from Koch, Pestrya
kov 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, w
aited till they were out of hearing, and then went calmly downstairs at
the very minute
when Dmitri and Nikolay ran out into the street and there was no one in the
entry; possibly he was seen, but not noticed. There are lots of people going
in and out. He must have dropped the ear‐rings out of his pocket when
he stood behind the door, and did not notice he dropped
them, because he had other things to think of. The jewel‐
case is a conclusive proof that he did stand there.... That's how
I explain it."
"Too clever! No, my boy, you're too clever. That beats everything."
 "But, why, why?"
"Why, because everything fits too well... it's too melodramatic."
"A‐ach!" Razumihin was 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, an

d a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the door
way, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment,
as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully an
d with an affectation of being alarmed and

almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov's low and

narrow "cabin." 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 "cabin" by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman
softened somewhat, and civilly, though
with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Z
ossimov:
"Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student,
or formerly a student?"
 Zossimov made a slight movement, and would
have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated him.
"Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?"
This familiar "what do you want" seemed to cut
the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to
Razumihin, but checked himself in time and turned to Zossimov again.
"This is Raskolnikov," 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's case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and lazily proc
eeded to put it back.
Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing persistentl
y, 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 o
peration 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 Zossi
mov said "This is Raskolnikov" he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa and
with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking, voice articulated:
"Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?"
The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively:
"Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason
to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?"
But Raskolnikov, who had expected something
quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, as thou
gh he heard the name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time.
 "Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no
information?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted.
In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behi
nd his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into
Luzhin's face. Zossimov
and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he sho
wed unmistakable signs of embarrassment.
"I had presumed and calculated," he faltered, "that
a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago..."
"I say, why are you standing in the
doorway?" Razumihin interrupted suddenly. "If you've something to say, sit
down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here's a ch
air, thread your way in!"
He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the t
able and his knees, and waited in a

rather cramped position for the visitor to "thread his way in." 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, look
ing suspiciously at Razumihin.
"No need to be nervous," the latter blurted out. "Rodya has been ill for th
e last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and has go
t an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a comr
ade of Rodya's, like him, formerly a student, and now I
am nursing him; so don't you take any notice of us, but go on with your busi
ness."
"Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and
conversation?" Pyotr Petrovitch asked of Zossimov.
"N‐no," mumbled Zossimov; "you may amuse him." He yawned again.
"He has been conscious a long time, since the morning," went on
Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good‐
nature that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, bec
ause this shabby and impudent person had introduced himself as a student.
"Your mamma," began Luzhin.
"Hm!" Razumihin cleared his throat loudly.
Luzhin looked at him inquiringly.
"That's all right, go on."
Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.
"Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in h
er neighbourhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to el
apse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured that yo
u were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to
my astonishment..."

"I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient

vexation. "So you are the fiancé? I know, and that's enough!"
There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch's
being offended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to
understand what it all meant. There was a moment's silence.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a
little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again w
ith marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as t
hough something new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on
purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr
Petrovitch's whole appearance, something
which seemed to justify the title of "fiancé" so unceremoniously applied to h
im. In the first place, it was evident, far too much so indeed, that Pyotr Petro
vitch had made eager use of his few days in the capital to get himself
up and rig himself out in expectation of his betrothed—a
perfectly innocent and permissible 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 f
rom the tailor'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'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'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.
But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to
determine to take no notice of their oddities.
"I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation," he
began, again breaking the silence with
an effort. "If I had been aware of your illness I should have come earlier.
But you know what business is. I have, too, a very important legal affair in
the Senate, not to mention other preoccupations which you may well conjec
ture. I am expecting your mamma and sister any minute."
 Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to
speak; his face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited
, but as nothing followed, he went on:
"... Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival."
"Where?" asked Raskolnikov weakly.
"Very near here, in Bakaleyev's house."

"That's in Voskresensky," put in Razumihin. "There are two storeys of roo

ms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I've been there."
"Yes, rooms..."
"A disgusting place—filthy, stinking and, what's more, of doubtful
character. Things have happened there,
and there are all sorts of queer people living there. And I went there about
a scandalous business. It's cheap, though..."
"I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in
Petersburg myself," Pyotr
Petrovitch replied huffily. "However, the two rooms are exceedingly clean
, and as it is for so short a time... I have already taken a permanent, that is,
our future flat," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "and I am having it done u
p. And meanwhile I am myself cramped for room in a lodging with my frien
d Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame
Lippevechsel; it was he who told me of Bakaleyev's house, too..."
"Lebeziatnikov?" said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something.
"Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk
in the Ministry. Do you know him?"
"Yes... no," Raskolnikov answered.
"Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian.... A
very nice young man and advanced. I like to meet young people: one learns
new things from them." Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all.
 "How do you mean?" asked Razumihin.
"In the most serious and essential matters," Pyotr Petrovitch
replied, as though delighted at the
question. "You see, it's ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the novelti
es, reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces, but to see it all more cl
early one must be in Petersburg.

And it's my notion that you observe and learn most by watching the
younger generation. And I confess I am delighted..."
"At what?"
"Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find clearer
views, more, so to say, criticism, more practicality..."
"That's true," Zossimov let drop.
"Nonsense! There's no practicality." Razumihin flew at him. "Practicality
is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. And
for the last two
hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you li
ke, are fermenting," he said to Pyotr Petrovitch, "and desire for good exists,
though it's in a childish form, and honesty you may find, although there are c
rowds of brigands. Anyway, there's no practicality. Practicality goes well s
hod."
"I don't agree with you," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident enjoyment.
"Of course, people do get carried away and make mistakes, but one must ha
ve indulgence; those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cau
se and of abnormal external environment. If little has been
done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak. It's
my personal view, if you care to know,
that something has been accomplished already. New valuable ideas, new v
aluable works are circulating in the place of our old dreamy and romantic a
uthors. Literature is taking a maturer form, many injurious prejudice
have
been rooted up and turned into ridicule.... In a word, we have cut ourselve
s off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing..."
"He's learnt it by heart to show off!"
Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly.

"What?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching

his words; but he received no reply.
"That's all true," Zossimov hastened to interpose.
"Isn't it so?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov.
"You must admit," he went on,
addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousnes
s—he almost added "young
man"—"that there is an advance, or, as they say now, progress in the name
of science and economic truth..."
"A commonplace."
"No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance, if
I were told, 'love thy neighbour,' what came of it?" Pyotr Petrovitch went o
n, perhaps with excessive haste. "It came to my tearing my coat in half to sh
are with my neighbour and we both were left half naked. As a Russian prov
erb has it, 'Catch several hares and you won't catch one.' 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—the more whole coats, so to say
—
the firmer are its foundations and the better is the common welfare organise
d 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 neighbou
r'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 sentiment
ality. And yet it would seem to want very little wit to perceive it..."
"Excuse me, I've very little wit myself," Razumihin cut in sharply, "and s
o let us drop it. I began this discussion

with an object, but I've grown so sick during the last three years of this ch
attering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow of commonplaces, always t
he same, that, by Jove, I blush even when other people talk like that. You ar
e in a hurry, no doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and I don't blame you,
that's quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you are, f
or so many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive cause of l
ate and have so distorted in their own interests everything they touched,
that the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That's enough!"
"Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive
dignity. "Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I too..."
"Oh, my dear sir... how could I?... Come, that's enough," Razumihin concl
uded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous conver
sation.
Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept
the disavowal. He made up his mind to take leave in another minute or two
.
"I trust our acquaintance," he said,
addressing Raskolnikov, "may, upon your recovery and in view of the circ
umstances of which you are aware, become
closer... Above all, I hope for your return to health..."
Raskolnikov did not even turn his head.
Pyotr Petrovitch began getting up from his chair.
"One of her customers must have killed her," Zossimov declared positive
ly.
"Not a doubt of it," replied Razumihin. "Porfiry doesn't give his opinion,
but is examining all who have left pledges with her there."
 "Examining them?" Raskolnikov asked aloud.
"Yes. What then?"

"Nothing."
"How does he get hold of them?" asked Zossimov.
"Koch has given the names of some of them,
other names are on the wrappers of the pledges and some have come forw
ard of themselves."
"It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The
boldness of it! The coolness!"
"That's just what it wasn't!" interposed
Razumihin. "That's what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain that
he is not cunning, not practised, and probably this was his first
crime! The supposition that it was a calculated crime and a cunning
criminal doesn't work. Suppose him to have been inexperienced, and
it's clear that it was only a chance that saved him—
and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee obstacles, perhaps! A
nd how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles, stu
ffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman's trunks, her rags—
and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides notes, in a box in the top dr
awer of the chest! He did not know how to rob; he could only murder. It w
as his first crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his head. And he got
off more by luck than good counsel!"
"You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?" Pyotr P
etrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in h
and, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more
intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favourable impre
ssion and his vanity overcame his prudence.
"Yes. You've heard of it?"
"Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood."
"Do you know the details?"
 "I can't say that; but another circumstance interests me in the case—
the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been gr
eatly 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 pro
portionately. In one place one hears of a student's robbing the mail on
the high road; in another place people of good social position forge
false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has
been captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders
was a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was
murdered from some
obscure motive of gain.... And if this old woman, the pawnbroker, has
been murdered by someone of a higher class in society—
for peasants don't pawn gold trinkets—
how are we to explain this demoralisation of the civilised part of our soci
ety?"
"There are many economic changes," put in Zossimov.
"How are we to explain it?" Razumihin caught him up. "It might be explai
ned by our inveterate impracticality."
"How do you mean?"
"What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question
why he was forging notes? 'Everybody
is getting rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich too.' I
don't remember the exact words, but the upshot was that he wants
money for nothing, without waiting or working! We've grown used to
having everything ready‐
made, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the g
reat hour struck,[*] and every man showed himself in his true colours."

[*] The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is

meant.

—TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.
 "But morality? And so to speak, principles..."
"But why do you worry about it?" Raskolnikov interposed
suddenly. "It's in accordance with your theory!"
"In accordance with my theory?"
"Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now,
and it follows that people may be killed..."
"Upon my word!" cried Luzhin.
"No, that's not so," put in Zossimov.
Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing pain
fully.
"There's a measure in all things," Luzhin went
on superciliously. "Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and on
e 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 fiancée... within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you mo
st... 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 con
fusion, "to distort my words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to assure yo
u that the report which has reached you, or rather, let me say, has been conv
eyed 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 sup
posing 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 fix
ing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, "I tell you what."
"What?" Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Sile
nce 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 m
an alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid cr
ushing 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 leav
e off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of anyone, anyo
ne 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 fi
rst 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 gat
her 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, fright
ened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he faint
ed."
"Tell me more about that this evening and I'll tell you something afterwar
ds. 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 fe
ar that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strange sudden c
alm. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident
in them. "To‐day, to‐day," he muttered to himself. He understood that he
was still weak, but his intense
spiritual concentration gave him strength and self‐
confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down in the street.
When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the money lying
on the table, and after a
moment's thought put it in his pocket. It was twenty‐
five roubles. He took also all the copper change from the ten roubles spent
by Razumihin on the clothes. Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, sli
pped downstairs and glanced in at the

open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back to him, blowing
up the landlady's samovar. She heard nothing. Who would have
dreamed of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the street.
 It was nearly eight o'clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as befor
e, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head felt rather d
izzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes
and
his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where
he was going, he had one thought only: "that all this must be ended to‐
day, once for all, immediately; that he would not return home without
it, because he
would not go on living like that." How, with what to make an end? He ha
d not an idea about it, he did not even want to think of it. He drove away th
ought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything mus
t be changed "one way or another," he repeated with desperate and immov
able self‐confidence and determination.
From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market.
A dark‐
haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in front of a l
ittle 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 agreea
ble 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 pie
ce and put it in the girl's hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high
note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder "Come on," and both moved on to
the next shop.

"Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle‐

aged man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wonder
ing.
"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and
his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject
—"I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings—they must be damp—
when all the passers‐by have pale green, sickly faces, or better
still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind—you
know what I mean?—and the street lamps shine through it..."
"I don't know.... Excuse me..." muttered the stranger, frightened by
the question and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over
to the other side of the
street.
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's shop.
"Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?"
"All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the
young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov.
"What's his name?"
"What he was christened."
"Aren't you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which province?"
The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.
"It's not a province, your excellency, but a district.
Graciously forgive me, your excellency!"
"Is that a tavern at the top there?"

"Yes, it's an eating‐house and there's a billiard‐

room and you'll find princesses there too.... La‐la!"
Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner
there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest
part of it, looking at the faces. He felt
an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation with people. But th
e 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 o
f V.
He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading fro
m 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.
Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great bl
ock 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 lo
ud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, fl
oated 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 talk
ing. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the r
oad, swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had f
orgotten 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.
He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in th
e 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.
"Oh, my handsome soldier Don't beat me for nothing,"
 trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make
out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that.
"Shall I go in?" he thought. "They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get dr
unk?"
"Won't you come in?" one of the women asked him. Her voice was still m
usical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive—
the only one of the group.
"Why, she's pretty," he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.
She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.
"You're very nice looking yourself," she said.
"Isn't he thin though!" observed another woman in a deep bass. "Have you
just come out of a hospital?"
"They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses," i
nterposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat
. "See how jolly they are."
"Go along with you!"
"I'll go, sweetie!"
And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.
"I say, sir," the girl shouted after him.
"What is it?"

She hesitated.
"I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but no
w I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there's a nice young man!"
Raskolnikov gave her what came first—fifteen copecks.
"Ah, what a good‐natured gentleman!"
 "What's your name?"
"Ask for Duclida."
"Well, that's too much," one of the women observed, shaking her head at
Duclida. "I don't know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop w
ith shame...."
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. "Where is it," thought Raskol
nikov. "Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or think
s, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on suc
h a narrow ledge that he'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 an
d live! Life, whatever it may be!... How true it is! Good God, how true! Ma
n is a vile creature!... And vile is he who calls him vile for that," he
added a moment later.
He went into another street. "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'd read it in the
papers. Have you the papers?" 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. "W
hat if it is?" he thought.
"Will you have vodka?" asked the waiter.
"Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five
days, and I'll give you something."
 "Yes, sir, here's to‐day's. No vodka?"
The old newspapers and the tea were
brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them.
"Oh, damn... these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a
staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a
fire in Peski... a fire in the Petersburg quarter... another fire in the
Petersburg quarter... and another fire in the Petersburg quarter.... Ah, here i
t is!" He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it. The lines d
anced 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.
"What, you here?" he began in surprise, speaking
as though he'd known him all his life. "Why, Razumihin told me only yester
day you were unconscious. How strange! And do you know I've been to see
you?"

Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers

and turned to Zametov. There was
a smile on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in
that smile.
"I know you have," he answered. "I've heard it.
You looked for my sock.... And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to yo
u? He says you've been with him to Luise Ivanovna's—
you know, the woman you tried to befriend, for whom you winked to the Ex
plosive Lieutenant and he would not understand. Do you remember? How c
ould he fail to understand—it was quite clear, wasn't it?"
 "What a hot head he is!"
"The explosive one?"
"No, your friend Razumihin."
"You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most
agreeable places. Who's been pouring champagne into you just now?"
"We've just been... having a drink together.... You talk about pouring it int
o me!"
"By way of a fee! You profit by everything!" Raskolnikov laughed,
"it's all right, my dear boy," he added, slapping Zametov on the
shoulder. "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 wo
man...."
"How do you know about it?"
"Perhaps I know more about it than you do."
"How strange you are.... I am sure you are still
very unwell. You oughtn't to have come out."
"Oh, do I seem strange to you?"
"Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?"
"Yes."
"There's a lot about the fires."

"No, I am not reading about the fires." Here he looked mysteriously at Za

metov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. "No, I am not readin
g about the fires," he went on, winking at Zametov. "But confess now, my d
ear fellow, you're awfully anxious to know what I am reading about?"
"I am not in the least. Mayn't I ask a question? Why do you keep on...?"
 "Listen, you are a man of culture and education?"
"I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium,"
said Zametov with some dignity.
"Sixth class! Ah, my cock‐sparrow! With your parting and your rings—
you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!" Here Raskolnik
ov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov's face. The latter drew back
, more amazed than offended.
"Foo! how strange you are!" Zametov repeated
very seriously. "I can't help thinking you are still delirious."
"I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock‐
sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?"
"Yes, curious."
"Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See w
hat a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?"
"Well, what is it?"
"You prick up your ears?"
"How do you mean—'prick up my ears'?"
"I'll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare to you... no, bette
r 'I confess'... No, that's not right either; 'I make a deposition and you take it
.' I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and searching...." he screw
ed up his eyes and paused. "I was searching—
and came here on purpose to do it—for news of the murder of the old

pawnbroker woman," he articulated at last, almost in

a whisper, bringing his face exceedingly close to the face of Zametov. Zam
etov looked at him steadily, without moving or drawing his face away.
What struck
Zametov afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed
for exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while.
 "What if you have been reading about it?" he cried at last, perplexed and
impatient. "That's no business of mine! What of it?"
"The same old woman," Raskolnikov went on in
the same whisper, not heeding Zametov's explanation, "about whom you
were talking in the police‐office,
you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand now?"
"What do you mean? Understand... what?"
Zametov brought out, almost alarmed.
Raskolnikov'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 the
m, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, an
d laugh, and laugh!
"You are either mad, or..." began Zametov, and he broke off, as though
stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind.
"Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!"
"Nothing," said Zametov, getting angry, "it's all
nonsense!"

Both were silent. After his sudden fit of

laughter Raskolnikov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put
his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have
completely forgotten Zametov. The silence lasted for some time.
"Why don't you drink your tea? It's getting cold," said
Zametov.
 "What! Tea? Oh, yes...." Raskolnikov sipped the
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 drin
king tea.
"There have been a great many of these crimes lately," said Zametov. "On
ly the other day I read in the Moscow News that a whole gang of false coin
ers had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to
forge tickets!"
"Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago," Raskolnikov
answered calmly. "So you consider them criminals?" he added, smiling.
"Of course they are criminals."
"They? They are children, simpletons, not
criminals! Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an object
— what an idea! Three would be too many, and then they want to have
more faith in one another than in
themselves! One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses.
Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes—
what a thing to trust to
a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that these simpletons succeed and e
ach makes a million, and what follows for the rest of their lives? Each is d
ependent on the others for the rest of his life! Better hang oneself at once! A
nd 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 th
e fifth thousand—
he was in such a hurry to get the money into his pocket and run away. Of co
urse he roused suspicion. And the whole thing came to a crash through one
fool! Is it possible?"
"That his hands trembled?" observed Zametov, "yes, that's quite
possible. That, I feel quite sure, is
possible. Sometimes one can't stand things."
"Can't stand that?"
"Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn't. For the sake of a hundred
roubles to face such a terrible
experience? To go with false notes into a bank where it's their business to
spot that sort of thing! No, I should not have the face to do it. Would you?"

Raskolnikov had an intense desire again "to put

his tongue out." Shivers kept running down his spine.
"I should do it quite differently," Raskolnikov
began. "This is how I would change the notes: I'd count the first thousand
three or four times backwards and forwards, looking at every note
and then I'd set to the second thousand; I'd count that half‐
way through and then hold some fifty‐
rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light again—
to see whether it was a good one. 'I am afraid,' I would say, 'a relation
of mine lost twenty‐
five roubles the other day through a false note,' and then I'd tell them the w
hole story. And after I began counting the third, 'No, excuse me,' I
would say, 'I fancy I made
a mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.' An
d 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'd pick out one from the fifth and one
from the second thousand and take them again to the light and
 ask again, 'Change them, please,' and put the clerk
into such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I'd fini
shed and had gone out, I'd come back, 'No, excuse me,' and ask for some ex
planation. That's how I'd do it."
"Foo! what terrible things you say!" said
Zametov, laughing. "But all that is only talk. I dare say when it came to dee
ds you'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—
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—but his hands
shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the place, he couldn't stand it. T
hat was clear from the..."
Raskolnikov seemed offended.
"Clear? Why don't you catch him then?" he
cried, maliciously gibing at Zametov.
"Well, they will catch him."
"Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch
him? You've a tough job! A great point for you is whether a man is
spending money or not. If he had no money
and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any child can mi
slead you."
"The fact is they always do that, though,"
answered Zametov. "A man will commit a clever murder at the risk
of his life and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They are caught
spending money, they are not all as cunning as you are. You
wouldn't go to a tavern, of course?"
Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov.
 "You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should
behave in that case, too?" he asked with displeasure.
"I should like to," Zametov answered firmly and seriously.
Somewhat too much earnestness began
to appear in his words and looks.
"Very much?"
"Very much!"
"All right then. This is how I should behave," Raskolnikov began,
again bringing his face close
to Zametov's, again staring at him and speaking in a whisper, so that the
latter positively shuddered. "This is what I should have done. I
should have taken the money
and jewels, I should have walked out of there and have gone straight to so
me deserted place with fences round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, som
e kitchen garden or place of that sort. I should have looked out
beforehand
some stone weighing a hundredweight or more which had been lying in the
corner from the time the house was built. I would lift that stone—there
would sure to be a hollow
under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that hole. Then I'd roll t
he 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! Th
ere'd be no trace."
"You are a madman," said Zametov, and for
some reason he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Raskolniko
v, 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 kne
w what he was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word tre
mbled 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.
"And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?" he
said suddenly and—realised what he had done.
Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His fac
e wore a contorted smile.
"But is it possible?" he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked wrathfull
y at him.
"Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?"
"Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now," Zametov cried hastily.
"I've caught my cock‐sparrow! So you did believe
it before, if now you believe less than ever?"
"Not at all," cried Zametov, obviously
embarrassed. "Have you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?"
"You don't believe it then? What were you talking about behind my
back when I went out of the police‐
office? And why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted?
Hey, there," he shouted to the
waiter, getting up and taking his cap, "how much?"
"Thirty copecks," the latter replied, running up.
"And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!" he hel
d out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. "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've cross‐
examined my landlady, I'll be bound.... Well, that's enough! Assez causé! T
ill we meet again!"
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 shoc
k, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once,
but his strength failed as quickly when the stimulus was removed.
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 mad
e up his mind for him conclusively.
"Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead," he decided.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he
stumbled against Razumihin on
the steps. They did not see each other till they almost knocked against each
other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and down.
Razumihin was greatly
astounded, then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes.
"So here you are!" he shouted at the top of his voice
— "you ran away from your bed! And here I've been looking for you under t
he sofa! We went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. A
nd here he is after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole
truth! Confess! Do you hear?"
"It means that I'm sick to death of you all and I want to be alone," Raskoln
ikov answered calmly.
"Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as
a sheet and you are gasping for
breath! Idiot!... What have you been doing in the Palais de Cristal? Own u
p at once!"
"Let me go!" said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much f
or Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder.
"Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I'll do wit
h you directly? I'll pick you up, tie

you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock you up!"
 "Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm
—"can't you see that I don't want your benevolence? A strange
desire you have to
shower benefits on a man who... curses them, who feels them a burden in f
act! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was
very glad to die. Didn't I tell you plainly enough to‐
day that you were torturing me, that I was... sick of you! You seem to want t
o torture people! I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recover
y, because it's continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away just
now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness' sake! Wh
at right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don't you see that I am in po
ssession of all my faculties now? How, how can I persuade you not to pers
ecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only let
me be, for God's sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!"
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.
Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop.
"Well, go to hell then," he said gently and thoughtfully. "Stay," he
roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. "Listen to me. Let me
tell you, that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you've
any little trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you
are plagiarists even in that! There isn't a sign of independent life in you!
You are made of spermaceti ointment
and you've lymph in your veins instead of blood. I don't believe in anyone
of you! In any circumstances the first thing for

all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!" he cried with redoubled f

ury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement
—"hear me out! You know I'm having a house‐
warming this evening, I dare say they've arrived by now, but I left my uncle
there—I just ran in—to receive the guests. And if you weren't a fool,
a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of
a translation... you see, Rodya, I recognise you're a
clever fellow, but you're a fool!—and if you weren't a fool you'd come
round to me this evening instead of wearing
out your boots in the street! Since you have gone out, there's no help for it!
I'd give you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one... a cup of tea, company.
... Or you could lie on the sofa—
any way you would be with us.... Zossimov will be there too. Will you com
e?"
"No."
"R‐rubbish!" Razumihin shouted, out of patience. "How do you know?
You can't answer for yourself! You
don't know anything about it.... Thousands of times I've fought tooth and
nail with people and run back to
them afterwards.... One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So rememb
er, Potchinkov's house on the third storey...."
"Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you'd let anybody beat you from sheer
benevolence."
"Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist his nose off at the mere
idea! Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat...."
"I shall not come, Razumihin." Raskolnikov turned and walked away.
"I bet you will," Razumihin shouted after him. "I refuse to know you if yo
u don't! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?"
"Yes."
"Did you see him?"
"Yes."

"Talked to him?"
"Yes."
"What about? Confound you, don't tell me
then. Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat, remember!"
 Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into
Sadovy Street. Razumihin looked after him
thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he went into the house but
stopped short of the stairs.
"Confound it," he went on almost aloud. "He
talked sensibly but yet... I am a fool!
As if madmen didn't talk sensibly! And this was just what Zossimov seeme
d afraid of." He struck his finger on his forehead. "What if... how could I l
et him go off alone? He may drown himself.... Ach, what a blunder! I
can't." 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.
Raskolnikov walked straight to X
—— 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 h
e could scarcely reach this place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere i
n the street. Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink f
lush 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 le
aned 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 inf
lated like a balloon over her back.
"A woman drowning! A woman drowning!"
shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged with
spectators, on the bridge people crowded
about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him.
"Mercy on it! it's our Afrosinya!" a woman
cried tearfully close by. "Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!"
"A boat, a boat" was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a bo
at; 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 co
uple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her clothes with his right han
d 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 consciousnes
s, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly
wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.
"She's drunk herself out of her senses," the
same woman's voice wailed at her side. "Out of her senses. The other day
she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran

out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look after her—and here
she's in trouble again! A
neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house fro
m the end, see yonder...."
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.
"No,
that's loathsome... water... it's not good enough," he muttered to himself.
"Nothing will come of it," he added, "no use to wait. What about
the police office...? And why
isn't Zametov at the police office? The police office is open till ten o'clock
...." He turned his back to the railing and looked about him.
"Very well then!" he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and walke
d 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 en
ergy with which he had set out "to make an end of it all." Complete apathy
had succeeded to it.
"Well, it's a way out of it," he thought, walking slowly and listlessly alon
g the canal bank. "Anyway I'll make an end, for I want to.... But is it a
way out? What does it matter! There'll be the square yard of space—
ha! But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah... dam
n! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or
lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I
don't care about that either! What idiotic ideas come into one's head."
To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the secon
d turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he
stopped and, after a minute'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 the house. He had not passed it, he had not been near it
since that 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 loo
ked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the win
dow had been taken out. "That
 wasn't so then," he thought. Here was the flat on the second storey
where Nikolay and Dmitri had
been working. "It's shut up and the door newly painted. So it's to let." Then
the third storey and the fourth. "Here!" He was perplexed to find the door
of the flat wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices; he had n
ot 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. T
his seemed to amaze him; he somehow fancied that he would find everythin
g 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 b
y this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to ha
ve it all so changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their

time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting
ready to go home. They took no notice
of Raskolnikov's coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arm
s and listened.
"She comes to me in the morning," said the elder to the younger, "very
early, all dressed up. 'Why are
you preening and prinking?' says I. 'I am ready to do anything to please you
, Tit Vassilitch!' That's a way of going on! And she dressed up like a regular
fashion book!"
"And what is a fashion book?" the younger one asked. He obviously regar
ded the other as an authority.
"A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to the
tailors here every Saturday, by post
from abroad, to show folks how to dress, the male sex as well as the femal
e. They're pictures. The gentlemen are generally wearing fur coats and
for the ladies' fluffles, they're beyond anything you can fancy."
"There's nothing you can't find in Petersburg,"
the younger cried enthusiastically, "except father and mother, there's everyt
hing!"
"Except them, there's everything to be found, my boy," the elder declared
sententiously.
Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other
room where the strong 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.
"What do you want?" he asked suddenly.
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 m
ore and more satisfaction.
"Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, going out
to him. Raskolnikov went inside again.
"I want to take a flat," he said. "I am looking round."
"It's not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up with
the porter."
"The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov went
on. "Is there no blood?"
 "What blood?"
"Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered
here. There was a perfect pool there."
"But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy.
"Who am I?"
"Yes."
"You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell
you."
The workmen looked at him in amazement.
"It's time for us to go, we are late. Come
along, Alyoshka. We must lock up," said the elder workman.
"Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out
first, he went slowly downstairs.
"Hey, porter," he cried in the gateway.
At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers‐by;
the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few
others. Raskolnikov went straight up to them.
"What do you want?" asked one of the porters.
"Have you been to the police office?"
"I've just been there. What do you want?"
"Is it open?"

"Of course."
"Is the assistant there?"
"He was there for a time. What do you want?"
 Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.
"He's been to look at the flat," said the elder workman, coming forward.
"Which flat?"
"Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed away the blood?' says he.
'There has been a murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to take it.' And he b
egan ringing at the bell, all but broke it. 'Come to the police station,' says h
e. 'I'll tell you everything there.' He wouldn't leave us."
The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.
"Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as he could.
"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live
in Shil's house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he
knows me."
Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but lo
oking intently into the darkening street.
"Why have you been to the flat?"
"To look at it."
"What is there to look at?"
"Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long coat jerked i
n abruptly.
Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same
slow, lazy tones:
"Come along."
"Yes, take him," the man went on more
confidently. "Why was he going into that, what's in his mind, eh?"
"He's not drunk, but God knows what's the matter with him," muttered the
workman.
 "But what do you want?" the porter shouted
again, beginning to get angry in earnest—"Why are you hanging about?"
"You funk the police station then?" said Raskolnikov jeeringly.
"How funk it? Why are you hanging about?"
"He's a rogue!" shouted the peasant woman.
"Why waste time talking to him?" cried the
other porter, a huge peasant in a full open coat and with keys on his belt.
"Get along! He is a rogue and no mistake. Get along!"
And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street.
He lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the
spectators in silence and walked
away.
"Strange man!" observed the workman.
"There are strange folks about nowadays," said the
woman.
"You should have taken him to the police station all the same," said the m
an in the long coat.
"Better have nothing to do with him," decided the big porter. "A regular r
ogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you won't
get rid of him.... We know the sort!"
"Shall I go there or not?" thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle of t
he thoroughfare at the cross‐
roads, and he looked about him, as though expecting from someone a decis
ive word. But no sound came, all was dead and silent like the stones on wh
ich he walked, dead to him, to him alone.... All at once at the end of the stre
et, 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.
 "What is it?" Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the crowd.
He seemed to clutch at everything
and smiled coldly when he recognised it, for he had fully made up his min
d 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 an
d 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 l
antern which he was turning on something lying close to the wheels. Everyo
ne was talking, shouting, exclaiming; the coachman seemed at a loss
and kept repeating:
"What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!"
Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last in
seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a man who h
ad 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.
"Merciful heaven!" wailed the coachman, "what more could I do? If I'd be
en driving fast or had not shouted to him, but I was going quietly, not in
a hurry. Everyone

could see I was going along just like everybody else.

A drunken man can't walk straight, we all know.... I saw him crossing the s
treet, staggering and almost falling. I shouted again and a second and a third
time, then I held the horses in, but he fell straight under their feet! Either he
 did it on purpose or he was very tipsy.... The horses are young and ready
to take fright... they started, he screamed...
that made them worse. That's how it happened!"
"That's just how it was," a voice in the crowd confirmed.
"He shouted, that's true, he shouted three
times," another voice declared.
"Three times it was, we all heard it," shouted a third.
But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was evi
dent 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 upset
ting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the injured man to the
police station and the hospital. No one knew his name.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him.
The lantern suddenly lighted up
the unfortunate man's face. He recognised him.
"I know him! I know him!" he shouted, pushing to the front. "It's a
government clerk retired from the service, Marmeladov. He lives
close by in Kozel's house....
Make haste for a doctor! I will pay, see?" He pulled money out of his
pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in violent agitation.
The police were glad that they had found out who the man was.
Raskolnikov gave his own name and
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.
"Just here, three houses away," he said eagerly, "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 t
o the hospital, and there is sure to be a doctor in the house. I'll pay, I'll pay!
 At least he will be looked after at home... they will help him at once. But
he'll die before you get him to the hospital." He managed to slip
something unseen into the policeman's hand. But the thing was
straightforward and legitimate, and in any case help was closer here.
They raised the injured man; people volunteered to help.
Kozel's house was thirty yards away.
Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding Marmeladov's head and sho
wing the way.
"This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head foremost. Turn
round! I'll pay, I'll make it worth your while," he muttered.
Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free momen
t, 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 h
ad begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, w
ho, 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 ha
d 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 stretch
ed out straight before him—heels together and toes turned out.
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. T
he 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.
"You wouldn't believe, you can't imagine, Polenka," she said, walking abo
ut the room, "what a happy luxurious life we had in my papa's house and ho
w this drunkard has brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin! Papa was a
civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; so
that everyone who came to see him said, 'We look upon you, Ivan Mihailov
itch, as our governor!' When I... when..." she coughed violently, "oh, cursed
life," she cried, clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her
breast, "when I... when at the last ball... at the marshal's... Princess
Bezzemelny saw me—who gave me the blessing when your father
and I were married, Polenka—she asked
at once 'Isn't that the pretty girl who danced the shawl dance at the breaking‐
up?' (You must mend that tear, you must take your needle and darn it as
I showed you, or to‐morrow—cough, cough, cough—he will make the
hole bigger," she articulated with effort.) "Prince Schegolskoy, a kammerjun
ker, 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 tha
t my heart had long been another's. That other was your father, Polya; papa
was fearfully angry.... Is the water ready? Give me the shirt, and the
stockings! Lida," said she to the youngest one, "you must
manage without your chemise to‐
night... and lay your stockings out with it... I'll wash them together.... How i
s it that drunken vagabond doesn't come in? He has worn his shirt till
it looks like a dish‐
clout, he has torn it to rags! I'd do it all together, so as not to have to work t
wo nights running! Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What's t
his?" she cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the men, who were
pushing into her room, carrying a
burden. "What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us!"
"Where are we to put him?" asked the policeman, looking round
when Marmeladov, unconscious
and covered with blood, had been carried in.
"On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way," Raskol
nikov showed him.
"Run over in the road! Drunk!" someone shouted in the
passage.
Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The childr
en were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka and clutched at h
er, trembling all over.
Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew
to Katerina Ivanovna.
"For God's sake be calm, don't be frightened!" he said, speaking quickly,
"he was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage, don't be frighten
ed, he will come to, I told them bring him here... I've been here
already, you remember? He will come to; I'll pay!"

"He's done it this time!" Katerina Ivanovna cried

despairingly and she rushed to her husband.
Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of
those women who swoon easily. She instantly
placed under the luckless man's head a pillow, which no one had thought o
f and began undressing and examining him. She kept her head, forgetting her
self, biting her trembling lips and stifling the screams which were ready to
break from her.
Raskolnikov meanwhile induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a
doctor, it appeared, next door but one.
"I've sent for a doctor," he kept assuring
Katerina Ivanovna, "don't be uneasy, I'll pay. Haven't you water?... and give
me a napkin or a towel, anything, as quick as you can.... He is injured, but n
ot killed, believe me.... We shall see what the doctor says!"
 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's and husband's
linen that night. This
washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a week, if no
t 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's re
quest, 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'
s face.

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.
"Polenka," cried Katerina Ivanovna, "run to Sonia, make haste. If you don'
t find her at home, leave word that her father has been run over and that she
is to come here at once... when she comes in. Run, Polenka! there, put on the
shawl."
"Run your fastest!" cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after
which he relapsed into the same
dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his heels thrust forward and his toes spread
out.
Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you couldn't have
dropped a pin. The policemen 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'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 r
oom. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a fury.
"You might let him die in peace, at least," she shouted at the crowd, "is
it a spectacle for you to gape at?
With cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!) You might as well keep your hats on
.... And there is one in his hat!... Get away! You should respect the dead, at l
east!"
Her cough choked her—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 o
f the sincerest sympathy and compassion.
Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital and
saying that they'd no business to make a disturbance here.
"No business to die!" 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 t
o restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible Ger
man.
"Ah, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands,
"your husband drunken horses have trampled! To the hospital with him! I a
m the landlady!"
"Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are saying,"
Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she always took a haughty tone
with the landlady that
she might "remember her place" and even now could not deny herself this
satisfaction). "Amalia Ludwigovna..."
 "I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may
not dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna."
"You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and as I am not o
ne of your despicable flatterers like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who's laughing
behind the door at
this moment (a laugh and a cry of 'they are at it again' was in fact audible a
t the door) so I shall always call you Amalia Ludwigovna, though I fail to u
nderstand why you dislike that name. You can see for yourself what has hap
pened to Semyon Zaharovitch; he is dying. I beg you to close that door at o
nce and to admit no one. Let him at least die in peace! Or I warn you the Go
vernor‐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, knowin
g his unhappy weakness, but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) a
generous young man has come to our assistance, who has wealth and
connections and
whom Semyon Zaharovitch has known from a child. You may rest assured,
Amalia Ludwigovna..."
All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and
quicker, but a cough suddenly cut
short Katerina Ivanovna's eloquence. At that instant the dying man recover
ed 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 Iv
anovna looked at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her
eyes.
 "My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding," she
said in despair. "We must take off
his clothes. Turn a little, Semyon Zaharovitch, if you can," she cried to him
.
Marmeladov recognised her.
"A priest," he articulated huskily.
Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the windo
w frame and exclaimed in despair:
"Oh, cursed life!"
"A priest," the dying man said again after a moment's silence.
"They've gone for him," 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 se
emed a little easier but not for long.
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 c
hildish eyes.
"A‐ah," he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something.
"What now?" cried Katerina Ivanovna.
"Barefoot, barefoot!" he muttered, indicating
with frenzied eyes the child's bare feet.
"Be silent," Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably,
"you know why she is barefooted."
"Thank God, the doctor," exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved.
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's chest. It was gashed, crushed and f
ractured, several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side, just ov
er the heart, was a large, sinister‐looking yellowish‐black bruise—a
cruel kick from the horse's hoof. The doctor frowned. The
policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel and turned round with
it for thirty yards on the road.
"It's wonderful that he has recovered consciousness," the doctor whisper
ed softly to Raskolnikov.
"What do you think of him?" he asked.
"He will die immediately."
"Is there really no hope?"
"Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp.... His head is badly injured, too...
Hm... I could bleed him if you like, but...

it would be useless. He is bound to die within the next five

or ten minutes."
"Better bleed him then."
"If you like.... But I warn you it will be perfectly
useless."
At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted, a
nd 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 chang
ed places with him, exchanging glances with him. Raskolnikov begged the d
octor to remain a little while. He shrugged his shoulders and remained.
All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably
understood little; he could only utter indistinct broken sounds. Katerina
Ivanovna took little
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 b
oy's shirt, and managed to cover the girl's bare shoulders with a kerchief, w
hich 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 t
he flats on the staircase grew denser and denser, but they did not venture be
yond the threshold. A single candle‐end lighted up the scene.
At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She
came in panting from running so

fast, took off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her and said,
"She's coming, I met her in the street." Her mother made her kneel beside h
er.
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 h
er 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 a
t 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, r
ather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the bed and th
e priest; she too was out of breath with running. At last whispers, some wor
ds in the crowd probably, reached her. She looked down and took a step for
ward into the room, still keeping close to the door.
The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband again. T
he priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of admonition and
consolation to Katerina
Ivanovna on leaving.
"What am I to do with these?" she interrupted sharply and irritably, pointi
ng to the little ones.
"God is merciful; look to the Most High for succour," the priest began.

"Ach! He is merciful, but not to us."

"That's a sin, a sin, madam," observed the priest, shaking his head.
"And isn't that a sin?" cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying man.

"Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused

the accident will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of his earni
ngs."
"You don't understand!" cried Katerina Ivanovna
angrily waving her hand. "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's dying! One less to keep!"
"You must forgive in the hour of death, that's a
sin, madam, such feelings are a great sin."
Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was giving him wate
r, 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.
"Ah, father! That's words and only words! Forgive! If he'd not been run
over, he'd have come home to‐
day drunk and his only shirt dirty and in rags and he'd have fallen asleep li
ke a log, and I should have been sousing and rinsing till daybreak, washing
his rags and the children's and then drying them by the window and as soon
as it was daylight I should have been darning them. That's how I spend
my nights!... What's the use of talking
of forgiveness! I have forgiven as it is!"

A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief t
o 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 s
aid nothing.
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 s
omething to her; he began moving his tongue with difficulty and articulating
indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he wanted to ask her f
orgiveness, called peremptorily to him:
"Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!" And the sick man
was silent, but at the same instant
his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway and he saw Sonia.
Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the shadow in a corne
r.
"Who's that? Who's that?" 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.
"Lie down! Lie do‐own!" cried Katerina Ivanovna.
 With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his
elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly
for some time on his daughter, as though not recognising her. He had never
seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he recognised her, crushed and ash
amed in her humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say g
ood‐ bye to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering.
"Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!" 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 so
fa; but he was dying. Sonia

with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so without moving. H
e died in her arms.
"He's got what he wanted," Katerina Ivanovna
cried, seeing her husband's dead body. "Well, what's to be done now? Ho
w am I to bury him! What can I give them to‐ morrow to eat?"
Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna.
"Katerina Ivanovna," he began, "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—and if that can be of
any assistance to you, then... I... in short, I will come again, I will be sure t
o come again... I shall, perhaps, come again to‐ morrow.... Good‐bye!"
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.
"Ah, is that you?" he asked him.
"He's dead," answered Raskolnikov. "The doctor and the priest
have been, all as it should have been.
Don't worry the poor woman too much, she is in consumption as it is. Try a
nd cheer her up, if possible... you are a kind‐ hearted man, I know..." he
added with a smile, looking straight in his face.
 "But you are spattered with blood," observed Nikodim Fomitch,
noticing in the lamplight some fresh stains
on Raskolnikov's waistcoat.
"Yes... I'm covered with blood," Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air; the
n he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.
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 p
ardoned. 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 "Wait! wait!"
He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped short
a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Raskolnikov could di
stinguish the child'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.
"Tell me, what is your name?... and where do you live?" she said hurriedl
y in a breathless voice.
He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her
with a sort of rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her, he could not
have said why.
"Who sent you?"
"Sister Sonia sent me," answered the girl, smiling still more brightly.
"I knew it was sister Sonia sent you."
 "Mamma sent me, too... when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma came
up, too, and said 'Run fast, Polenka.'"

"Do you love sister Sonia?"

"I love her more than anyone," Polenka answered with a peculiar earnest
ness, and her smile became graver.
"And will you love me?"
By way of answer he saw the little girl's
face approaching him, her full lips naïvely held out to kiss him. Suddenly h
er arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder an
d the little girl wept softly, pressing her face against him.
"I am sorry for father," she said a moment later, raising her tear‐
stained face and brushing away the tears with her hands. "It's nothing but
misfortunes now," she
added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air which children try hard to a
ssume when they want to speak like grown‐up people.
"Did your father love you?"
"He loved Lida most," she went on very
seriously without a smile, exactly like grown‐
up people, "he loved her because she is little and because she is ill, too. An
d he always used to bring her presents. But he taught us to read and me
grammar and scripture, too," she added
with dignity. "And mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she
liked it and father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach me French,
for it's time my education began."
"And do you know your prayers?"
"Of course, we do! We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself as
I am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida say them aloud with mother.
First they repeat the 'Ave Maria' and then
another prayer: 'Lord, forgive and bless sister Sonia,' and then another,
'Lord, forgive
and bless our second father.' For our elder father is dead and this is anothe
r one, but we do pray for the other as well."

"Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me, too. 'And Thy serv
ant Rodion,' nothing more."
"I'll pray for you all the rest of my life," the little girl declared hotly, and
suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and hugged him warmly once mor
e.
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 t
he woman had jumped in.
"Enough," he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. "I've done with fan
cies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! Life is real! haven't I lived just now?
My life has not yet died with that old woman! The Kingdom of
Heaven to her—and now 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!" he added defi
antly, as though challenging some power of darkness. "And I was ready to c
onsent to live in a square of space!
"I am very weak at this moment, but... I believe
my illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out.
By the way, Potchinkov's house is only a few steps away. I certainly must
go to Razumihin even if it were not close by... let him win his bet! Let us giv
e him some satisfaction, too—
no matter! Strength, strength is what one wants, you can get nothing without i
t, and strength must be won by strength—
that's what they don't know," he added proudly and self‐
confidently and he walked with flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride
and self‐confidence
grew continually stronger in him; he was becoming a different man every m
oment. 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, 'could live, that there was still life for him, that his life had not died w
ith the old woman.' Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his conclusion
s, but he did not think of that.
"But I did ask her to remember 'Thy servant Rodion' in her prayers," the i
dea struck him. "Well, that was... in case of emergency," he added and laug
hed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits.
He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already known at Potchin
kov's and the porter at once showed him the way. Half‐
way upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big gat
hering of people. The door was wide open on the stairs; he could
hear exclamations and discussion. Razumihin's room was fairly large; the
company consisted of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the
entry, where two of
the landlady's servants were busy behind a screen with two samovars, bott
les, plates and dishes of pie and savouries, brought up from the landlady's k
itchen. Raskolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran out delighted. At the first
glance it was apparent that he had had a great deal to drink and, though no
amount of liquor made Razumihin quite drunk, this time he was perceptibly
affected by it.
"Listen," Raskolnikov hastened to say, "I've only just come to tell
you you've won your bet and that no
one really knows what may not happen to him. I can't come in; I am so wea
k that I shall fall down directly. And so good evening and good‐
bye! Come and see me to‐morrow."
"Do you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you're weak yourself, y
ou must..."
"And your visitors? Who is the curly‐
headed one who has just peeped out?"

"He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle's,

I expect, or perhaps he has come without being invited... I'll leave uncle w
ith them, he is an invaluable person, pity I can't introduce you to him
now. But confound them
all now! They won't notice me, and I need a little fresh air, for you've com
e just in the nick of time—
another two minutes and I should have come to blows! They are talking suc
h a lot of wild stuff... you simply can't imagine what men will say!
Though why shouldn't you imagine? Don't we
talk nonsense ourselves? And let them... that's the way to learn not to!... Wa
it a minute, I'll fetch Zossimov."
Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily; he showed a
special interest in him; soon his face brightened.
"You must go to bed at once," he pronounced, examining the
patient as far as he could, "and
take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it ready some time ago..
. a powder."
"Two, if you like," answered Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at onc
e.
"It's a good thing you are taking him home," observed
Zossimov to Razumihin—"we shall see how he is to‐
morrow, to‐day he's not at all amiss—a
considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn..."
"Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were coming o
ut?" Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they were in the street. "I won't
tell you
everything, brother, because they are such fools. Zossimov told me to talk f
reely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and afterwards I a
m to tell him about it, for he's got a notion in his head that you are... mad or
close on it. Only fancy! In the first place, you've three times the brains he h
as; in the second, if you are not mad, you needn't care a

hang that he has got such a wild idea; and thirdly, that piece of beef whos
e specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases, and what's
brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation to‐
day with Zametov."
"Zametov told you all about it?"
"Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it
all means and so does Zametov.... Well, the fact is, Rodya... the point is... I
am a little drunk now.... But that's... no matter... the point is that this idea...
you understand? was just being hatched in their brains... you understand? T
hat is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the idea is too absurd and
especially since the arrest of that painter,
that bubble's burst and gone for ever. But why are they such fools? I gave Z
ametov a bit of a thrashing at the time
— that's between ourselves, brother; please don't let out a hint that you
know of it; I've noticed he is a
ticklish subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna's. But to‐day, to‐
day it's all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! He took a
dvantage of your fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himse
lf now; I know that..."
Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was
drunk enough to talk too freely.
"I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of
paint," said Raskolnikov.
"No need to explain that! And it wasn't the paint only: the fever had
been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how
crushed that boy is now,
you wouldn't believe! 'I am not worth his little finger,' he says. Yours, he m
eans. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the lesson, the lesson you
gave him to‐
day in the Palais de Cristal, that was too good for anything! You frightened
him at first, you know, he nearly went into convulsions!

You almost convinced him again of the truth of

all that hideous nonsense, and then you suddenly—
put out your tongue at him: 'There now, what do you make of it?' It was perf
ect! He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove, it's what they
deserve! Ah, that I wasn't there! He was hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, t
oo, wants to make your acquaintance..."
"Ah!... he too... but why did they put me down as mad?"
"Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother.... What struck
him, you see, was that only that
subject seemed to interest you; now it's clear why it did interest you;
knowing all the circumstances... and how
that irritated you and worked in with your illness... I am a little drunk, broth
er, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own... I tell you, he's mad on
mental diseases. But don't you mind him..."
For half a minute both were silent.
"Listen, Razumihin," began Raskolnikov, "I want to tell you plainly: I've
just been at a death‐bed, a clerk who died... I gave them all my
money... and besides I've
just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone, would just the sam
e... in fact I saw someone else there... with a flame‐
coloured feather... but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak, support
me... we shall be at the stairs directly..."
"What's the matter? What's the matter with
you?" Razumihin asked anxiously.
"I am a little giddy, but that's not the point, I am so sad, so sad... like a wo
man. Look, what's that? Look, look!"
"What is it?"
"Don't you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack..."

They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level of the l
andlady's door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that there was
a light in Raskolnikov's garret.
"Queer! Nastasya, perhaps," observed Razumihin.
 "She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago, but.
.. I don't care! Good‐bye!"
"What do you mean? I am coming with you, we'll come in together!"
"I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say g
ood‐bye to you here. So give me your hand, good‐bye!"
"What's the matter with you, Rodya?"
"Nothing... come along... you shall be witness."
They began mounting the stairs, and the idea
struck Razumihin that perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. "Ah, I've
upset him with my chatter!" he muttered to himself.
When they reached the door they heard voices in the
room.
"What is it?" cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door
; he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered.
His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an ho
ur 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 "running away" to‐
day, ill and, as they understood from her story, delirious! "Good

Heavens, what had become of him?" Both had

been weeping, both had been in anguish for that hour and a half.
A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov's entrance. Both rushed to hi
m. But he stood like one dead; a sudden intolerable sensation struck him lik
e a thunderbolt. He did
 not lift his arms to embrace them, he could not. His mother and sister clas
ped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and cried. He took a step, tottere
d and fell to the ground, fainting.
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.
"It's nothing, nothing!" he cried to the mother and sister
—"it's only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was muc
h better, that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming to himself, he is
all right again!"
And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he
almost dislocated it, he made her bend down to see that "he is all right aga
in." 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 "very competent young man," as Pulcheria
Alexandrovna
Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with Dounia.

Ebd
E‐BooksDirectory.com

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 i
ncoherent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister, took the
m both by the hand and for a minute or two gazed from one to the
other without speaking. His mother was alarmed by his expression.
It revealed an emotion agonisingly poignant, and at the same time
something immovable, almost insane.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother's.
"Go home... with him," he said in a broken voice, pointing to
Razumihin, "good‐bye till to‐morrow; to‐
morrow everything... Is it long since you arrived?"
"This evening, Rodya," answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "the
train was awfully late. But,
Rodya, nothing would induce me to leave you now! I will spend the night h
ere, near you..."
"Don't torture me!" he said with a gesture of irritation.
"I will stay with him," cried Razumihin, "I won't leave him for a moment.
Bother all my visitors! Let them rage to their hearts' content! My uncle is p
residing there."

"How, how can I thank you!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning,

once more pressing Razumihin's
hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her again.
"I can't have it! I can't have it!" he repeated irritably, "don't worry me! En
ough, go away... I can't stand it!"
"Come, mamma, come out of the room at least for
a minute," Dounia whispered in dismay; "we are distressing him, that's evi
dent."
"Mayn't I look at him after three years?" wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Stay," he stopped them again, "you keep interrupting me, and my ideas g
et muddled.... Have you seen Luzhin?"
"No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya,
that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit you today," Pulcheria Alexandr
ovna added somewhat timidly.
 "Yes... he was so kind... Dounia, I promised Luzhin I'd throw him downst
airs and told him to go to hell...."
"Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don't mean to tell us..." Pulcheri
a Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at Dounia.
Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at
her brother, waiting for what would come next. Both of them had heard of t
he quarrel from Nastasya, so far as she had succeeded in understanding and
reporting it, and were in painful perplexity and suspense.
"Dounia," Raskolnikov continued with an effort, "I don't want that marria
ge, so at the first opportunity to‐
morrow you must refuse Luzhin, so that we may never hear his name again.
"
"Good Heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Brother, think what you are saying!" Avdotya
Romanovna began impetuously, but immediately checked

herself. "You are not fit to talk now, perhaps; you

are tired," she added gently.
"You think I am delirious? No... You are
marrying Luzhin for my sake. But I won't accept the sacrifice. And so writ
e a letter before to‐morrow, to
refuse him... Let me read it in the morning and that will be the end of it!"
"That I can't do!" the girl cried, offended, "what right have you..."
"Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to‐
morrow... Don't you see..." the mother interposed in dismay. "Better come
away!"
"He is raving," Razumihin cried tipsily, "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, to
o.... He made speeches here, wanted to show off his learning and he went o
ut crest‐fallen...."
"Then it's true?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Good‐bye till to‐morrow, brother," said Dounia compassionately
—"let us go, mother... Good‐bye, Rodya."
"Do you hear, sister," he repeated after them, making a last effort, "I am n
ot delirious; this marriage is—an infamy. Let me act like a scoundrel,
but you mustn't... one is enough... and though I am a scoundrel, I
wouldn't own such a sister. It's me or Luzhin! Go now...."
"But you're out of your mind! Despot!"
roared Razumihin; but Raskolnikov did not and perhaps could not answer.
He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall, utterly exhausted.
Avdotya Romanovna looked
with interest at Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively st
arted at her glance.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed.

"Nothing would induce me to go," she whispered

in despair to Razumihin. "I will stay somewhere here... escort Dounia hom
e."
"You'll spoil everything," Razumihin answered in
the same whisper, losing patience
—"come out on to the stairs, anyway. Nastasya, show a light! I assure you,"
he went on in a half whisper on the stairs‐"that he was almost beating the
doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand? The doctor himself! Eve
n 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...."
"What are you saying?"
"And Avdotya Romanovna can't possibly be left in those lodgings
without you. Just think where you are staying! That blackguard Pyotr
Petrovitch couldn't find you better lodgings... But you know I've had
a little to drink, and that's what makes me... swear; don't mind it...."
"But I'll go to the landlady here," Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted,
"Ill beseech her to find
some corner for Dounia and me for the night. I can't leave him like that, I c
annot!"
This conversation took place on the landing just before the landlady's
door. Nastasya lighted them from a
step below. Razumihin was in extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earli
er, while he was bringing Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too freel
y, 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 he
ad with redoubled effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by thei
r 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'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's account of her brother'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 sho
wed his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so that people q
uickly saw the sort of man they had to deal with.
"You can't go to the landlady, that's perfect nonsense!" he cried. "If you st
ay, though you are his mother, you'll drive him to a frenzy, and then goodnes
s knows what will happen! Listen, I'll tell you what I'll do: Nastasya will st
ay with him now, and I'll conduct you both home, you can't be in the streets
alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that

way.... But no matter! Then I'll run straight back here and a quarter of an h
our later, on my word of honour, I'll bring you news how he is, whether he i
s asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I'll run home in a twinkling—
I've a lot of friends there, all drunk—I'll fetch Zossimov—
that's the doctor who is looking after him, he is there, too, but he is not dru
nk; he is not drunk, he is never drunk! I'll drag him to Rodya, and then to yo
u, so that you'll get two reports in the hour—from the doctor, you
understand, from the doctor himself, that's a very different thing from
my account of him! If there's anything wrong, I swear I'll bring you here my
self, but, if it's all right, you go to bed. And I'll spend the night here, in the p
assage, he won't hear me, and I'll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady's, t
o be at hand. Which is better for him: you or the doctor? So come home the
n! But the landlady is out of the question; it's all right for me, but it's out
of the question for you:
she wouldn't take you, for she's... for she's a fool... She'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 chara
cter! But I am a fool, too!... No matter! Come along! Do you trust me? Com
e, do you trust me or not?"
"Let us go, mother," said Avdotya Romanovna, "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?"
 "You see, you... you... understand me, because you are an angel!" Razumi
hin cried in ecstasy, "let us go! Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit with him with
a light; I'll come in a quarter of an hour."
Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly convinced, she
made no further resistance. Razumihin
 gave an arm to each and drew them down the stairs. He still made her une
asy, as though he was competent and good‐
natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed in such a
condition....
"Ah, I see you think I am in such a
condition!" Razumihin broke in upon her thoughts, guessing them, as he str
olled along the pavement with huge steps, so that the two ladies could hardl
y keep up with him, a fact he did not observe, however. "Nonsense! That is.
.. I am drunk like a fool, but that's not it; I am not drunk from wine. It's seein
g you has turned my head... But don't mind me! Don't take any notice: I
am talking nonsense, I am not worthy
of you.... I am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I've taken you home, I'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't laugh, an
d don't be angry! You may be angry with anyone, but not with me! I am his f
riend, and therefore I am your friend, too, I want to be... I had a
presentiment... Last year there was
a moment... though it wasn't a presentiment really, for you seem to have
fallen from heaven. And I expect I
shan't sleep all night... Zossimov was afraid a little time ago that he would
go mad... that's why he mustn't be irritated."
"What do you say?" cried the mother.
"Did the doctor really say that?" asked
Avdotya Romanovna, alarmed.
"Yes, but it's not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a powder
, I saw it, and then your coming here.... Ah! It would have been better if you
had come to‐
morrow. It's a good thing we went away. And in an hour Zossimov himself
will report to you about everything. He is
not drunk! And I shan't be drunk.... And what made me get so tight? Becaus
e they got me into an argument, damn them!
 I've sworn never to argue! They talk such trash! I almost came to blows! I'
ve left my uncle to preside. Would you believe, they insist on complete abse
nce of individualism and that's just what they relish! Not to be themselves, t
o be as unlike themselves as they can. That's what they regard as the
highest point of progress. If only
their nonsense were their own, but as it is..."
"Listen!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted
timidly, but it only added fuel to the flames.
"What do you think?" shouted Razumihin, louder than ever, "you think I am
attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk nonsense.
That's man's one
privilege over all creation. Through error you come to the truth! I am a m
an because I err! You never reach any truth without making fourteen
mistakes and very likely
a hundred and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way; but we can't even
make mistakes on our own account! Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonse
nse, and I'll kiss you for it. To go wrong in one's own way is better than to
go right in someone else's. In the first case you are a man, in the second yo
u're no better than a bird. Truth won't escape you, but life can be cramped.
There have been examples. And what are we doing now? In science,
development, thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism,
judgment, experience and everything, everything, everything, we are still i
n the preparatory class at school. We prefer to live on other people's ideas,
it's what we are used to! Am I right, am I right?" cried Razumihin,
pressing and shaking the two ladies' hands.
"Oh, mercy, I do not know," cried poor Pulcheria
Alexandrovna.

"Yes, yes... though I don't agree with you in everything," added Avdotya R
omanovna earnestly and at once uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand so p
ainfully.
"Yes, you say yes... well after that you... you..." he cried in a transport, "y
ou are a fount of goodness, purity, sense... and perfection. Give me your ha
nd... you give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands here at once, on my k
nees..." and he fell on his knees on the pavement, fortunately at that time de
serted.
"Leave off, I entreat you, what are you
doing?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed.
"Get up, get up!" said Dounia laughing, though she, too, was upset.
"Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That's it! Enough! I get u
p and we'll go on! I am a luckless fool, I am unworthy of you and drunk... a
nd I am ashamed.... I am not worthy to love you, but to do homage to you is
the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And
I've done homage.... Here are your lodgings, and for that alone Rodya was
right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch away.... How dare he! how dare he p
ut you in such lodgings! It's a scandal! Do you know the sort of people they
take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his betrothed? Yes? Well, then
, I'll tell you, your fiancé is a scoundrel."
"Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are
forgetting..." Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning.
"Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I
am ashamed of it," Razumihin made haste to apologise. "But... but you
can't be angry with me for speaking so! For
I speak sincerely and not because... hm, hm! That would be disgraceful; in
fact not because I'm in... hm! Well, anyway, I won't say why, I daren't.... But
we all saw to‐
day when he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not because he

had his hair curled at the barber's, not because he was in such a hurry to s
how his wit, but because he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a skin‐
flint and a buffoon. That's evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a foo
l, a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you
see, ladies?" he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to their rooms, "thou
gh all my friends there are drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we do t
alk a lot of trash, and I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last,
for we are on the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch... is not on the right
path. Though I've been calling them all sorts of names just now, I
do respect them all... though I
don't respect Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and that bullock Zossi
mov, because he is an honest man and knows his work. But enough, it's
all said and forgiven. Is
it forgiven? Well, then, let's go on. I know this corridor, I've been here, the
re was a scandal here at Number 3.... Where are you here? Which number?
eight? Well, lock yourselves in for the night, then. Don't let anybody in. In a
quarter of an hour I'll come back with news, and half an hour later I'll brin
g Zossimov, you'll see! Good‐bye, I'll run."
"Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?" said Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay.
"Don't worry yourself, mother," said Dounia, taking off her hat and cape.
"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 Ro
dya...."
"Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I
bring myself to leave Rodya?... And
how different, how different I had fancied our meeting! How sullen he was
, as though not pleased to see us...."
Tears came into her eyes.

"No, it's not that, mother. You didn't see, you were crying all the
time. He is quite unhinged by serious illness—that's the reason."
"Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? And how he
talked to you, Dounia!" said the mother, looking timidly at her
daughter, trying to read
her thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia's standing up for her
brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. "I am sure
he will think better of it to‐ morrow," she added, probing her further.
"And I am sure that he will say the same to‐morrow... about that,"
Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going
beyond that, for this was
a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss. Dounia went
up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her without
speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumihin's
return, timidly
watching her daughter who walked up and down the room with her arms fo
lded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was thinking
was a habit of
Avdotya Romanovna's and the mother was always afraid to break in on her
daughter's mood at such moments.
Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken
infatuation for Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric
condition, many people would
have thought it justified if they had seen Avdotya Romanovna, especially at
that moment when she was walking to and fro with folded arms,
pensive and melancholy. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably good
looking; she was tall, strikingly well‐proportioned, strong and self‐
reliant—
the latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the leas
t 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 a
nd 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. Af
terwards 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 tha
t to preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to old age. Her ha
ir 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 wa
s 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 nothi
ng 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 o
pened. "He sleeps like a top, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may sleep t
en 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 r
eally expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded i
n 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 add
ressed 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 ins
anity," 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 medi
cine—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 wi
th 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 cam
e out into the street.
"Fetching? You said fetching?" roared Razumihin and he flew at Zossimo
v 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 wen
t off into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood facing him in gloomy and earne
st 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, a
nd 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 you
rself 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 ar
e 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 lon
g 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 ma
ître, 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, bro
ther."
"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 o
r 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 i
n earnest, it'll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh for a w
hole year together. I talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prus
sian 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 vent
ure 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 o
f 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 you
rself, yet if you like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice anyt
hing— delirium or fever—wake me at once. But there can't be...."

CHAPTER II

Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o'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 remembere
d every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly novel experi
ence had befallen him, that he had received an impression unlike anything h
e had known before. At the same time he recognised clearly that
the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly unattainable
—so unattainable that he felt
positively ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more practical
cares and difficulties bequeathed him by
that "thrice accursed yesterday."
The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had show
n himself "base and mean," not only because he had been drunk, but
because he had
taken advantage of the young girl's position to abuse her fiancéin his
stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their
mutual relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man himself.
And what right had he to criticise him in that

hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for

his opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Avdotya Romanovna
would be marrying an unworthy man
for money? So there must be something in him. The lodgings? But after
all how could he know the character of the
lodgings? He was furnishing a flat... Foo! how despicable it all was! And
what justification was it that he was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even
more degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out, "that
is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious heart"! And would such
a dream ever be permissible to him,
Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl—
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 i
tself vividly upon him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the lan
dlady would be jealous of Avdotya Romanovna... that was simply intolerab
le. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand and
sent one of the bricks flying.
"Of course," he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of self‐
abasement, "of course, all these infamies can never be wiped out or
smoothed over... and so
it's useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in silence and do my d
uty... in silence, too... and not ask forgiveness, and say nothing... for all is l
ost now!"
And yet as he dressed he examined his attire
more carefully than usual. He hadn't another suit—
if he had had, perhaps he wouldn't have put it on. "I would have made a po
int of not putting it on." But in any case he could not remain a cynic and a di
rty 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.
He washed that morning scrupulously—he got some soap from
Nastasya—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 husb
and), the question was angrily answered in the negative. "Let it stay
as it is! What if they think that I shaved on purpose to...? They
certainly would think so! Not on any account!"
"And... the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the manners
of a pothouse; and... and even admitting that he knew he had some of
the essentials of a
gentleman... what was there in that to be proud
of? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that... and all the same
(he remembered) he, too, had done little things... not exactly dishonest,
and yet.... And
what thoughts he sometimes had; hm... and to set all that beside Avdotya
Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well,
he'd make a point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and h
e wouldn't care! He'd be worse!"
He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the n
ight in Praskovya Pavlovna's parlour, came in.
He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first.
Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov
was sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn't
wake him and promised to see him again about eleven.
"If he is still at home," he added. "Damn it all! If one can't control one's p
atients, how is one to cure them? Do

you know whether he will go to them, or whether they are coming here
?"
 "They are coming, I think," said
Razumihin, understanding the object of the question, "and they will discuss
their family affairs, no doubt. I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more righ
t to be here than I."
"But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I've plenty to
do besides looking after them."
"One thing worries me," interposed Razumihin, frowning. "On the
way home I talked a lot of
drunken nonsense to him... all sorts of things... and amongst them that you
were afraid that he... might become insane."
"You told the ladies so, too."
"I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so seri
ously?"
"That's nonsense, I tell you, how could I think
it seriously? You, yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetc
hed me to him... and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, wi
th your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was, pe
rhaps, mad on that very point! If only I'd known what happened then at
the police station and that some wretch...
had insulted him with this suspicion! Hm... I would not have allowed that c
onversation yesterday. These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of
a mole‐hill... and see their
fancies as solid realities.... As far as I remember, it
was Zametov's story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I k
now one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat of a l
ittle boy of eight, because he couldn't endure the jokes he made every day a
t table! And in this case his rags, the insolent police officer, the fever and t
his 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 certain
ly is a nice fellow, but hm... he shouldn't have told all that last night. He is
an awful chatterbox!"
"But whom did he tell it to? You and me?"
"And Porfiry."
"What does that matter?"
"And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his
mother and sister? Tell them to be more careful with him
to‐day...."
"They'll get on all right!" Razumihin answered reluctantly.
"Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she
doesn't seem to dislike him... and
they haven't a farthing, I suppose? eh?"
"But what business is it of yours?" Razumihin cried with
annoyance. "How can I tell whether they've
a farthing? Ask them yourself and perhaps you'll find out...."
"Foo! what an ass you are sometimes! Last night's wine has not gone
off yet.... Good‐bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna from me for my
night's lodging. She
locked herself in, made no reply to my bonjour through the door; she was
up at seven o'clock, the samovar was taken into her from the kitchen. I
was not vouchsafed a personal interview...."
At nine o'clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at
Bakaleyev's
house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They had
risen at seven o'clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as
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 subje
ct for conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it.
Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet waked,
Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it, because "she
had something which it was very, very necessary to talk over beforehand."
Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with th
em; 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 w
hich 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 emba
rrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna's questions,
which showered in a continual stream upon him.
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'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 eager
ly to his story, and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied his
listeners, he found that they considered he had hardly begun.

"Tell me, tell me! What do you think...? Excuse me, I still don't know
your name!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in hastily.
"Dmitri Prokofitch."
 "I should like very, very much to know,
Dmitri Prokofitch... how he looks... on things in general now, that is, how c
an 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 i
nfluences is he now? In a word, I should like..."
"Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at
once?" observed Dounia.
"Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this, Dmitr
i Prokofitch!"
"Naturally," answered Razumihin. "I have no
mother, but my uncle comes every year and almost every time he can scarc
ely recognise me, even in appearance, though he is a clever man; and your t
hree years' separation means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have kno
wn Rodion for a year and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud
and haughty, and of late—and perhaps for a long time before—he
has been suspicious and fanciful. He has
a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his feelings and
would rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely. Sometimes, though,
he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and inhumanly callous; it's as thoug
h he were alternating between two characters. Sometimes he is fearfully re
served! He says he is so busy that everything is a hindrance, and yet he
lies in bed doing nothing.
He doesn't jeer at things, not because he hasn't the wit, but as though he had
n'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 t
hink your arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon him."
"God grant it may," cried Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, distressed by Razumihin's account of her Rodya.
And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly
at Avdotya Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while he was talkin
g, 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 qu
estion, 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 w
hite 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.
"You've told us a great deal that is interesting about my brother's
character... and have told it impartially. I
am glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to him," observed
Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. "I think you are right that he needs a wo
man's care," she added thoughtfully.
"I didn't say so; but I daresay you are right, only..."
"What?"
"He loves no one and perhaps he never will,"
Razumihin declared decisively.

"You mean he is not capable of love?"

"Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are
awfully like your brother, in everything, indeed!" he blurted out suddenly t
o his own surprise, but remembering at once what he had just before said o
f her brother, he turned as red as a crab and was overcome with confusion.
Avdotya Romanovna couldn't help laughing when she looked at him.
"You may both be mistaken about Rodya,"
Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked, slightly piqued. "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 m
istaken, but you can'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 ho
w a year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly ki
lled me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl—what was her
name—his landlady's daughter?"
"Did you hear about that affair?" asked Avdotya Romanovna.
"Do you suppose——" Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly.
"Do you suppose that my 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't that he doesn't love us!"
"He has never spoken a word of that affair to
me," Razumihin answered cautiously. "But I did hear something from
Praskovya Pavlovna herself, though she is by no

means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather strange."

"And what did you hear?" both the ladies asked at once.
"Well, nothing very special. I only learned that
the marriage, which only failed to take place through the girl's death, was n
ot at all to Praskovya Pavlovna's liking. They say, too, the girl was not at al
l 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 g
ood qualities or it's quite inexplicable.... She had no money either and he
wouldn't have considered
her money.... But it's always difficult to judge in such matters."
"I am sure she was a good girl," Avdotya Romanovna observed briefly.
"God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I don't know
which of them would have caused most
 misery to the other—he to her or she to him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna
concluded. Then she began
tentatively questioning him about the scene on the previous day with Luzhi
n, hesitating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to the
latter'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.
"He had planned it before his illness," he added.
"I think so, too," Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air. But
she was very much surprised at hearing Razumihin express himself so caref
ully and even with a certain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch.
Avdotya Romanovna, too, was struck by it.

"So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovitch?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna co

uld not resist asking.
"I can have no other opinion of your daughter's future husband," Razumihi
n answered firmly and with warmth, "and I don't say it simply from
vulgar politeness,
but because... simply because Avdotya Romanovna has of her own free
will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke
so rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and...
mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head completely... and this morning
I am ashamed of it."
He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna flushed,
but did not break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment t
hey began to speak of Luzhin.
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.
 "You see, Dmitri Prokofitch," she began. "I'll
be perfectly open with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?"
"Of course, mother," said Avdotya Romanovna emphatically.
"This is what it is," she began in haste, as though the permission to speak
of her trouble lifted a weight off her mind. "Very early this morning we got a
note from Pyotr Petrovitch in reply to our letter announcing our arrival. He
promised to meet us at the 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'd better read
it yourself; there is one point in it which worries me very much... you will s
oon see what that is, and... tell me your

candid opinion, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya'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't feel sure how to act and I... I've been
waiting for your opinion."
Razumihin opened the note which was dated
the previous evening and read as follows:
"Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have
the honour to inform you that owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendere
d 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 you
r son, and Avdotya Romanovna her brother. I shall have the honour
of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings not later
than to‐
morrow evening at eight o'clock precisely, and herewith I venture to prese
nt my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that Rodion
Romanovitch may not be present at our interview—
as he offered me a gross and unprecedented affront on the occasion
of my visit to him in his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I
desire from
you personally an indispensable and circumstantial explanation upon
a certain point, in regard to which I wish to learn your own
interpretation. I have the honour
to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet
Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be compelled
to withdraw immediately and then you have only yourself to blame. I
write on the assumption that Rodion Romanovitch who appeared so
ill at my visit,
suddenly recovered two hours later and so, being able to leave the

house, may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief by the testimony
of my own eyes in the lodging of a drunken man who was run over and
has since died, to
whose daughter, a young woman of notorious behaviour, he gave twenty‐
five roubles on the pretext of the funeral, which gravely surprised me know
ing what pains you were at to raise that sum. Herewith expressing my speci
al respect to your estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to ac
cept the respectful homage of
"Your humble servant,

"P. LUZHIN."

"What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?"

began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. "How can I ask Rodya no
t to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly on our refusing Pyotr Petrovit
ch and now we are ordered not to receive Rodya! He will come on purpos
e if he knows, and... what will happen then?"
"Act on Avdotya Romanovna's decision,"
Razumihin answered calmly at once.
"Oh, dear me! She says... goodness knows what
she says, she doesn't explain her object! She says that it would be best,
at least, not that it would be best, but that
it's absolutely necessary that Rodya should make a point of being here
at eight o'clock and that they
must meet.... I didn't want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him
from coming by some stratagem with your help... because he is so
irritable.... Besides I don't understand
about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how
he could have given the daughter all the money... which..."

"Which cost you such sacrifice, mother," put in Avdotya

Romanovna.
"He was not himself yesterday," Razumihin said thoughtfully, "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't understand a word.... But last night, I myself..."
"The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him ourselves and
there I assure you we shall see at
once what's to be done. Besides, it's getting late—good heavens, it's past
ten," she cried looking at a splendid gold enamelled watch which
hung round her neck on a
thin Venetian chain, and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her
dress. "A present from her fiancé," thought Razumihin.
"We must start, Dounia, we must start," her
mother cried in a flutter. "He will be thinking we are still angry after
yesterday, from our coming so late. Merciful heavens!"
While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle; Douni
a, 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 po
or clothes. Razumihin looked reverently at Dounia and felt proud of
escorting her. "The queen who mended her stockings in prison," he thought,
"must have looked then every inch a queen and even more a queen than
at sumptuous banquets and levées."
"My God!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "little did
I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling,

darling Rodya! I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch," she added, glancing at hi

m timidly.
"Don't be afraid, mother," said Dounia, kissing
her, "better have faith in him."
"Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven't slept
all night," exclaimed the poor woman.
They came out into the street.
"Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I
dreamed of Marfa Petrovna... she was all
in white... she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but
so sternly as though she were blaming me.... Is that a good omen? Oh, dear
me! You don't know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna's dead!"
"No, I didn't know; who is Marfa Petrovna?"
"She died suddenly; and only fancy..."
"Afterwards, mamma," put in Dounia. "He doesn't know who Marfa Petro
vna is."
"Ah, you don't know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us. Forg
ive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don't know what I am thinking about these last f
ew days. I look upon you really as a providence for us, and so I took
it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as
a relation.... Don't be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what's the mat
ter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?"
"Yes, I bruised it," muttered Razumihin overjoyed.
 "I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds fault
with me.... But, dear me, what
a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does this woman,
his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you say he does not like to show h
is feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him with my... weaknesses? Do advise
me, Dmitri

Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted, you know."

"Don't question him too much about anything if you see him frown; don't a
sk him too much about his health; he doesn't like that."
"Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother!
But here are the stairs.... What an awful staircase!"
"Mother, you are quite pale, don't distress yourself, darling," said
Dounia caressing her, then with
flashing eyes she added: "He ought to be happy at seeing you, and you are t
ormenting yourself so."
"Wait, I'll peep in and see whether he has waked up."
The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went
on before, and when they reached the landlady's door on the fourth storey, t
hey noticed that her door was a tiny crack open and that two keen black eye
s were watching them from the darkness within. When their eyes met, the d
oor was suddenly shut with such a slam that
Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out.

CHAPTER III

"He is well, quite well!" Zossimov cried cheerfully as

they entered.
 He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as
before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov
was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully washed and c
ombed, as he had not been for some time

past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed to follo
w the visitors in and stayed to listen.
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 wo
unded 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.
He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete t
he impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. The pale, so
mbre face lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but th
is only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its listless deject
ion. The light soon died away, but the look of suffering remained, and Zossi
mov, watching and studying his patient with all the zest of a young doctor be
ginning 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 tou
ch on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same time he marvelled at t
he 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 slightes
t word.
"Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well," said Raskolnikov,
giving his mother and sister a kiss
of welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at
 once. "And I don't say this as I did yesterday," he said, addressing
Razumihin, with a friendly pressure of his hand.

"Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to‐

day," began Zossimov, much delighted at the ladies' entrance, for he had no
t succeeded in keeping up a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. "I
n 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 b
een coming on for a long while.... eh? Confess, now, that it has been
perhaps your own fault?" he added, with
a tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him.
"It is very possible," answered Raskolnikov coldly.
"I should say, too," continued Zossimov with zest, "that your complete rec
overy depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you, I should lik
e to impress upon you that it is essential to avoid the elementary, so to spea
k, fundamental causes tending to produce your
morbid condition: in that case you will be cured, if not, it will go from
bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don't know, but they must
be known to you. You are an intelligent man, and must have
observed yourself, of course. I fancy the first stage of your
derangement coincides with your leaving the university. You must not be le
ft without occupation, and so, work and a definite aim set before you might,
I fancy, be very beneficial."
"Yes, yes; you are perfectly right.... I will make haste and return to the uni
versity: and then everything will go smoothly...."
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, howev
er. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov, especially
for his visit to their lodging the previous night.

"What! he saw you last night?" Raskolnikov asked, as though startled. "T
hen you have not slept either after your journey."
 "Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o'clock. Dounia and I never go to bed
before two at home."
"I don't know how to thank him either," Raskolnikov went on, suddenly
frowning and looking down. "Setting aside the question of payment—
forgive me for referring to it (he turned to Zossimov)—I really don't
know what
I have done to deserve such special attention from you! I simply don't unde
rstand it... and... and... it weighs upon me, indeed, because I don't
understand it. I tell you so candidly."
"Don't be irritated." Zossimov forced himself to laugh. "Assume that you
are my first patient—well—
we fellows just beginning to practise love our first patients as if they were
our children, and some almost fall in love with them. And, of course, I am
not rich in patients."
"I say nothing about him," added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin, "th
ough he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble."
"What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in
a sentimental mood to‐day, are you?" shouted Razumihin.
If he had had more penetration he would have seen that there was
no trace of sentimentality in him, but something indeed quite the
opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna noticed it. She was intently and
uneasily watching her brother.
"As for you, mother, I don't dare to speak," he went on, as though repeatin
g a lesson learned by heart. "It is only to‐day that I have been able to
realise a little
how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come
back."
 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's face lighted up with ecstatic
happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. "Yes, that
is what I love him for," Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to himself,
with a vigorous turn in his chair. "He has these movements."
"And how well he does it all," the mother was thinking to herself.
"What generous impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he
put an end to all the misunderstanding with his sister—
simply by holding out his hand at the right minute and looking at her like tha
t.... And what fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is!... He is
even better looking than Dounia.... But, good heavens, what a suit—
how terribly he's dressed!... Vasya, the messenger boy in Afanasy
Ivanitch's shop, is better dressed! I could rush at him and hug him...
weep over him—but I am afraid.... Oh, dear, he's so strange!
He's talking kindly, but I'm afraid! Why, what am I afraid of?..."
"Oh, Rodya, you wouldn't believe," she began suddenly, in haste to answ
er his words to her, "how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now that i
t's all over and done with and we are quite happy again—
I can tell you. Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to
embrace you and that woman—ah, here she is! Good
morning, Nastasya!... She told us at once that you were lying in a high
fever and had just run away from the doctor
in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets. You can't imagine
how we felt! I couldn't help thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant
Potanchikov, a friend of your

father's—you can't remember him, Rodya—

who ran out in the same way in a high fever and fell into the well in the co
urt‐
yard and they couldn't pull him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated
things. We were on the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask
him to
help.... Because we were alone, utterly alone," she said plaintively and
stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it was still somewhat dangerous
to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, although "we are quite happy again."
"Yes, yes.... Of course it's very annoying...." Raskolnikov muttered in
reply, but with such a preoccupied
and inattentive air that Dounia gazed at him in perplexity.
"What else was it I wanted to say?" He went on trying to recollect. "Oh, y
es; mother, and you too, Dounia, please don't think that I didn't mean to com
e and see you to‐day and was waiting for you to come first."
"What are you saying, Rodya?" cried
Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too, was surprised.
"Is he answering us as a duty?" Dounia wondered. "Is he being reconcile
d and asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating a
lesson?"
"I've only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing
to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her... Nastasya... to wash out
the blood... I've only just dressed."
"Blood! What blood?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in
alarm.
"Oh, nothing—don't be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about
yesterday, rather delirious, I
chanced upon a man who had been run over... a clerk..."
"Delirious? But you remember everything!" Razumihin interrupted.

"That's true," Raskolnikov answered with

special carefulness. "I remember everything even to the slightest detail, an
d yet—
why I did that and went there and said that, I can't clearly explain now."
 "A familiar phenomenon," interposed
Zossimov, "actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunni
ng way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on var
ious morbid impressions—it's like a dream."
"Perhaps it's a good thing really that he should think me almost a madman
," thought Raskolnikov.
"Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too," observed Douni
a, looking uneasily at Zossimov.
"There is some truth in your observation," the
latter replied. "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 ma
n, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens— perhaps hundreds of thousands
—hardly one is to be met with."
At the word "madman," carelessly dropped
by Zossimov in his chatter on his favourite subject, everyone frowned.
Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a str
ange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something.
"Well, what about the man who was run over?
I interrupted you!" Razumihin cried hastily.
"What?" Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. "Oh... I got spattered with bloo
d 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 yo
u sent me... to his wife for the funeral. She's a

widow now, in consumption, a poor creature... three little children,

starving... nothing in the house... there's a daughter, too... perhaps
you'd have given it yourself if you'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 o
thers one must have the right to do it, or else Crevez, chiens, si vous n'êtes
pas contents." He laughed, "That's right, isn't it, Dounia?"
"No, it's not," answered Dounia firmly.
"Bah! you, too, have ideals," he muttered, looking at her almost with hatr
ed, and smiling sarcastically. "I ought to have considered that.... Well, that's
praiseworthy, and it's better for you... and if you reach a line you won't ove
rstep, you will be unhappy... and if you overstep it, maybe you will be still
unhappier.... But all that's nonsense," he added irritably, vexed at being car
ried away. "I only meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother," he con
cluded, shortly and abruptly.
"That's enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good," sai
d his mother, delighted.
"Don't be too sure," he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile.
A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all
this conversation, and in the silence, and in
the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and all were feeling it.
"It is as though they were afraid of me," Raskolnikov was thinking to him
self, looking askance at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was
indeed growing more timid the longer she kept silent.
"Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much," flashed through his
mind.

"Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead,"

Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out.
"What Marfa Petrovna?"
"Oh, mercy on us—
Marfa Petrovna Svidrigaïlov. I wrote you so much about her."
"A‐a‐
h! Yes, I remember.... So she's dead! Oh, really?" he roused himself sudden
ly, as if waking up. "What did she die of?"
"Only imagine, quite suddenly," Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered
hurriedly, encouraged by
his curiosity. "On the very day I was sending you that letter! Would you bel
ieve it, that awful man seems to have been the cause of her death. They say
he beat her dreadfully."
"Why, were they on such bad terms?" he
asked, addressing his sister.
"Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was always very
patient, considerate even. In fact, all
those seven years of their married life he gave way to her, too much so ind
eed, in many cases. All of a sudden he seems to have lost patience."
"Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven
years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?"
"No, no, he's an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!" Dounia a
nswered, almost with a shudder, knitting her brows, and sinking into though
t.
"That had happened in the morning,"
Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on hurriedly. "And directly afterwards she
ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the
town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to the town in su
ch cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am told...."
"After the beating?"

"That was always her... habit; and immediately

after dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the bath‐house....
You see, she was undergoing
some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and she used to
bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got into the water
when she suddenly had a stroke!"
"I should think so," said Zossimov.
 "And did he beat her badly?"
"What does that matter!" put in Dounia.
"H'm! But I don't know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother," said
Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite of himself.
"Ah, my dear, I don't know what to talk about," broke from Pulcheria Ale
xandrovna.
"Why, are you all afraid of me?" he asked, with
a constrained smile.
"That's certainly true," said Dounia, looking
directly and sternly at her brother. "Mother was crossing herself with terro
r as she came up the stairs."
His face worked, as though in convulsion.
"Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don't be
angry, please, Rodya.... Why did you say that, Dounia?" Pulcheria Alexand
rovna began, overwhelmed—"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—
simply in seeing you, Rodya...."
"Hush, mother," he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing
her hand. "We shall have time to speak freely of everything!"

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—that
he would never now be able to speak freely of everything—
that he would never again be able to speak of anything to anyone. The angu
ish 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.
"What are you about?" cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm.
He sat down again, and began looking about him,
in silence. They were all looking at him in perplexity.
"But what are you all so dull for?" he shouted, suddenly and quite
unexpectedly. "Do say something! What's
the use of sitting like this? Come, do speak. Let us talk.... We meet together
and sit in silence.... Come, anything!"
"Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning
again," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.
"What is the matter, Rodya?" asked
Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully.
"Oh, nothing! I remembered something," he answered, and suddenly laugh
ed.
"Well, if you remembered something; that's all right!... I was beginning to t
hink..." muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. "It is time for me to be
off. I will look in
again perhaps... if I can..." He made his bows, and went out.
"What an excellent man!" observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Yes, excellent, splendid, well‐educated, intelligent,"
Raskolnikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising

rapidity, and a liveliness he had not shown till then. "I can't
remember where I met him before my illness.... I believe I have met
him somewhere——... And this is a
good man, too," he nodded at Razumihin. "Do you like him, Dounia?" he
asked her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed.
 "Very much," answered Dounia.
"Foo!—what a pig you are!" Razumihin protested, blushing in
terrible confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria
Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud.
"Where are you off to?"
"I must go."
"You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don't go. Wh
at's the time? Is it twelve o'clock? What a pretty watch you have got, Douni
a. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking."
"It was a present from Marfa Petrovna," answered Dounia.
"And a very expensive one!" added Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"A‐ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady's."
"I like that sort," said Dounia.
"So it is not a present from her fiancé,"
thought Razumihin, and was unreasonably delighted.
"I thought it was Luzhin's present," observed Raskolnikov.
"No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet."
"A‐
ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and wanted to get married
?" he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted by the su
dden change of subject and the way he spoke of it.
"Oh, yes, my dear."

Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with

Dounia and Razumihin.
"H'm, yes. What shall I tell you? I don't remember much indeed. She was
such a sickly girl," he went on, growing dreamy and looking down
again. "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 do
n't know what drew me to her then—
I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or hunchba
ck, I believe I should have liked her better still," he smiled dreamily.
"Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium."
"No, it was not only spring delirium," said Dounia, with warm feeling.
He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not hear or did not un
derstand 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.
"You love her even now?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched.
"Her? Now? Oh, yes.... You ask about her? No... that's all now, as it were
, in another world... and so long ago. And indeed everything happening
here seems somehow
far away." He looked attentively at them. "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's the use
of asking about it?" he added with annoyance, and biting his nails, fell into
dreamy silence again.
"What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It's like a tomb," said
Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking

the oppressive silence. "I am sure it's quite half through your lodging you
have become so melancholy."
"My lodging," he answered, listlessly. "Yes, the lodging had a great deal t
o do with it.... I thought that, too.... If only you knew, though, what a strange
thing you said just now, mother," he said, laughing strangely.
A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister, with
him after three years' absence, this intimate tone of conversation, in
face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything,
would have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent
matter which must be settled one way or the other that day—
so he had decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, as a m
eans of escape.
"Listen, Dounia," he began, gravely and drily, "of course I beg your pardo
n 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."
"Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again," Pulcheria
Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. "And why
do you call yourself a scoundrel? I can't bear it. You said the same yesterd
ay."
"Brother," Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. "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. Thoug
h, of course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to my family. But th
at is not the chief motive for my decision...."

"She is lying," he thought to himself, biting his

nails vindictively. "Proud creature! She won't admit she wants to do it out
of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though
they hate.... Oh, how I... hate them all!"
"In fact," continued Dounia, "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?" She, too, flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in h
er eyes.
"All?" he asked, with a malignant grin.
 "Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of
Pyotr Petrovitch's courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may,
of course, think too well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too.... Why ar
e you laughing again?"
"And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. You are
intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold
your own against me....
You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked with him. So you are
selling yourself for money, and so in any case you are acting basely, and I a
m glad at least that you can blush for it."
"It is not true. I am not lying," cried Dounia, losing her composure. "I
would not marry him if I were
not convinced that he esteems me and thinks highly of me. I would not marr
y him if I were not firmly convinced that I can respect him. Fortunately, I ca
n have convincing proof of it this very day... and such a marriage is not a vi
leness, 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 tha
t 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 pa
le? Rodya, darling, what's the matter?"
"Good heavens! You have made him faint,"
cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"No, no, nonsense! It's nothing. A little giddiness—not fainting. You
have fainting on the brain. H'm, yes,
what was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you get convincing proof to‐
day that you can respect him, and that
he... esteems you, as you said. I think you said to‐day?"
"Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch's letter," said Dounia.
 With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna
gave him the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before opening it, he s
uddenly looked with a sort of wonder at Dounia.
"It is strange," he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. "What am
I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like!"
He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some ti
me 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.
"What surprises me," he began, after a short pause, handing the
letter to his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, "is that
he is a business man, a lawyer, and his conversation is pretentious
indeed, and yet he writes such an uneducated letter."
They all started. They had expected something quite different.

"But they all write like that, you know,"

Razumihin observed, abruptly.
"Have you read it?"
"Yes."
"We showed him, Rodya. We... consulted him just now," Pulcheria Alexa
ndrovna began, embarrassed.
"That's just the jargon of the courts," Razumihin put in. "Legal documents
are written like that to this day."
"Legal? Yes, it's just legal—business language—not so very uneducated,
and not quite educated—business language!"
"Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap educatio
n, he is proud indeed of having made his own way," Avdotya Romanovna o
bserved, somewhat offended by her brother's tone.
 "Well, if he's proud of it, he has reason, I don't deny it. You seem to be off
ended, 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 q
uite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style occurred to me that is
by no means irrelevant as things stand. There is one expression, 'blame
yourselves' put in
very significantly and plainly, and there is besides a threat that he will go a
way 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 o
ne of us?"
"N‐
no," answered Dounia, with more animation. "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 n

ot expect, indeed..."
"It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than perhaps he
intended. But I must disillusion you a
little. There is one expression in the letter, one slander about me, and rathe
r a contemptible one. I gave the money last night to the widow, a
woman in consumption,
crushed with trouble, and not 'on the pretext of the funeral,' but simply to p
ay for the funeral, and not to the daughter—a young woman, as he
writes, of notorious
behaviour (whom I saw last night for the first time in my life)—
but to the widow. In all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to ra
ise dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon, that is to sa
y, with a too obvious display of the aim, and with a very naïve
eagerness. He is a man
of intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all
shows the man and... I don't think he has a
great esteem for you. I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely
wish for your good..."
Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only awaiti
ng the evening.
"Then what is your decision, Rodya?" asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna,
who was more uneasy than ever at
the sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk.
"What decision?"
"You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be with us this evenin
g, and that he will go away if you come. So will you... come?"
"That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you first, if you are
not offended by such a request;
and secondly, by Dounia, if she, too, is not offended. I will do what you thi
nk best," he added, drily.

"Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree

with her," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare.
"I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to be with us at
this interview," said Dounia. "Will you come?"
"Yes."
"I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o'clock," she said, addressing
Razumihin. "Mother, I am inviting him, too."
"Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have
decided," added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "so be it. I shall feel easier mys
elf. I do not like concealment and deception. Better let us have the whole tr
uth.... Pyotr Petrovitch may be angry or not, now!"

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 s
hyness, like a little child. She was even about to retreat. "Oh... it's
you!" said Raskolnikov, extremely astonished, and he, too, was
confused. He
at once recollected that his mother and sister knew through Luzhin's letter
of "some young woman of notorious behaviour." He had only just
been protesting
against Luzhin's calumny and declaring that he had seen the girl last night f
or the first time, and suddenly she had walked in. He remembered, too, that
he had not protested against the expression "of notorious behaviour."
All this
passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brain, but looking at her more int
ently, he saw that the humiliated creature was so humiliated that he felt sud
denly sorry for her. When she made a movement to retreat in terror, it sent a
pang to his heart.
"I did not expect you," he said, hurriedly, with a look that made her stop.
"Please sit down. You come, no doubt, from Katerina Ivanovna. Allow me
—not there. Sit here...."
At Sonia's entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnik
ov's three chairs, close to the door, got up to allow her to enter. Raskolniko
v had at first shown her the place on the sofa where Zossimov had been sitti
ng, but feeling that the sofa which served him as a bed, was
too familiar a place, he hurriedly motioned her to
Razumihin's chair.
"You sit here," he said to Razumihin, putting him on the
sofa.
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 a
gain, and in utter confusion addressed Raskolnikov.
"I... I... have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you,"
she began falteringly. "I come
from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to send. Katerina Ivanovna tol
d me to beg you... to be at the service... in the morning... at Mitrofanievsky..
. and then... to us... to her... to do her the honour... she told me to beg
you..." Sonia stammered and ceased speaking.
"I will try, certainly, most certainly,"
answered Raskolnikov. He, too, stood up, and he, too, faltered and could n
ot finish his sentence. "Please sit down," he said, suddenly. "I want to
talk to you. You are perhaps in
a hurry, but please, be so kind, spare me two minutes," and he drew up a c
hair for her.
Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took
a hurried, frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes.
Raskolnikov's pale face flushed, a shudder
passed over him, his eyes glowed.
"Mother," he said, firmly and insistently, "this is Sofya Semyonovna Ma
rmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was
run over yesterday before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling you."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly screwed up her ey
es. In spite of her embarrassment before Rodya's urgent and challenging loo
k, she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dounia gazed gravely and int
ently into the poor girl's face, and scrutinised her
with perplexity. Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes a
gain, but was more embarrassed than ever.

"I wanted to ask you," said Raskolnikov, hastily, "how things were arrang
ed yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance?"
 "No, that was all right... it was too evident, the cause of death... they did
not worry us... only the lodgers are angry."
"Why?"
"At the body's remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that, to‐
day, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until to‐morrow.
At first Katerina Ivanovna
was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it's necessary..."
"To‐day, then?"
"She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church to‐
morrow for the service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch."
"She is giving a funeral lunch?"
"Yes... just a little.... She told me to thank you very much for helping us ye
sterday. But for you, we should have had nothing for the funeral."
All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with an effort, she cont
rolled herself, looking down again.
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 pr
etty, but her blue eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up, there was su
ch a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help bei
ng attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had another peculiar ch
aracteristic. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked almost a little girl—
almost a child. And in some of her gestures, this
childishness seemed almost absurd.
"But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with
such small means? Does she even mean to have a funeral

lunch?" Raskolnikov asked, persistently keeping up the

conversation.
 "The coffin will be plain, of course... and everything will be plain, so it
won't cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it all out, so that th
ere will be enough left... and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious it should
be so. You know one can't... it's a comfort to her... she is like that, you kno
w...."
"I understand, I understand... of course... why do you look at my room lik
e that? My mother has just said it is like a tomb."
"You gave us everything yesterday," 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's poor surroundings, and
now these
words broke out spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in D
ounia's eyes, and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia.
"Rodya," she said, getting up, "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...."
"Yes, yes, I'll come," he answered, getting up
fussily. "But I have something to see to."
"But surely you will have dinner together?"
cried Razumihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. "What do you mean?"

"Yes, yes, I am coming... of course, of course! And you stay a minute.

You do not want him just now, do
you, mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from you?"

"Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of dining
with us?"
"Please do," added Dounia.
 Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all stra
ngely embarrassed.
"Good‐bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like saying good‐
bye. Good‐bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said good‐ bye again."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it somehow failed
to come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room.
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 fa
ce, as though Avdotya Romanovna's courtesy and attention were oppressive
and painful to her.
"Dounia, good‐
bye," called Raskolnikov, in the passage. "Give me your hand."
"Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?" said Dounia, turning war
mly and awkwardly to him.
"Never mind, give it to me again." And he squeezed her fingers warmly.
Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away,
and went off quite happy.
"Come, that's capital," he said to Sonia, going back and looking brightly at
her. "God give peace to the dead, the living have still to live. That is right,
isn't it?"
Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his face. He looked at
her for some moments in silence. The whole history of the dead father
floated before his memory in those moments....

"Heavens, Dounia," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they

were in the street, "I really feel relieved myself at coming away—
more at ease. How little did
I think yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad of that."
 "I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don't you see it? Perhaps wor
rying about us upset him. We must be patient, and much, much can be forgiv
en."
"Well, you were not very patient!"
Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up, hotly and jealously. "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't be an egoist, Dounia. Eh
? When I think of what is in store for us this
evening, my heart sinks!"
"Don't be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be."
"Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr Petrovitch
breaks it off?" poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously.
"He won't be worth much if he does," answered Dounia, sharply and cont
emptuously.
"We did well to come away," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke
in. "He was in a hurry about
some business or other. If he gets out and has a breath of air... it is fearfully
close in his room.... But where is one to get a breath of air here? The very
streets here feel like shut‐
up rooms. Good heavens! what a town!... stay... this side... they will
crush you—carrying something. Why, it is a
piano they have got, I declare... how they push!... I am very much afraid of
that young woman, too."

"What young woman, mother?

"Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just
now."
"Why?"
 "I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it or not, but as so
on as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief cause of the
trouble...."
"Nothing of the sort!" cried Dounia, in vexation. "What nonsense, with yo
ur presentiments, mother! He only made her acquaintance the evening befor
e, and he did not know her when she came in."
"Well, you will see.... She worries me; but you will see, you will see! I
was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes. I could scarcely s
it still in my chair when he began introducing her, do you remember? It see
ms so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like that about her, and he introd
uces her to us—to you! So he must think a great deal of her."
"People will write anything. We were talked about and written about, too
. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she is a good girl, and that it is all nons
ense."
"God grant it may be!"
"And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible
slanderer," Dounia snapped out, suddenly.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation
was not resumed.

"I will tell you what I want with you," said Raskolnikov,
drawing Razumihin to the window.

"Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you

are coming," Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart.
"One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets. You are not in our
way. I want to have another word or two with you. Listen!" he turned sudde
nly to Razumihin again. "You know that... what's his name...
Porfiry Petrovitch?"
 "I should think so! He is a relation. Why?" added the latter, with interest.

"Is not he managing that case... you know, about that murder?... You were
speaking about it yesterday."
"Yes... well?" Razumihin's eyes opened wide.
"He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have some
pledges there, too—trifles—a ring
my sister gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my father's silver
watch—they are only worth five or
six roubles altogether... but I value them. So what am I to do now? I do not
want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was quaking just now, for fe
ar mother would ask to look at it, when we spoke of Dounia's watch. It is th
e only thing of father's left us. She would be ill if it were lost. You know w
hat women are. So tell me what to do. I know I ought to have given notice a
t 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, moth
er may ask for it before dinner."
"Certainly not to the police station. Certainly
to Porfiry," Razumihin shouted in extraordinary excitement. "Well, how gla
d I am. Let us go at once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find hi
m."
"Very well, let us go."
"And he will be very, very glad to make
your acquaintance. I have often talked to him of you at different

times. I was speaking of you yesterday. Let us go. So you knew the old
woman? So that's it! It is all turning
out splendidly.... Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna..."
"Sofya Semyonovna," corrected Raskolnikov.
"Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumihin, and he is a good man."
 "If you have to go now," Sonia was beginning,
not looking at Razumihin at all, and still more embarrassed.
"Let us go," decided Raskolnikov. "I will come to you to‐
day, Sofya Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live."
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 togeth
er.
"Don't you lock up?" asked Razumihin, following him on to the stairs.
"Never," answered Raskolnikov. "I have been meaning to buy a lock for t
hese two years. People are happy who have no need of locks," he said, lau
ghing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway.
"Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did you find me, by the
way?" 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.
"Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday."
"Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is your sister? Did I
give her the address?"
"Why, had you forgotten?"
"No, I remember."
"I had heard my father speak of you... only I did not know your name,
and he did not know it. And now I came... and as I had learnt your
name, I asked to‐
day, 'Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?' I did not know you had only a ro
om too.... Good‐bye, I will tell Katerina Ivanovna."

She was extremely glad to escape at last; she

went away looking down, hurrying to get out of sight as soon as 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!
"Only not to‐day, please, not to‐day!" she kept muttering with a
sinking heart, as though
entreating someone, like a frightened child. "Mercy! to me... to that room... h
e will see... oh, dear!"
She was not capable at that instant of noticing
an unknown gentleman who was watching her and following at her heels. H
e had accompanied her from the gateway. At the moment when Razumihin, R
askolnikov, and she stood still at parting on the pavement, this gentleman, w
ho was just passing, started on hearing Sonia's words: "and I asked
where Mr. Raskolnikov lived?" 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 waitin
g for Sonia; he saw that they were parting, and that Sonia was going home.
"Home? Where? I've seen that face somewhere,"
he thought. "I must find out."
At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw Sonia coming the s
ame way, noticing nothing. She turned the corner. He followed her on the ot
her side. After about

fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her and kept two or three yar
ds behind her.
He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad high shou
lders 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 squ
are beard was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue and had a cold
and thoughtful look; his lips were crimson. He was a remarkedly well‐
preserved man and looked much younger than his years.
When Sonia came out on the canal 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, seem
ing rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right corner.
"Bah!" 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,
"Kapernaumov, Tailor." "Bah!" 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.
"You lodge at Kapernaumov's," he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. "
He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close here at Madame
Resslich's. How odd!" Sonia looked at him attentively.

"We are neighbours," he went on gaily. "I only came to town the day befo
re yesterday. Good‐bye for the present."
Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt for so
me reason ashamed and uneasy.

On the way to Porfiry's, Razumihin was obviously

excited.
"That's capital, brother," he repeated several
times, "and I am glad! I am glad!"
 "What are you glad about?" Raskolnikov thought to himself.
"I didn't know that you pledged things at the
old woman's, too. And... was it long ago? I mean, was it long since you we
re there?"
"What a simple‐hearted fool he is!"
"When was it?" Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. "Two or three day
s before her death it must have been. But I am not going to redeem the thing
s now," he put in with a sort of hurried and conspicuous solicitude about th
e things. "I've not more than a silver rouble left... after last night's accursed
delirium!"
He laid special emphasis on the delirium.
"Yes, yes," Razumihin hastened to agree—with
what was not clear. "Then that's why you... were stuck... partly... you
know in your delirium you were
continually mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes... that's clear, it's all
clear now."
"Hullo! How that idea must have got about
among them. Here this man will go to the stake for me, and I find him delig
hted at having it cleared up why I spoke of rings

in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have on all of

them!"
"Shall we find him?" he asked suddenly.
"Oh, yes," Razumihin answered quickly. "He is a nice fellow, you will se
e, brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say, he is a man of polished manners, bu
t I mean clumsy in a different sense. He is an intelligent fellow, very much s
o 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 polic
e had hardly a clue. He is very, very anxious to make your acquaintance!"
"On what grounds is he so anxious?"
"Oh, it's not exactly... you see, since you've been ill I happen to have ment
ioned you several times.... So, when he heard about you... about your being
a law student and not able to finish your studies, he said, 'What a pity!' And
so I concluded... from everything together, not only that; yesterday
Zametov... you know, Rodya, I talked
some nonsense on the way home to you yesterday, when I was drunk... I am
afraid, brother, of your exaggerating it, you see."
"What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right," he said wi
th a constrained smile.
"Yes, yes.... That is, pooh, no!... But all that I said (and there was
something else too) it was all nonsense, drunken nonsense."
"But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!" Raskolnikov cried
with exaggerated irritability. It was partly assumed, however.

"I know, I know, I understand. Believe me,

I understand. One's ashamed to speak of it."
"If you are ashamed, then don't speak of it."
Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and
Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by
what Razumihin had just said about Porfiry.
"I shall have to pull a long face with him too,"
he thought, with a beating heart, and he turned white, "and do it naturally, t
oo. But the most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do no
thing at all! No, carefully would not be natural again.... Oh, well, we shall
see how it turns out.... We shall see... directly. Is it a good thing to go or no
t? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is beating, that's what's bad!"
"In this grey house," said Razumihin.
 "The most important thing, does Porfiry know that
I was at the old hag's flat yesterday... and asked about the blood? I must fin
d that out instantly, as soon as I go in, find out from his face; otherwise... I'l
l find out, if it's my ruin."
"I say, brother," he said suddenly,
addressing Razumihin, with a sly smile, "I have been noticing all day that y
ou seem to be curiously excited. Isn't it so?"
"Excited? Not a bit of it," said Razumihin, stung to the quick.
"Yes, brother, I assure you it's noticeable. Why, you sat on your chair
in a way you never do sit, on the
edge somehow, and you seemed to be writhing all the time. You kept jumpi
ng up for nothing. One moment you were angry, and the next your face looke
d like a sweetmeat. You even blushed; especially when you were invited to
dinner, you blushed awfully."
"Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?"

"But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? By Jove, there he'
s blushing again."
"What a pig you are!"
"But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I'll tell of you to‐
day. Ha‐ha‐ha! I'll make mother laugh, and someone else, too..."
"Listen, listen, listen, this is serious.... What next, you fiend!" Razumihin
was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror. "What will you tell the
m? Come, brother... foo! what a pig you are!"
"You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew how it suits you; a Ro
meo over six foot high! And how you've washed to‐day—you cleaned
your nails, I declare.
Eh? That's something unheard of! Why, I do believe you've got pomatum on
your hair! Bend down."
"Pig!"
 Raskolnikov laughed as
though he could not restrain himself. So laughing, they entered Porfiry Petro
vitch's flat. This is what Raskolnikov wanted: from within they could be h
eard laughing as they came in, still guffawing in the
passage.
"Not a word here or I'll... brain you!" Razumihin
whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

Ebd
E‐BooksDirectory.com
 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'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 s
ucceeded in assuming a serious air and muttering something when he sudden
ly 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 "spontaneo
us" mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and
naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on purpose.
"Fool! You fiend," he 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.
"But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it's a loss to the Crown," Po
rfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily.
Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry Petrovitch'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 lookin
g out with his back to the company with a fiercely scowling countenance, s
eeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovitch laughed and was ready to go on laughing,
but obviously looked for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the cor
ner, but he rose at the visitors' 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's unexpected
presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.
"I've got to think of that," he thought. "Excuse me, please," he
began, affecting extreme embarrassment. "Raskolnikov."
"Not at all, very pleasant to see you... and
how pleasantly you've come in.... Why, won't he even say good‐
morning?" Porfiry Petrovitch nodded at Razumihin.
"Upon my honour I don't know why he is in such a rage with me. I only to
ld him as we came along that he was like Romeo... and proved it. And that
was all, I think!"
"Pig!" ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round.
"There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he is so furious at the
word," Porfiry laughed.
"Oh, you sharp lawyer!... Damn you all!"
snapped Razumihin, and suddenly bursting out laughing himself, he went u
p to Porfiry with a more cheerful face as though nothing had happened.
"That'll do! We are all fools.
To come to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov;
in the first place he has heard of you
and wants to make your 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
?"
"What does this mean?" thought Raskolnikov uneasily.
Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so.
 "Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday," he said easily.
"Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to
introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other out
without me. Where is your tobacco?"
Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing‐
gown, very clean linen, and trodden‐
down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short, stout even to c
orpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had a large ro
und 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 co
uld be guessed at first sight.
As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a little matter of b
usiness with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and sat down hims
elf on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with that caref
ul 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 P

etrovitch 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.
"Fool," Raskolnikov swore to himself.
 "You have to give information to the police,"
Porfiry replied, with a most businesslike air, "that having learnt of this inci
dent, 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 wil
l write to you."
"That's just the point, that at the present
moment," Raskolnikov tried his utmost to feign embarrassment, "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...."
"That's no matter," answered Porfiry
Petrovitch, receiving his explanation of his pecuniary position coldly, "but
you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say, that having been informe
d of the matter, and claiming such and such as your property, you beg..."
"On an ordinary sheet of paper?"
Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of th
e question.
"Oh, the most ordinary," 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'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.
"He knows," flashed through his mind like lightning.

"Forgive my troubling you about such trifles," he went on, a little disconc
erted, "the things are only worth five roubles, but I prize them particularly f
or the sake of those from whom they came to me, and I must confess that I
was alarmed when I heard..."
"That's why you were so much struck when I mentioned to
Zossimov that Porfiry was inquiring for everyone who had pledges!"
Razumihin put in with obvious intention.
 This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him w
ith a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately recollected
himself.
"You seem to be jeering at me, brother?" he said to him, with a well‐
feigned irritability. "I dare say I do seem to you absurdly anxious about such
trash; but you mustn't think me selfish or grasping for that, and these two thi
ngs may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just now that the silver
watch, though it's not worth a cent, is the only thing left us of my father's. Yo
u may laugh at me, but my mother is here," he turned suddenly to Porfiry, "an
d if she knew," he turned again hurriedly to Razumihin, carefully making his
voice tremble, "that the watch was lost, she would be in despair! You know
what women are!"
"Not a bit of it! I didn't mean that at all! Quite
the contrary!" shouted Razumihin distressed.
"Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo
it?" Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. "Why did I say that about wom
en?"
"Oh, your mother is with you?" Porfiry Petrovitch
inquired.
"Yes."
"When did she come?"
"Last night."

Porfiry paused as though reflecting.

"Your things would not in any case be lost," he went on calmly and
coldly. "I have been expecting you here for some time."
And as though that was a matter of no 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's cigarette.
 "What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges there?" cr
ied Razumihin.
Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov.
"Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on the
paper your name was legibly written in pencil, together with the date on wh
ich you left them with her..."
"How observant you are!" Raskolnikov
smiled awkwardly, doing his very utmost to look him straight in the face, bu
t he failed, and suddenly added:
"I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges... that it mus
t be difficult to remember them all.... But you remember them all so clearly,
and... and..."
"Stupid! Feeble!" he thought. "Why did I add that?"
"But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who
hasn't come forward," Porfiry answered with hardly perceptible irony.
"I haven't been quite well."
"I heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in great distress about som
ething. You look pale still."
"I am not pale at all.... No, I am quite well," Raskolnikov snapped out rud
ely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was mounting,
he could not repress it.

"And in my anger I shall betray myself," flashed through his mind again. "
Why are they torturing me?"
"Not quite well!" Razumihin caught him up. "What next! He was
unconscious and delirious all yesterday.
Would you 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 s
omewhere till midnight, delirious all the time! Would you believe it! Extrao
rdinary!"
 "Really delirious? You don't say so!" Porfiry shook his head in a womani
sh way.
"Nonsense! Don't you believe it! But you don't believe it anyway,"
Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But
Porfiry Petrovitch did not seem to catch those strange words.
"But how could you have gone out if you hadn't been delirious?" Razumih
in got hot suddenly. "What did you go out for? What was the object of it? A
nd why on the sly? Were you in your senses when you did it? Now that all
danger is over I can speak plainly."
"I was awfully sick of them yesterday." Raskolnikov addressed
Porfiry suddenly with a smile of
insolent defiance, "I ran away from them to take lodgings where they woul
dn't find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr. Zametov there saw it.
I say, Mr. Zametov, was
I sensible or delirious yesterday; settle our dispute."
He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hateful were his exp
ression and his silence to him.
"In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, but you were
extremely irritable," Zametov pronounced dryly.
"And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to‐
day," put in Porfiry Petrovitch, "that he met you very late last night in the lo
dging of a man who had been run over."

"And there," said Razumihin, "weren't you mad then? You gave your last
penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen or tw
enty even, but keep three roubles for yourself at least, but he flung away all
the twenty‐five at once!"
"Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So that
's why I was liberal yesterday.... Mr. Zametov knows I've found a treasure!
Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such trivialities,
" he said, turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with trembling lips. "We are boring
you, aren't we?"
 "Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how you i
nterest me! It's interesting to look on and listen... and I am really glad you h
ave come forward at last."
"But you might give us some tea! My throat's dry," cried Razumihin.
"Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn't you like..
. something more essential before tea?"
"Get along with you!"
Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea.
Raskolnikov's thoughts were in a whirl. He was
in terrible exasperation.
"The worst of it is they don't disguise it; they don't care to stand on cerem
ony! And how if you didn't know me at all, did you come to talk to Nikodim
Fomitch about me? So they don't care to hide that they are tracking me like
a pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face." He was shaking with rage. "
Come, strike me openly, don't play with me like a cat with a mouse. It's har
dly civil, Porfiry Petrovitch, but perhaps I won't allow it! I shall get
up and throw
the whole truth in your ugly faces, and you'll see how I despise you." He c
ould hardly breathe. "And what if it's only my

fancy? What if I am mistaken, and through inexperience I get angry and do

n't keep up my nasty part? Perhaps it's all unintentional. All their phrases
are the usual ones,
but there is something about them.... It all might be said, but there is
something. Why did he say bluntly, 'With
her'? Why did Zametov add that I spoke artfully? Why do they speak in
that tone? 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
's nonsense! What could he wink for? Are they trying to upset my nerves or
are they teasing me? Either it's ill fancy or they know!
Even Zametov is rude.... Is Zametov rude? Zametov has changed his mind.
I foresaw he would change his mind! He is at home here, while it's my
first visit. Porfiry does
not consider him a visitor; sits with his back to him. They're as thick as thi
eves, no doubt, over me! Not a doubt they were talking about me before we
came. Do they know about the flat? If only they'd make haste! When I said t
hat I ran away to take a flat he let it pass.... I put that in cleverly about a fla
t, it may be of use afterwards.... Delirious, indeed... ha‐ ha‐
ha! He knows all about last night! He didn't know of my mother's arrival!
The hag had written the date on
in pencil! You are wrong, you won't catch me! There are no facts... it's all s
upposition! You produce facts! The flat even isn't a fact but delirium. I kno
w what to say to them.... Do they know about the flat? I won't go without fin
ding out. What did I come for? But my being angry now, maybe is a fact! F
ool, how irritable I am! Perhaps that's right; to play the invalid.... He is feel
ing me. He will try to catch me. Why did I come?"
All this flashed like lightning through his mind.

Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial.

"Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather.... And I am
out of sorts altogether," he began
in quite a different tone, laughing to Razumihin.
"Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the
most interesting point. Who got the best of it?"
"Oh, no one, of course. They got on to
everlasting questions, floated off into space."
"Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to
yesterday. Whether there is such a thing as crime. I told you that we talked
our heads off."
"What is there strange? It's an everyday
social question," Raskolnikov answered casually.
"The question wasn't put quite like that," observed Porfiry.
"Not quite, that's true," Razumihin agreed at
once, getting warm and hurried as usual. "Listen, Rodion, and tell us your
opinion, I want to hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them and wante
d 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 m
ore; no other causes admitted!..."
"You are wrong there," cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was noticeably
animated and kept laughing as he looked
at Razumihin, which made him more excited than ever.
"Nothing is admitted," Razumihin interrupted with heat.
"I am not wrong. I'll show you their pamphlets. Everything with
them is 'the influence of
environment,' and nothing else. Their favourite phrase! From which it follo
ws that, if society is normally organised, all crime will

cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest against and all men w
ill become righteous in one instant. Human nature is not taken into
account, it is excluded, it's not supposed to exist! They don't
recognise that
humanity, developing by a historical living process, will become at last a
normal society, but they believe that a social system that has come out of so
me mathematical brain is going to organise all humanity at once and make it
just and sinless in an instant, quicker than any living process! That's why t
hey instinctively dislike history, 'nothing but ugliness and stupidity in it,' an
d they explain it all as stupidity! That's why they so dislike the living proc
ess of life; they don't
want a living soul! The living soul demands life, the soul won't obey the
rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of suspicion, the soul is
retrograde! But what they
want though it smells of death and can be made of India‐
rubber, at least is not alive, has no will, is servile and won't revolt! And it
comes in the end to their reducing everything to the building of walls and th
e planning of rooms and passages in a phalanstery! The phalanstery is
ready, indeed, but your human nature is not ready for the phalanstery—
it wants life, it hasn't completed its vital process, it's too soon for
the graveyard! You can't skip over nature
by logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions!
Cut away a million, and reduce it all to the question of comfort!
That's the easiest solution of
the problem! It's seductively clear and you musn't think about it. That's
the great thing, you mustn't think! The
whole secret of life in two pages of print!"
"Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, do!" laughed
Porfiry. "Can you imagine," he turned
to Raskolnikov, "six people holding forth like that last 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 y
ou of that."
"Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of
forty violates a child of ten; was it environment drove him to it?"
"Well, strictly speaking, it did," Porfiry observed with noteworthy gravit
y; "a crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the influence of envi
ronment."
Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. "Oh, if you like," he roared. "I'll prove
to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed to the
Church of Ivan the
Great's being two hundred and fifty feet high, and I will prove it clearly,
exactly, progressively, and even with a
Liberal tendency! I undertake to! Will you bet on it?"
"Done! Let's hear, please, how he will prove it!"
"He is always humbugging, confound him,"
cried Razumihin, jumping up and gesticulating. "What's the use of talking t
o you? He does all that on purpose; you don't know him, Rodion! He took t
heir side yesterday, simply to make fools of them. And the things he said ye
sterday! And they were delighted! He can keep it up for a
fortnight together. Last year he persuaded us that he was going into a mona
stery: 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, noth
ing, all pure fantasy!"
"Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes in fac
t that made me think of taking you in."
"Are you such a good dissembler?" Raskolnikov asked carelessly.
"You wouldn't have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in, too. H
a‐ha‐ha! No, I'll tell you the truth. All

these questions about crime, environment, children, recall to my mind an

article of yours which interested me at the time.
'On Crime'... or something of the sort, I forget the title, I read it with
pleasure two months ago in the Periodical Review."
"My article? In the Periodical Review?" Raskolnikov asked in
astonishment. "I certainly did write an
article upon a book six months ago when I left the university, but I sent it to
the Weekly Review."
"But it came out in the Periodical."
"And the Weekly Review ceased to exist, so that's why it wasn't printed
at the time."
"That's true; but when it ceased to exist, the Weekly
Review was amalgamated with the Periodical, and so your article appea
red two months ago in the latter. Didn't you know?"
Raskolnikov had not known.
"Why, you might get some money out of them for the article! What a strang
e person you are! You lead such a solitary life that you know nothing of matt
ers that concern you directly. It's a fact, I assure you."
"Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!" cried Razumihin. "I'll run
to‐day to the reading‐room and ask for the number. Two months ago?
What was the date?
It doesn't matter though, I will find it. Think of not telling us!"
"How did you find out that the article was mine? It's only signed with an i
nitial."
"I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the editor; I know him...
. I was very much interested."
"I analysed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and after t
he crime."

"Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime is

always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but... it was not
that part of your article
that interested me so much, but an idea at the end of the article which I
regret to say you merely suggested without working it out clearly.
There is, if you recollect,
a suggestion that there are certain persons who can... that is, not precisely
are able to, but have a perfect right
to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not for them
."
Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his id
ea.
"What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not
because of the influence of environment?" Razumihin
inquired with some alarm even.
"No, not exactly because of it," answered Porfiry. "In his article all
men are divided into 'ordinary'
and 'extraordinary.' Ordinary men have to live in submission, have no right
to transgress the law, because, don't you see, they are ordinary. But extraor
dinary men have a right to commit any crime and to transgress the law in an
y way, just because they are extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not
mistaken?"
 "What do you mean? That can't be right?" Razumihin
muttered in bewilderment.
Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at
once, and knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the c
hallenge.
"That wasn't quite my contention," he began
simply and modestly. "Yet I admit that you have stated it almost correctly; p
erhaps, if you like, perfectly so." (It almost gave him pleasure to admit this.)
"The only difference is that I don't contend that extraordinary people are al
ways 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 'extraordinary' 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 tha
t my article isn't definite; I am ready to make it as clear as I can. Perhaps I
am right in thinking you want me to; very well. I maintain that if the
discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made
known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more
men, Newton would have
had the right, would indeed have been in duty bound... to eliminate the do
zen 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, N
apoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fac
t 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 a
t 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 cri
minals—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 sub
mit 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 in
sist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are in
general 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 a new word. There are, of course, in
numerable 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 humiliati
ng 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 thes
e 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 q
uestion). There's no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarce
ly 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 mass
es 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 sec
ond the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the se
cond 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 vive la guerre éternelle—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 t
he 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 ou
ght 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, coul
dn'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, t
hen..."
"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 move
ment,' and this quite sincerely. Meanwhile the really
new people are very often unobserved by them, or even despised as
reactionaries of
grovelling tendencies. But I don't think there is any considerable danger her
e, and you really need not be uneasy for they never go very far. Of course, t
hey might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their fancy run away with t
hem 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 beaut
iful and edifying effect; in fact you've nothing to be uneasy about.... It's a la
w 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 ha
ve 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 gr
eat many of them, eh?"
 "Oh, you needn't worry about that either," Raskolnikov went on in the sam
e tone. "People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying
something new, are extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. O
ne 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 b
ecome 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 geniu
ses, 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 plac
e. 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 discourteous
sarcasm of Porfiry
seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful face.
"Well, brother, if you are really serious... You are right, of course, in sayi
ng that it's not new, that it's like what

we've read and heard a thousand times already; but what is really origina
l in all this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you sanction
bloodshed in the name of conscience, and, excuse my saying so, with
such fanaticism.... That, I take it, is the point of your article. But that sancti
on of bloodshed by conscience is to my mind... more terrible than the
official, legal sanction of bloodshed...."
 "You are quite right, it is more terrible," Porfiry agreed.
"Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is
some mistake, I shall read it. You can't think that! I shall read it."
"All that is not in the article, there's only a hint of it," said Raskolnikov.
"Yes, yes." Porfiry couldn't sit still. "Your attitude
to crime is pretty clear to me 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 enterpr
ise 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 an
d 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 pun
ishment—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 ought? It's not a matter of permission or prohibition. He
will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always
inevitable for a
large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have
great sadness on earth," he added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversat
ion.
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 Petrovitc
h began again, "but I can't resist. Allow me one little question (I know I am t
roubling you). There is just one little notion I want to express, simply that I
may not forget it."
"Very good, tell me your little notion,"
Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale and grave before him.
"Well, you see... I really don't know how to express it properly.... It's a
playful, psychological idea.... When
you were writing your article, surely you couldn't have helped, he‐
he! fancying yourself... just a little, an 'extraordinary'

man, uttering a new word in your sense.... That's so, isn't

it?"
"Quite possibly," Raskolnikov
 contemptuously.
Razumihin made a movement.
answered

"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 defia
nt 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 Ivano
vna 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 befor
e 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 you
rself 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 there, you might perhaps
be able to tell us something," he added with a most good‐
natured expression.
"You want to cross‐
examine me officially in due form?" Raskolnikov asked sharply.
"Oh, why? That's not necessary for the present.
You misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and... I've talked wit
h all who had pledges.... I obtained evidence from some of them, and you a
re the last.... Yes, by the way," he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted, "I ju
st remember, what was I thinking of?" he turned to Razumihin,
"you were talking my ears off about that Nikolay... of course, I know, I kno
w very well," he turned to Raskolnikov, "that the fellow is innocent, but wh
at 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 sai
d 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 yo
u remember? two workmen or at least one of them? They were painting ther
e, 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 t
he same instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety t
o conjecture as quickly as possible where the trap lay and not to overlook a
nything. "No, I didn't see them, and I don't think I noticed a flat like that op
en.... 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 w
all. But painters... no, I don't remember that there were any painters, and I d
on't think that there was a flat open anywhere, no, there wasn't."
"What do you mean?" Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had refle
cted 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 w
ould be such a great thing for us to find out whether anyone had seen them b
etween 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 d
id not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath.

CHAPTER VI

"I don't believe it, I can't believe it!" repeated Razumihin, trying in
perplexity to refute Raskolnikov's arguments.
They were by now approaching Bakaleyev's lodgings, where Pulcheria
Alexandrovna and Dounia had been
expecting them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the way in the h
eat of discussion, confused and excited by the very fact that they were
for the first time speaking openly about it.
"Don't believe it, then!" answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless smi
le. "You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every word."
"You are suspicious. That is why you weighed
their words... h'm... certainly, I agree, Porfiry's tone was rather strange,
and still more that wretch Zametov!... You
are right, there was something about him—but why? Why?"
"He has changed his mind since last night."
"Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would do their ut
most to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch you afterwards.... Bu
t it was all impudent and careless."
"If they had had facts—I mean, real facts—or at least grounds for
suspicion, then they would certainly
have tried to hide their game, in the hope of getting more (they would
have made a search long ago besides). But they have no facts, not
one. It is all mirage—all ambiguous. Simply a floating idea. So they
try to throw me out by impudence. And perhaps, he was irritated at
having no facts, and blurted it out in his vexation—
or perhaps he has some plan... he seems an intelligent man. Perhaps
he

wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have a psychology of

their own, brother. But it is loathsome explaining it all. Stop!"
"And it's insulting, insulting! I understand you.
But... since we have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that
we have at last—I am glad) I will own now frankly that I noticed
it in them long ago, this idea. Of course the merest hint only—
an insinuation—
but why an insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they?
If only you knew how furious I have been.
Think only! Simply because a poor student, unhinged by poverty and hypoc
hondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness (note that), suspicious, vai
n, 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 pers
on where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach—
he might well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they found it all
on! Damn them!
I understand how annoying it is, but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at
them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all dir
ections. I'd hit out in all directions, neatly too, and so I'd put an end to it. D
amn them! Don't be downhearted. It's a shame!"
"He really has put it well, though," Raskolnikov thought.
"Damn them? But the cross‐examination again, to‐
morrow?" he said with bitterness. "Must I really enter into explanations
with them? I feel vexed as it is, that I

condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in the

restaurant...."
"Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, as one
of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! And as for Zam
etov..."
"At last he sees through him!" thought Raskolnikov.
"Stay!" cried Razumihin, seizing him by the
shoulder again. "Stay! you were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wron
g! How was that a trap? You say that the question about the workmen was a
trap. But if you had done that, could you have said you had seen them pain
ting the flat... and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen noth
ing, even if you had seen it. Who would own it against himself?"
"If I had done that thing, I should certainly have said that I had seen the
workmen and the flat," Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance and obvious
disgust.
 "But why speak against yourself?"
"Because only peasants, or the most
inexperienced novices deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is e
ver so little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to admit all th
e external facts that can't be avoided, but will seek other explanations of th
em, will introduce some special, unexpected turn, that will give them
another significance and put them in another light. Porfiry might well recko
n that I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give an air
of truth, and then make some explanation."
"But he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have
been there two days before, and that therefore you must have been
there on the day of
the murder at eight o'clock. And so he would have caught you over a detail
."

"Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time to refl
ect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so
would forget that
the workmen could not have been there two days before."
"But how could you forget it?"
"Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are most eas
ily 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 ca
ught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you think...."
"He is a knave then, if that is so!"
Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very 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.
 "I am getting a relish for certain aspects!" 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's.
"Go in alone!" said Raskolnikov suddenly. "I will
be back directly."
"Where are you going? Why, we are just here."
"I can't help it.... I will come in half an hour. Tell them."
"Say what you like, I will come with you."
"You, too, want to torture me!" he screamed, with such bitter irritation, su
ch despair in his eyes that Razumihin's hands dropped. He stood for
some time on the
steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away in the directi
on of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and

clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that ve
ry day, and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who wa
s by now alarmed at their long absence.
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 noth
ing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bak
aleyev'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's handwriting on it, might somehow have slipped out and been lost
in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive e
vidence against him.
 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.
"Here he is himself," shouted a loud voice.
He raised his head.
The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing hi
m 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 f
labby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and they looke
d out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.

"What is it?" Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter. 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.
"What is it?" cried Raskolnikov.
"Why, he there was asking whether a student
lived here, mentioned your name and whom you lodged with. I saw you co
ming and pointed you out and he went away. It's funny."
The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after wonderi
ng for a moment he turned and went back to his room.
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 hi
s eyes fixed on the ground, as though in meditation. He soon overtook him, b
ut 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, b
ut dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a minute side by
side without uttering a word.
 "You were inquiring for me... of the
porter?" Raskolnikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice.
The man made no answer; he didn't even look at him. Again they were bot
h silent.
"Why do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing.... What's the mean
ing of it?"
Raskolnikov's voice broke and he seemed unable to
articulate the words clearly.
The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy
sinister look at Raskolnikov.
 "Murderer!" he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and
distinct voice.
Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a
cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a mo
ment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they walk
ed for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.
The man did not look at him.
"What do you mean... what is.... Who is a murderer?" muttered Raskolnik
ov hardly audibly.
" You are a murderer," the man answered still
more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and
again he looked straight into Raskolnikov's pale face and stricken eyes.
They had just reached the cross‐roads. The man turned to the left
without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained 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 triump
h.
With slow faltering steps, with shaking
knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled a
ll 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 hi
mself on it. So he lay for half an hour.
He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some imag
es without order or coherence floated before his mind—faces of people
he had seen in
his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have recalle
d, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some o
fficers playing billiards,
 the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a b
ack staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg‐
shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere.... The images foll
owed one another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tri
ed 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 sen
sation.
He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and prete
nded 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's whisper:
"Don't disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later."
"Quite so," answered Razumihin. Both
withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another half‐
hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back
again, clasping his hands behind his head.
"Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he,
what did he see? He has seen it all, that's clear. Where was he then? And fr
om where did he
see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And how could he
see? Is it possible? Hm..." continued Raskolnikov, turning cold and
shivering, "and the jewel case Nikolay found behind the door—
was that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build
it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?" He
felt with sudden loathing
how weak, how physically weak he had become. "I ought to have known

it," he thought with a bitter smile. "And how dared

I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed bloo
d! I ought to have known beforehand.... Ah, but I did know!" he
whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought.
"No, those men are not made so. The real Master
to whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, forget
s an army in Egypt, wastes half a million men in the Moscow expedition
and gets off with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death,
and so all is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of flesh but of
bronze!"
One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him
laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old
woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed—
it's a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they digest it!
It's too inartistic. "A Napoleon
creep under an old woman's bed! Ugh, how loathsome!"
At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish
excitement. "The old woman is of no
consequence," he thought, hotly and incoherently.
"The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what matters! The o
ld woman was only an illness.... I was in a hurry to overstep.... I didn't
kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the principle, but I
didn't overstep,
I stopped on this side.... I was only capable of killing. And it seems I wasn
't even capable of that... Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing
the socialists? They are industrious, commercial people; 'the
happiness of all' is their case. No, life is only given to me once
and I
shall never have it again; I don't want to wait for 'the happiness of all.' I w
ant to live myself, or else better not live at all. I simply couldn't pass by my
mother starving, keeping my

rouble in my pocket while I waited for the 'happiness of all.' I am putting

my little brick into the happiness of all and so my heart is at peace. Ha‐
ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too want.... Ech, I am an æ
sthetic louse and nothing more," he added suddenly, laughing like a
madman. "Yes, I am certainly a louse," he went
on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with vindictiv
e pleasure. "In the first place, because I can reason that I am one, and secon
dly, 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—ha‐ha! Thirdly,
because I aimed at carrying it out as justly
as possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked o
ut the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I nee
ded 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," he added, grinding his teeth
, "is that I am perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and
I felt beforehand that I should tell myself so after killing her. Can
anything be compared with
the horror of that? The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand the 'prophet'
with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and 'trembling' creation must
obey! The 'prophet' is right, he is right when he sets a battery across the str
eet and blows up the innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain! It'
s for you to obey, trembling creation, and not to have desires, for that's not
for you!... I shall never, never forgive the old woman!"
His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eye
s were fixed on the ceiling.

"Mother, sister—
how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physi
cal hatred for them, I can't bear them near me.... I went up to my mother and
kissed her, I remember.... To embrace her and think if she only knew... sha
ll I tell her then? That's just what I might do.... She must be the same as I a
m," he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium.
"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's st
range though, why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn't killed
her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes.... Dear women!
Why don't they weep? Why don't they moan? They give
up everything... their eyes are soft and gentle.... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia
!"
He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn't remember h
ow 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. Sudd
enly 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. "Stay, did he really beckon?" 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 d
own a turning; the man still did not look round. "Does he know I am
following him?" thought Raskolnikov. The man went into
the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in
to see whether he would look round and
sign to him. In the court‐
yard the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov
at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have go
ne up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow
measured steps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangely
familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moon shone
through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then
he reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the
 painters were at work... but how was it he did
not recognise it at once? The steps of the man above had died away. "So h
e must have stopped or hidden somewhere." He reached the third storey, sh
ould he go on? There was a stillness that was dreadful.... But he went on. T
he 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 wid
e 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. "It's the moon that makes it so still,
weaving some mystery," thought Raskolnikov. He stood and waited,
waited a long
while, and the more silent the moonlight, the more violently his

heart beat, till it was painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly
he heard a momentary sharp crack like
the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly
and struck the window pane with a
plaintive buzz. At that moment he noticed in the corner between the
window and the little cupboard something like a
cloak hanging on the wall. "Why is that cloak here?" he thought, "it wasn't t
here before...." 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 ol
d woman bent double so that he couldn't see her
face; but it was she. He stood over her. "She is afraid," he thought. He
stealthily took the axe from the noose
and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange to say she di
d 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 ri
ght 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 overco
me 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 o
f heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation. Somet
hing gripped his heart, his

legs were rooted to the spot, they would not move.... He tried to scream a
nd woke up.
He drew a deep breath—but his dream
seemed strangely to persist: his door was flung open and a man whom he h
ad never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and
he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring.
"Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly per
ceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him.
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 flo
or 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 Raskolnik
ov could make out from his stolen glances, he was a man no longer young,
stout, with a full, fair, almost whitish beard.
Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There wa
s 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. Raskolnik
ov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.
"Come, tell me what you want."
"I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending," the stranger
answered oddly, laughing calmly.
"Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, allow me to introduce myself...."

PART IV

CHAPTER I
"CAN THIS BE STILL A DREAM?" RASKOLNIKOV
THOUGHT ONCE MORE.

He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor.

"Svidrigaïlov! What nonsense! It can't be!" he said at last aloud in bewild
erment.
His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation.
"I've come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I wanted to make
your personal acquaintance, as I
have already heard a great deal about you that is interesting and flattering;
secondly, I cherish the hope that you may not refuse to assist me in a matter
directly concerning the welfare of your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. For wi
thout your support she might not let me come near her now, for she is preju
diced against me, but with your assistance I reckon on..."
"You reckon wrongly," interrupted Raskolnikov.
"They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?"
Raskolnikov made no reply.
"It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well, let
me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, I don't consider it necessary to justif
y myself, but kindly tell

me what was there particularly criminal on my part in all this business, s

peaking without prejudice, with common sense?"
Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence.
"That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and 'insulted her wi
th my infamous proposals'—
is that it? (I am anticipating you.) But you've only to assume that I, too, am
a man et nihil humanum... in a word, that I
am capable of being attracted and falling in love (which does not depend on
our will), then everything can be explained in the most natural manner.
The question is, am I a monster, or am I myself a victim? And what
if I am
a victim? In proposing to the object of my passion to elope with me to Amer
ica or Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest respect for her and ma
y have thought that I was promoting our mutual happiness! Reason is the sla
ve of passion, you know; why, probably, I was doing more harm to myself th
an anyone!"
"But that's not the point," Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. "It's simpl
y that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We don't want to have
anything to do with you. We show you the door. Go out!"
Svidrigaïlov broke into a sudden laugh.
"But you're... but there's no getting round you," he said, laughing in the fra
nkest way. "I hoped to get round you, but you took up the right line at once!"

"But you are trying to get round me still!"

"What of it? What of it?" cried Svidrigaïlov,
laughing openly. "But this is what the French call bonne guerre, and the mo
st 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..."
 "You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?" Raskolnikov inter
rupted rudely.
"Oh, you've heard that, too, then? You'd be sure to, though.... But
as for your question, I really don't
know what to say, though my own conscience is quite at rest on that score.
Don't suppose that I am in any apprehension about it. All was regular and in
order; the medical inquiry diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing
immediately after a heavy dinner and a bottle of wine, and indeed it
could have proved nothing else. But I'll tell you what I have been thinking t
o myself of late, on my way here in the train, especially: didn't I
contribute to all that...
calamity, morally, in a way, by irritation or something of the sort. But I ca
me to the conclusion that that, too, was quite out of the question."
Raskolnikov laughed.
"I wonder you trouble yourself about it!"
"But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice with
a switch—
there were no marks even... don't regard me as a cynic, please; I am perfect
ly aware how atrocious it was of me and all that; but I know for certain, to
o, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at my, so to say, warmth. Th
e 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 sho
w 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 switc
hes 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 gl
ad to be insulted in spite of all their show of indignation. There are instanc
es of it with everyone; human beings in general, indeed, greatly love to

be insulted, have you noticed that? But it's particularly so with women.
One might even say it's their only amusement."
At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and
so finishing the interview. But
some curiosity and even a sort of prudence made him linger for
a moment.
"You are fond of fighting?" he asked carelessly.
"No, not very," Svidrigaïlov answered, calmly.
"And Marfa Petrovna and I scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniou
sly, 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 charact
er). 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'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 'disgraceful action of
the Age' took place (you know, 'The Egyptian Nights,' 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 'Germans' that I
don't believe there is a progressive who could quite answer for himself. N
o one looked at the subject from that point of

view then, but that's the truly humane point of view, I assure you."
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.
"I expect you've not talked to anyone for some days?" he asked.
"Scarcely anyone. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an adapt
able man?"
 "No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a man."
"Because I am not offended at the rudeness of
your questions? Is that it? But why take offence? As you asked, so I answer
ed," he replied, with a surprising expression of simplicity. "You know,
there's hardly anything I
take interest in," he went on, as it were dreamily, "especially now, I'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'll confess frankly,
I am very much bored. The last three days especially, so I am
delighted to
see you.... Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you seem to be
somehow awfully strange yourself. Say what
you like, there's something wrong with you, and now, too... not this very mi
nute, I mean, but now, generally.... Well, well, I won't, I won't, don't
scowl! I am not such a bear, you know, as you think."
Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him.
"You are not a bear, perhaps, at all," he said. "I fancy indeed that you are
a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on occasion to behave l
ike one."

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

answered, dryly and even with a shade of haughtiness, "and therefore
why not be vulgar at
times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our climate... and espe
cially if one has a natural propensity that way," he added, laughing again.
"But I've heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say,
'not without connections.'
What can you want with me, then, unless you've some special object?"
"That's true that I have friends here,"
Svidrigaïlov admitted, not replying to the chief point. "I've met some alrea
dy. I've been lounging about for the last three days, and I've seen them, or th
ey've seen me. That's a matter of course. I am well dressed and reckoned n
ot a poor man; the emancipation of the serfs hasn't affected me;
my property consists chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue h
as not fallen off; but... I am not going to see them, I was sick of them long a
go. I'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 official
s and students of all sorts. Yes, there's a great deal I didn't notice when
I was here eight years
ago, kicking up my heels.... My only hope now is in anatomy, by Jove, it is!
"
"Anatomy?"
"But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed, maybe—
well, all that can go on without me," he went on, again without noticing
the question. "Besides, who wants to be a card‐sharper?"
"Why, have you been a card‐sharper then?"
"How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the
best society, eight years ago; we had a
fine time. And all men of breeding, you know, poets, men of

property. And indeed as a rule in our Russian society the best manners
are found among those who've
been thrashed, have you noticed that? I've deteriorated in the country. But I
did get into prison for debt, through a low Greek who came from
Nezhin. Then Marfa Petrovna
turned up; she bargained with him and bought me off for thirty thousand si
lver 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 s
hould be trapped at once! And she would have done it! Women find nothing
incompatible in that."
"If it hadn't been for that, would you have given her the slip?"
 "I don't know what to say. It was scarcely the document restrained me. I d
idn't want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go
abroad, seeing I
was bored, but I've been abroad before, and always felt sick there. For no
reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the sea—
you look at them and it makes you sad. What's most revolting is that one is r
eally sad! No, it's better at home. Here at least one blames others for
everything and excuses oneself. I should have gone perhaps on
an expedition to the North Pole, because j'ai le vin mauvais and hate drink
ing, and there's nothing left but wine. I have tried it. But, I say, I've been tol
d Berg is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from the Yusupov
Garden and will take up passengers at a fee. Is it true?"
"Why, would you go up?"
 "I... No, oh, no," muttered Svidrigaïlov really seeming to
be deep in thought.
"What does he mean? Is he in earnest?" Raskolnikov
wondered.
"No, the document didn't restrain me,"
Svidrigaïlov went on, meditatively. "It was my own 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. 'You see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovitch'—
that was actually her expression. You don'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."
"You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?"
"Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you bel
ieve in ghosts?"
"What ghosts?"
"Why, ordinary ghosts."
"Do you believe in them?"
"Perhaps not, pour vous plaire.... I wouldn't say no exactly."
"Do you see them, then?"
Svidrigaïlov looked at him rather oddly.
"Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me," he
said, twisting his mouth into a strange smile.
"How do you mean 'she is pleased to visit you'?"
 "She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, a
n hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to come here. The s
econd time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey at the

station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was

two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was alone."
"Were you awake?"
"Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me
for a minute and goes out at the door
— always at the door. I can almost hear her."
"What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you?
" Raskolnikov said suddenly.
At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much exc
ited.
"What! Did you think so?" Svidrigaïlov asked
in astonishment. "Did you really? Didn't I say that there was something in c
ommon between us, eh?"
"You never said so!" Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat.
"Didn't I?"
"No!"
"I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut, pr
etending, I said to myself at once, 'Here's the man.'"
"What do you mean by 'the man?' What are you talking
about?" cried Raskolnikov.
"What do I mean? I really don't know...." Svidrigaïlov muttered ingenuou
sly, as though he, too, were puzzled.
For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other's faces.
 "That's all nonsense!" Raskolnikov shouted with
vexation. "What does she say when she comes to you?"
"She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and—
man is a strange creature—it makes
me angry. The first time she came in (I was tired you know: the funeral
service, the funeral ceremony, the
lunch afterwards. At last I was left alone in my study. I lighted a

cigar and began to think), she came in at the door. 'You've been so busy
to‐day, Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the dining‐
room clock,' she said.
All those seven years I've wound that clock every week, and if I forgot it s
he would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way here. I got ou
t at the station at daybreak; I'd been asleep, tired out, with my eyes
half open, I
was drinking some coffee. I looked up and there was suddenly Marfa Petro
vna sitting beside me with a pack of cards in her hands. 'Shall I tell your fo
rtune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovitch?' She was a great hand at
telling fortunes.
I shall never forgive myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright, an
d, 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 wi
th a long train. 'Good day, Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like my dress?
Aniska can't make like this.' (Aniska was a dressmaker in the country, one o
f our former serf girls who had been trained in Moscow, a pretty wench.)
She stood turning round before me. I looked at the dress, and then I looked
carefully, very carefully, at her face. 'I wonder you trouble to come to
me about such
trifles, Marfa Petrovna.' 'Good gracious, you won't let one disturb you
about anything!' To tease her I said, 'I want to get married, Marfa
Petrovna.' 'That's just like you,
Arkady Ivanovitch; it does you very little credit to come looking for a brid
e when you've hardly buried your wife. And if you could make a good choi
ce, at least, but I know it won't be for your happiness or hers, you will only
be a laughing‐
stock to all good people.' Then she went out and her train seemed to rustle.
Isn't it nonsense, eh?"
"But perhaps you are telling lies?" Raskolnikov put in.

"I rarely lie," answered Svidrigaïlov

thoughtfully, apparently not noticing the rudeness of the question.
"And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?"
"Y‐
yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had a serf, F
ilka; just after his burial I called out forgetting 'Filka, my pipe!' He came in
and went to the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat still and thought 'he i
s doing it out of revenge,' because we had a
violent quarrel just before his death. 'How dare you come in with a hole in
your elbow?' I said. 'Go away, you scamp!' He turned and went out, and ne
ver came again. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted to
have a service
sung for him, but I was ashamed."
"You should go to a doctor."
"I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don't know
what's wrong; I believe I am five times
as strong as you are. I didn't ask you whether you believe that ghosts are se
en, but whether you believe that they exist."
"No, I won't believe it!" Raskolnikov cried, with positive
anger.
"What do people generally say?" muttered Svidrigaïlov, as though speaki
ng to himself, looking aside and bowing his head. "They say, 'You are ill, s
o what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.' But that'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't exist."
 "Nothing of the sort," Raskolnikov insisted irritably.
"No? You don't think so?" Svidrigaïlov went on, looking at him deliberat
ely. "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, t
he closer becomes one's contact with that other world, so that as soon as th
e 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."
"I don't believe in a future life," said Raskolnikov.
Svidrigaïlov sat lost in thought.
"And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort," he sa
id suddenly.
"He is a madman," thought Raskolnikov.
"We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, someth
ing vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it's one lit
tle room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in ev
ery corner, and that's all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that."
"Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and
more comforting than that?" Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of anguish.
"Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you know it's w
hat I would certainly have made it," answered Svidrigaïlov, with a vague s
mile.
 This horrible answer sent a cold chill
through Raskolnikov. Svidrigaïlov raised his head, looked at him, and sud
denly began laughing.
"Only think," he cried, "half an hour ago we had never seen each other, w
e regarded each other as enemies; there is a matter unsettled between us; w
e've thrown it aside,

and away we've gone into the abstract! Wasn't I right in saying that we we
re birds of a feather?"
"Kindly allow me," Raskolnikov went on irritably, "to ask you to explain
why you have honoured me with your visit... and... and I am in a hurry, I ha
ve no time to waste. I want to go out."
"By all means, by all means. Your sister,
Avdotya Romanovna, is going to be married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovitc
h?"
"Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from mentioning h
er name? I can't understand how you dare utter her name in my
presence, if you really are Svidrigaïlov."
"Why, but I've come here to speak about her; how can I avoid mentioning
her?"
"Very good, speak, but make haste."
"I am sure that you must have formed your
own opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, who is a connection of mine through my
wife, if you have only seen him for half an hour, or heard any facts
about him. He is no match for Avdotya Romanovna. I believe
Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself generously and imprudently
for the sake of... for the sake of her family. I fancied from all I had heard
of you that you would be very glad if the match could be broken
off without the sacrifice of
worldly advantages. Now I know you personally, I am convinced of it."
 "All this is very naïve... excuse me, I should have said impudent on your
part," said Raskolnikov.
"You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don't be uneasy, Rodio
n Romanovitch, if I were working for my own advantage, I would not have
spoken out so directly. I am not quite a fool. I will confess something

psychologically curious about that: just now, defending my love for

Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was myself
the victim. Well, let me tell you that I've no feeling of love now, not the
slightest, so that I wonder myself indeed, for
I really did feel something..."
"Through idleness and depravity," Raskolnikov put in.
"I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such qualities that e
ven I could not help being impressed by them. But that's all nonsense, as I s
ee myself now."
"Have you seen that long?"
"I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it the day
before yesterday, almost at the moment I arrived in Petersburg. I
still fancied in Moscow,
though, that I was coming to try to get Avdotya Romanovna's hand and to c
ut out Mr. Luzhin."
"Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and come to the object o
f your visit. I am in a hurry, I want to go out..."
"With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here
and determining on a certain... journey, I should like to make some
necessary preliminary arrangements. I left
my children with an aunt; they are well provided for; and they have no nee
d of me personally. And a nice father I should make, too! I have taken nothi
ng but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. That's enough for me. Exc
use me, I am just coming to the point. Before the journey which may come
off, I want to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It's not that I detest him so much, but it
was through him I quarrelled with Marfa Petrovna when I learned that she h
ad dished
up this marriage. I want now to see Avdotya Romanovna through your me
diation, and if you like in your presence, to explain to her that in the first pl
ace 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 r
oubles and so assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to which I
believe she is herself not disinclined, if she could see the way to it."
"You are certainly mad," cried Raskolnikov not so much angered as aston
ished. "How dare you talk like that!"
"I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, though I am not ric
h, this ten thousand roubles is perfectly free; I have absolutely no need
for it. If Avdotya Romanovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in
some more foolish way. That's the first thing. Secondly,
my conscience is perfectly easy; I make the offer with no ulterior
motive. You may not believe it, but in the
end Avdotya Romanovna and you will know. The point is, that I did actuall
y cause your sister, whom I greatly respect, some trouble and
unpleasantness, and so, sincerely regretting it, I want—
not to compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but simply to do
something to her advantage, to show that I am not, after all, privileged to do
nothing but harm. If there were a millionth fraction of self‐
interest in my offer, I should not have made it so openly; and I should not h
ave offered her ten thousand only, when five weeks ago I offered her more,
Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry a young lady, and that alone
ought
to prevent suspicion of any design on Avdotya Romanovna. In conclusion,
let me say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is taking money just the
same, only from another
man. Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, think it over coolly and quietly.
"
 Svidrigaïlov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he was saying thi
s.
"I beg you to say no more," said Raskolnikov. "In any case this is unpardo
nable impertinence."

"Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm to his neighbour
in this world, and is prevented from doing the tiniest bit of good by
trivial
conventional formalities. That's absurd. If I died, for instance, and left that
sum to your sister in my will, surely she wouldn't refuse it?"
"Very likely she would."
"Oh, no, indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be
it, though ten thousand roubles is a capital thing to have on occasion. In an
y case I beg you to repeat what I have said to Avdotya Romanovna."
"No, I won't."
"In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to try and see her m
yself and worry her by doing so."
"And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?"
"I don't know really what to say. I should like
very much to see her once more."
"Don't hope for it."
"I'm sorry. But you don't know me. Perhaps we may become better friend
s."
"You think we may become friends?"
"And why not?" Svidrigaïlov said, smiling. He stood up and took his hat.
"I didn't quite intend to disturb you and I came here without reckoning
on it... though I was very much struck by your face this morning."
"Where did you see me this morning?" Raskolnikov asked uneasily.
 "I saw you by chance.... I kept fancying there
is something about you like me.... But don't be uneasy. I am not intrusive; I
used to get on all right with card‐
sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great personage who is a
distant relation of mine, and I could write about Raphael's Madonna
in Madam Prilukov's album, and I

never left Marfa Petrovna's side for seven years, and I used to
stay the night at Viazemsky's house in the
Hay Market in the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg, perha
ps."
"Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, may I ask?"
"What travels?"
"Why, on that 'journey'; you spoke of it yourself."
"A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well, that's a wide
subject.... if only you knew what you
are asking," he added, and gave a sudden, loud, short laugh. "Perhaps I'll g
et married instead of the journey. They're making a match for me."
"Here?"
"Yes."
"How have you had time for that?"
"But I am very anxious to see Avdotya
Romanovna once. I earnestly beg it. Well, good‐
bye for the present. Oh, yes. I have forgotten something. Tell your sister, Ro
dion Romanovitch, that Marfa Petrovna remembered her in her will and lef
t her three thousand roubles. That's absolutely certain. Marfa Petrovna
arranged it a week before her death, and it was done in my
presence.
Avdotya Romanovna will be able to receive the money in two or three we
eks."
"Are you telling the truth?"
 "Yes, tell her. Well, your servant. I am staying very near you."
As he went out, Svidrigaïlov ran up against Razumihin in the doorway.

CHAPTER II

It was nearly eight o'clock. The two young men hurried to Bakaleyev's, to
arrive before Luzhin.
"Why, who was that?" asked Razumihin, as soon as they were in the street
.
"It was Svidrigaïlov, that landowner in whose house my sister was
insulted when she was their
governess. Through his persecuting her with his attentions, she was turned
out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. This Marfa Petrovna begged
Dounia's forgiveness afterwards,
and she's just died suddenly. It was of her we were talking this morning. I
don't know why I'm afraid of that man. He came here at once after his wife'
s funeral. He is very strange, and is determined on doing something.... We
must guard Dounia from him... that's what I wanted to tell you, do you hear
?"
"Guard her! What can he do to harm
Avdotya Romanovna? Thank you, Rodya, for speaking to me like that.... W
e will, we will guard her. Where does he live?"
"I don't know."
"Why didn't you ask? What a pity! I'll find out, though."
"Did you see him?" asked Raskolnikov after a pause.
"Yes, I noticed him, I noticed him well."
"You did really see him? You saw him
clearly?" Raskolnikov insisted.
"Yes, I remember him perfectly, I should know him in a thousand; I have a
good memory for faces."
 They were silent again.
"Hm!... that's all right," muttered Raskolnikov. "Do you know, I fancied...
I keep thinking that it may have been an hallucination."

"What do you mean? I don't understand you."

"Well, you all say," Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile,
"that I am mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am mad, and have o
nly seen a phantom."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad,
and perhaps everything that happened all these days may be only imaginati
on."
"Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again!... But what did he say, what did
he come for?"
Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute.
"Now let me tell you my story," he began, "I came to you, you were aslee
p. Then we had dinner and then I went to Porfiry's, Zametov was still with
him. I tried to begin, but it was no use. I couldn't speak in the right way. Th
ey don't seem to understand and can't understand, but are not a bit
ashamed. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking to him, but
it was still no use. He
looked away and I looked away. At last I shook my fist in his ugly face, an
d told him as a cousin I'd brain him. He merely looked at me, I cursed and c
ame away. That was all. It was very stupid. To Zametov I didn't say a word
. But, you see, I thought I'd made a mess of it, but as I went downstairs a br
illiant idea struck me: why should we trouble? Of course if you were in any
danger or anything, but why need you care? You needn't care a hang for the
m. We shall have a laugh at them afterwards, and if I were in your place I'd
mystify them more than ever. How ashamed they'll
be afterwards! Hang them! We can thrash them afterwards, but let's laugh a
t them now!"
 "To be sure," answered Raskolnikov. "But what will you say to‐
morrow?" 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's account of his
visit to Porfiry had very little interest for him, so much had come and gon
e since then.
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 gr
eeting or looking at one another. The young men walked in first, while Pyot
r Petrovitch, for good manners, lingered a little in
the passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna came forward at o
nce 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.
A moment's silence followed. Pyotr
Petrovitch deliberately drew out a cambric handkerchief reeking of scent an
d blew his nose with an air of a benevolent man
who felt himself slighted, and was firmly resolved to insist on an explana
tion. In the passage the idea had occurred to him to keep on his overcoat an
d 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.
"I trust you had a favourable journey," he
inquired officially of Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Oh, very, Pyotr Petrovitch."
"I am gratified to hear it. And Avdotya Romanovna is not over‐
fatigued either?"
"I am young and strong, I don't get tired, but it was a great strain for moth
er," answered Dounia.
"That's unavoidable! our national railways are of terrible length.
'Mother Russia,' as they say, is a
vast country.... In spite of all my desire to do so, I was unable to meet you
yesterday. But I trust all passed off without inconvenience?"
"Oh, no, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was all terribly disheartening,"
Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened
to declare with peculiar intonation, "and if Dmitri Prokofitch had not been
sent us, I really believe by God Himself, we should have been utterly
lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofitch Razumihin," she added,
introducing him to Luzhin.
"I had the pleasure... yesterday," muttered Pyotr Petrovitch with a
hostile glance sidelong at Razumihin; then he scowled and was silent.
Pyotr Petrovitch belonged to that class of persons, on the surface very pol
ite in society, who make a great point of punctiliousness, but who, directly t
hey 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 Alexan
drovna was anxious again.
"Marfa Petrovna is dead, have you heard?" she began having recourse to
her leading item of conversation.
"To be sure, I heard so. I was immediately informed, and I have come to
make you acquainted with the fact that Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov
set off in haste
for Petersburg immediately after his wife's funeral. So at least I have excel
lent authority for believing."
"To Petersburg? here?" Dounia asked in alarm
and looked at her mother.
"Yes, indeed, and doubtless not without some design, having in view the r
apidity of his departure, and all the circumstances preceding it."
"Good heavens! won't he leave Dounia in peace even here?" cried Pulche
ria Alexandrovna.
"I imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna have any
grounds for uneasiness, unless, of course, you are yourselves
desirous of getting into communication with him. For my part I am
on my guard, and am now discovering where he is lodging."
"Oh, Pyotr Petrovitch, you would not believe what
a fright you have given me," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on: "I've only s
een him twice, but I thought him terrible, terrible! I am convinced that he w
as the cause of Marfa
Petrovna's death."
"It's impossible to be certain about that. I have precise information. I do n
ot dispute that he may have contributed to accelerate the course of events b
y 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 Petrovn
a 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 abject
ly vicious specimen of that class of men. I have considerable reason to beli
eve that Marfa Petrovna, who was so unfortunate as to fall in love with him
and to pay his debts eight years ago, was of service to him also in another
way. Solely by her exertions and sacrifices, a criminal charge,
involving an element of fantastic and homicidal brutality for which
he might well have been sentenced to Siberia, was hushed up. That's
the sort of man he is, if you care to know."
"Good heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
Raskolnikov listened attentively.
"Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good
evidence of this?" Dounia asked sternly and emphatically.
"I only repeat what I was told in secret by
Marfa Petrovna. I must observe that from the legal point of view the case w
as far from clear. There was, and I believe still is, living here a woman call
ed 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 ha
nging in the garret. At the inquest the verdict was suicide. After the usual
proceedings the matter ended, but, later on, information was given
that the child had been... cruelly outraged by Svidrigaïlov. It is true,
this was not
clearly established, the information was given by another German

woman of loose character whose word could not be

trusted; no statement was actually made to the
police, thanks to Marfa Petrovna's money and exertions; it did not get beyo
nd 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 Phi
lip who died of ill treatment he received six years ago, before the abolition
of serfdom."
"I heard, on the contrary, that this Philip hanged himself."
"Quite so, but what drove him, or rather
perhaps disposed him, to suicide was the systematic persecution and sever
ity of Mr. Svidrigaïlov."
"I don't know that," answered Dounia, dryly. "I only heard a queer
story that Philip was a sort of hypochondriac, a sort of domestic
philosopher,
the servants used to say, 'he read himself silly,' and that he hanged himself
partly on account of Mr.
Svidrigaïlov's mockery of him and not his blows. When I was there he beh
aved well to the servants, and they were actually fond of him, though they c
ertainly did blame him for Philip's death."
"I perceive, Avdotya Romanovna, that you
seem disposed to undertake his defence all of a sudden," Luzhin observed,
twisting his lips into an ambiguous
smile, "there's no doubt that he is an astute man, and insinuating where ladi
es are concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has died so strangely, is a
terrible instance. My only desire has been to be of service to you and your
mother with my advice, in view of the renewed efforts which may certainly
be anticipated from him. For my part it's my firm conviction, that
he will end in a debtor's prison
again. Marfa Petrovna had not the slightest intention of settling

anything substantial on him, having regard for

his children's interests, and, if she left him anything, it would only be the m
erest sufficiency, something insignificant and ephemeral, which would not l
ast a year for a man of his habits."
"Pyotr Petrovitch, I beg you," said Dounia, "say no more of Mr. Svidrigaï
lov. It makes me miserable."
 "He has just been to see me," said
Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for the first time.
There were exclamations from all, and they all turned to him. Even Pyotr
Petrovitch was roused.
"An hour and a half ago, he came in when I was asleep, waked me, and
introduced himself,"
Raskolnikov continued. "He was fairly cheerful and at ease, and quite hop
es that we shall become friends. He is
particularly anxious, by the way, Dounia, for an interview with you, at whi
ch 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."
"Thank God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna,
crossing herself. "Pray for her soul, Dounia!"
"It's a fact!" broke from Luzhin.
"Tell us, what more?" Dounia urged Raskolnikov.
"Then he said that he wasn't rich and all the estate was
left to his children who are now with an aunt, then that he was staying
somewhere not far from me, but where, I don't know, I didn't ask...."
"But what, what does he want to propose to Dounia?" cried Pulcheria Al
exandrovna in a fright. "Did he tell you?"
"Yes."
"What was it?"

"I'll tell you afterwards."

Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention
to his tea.
 Pyotr Petrovitch looked at his watch.
"I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be in y
our way," he added with an air of some pique and he began getting up.
"Don't go, Pyotr Petrovitch," said Dounia, "you intended to spend the even
ing. Besides, you wrote yourself that you wanted to have an explanation wit
h mother."
"Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna," Pyotr Petrovitch answered
impressively, sitting down again, but
still holding his hat. "I certainly desired an explanation with you and your
honoured mother upon a very
important point indeed. But as your brother cannot speak openly in my prese
nce 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 dis
regarded...."
Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin relapsed into dignified silence.
"Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting was dis
regarded solely at my instance," said Dounia. "You wrote that you had
been insulted by
my brother; I think that this must be explained at once, and you must be reco
nciled. And if Rodya really has insulted you, then he should and will apol
ogise."
Pyotr Petrovitch took a stronger line.
"There are insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which
no goodwill can make us forget. There is a line in everything which it is dan
gerous to overstep; and when it has been overstepped, there is no return."

"That wasn't what I was speaking of exactly, Pyotr Petrovitch,"

Dounia interrupted with some
impatience. "Please understand that our whole future depends now on whet
her 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 ende
d to‐
day, however hard that may be. I repeat that if my brother is to blame he wi
ll ask your forgiveness."
"I am surprised at your putting the question like that," said Luzhin, getting
more and more irritated. "Esteeming, and so to say, adoring you, I may at th
e 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 acc
ept duties incompatible with..."
"Ah, don't be so ready to take offence,
Pyotr Petrovitch," Dounia interrupted with feeling, "and be the sensible an
d generous man I have always considered, and wish to consider, you to be.
I've given you a great promise, I am your betrothed. Trust me in this matter
and, believe me, I shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming th
e part of judge is as much a surprise for my brother as for you. When I insis
ted on his coming to our interview to‐
day after your letter, I told him nothing of what I meant to do. Understand
that, if you are not reconciled, I must choose between you—
it must be either you or he. That is how the question rests on your side and
on his. I don't want to be mistaken in my choice, and I must not be. For you
r sake I must break off with my brother, for
my brother's sake I must break off with you. I can find out for certain now
whether he is a brother to me, and I want to know it; and of you, whether I a
m dear to you, whether you esteem me, whether you are the husband for me.
"

"Avdotya Romanovna," Luzhin declared huffily,

"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 'you or he,' showing thereby of how
little consequence I am in your eyes... I cannot let this pass considering the
relationship and... the obligations existing between us."
 "What!" cried Dounia, flushing. "I set your
interest beside all that has hitherto been most precious in my life, what has
made up the whole of my life, and here you are offended at my making too
little account of you."
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 tho
ugh he relished it.
"Love for the future partner of your life, for
your husband, ought to outweigh your love for your brother," he pronounce
d sententiously, "and in any case I cannot be put on the same level.... Althou
gh I said so emphatically that I would not speak openly in your brother's pr
esence, nevertheless, I intend now to ask your honoured mother for a neces
sary explanation on a point of great importance closely affecting my
dignity. Your son," he turned
to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "yesterday in the presence of Mr. Razsudkin
(or... I think that's it? excuse me I
have forgotten your surname," he bowed politely to Razumihin) "insulted
me by misrepresenting the idea I expressed to you in a private conversation
, drinking coffee, that is, that marriage with a poor girl who has had
experience of trouble is more advantageous from the conjugal point of

view than with one who has lived in luxury, since it is more
profitable for the moral character. Your son intentionally exaggerated
the significance of my words and made them ridiculous, accusing me
of malicious intentions, and, as far as I could see, relied upon
your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself happy, Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, if it is possible for you to convince me of an
opposite conclusion, and thereby considerately reassure me. Kindly
let me know in
what terms precisely you repeated my words in your letter to Rodion Rom
anovitch."
"I don't remember," faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I repeated them as
I understood them. I don't know how Rodya repeated them to you, perhaps
he exaggerated."
 "He could not have exaggerated them, except at your instigation."
"Pyotr Petrovitch," Pulcheria Alexandrovna
declared with dignity, "the proof that Dounia and I did not take your words
in a very bad sense is the fact that we are here."
"Good, mother," said Dounia approvingly.
"Then this is my fault again," said Luzhin, aggrieved.
"Well, Pyotr Petrovitch, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself have
just written what was false about him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, gai
ning courage.
"I don't remember writing anything false."
"You wrote," Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin, "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't know. All that is mean slander."

"Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, quivering with fury. "I enlarged upon
your qualities and conduct in my
letter solely in response to your sister's and mother's inquiries, how I foun
d you, and what impression you made on me. As for what you've alluded to
in my letter, be so good as to point out one word of falsehood, show, that is
, that you didn't throw away your money, and that there are
not worthless persons in that family, however unfortunate."
"To my thinking, you, with all your virtues, are
not worth the little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you throw stones.
"
"Would you go so far then as to let her associate with your mother and sis
ter?"
 "I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down to‐
day with mother and Dounia."
"Rodya!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dounia crimsoned,
Razumihin knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm.
"You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,"
he said, "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 t
he discussion of secrets." He got up from his chair and took his hat. "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 subje
ct, the more as my letter was addressed to you and to no one else."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended.
"You seem to think we are completely under your authority, Pyotr
Petrovitch. Dounia has told you the reason your desire was
disregarded, she had the best

intentions. And indeed you write as though you were laying

commands upon me. Are we to consider every desire of yours as a
command? Let me tell you on
the contrary that you ought to show particular delicacy and consideration
for us now, because we have thrown
up everything, and have come here relying on you, and so we are in any ca
se in a sense in your hands."
"That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at the
present moment, when the news
has come of Marfa Petrovna's legacy, which seems indeed very apropos, j
udging from the new tone you take to me," he added sarcastically.
"Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that you were
reckoning on our helplessness," Dounia observed irritably.
 "But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I particularly
desire not to hinder your discussion of
the secret proposals of Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, which he has
entrusted to your brother and which have,
I perceive, a great and possibly a very agreeable interest for you."
"Good heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
Razumihin could not sit still on his chair.
"Aren't you ashamed now, sister?" asked Raskolnikov.
"I am ashamed, Rodya," said Dounia. "Pyotr Petrovitch, go away," she tur
ned to him, white with anger.
Pyotr Petrovitch had apparently not at all
expected such a conclusion. He had too much confidence in himself, in
his power and in the helplessness of his victims.
He could not believe it even now. He turned pale, and his lips quivered.
"Avdotya 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."
"What insolence!" cried Dounia, springing up from her seat. "I don't want
you to come back again."
"What! So that's how it stands!" cried Luzhin, utterly unable to the last mo
ment to believe in the rupture and so completely thrown out of his
reckoning now. "So
that's how it stands! But do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, that I might pr
otest?"
"What right have you to speak to her like
that?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna intervened hotly. "And what can you protest
about? What rights have you? Am I to give my Dounia to a man like you? G
o away, leave us altogether! We are to blame for having agreed to a wrong
action, and I above all...."
"But you have bound me, Pulcheria
Alexandrovna," Luzhin stormed in a frenzy, "by your promise, and now yo
u deny it and... besides... I have been led on account of that into expenses....
"
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.
"Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of
our trunk? But the conductor brought it for nothing for you. Mercy on us, w
e have bound you! What are you thinking about, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was
you bound us, hand and foot, not we!"
"Enough, mother, no more please," Avdotya Romanovna implored.
"Pyotr Petrovitch, do be kind and go!"
"I am going, but one last word," he said, quite unable to control himself.
"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. Dis
regarding public opinion for your sake and reinstating your reputation, I cer
tainly might very well reckon on a fitting return, and
might indeed look for gratitude on your part. And my eyes have only now b
een opened! I see myself that I may have acted very, very recklessly in
disregarding the universal verdict...."
"Does the fellow want his head smashed?"
cried Razumihin, jumping up.
"You are a mean and spiteful man!" cried Dounia.
"Not a word! Not a movement!" cried
Raskolnikov, holding Razumihin
back; then going close up to Luzhin, "Kindly leave the room!" he said
quietly and distinctly, "and not a word more or..."
Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face that work
ed with anger, then he turned, went out, and rarely has any man carried awa
y in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against Raskolnikov. Him, an
d him alone, he blamed for everything. It is noteworthy that as he went dow
nstairs he still imagined that his case was perhaps not utterly lost, and that, s
o far as the ladies were concerned, all might "very well indeed" be set right
again.

Ebd
E‐BooksDirectory.com

CHAPTER III

The fact was that up to the last moment he had never expected such an end
ing; 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 insignifica
nce, 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 mon
ey he had amassed by his labour, and by all sorts of devices: that money ma
de him the equal of all who had been his superiors.
When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he
had decided to take her in spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch had spoken
with perfect sincerity and had, indeed,
felt genuinely indignant at such "black ingratitude." 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 disbelie
ved by all the townspeople, who were warm in Dounia'a defence. And he w
ould not have denied that he
knew all that at the time. Yet he still thought highly of his own resolution i
n lifting Dounia to his level and regarded it as something heroic. In speakin
g 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 ha
d 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.
Dounia was simply essential to him; to do without her was unthinkable. F
or 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—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 s
cenes, 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 pos
ition had been a great allurement; in her he had found even more than he dre
amed 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 refle
ction and hesitation, made an important change in his career and was now e
ntering 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, de
termined 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 attractin
g 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
—and it had ended
so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dounia in his own way; he al
ready possessed her in his dreams—
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 wh
o was the cause of it all. With a sick feeling he could not help recalling Raz
umihin 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 drea
ded in earnest was Svidrigaïlov.... He had, in short, a great deal to attend to
....

"No, I, I am more to blame than anyone!" said Dounia, kissing and embra
cing her mother. "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, nothi
ng would have tempted me! Don't blame me, brother!"
"God has delivered us! God has delivered us!" Pulcheria
Alexandrovna muttered, but half consciously, as
though scarcely able to realise what had happened.
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 exciteme
nt as though a ton‐
weight had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to devote his life to the
m, to serve them.... Anything might happen now! But he felt afraid to think
of further possibilities and dared not let his imagination range. But Raskoln
ikov sat still in the same place, almost sullen and indifferent. Though he ha
d 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.
"What did Svidrigaïlov say to you?" said Dounia, approaching him.
"Yes, yes!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
Raskolnikov raised his head.
"He wants to make you a present of ten
thousand roubles and he desires to see you once in my presence."
"See her! On no account!" cried Pulcheria
Alexandrovna. "And how dare he offer her money!"
Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather dryly)
his conversation with Svidrigaïlov, omitting his account of the ghostly visita
tions of Marfa Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk.
"What answer did you give him?" asked Dounia.
"At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that he
would do his utmost to obtain an
interview with you without my help. He assured me that his passion for y
ou was a passing infatuation, now he has no feeling for you. He doesn't wan
t you to marry Luzhin.... His talk was altogether rather muddled."
"How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you?"
 "I must confess I don't quite understand him. He offers you ten thousand, a
nd yet says he is not well off. He says he is going away, and in ten minutes
he forgets he has said it. Then he says is he going to be married and has alr
eady fixed on the girl.... No doubt he has a motive, and probably a bad one
. But it's odd that he should be so clumsy about it if he had any designs agai
nst you.... Of course, I refused this money on your account, once for
all. Altogether,
I thought him very strange.... One might almost think he was mad. But I may
be mistaken; that may only be the part he assumes. The death of Marfa
Petrovna seems to have
made a great impression on him."
"God rest her soul," exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I shall always,
always pray for her! Where should we be now, Dounia, without this three t
housand! It'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 planni
ng to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowing from that man until he offer
ed help."
Dounia seemed strangely impressed by
Svidrigaïlov's offer. She still stood meditating.
"He has got some terrible plan," she said in a
half whisper to herself, almost shuddering.
Raskolnikov noticed this disproportionate terror.
"I fancy I shall have to see him more than once again," he said to Dounia.

"We will watch him! I will track him out!" cried

Razumihin, vigorously. "I won't lose sight of him. Rodya has given me lea
ve. He said to me himself just now. 'Take care of my sister.' Will you
give me leave, too, Avdotya Romanovna?"
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 sooth
ing effect on her.
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.
"And why, why should you go away?" he flowed
on ecstatically. "And what are you to do in a little town? The great thing is,
you are all here together and you need one another—
you do need one another, believe me. For a time, anyway.... Take me into p
artnership, and I assure you we'll plan a capital enterprise. Listen! I'll expl
ain 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 capita
l 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 h
im and pay him six per cent. interest. I know what that means; he simply w
ants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but this year I resolved to bor
row it as soon as he
arrived. Then you lend me another thousand of your three and we have eno
ugh for a start, so we'll go into partnership, and what are we going to do?"
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 re
ason they are usually bad publishers, and that any decent publications pay a
s 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 h
e had been working in publishers' offices, and

knew three European languages well, though he had told Raskolnikov

six days before that he was "schwach"
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 w
as lying.
"Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the chief
means of success—
money of our own!" cried Razumihin warmly. "Of course there will be a lot
of 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, learnin
g all at once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two yea
rs I'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—
and I kept the secret—two or three books which one might get a
hundred
roubles simply for thinking of translating and publishing. Indeed, and I wo
uld 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'd hesitate—
they are
such blockheads! And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling, you
trust to me, I know my way about. We'll begin in a small way and go on to
a large. In any case it will get us our living and we shall get back our capit
al."
Dounia's eyes shone.
"I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!" she said.
"I know nothing about it, of course," put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "it
may be a good idea, but again
God knows. It's new and untried. Of course, we must remain here at least f
or a time." She looked at Rodya.

"What do you think, brother?" said Dounia.

"I think he's got a very good idea," he answered. "Of course, it's too soon
to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bring out five or six b
ooks and be sure of success. I know of one book myself which would be su
re to go well. And as for his being able to manage it, there's no doubt about
that either. He knows the business.... But we
can talk it over later...."
"Hurrah!" cried Razumihin. "Now, stay, there's a flat here in this
house, belonging to the same owner. It's
a special flat apart, not communicating with these lodgings. It's furnished, r
ent moderate, three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I'll pawn y
our 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?"
"What, Rodya, you are going already?"
Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in dismay.
"At such a minute?" cried Razumihin.
Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder.
He held his cap in his hand, he was preparing to leave them.
"One would think you were burying me or saying good‐
bye for ever," he said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did
not turn out a smile. "But who
knows, perhaps it is the last time we shall see each other..." he let slip
accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and
it somehow was uttered aloud.
"What is the matter with you?" cried his mother.
"Where are you going, Rodya?" asked Dounia rather strangely.

"Oh, I'm quite obliged to..." he answered vaguely,

as though hesitating what he would say. But there was a look of sharp deter
mination in his white face.
"I meant to say... as I was coming here... I meant to tell you, mother, and y
ou, Dounia, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I feel ill, I am n
ot at peace.... I will come afterwards, I will come of myself... when it's pos
sible. I remember you and love you.... Leave me, leave me alone. I decide
d this even before... I'm absolutely resolved on it. Whatever may come to m
e, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether, it'
s better. Don't inquire about me. When I can, I'll come of myself or... I'll se
nd for you. Perhaps it will all come back, but now if you love me, give me
up... else I shall begin to hate you, I feel it.... Good‐bye!"
"Good God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his
mother and his sister were terribly alarmed. Razumihin
was also.
"Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be
as before!" cried his poor mother.
He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Dounia ov
ertook him.
"Brother, what are you doing to mother?"
she whispered, her eyes flashing with indignation.
He looked dully at her.
"No matter, I shall come.... I'm coming," he muttered in an undertone, as
though not fully conscious of what
he was saying, and he went out of the room.
"Wicked, heartless egoist!" cried Dounia.
"He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don't you see it? You're heartl
ess after that!" Razumihin whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand
tightly. "I shall be back

directly," he shouted to the horror‐stricken mother, and he

ran out of the room.
Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the
 passage.
"I knew you would run after me," he said. "Go back to them—be with
them... be with them to‐morrow
and always.... I... perhaps I shall come... if I can. Good‐bye."
And without holding out his hand he walked away.
"But where are you going? What are you doing? What's the matter with
you? How can you go on like
this?" Razumihin muttered, at his wits' end.
Raskolnikov stopped once more.
"Once for all, never ask me about anything. I
have nothing to tell you. Don't come to see me. Maybe I'll come here.... Le
ave me, but don't leave them. Do you understand me?"
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's burning and intent eyes grew
more penetrating every moment, piercing into his soul, into his consciousnes
s. 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.
"Do you understand now?" said Raskolnikov, his face twitching
nervously. "Go back, go to them," he
said suddenly, and turning quickly, he went out of the house.
I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin
went back to the ladies, how he soothed them, how he protested that Rodya
needed rest in his illness, protested that Rodya was sure to come, that he wo
uld come every day, that he

was very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated, that he, Razumihi
n, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the best doctor, a consult
ation.... In fact from that evening Razumihin took his place with them as a s
on 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. H
e 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 floo
r and came out into a gallery that ran round the whole second storey over
the yard. While he
was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn for Kapernaumov's
door, a door opened three paces
from him; he mechanically took hold of it.
"Who is there?" a woman's voice asked uneasily.
"It's I... come to see you," answered Raskolnikov and he walked into the ti
ny entry.
On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper candlestick.
"It's you! Good heavens!" cried Sonia weakly, and she stood rooted to the
spot.
"Which is your room? This way?" and
Raskolnikov, trying not to look at her, hastened in.

A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set down the candlesti
ck 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 sic
k and ashamed and happy, too.... Raskolnikov turned away quickly and sat o
n a chair by the table. He scanned the room in a rapid glance.
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'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 can
al ran aslant so that one corner formed a very acute angle, and it was difficu
lt 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 t
he right was a bedstead, beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal ta
ble 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 s
tood 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 sha
bby 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 curt
ain.
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.
"I am late.... It's eleven, isn't it?" he asked, still not lifting his eyes.
"Yes," muttered Sonia, "oh yes, it is," she added, hastily, as though in that
lay her means of escape. "My landlady's clock has just struck... I heard it m
yself...."
 "I've come to you for the last time," Raskolnikov went on gloomily,
although this was the first time. "I may perhaps not see you again..."
"Are you... going away?"
"I don't know... to‐morrow...."
"Then you are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna to‐
morrow?" Sonia's voice shook.
"I don't know. I shall know to‐morrow
morning.... Never mind that: I've come to say one word...."
He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he
was sitting down while she was all the while standing before him.
"Why are you standing? Sit down," he said in a changed voice, gentle and
friendly.
She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compassionately at her.
"How thin you are! What a hand! Quite transparent, like a dead hand."
He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly.
"I have always been like that," she said.
"Even when you lived at home?"
"Yes."
"Of course, you were," he added abruptly and
the expression of his face and the sound of his voice changed again suddenly
.

He looked round him once more.

"You rent this room from the Kapernaumovs?"
"Yes...."
 "They live there, through that door?"
"Yes.... They have another room like this."
"All in one room?"
"Yes."
"I should be afraid in your room at night," he observed gloomily.
"They are very good people, very kind,"
answered Sonia, who still seemed bewildered, "and all the furniture, ever
ything... everything is theirs. And they are very kind and the children, too, o
ften come to see me."
"They all stammer, don't they?"
"Yes.... He stammers and he's lame. And his wife, too.... It's not exactly
that she stammers, but she can't
speak plainly. She is a very kind woman. And he used to be a house serf. A
nd there are seven children... and it's only the eldest one that stammers and
the others are simply ill... but they don't stammer.... But where did you hear
about them?" she added with some surprise.
"Your father told me, then. He told me all about you.... And how you went
out at six o'clock and came back at nine and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt
down by your bed."
Sonia was confused.
"I fancied I saw him to‐day," she whispered
hesitatingly.
"Whom?"
"Father. I was walking in the street, out there at the corner, about ten o'clo
ck and he seemed to be walking in front. It looked just like him. I wanted to
go to Katerina Ivanovna...."
"You were walking in the streets?"
 "Yes," Sonia whispered abruptly, again overcome with confusion and loo
king down.
"Katerina Ivanovna used to beat you, I dare say?"
"Oh no, what are you saying? No!" Sonia looked at him almost with dism
ay.
"You love her, then?"
"Love her? Of course!" said Sonia with
plaintive emphasis, and she clasped her hands in distress. "Ah, you don't...
. If you only knew! You see, she is quite like a child.... Her mind is quite un
hinged, you see... from sorrow. And how clever she used to be... how gener
ous... how kind! Ah, you don't understand, you don't understand!"
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 dep
ths, that she was longing to speak, to champion, to express something.
A sort of insatiable compassion, if one may so express it,
was reflected in every feature of her face.
"Beat me! how can you? Good heavens, beat me! And if she did beat me,
what then? What of it? You know nothing, nothing about it.... She is so unha
ppy... ah, how unhappy! And ill.... She is seeking righteousness, she is pure.
She has such faith that there must be righteousness everywhere and she ex
pects it.... And if you were to torture her, she wouldn't do wrong. She doesn
't see that it's impossible for people to be righteous and she is angry at it. Li
ke a child, like a child. She is good!"
"And what will happen to you?"
Sonia looked at him inquiringly.
"They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on your hands befor
e, though.... And your father came to you to beg for drink. Well, how will it
be now?"

"I don't know," Sonia articulated mournfully.

 "Will they stay there?"
"I don't know.... They are in debt for the lodging, but the landlady, I hear,
said to‐day that she wanted to get rid of them, and Katerina Ivanovna
says that she won't stay another minute."
"How is it she is so bold? She relies upon you?"
"Oh, no, don't talk like that.... We are one, we live like one." Sonia was a
gitated again and even angry, as though a canary or some other little bird w
ere to be angry. "And what could she do? What, what could she do?"
she persisted, getting hot and excited. "And how she cried to‐
day! Her mind is unhinged, haven't you noticed it? At one minute she is wo
rrying 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 a
nd go to her native town with me and set up a boarding school for the daug
hters of gentlemen and take me to superintend it, and we will begin a new s
plendid life. And she kisses and hugs me, comforts me, and you know she h
as such faith, such faith in her fancies! One can't contradict her. And all
the day long she has been washing, cleaning, mending. She dragged the w
ash 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'd reckoned wasn't enough, not
nearly enough. And she picked out such dear little boots, for she has
taste, you don't know. And there in the shop she burst out crying

before the shopmen because she hadn't enough.... Ah, it

was sad to see her...."
"Well, after that I can understand your living like this," Raskolnikov said
with a bitter smile.
 "And aren't you sorry for them? Aren't you
sorry?" Sonia flew at him again. "Why, I know, you gave your last penny
yourself, though you'd seen nothing of it, and
if you'd seen everything, oh dear! And how often, how often I've brought he
r to tears! Only last week! Yes, I! Only a week before his death. I was
cruel! And how often
I've done it! Ah, I've been wretched at the thought of it all day!"
Sonia wrung her hands as she spoke at the pain of remembering it.
"You were cruel?"
"Yes, I—I. I went to see them," she went on, weeping, "and father said,
'read me something, Sonia, my
head aches, read to me, here's a book.' He had a book he had got from And
rey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, he lives there, he always used to get hold
of such funny books. And I said, 'I can't stay,' as I didn't want to read,
and I'd gone
in chiefly to show Katerina Ivanovna some collars. Lizaveta, the pedlar, so
ld me some collars and cuffs cheap, pretty, new, embroidered ones.
Katerina Ivanovna liked
them very much; she put them on and looked at herself in the glass and was
delighted with them. 'Make me a present of them, Sonia,' she said, 'please
do.' 'Please do,' she said, she wanted them so much. And when could she w
ear them?
They just reminded her of her old happy days. She looked at herself in
the glass, admired herself, and she has
no clothes at all, no things of her own, hasn't had all these years! And she
never asks anyone for anything; she
is proud, she'd sooner give away everything. And these she asked for, she li
ked them so much. And I was sorry to give

them. 'What use are they to you, Katerina Ivanovna?'

I said. I spoke like that to her, I ought not to have said that! She gave me
such a look. And she was so grieved,
so grieved at my refusing her. And it was so sad to see.... And she was not
grieved for the collars, but for my refusing, I saw that. Ah, if only I could br
ing it all back, change it, take back those words! Ah, if I... but it's nothing to
you!"
"Did you know Lizaveta, the pedlar?"
"Yes.... Did you know her?" Sonia asked with some surprise.
"Katerina Ivanovna is in consumption, rapid consumption; she will
soon die," said Raskolnikov after a pause, without answering her question.

"Oh, no, no, no!"

And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his hands,
as though imploring that she should not.
"But it will be better if she does die."
"No, not better, not at all better!" Sonia unconsciously repeated in dismay
.
"And the children? What can you do except take them to live with you?"
"Oh, I don't know," cried Sonia, almost in despair, and she put her hands t
o her head.
It was evident that that idea had very often occurred to her before and he
had only roused it again.
"And, what, if even now, while Katerina Ivanovna
is alive, you get ill and are taken to the hospital, what will happen then?" h
e persisted pitilessly.
"How can you? That cannot be!"
And Sonia's face worked with awful terror.
"Cannot be?" Raskolnikov went on with a harsh smile.
"You are not insured against 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..."
"Oh, no.... God will not let it be!" broke at last
from Sonia's overburdened bosom.
She listened, looking imploringly at him, clasping her hands in dumb entr
eaty, as though it all depended upon him.
Raskolnikov got up and began to walk about the room. A minute passed.
Sonia was standing with her hands and her head hanging in terrible dejectio
n.
"And can't you save? Put by for a rainy day?" he asked, stopping suddenly
before her.
"No," whispered Sonia.
"Of course not. Have you tried?" he added almost ironically.
"Yes."
"And it didn't come off! Of course not! No need to ask."
And again he paced the room. Another minute passed.
"You don't get money every day?"
Sonia was more confused than ever and colour rushed
into her face again.
"No," she whispered with a painful effort.
"It will be the same with Polenka, no doubt," he said suddenly.
"No, no! It can't be, no!" Sonia cried aloud
in desperation, as though she had been stabbed. "God would not allow any
thing so awful!"
"He lets others come to it."
"No, no! God will protect her, God!" she repeated beside herself.
 "But, perhaps, there is no God at all,"
Raskolnikov answered with a sort of malignance, laughed and looked at he
r.
Sonia's face suddenly changed; a tremor passed over it. She looked at hi
m with unutterable reproach, tried to say something, but could not speak
and broke into bitter, bitter sobs, hiding her face in her hands.
"You say Katerina Ivanovna's mind is unhinged; your own mind is unhinge
d," he said after a brief silence.
Five minutes passed. He still paced up and down the room in silence, not
looking at her. At last he went up to her; his eyes glittered. He put his
two hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her tearful face.
His eyes were hard, feverish and piercing, his lips
were twitching. All at once he bent down quickly and dropping to the groun
d, kissed her foot. Sonia drew back from him as from a madman. And
certainly he looked like a madman.
"What are you doing to me?" she muttered,
turning pale, and a sudden anguish clutched at her heart.
He stood up at once.
"I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffering of humanit
y," he said wildly and walked away to the window. "Listen," he added, turn
ing to her a minute later. "I said just now to an insolent man that he was not
worth your little finger... and that I did my sister honour making her sit besi
de you."
"Ach, you said that to them! And in her presence?" cried Sonia,
frightened. "Sit down with me! An honour!
Why, I'm... dishonourable.... Ah, why did you say that?"
"It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said that of you, but
because of your great suffering. But you are a great sinner, that's true,"
he added almost
 solemnly, "and your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yo
urself for nothing. Isn't that fearful? Isn't it fearful that you are living in this
filth which you loathe so, and at the same time you know yourself (you've
only to open your eyes) that you are not helping anyone by it, not saving an
yone from anything? Tell me," he went on almost in a frenzy, "how this sha
me and degradation can exist in you side by side with other, opposite,
holy feelings?
It would be better, a thousand times better and wiser to leap into the water
and end it all!"
"But what would become of them?" Sonia asked faintly, gazing at him
with eyes of anguish, but not seeming surprised at his suggestion.
Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her face; so she
must have had that thought
already, perhaps many times, and earnestly she had thought out in her desp
air 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. "What, what," he thought, "could hitherto have hindered her from
putting an end to it?" Only then he realised what those poor little
orphan children and that pitiful half‐crazy Katerina
Ivanovna, knocking her head against the wall in her consumption, meant fo
r Sonia.
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'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, ha
ve killed her at the first step on that revolting path. What held her up—
surely not depravity? All
that infamy had obviously only touched her mechanically, not one drop of r
eal depravity had penetrated to her heart; he saw that. He saw through her a
s she stood before him....
"There are three ways before her," he thought, "the canal, the
madhouse, or... at last to sink into
depravity which obscures the mind and turns the heart to stone."
The last idea was the most revolting, but he was
a sceptic, he was young, abstract, and therefore cruel, and so he could not h
elp believing that the last end was the most likely.
"But can that be true?" he cried to himself. "Can that creature who has still
preserved the purity of her spirit be consciously drawn at last into that
sink of filth
and iniquity? Can the process already have begun? Can it be that she has onl
y been able to bear it till now, because vice has begun to be less loathsome
to her? No, no, that cannot be!" he cried, as Sonia had just before. "No, wha
t 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 o
ut of her mind? Is she in her senses? Can one talk, can one reason as she doe
s? 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? D
oes she expect a miracle? No doubt she does. Doesn't that all mean madnes
s?"

He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that explanation

indeed better than any other. He began looking more intently at her.
"So you pray to God a great deal, Sonia?" he asked her.
Sonia did not speak; he stood beside her waiting for an
answer.
 "What should I be without God?" she whispered rapidly, forcibly,
glancing at him with suddenly flashing eyes, and squeezing his hand.
"Ah, so that is it!" he thought.
"And what does God do for you?" he asked, probing her further.
Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not answer. Her weak
chest kept heaving with emotion.
"Be silent! Don't ask! You don't deserve!" she cried
suddenly, looking sternly and wrathfully at him.
"That's it, that's it," he repeated to himself.
"He does everything," she whispered quickly, looking down again.
"That's the way out! That's the explanation,"
he decided, scrutinising her with eager curiosity, with a new, strange, almo
st 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—
and it all seemed to him more and more strange, almost impossible. "She i
s a religious maniac!" he repeated to himself.
There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had noticed it
every time he paced up and down the room. Now he took it up and
looked at it. It was the New Testament in the Russian translation. It
was bound in
leather, old and worn.

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

room.
She was still standing in the same place, three steps from the table.
"It was brought me," she answered, as it
were unwillingly, not looking at him.
 "Who brought it?"
"Lizaveta, I asked her for it."
"Lizaveta! strange!" he thought.
Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger
and more wonderful every moment. He carried the book to the candle and b
egan to turn over the pages.
"Where is the story of Lazarus?" he asked suddenly.
Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not answer. She was sta
nding sideways to the table.
"Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia."
She stole a glance at him.
"You are not looking in the right place.... It's in
the fourth gospel," she whispered sternly, without looking at him.
"Find it and read it to me," he said. He sat down with his elbow on the ta
ble, leaned his head on his hand and looked away sullenly, prepared to list
en.
"In three weeks' time they'll welcome me in
the madhouse! I shall be there if I am not in a worse place," he muttered to
himself.
Sonia heard Raskolnikov's request distrustfully and moved
hesitatingly to the table. She took the book however.
"Haven't you read it?" she asked, looking up at him
across the table.
Her voice became sterner and sterner.
"Long ago.... When I was at school. Read!"

"And haven't you heard it in church?"

 "I... haven't been. Do you often go?"
"N‐no," whispered Sonia.
Raskolnikov smiled.
"I understand.... And you won't go to your father's funeral to‐
morrow?"
"Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too... I had a requiem service."
"For whom?"
"For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe."
His nerves were more and more strained. His head
began to go round.
"Were you friends with Lizaveta?"
"Yes.... She was good... she used to come... not often... she couldn't.... We
used to read together and... talk. She will see God."
The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was something new
again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta and both of them—
religious maniacs.
"I shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It's infectious!"
"Read!" he cried irritably and insistently.
Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly dared to
read to him. He looked almost
with exasperation at the "unhappy lunatic."
"What for? You don't believe?..." she whispered softly and as it were brea
thlessly.
"Read! I want you to," he persisted. "You used to read to Lizaveta."
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 sy
llable.

"Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of

Bethany..." 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.
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 own. He understood that these feelings
really were her secret treasure, which she had kept perhaps for years, perh
aps 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 him that
he might hear it, and to read now 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:
"And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to comfort them concern
ing their brother.
"Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus
was coming went and met Him: but Mary sat still in the house.
"Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother h
ad not died.
"But I know that even now whatsoever Thou wilt ask of
God, God will give it Thee...."
 Then she stopped again with a shamefaced feeling that her voice would qu
iver and break again.
"Jesus said unto her, thy brother shall rise again.

"Martha saith unto Him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection
, at the last day.
"Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in
Me though he were dead, yet shall he live.
"And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never
die. Believest thou this?
"She saith unto Him,"
(And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and forcibly
as though she were making a public confession of faith.)
"Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of
God Which should come into the world."
She stopped and looked up quickly at 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.
"Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell dow
n at His feet, saying unto Him, Lord if Thou hadst been here, my brother ha
d not died.
"When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping
which came with her, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled,
"And said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto Him, Lord, come and
see.
"Jesus wept.
"Then said the Jews, behold how He loved him!
 "And some of them said, could not this Man
which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should n
ot have died?"
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 gav
e it power. The lines danced before her eyes, but she knew what she was re
ading by heart. At the last verse "Could not this Man which opened the eyes
of the blind..." 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.... "And he, he—
too, is blinded and unbelieving, he, too, will hear, he, too, will believe, yes
, yes! At once, now," was what she was dreaming, and she was
quivering with happy anticipation.
"Jesus therefore again groaning in Himself cometh to the grave. It was a c
ave, and a stone lay upon it.
"Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was de
ad, saith unto Him, Lord by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four
days."
She laid emphasis on the word four.
"Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldest believe, th
ou shouldest see the glory of God?
"Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid.
And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, Father, I thank Thee that Thou hast h
eard Me.
"And I knew that Thou hearest Me always; but because of the people
which stand by I said it, that they may believe that Thou hast sent Me.
 "And when He thus had spoken, He cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, co
me forth.
"And he that was dead came forth."
(She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as though she were see
ing it before her eyes.)

"Bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about
with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him and let him go.
"Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen the things whi
ch Jesus did believed on Him."
She could read no more, closed the book and got up from her chair quickl
y.
"That is all about the raising of Lazarus," she whispered severely and
abruptly, and turning away she
stood motionless, not daring to raise her eyes to him. She still trembled fev
erishly. The candle‐
end was flickering out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the p
overty‐ stricken room the murderer and the harlot who had so
strangely been reading together the eternal book.
Five minutes or more passed.
"I came to speak of something," Raskolnikov said aloud, frowning. He go
t up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes to him in silence. His face was p
articularly stern and there was a sort of savage determination in it.
"I have abandoned my family to‐day," he said,
"my mother and sister. I am not going to see them. I've broken with them co
mpletely."
"What for?" asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting with his mother
and sister had left a great
impression which she could not analyse. She heard his news almost with h
orror.
 "I have only you now," he added. "Let us go together.... I've come to you,
we are both accursed, let us go our way together!"
His eyes glittered "as though he were mad,"
Sonia thought, in her turn.
"Go where?" she asked in alarm and she involuntarily stepped back.

"How do I know? I only know it's the same road, I know that and nothing
more. It's the same goal!"
She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only that he was terr
ibly, infinitely unhappy.
"No one of them will understand, if you tell them, but I have understood. I
need you, that is why I have come to you."
"I don't understand," whispered Sonia.
"You'll understand later. Haven't you done the same? You, too, have
transgressed... have had the strength to transgress. You have laid
hands on yourself, you
have destroyed a life... your own (it's all the same!). You might have live
d in spirit and understanding, but you'll end in the Hay Market.... But you w
on't be able to stand it, and if you remain alone you'll go out of your mind li
ke me. You are like a mad creature already. So we must go together on the
same road! Let us go!"
"What for? What's all this for?" said Sonia,
strangely and violently agitated by his words.
"What for? Because you can't remain like this,
that's why! You must look things straight in the face at last, and not weep li
ke a child and cry that God won't allow it. What will happen, if you should
really be taken to the hospital to‐
morrow? She is mad and in consumption, she'll soon die and the
children? Do you mean to tell me
Polenka won't come to grief? Haven't you seen children here at the street c
orners sent out by their mothers to beg? I've found out where those mothers
live and in what surroundings. Children can't remain children there! At sev
en the child is
vicious and a thief. Yet children, you know, are the image of Christ: 'their
s is the kingdom of Heaven.' He bade us honour and love them, they are
the humanity of the future...."

"What's to be done, what's to be done?" repeated Sonia, weeping hysteric

ally and wringing her hands.
"What's to be done? Break what must be broken, once for all, that's all, a
nd take the suffering on oneself. What, you don't understand? You'll underst
and later.... Freedom and power, and above all, power! Over all
trembling creation and all the ant‐
heap!... That's the goal, remember that! That's my farewell message. Perhap
s it's the last time I shall speak to you. If I don't come to‐
morrow, you'll hear of it all, and then remember these words. And some da
y later on, in years to come, you'll understand perhaps what they meant. If I
come to‐morrow, I'll tell you who killed Lizaveta.... Good‐bye."
Sonia started with terror.
"Why, do you know who killed her?" she asked, chilled with horror, look
ing wildly at him.
"I know and will tell... you, only you. I have chosen you out. I'm not comi
ng to you to ask forgiveness, but simply to tell you. I chose you out long ago
to hear this, when your father talked of you and when Lizaveta was alive, I
thought of it. Good‐bye, don't shake hands. To‐morrow!"
He went out. Sonia gazed at him as at a madman. But she herself was like
one insane and felt it. Her head was
going round.
"Good heavens, how does he know who killed Lizaveta?
What did those words mean? It's awful!" But at the same
 time the idea did not enter her head, not for a moment! "Oh, he must be t
erribly unhappy!... He has abandoned his mother and sister.... What for? W
hat has happened? And what had he in his mind? What did he say to her? H
e had kissed her foot and said... said (yes, he had said it clearly) that he co
uld not live without her.... Oh, merciful heavens!"

Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She jumped up from ti
me to time, wept and wrung her hands, then sank again into feverish sleep a
nd dreamt of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna and Lizaveta, of reading the gosp
el and him... him with pale face, with burning eyes... kissing her feet, weepi
ng.
On the other side of the door on the right,
which divided Sonia's room from Madame Resslich's flat, was a room whic
h had long stood empty. A card was fixed on the gate and a notice stuck
in the windows over the
canal advertising it to let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the room's
being uninhabited. But all that time
Mr. Svidrigaïlov had been standing, listening at the door of the empty room
. When Raskolnikov went out he stood still, thought a moment, went on tipto
e to his own room which adjoined the empty one, brought a chair and noisel
essly carried it to the door that led to Sonia's room. The conversation
had struck him as interesting
and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed it—
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'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 looke
d 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 n
othing 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 l
et him stand and wait like that. And would they have waited till he elected t
o appear at eleven? Either the man had not yet given information, or... or si
mply he knew nothing, had seen nothing (and how could he have seen anyth
ing?) and so all that had happened to him the day before was again a phanto
m 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. Thi
nking it all over now and preparing for a fresh conflict, he was suddenly
aware that he was trembling—
and he felt a rush of indignation at the thought that he was trembling with
fear at facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovitch. What he dreaded above
all was meeting that man again; he hated him with an
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 Petrovit
ch.
He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study.
His study was a room neither large nor small, furnished with a large writin
g‐
table, that stood before a sofa, upholstered in checked material, a bureau, a
bookcase in the corner and several chairs—all government furniture, of
polished yellow wood. In the further wall there was a closed door, beyond
it there were no doubt other rooms. On Raskolnikov's entrance
Porfiry Petrovitch had at once closed the door by which he had
come in and they remained alone. He met his visitor with an
apparently genial and good‐
tempered 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 recko
ning or caught in something very secret.
"Ah, my dear fellow! Here you are... in our domain"... began Porfiry, hol
ding out both hands to him. "Come, sit down, old man... or perhaps you don
't like to be called 'my dear fellow' and 'old man!'—
tout court? Please don't think
it too familiar.... Here, on the sofa."
Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. "In our domain," th
e apologies for familiarity, the French phrase tout court, were all characte
ristic signs.
"He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one—
he drew it back in time," struck him suspiciously. Both were watching each
other, but when their eyes met, quick as lightning they looked away.
"I brought you this paper... about the watch. Here it is. Is it all right or sha
ll I copy it again?"
 "What? A paper? Yes, yes, don't be uneasy, it's all right," Porfiry Petrovit
ch said as though in haste, and after he had said it he took the paper and loo
ked at it. "Yes, it's all right. Nothing more is needed," he declared with
the same rapidity and he laid the paper on the table.
A minute later when he was talking of something else he took it from the t
able and put it on his bureau.
"I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me... formally...
about my acquaintance with the murdered woman?" Raskolnikov was begin
ning again. "Why did I put in 'I believe'" passed through his mind in a flash.
"Why am I so uneasy at having put in that 'I believe'?" came in
a second flash. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact
with 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. "It's bad, it's bad!
I shall say too much again."
"Yes, yes, yes! There's no hurry, there's no
hurry," muttered Porfiry Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the table with
out any apparent aim, as it were making dashes towards the window, the
bureau and the table, at one moment avoiding Raskolnikov's
suspicious glance,
then again standing still and looking him straight in the face.
His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball rolling from one
side to the other and rebounding back.
"We've plenty of time. Do you smoke? have you your own? Here, a cigare
tte!" he went on, offering his visitor a cigarette. "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 so
me repairs done here. It's almost finished now....

Government quarters, you know, are a capital thing. Eh, what do you think
?"
 "Yes, a capital thing," answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost ironi
cally.
"A capital thing, a capital thing," repeated Porfiry Petrovitch, as
though he had just thought of
something quite different. "Yes, a capital thing," he almost shouted at last, su
ddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping short two steps from him.
This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its ineptitude with the
serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned upon his visitor.
But this stirred Raskolnikov's spleen more than
ever and he could not resist an ironical and rather incautious
challenge.
"Tell me, please," he asked suddenly, looking
almost insolently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in his own insolence.
"I believe it's a sort of legal rule, a sort of legal tradition—for all
investigating lawyers—to begin their attack from afar, with a trivial, or
at least an irrelevant subject, so as to encourage, or rather, to divert the ma
n they are cross‐
examining, to disarm his caution and then all at once to give him an unexpe
cted knock‐down blow with some fatal question. Isn't that so? It's a
sacred tradition, mentioned, I fancy, in all the manuals of the art?"
"Yes, yes.... Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke about government
quarters... eh?"
And as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch screwed up his eyes and winked;
a good‐humoured, crafty look passed over his face. The wrinkles on
his forehead
were smoothed out, his eyes contracted, his features broadened and he sud
denly 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'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's face and to be very little disturbed at the annoya
nce with which the visitor received it. The latter fact was very significant i
n Raskolnikov's eyes: he saw that Porfiry Petrovitch had not been embarras
sed just before either, but that he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a tr
ap; 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...
He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat and took his cap.

"Porfiry Petrovitch," he began resolutely, though with considerable irritat

ion, "yesterday you expressed a desire that I should come to you for
some inquiries" (he
laid special stress on the word "inquiries"). "I have come and if you have
anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow me to withdraw. I have no time t
o spare.... I have to be at the funeral of that man who was run over, of
whom
you... know also," he added, feeling angry at once at having made this addi
tion and more irritated at his anger. "I am sick of it all, do you hear? and ha
ve long been. It's partly what made me ill. In short," he shouted, feeling that
the phrase about his illness was still more out of place, "in
short, kindly examine me or let me go, at once. And if you must examine m
e, 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."
"Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I question you
about?" cackled Porfiry Petrovitch with
a change of tone, instantly leaving off laughing. "Please don't disturb yours
elf," he began fidgeting from place to place and fussily making
Raskolnikov sit down. "There's
no hurry, there's no hurry, it's all nonsense. Oh, no, I'm very glad you've co
me 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's my nerves, you tickled me so with
your witty observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake with laughter like a
n india‐rubber ball for half an hour at a time.... I'm often afraid of an
attack of paralysis. Do
sit down. Please do, or I shall think you are angry..."
Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still frowning angr
ily. He did sit down, but still held his
cap.
"I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion Romanovitch," P
orfiry Petrovitch continued, moving about the room and again avoiding his
visitor's eyes. "You see, I'm a bachelor, a man of no consequence and not us
ed to society; besides, I have nothing before me, I'm set, I'm running
to seed and... and have you noticed,
Rodion Romanovitch, that in our Petersburg circles, if two clever men mee
t 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—
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, c'est de rigueur, 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't want to deceiv
e one another, I don't know. What do you think? Do put down your cap, it lo
oks as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfortable... I am so delighte
d..."
Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in silence with a s
erious frowning face to the vague and empty chatter of Porfiry Petrovitch. "
Does he really want to distract my attention with his silly babble?"
 "I can't offer you coffee here; but why not spend five minutes with a
friend?" Porfiry pattered on, "and you know all these official
duties... please don't mind
my running up and down, excuse it, my dear fellow, I am very much
afraid of offending you, but exercise is
absolutely indispensable for me. I'm always sitting and so glad to be movi
ng 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 Council
lors, 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... yo
u mentioned inquiries yourself just now... I assure you these
interrogations are sometimes more embarrassing for the interrogator
than for the interrogated.... You made the observation yourself
just now very aptly and wittily." (Raskolnikov had made
no observation of the kind.) "One gets into a muddle!
A regular muddle! One keeps harping on the same note, like a drum! There
is to be a reform and we shall be called by a different name, at least, he‐
he‐he! And as for our legal tradition, as you so wittily called it, I
thoroughly
agree with you. Every prisoner on trial, even the rudest peasant, knows tha
t they begin by disarming him with irrelevant

questions (as you so happily put it) and then deal him a knock‐
down blow, he‐he‐he!—your felicitous comparison, he‐
he! So you really imagined that I meant by 'government quarters'... he‐he!
You are an ironical person. Come. I won't go on! Ah, by the way,
yes! One word leads
to another. You spoke of formality just now, apropos of the inquiry, you
know. But what's the use of formality?
In many cases it's nonsense. Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets a g
ood 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 ca
nnot be bounded by formality at every step. The work
of investigation is, so to speak, a free art in its own way, he‐ he‐he!"
Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He
had simply babbled on uttering empty 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 extraord
inarily 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.
"Is he expecting anything?"
"You are certainly quite right about it," Porfiry began gaily, looking with e
xtraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov (which startled him and instantly put
him on his guard); "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 o
ne 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're reading for the law, of course, Rodion Romanovitch?"
"Yes, I was..."
"Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future— though don't
suppose I should venture to instruct you after the articles you publish
about crime! No, I
simply make bold to state it by way of fact, if I took this man or that for a
criminal, why, I ask, should I worry
him prematurely, even though I had evidence against him? In one case I ma
y be bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another may be in quit
e a different position, you know, so why shouldn't I let him walk about the t
own a bit? he‐he‐
he! But I see you don't quite understand, so I'll give you a clearer example.
If I put him in prison too soon, I may very likely give him, so to speak, mor
al support, he‐ he! You're laughing?"
Raskolnikov had no idea of laughing. He was sitting with
compressed lips, his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry Petrovitch's.
 "Yet that is the case, with some types especially,
for men are so different. You say 'evidence'. Well, there may be evidence.
But evidence, you know, can generally
be taken two ways. I am an examining lawyer and a weak man, I confess it.
I should like to make a proof, so to say, mathematically clear. I should
like to make a chain
of evidence such as twice two are four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable
proof! And if I shut him up too soon—
even though I might be convinced he was the man, I should very likely be
depriving myself of the means of getting further evidence against him.
And how? By giving him, so
to speak, a definite position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his min
d 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 deli
ghted, I am told and reassured, for the thing would drag on for two months
at least. You're laughing, you don't believe me again? Of course, you're righ
t, too. You're right, you're right. These are special cases, I admit. But you
must observe this, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, the general case, the
case for which all legal forms
and rules are intended, for which they are calculated and laid down in boo
ks, does not exist at all, for the reason that every case, every crime, for inst
ance, so soon as it actually occurs, at once becomes a thoroughly
special case and sometimes a case unlike any that's gone before.
Very comic cases of that sort sometimes occur. If I leave one
man quite alone, if I don't touch him and don't worry him, but let him kno
w or at least suspect every moment that I know all about it and am watching
him day and night, and if he is in continual suspicion and terror, he'll be bo
und to lose his head. He'll come of himself, or maybe
do something which will make it as plain as twice two are four—
it's delightful. It may be so with a simple peasant, but with one of our sort,
an intelligent man cultivated on a certain side, it's a dead certainty. For, my
dear fellow, it's a very important matter to know on what side a man
is cultivated. And then there are nerves, there are
nerves, you have overlooked them! Why, they are all sick, nervous and irri
table!... And then how they all suffer from spleen! That I assure you is a reg
ular gold‐
mine for us. And it's no anxiety to me, his running about the town free! Let h
im, let him walk about for a bit! I know well enough that
I've caught him and that he won't escape me. Where could he

escape to, he‐he? Abroad, perhaps? A Pole will

escape abroad, but not here, especially as I am watching and have taken
measures. Will he escape into the depths of
the country perhaps? But you know, peasants live there, real rude Russian
peasants. A modern cultivated man would prefer prison to living with such
strangers as our peasants. He‐
he! But that's all nonsense, and on the surface. It's not merely that he has no
where to run to, he is psychologically unable to escape me, he‐
he! What an expression! Through a law of nature he can't escape me if he h
ad anywhere to go. Have you seen a butterfly round a candle? That's how h
e will keep circling and circling round me. Freedom will lose its
attractions. He'll begin to brood, he'll weave
a tangle round himself, he'll worry himself to death! What's more he will p
rovide me with a mathematical proof—if I only give him long enough
interval.... And he'll
keep circling round me, getting nearer and nearer and then
— flop! He'll fly straight into my mouth and I'll swallow him, and that will
be very amusing, he‐he‐he! You don't believe me?"
Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, still gazing with t
he same intensity into Porfiry's face.
"It's a lesson," he thought, turning cold. "This is beyond the cat playing wit
h a mouse, like yesterday. He can't be showing off his power with no motive
... prompting me; he is far too clever for that... he must have
another object. What is it? It's all nonsense, my friend, you are pretending, t
o scare me! You've no proofs and the man I saw had no real existence. You s
imply want to make me lose my head, to work me up beforehand and so to c
rush me. But you are wrong, you won't do it! But why give me such a hint? I
s he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my friend, you are

wrong, you won't do it even though you have some trap

for me... let us see what you have in store for me."
And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown
ordeal. At times he longed to fall on Porfiry and strangle him. This anger
was what he dreaded from the beginning. He felt that his parched lips were
flecked with foam, his heart was throbbing. But he was still determined no
t 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, t
his was what he hoped for.
"No, I see you don't believe me, you think I am playing a harmless joke o
n you," Porfiry began again, getting more and more lively, chuckling at
every instant and
again pacing round the room. "And to be sure you're right: God has given
me a figure that can awaken none but
comic ideas in other people; a buffoon; but let me tell 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 you
th and so you put intellect above everything, like all young people.
Playful wit and abstract arguments fascinate you and that's for all the
world like the old Austrian Hof‐
kriegsrath, as far as I can judge of military matters, that is: on paper
they'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't help it, it's my weakness. I am fond of military science. And I'm ever
so fond of reading all military histories.
I've certainly missed my proper career. I ought to have been in
 the army, upon my word I ought. I shouldn't have been a Napoleon, but I
might have been a major, he‐
he! Well, I'll tell you the whole truth, my dear fellow, about this special
case, I mean: actual fact and a man's temperament,
my dear sir, are weighty matters and it's astonishing how they sometimes d
eceive the sharpest calculation! I—listen to an old man—am speaking
seriously, Rodion
Romanovitch" (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) "Moreover, I'm a candid man... am I a candid man or not? What d
o you say? I fancy I really am: I tell you these things for nothing and don't e
ven 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 h
e is, especially when he'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 crim
inal's temperament, worse luck for him! But young people carried away
by their own wit don't think of that 'when they overstep all
obstacles,' as you wittily and cleverly expressed it yesterday. He will lie
— that is, the man who is a special case, the incognito, and he will lie wel
l, in the cleverest fashion; you might think he would triumph and enjoy the f
ruits 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's given us the idea! He
lied incomparably, but he didn't reckon on his temperament. That's what be
trays him! Another time he will be carried away by his playful wit into mak
ing fun of the man who suspects him, he will turn pale as it were on purpos
e to

mislead, but his paleness will be too natural, too much like the real thin
g, 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 contin
ually when he ought to keep silent, brings in all sorts of allegorical
allusions, he‐he! Comes and asks why didn'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?"
"Oh, don't trouble, please," cried Raskolnikov and
he suddenly broke into a laugh. "Please don't trouble."
Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly he too
laughed. Raskolnikov got up from
the sofa, abruptly checking his hysterical laughter.
"Porfiry Petrovitch," he began, speaking loudly
and distinctly, though his legs trembled and he could scarcely stand. "I see
clearly at last that you actually suspect me of murdering that old woman an
d her sister Lizaveta. Let me tell you for my part that I am sick of this. If yo
u find that you have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then prose
cute me, arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered at to my face and wor
ried..."
His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and
he could not restrain his voice.
"I won't allow it!" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. "Do yo
u hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won't allow it."

"Good heavens! What does it mean?" cried

Porfiry Petrovitch, apparently quite frightened. "Rodion Romanovitch
, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you?"
"I won't allow it," Raskolnikov shouted again.
"Hush, my dear man! They'll hear and come in. Just think, what
could we say to them?" Porfiry Petrovitch whispered in horror,
bringing his face close to Raskolnikov's.
 "I won't allow it, I won't allow it," Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, b
ut he too spoke in a sudden whisper.
Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window.
"Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my dear fellow. You're i
ll!" and he was running to the door to call for some when he found a decant
er of water in the
corner. "Come, drink a little," he whispered, rushing up to him with the d
ecanter. "It will be sure to do you good."
Porfiry Petrovitch's alarm and sympathy were
so natural that Raskolnikov was silent and began looking at him with
wild curiosity. He did not take the water, however.
"Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you'll drive yourself out of
your mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some water, do drink a little."
He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to his
lips, but set it on the table again with disgust.
"Yes, you've had a little attack! You'll bring back your illness again, my d
ear fellow," Porfiry Petrovitch cackled with friendly sympathy, though
he still looked
rather disconcerted. "Good heavens, you must take more care of yourself!
Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me yesterday—
I know, I know, I've a nasty, ironical temper,

but what they made of it!... Good heavens, he

came yesterday after you'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's sake, sit down!"
"No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went," Raskolni
kov answered sharply.
"You knew?"
"I knew. What of it?"
 "Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than
that about you; I know about everything. I know how you
went to take aflat at night when it was dark and how you rang the bell
and asked about the blood, so that
the workmen and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I
understand your state of mind at that time...
but you'll drive yourself mad like that, upon my word! You'll lose your hea
d! You're full of generous indignation at the wrongs you've received, first fr
om destiny, and then from the police officers, and so you rush from
one thing to another to force them to speak out and make an end of it all,
because you are sick of all this suspicion
and foolishness. That's so, isn't it? I have guessed how you feel, haven't
I? Only in that way you'll lose your head
and Razumihin's, too; he's too good a man for such a position, you must k
now that. You are ill and he is good and your illness is infectious for him...
I'll tell you about it when you are more yourself.... But do sit down, for goo
dness' sake. Please rest, you look shocking, do sit down."
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 l
ooked after him with friendly solicitude. But he did not believe a word
he said, though he felt a strange

inclination to believe. Porfiry's unexpected words

about the flat had utterly overwhelmed him. "How can it be, he knows abo
ut the flat then," he thought suddenly, "and he tells it me himself!"
"Yes, in our legal practice there was a case
almost exactly similar, a case of morbid psychology," Porfiry went on quic
kly. "A man confessed to murder and how he kept it up! It was a regular hal
lucination; 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 Ap
peal! 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 askin
g about blood! I've studied all this morbid psychology in my practice. A
man is
sometimes tempted to jump out of a window or from a belfry. Just the same
with bell‐ringing.... It's all illness,
Rodion Romanovitch! You have begun to neglect your illness. You should c
onsult an experienced doctor, what's the good of that fat fellow? You are lig
htheaded! You were delirious when you did all this!"
For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything going round.
"Is it possible, is it possible," flashed through his mind, "that he is still ly
ing? He can't be, he can't be." He rejected that idea, feeling to what a degre
e of fury it might drive him, feeling that that fury might drive him mad.
 "I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing," he cried, straining every f
aculty to penetrate Porfiry's game, "I was quite myself, do you hear?"
"Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday
you were not delirious, you were particularly emphatic about it! I understa
nd 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 you
r conscience, you certainly ought to insist that you were
delirious. That's so, isn't it?"
There was a note of slyness in this inquiry. Raskolnikov drew back on the
sofa as Porfiry bent over him and stared in silent perplexity at him.
"Another thing about Razumihin—you certainly ought to have said that
he came of his own accord, to
have concealed your part in it! But you don't conceal it! You lay stress on h
is coming at your instigation."
Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his
back.
"You keep telling lies," he said slowly and
weakly, twisting his lips into a sickly smile, "you are trying again to show
that you know all my game, that you know all I shall say beforehand," he sa
id, conscious himself that he was not weighing his words as he ought. "You
want to frighten me... or you are simply laughing at me..."
He still stared at him as he said this and again there was a light of intense
hatred in his eyes.
"You keep lying," he said. "You know perfectly well that the best policy f
or the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly
 as possible... to conceal as little as possible. I don't believe you!"
"What a wily person you are!" Porfiry tittered, "there's no catching you; y
ou've a perfect monomania. So you don't believe me? But still you do
believe me, you believe
a quarter; I'll soon make you believe the whole, because I have a sincere
liking for you and genuinely wish you good."
Raskolnikov's lips trembled.
"Yes, I do," went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov's arm genially, "you m
ust 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 nothi
ng but frighten them..."
"What has that to do with you? How do you know it? What concern is it o
f yours? You are keeping watch on me and want to let me know it?"
"Good heavens! Why, I learnt it all from you yourself! You don't notice th
at in your excitement you tell me and others everything. From Razumihin, to
o, I learnt a number of interesting details yesterday. No, you interrupted me,
but I must tell you that, for all your wit,
your suspiciousness makes you lose the common‐sense view of things. To
return to bell‐ringing, for instance. I, an examining lawyer, have
betrayed a precious thing
like that, a real fact (for it is a fact worth having), and you see nothing in it
! Why, if I had the slightest suspicion of you, should I have acted like
that? No, I should first
have disarmed your suspicions and not let you see I knew of that fact,
should have diverted your attention and suddenly have dealt you a
knock‐down blow
(your expression) saying: 'And what were you doing, sir, pray, at ten or
nearly eleven at the murdered woman's flat and

why did you ring the bell and why did you ask
about blood? And why did you invite the porters to go with you to the poli
ce station, to the lieutenant?' That's how I ought to have acted if I had a grai
n 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 o
f you, since I have not done that! But you can't look at it normally and you s
ee nothing, I say again."
Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovitch
could not fail to perceive it.
"You are lying all the while," he cried, "I don't know your object, but you
are lying. You did not speak like that just now and I cannot be mistaken!"
"I am lying?" Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but preserving a goo
d‐humoured and ironical face, as though he were not in the least
concerned at Raskolnikov's
opinion of him. "I am lying... but how did I treat you just now, I, the exam
ining lawyer? Prompting you and giving you every means for your defence;
illness, I said, delirium, injury, melancholy and the police officers and all t
he rest of it? Ah! He‐he‐he! Though, indeed, all
those psychological means of defence are not very reliable and cut both w
ays: illness, delirium, I don't remember—
that's all right, but why, my good sir, in your illness and in your delirium w
ere you haunted by just those delusions and not by any others? There may h
ave been others, eh? He‐he‐ he!"
Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at
him.
"Briefly," he said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet and in so doin
g pushing Porfiry back a little, "briefly, I want to know, do you acknowledg
e me perfectly free from

suspicion or not? Tell me, Porfiry Petrovitch, tell me once

for all and make haste!"
"What a business I'm having with you!" cried Porfiry with a perfectly goo
d‐
humoured, sly and composed face. "And why do you want to know, why do
 you want to know so much, since they haven't begun to worry you? Why, y
ou are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so uneasy? Why d
o you force yourself upon us, eh? He‐he‐ he!"
"I repeat," Raskolnikov cried furiously, "that I can't put up with it!"
"With what? Uncertainty?" interrupted Porfiry.
"Don't jeer at me! I won't have it! I tell you I won't have it. I can't and I
won't, do you hear, do you hear?"
he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table again.
"Hush! Hush! They'll overhear! I warn you
seriously, take care of yourself. I am not joking," Porfiry whispered, but thi
s 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.
But this was only for an instant.
Raskolnikov, bewildered, suddenly fell into actual frenzy, but, strange to s
ay, he again obeyed the command to speak
quietly, though he was in a perfect paroxysm of fury.
"I will not allow myself to be tortured," he whispered, instantly recognisi
ng with hatred that he could not help obeying the command and driven to ev
en greater fury by the thought. "Arrest me, search me, but kindly act in due
form and don't play with me! Don't dare!"
"Don't worry about the form," Porfiry interrupted with the same sly
smile, as it were, gloating with enjoyment over Raskolnikov. "I
invited you to see me quite in a friendly way."

"I don't want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you hear? And, here, I ta
ke my cap and go. What will you say now if you mean to arrest me?"
He took up his cap and went to the door.
"And won't you see my little surprise?"
chuckled Porfiry, again taking him by the arm and stopping him at the door.
 He seemed to become more playful and good‐
humoured which maddened Raskolnikov.
"What surprise?" he asked, standing still and looking at Porfiry in alarm.

"My little surprise, it's sitting there behind the door, he‐ he‐
he!" (He pointed to the locked door.) "I locked him in that he should not esc
ape."
"What is it? Where? What?..."
Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have
opened it, but it was locked.
"It's locked, here is the key!"
And he brought a key out of his pocket.
"You are lying," roared Raskolnikov without restraint, "you lie, you
damned punchinello!" and he rushed
at Porfiry who retreated to the other door, not at all alarmed.
"I understand it all! You are lying and mocking so that I may betray myself
to you..."
"Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear Rodion
Romanovitch. You are in a passion.
Don't shout, I shall call the clerks."
"You are lying! Call the clerks! You knew I was ill and tried to work me i
nto a frenzy to make me betray myself, that was your object! Produce your f
acts! I understand it all. You've no evidence, you have only wretched rubbis
hly suspicions like Zametov's! You knew my character,
you wanted to drive me to fury and then to knock me down

with priests and deputies.... Are you waiting for them? eh! What are you
waiting for? Where are they? Produce them?"
 "Why deputies, my good man? What things people will imagine! And to d
o so would not be acting in form as you say, you don't know the business, m
y dear fellow.... And there's no escaping form, as you see," Porfiry muttere
d, listening at the door through which a noise could be heard.
"Ah, they're coming," cried Raskolnikov. "You've sent for them! You expe
cted them! Well, produce them all: your deputies, your witnesses, what you
like!... I am ready!"
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 inte
rview.

CHAPTER VI
WHEN HE REMEMBERED THE SCENE
AFTERWARDS, THIS IS HOW RASKOLNIKOV SAW IT.

The noise behind the door increased, and suddenly the door was opened a
little.
"What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. "Why, I gave orders..."
For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident that there were sev
eral persons at the door, and that they were apparently pushing somebody ba
ck.

"What is it?" Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily.

"The prisoner Nikolay has been brought," someone
answered.
 "He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! What's he doing
here? How irregular!" cried Porfiry, rushing to the door.
"But he..." began the same voice, and suddenly ceased.
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.
This man's appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared straight b
efore him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his e
yes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he w
ere being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching.
He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, s
lim, 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 shoul
der; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his
arm away.
Several persons crowded inquisitively into
the doorway. Some of them tried to get in. All this took place almost instan
taneously.
"Go away, it's too soon! Wait till you are sent for!... Why have you
brought him so soon?" Porfiry
Petrovitch muttered, extremely annoyed, and as it were thrown out of his r
eckoning.
But Nikolay suddenly knelt down.
"What's the matter?" cried Porfiry, surprised.

"I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer," Nikolay

articulated suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking fairly loudly.
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.
 "What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his momentary stu
pefaction.
"I... am the murderer," repeated Nikolay, after a brief
pause.
"What... you... what... whom did you kill?"
Porfiry Petrovitch was obviously bewildered.
Nikolay again was silent for a moment.
"Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I... killed... with an a
xe. Darkness came over me," he added suddenly, and was again silent.
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 him
self darted at the latter.
"You're in too great a hurry," he shouted at him, almost angrily. "I didn't a
sk you what came over you.... Speak, did you kill them?"
"I am the murderer.... I want to give evidence," Nikolay pronounced.
"Ach! What did you kill them with?"
"An axe. I had it ready."
"Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?"

Nikolay did not understand the question.

"Did you do it alone?"
"Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in
 it."
"Don't be in a hurry about Mitka! A‐
ach! How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met y
ou both!"
"It was to put them off the scent... I ran after Mitka,"
Nikolay replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared the
answer.
"I knew it!" cried Porfiry, with vexation. "It's not his own tale he is tellin
g," he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested on Rasko
lnikov again.
He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had
forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback.
"My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!" he flew up to him, "this won
't do; I'm afraid you must go... it's no good your staying... I will... you
see, what a surprise!... Good‐ bye!"
And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door.
"I suppose you didn't expect it?" said Raskolnikov who, though he had
not yet fully grasped the situation, had regained his courage.
"You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling!
He‐he!"
"You're trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch!"
"Yes, I am; I didn't expect it."
They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to
be gone.
"And your little surprise, aren't you going to show it to me?" Raskolnikov
said, sarcastically.
 "Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he‐
he! You are an ironical person! Come, till we meet!"
"I believe we can say goodbye!"
"That's in God's hands," muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile.
As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people w
ere looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from the house, wh
om 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 Petrovi
tch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of bre
ath.
"One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, bu
t as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so w
e shall meet again, shan't we?"
And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.
"Shan't we?" he added again.
He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out.
"You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost
my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage
that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness.
"Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry
replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it!
But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one a
nother."
"And will get to know each other through
and through?" added Raskolnikov.
"Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry
Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking

earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday

 party?"
"To a funeral."
"Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get
well."
"I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to des
cend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, b
ut your office is such a comical one."
"Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to pri
ck up his ears at this.
"Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay
psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been a
t him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that h
e has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll s
ay. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are te
lling!' You must admit it's a comical business!"
"He‐he‐
he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own t
ale he was telling?"
"How could I help noticing it!"
"He‐he! You are quick‐witted. You notice
everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the co
mic side... he‐he! They say that was the
marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers."
"Yes, of Gogol."
"Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you."
"So shall I."
Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered t
hat on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to colle
ct his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied;
he

felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing—

something beyond his understanding.
But Nikolay'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, an
d 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.
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'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's "lead" had been for him. A little more and
he might have given himself away completely, circumstantially. Know
ing his nervous temperament and from the first glance seeing through him, P
orfiry, though playing a bold game, was bound to win. There's
no denying that Raskolnikov had compromised
himself seriously, but no facts had come to light as yet; there was nothing
positive. But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn't he
mistaken? What had Porfiry
been trying to get at? Had he really some surprise prepared for him? And
what was it? Had he really been
expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been f
or the unexpected appearance of Nikolay?
Porfiry had shown almost all his cards—of course, he had risked
something in showing them—and if he
had really had anything up his sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would hav
e shown that, too. What was that "surprise"? Was it a joke? Had it
meant anything? Could it
have concealed anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence?
 His yesterday's visitor? What had become of him? Where was he to‐
day? If Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be connected with him....
He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his
hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his cap, thou
ght a minute, and went to the door.
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's. He would b
e 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.
He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile came for a moment
on to his lips.
"To‐day! To‐day," he repeated to himself. "Yes, to‐day! So it must be...."
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—
yesterday's visitor from underground.
The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without speaking, a
nd 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 che
ek and leaned his head on one side he would have looked exactly like a pea
sant woman.
"What do you want?" asked Raskolnikov, numb
with terror. The man was still silent, but suddenly he bowed down almost to
the ground, touching it with his finger.
"What is it?" cried Raskolnikov.
"I have sinned," the man articulated softly.
 "How?"
"By evil thoughts."
They looked at one another.
"I was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and bade the porters go t
o the police station and asked about the blood, I was vexed that they let you
go and took you for drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep.
And remembering the address we came here yesterday
and asked for you...."
"Who came?" Raskolnikov interrupted,
instantly beginning to recollect.
"I did, I've wronged you."
"Then you come from that house?"
"I was standing at the gate with them... don't
you remember? We have carried on our trade in that house for
years past. We cure and prepare hides, we take
work home... most of all I was vexed...."
And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the gateway came
clearly before Raskolnikov's mind; he recollected that there had been
several people
there besides the porters, women among them. He remembered one voice h
ad suggested taking him straight to the police‐
station. He could not recall the face of the speaker, and even now he did n
ot recognise it, but he remembered that he had turned round and made him s
ome answer....
So this was the solution of yesterday's horror. The most awful thought was
that he had been actually almost lost, had almost done for himself on accou
nt of such a trivial
circumstance. So this man could tell nothing except
his asking about the flat and the blood stains. So Porfiry, too, had nothing b
ut that delirium, no facts but this psychology which cuts both ways, nothin
g positive. So if no more facts come to light (and they must not, they must n
ot!) then...

then what can they do to him? How can they convict him, even if they arre
st him? And Porfiry then had only just heard about the flat and had not know
n about it before.
"Was it you who told Porfiry... that I'd been there?" he cried, struck by a s
udden idea.
"What Porfiry?"
"The head of the detective department?"
"Yes. The porters did not go there, but I went."
"To‐day?"
"I got there two minutes before you. And I heard,
I heard it all, how he worried you."
"Where? What? When?"
"Why, in the next room. I was sitting there all the time."
"What? Why, then you were the surprise? But
how could it happen? Upon my word!"
"I saw that the porters did not want to do what I said," began the man; "fo
r it's too late, said they, and maybe he'll be angry that we did not come at th
e time. I was vexed and I lost my sleep, and I began making inquiries. And f
inding out yesterday where to go, I went to‐day. The first time I went he
wasn't there, when I came an hour later
he couldn't see me. I went the third time, and they showed me in. I informe
d him of everything, just as it happened, and he began skipping about
the room and
punching himself on the chest. 'What do you scoundrels mean by it? If I'd k
nown about it I should have arrested him!' Then he
ran out, called somebody and began talking to him in the corner, then he t
urned to me, scolding and questioning me. He scolded me a great deal; and
I told him everything, and I told him that you didn't dare to say a word in an
swer to me yesterday and that you didn'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. 'Sit there a bit,' he sa
id. 'Don't move, whatever you may hear.' And he set a chair there for
me and locked me in.
'Perhaps,' he said, 'I may call you.' And when
Nikolay'd been brought he let me out as soon as you were gone. 'I shall sen
d for you again and question you,' he said."
"And did he question Nikolay while you were there?"
"He got rid of me as he did of you, before he spoke to Nikolay."
The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed down, touching the groun
d with his finger.
"Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander."
"May God forgive you," answered Raskolnikov.
And as he said this, the man bowed down again, but not to the ground, tur
ned slowly and went out of the room.
"It all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways," repeated
Raskolnikov, and he went out more confident than ever.
"Now we'll make a fight for it," he said, with a malicious smile, as he we
nt down the stairs. His malice was aimed at himself; with shame and
contempt he recollected his "cowardice."

Ebd
E‐BooksDirectory.com

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, Py
otr 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 brid
e and, perhaps, even a better one. But coming back to the sense of his prese
nt 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's account. He had set down a g
ood many points against him of late. His anger was redoubled when he refl
ected that he ought not to have told Andrey Semyonovitch about
the result of yesterday's interview. That was the second mistake he
had made in 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 ex
pense; 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 giv
ing him back the flat practically redecorated. In the same way the
upholsterers refused to return a single rouble of the instalment paid
for the furniture purchased but not yet removed to the flat.
 "Am I to get married simply for the sake of
the furniture?" Pyotr Petrovitch ground his teeth and at the same time once
more he had a gleam of desperate hope. "Can all that be really so irrevocab
ly over? Is it no use to make another effort?" The thought of Dounia
sent a voluptuous pang through his heart. He endured anguish at that
moment, and if it had been possible to slay Raskolnikov instantly by
wishing it, Pyotr Petrovitch would promptly have uttered the wish.
"It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money," he
thought, as he returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov's room, "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'd spen
t some fifteen hundred roubles on them for the trousseau and presents, on kn
ick‐ knacks, dressing‐cases, jewellery, materials, and all that sort of
trash from Knopp's and the English shop, my position would have
been better and... stronger!
They could not have refused me so easily! They are the sort of

people that would feel bound to return money

and presents if they broke it off; and they would find it hard to do it! And th
eir conscience would prick them: how can we dismiss a man who has
hitherto been so generous and delicate?.... H'm! I've made a blunder."
And grinding his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovitch called himself a fool—
but not aloud, of course.
He returned home, twice as irritated and angry
as before. The preparations for the funeral dinner at Katerina Ivanovna's
excited his curiosity as he passed. He
had heard about it the day before; he fancied, indeed, that he had been invite
d, but absorbed in his own cares he had paid no attention. Inquiring of Mada
me 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 Ivano
vna herself had been invited with great ceremony in spite of the recent unple
asantness, and so she was very busy with preparations and was taking a pos
itive 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 Petr
ovitch and he went into his room, or rather Lebeziatnikov's,
somewhat thoughtful. He had learnt that Raskolnikov was to be one of the gu
ests.
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 h
im and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. He had not com
e 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 i
n certain interesting circles, the doings of which were a legend in the provin
ces. 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 th
ere 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 being shown up and this was the chief
ground for his continual uneasiness at the thought of transferring his busines
s 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 att
acked and the other had very nearly ended in serious trouble. For this reaso
n 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 "our younger generation." He relied on Andrey
Semyonovitch for
this and before his visit to Raskolnikov he had succeeded in

picking up some current phrases. He soon discovered that Andrey Semyo

novitch was a commonplace simpleton, but that by no means reassured Pyot
r Petrovitch. Even if he had been certain that all the progressives were fool
s 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 ow
n object—
he simply wanted to find out at once what was happening here. Had these
people any power or not? Had he anything to fear from them? Would
they expose any enterprise of his? And what precisely was now the object
of their attacks? Could he somehow make up to them and get round them if t
hey really were powerful? Was this the thing to do or not? Couldn't
he gain something through them? In fact hundreds of
questions presented themselves.
Andrey Semyonovitch was an anæmic, scrofulous little man, with strange
ly 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 "our
younger generation" 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 sincere
ly.
 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 "he was not the right sort of man." 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 in
stinctively to guess that Lebeziatnikov was not merely a commonplace simp
leton, but, perhaps, a liar, too, and that he had no connections of any conseq
uence 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 mu
ddle. 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 instan
ce, when Andrey Semyonovitch belauded him for being ready to contribute t
o the establishment of the new "commune," 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.
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 entertai
ning such an idea about him and was, perhaps, glad of the opportunity of tea
sing his young friend by reminding him of his inferiority and the great differ
ence between them.
He found him incredibly inattentive and
irritable, though he, Andrey Semyonovitch, began enlarging on his favourite
subject, the foundation of a new
special "commune." The brief remarks that dropped from Pyotr Petrovitch
between the clicking of the beads on
the reckoning frame betrayed unmistakable and discourteous irony. But the
"humane" Andrey Semyonovitch ascribed Pyotr Petrovitch's ill‐humour
to his recent breach
with Dounia and he was burning with impatience to discourse on that theme
. He had something progressive to say on the subject which might console hi
s worthy friend and "could not fail" to promote his development.
"There is some sort of festivity being prepared at that... at the widow's,
isn't there?" Pyotr Petrovitch
asked suddenly, interrupting Andrey Semyonovitch at the most interesting pa
ssage.
"Why, don't you know? Why, I was telling you last night what I think about
all such ceremonies. And she invited
you too, I heard. You were talking to her yesterday..."
"I should never have expected that beggarly fool would have spent on this
feast all the money she got from that other fool, Raskolnikov. I was surpris
ed just now as I came through at the preparations there, the wines!
Several people are invited. It's beyond everything!" continued Pyotr
Petrovitch, who seemed to have some object in pursuing the
conversation. "What? You say I am
asked too? When was that? I don't remember. But I shan't go.

Why should I? I only said a word to her in

passing yesterday of the possibility of her obtaining a year's salary as a dest
itute widow of a government clerk. I suppose she has invited me on that acc
ount, hasn't she? He‐he‐he!"
"I don't intend to go either," said Lebeziatnikov.
 "I should think not, after giving her a thrashing! You might well hesitate, h
e‐he!"
"Who thrashed? Whom?" cried Lebeziatnikov, flustered and blushing.
"Why, you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna a month ago. I heard so
yesterday... so that's what your convictions amount to... and the
woman question, too, wasn't quite sound, he‐he‐he!" and Pyotr
Petrovitch, as though comforted, went back to clicking his beads.
"It's all slander and nonsense!" cried
Lebeziatnikov, who was always afraid of allusions to the subject. "It was no
t like that at all, it was quite different. You've heard it wrong; it's a libel.
I was simply defending myself.
She rushed at me first with her nails, she pulled out all my whiskers.... It's p
ermissable for anyone, I should hope, to defend himself and I never allow a
nyone to use violence to me on principle, for it's an act of despotism. What
was I to do? I simply pushed her back."
"He‐he‐he!" Luzhin went on laughing maliciously.
"You keep on like that because you are out of humour yourself.... But that's
nonsense and it has nothing, nothing whatever to do with the woman
question! You don't understand; I used to think, indeed, that if women
are equal to men in all respects, even in strength (as
is maintained now) there ought to be equality in that, too. Of course, I reflec
ted afterwards that such a question ought not really to arise, for there ought
not to be fighting and in the future society fighting is unthinkable... and
that it

would be a queer thing to seek for equality in fighting. I am not so

stupid... though, of course, there is
fighting... there won't be later, but at present there is... confound it! How m
uddled one gets with you! It's not on that account that I am not going. I am n
ot going on principle, not to take part in the revolting convention of
memorial
dinners, that's why! Though, of course, one might go to laugh at it.... I am
sorry there won't be any priests at it. I
should certainly go if there were."
"Then you would sit down at another man's table and insult it and those w
ho invited you. Eh?"
"Certainly not insult, but protest. I should do it with a good object. I
might indirectly assist the cause
of enlightenment and propaganda. It's a duty of every man to work for
enlightenment and propaganda and the
more harshly, perhaps, the better. I might drop a seed, an idea.... And some
thing might grow up from that seed. How should I be insulting them? They
might be offended at first, but afterwards they'd see I'd done them a service.
You know, Terebyeva (who is in the community now) was
blamed because when she left her family and... devoted... herself, she wrot
e to her father and mother that she wouldn't go on living conventionally
and was entering on a
free marriage and it was said that that was too harsh, that she might have s
pared them and have written more kindly. I think that's all nonsense and ther
e's no need of softness; on the contrary, what's wanted is protest.
Varents had been married seven years, she abandoned her
two children, she told her husband straight out in a letter: 'I have realised t
hat I cannot be happy with you. I can never forgive you that you have decei
ved 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 bes
t. Do not hope to get me back, you are too late. I hope you will be happy.' T
hat's how letters like that ought to be written!"
"Is that Terebyeva the one you said had made a third free marriage?"
"No, it's only the second, really! But what if it were the fourth, what if it
were the fifteenth, that's all nonsense! And if ever I regretted the death of m
y father and mother, it is now, and I sometimes think if my parents were livi
ng what a protest I would have aimed at them! I would have done somethin
g on purpose... I would have shown them! I would have astonished them! I
am really sorry there is no one!"
"To surprise! He‐
he! Well, be that as you will," Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted, "but tell me this
; do you know the dead man's daughter, the delicate‐
looking little thing? It's true what they say about her, isn't it?"
"What of it? I think, that is, it is my own personal conviction that
this is the normal condition of women.
Why not? I mean, distinguons. In our present society it is not altogether n
ormal, because it is compulsory, but in the future society it will be perfectly
normal, because it will be voluntary. Even as it is, she was quite
right: she
was suffering and that was her asset, so to speak, her capital which she had
a perfect right to dispose of. Of course, in the future society there will be no
need of assets, but her part will have another significance, rational and
in harmony with her environment. As to Sofya Semyonovna personally, I
regard her action as a vigorous protest

against the organisation of society, and I respect

her deeply for it; I rejoice indeed when I look at her!"
"I was told that you got her turned out of these lodgings."
Lebeziatnikov was enraged.
"That's another slander," he yelled. "It was not so at all! That was all Kat
erina Ivanovna's invention, for she did not understand! And I never made lo
ve 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!"

"Have you asked her to join your community?"

"You keep on laughing and very inappropriately, allow me to tell you. Yo
u don't understand! There is no such rôle in a community. The community is
established that there should be no such rôles. In a community, such a rôle
is essentially transformed and what is stupid here is sensible there, what,
under present conditions, is
unnatural becomes perfectly natural in the community. It all depends on
the environment. It's all the environment and man himself is nothing.
And I am on good terms with
Sofya Semyonovna to this day, which is a proof that she never regarded me
as having wronged her. I am trying now to attract her to the community,
but on quite, quite
a different footing. What are you laughing at? We are trying to establish a c
ommunity of our own, a special one, on a broader basis. We have gone furt
her in our convictions. We reject more! And meanwhile I'm still developing
Sofya Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful character!"
"And you take advantage of her fine character, eh? He‐ he!"
"No, no! Oh, no! On the contrary."

"Oh, on the contrary! He‐he‐he! A queer thing to say!"

"Believe me! Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel it strange myself ho
w timid, chaste and modern she is with me!"
"And you, of course, are developing her... he‐
he! trying to prove to her that all that modesty is nonsense?"
"Not at all, not at all! How coarsely, how stupidly— excuse me
saying so—you misunderstand the
word development! Good heavens, how... crude you still are! We are strivi
ng for the freedom of women and you have only one idea in your head.... Se
tting aside the general question of chastity and feminine modesty as useless
in themselves and indeed prejudices, I fully accept her chastity with me, b
ecause that's for her to decide. Of course if she were to
tell me herself that she wanted me, I should think myself very lucky, beca
use I like the girl very much; but as it is, no one has ever treated her
more courteously than I,
with more respect for her dignity... I wait in hopes, that's all!"
 "You had much better make her a present of something. I bet you never th
ought of that."
"You don't understand, as I've told you already!
Of course, she is in such a position, but it's another question. Quite another
question! You simply despise her. Seeing a fact which you mistakenly cons
ider deserving of contempt, you refuse to take a humane view of a fellow cr
eature. You don't know what a character she is! I am only sorry that of late
she has quite given up reading and borrowing books. I used to lend them to
her. I am sorry, too, that with all the energy and resolution in protesting
—which she has already shown once—she has little self‐
reliance, little, so to say, independence, so as to break free from
certain prejudices and certain foolish ideas. Yet she
thoroughly understands some questions, for instance about kissing of

hands, that is, that it's an insult to a woman for a man to kiss her hand, bec
ause it's a sign of inequality. We had a debate about it and I described
it to her. She listened
attentively to an account of the workmen's associations in France, too. No
w I am explaining the question of coming into the room in the future society.
"
"And what's that, pray?"
"We had a debate lately on the question: Has a member of the
community the right to enter another member's room, whether man or
woman, at any time... and we decided that he has!"
"It might be at an inconvenient moment, he‐he!"
Lebeziatnikov was really angry.
"You are always thinking of something unpleasant," he
cried with aversion. "Tfoo! How vexed I am that when I
was expounding our system, I referred prematurely to the question of pers
onal privacy! It'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'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 cess
pools? I should be the first to be ready to clean out any cesspool you like.
And it's not a question of self‐
sacrifice, it's simply work, honourable, useful work which is as good as an
y other and much better than the work of a Raphael and a Pushkin, because
it is more useful."
"And more honourable, more honourable, he‐he‐he!"
"What do you mean by 'more honourable'? I
don't understand such expressions to describe human activity. 'More
honourable,' 'nobler'—all those are old‐fashioned prejudices which I
reject. Everything which is of use to

mankind is honourable. I only understand one

word: useful! You can snigger as much as you like, but that's so!"
Pyotr Petrovitch laughed heartily. He had
finished counting the money and was putting it away. But some of the notes
he left on the table. The "cesspool question" had already been a subject of
dispute between them. What was absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov rea
lly angry, while it amused Luzhin and at that moment he
particularly wanted to anger his young friend.
"It's your ill‐luck yesterday that makes you so ill‐
humoured and annoying," blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who in spite of his "in
dependence" and his "protests" did not venture to oppose Pyotr Petrovitch
and still behaved to him with some of the respect habitual in earlier years.
"You'd better tell me this," Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted with haughty
displeasure, "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've all come back from the cemetery... I heard the s
ound of steps... I want to see her, that young person."
"What for?" Lebeziatnikov asked with surprise.
 "Oh, I want to. I am leaving here to‐day or to‐
morrow and therefore I wanted to speak to her about... However, you may
be present during the interview. It's better you should be, indeed. For there'
s no knowing what you might imagine."
"I shan't imagine anything. I only asked and, if you've anything to say to he
r, nothing is easier than to call her in. I'll go directly and you may be
sure I won't be in your way."
Five minutes later Lebeziatnikov came in with Sonia.
She came in very much surprised and overcome with shyness as
usual. She was always shy in such
 circumstances and was always afraid of new people, she had been as a c
hild and was even more so now.... Pyotr Petrovitch met her "politely
and affably," but with
a certain shade of bantering familiarity which in his opinion was suitable f
or a man of his respectability and weight in dealing with a creature so youn
g and so interesting as she. He hastened to "reassure" her and made
her sit down
facing him at the table. Sonia sat down, looked about her
— at Lebeziatnikov, at the notes lying on the table and then again at Pyotr P
etrovitch and her eyes remained riveted on him. Lebeziatnikov was
moving to the door.
Pyotr Petrovitch signed to Sonia to remain seated and stopped Lebeziatnik
ov.
"Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come?" he asked him
in a whisper.
"Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him just come in.... Why
?"
"Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and not to leave
me alone with this... young woman. I
only want a few words with her, but God knows what they may make of
it. I shouldn't like Raskolnikov to
repeat anything.... You understand what I mean?"
"I understand!" Lebeziatnikov saw the point. "Yes, you are right.... Of cou
rse, I am convinced personally that you have no reason to be uneasy,
but... still, you are
right. Certainly I'll stay. I'll stand here at the window and not be in your wa
y... I think you are right..."
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, "don't you make
any mistake, madam." Sonia was overwhelmed with embarrassment.
 "In the first place, Sofya Semyonovna, will you make my excuses to your
respected mamma.... That's right, isn't it? Katerina Ivanovna stands in the pl
ace of a mother to you?" Pyotr Petrovitch began with great dignity, though a
ffably.
It was evident that his intentions were friendly.
"Quite so, yes; the place of a mother," Sonia answered, timidly and hurrie
dly.
"Then will you make my apologies to her? Through inevitable
circumstances I am forced to be absent and
shall not be at the dinner in spite of your mamma's kind
invitation."
"Yes... I'll tell her... at once."
And Sonia hastily jumped up from her seat.
"Wait, that's not all," Pyotr Petrovitch detained
her, smiling at her simplicity and ignorance of good manners, "and you kno
w me little, my dear Sofya Semyonovna, if you suppose I would have ventur
ed to trouble a person like you for a matter of so little consequence
affecting myself only. I have another object."
Sonia sat down hurriedly. Her eyes rested again for an instant on the
grey‐and‐rainbow‐coloured notes
that remained on the table, but she quickly looked away and fixed her eyes
on Pyotr Petrovitch. She felt it
horribly indecorous, especially for her, to look at another person's money.
She stared at the gold eye‐glass which Pyotr Petrovitch held in his
left hand and at the massive and
extremely handsome ring with a yellow stone on his middle finger.
But suddenly she looked away 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.
 "I chanced yesterday in passing to exchange a couple of words with
Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. That was

sufficient to enable me to ascertain that she is in a

position—preternatural, if one may so express it."
"Yes... preternatural..." Sonia hurriedly assented.
"Or it would be simpler and more comprehensible to say, ill."
"Yes, simpler and more comprehen... yes, ill."
"Quite so. So then from a feeling of humanity and so to speak compassion
, I should be glad to be of service to her in any way, foreseeing her unfortun
ate position. I believe the whole of this poverty‐stricken family
depends now entirely on you?"
"Allow me to ask," Sonia rose to her feet, "did you say something to her y
esterday of the possibility of a pension? Because she told me you had under
taken to get her one. Was that true?"
"Not in the slightest, and indeed it's an absurdity! I merely hinted
at her obtaining temporary assistance
as the widow of an official who had died in the service—if
only she has patronage... but apparently your late parent had not served hi
s 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 v
ery ephemeral, because there would be no claim for assistance in that case,
far from it.... And she is dreaming of a pension already, he‐he‐he!... A
go‐ahead lady!"
"Yes, she is. For she is credulous and good‐hearted, and she believes
everything from the goodness of her heart and... and... and she is like
that... yes... You must
excuse her," said Sonia, and again she got up to go.
"But you haven't heard what I have to say."
 "No, I haven't heard," muttered Sonia.
"Then sit down." She was terribly confused; she
sat down again a third time.

"Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I should be glad, as I
have said before, so far as lies in my power, to be of service, that is, so far
as is in my power, not more. One might for instance get up a subscription f
or her, or a lottery, something of the sort, such as is
always arranged in such cases by friends or even
outsiders desirous of assisting people. It was of that I intended to speak to
you; it might be done."
"Yes, yes... God will repay you for it," faltered
Sonia, gazing intently at Pyotr Petrovitch.
"It might be, but we will talk of it later. We might begin it to‐day, we
will talk it over this evening and lay
the foundation so to speak. Come to me at seven o'clock. Mr. Lebeziatniko
v, 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 c
ome here. In my opinion money cannot be, indeed it's unsafe to put it into K
aterina Ivanovna's own hands. The dinner to‐
day is a proof of that. Though she has not, so to speak, a crust of bread for t
o‐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 thr
ough. To‐
morrow it will all fall upon you again, they won't have a crust of bread. It's
absurd, really, and so, to my thinking, a subscription ought to be raised so t
hat the unhappy widow should not know of the money, but only you, for ins
tance. Am I right?"
"I don't know... this is only to‐
day, once in her life.... She was so anxious to do honour, to celebrate the m
emory.... And she is very sensible... but just as you think and I shall be very
, very... they will all be... and God will reward... and the orphans..."
 Sonia burst into tears.

"Very well, then, keep it in mind; and now will

you accept for the benefit of your relation the small sum that I am able to s
pare, from me personally. I am very anxious that my name should not be me
ntioned in connection with it. Here... having so to speak anxieties of my ow
n, I cannot do more..."
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.
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 a
nd solemnly held out his hand.
"I heard and saw everything," he said, laying stress on the last verb.
"That is honourable, I mean to say, it's humane! You wanted to
avoid gratitude, I saw!
And although I cannot, I confess, in principle sympathise with private char
ity, for it not only fails to eradicate the evil but even promotes it, yet I must
admit that I saw your action with pleasure—yes, yes, I like it."
"That's all nonsense," muttered Pyotr
Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted, looking carefully at Lebeziatnik
ov.
"No, it's not nonsense! A man who has suffered distress and annoyance
as you did yesterday and who yet
can sympathise with the misery of others, such a man... even though he is m
aking a social mistake—
is still deserving of respect! I did not expect it indeed of you, Pyotr Petrovi
tch, especially as according to your ideas... oh, what a

drawback your ideas are to you! How distressed you are for instance by
your ill‐luck yesterday," cried the simple‐
hearted Lebeziatnikov, who felt a return of affection for Pyotr Petrovitch. "
And, what do you want with marriage, with legal marriage, my dear, nobl
e Pyotr Petrovitch? Why do you cling to this legality of marriage? Well, y
ou may beat me if you like, but I am glad, positively glad it hasn't come off
, that you are free, that you are not quite lost for humanity.... you see, I've sp
oken my mind!"
"Because I don't want in your free marriage to be made a fool of and to br
ing up another man's children, that's why I want legal marriage," Luzhin
replied in order to make some answer.
He seemed preoccupied by something.
"Children? You referred to children,"
Lebeziatnikov started off like a warhorse at the trumpet call. "Children are
a social question and a question of first 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'll
speak of children later, but now as to the question of honour,
I confess that's my weak point. That horrid,
military, Pushkin expression is unthinkable in the dictionary of the future.
What does it mean indeed? It's nonsense, there will be no deception in a fre
e marriage! That is only the natural consequence of a legal marriage, so to s
ay, its corrective, a protest. So that indeed it'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: 'My dear, hitherto
I have loved you, now I respect you,
for you've shown you can protest!' You laugh! That's because you are of
incapable of getting away from prejudices. Confound it all! I
understand now where the

unpleasantness is of being deceived in a legal marriage, but it's simply a

despicable consequence of a despicable position in which both are humilia
ted. When the deception is open, as in a free marriage, then it does not exist
, it'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's just the same, I should present
my wife with a lover if she had not found one for herself. 'My dear,' I shoul
d say, 'I love you, but even more than that I desire you to respect me. See!'
Am I not right?"
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's disordered brain.
Nearly ten of the
twenty roubles, given by Raskolnikov for Marmeladov's funeral, were
wasted upon it. Possibly Katerina Ivanovna
felt obliged to honour the memory of the deceased "suitably,"

that all the lodgers, and still more Amalia Ivanovna, might know "that he
was in no way their inferior, and perhaps very much their superior," and tha
t no one had the right "to turn up his nose at him." Perhaps the chief element
was that peculiar "poor man's pride," which compels many poor people to
spend their last savings on some traditional social ceremony, simply in ord
er to do "like other people," and not to "be looked down upon." It is very p
robable, too, that Katerina Ivanovna longed on this occasion, at
the moment when she seemed to be abandoned by everyone, to show those
"wretched contemptible lodgers" that she knew "how to do things, how to e
ntertain" and that she had been brought up "in a genteel, she might almost sa
y aristocratic colonel's family" and had not been meant for sweeping floor
s and washing the children's rags at night. Even the poorest and most
broken‐spirited people
are sometimes liable to these paroxysms of pride and vanity which take the
form of an irresistible nervous craving. And Katerina Ivanovna was not
broken‐spirited; she
might have been killed by 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 i
nsane, 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.
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'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's. He promptly
put himself at Katerina Ivanovna's disposal and had been all that morning a
nd 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 Iva
novna, even hunting her out at the bazaar, at every instant called her
"Pani." She was heartily sick of him before the end, though she had declare
d at first that she could not have got on without this "serviceable and magn
animous man." It was one of Katerina Ivanovna's characteristics to
paint everyone she met in the most glowing colours. Her praises
were so exaggerated
as sometimes to be embarrassing; she would invent various circumstances
to the credit of her new acquaintance and quite genuinely believe in
their reality. Then all of
a sudden she would be disillusioned and would rudely and contemptuously
repulse the person she had only a
few hours before been literally adoring. She was naturally of a gay,
lively and peace‐loving disposition, but
from continual failures and misfortunes she had come to desire
so keenly that all should live in peace and joy and should
not dare to break the 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 th
e wall.
Amalia Ivanovna, too, suddenly acquired extraordinary importance in Ka
terina Ivanovna's eyes and was treated by her with extraordinary respect, p
robably 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 cou
rse, 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 s
ilk 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:
"as though the table could not have been
laid except by Amalia Ivanovna!" She disliked the cap with new ribbons, t
oo. "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 fav
our! Fancy that! Katerina Ivanovna's father who had been a colonel and al
most 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."
Katerina Ivanovna, however, put off expressing
her feelings for the time and contented herself with treating her coldly, thoug
h she decided inwardly that she would certainly have to put Amalia Ivanovn
a down and set her in her proper place, for goodness only knew what she w
as fancying herself. Katerina Ivanovna
was irritated too by the fact that hardly any of the lodgers invited had come t
o 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 lodger
s, 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 fri
end of her first husband's, and a guest in her father'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 exalt
ed anyone's connections and fortune, it was without any ulterior motive, qui
te disinterestedly, for the mere pleasure of adding to the consequence of the
person praised. Probably "taking his cue" from Luzhin,
"that contemptible wretch Lebeziatnikov had not turned
up either. What did he fancy himself? He was only asked out of kindness a
nd because he was sharing the same room with Pyotr Petrovitch and was a
friend of his, so that it would have been awkward not to invite him."
 Among those who failed to appear were "the genteel lady and her old‐
maidish daughter," who had only been lodgers in the house for the last fortn
ight, but had several times complained of the noise and uproar in
Katerina Ivanovna's room, especially when Marmeladov had come back
drunk. Katerina Ivanovna heard this from Amalia
Ivanovna who, quarrelling with Katerina Ivanovna, and threatening
to turn the whole family out of doors,
had shouted at her that they "were not worth the foot" of the honourable lodg
ers whom they were disturbing. Katerina Ivanovna determined now to
invite this lady and
her daughter, "whose foot she was not worth," and who had

turned away haughtily when she casually met them, so that they
might know that "she was more noble in her thoughts and feelings
and did not harbour malice," and might see that she was not
accustomed to her way of living. She had proposed to make this
clear to them at dinner with allusions to her late father's
governorship, and also at the same time to hint that it was exceedingly stup
id of them to turn away on meeting her. The fat colonel‐
major (he was really a discharged officer of low rank) was also absent, but
it appeared that he had been "not himself" for the last two days. The party
consisted of the Pole, a wretched looking clerk with a spotty face and a gr
easy 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 wh
o had been from immemorial ages maintained by someone at
Amalia Ivanovna's.
A retired clerk of the commissariat department came, too; he was drunk,
had a loud and most unseemly laugh and only fancy—was without a
waistcoat! One of the visitors sat straight down to the table without
even greeting Katerina Ivanovna. Finally one person having no suit appear
ed in his dressing‐
gown, but this was too much, and the efforts of Amalia Ivanovna and the Po
le succeeded
in removing him. The Pole brought with him,
however, two other Poles who did not live at Amalia Ivanovna's and
 whom no one had seen here before. All this irritated
Katerina Ivanovna intensely. "For whom had they made all these preparati
ons then?" To make room for the visitors the children had not even been laid
for at the table; but the two little ones were sitting on a bench in the
furthest corner with their dinner laid on a box, while Polenka as a

big girl had to look after them, feed them, and keep their noses wiped like
well‐bred children's.
Katerina Ivanovna, in fact, could hardly help meeting her guests with incr
eased 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 resente
d. Such a beginning was no good omen for the end. All were seated at last.

Raskolnikov came in almost at the moment of their

return from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly delighted to see
him, in the first place, because he was the one "educated visitor, and, as ev
eryone knew, was in two years to take a professorship in the
university," and secondly because he immediately and
respectfully apologised for having been unable to be at the funeral. She po
sitively pounced upon him, and made him sit on her left hand (Amalia Ivan
ovna was on her right). In spite of her continual anxiety that the dishes shou
ld be passed round correctly and that everyone should taste them, in spite o
f the agonising cough which interrupted her every minute and seemed to ha
ve 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 unco
ntrollable laughter at the expense of her visitors and especially of her landl
ady.
"It's all that cuckoo's fault! You know whom I mean? Her, her!"
Katerina Ivanovna nodded towards
the landlady. "Look at her, she's making round eyes, she feels that we are ta
lking about her and can'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. A
nd those wretched Poles, ha‐ha‐ ha! (Cough‐cough‐
cough.) Not one of them has ever poked his nose in here, I've never set eyes
on them. What have they come here for, I ask you? There they sit in a row.
Hey,
pan !" she cried suddenly to one of them, "have you tasted the pancakes?
Take some more! Have some beer! Won't you have some vodka? Look, he's
jumped up and is making his bows, they must be quite starved, poor things.
Never mind, let them eat! They don't make a noise,
anyway, though I'm really afraid for our landlady's silver spoons... Amalia
Ivanovna!" she addressed her suddenly,
almost aloud, "if your spoons should happen to be stolen, I won't be
responsible, I warn you! Ha‐ha‐ha!" She laughed turning to
Raskolnikov, and again nodding towards
the landlady, in high glee at her sally. "She didn't understand, she didn't un
derstand again! Look how she sits with her mouth open! An owl, a real owl
! An owl in new ribbons, ha‐ha‐ha!"
Here her laugh turned again to an insufferable fit
of coughing that lasted five minutes. Drops of perspiration stood out on
her forehead and her handkerchief was
stained with blood. She showed Raskolnikov the blood in
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.
 "Do you know, I gave her the most delicate instructions, so to speak, for i
nviting that lady and her daughter, you understand of whom I am speaking? I
t 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 pain
ts her face (everybody knows it)... a creature like that did not think
fit to come, and has not even answered the invitation, which the
most ordinary good
manners required! I can't understand why Pyotr Petrovitch has not come? B
ut where's Sonia? Where has she gone? Ah, there she is at last! what is it, S
onia, where have you been? It's odd that even at your father's funeral you sh
ould be so unpunctual. Rodion Romanovitch, make room for
her beside you. That's your place, Sonia... take what you like. Have some
of the cold entrée with jelly, that's the best. They'll bring the pancakes direc
tly. Have they given the children some? Polenka, have you got everything? (
Cough‐ cough‐cough.) That's all right. Be a good girl, Lida, and, Kolya,
don't fidget with your feet; sit like a
little gentleman. What are you saying, Sonia?"
Sonia hastened to give her Pyotr Petrovitch's 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 possibl
y could, he would come immediately to discuss business alone with her
and to consider what could be done for her, etc., etc.
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 h
im. 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.
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's po
sition and standing to find himself in such "extraordinary company," in spite
of his devotion to her family and his old friendship with her father.
"That's why I am so grateful to you,
Rodion Romanovitch, that you have not disdained my hospitality, even in s
uch surroundings," she added almost aloud. "But I am sure that it was only
your special affection for my poor husband that has made you keep your pr
omise."
Then once more with pride and dignity she scanned her visitors, and sudd
enly inquired aloud across the table of the deaf man:
"Wouldn't he have some more meat, and had he been given some
wine?" The old man made
no answer and for a long while could not understand what he was asked, th
ough his neighbours amused themselves by poking and shaking him. He sim
ply gazed about him with his mouth open, which only increased the general
mirth.
"What an imbecile! Look, look! Why was he brought? But as to Pyotr
Petrovitch, I always had confidence
in him," Katerina Ivanovna continued, "and, of course, he is
 not like..." with an extremely stern face she
addressed Amalia Ivanovna so sharply and loudly that the latter was quite
disconcerted, "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."
"Yes, he was fond of drink, he was fond of it, he did drink!" cried the
commissariat clerk, gulping down his twelfth glass of vodka.
"My late husband certainly had that weakness, and everyone knows
it," Katerina Ivanovna attacked him
at once, "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!"
"A cock? Did you say a cock?" shouted the commissariat clerk.
Katerina Ivanovna did not vouchsafe a reply.
She sighed, lost in thought.
"No doubt you think, like everyone, that I was too severe with
him," she went on, addressing
Raskolnikov. "But that's not so! He respected me, he respected me very mu
ch! He was a kind‐
hearted man! And how sorry I was for him sometimes! He would sit in a co
rner and look at
me, I used to feel so sorry for him, I used to want to be kind to him and th
en would think to myself: 'Be kind to him and he will drink again,' it was o
nly by severity that you could keep him within bounds."

"Yes, he used to get his hair pulled pretty often," roared the commissariat
clerk again, swallowing another glass of vodka.
 "Some fools would be the better for a good drubbing, as well as having t
heir hair pulled. I am not talking of my late husband now!" Katerina Ivanov
na snapped at him.
The flush on her cheeks grew more and more marked, her chest heaved. I
n 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.
"Allow me to ask what are you alluding to," began the clerk, "that is to sa
y, whose... about whom... did you say just now... But I don't care!
That's nonsense! Widow! I forgive you.... Pass!"
And he took another drink of vodka.
Raskolnikov sat in 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 m
ore and more anxious and distressed; she, too, foresaw that the dinner woul
d not end peaceably, and saw with terror Katerina Ivanovna's growing
irritation.
She knew that she, Sonia, was the chief reason for the 'genteel' ladies'
contemptuous treatment of Katerina
Ivanovna's invitation. She had heard from Amalia Ivanovna that the
mother was positively offended at the invitation and had asked the questi
on: "How could she let her daughter sit down beside thatyoung person?"
Sonia had a feeling that Katerina Ivanovna had already heard this and an in
sult 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, "till she had shown those d
raggletails that they were both..." To make matters worse someone passed S
onia, 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 "a drunken ass!"
Amalia Ivanovna was foreseeing something amiss, and at the same time d
eeply wounded by Katerina Ivanovna'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
"Karl from the chemist's," who was driving
one night in a cab, and that "the cabman wanted him to kill, and Karl very m
uch begged him not to kill, and wept and clasped hands, and frightened and f
rom fear pierced his heart." Though Katerina Ivanovna smiled, she observe
d at once that Amalia Ivanovna ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian; the
latter was still more offended, and
she retorted that her "Vater aus Berlin was a very important man, and alwa
ys went with his hands in pockets." Katerina Ivanovna could not restrain he
rself and laughed so much that Amalia Ivanovna lost patience and could
scarcely control herself.
"Listen to the owl!" Katerina Ivanovna whispered at once, her good‐
humour almost restored, "she meant to say he kept his hands in his pockets,
but she said he put his hands in people's pockets. (Cough‐
cough.) And have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that all these
Petersburg foreigners, the Germans especially, are all stupider than we! C
an you fancy anyone of us telling how 'Karl from the chemist's' 'pierced his
heart from fear' and that the idiot, instead of punishing the cabman, 'clasped
his hands and

wept, and much begged.' Ah, the fool! And you know she fancies it's very
touching and does not suspect how stupid she is! To my thinking that drunke
n commissariat clerk is a great deal cleverer, anyway one can see that
he has addled his brains with drink, but you know,
these foreigners are always so well behaved and serious.... Look how she
sits glaring! She is angry, ha‐ha! (Cough‐cough‐ cough.)"
Regaining her good‐
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——.
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's right to open a boar
ding‐school; but she had armed herself with it chiefly with the object of
overwhelming "those two stuck‐up draggletails" if they came to the
dinner, and proving incontestably that Katerina Ivanovna was of the
most noble, "she might even say aristocratic family, a colonel's daughter
and was far superior to certain
adventuresses who have been so much to the fore of late." The certificate
of honour immediately passed into the hands of the drunken guests,
and Katerina Ivanovna did not try
to retain it, for it actually contained the statement en toutes lettres, 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 c

olonel.
Warming up, Katerina Ivanovna proceeded to enlarge on the peaceful and
happy life they would lead in T
——, on the gymnasium teachers whom she would engage to give lessons
in her boarding‐school, one a
most respectable old Frenchman, one Mangot, who had taught Katerina Iva
novna herself in old days and was still living in T——, and would no
doubt teach in her school
on moderate terms. Next she spoke of Sonia who would go with her to T
—— and help her in all her plans. At this someone at the further end of
the table gave a sudden guffaw.
Though Katerina Ivanovna tried to appear to
be disdainfully unaware of it, she raised her voice and began at once
speaking with conviction of Sonia's
undoubted ability to assist her, of "her gentleness, patience, devotion, gene
rosity and good education," tapping Sonia on the cheek and kissing
her warmly twice. Sonia
flushed crimson, and Katerina Ivanovna suddenly burst into tears, immedia
tely observing that she was "nervous and
silly, that she was too much upset, that it was time to finish, and as the dinn
er was over, it was time to hand round the tea."
At that moment, Amalia Ivanovna, deeply aggrieved at taking no part in th
e conversation, and not being listened to, made one last effort, and
with secret
misgivings ventured on an exceedingly deep and weighty observation, that
"in the future boarding‐
school she would have to pay particular attention to die Wäsche, and that t
here certainly must be a good dame to look after the linen, and secondly t
hat the young ladies must not novels at night read."
Katerina Ivanovna, who certainly was upset and very tired, as well as
heartily sick of the dinner, at once cut

short Amalia Ivanovna, saying "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 die Wäsche, and as for novel‐
reading, that was simply rudeness, and she begged her to be silent."
Amalia Ivanovna fired up and getting
angry observed that she only "meant her good," and that "she had meant her
very good," and that "it was long since she had paid her gold for the lodg
ings."
Katerina Ivanovna at once "set her down," saying that it was a lie to
say she wished her good, because
only yesterday when her dead husband was lying on the table, she had wor
ried her about the lodgings. To this Amalia Ivanovna very appropriately ob
served that she had invited those ladies, but "those ladies had not come, be
cause those ladies are ladies and cannot come to a lady who is not a lady.
" Katerina Ivanovna at once pointed out to her, that as she was a slut she co
uld not judge what made one really a lady. Amalia Ivanovna at once declar
ed that her " Vater aus Berlin was a very, very important man, and both han
ds in pockets went, and always used to say: 'Poof! poof!'" and she leapt
up from the table to represent her
father, sticking her hands in her pockets, puffing her cheeks, and uttering va
gue sounds resembling "poof! poof!" amid loud laughter from all the lodger
s, who purposely encouraged Amalia Ivanovna, hoping for a fight.
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 P
etersburg 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, "but she had a Vater

aus Berlin and that he wore a long coat and always said poof‐poof‐
poof!"
Katerina Ivanovna observed contemptuously that
all knew what her family was and that on that very certificate of honour
it was stated in print that her father was
a colonel, while Amalia Ivanovna's father—if she really had one—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.
At this Amalia Ivanovna, lashed to fury, struck the table with her fist, and
shrieked that she was Amalia Ivanovna, and not Ludwigovna, "that her Vate
r was named Johann and that he was a burgomeister, and that
Katerina Ivanovna's Vater was quite never a
burgomeister." Katerina Ivanovna rose from her chair, and with a stern and
apparently calm voice (though she was pale and her chest was heaving)
observed that "if she dared for
one moment to set her contemptible wretch of a father on a level with her
papa, she, Katerina Ivanovna, would
tear her cap off her head and trample it under foot." Amalia Ivanovna ran a
bout the room, shouting at the top of her voice, that she was mistress of the h
ouse 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 "th
e yellow ticket," Katerina Ivanovna pushed Sonia away, and rushed at the la
ndlady to carry out her threat.
At that minute the door opened, and Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin appeared on
the threshold. He stood scanning the

party with severe and vigilant eyes. Katerina Ivanovna

rushed to him.

CHAPTER III

"Pyotr Petrovitch," she cried, "protect me... you at least!

Make this foolish woman understand that she can't behave
like this to a lady in misfortune... that there is a law for such things.... I'll
go to the governor‐
general himself.... She shall answer for it.... Remembering my father's hosp
itality protect these orphans."
"Allow me, madam.... Allow me." Pyotr
Petrovitch waved her off. "Your papa as you are well aware I had not the h
onour of knowing" (someone laughed aloud) "and I do not intend to take pa
rt 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."
 Pyotr Petrovitch, edging by her, went to the opposite corner where Sonia
was.
Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she was, as though thunderstr
uck. She could not understand how Pyotr Petrovitch could deny having enjo
yed her father'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 clam
our gradually died away at

his entrance. Not only was this "serious business man" 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. Rasko
lnikov, standing beside Sonia, moved aside to let him pass; Pyotr Petrovitc
h 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 inte
rest, almost wonder, and seemed for a time perplexed.
"Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it's a matter of some
importance," Pyotr Petrovitch
observed, addressing the company generally. "I am glad indeed to find oth
er persons present. Amalia Ivanovna, I humbly beg you as mistress of the h
ouse to pay careful attention to what I have to say to Sofya Ivanovna. Sofya
Ivanovna," he went on, addressing Sonia, who was very much surprised an
d already alarmed, "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 rec
ourse to very serious measures and then... you must blame yourself."
Complete silence reigned in the room. Even the crying children were
still. Sonia stood deadly pale, staring at Luzhin and unable to say a
word. She seemed not to understand. Some seconds passed.
 "Well, how is it to be then?" asked Luzhin, looking intently at her.

"I don't know.... I know nothing about it,"

Sonia articulated faintly at last.
"No, you know nothing?" Luzhin repeated and again he paused for som
e seconds. "Think a moment, mademoiselle," he began severely,
but still, as it
were, admonishing her. "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 v
enture to accuse you so directly. Seeing that for such direct accusation befo
re 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—as
Mr. Lebeziatnikov will bear witness—and after counting two thousand
three hundred roubles I put the rest in my pocket‐book in my coat
pocket. About five hundred roubles remained on the table and among
them three notes of a hundred roubles each. At that moment
you entered (at my invitation)—and all the time you
were present you were exceedingly embarrassed; so that three times you
jumped up in the middle of the
conversation and tried to make off. Mr. Lebeziatnikov can bear witness
to this. You yourself, mademoiselle, probably will
not refuse to confirm my statement that I invited you through Mr. Lebeziatni
kov, 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 t
hat 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—you being still in the same state of embarrassment—
after which, being left alone with Mr. Lebeziatnikov I talked to him for ten
minutes—then Mr. Lebeziatnikov went out and I returned
to the table with the money lying on it, intending to count it and to put it as
ide, as I proposed doing before. To my surprise one hundred‐rouble note
had
disappeared. Kindly consider the position. Mr. Lebeziatnikov I cannot sus
pect. 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 horr
or and positively against my will, compelled to entertain a suspicion—
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 accusat
ion, 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 in
vite you for the benefit of your destitute relative, I present you with my don
ation 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—and you could
have no better friend at this moment—think

what you are doing, otherwise I shall be immovable! Well, what do you s
ay?"
"I have taken nothing," Sonia whispered in terror, "you gave me ten roubl
es, here it is, take it."
 Sonia pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, untied a corner of it, too
k out the ten‐rouble note and gave it to Luzhin.
"And the hundred roubles you do not confess
to taking?" he insisted reproachfully, not taking the note.
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.
"Good God!" broke from Sonia.
"Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to send word to the police and therefor
e I humbly beg you meanwhile to send for the house porter," Luzhin said sof
tly and even kindly.
"Gott der Barmherzige ! I knew she was the thief," cried Amalia Ivanovn
a, throwing up her hands.
"You knew it?" Luzhin caught her up, "then I suppose you had some reaso
n before this for thinking so. I beg you, worthy Amalia Ivanovna, to rememb
er your words which have been uttered before witnesses."
There was a buzz of loud conversation on all sides. All
were in movement.
"What!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, suddenly realising the position, and she
rushed at Luzhin. "What! You accuse her of stealing? Sonia? Ah, the wretch
es, the wretches!"
And running to Sonia she flung her wasted arms round her and held her as
in a vise.
"Sonia! how dared you take ten roubles from him? Foolish girl!
Give it to me! Give me the ten roubles at once—here!"

And snatching the note from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it up and
flung it straight into Luzhin's face. It hit him in the eye and fell on the ground
. Amalia Ivanovna hastened to pick it up. Pyotr Petrovitch lost his temper.
 "Hold that mad woman!" he shouted.
At that moment several other persons,
besides Lebeziatnikov, appeared in the doorway, among them the two ladie
s.
"What! Mad? Am I mad? Idiot!" shrieked Katerina
Ivanovna. "You are an idiot yourself, pettifogging lawyer, base man! Soni
a, Sonia take his money! Sonia a thief! Why, she'd give away her last penny!
" and Katerina Ivanovna broke into hysterical laughter. "Did you ever see su
ch an idiot?" she turned from side to side. "And you too?" she suddenly saw
the landlady, "and you too, sausage eater, you declare that she is a thief, you
trashy Prussian hen's leg in a crinoline! She hasn't been out of this room: sh
e came straight from you, you wretch, and sat down beside me, everyone
saw her. She sat here, by
Rodion Romanovitch. Search her! Since she's not left the room, the money
would have to be on her! Search her, search her! But if you don't find it, the
n excuse me, my dear fellow, you'll answer for it! I'll go to our
Sovereign, to
our Sovereign, to our gracious Tsar himself, and throw myself at his feet, to
‐
day, this minute! I am alone in the world! They would let me in! Do you thi
nk they wouldn't? You're wrong, I will get in! I will get in! You
reckoned on her meekness! You relied upon that! But I am not
so submissive, let me tell you! You've gone too far yourself. Search her, sea
rch her!"
And Katerina Ivanovna in a frenzy shook Luzhin and dragged him towards
Sonia.

"I am ready, I'll be responsible... but calm yourself, madam, calm

yourself. I see that you are not
so submissive!... Well, well, but as to that..." Luzhin muttered, "that ought t
o be before the police... though indeed there are witnesses enough as it is....
I am ready.... But in any case it's difficult for a man... on account of her sex
.... But with the help of Amalia Ivanovna... though, of course, it's not the w
ay to do things.... How is it to be done?"
 "As you will! Let anyone who likes search her!" cried Katerina
Ivanovna. "Sonia, turn out your pockets! See! Look, monster, the
pocket is empty, here was
her handkerchief! Here is the other pocket, look! D'you see, d'you see?"
And Katerina Ivanovna turned—or rather snatched—
both pockets inside out. But from the right pocket a piece of paper flew o
ut and describing a parabola in the air fell at Luzhin'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.
"Thief! Out of my lodging. Police, police!" yelled Amalia Ivanovna. "The
y must to Siberia be sent! Away!"
Exclamations arose on all sides. Raskolnikov was silent, keeping his eye
s 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 hi
d her face in her hands.
"No, it wasn't I! I didn't take it! I know nothing about it," she cried with
a heartrending wail, and she ran
to Katerina Ivanovna, who clasped her tightly in her arms, as though she w
ould shelter her from all the world.
 "Sonia! Sonia! I don't believe it! You see, I don't believe it!" she cried in
the face of the obvious 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, "you too
k it! How stupid these people are! Oh dear! You are fools, fools," she cried
, addressing the whole room, "you don't know, you don't know what a heart
she has, what a girl she is! She take it, she? She'd sell her last rag, she'd go
barefoot to help you if you needed it, that's what she is! She has the yellow
passport because my children were starving, she sold herself for us!
Ah, husband, husband! Do you see? Do you see? What a
memorial dinner for you! Merciful heavens! Defend her, why are you all
standing still? Rodion Romanovitch, why don't
you stand up for her? Do you believe it, too? You are not worth her little fi
nger, all of you together! Good God! Defend her now, at least!"
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's, the trustfu
l, 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 compassion.
"Madam, madam, this incident does not reflect upon you!" he cried
impressively, "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, show
ing that you had no previous idea of it. I am most ready, most ready
to show compassion, if poverty, so to speak, drove
Sofya Semyonovna to it, but why did you refuse to confess,

mademoiselle? Were you afraid of the disgrace? The first step? You
lost your head, perhaps? One can
quite understand it.... But how could you have lowered yourself to such
an action? Gentlemen," he addressed the whole company, "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," he said, addressing Sonia,
"and I will carry the matter no further. Enough!"
Pyotr Petrovitch stole a glance at Raskolnikov.
Their eyes met, and the fire in Raskolnikov's seemed ready to reduce him
to ashes. Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna
apparently heard nothing. She was kissing and hugging Sonia like a
madwoman. The children, too, were embracing Sonia on all sides,
and Polenka—though she did not fully understand what was wrong—
was drowned in tears and shaking with sobs, as she hid her pretty little fac
e, swollen with weeping, on Sonia's shoulder.
"How vile!" a loud voice cried suddenly in the doorway.
Pyotr Petrovitch looked round quickly.
"What vileness!" Lebeziatnikov repeated, staring
him straight in the face.
Pyotr Petrovitch gave a positive start—all noticed
it and recalled it afterwards. Lebeziatnikov strode into the
room.
"And you dared to call me as witness?" he said, going up to Pyotr Petrovi
tch.
"What do you mean? What are you talking about?" muttered Luzhin.
"I mean that you... are a slanderer, that's what
my words mean!" Lebeziatnikov said hotly, looking sternly at him with his
short‐sighted eyes.

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.
 "If you mean that for me,..." he began, stammering. "But what's the matter
with you? Are you out of your mind?"
"I'm in my mind, but you are a scoundrel! Ah, how vile! I have heard
everything. I kept waiting on purpose to understand it, for I must
own even now it is not
quite logical.... What you have done it all for I can't understand."
"Why, what have I done then? Give over talking in your nonsensical riddl
es! Or maybe you are drunk!"
"You may be a drunkard, perhaps, vile man, but I am not! I never touch vo
dka, for it's against my convictions. Would you believe it, he, he himself, w
ith his own hands gave Sofya Semyonovna that hundred‐rouble note—
I saw it, I was a witness, I'll take my oath! He did it,
he!" repeated Lebeziatnikov, addressing all.
"Are you crazy, milksop?" squealed Luzhin. "She is herself before
you—she herself here declared just now before everyone that I gave
her only ten roubles. How could I have given it to her?"
"I saw it, I saw it," Lebeziatnikov repeated, "and though it is against my pr
inciples, I am ready this very minute to take any oath you like before the cou
rt, 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, t
he left, you slipped the note into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it!"
Luzhin turned pale.

"What lies!" he cried impudently, "why, how could you, standing by the w
indow, see the note? You fancied it with your short‐
sighted eyes. You are raving!"
"No, I didn't fancy it. And though I was standing some way off, I saw it al
l. And though it certainly would be hard to distinguish a note from the
window—that's true—I knew for certain that it was a hundred‐rouble
note, because, when you were going to give Sofya Semyonovna ten roubles
, you took up from the table a hundred‐
rouble note (I saw it because I was standing near then, and an idea struck
me at once, so that I did not forget you had it in your hand). You folded it an
d kept it in your hand all the time. I didn't think of it again until, when you
were getting up, you changed it from your right hand to your left and nearly
dropped it! I noticed it because the same idea struck me again, that
you meant to do her a
kindness without my seeing. You can fancy how I watched you and I saw h
ow you succeeded in slipping it into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it, I'll take
my oath."
Lebeziatnikov was almost breathless. Exclamations
arose on all hands chiefly expressive of wonder, but some were
menacing in tone. They all crowded round
Pyotr Petrovitch. Katerina Ivanovna flew to Lebeziatnikov.
"I was mistaken in you! Protect her! You are the only one to take her part!
She is an orphan. God has sent you!"
Katerina Ivanovna, hardly knowing what she
was doing, sank on her knees before him.
"A pack of nonsense!" yelled Luzhin, roused to
fury, "it's all nonsense you've been talking! 'An idea struck you, you didn't t
hink, you noticed'—
what does it amount to? So I gave it to her on the sly on purpose? What for?
With what object? What have I to do with this...?"

"What for? That's what I can't understand, but

that what I am telling you is the fact, that's certain! So far from my being
mistaken, you infamous criminal man,
I remember how, on account of it, a question occurred to me at once, just
when I was thanking you and pressing your hand. What made you put it secr
etly 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 y
ou 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 f
ond of decking out their charitable actions in that way.) Then the idea struc
k 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 say
ing 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 w
hy I decided to come in here to call her out of the room and to tell her
that you put a hundred roubles in her pocket. But on my way I went
first to Madame Kobilatnikov's to take them the 'General Treatise on the
Positive Method' and especially to recommend
Piderit's article (and also Wagner's); then I come on here and what a state of
things I find! Now could I, could I, have all these ideas and reflections if
I had not seen you put the hundred‐rouble note in her pocket?"

When Lebeziatnikov finished his long‐winded harangue with the

logical deduction at the 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 w
ith such vehemence, with such conviction that everyone obviously
believed him. Pyotr Petrovitch
felt that things were going badly with him.
"What is it to do with me if silly ideas did occur to you?" he shouted, "that
's no evidence. You may have dreamt it, that's all! And I tell you, you are lyi
ng, sir. You are lying and slandering from some spite against me, simply fro
m pique, because I did not agree with your free‐
thinking, godless, social propositions!"
 But this retort did not benefit Pyotr
Petrovitch. Murmurs of disapproval were heard on all sides.
"Ah, that's your line now, is it!" cried Lebeziatnikov, "that's
nonsense! Call the police and I'll take my
oath! There's only one thing I can't understand: what made him risk such a
contemptible action. Oh, pitiful, despicable man!"
"I can explain why he risked such an action, and
if necessary, I, too, will swear to it," Raskolnikov said at last in a firm voi
ce, and he stepped forward.
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.
"Now I can explain it all to myself," said Raskolnikov, addressing Lebezi
atnikov. "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 valuabl
e evidence has finally made everything clear to me. I beg all, all to listen. T
his gentleman (he pointed to Luzhin) was recently engaged to be married to
a young lady—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
—
I have two witnesses to prove it. He is a very spiteful man.... The day befor
e yesterday I did not know that he was staying here, in your room, and
that consequently on the very day we quarrelled—the day before
yesterday—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 t
hat I had given away all my money, not to Katerina Ivanovna but to Sofya S
emyonovna, and referred in a most contemptible way to the...
character of
Sofya Semyonovna, that is, hinted at the character of my attitude to Sofya S
emyonovna. All this you understand was with the object of dividing me fro
m 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. Yest
erday evening, before my mother and sister and in his presence, I declared t
hat 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, Py
otr Petrovitch Luzhin, with all his virtues, was not worth Sofya
Semyonovna's little finger, though he spoke so ill of her. To his
question
— 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 Semyon
ovna 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 b
e 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's how I unde
rstand it. That's the whole reason for it and there can be no other!"
It was like this, or somewhat like this, that Raskolnikov wound up his spe
ech 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.
"Yes, yes, that's it," Lebeziatnikov assented gleefully, "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's guests. He called me aside to the
window and asked me in secret.

It was essential for him that you should be here! That's it, that's it!"
Luzhin smiled contemptuously and did not speak. But he was very pale. H
e seemed to be deliberating on some means of escape. Perhaps he would ha
ve 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 pr
esent were drunk; lodgers came in from all the rooms. The three Poles
were tremendously excited and were continually shouting at him:
"The pan is
a lajdak!" and muttering threats in Polish. Sonia had been listening with stra
ined attention, though she too seemed unable to grasp it all; she seemed as th
ough she had just returned to consciousness. She did not take her eyes off R
askolnikov, feeling that all her safety lay in him. Katerina Ivanovna
breathed hard and painfully and
seemed fearfully exhausted. Amalia Ivanovna stood looking more stupid tha
n anyone, with her mouth wide open, unable to make out what had
happened. She only saw that
Pyotr Petrovitch had somehow come to grief.
 Raskolnikov was attempting to speak again, but they did not let him. Ever
yone 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:
"Allow me, gentlemen, allow me! Don't squeeze, let me pass!" he said, m
aking his way through the crowd. "And no

threats, if you please! I assure you it will be useless, you will gain
nothing by it. On the contrary, you'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!"
"Don't let me find a trace of you in my room! Kindly leave at once, and
everything is at an end between
us! When I think of the trouble I've been taking, the way I've been expoundi
ng... all this fortnight!"
"I told you myself to‐
day that I was going, when you tried to keep me; now I will simply add that
you are a fool. I advise you to see a doctor for your brains and your short
sight. Let me pass, gentlemen!"
He forced his way through. But the commissariat clerk was unwilling to l
et 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 Iva
novna. 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, h
ad 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 patienc
e and almost without murmur anything, even this. But for the first minute sh
e felt it too bitter. In spite of her triumph and her justification—
when her first terror

and stupefaction had passed and she could understand it all clearly—the
feeling of her helplessness and of
the wrong done to her made her heart throb with anguish and she was over
come with hysterical weeping. At last, unable to bear any more, she
rushed out of the room and
ran home, almost immediately after Luzhin's departure. When amidst loud l
aughter the glass flew at Amalia Ivanovna, it was more than the landlady co
uld endure. With a shriek she rushed like a fury at Katerina Ivanovna, consi
dering her to blame for everything.
"Out of my lodgings! At once! Quick march!"
And with these words she began snatching
up everything she could lay her hands on that belonged to Katerina Ivanovn
a, 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.
"What! As though that godless calumny was not enough—
this vile creature attacks me! What! On the day of my husband's funeral I a
m turned out of my lodging! After eating my bread and salt she turns
me into
the street, with my orphans! Where am I to go?" wailed the poor woman, s
obbing and gasping. "Good God!" she cried with flashing eyes, "is there no
justice upon earth? Whom should you protect if not us orphans? We shall s
ee! There is law and justice on earth, there is, I will find it! Wait a bit, god
less creature! Polenka, stay with the children, I'll come back. Wait for me, i
f you have to wait in the street. We will see whether there is justice on eart
h!"
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 tear
ful, she ran into the street—with a vague intention of going at once
somewhere to find justice. Polenka with the two little ones in her
arms
crouched, terrified, on the trunk in the corner of the room, where she waite
d 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 abilit
y on what had happened, others quarrelled and swore at one another, while
others struck up a song....
"Now it's time for me to go," thought Raskolnikov. "Well, Sofya
Semyonovna, we shall see what you'll say now!"
And he set off in the direction of Sonia's lodgings.

CHAPTER IV

Raskolnikov had been a vigorous and active champion of Sonia against Lu

zhin, 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 approac
hing interview with Sonia: he had 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's, "Well,

Sofya Semyonovna, we shall see what you'll
say now!" he was still superficially excited, still vigorous and defiant fro
m his triumph over Luzhin. But, strange to say, by the time he reached Sonia
's lodging, he felt a sudden impotence and fear. He stood still in hesitation a
t the door, asking himself the strange question: "Must he tell her who killed
Lizaveta?" It was a strange question because he felt at the very time not onl
y that he could not help telling her, but also that he could not put off the telli
ng. He did not yet know why it must be so, he only felt it, and the agonisin
g 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 h
er hands, but seeing Raskolnikov she got up at once and came to meet him a
s though she were expecting him.
"What would have become of me but for you?" she said quickly, meeting
him in the middle of the room.
Evidently she was in haste to say this to him. It was what she had been w
aiting for.
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.
"Well, Sonia?" he said, and felt that his voice
was trembling, "it was all due to 'your social position and the habits
associated with it.' Did you understand that just now?"
Her face showed her distress.
"Only don't talk to me as you did yesterday," she interrupted him.
"Please don't begin it. There is misery enough without that."

She made haste to smile, afraid that he might not like the reproach.
"I was silly to come away from there. What
is happening there now? I wanted to go back directly, but I kept thinking that
... you would come."
 He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was turning them out of their lodging an
d that Katerina Ivanovna had run off somewhere "to seek justice."
"My God!" cried Sonia, "let's go at once...."
And she snatched up her cape.
"It's everlastingly the same thing!" said
Raskolnikov, irritably. "You've no thought except for them! Stay a little with
me."
"But... Katerina Ivanovna?"
"You won't lose Katerina Ivanovna, you may be sure, she'll come to you h
erself since she has run out," he added peevishly. "If she doesn't find you he
re, you'll be blamed for it...."
Sonia sat down in painful suspense. Raskolnikov was silent, gazing at the
floor and deliberating.
"This time Luzhin did not want to prosecute you," he began, not looking at
Sonia, "but if he had wanted to, if it had suited his plans, he would have sen
t you to prison if it had not been for Lebeziatnikov and me. Ah?"
"Yes," she assented in a faint voice. "Yes," she repeated, preoccupied an
d distressed.
"But I might easily not have been there. And it
was quite an accident Lebeziatnikov's turning up."
Sonia was silent.
"And if you'd gone to prison, what then? Do you
remember what I said yesterday?"
Again she did not answer. He waited.

"I thought you would cry out again 'don't speak of it, leave off.'" Raskolni
kov gave a laugh, but rather a forced one. "What, silence again?" he asked
a minute later. "We must talk about something, you know. It would
be interesting for me to know how you would decide a certain
'problem' as Lebeziatnikov would say." (He was beginning to lose
the thread.) "No, really, I am
serious. Imagine, Sonia, that you had known all Luzhin's intentions beforeh
and. Known, that is, for a fact, that they would be the ruin of Katerina
Ivanovna and the children and yourself thrown in—since you don't
count yourself for anything—
Polenka too... for she'll go the same way. Well, if suddenly it all depended
on your decision whether he or they should go on living, that is whether Luz
hin should go on living and doing wicked things, or Katerina Ivanovna sho
uld die? How would you decide which of them was to die? I ask you?"
Sonia looked uneasily at him. There was something peculiar in this
hesitating question, which
seemed approaching something in a roundabout way.
"I felt that you were going to ask some question like that," she said, looki
ng inquisitively at him.
"I dare say you did. But how is it to be answered?"
"Why do you ask about what could not happen?" said Sonia reluctantly.
"Then it would be better for Luzhin to go on living and doing wicked
things? You haven't dared to decide even that!"
"But I can't know the Divine Providence.... And why do you ask what can'
t be answered? What's the use of such foolish questions? How could it
happen that it should depend on my decision—who has made me a
judge to decide who is to live and who is not to live?"
 "Oh, if the Divine Providence is to be mixed up in it, there is no doing
anything," Raskolnikov grumbled morosely.
"You'd better say straight out what you want!" Sonia cried in distress. "Y
ou are leading up to something again.... Can you have come simply to tortur
e me?"
She could not control herself and began crying bitterly. He looked at her i
n gloomy misery. Five minutes passed.
"Of course you're right, Sonia," he said softly at last. He was suddenly ch
anged. His tone of assumed arrogance and helpless defiance was gone. Eve
n his voice was suddenly weak. "I told you yesterday that I was not coming
to ask forgiveness and almost the first thing I've said is to ask forgiveness..
.. I said that about Luzhin and Providence for my own sake. I was asking fo
rgiveness, Sonia...."
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.
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 pain
fully 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 th
e other. It only meant that that minute had come.
He hid his face in his hands again and bowed his head. Suddenly he turne
d pale, got up from his chair, looked at Sonia, and without uttering a word s
at down mechanically on her bed.
His sensations that moment were terribly like
the moment when he had stood over the old woman with the

axe in his hand and felt that "he must not lose another
minute."
 "What's the matter?" asked Sonia, dreadfully frightened.
He could not utter a word. This was not at all, not at all the way he had
intended to "tell" 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. He
r heart throbbed and sank. It was unendurable; he turned his deadly pale fac
e to her. His lips worked, helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang
of terror passed through Sonia's heart.
"What's the matter?" she repeated, drawing a little away from him.
"Nothing, Sonia, don't be frightened.... It's nonsense. It really is nonsense,
if you think of it," he muttered, like a man in delirium. "Why have I come t
o torture you?" he added suddenly, looking at her. "Why, really? I keep aski
ng myself that question, Sonia...."
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.
"Oh, how you are suffering!" she muttered in distress, looking intently at
him.
"It's all nonsense.... Listen, Sonia." He suddenly smiled, a pale helpless
smile for two seconds. "You
remember what I meant to tell you yesterday?"
Sonia waited uneasily.
"I said as I went away that perhaps I was saying good‐ bye for ever, but
that if I came to‐day I would tell you who... who killed Lizaveta."
She began trembling all over.

"Well, here I've come to tell you."

"Then you really meant it yesterday?" she whispered with difficulty. "Ho
w do you know?" she asked quickly, as though suddenly regaining her reaso
n.
 Sonia's face grew paler and paler, and she breathed painfully.
"I know."
She paused a minute.
"Have they found him?" she asked timidly.
"No."
"Then how do you know about it?" she asked
again, hardly audibly and again after a minute's pause.
He turned to her and looked very intently at her.
"Guess," he said, with the same distorted helpless smile.
A shudder passed over her.
"But you... why do you frighten me like this?" she said, smiling like a chil
d.
"I must be a great friend of his... since I
know," Raskolnikov went on, still gazing into her face, as though he could n
ot turn his eyes away. "He... did not mean to kill that Lizaveta... he... killed
her accidentally.... He meant to kill the old woman when she was alone
and he went
there... and then Lizaveta came in... he killed her too."
Another awful moment passed. Both still gazed at one
another.
"You can't guess, then?" he asked suddenly, feeling as though he were flin
ging himself down from a steeple.
"N‐no..." whispered Sonia.
"Take a good look."
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'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 fa
ce, looking as little children do when they begin to be frightened of somethi
ng, 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 happene
d 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 childish
smile.
"Have you guessed?" he whispered at last.
"Good God!" broke in an awful wail from her bosom.
She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in
the pillows, but a moment later she got up, moved quickly to him, seized b
oth 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 a
nd catch some last hope. But there was no hope; there was no doubt remain
ing; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when she recalled that moment, she th
ought 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—
and yet now, as soon as he told her, she suddenly fancied that she had reall
y foreseen this very thing.
"Stop, Sonia, enough! don't torture me," he begged her miserably.
 It was not at all, not at all like this he had thought of telling her, but this is
how it happened.
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 wh
y.
"What have you done—what have you done
to yourself?" she said in despair, and, jumping up, she flung herself on his n
eck, threw her arms round him, and held him tightly.
Raskolnikov drew back and looked at her with a
mournful smile.
"You are a strange girl, Sonia—
you kiss me and hug me when I tell you about that.... You don't think what y
ou are doing."
"There is no one—
no one in the whole world now so unhappy as you!" she cried in a frenzy, n
ot hearing what he said, and she suddenly broke into violent
hysterical weeping.
A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his heart and softened it at
once. He did not struggle against it.
Two tears started into his eyes and hung on his eyelashes.
"Then you won't leave me, Sonia?" he said, looking at her almost with ho
pe.
"No, no, never, nowhere!" cried Sonia. "I will
follow you, I will follow you everywhere. Oh, my God! Oh, how miserabl
e I am!... Why, why didn't I know you before! Why didn't you come before?
Oh, dear!"
 "Here I have come."

"Yes, now! What's to be done now?...

Together, together!" she repeated as it were unconsciously, and she hugged
him again. "I'll follow you to Siberia!"
He recoiled at this, and the same hostile,
almost haughty smile came to his lips.
"Perhaps I don't want to go to Siberia yet, Sonia," he said.
Sonia looked at him quickly.
Again after her first passionate, agonising sympathy for the unhappy man
the terrible idea of the
murder overwhelmed her. In his changed tone she seemed to hear the murde
rer 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: "He, he is
a murderer! Could it be true?"
"What's the meaning of it? Where am I?" she said in complete bewilderm
ent, as though still unable to recover herself. "How could you, you, a man li
ke you.... How could you bring yourself to it?... What does it mean?"
"Oh, well—
to plunder. Leave off, Sonia," he answered wearily, almost with vexation.
Sonia stood as though struck dumb, but suddenly she cried:
"You were hungry! It was... to help your mother? Yes?"
"No, Sonia, no," he muttered, turning away and hanging his head. "I was n
ot so hungry.... I certainly did want to help my mother, but... that's not
the real thing either.... Don't torture me, Sonia."
Sonia clasped her hands.
"Could it, could it all be true? Good God, what a truth! Who could believ
e it? And how could you give away your last farthing and yet rob and
murder! Ah," she cried

suddenly, "that money you gave Katerina Ivanovna... that money.... Can th
at money..."
"No, Sonia," he broke in hurriedly, "that money was not it. Don't worry y
ourself! That money my mother sent me and it came when I was ill, the
day I gave it to
you.... Razumihin saw it... he received it for me.... That money was mine—
my own."
Sonia listened to him in bewilderment and did
her utmost to comprehend.
"And that money.... I don't even know really whether there was any
money," he added softly, as
though reflecting. "I took a purse off her neck, made of chamois leather...
a purse stuffed full of something... but I
didn't look in it; I suppose I hadn't time.... And the things—
chains and trinkets—I buried under a stone with the purse next morning in
a yard off the V—— Prospect. They are all there now...."
Sonia strained every nerve to listen.
"Then why... why, you said you did it to rob, but you took nothing?" she a
sked quickly, catching at a straw.
"I don't know.... I haven't yet decided whether to take that money or not,"
he said, musing again; and, seeming to wake up with a start, he gave a brief
ironical smile. "Ach, what silly stuff I am talking, eh?"
The thought flashed through Sonia's mind, wasn't he mad? But she dismiss
ed it at once. "No, it was something else." She could make nothing of it, not
hing.
"Do you know, Sonia," he said suddenly
with conviction, "let me tell you: if I'd simply killed because I was
hungry," laying stress on every word and
looking enigmatically but sincerely at her, "I should be happy now. You m
ust believe that! What would it matter to you," he cried a moment later with
a sort of despair, "what would it

matter to you if I were to confess that I did wrong? What do you gain by s
uch a stupid triumph over me? Ah, Sonia, was it for that I've come to you to
‐day?"
Again Sonia tried to say something, but did not speak.
"I asked you to go with me yesterday because you are all I have left."
"Go where?" asked Sonia timidly.
"Not to steal and not to murder, don't be anxious," he smiled bitterly.
"We are so different.... And you
know, Sonia, it's only now, only this moment that I understand where I
asked you to go with me yesterday!
Yesterday when I said it I did not know where. I asked you for one thing, I
came to you for one thing—not to leave me. You won't leave me, Sonia?"
She squeezed his hand.
"And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?" he cried a
minute later in despair, looking with
infinite anguish at her. "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'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't bear my burden and have come to throw it on ano
ther: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can you love such a mean
wretch?"
"But aren't you suffering, too?" cried Sonia.
Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an i
nstant softened it.
"Sonia, I have a bad heart, take note of that. It
may explain a great deal. I have come because I am bad. There are men wh
o wouldn't have come. But I am a coward and...
 a mean wretch. But... never mind! That's not the point. I
must speak now, but I don't know how to begin."

He paused and sank into thought.

"Ach, we are so different," he cried again, "we are not alike. And why,
why did I come? I shall never forgive myself that."
"No, no, it was a good thing you came," cried Sonia. "It's better I should k
now, far better!"
He looked at her with anguish.
"What if it were really that?" he said, as
though reaching a conclusion. "Yes, that's what it was! I wanted to become
a Napoleon, that is why I killed her.... Do you understand now?"
"N‐no," Sonia whispered naïvely and timidly. "Only speak, speak, I
shall understand, I shall understand in myself!" she kept begging him.
"You'll understand? Very well, we shall see!" He paused and was for so
me time lost in meditation.
"It was like this: I asked myself one day this question
— what if Napoleon, for instance, had happened to be in my place, and if
he had not had Toulon nor Egypt nor
the passage of Mont Blanc to begin his career with, but instead of all those
picturesque and monumental things, there had simply been some ridiculous
old hag, a pawnbroker, who had to be murdered too to get money from her
trunk (for his career, you understand). Well, would he have brought himself
to that if there had been no other means?
Wouldn't he have felt a pang at its being so far
from monumental and... and sinful, too?
Well, I must tell you that I worried myself fearfully over that 'question' so th
at I was awfully ashamed when I guessed at last (all of
a sudden, somehow) that it would not have given him the least pang, that it
would not even have struck him that it was not monumental... that he would
not have seen that there was anything in it to pause over, and that, if he had
 had no other way, he would have strangled her in a minute without
thinking about it! Well, I too... left off
thinking about it... murdered her, following his example. And that's exactly
how it was! Do you think it funny? Yes, Sonia, the funniest thing of all is tha
t perhaps that's just how it was."
Sonia did not think it at all funny.
"You had better tell me straight out... without examples," she
begged, still more timidly and scarcely audibly.
He turned to her, looked sadly at her and took her hands.
"You are right again, Sonia. Of course that's
all nonsense, it's almost all talk! You see, you know of course that my moth
er has scarcely anything, my sister happened to have a good education and
was condemned to drudge as a governess. All their hopes were centered on
me. I was a student, but I couldn't keep myself at the university and was fo
rced for a time to leave it. Even if I had lingered on like that, in ten or twel
ve years I might (with luck) hope to be some sort of teacher or clerk
with a salary of a thousand roubles" (he repeated it as though it
were
a lesson) "and by that time my mother would be worn out with grief and an
xiety and I could not succeed in keeping her in comfort while my sister... w
ell, my sister might well have fared worse! And it's a hard thing to pass eve
rything by all one's life, to turn one's back upon everything, to forget
one's mother and decorously accept the
insults inflicted on one's sister. Why should one? When one has buried
them to burden oneself with others—wife and
children—
and to leave them again without a farthing? So I resolved to gain possessio
n of the old woman's money and to use it for my first years without worryin
g my mother, to keep myself at the university and for a little while after

leaving it—
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's
all.... Well,
of course in killing the old woman I did wrong.... Well, that's enough."
He struggled to the end of his speech in exhaustion and let his head sink.
"Oh, that's not it, that's not it," Sonia cried in distress. "How could one...
no, that's not right, not right."
"You see yourself that it's not right. But I've
spoken truly, it's the truth."
"As though that could be the truth! Good God!"
"I've only killed a louse, Sonia, a useless,
loathsome, harmful creature."
"A human being—a louse!"
"I too know it wasn't a louse," he answered, looking strangely at
her. "But I am talking nonsense, Sonia,"
he added. "I've been talking nonsense a long time.... That's not it, you are ri
ght there. There were quite, quite other causes for it! I haven't talked to any
one for so long, Sonia.... My head aches dreadfully now."
His eyes shone with feverish brilliance. He was almost delirious; an une
asy 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 talk
ed so strangely; it seemed somehow comprehensible, but yet... "But h
ow, how! Good God!" And she wrung her hands in despair.
"No, Sonia, that's not it," he began again suddenly, raising his
head, as though a new and sudden train
of thought had struck and as it were roused him—"that's not it! Better...
imagine—yes, it's certainly better—
imagine that I am vain, envious, malicious, base, vindictive and...

well, perhaps with a tendency to insanity. (Let's have it all out at once! T
hey'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 wo
uldn't. (Yes, sulkiness, that's the right word for it!) I sat in my room like a s
pider. You've been in my den, you'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't go out of it! I wouldn't on purpose! I didn't go out for days
together, and I wouldn't work, I wouldn't even eat, I just lay there
doing nothing.
If Nastasya brought me anything, I ate it, if she didn't, I went all day
without; I wouldn't ask, on purpose,
from sulkiness! At night I had no light, I lay in the dark and I wouldn't earn
money for candles. I ought to have studied, but I sold my books; and the dus
t lies an inch thick on the notebooks on my table. I preferred lying still and t
hinking. 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's not it! Again I am telling you wrong! You see I kept a
sking myself then: why am I so stupid that if others are stupid—
and I know they are—
yet I won't be wiser? Then I saw, Sonia, that if one waits for everyone to g
et wiser it will take too long.... Afterwards I understood that that would nev
er come to pass, that men won't change and that nobody can alter it and that
it's not worth wasting effort over it. Yes, that's so. That's the law of their na
ture, Sonia,... that'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 righ
t! So it has been till now and so it will always be. A man must be blind not
to see it!"
Though Raskolnikov looked at Sonia as he said this, he no longer cared w
hether 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). S
onia felt that his gloomy creed had become his faith and code.
"I divined then, Sonia," he went on eagerly, "that power is only vouchsafe
d 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 on
e! I saw clear as daylight how strange it is that not a single person living in
this mad world has had the daring to go straight for it all and send it
flying to
the devil! I... I wanted to have the daring... and I killed her. I only wanted
to have the daring, Sonia! That was the whole cause of it!"
"Oh hush, hush," cried Sonia, clasping her hands. "You turned away from
God and God has smitten you, has given you over to the devil!"
"Then Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and all this became clea
r to me, was it a temptation of the devil, eh?"
"Hush, don't laugh, blasphemer! You don't understand, you don't understan
d! Oh God! He won't understand!"
"Hush, Sonia! I am not laughing. I know myself that it was the devil leadi
ng me. Hush, Sonia, hush!" he repeated with gloomy insistence. "I know it a
ll, I have thought it all

over and over and whispered it all over to myself, lying there in the
dark.... I've argued it all over with
myself, every point of it, and I know it all, all! And how sick, how sick I w
as 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'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't
suppose that I didn't know, for instance, that if I began to question myself
whether I had the right to gain power—I certainly hadn't the right—or
that if I asked myself whether
a human being is a louse it proved that it wasn't so for 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'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't want to lie about it even to myself. It wasn't to help my mother I
did the murder—that's nonsense—I didn't do the murder to gain
wealth and power and to become a benefactor of mankind. Nonsense! I
simply did it; I did the murder for 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't have cared at that moment.... And it was not the mone
y 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 fin
d out something else; it was something else led me on. I wanted to find out t
hen and quickly whether I

was a louse like everybody else or a man. Whether I can step over barrie
rs or not, whether I dare stoop to pick up or not, whether I am a trembling c
reature or whether I have the right..."
"To kill? Have the right to kill?" Sonia clasped her hands.
"Ach, Sonia!" he cried irritably and seemed about
to make some retort, but was contemptuously silent. "Don't interrupt me, S
onia. I want to prove one thing only, that the devil led me on then and he ha
s 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'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's I only went to try.... You may be sure of that!"
"And you murdered her!"
"But how did I murder her? Is that how men do
murders? Do men go to commit a murder as I went then? I will tell you so
me day how I went! Did I murder the old woman? I murdered myself, not h
er! I crushed myself once for all, for ever.... But it was the devil that killed
that old woman, not I. Enough, enough, Sonia, enough! Let me be!" he cried
in a sudden spasm of agony, "let me be!"
He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head in his hands as
in a vise.
"What suffering!" A wail of anguish broke from Sonia.
"Well, what am I to do now?" he asked,
suddenly raising his head and looking at her with a face hideously distorte
d by despair.
"What are you to do?" she cried, jumping up, and her eyes that had been f
ull of tears suddenly began to shine. "Stand up!" (She seized him by the sho
ulder, he got up,
 looking at her almost bewildered.) "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, 'I am a murderer!' Then Go
d will send you life again. Will you go, will you go?" she asked him,
trembling all over, snatching his two
hands, squeezing them tight in hers and gazing at him with eyes full of fire.

He was amazed at her sudden ecstasy.

"You mean Siberia, Sonia? I must give myself up?" he asked gloomily.
"Suffer and expiate your sin by it, that's what you must do."
"No! I am not going to them, Sonia!"
"But how will you go on living? What will you live for?" cried Sonia, "h
ow is it possible now? Why, how can you talk to your mother? (Oh, what w
ill become of them now?) But what am I saying? You have abandoned your
mother and your sister already. He has abandoned them already! Oh, God!"
she cried, "why, he knows it all himself. How, how can he live by
himself! What will become of you now?"
"Don't be a child, Sonia," he said softly. "What wrong have I done them?
Why should I go to them? What should I say to them? That's only a phantom
.... They destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a virtue. The
y are knaves and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not going to them. And what shou
ld I say to them—
that I murdered her, but did not dare to take the money and hid it under a sto
ne?" he added with a bitter smile. "Why, they would laugh at me, and woul
d call me a fool for not getting it. A coward and a fool! They wouldn't unde
rstand and they don't deserve to

understand. Why should I go to them? I won't. Don't be a child, Sonia...."

 "It will be too much for you to bear, too much!" she repeated, holding
out her hands in despairing supplication.
"Perhaps I've been unfair to myself," he
observed gloomily, pondering, "perhaps after all I am a man and not a
louse and I've been in too great a hurry to
condemn myself. I'll make another fight for it."
A haughty smile appeared on his lips.
"What a burden to bear! And your whole life, your whole life!"
"I shall get used to it," he said grimly and thoughtfully. "Listen," he began
a minute later, "stop crying, it's time to talk of the facts: I've come to tell yo
u that the police are after me, on my track...."
"Ach!" Sonia cried in terror.
"Well, why do you cry out? You want me to go
to Siberia and now you are frightened? But let me tell you: I shall not give
myself up. I shall make a struggle for it and they won't do anything to me. T
hey've no real evidence. Yesterday I was in great danger and believed I wa
s lost; but to‐
day things are going better. All the facts they know can be explained two w
ays, that's to say I can turn their accusations to my credit, do you understand
? And I shall, for I've learnt my lesson. But they will certainly arrest me. If
it had not been for something that happened, they would have done so to‐
day for certain; perhaps even now they will arrest me to‐
day.... But that's no matter, Sonia; they'll let me out again... for there isn't an
y real proof against me, and there won't be, I give you my word for it. And t
hey can't convict a man on what they have against
me. Enough.... I only tell you that you may know.... I will try to

manage somehow to put it to my mother and sister so that they won't be

frightened.... My sister's future is
secure, however, now, I believe... and my mother's must be too.... Well, tha
t's all. Be careful, though. Will you come and see me in prison when I am th
ere?"
 "Oh, I will, I will."
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 burdenso
me 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 unhap
pier than before.
"Sonia," he said, "you'd better not come and see
me when I am in prison."
Sonia did not answer, she was crying. Several minutes passed.
"Have you a cross on you?" she asked, as
though suddenly thinking of it.
He did not at first understand the question.
"No, of course not. Here, take this one, of cypress wood. I have another,
a copper one that belonged to Lizaveta. I changed with Lizaveta: she gave
me her cross and I gave her my little ikon. I will wear Lizaveta's now and g
ive you this. Take it... it's mine! It's mine, you know," she begged him. "We
will go to suffer together, and together we will bear our cross!"
"Give it me," said Raskolnikov.
He did not want to hurt her feelings. But immediately he drew back the ha
nd he held out for the cross.

"Not now, Sonia. Better later," he added to comfort her.

"Yes, yes, better," she repeated with conviction, "when you go to meet
your suffering, then put it on. You will come to me, I'll put it on
you, we will pray and go together."
 At that moment someone knocked three times at the door.
"Sofya Semyonovna, may I come in?" they heard in a very familiar and p
olite voice.
Sonia rushed to the door in a fright. The flaxen head of Mr. Lebeziatnikov
appeared at the door.

CHAPTER V
LEBEZIATNIKOV LOOKED PERTURBED.

"I've come to you, Sofya Semyonovna," he began. "Excuse me... I

thought I should find you," he
said, addressing Raskolnikov suddenly, "that is, I didn't mean anything...
of that sort... But I just thought... Katerina Ivanovna has gone out of
her mind," he blurted out suddenly, turning from Raskolnikov to Sonia.
Sonia screamed.
"At least it seems so. But... we don't know what to do, you see! She came
back—
she seems to have been turned out somewhere, perhaps beaten.... So it see
ms at least,... She had run to your father's former chief, she didn't find him
at home: he was dining at some other general's.... Only

fancy, she rushed off there, to the other general'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 happ
ened. She was turned out, of course; but, according to her own story, she ab
used him and threw something at him. One may well believe
it.... How it is she wasn't taken up, I can't understand! Now she is telling
everyone, including Amalia Ivanovna; but
it'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 th
e 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's window... 'to let everyone
see well‐
born children, whose father was an official, begging in the street.' She keep
s beating the children and they are all crying. She is teaching Lida to sing '
My Village,' 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 ti
n basin and make it tinkle, instead of music.... She won't listen to anything...
. Imagine the state of things! It's beyond anything!"
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 o
n her things as she went. Raskolnikov followed her and Lebeziatnikov cam
e
after him.
"She has certainly gone mad!" he said to Raskolnikov, as they went out in
to the street. "I didn't want to frighten Sofya Semyonovna, so I said 'it seem
ed like it,' but there isn't a doubt of it. They say that in consumption
the tubercles sometimes occur in the brain; it's a pity I know

nothing of medicine. I did try to persuade her, but she

wouldn't listen."
"Did you talk to her about the tubercles?"
"Not precisely of the tubercles. Besides, she wouldn't have understood!
But what I say is, that if you convince a person logically that he has nothing
to cry about, he'll stop crying. That's clear. Is it your conviction that he wo
n't?"
"Life would be too easy if it were so," answered Raskolnikov.
"Excuse me, excuse me; of course it would be rather difficult for Katerin
a Ivanovna to understand, but do you know that in Paris they have been
conducting serious experiments as to the possibility of curing the
insane, simply by logical argument? One professor there, a scientific
man of standing, lately dead, believed in the possibility of such
treatment. His idea was that there's nothing really wrong with the
physical organism of
the insane, and that insanity is, so to say, a logical mistake, an error of
judgment, an incorrect view of things.
He gradually showed the madman his error and, would you believe it, they
say he was successful? But as he made use of douches too, how far succes
s was due to that treatment remains uncertain.... So it seems at least."
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 hi
m and hurried on.
Raskolnikov went into his little room and stood still in
the middle of it. Why had he come back here? He looked at the yellow an
d tattered paper, at the dust, at his sofa.... From the yard came a loud contin
uous 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; o
n 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.
Never, never had he felt himself so fearfully alone!
Yes, he felt once more that he would perhaps come to hate Sonia, now tha
t he had made her more miserable.
"Why had he gone to her to beg for her tears? What need had he to poison
her life? Oh, the meanness of it!"
"I will remain alone," he said resolutely, "and she shall not come to the p
rison!"
Five minutes later he raised his head with a
strange smile. That was a strange thought.
 "Perhaps it really would be better in Siberia," he thought suddenly.
He could not have said how long he sat there
with vague thoughts surging through his mind. All at once the door opened
and Dounia came in. At first she stood still and looked at him from the door
way, just as he had done at Sonia; then she came in and sat down in the sam
e place as yesterday, on the chair facing him. He looked silently and almos
t vacantly at her.
"Don't be angry, brother; I've only come for
one minute," said Dounia.
Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were bright and soft. H
e saw that she too had come to him with love.
"Brother, now I know all, all. Dmitri Prokofitch
has explained and told me everything. They are worrying and persecuting
you through a stupid and contemptible suspicion.... Dmitri Prokofitch
told me that there is no

danger, and that you are wrong in looking upon it with such horror. I don't
think so, and I fully understand how indignant you must be, and that that ind
ignation may have a permanent effect on you. That's what I am afraid of. As
for your cutting yourself off from us, I don't judge you, I don't venture to
judge you, and forgive me for having blamed you for it. I feel that I
too, if I had so great a trouble, should keep away from everyone. I
shall tell mother nothing of this, but I shall talk about
you continually and shall tell her from you that you will come very soon. D
on't worry about her; I will set her mind at rest; but don't you try her too m
uch—
come once at least; remember that she is your mother. And now I have com
e simply to say" (Dounia began to get up) "that if you should need me or sh
ould need... all my life or anything... call me, and I'll come. Good‐bye!"
She turned abruptly and went towards the door.
"Dounia!" Raskolnikov stopped her and went towards her. "That
Razumihin, Dmitri Prokofitch, is a very good fellow."
 Dounia flushed slightly.
"Well?" she asked, waiting a moment.
"He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real love.... Good‐
bye, Dounia."
Dounia flushed crimson, then suddenly she took alarm.
"But what does it mean, brother? Are we really parting for ever that you...
give me such a parting message?"
"Never mind.... Good‐bye."
He turned away, and walked to the window. She stood a moment, looked
at him uneasily, and went out troubled.
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 say goodbye to her, and even to tell her, but he had
not dared even to touch her hand.
"Afterwards she may shudder when she
remembers that I embraced her, and will feel that I stole her kiss."
"And would she stand that test?" he went on a few
minutes later to himself. "No, she wouldn't; girls like that
can't stand things! They never do."
And he thought of Sonia.
There was a breath of fresh air from the window. The
daylight was fading. He took up his cap and went out.
He could not, of course, and would not consider how ill he was. But all t
his 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 facultie
s. But this artificial excitement could not last
long.
He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A special form of misery ha
d begun to oppress him of late. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute a
bout 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 "on a square yard
of space." Towards evening this sensation usually began to weigh on him
more heavily.
"With this idiotic, purely physical weakness, depending on the sunset
or something, one can't help
doing something stupid! You'll go to Dounia, as well as to Sonia," he mutte
red bitterly.
He heard his name called. He looked
round. Lebeziatnikov rushed up to him.
"Only fancy, I've been to your room looking for
you. Only fancy, she's carried out her plan, and taken away the

children. Sofya Semyonovna and I have had a job to find them. She is
rapping on a frying‐pan and making the children dance. The children
are crying. They keep stopping at the cross‐
roads and in front of shops; there's a crowd of fools running after them. Co
me along!"
"And Sonia?" Raskolnikov asked anxiously,
hurrying after Lebeziatnikov.
"Simply frantic. That is, it's not Sofya
Semyonovna's frantic, but Katerina Ivanovna, though Sofya Semyonova's fr
antic too. But Katerina Ivanovna is absolutely frantic. I tell you she is quite
mad. They'll be taken to the police. You can fancy what an effect that will h
ave.... They are on the canal bank, near the bridge now, not far from Sofya
Semyonovna's, quite close."
 On the canal bank near the bridge and not two houses away from the one
where Sonia 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, we
aring a torn straw hat, crushed in a hideous way on one side, was really fra
ntic. 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 irritati
on grew more intense. She rushed at the children, shouted at them, coaxed t
hem, 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 d
ecently dressed person stopping to look, she

immediately appealed to him to see what these children "from a genteel,

one may say aristocratic, house" 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 head
s, but everyone felt curious at the sight of the madwoman with the frightene
d children. The frying‐
pan of which Lebeziatnikov had spoken was not there, at least Raskolniko
v 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 Pol
enka 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 str
eet 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's
grandmother's
and had been preserved as a family possession. Polenka was in her everyd
ay dress; she looked in timid perplexity at her mother, and kept at her side,
hiding her tears. She dimly realised her mother's condition, and looked une
asily 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 pe
rsuaded.
"Leave off, Sonia, leave off," she shouted, speaking fast, panting and cou
ghing. "You don't know what you ask; you are like a child! I've told you bef
ore 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 wa
s an honourable man who served all his life
in truth and fidelity, and one may say died in the service." (Katerina
Ivanovna had by now invented this fantastic story and thoroughly
believed it.) "Let that wretch of
a general see it! And you are silly, Sonia: what have we to eat? Tell me tha
t. We have worried you enough, I won't go on so! Ah, Rodion Romanovitch,
is that you?" she cried, seeing Raskolnikov and rushing up to him. "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 differe
nt, that we are an honourable and bereaved family reduced to beggary. And
that general will lose his post, you'll see! We shall perform under
his windows every day, and if the Tsar drives by, I'll fall on my knees, put
the children before me, show them to him, and say 'Defend us father.' He is
the father of the fatherless, he is merciful, he'll protect us, you'll see, and th
at wretch of a general.... Lida, tenez vous droite! Kolya, you'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! W
hat's one to do with such children?"
 And she, almost crying herself—
which did not stop her uninterrupted, rapid flow of talk—
pointed to the crying children. Raskolnikov tried to persuade her to go hom
e, 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.
"A boarding‐school, ha‐ha‐ha! A castle in the air," cried Katerina
Ivanovna, her laugh ending in a cough. "No,

Rodion Romanovitch, that dream is over! All have forsaken us!...

And that general.... You know,
Rodion Romanovitch, I threw an inkpot at him—
it happened to be standing in the waiting‐
room by the paper where you sign your name. I wrote my name, threw
it at him and
ran away. Oh, the scoundrels, the scoundrels! But enough of them, now I'll p
rovide for the children myself, I won't bow down to anybody! She has had t
o bear enough for us!" she pointed to Sonia. "Polenka, how much have you g
ot? 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?" (She pointed t
o a man in the crowd.) "It's all because Kolya here is so stupid; I have such
a bother with him. What do you want, Polenka? Tell me in French, parlez‐
moifrançais. Why, I've taught you, you know some phrases. Else how are y
ou to show that you are of good family, well brought‐
up children, and not at all like other organ‐
grinders? We aren'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 m
oney, something Kolya can dance to.... For, as you can fancy, our performan
ce is all impromptu.... We must talk it over and rehearse it all thoroughly, an
d then we shall go to Nevsky, where there are far more people of good soci
ety, and we shall be noticed at once. Lida knows 'My Village' only, nothing
but 'My Village,' and everyone sings that. We must sing something far
more
genteel.... Well, have you thought of anything, Polenka? If only you'd help y
our mother! My memory's quite gone, or I should have thought of
something. We really can't sing
'An Hussar.' Ah, let us sing in French, 'Cinq sous,' 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 'Marlborough s'en va‐t‐
en guerre,' for that's quite a child's song and is sung as a lullaby in all the ar
istocratic houses.
"Marlborough s'en va
ten guerre Ne sait quand
reviendra..." she began singing. "But no, better sing 'Cinq
sous.' 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!
" Cinq sous, cinq sous Pour monter notre menage."
(Cough‐cough‐cough!) "Set your dress straight, Polenka, it's slipped
down on your shoulders," she observed, panting from coughing.
"Now it'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 ma
de of two widths. It was your fault, Sonia, with your advice to make it short
er, and now you see the child is quite deformed by it.... Why, you're all cry
ing again! What's the matter, stupids? Come, Kolya, begin. Make haste,
make haste! Oh, what an unbearable child!
"Cinq sous, cinq sous.
"A policeman again! What do you want?"
 A policeman was indeed forcing his way through the crowd. But at that m
oment a gentleman in civilian uniform and an overcoat—a solid‐looking
official of about
fifty with a decoration on his neck (which delighted Katerina Ivanovna
and had its effect on the policeman)
— approached and without a word handed her a green three‐ rouble
note. His face wore a look of genuine sympathy. Katerina Ivanovna took
it and gave him a polite, even ceremonious, bow.

"I thank you, honoured sir," she began loftily.

"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, t
hese orphans of good family—I might even say of aristocratic
connections—and that wretch of
a general sat eating grouse... and stamped at my disturbing him. 'Your excel
lency,' I said, 'protect the orphans, for you knew my late husband, Semyon Z
aharovitch, and on the very day of his death the basest of scoundrels slande
red his only daughter.'... That policeman again! Protect
me," she cried to the official. "Why is that policeman edging up to me?
We have only just run away from one of
them. What do you want, fool?"
"It's forbidden in the streets. You mustn't make a
disturbance."
"It's you're making a disturbance. It's just the same as if I were grinding a
n organ. What business is it of yours?"
"You have to get a licence for an organ, and you haven't got one, and in th
at way you collect a crowd. Where do you lodge?"
"What, a license?" wailed Katerina Ivanovna. "I buried my husband to‐
day. What need of a license?"
"Calm yourself, madam, calm yourself," began
the official. "Come along; I will escort you.... This is no place for you in th
e crowd. You are ill."
 "Honoured sir, honoured sir, you don't know," screamed Katerina
Ivanovna. "We are going to the Nevsky.... Sonia, Sonia! Where is
she? She is crying
too! What's the matter with you all? Kolya, Lida, where are you going?"
she cried suddenly in alarm. "Oh, silly
children! Kolya, Lida, where are they off to?..."
 Kolya and Lida, scared out of their wits by the crowd, and their
mother'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 Ivanov
na ran after them. She was a piteous and unseemly spectacle, as she ran, we
eping and panting for breath. Sonia and Polenka rushed after them.
"Bring them back, bring them back, Sonia! Oh stupid, ungrateful children!.
.. Polenka! catch them.... It's for your sakes I..."
She stumbled as she ran and fell down.
"She's cut herself, she's bleeding! Oh, dear!" cried Sonia, bending over h
er.
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, "Bother!" with a gesture of impatience, feeling that the job
was going to be a troublesome one.
"Pass on! Pass on!" he said to the crowd that pressed forward.
"She's dying," someone shouted.
"She's gone out of her mind," said another.
"Lord have mercy upon us," said a woman, crossing herself. "Have
they caught the little girl and the
boy? They're being brought back, the elder one's got them.... Ah, the naught
y imps!"
When they examined Katerina Ivanovna carefully, they saw that she had n
ot cut herself against a stone, as Sonia thought, but that the blood that staine
d the pavement red was from her chest.
"I've seen that before," muttered the official
to Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov; "that's consumption; the blood flows an
d 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 m
inute.... What's to be done though? She is dying."
"This way, this way, to my room!" Sonia implored. "I live here!... See, th
at house, the second from here.... Come to me, make haste," she turned
from one to the other. "Send for the doctor! Oh, dear!"
Thanks to the official's efforts, this plan was adopted, the policeman
even helping to carry Katerina
Ivanovna. She was carried to Sonia's room, almost unconscious, and laid
on the bed. The blood was still flowing, but
she seemed to be coming to herself. Raskolnikov, Lebeziatnikov, a
nd the official accompanied Sonia into the room and were followed by the
policeman, who first drove back the crowd which followed to the very doo
r. Polenka came in holding Kolya and Lida, who were trembling and weep
ing. Several persons came in too from
the Kapernaumovs' 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 w
ith surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not having noti
ced 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 or
dered him to be sent for. Kapernaumov ran himself.
Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna had regained her breath. The bleeding cea
sed 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.
"Where are the children?" she said in a faint voice.
 "You've brought them, Polenka? Oh the sillies! Why
did you run away.... Och!"
Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She moved her ey
es, looking about her.
"So that's how you live, Sonia! Never once have I been in your room."
She looked at her with a face of suffering.
"We have been your ruin, Sonia. Polenka, Lida, Kolya, come here! Well,
here they are, Sonia, take them all! I hand them over to you, I've had
enough! The ball is
over." (Cough!) "Lay me down, let me die in peace."
They laid her back on the pillow.
"What, the priest? I don't want him. You haven't got a rouble to spare. I
have no sins. God must forgive
me without that. He knows how I have suffered.... And if He
won't forgive me, I don't care!"
She sank more and more into uneasy delirium. At times she shuddered,
turned her eyes from side to
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.
"I said to him, your excellency," she ejaculated, gasping after each
word. "That Amalia Ludwigovna, ah!
Lida, Kolya, hands on your hips, make haste! Glissez, glissez! pas de basq
ue! Tap with your heels, be a graceful child!
"Du hast Diamanten und Perlen
"What next? That's the thing to sing.
"Du hast die schonsten Augen Madchen, was willst du
mehr?
 "What an idea! Was willst du mehr? What things the fool
invents! Ah, yes!
"In the heat of midday in the vale of Dagestan.
"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's the thing for us to sing! How does it go
? I've forgotten. Remind me! How was it?"
She was violently excited and tried to sit up. At last, in a horribly
hoarse, broken voice, she began, shrieking
and gasping at every word, with a look of growing terror.
"In the heat of midday!... in the vale!... of Dagestan!... With lead in my bre
ast!..."
"Your excellency!" she wailed suddenly with a heart‐
rending scream and a flood of tears, "protect the orphans! You have been
their father's guest... one may say aristocratic...." She started,
regaining consciousness,
and gazed at all with a sort of terror, but at once recognised Sonia.
"Sonia, Sonia!" she articulated softly and caressingly, as though surprised
to find her there. "Sonia darling, are you here, too?"
They lifted her up again.
"Enough! It's over! Farewell, poor thing! I am done for! I am broken!" she
cried with vindictive despair, and her head fell heavily back on the pillow.

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 move
d convulsively, she gave a deep, deep sigh and died.
Sonia fell upon her, flung her arms about her,
and remained motionless with her head pressed to the dead woman's
wasted bosom. Polenka threw herself at her
 mother's feet, kissing them and weeping violently. Though Kolya and Lid
a did not understand what had happened, they had a feeling that it was some
thing terrible; they put their hands on each other's little shoulders, stared str
aight at one another and both at once opened their mouths and began screa
ming. They were both still in their fancy dress; one in a turban, the
other in the cap with the ostrich feather.
And how did "the certificate of merit" come to be on the
bed beside Katerina Ivanovna? It lay there by the pillow;
Raskolnikov saw it.
He walked away to the window. Lebeziatnikov skipped up to him.
"She is dead," he said.
"Rodion Romanovitch, I must have two words
with you," said Svidrigaïlov, coming up to them.
Lebeziatnikov at once made room for him and delicately withdrew.
Svidrigaïlov drew Raskolnikov further away.
"I will undertake all the arrangements, the funeral and that. You know it's a
question of money and, as I told you, I have plenty to spare. I will put those
two little ones and Polenka into some good orphan asylum, and I will settl
e fifteen hundred roubles to be paid to each on coming of age, so that Sofya
Semyonovna need have no anxiety about them. And I will pull her out of the
mud too, for she is a good girl, isn't she? So tell Avdotya Romanovna that th
at is how I am spending her ten thousand."
"What is your motive for such benevolence?" asked Raskolnikov.
"Ah! you sceptical person!" laughed Svidrigaïlov. "I told you I had no nee
d of that money. Won't you admit that it's simply done from humanity?
She wasn't 'a louse,' you

know" (he pointed to the corner where the dead woman lay), "was she, li
ke some old pawnbroker woman? Come, you'll agree, is Luzhin to go on liv
ing, and doing wicked things or is she to die? And if I didn't help them, Pol
enka would go the same way."
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.
"How do you know?" he whispered, hardly able to breathe.
"Why, I lodge here at Madame Resslich's, the other side of the wall. Here
is Kapernaumov, and there lives Madame Resslich, an old and devoted
friend of mine. I am a neighbour."
"You?"
"Yes," continued Svidrigaïlov, shaking with laughter. "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. An
d you will see what an accommodating person I am. You'll see that you can
get on with me!"

Ebd
E‐BooksDirectory.com

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 fr
om 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, h
e 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 apat
hy, 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 try
ing 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 b
een to be free from some cares, the neglect of
which would have threatened him with complete, inevitable ruin.

He was particularly worried about Svidrigaïlov,

he might be said to be permanently thinking of Svidrigaïlov. From the
time of Svidrigaïlov's too menacing and unmistakable words in
Sonia's room at the moment of Katerina Ivanovna's 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 r
emote 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 fo
r Svidrigaïlov. Another time he woke up before
daybreak lying on the ground under some bushes and could not at first under
stand how he had come there.
 But during the two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna's death,
he had two or three times met Svidrigaïlov at Sonia'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.
Katerina Ivanovna'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'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 "he would like to
consult with him, that there were things they must talk over...."
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: "But how is
it, Rodion Romanovitch; you don't
seem yourself? You look and you listen, but you don't seem to understand.
Cheer up! We'll talk things over; I am
only sorry, I've so much to do of my own business and other people's. Ah,
Rodion Romanovitch," he added suddenly, "what all men need is
fresh air, fresh air... more than anything!"
He moved to one side to make way for the priest and server, who were c
oming up the stairs. They had come for the requiem service. By Svidrigaïlo
v's orders it was sung twice a day punctually. Svidrigaïlov went his
way. Raskolnikov stood still a moment, thought, and followed the priest int
o Sonia's room. He stood at the door. They began quietly, slowly and mour
nfully singing the service. From his childhood the thought of death and the p
resence 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 an
d 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, ti
midly weeping.
"These last two days she hasn't said a word to me, she hasn't glanced at m
e," Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The

sunlight was bright in the room; the incense rose

in clouds; the priest read, "Give rest, oh Lord...." Raskolnikov stayed all
through the service. As he blessed them
and took his leave, the priest looked round strangely. After the service, Ra
skolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his hands and let her head sink o
n his shoulder. This slight friendly gesture bewildered Raskolnikov. It
seemed strange to him that there was no trace of repugnance, no trace of di
sgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the furthest limit of self‐
abnegation, at least so he interpreted it.
Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt v
ery 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 be
en 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 see
med 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. "Here I sit listening to singing, is that what I ought to be doing?" he th
ought. 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. "No, better the struggle again! Better

Porfiry again... or Svidrigaïlov.... Better some

challenge again... some attack. Yes, yes!" he thought. He went out of the tave
rn and rushed away almost at a run. The thought of Dounia and his mother su
ddenly 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'
sleep the fever left him, but he woke up late, two o'clock in the afternoon.
He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna'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 app
etite, 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
.
The door opened and Razumihin came in.
"Ah, he's eating, then he's not ill," said Razumihin. He took a chair and
sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov.
He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with
evident annoyance, but without hurry
or raising his voice. He looked as though he had some special fixed determi
nation.
"Listen," he began resolutely. "As far as I am concerned, you may all go t
o hell, but from what I see, it's clear to me that I can't make head or tail of it
; please don't think I've come to ask you questions. I don't want to know, ha
ng it! If you begin telling me your secrets, I dare say I shouldn't stay to liste
n, I should go away cursing. I have only come to find out once for all
whether it's a fact that you
are mad? There is a conviction in the air that you are mad or very nearly s
o. I admit I'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."
"When did you see them last?"
"Just now. Haven't you seen them since then?
What have you been doing with yourself? Tell me, please. I've been to you
three times already. Your mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She
had made up her mind to come to you; Avdotya Romanovna tried to
prevent
her; she wouldn't hear a word. 'If he is ill, if his mind is giving way, who c
an look after him like his mother?' she said. We all came here together, we
couldn't let her come alone all the way. We kept begging her to be calm. We
came in, you weren't here; she sat down, and stayed ten minutes, while we
stood waiting in silence. She got up and said: 'If he's gone out, that is, if he
is well, and has forgotten his mother, it's humiliating and unseemly for his
mother to stand at his door begging for kindness.' She returned home
and took to her bed; now she is in a fever. 'I see,' she said, 'that he has
time for his girl.' She means by your girl Sofya Semyonovna, your
betrothed or your mistress, I
don't know. I went at once to Sofya Semyonovna's, for I wanted to know
what was going on. I looked round, I saw
the coffin, the children crying, and Sofya Semyonovna trying them on mour
ning dresses. No sign of you. I apologised, came away, and reported to Avd
otya Romanovna. So that's all nonsense and you haven't got a girl; the
most
likely thing is that you are mad. But here you sit, guzzling boiled beef as th
ough you'd not had a bite for three days. Though as far as that goes, madme
n eat too, but though you have not said a word to me yet... you are not
mad! That I'd swear! Above all, you are not mad! So you may go to hell,
 all of you, for there's some mystery, some secret about it, and I don't inten
d to worry my brains over your secrets. So I've simply come to swear at yo
u," he finished, getting up, "to relieve my mind. And I know what to do now
."
"What do you mean to do now?"
"What business is it of yours what I mean to do?"
"You are going in for a drinking bout."
"How... how did you know?"
"Why, it's pretty plain."
Razumihin paused for a minute.
"You always have been a very rational person and you've never
been mad, never," he observed
suddenly with warmth. "You're right: I shall drink. Good‐bye!"
And he moved to go out.
"I was talking with my sister—the day
before yesterday, I think it was—about you, Razumihin."
"About me! But... where can you have seen her the day before
yesterday?" Razumihin stopped short and even turned a little pale.
One could see that his heart was throbbing slowly and violently.
"She came here by herself, sat there and talked to me."
"She did!"
"Yes."
"What did you say to her... I mean, about me?"
"I told her you were a very good, honest,
and industrious man. I didn't tell her you love her, because she knows that
herself."
 "She knows that herself?"
"Well, it's pretty plain. Wherever I might go, whatever happened to me, y
ou would remain to look after them. I, so to speak, give them into your keep
ing, 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 d
rinking bout or not."
"Rodya! You see... well.... Ach, damn it! But where do you mean to go? O
f course, if it's all a secret, never mind.... But I... I shall find out the secret...
and I am sure that it
must be some ridiculous nonsense and that you've made it all up. Anyway
you are a capital fellow, a capital fellow!..."
"That was just what I wanted to add, only
you interrupted, that that was a very good decision of yours not to find out t
hese secrets. Leave it to time, don't worry about it. You'll know it all in
time when it must be.
Yesterday a man said to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh air, fr
esh air. I mean to go to him directly to find out what he meant by that."
Razumihin stood lost in thought and
excitement, making a silent conclusion.
"He's a political conspirator! He must be. And he's on the eve of some des
perate step, that's certain. It can only be that! And... and Dounia knows," he t
hought suddenly.
"So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you," he said, weighing each
syllable, "and you're going to see a
man who says we need more air, and so of course that letter... that too must
have something to do with it," he concluded to himself.
"What letter?"
 "She got a letter to‐day. It upset her very much—
very much indeed. Too much so. I began speaking of you, she begged me n
ot to. Then... then she said that perhaps we should very soon have to part...
then she began warmly thanking
me for something; then she went to her room and locked herself in."

"She got a letter?" Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully.

"Yes, and you didn't know? hm..."
They were both silent.
"Good‐
bye, Rodion. There was a time, brother, when I.... Never mind, good‐
bye. You see, there was a time.... Well, good‐bye! I must be off too. I
am not going to drink. There's no need now.... That's all stuff!"
He hurried out; but when he had almost closed
the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again, and said, looking away:
"Oh, by the way, do you remember that murder, you know Porfiry's, that
old woman? Do you know
the murderer has been found, he has confessed and given the proofs. It's one
of those very workmen, the painter, only fancy! Do you remember I
defended them here?
Would you believe it, all that scene of fighting and laughing with his compan
ions on the stairs while the porter and the two witnesses were going up, he
got up on purpose to disarm suspicion. The cunning, the presence of mind of
the young dog! One can hardly credit it; but it's his own explanation, he has
confessed it all. And what a fool I was about it! Well, he's simply a genius o
f hypocrisy and resourcefulness in disarming the suspicions of the
lawyers—so
there's nothing much to wonder at, I suppose! Of course people like that are
always possible. And the fact that he couldn't keep up the character, but conf
essed, makes him easier to believe in. But what a fool I was! I was frantic o
n their
side!"
 "Tell me, please, from whom did you hear that, and why does it interest
you so?" Raskolnikov asked with unmistakable agitation.
 "What next? You ask me why it interests me!... Well, I heard it from Porfir
y, among others... It was from him I heard almost all about it."
"From Porfiry?"
"From Porfiry."
"What... what did he say?" Raskolnikov asked in dismay.
"He gave me a capital explanation of it. Psychologically, after his fashion
."
"He explained it? Explained it himself?"
"Yes, yes; good‐bye. I'll tell you all about it
another time, but now I'm busy. There was a time when I fancied... But no
matter, another time!... What need is there for me to drink now? You have m
ade me drunk without wine. I
am drunk, Rodya! Good‐bye, I'm going. I'll come again very
soon."
He went out.
"He's a political conspirator, there's not a doubt about it," Razumihin deci
ded, as he slowly descended the stairs. "And he's drawn his sister in; that's
quite, quite in keeping with Avdotya Romanovna's character. There
are interviews between them!... She hinted at it too... So many of her words.
... and hints... bear that meaning! And how else can all this tangle be explain
ed? Hm! And I was almost thinking... Good heavens, what I thought! Yes, I t
ook 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 strang
e actions... before this, in the university, how morose he used to be, how
gloomy.... But what's
the meaning now of that letter? There's something in that, too,
 perhaps. Whom was it from? I suspect...! No, I must find
out!"
He thought of Dounia, realising all he had heard and his heart throbbed, an
d he suddenly broke into a run.
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.
"Yes, a means of escape had come! It had been
too stifling, too cramping, the burden had been too agonising. A lethargy ha
d come upon him at times. From the moment of the scene with Nikolay
at Porfiry's he had been suffocating, penned in without hope of
escape.
After Nikolay's confession, on that very day had come the scene with
Sonia; his behaviour and his last words had been utterly unlike
anything he could have imagined beforehand; he had grown feebler,
instantly
and fundamentally! And he had agreed at the time with Sonia, he had agree
d in his heart he could not go on living alone with such a thing on his mind!

"And Svidrigaïlov was a riddle... He worried him, that was true, but som
ehow not on the same point. He might still have a struggle to come with Svi
drigaïlov. Svidrigaïlov, too, might be a means of escape; but Porfiry
was a different matter.
"And so Porfiry himself had explained it to Razumihin, had explained it
psychologically. He had begun bringing in his damned psychology again! P
orfiry? But to think that Porfiry should for one moment believe that Nikolay
was guilty, after what had passed between them before Nikolay's
appearance, after that tête‐à‐tête interview,
 which could have only one explanation? (During
those days Raskolnikov had often recalled passages in that scene with Porf
iry; 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 bee
n said in such a tone and had reached such a pass, that Nikolay, whom Porf
iry had seen through at the first word, at the
first gesture, could not have shaken his conviction.
"And to think that even Razumihin had begun to suspect! The scene
in the corridor under the lamp
had produced its effect then. He had rushed to Porfiry.... But what had indu
ced 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 t
ime had passed since that morning—too long a time—and no sight nor
sound of Porfiry. Well, that was a bad sign...."
Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the room, still pondering. It wa
s the first time for a long while that he had felt clear in his mind, at least. "I
must settle Svidrigaïlov," he thought, "and as soon as possible; he, too, see
ms to be waiting for me to come to him of my own accord." And at that mo
ment there was such a rush of hate in his weary heart that he might have
killed either of those two
— Porfiry or Svidrigaïlov. At least he felt that he would be capable of doin
g it later, if not now.
"We shall see, we shall see," he repeated to himself.
But no sooner had he opened the door than he stumbled upon
Porfiry himself in the passage. He
was coming in to see him. Raskolnikov was dumbfounded for a minute, but
only for one minute. Strange to say, he was not very much astonished at see
ing Porfiry and scarcely afraid of him. He was simply startled, but was qui
ckly, instantly,

on his guard. "Perhaps this will mean the end? But how could Porfiry hav
e approached so quietly, like a cat, so that he had heard nothing? Could he
have been listening at the door?"
"You didn't expect a visitor, Rodion
Romanovitch," Porfiry explained, laughing. "I've been meaning to look in a
long time; I was passing by and thought why not go in for five minutes. Are
you going out? I won't keep you long. Just let me have one cigarette."
"Sit down, Porfiry Petrovitch, sit down." Raskolnikov gave his
visitor a seat with so pleased and friendly
an expression that he would have marvelled at himself, if he could have se
en it.
The last moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man wil
l sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet whe
n the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear.
Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and looked at him
without flinching. Porfiry screwed up
his eyes and began lighting a cigarette.
"Speak, speak," seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov's hear
t. "Come, why don't you speak?"

CHAPTER II

"Ah these cigarettes!" Porfiry Petrovitch ejaculated at last, having lighted

one. "They are pernicious, positively pernicious, and yet I can't give them
up! I cough, I begin to

have tickling in my throat and a difficulty in breathing. You know I am a c

oward, I went lately to Dr. B——
n; he always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He positively laugh
ed looking at me; he sounded me: 'Tobacco's bad for you,' he said, 'your lun
gs are affected.' But how am I to give it up? What is there to take its place?
I don't drink, that's the mischief, he‐he‐he, that I don't. Everything
is relative, Rodion Romanovitch, everything is relative!"
 "Why, he's playing his professional tricks
again," Raskolnikov thought with disgust. All the circumstances of their las
t interview suddenly came back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that
had come upon him then.
"I came to see you the day before yesterday, in the evening; you
didn't know?" Porfiry Petrovitch went
on, looking round the room. "I came into this very room. I was passing by,
just as I did to‐
day, and I thought I'd return your call. I walked in as your door was wide o
pen, I looked round, waited and went out without leaving my name with yo
ur servant. Don't you lock your door?"
Raskolnikov's face grew more and more
gloomy. Porfiry seemed to guess his state of mind.
"I've come to have it out with you,
Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow! I owe you an explanation and must
give it to you," he continued with a slight smile, just patting Raskolnikov's
knee.
But almost at the same instant a serious and careworn
look came into his face; to his surprise Raskolnikov saw a touch of
sadness in it. He had never seen and never
suspected such an expression in his face.
"A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rodion
Romanovitch. Our first interview, too, was
a strange one; but then... and one thing after another! This is the point: I hav
e perhaps acted unfairly to you; I feel it. Do

you remember how we parted? Your nerves

were unhinged and your knees were shaking and so were mine. And, you
know, our behaviour was unseemly, even ungentlemanly. And yet we
are gentlemen, above all, in any case, gentlemen; that must be
understood. Do you remember what we came to?... and it was
quite indecorous."
 "What is he up to, what does he take me
for?" Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and lookin
g with open eyes on Porfiry.
"I've decided openness is better between us," 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.
"Yes, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Nikolay p
ut a stop to it, or I don't know what we might not have come to. That damne
d workman was sitting at the time in the next room—
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't? What shall I say to you? it had all c
ome upon me so suddenly. I had scarcely sent for the porters (you noticed t
hem as you went out, I dare say). An idea flashed upon me; I was firmly co
nvinced at the time, you see, Rodion Romanovitch. Come, I thought—
even if I let one thing slip for a time, I shall get hold of something else—
I shan't lose what I want, anyway. You are nervously irritable, Rodion
Romanovitch,
by temperament; it's out of proportion with other qualities of your heart an
d 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'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 psychologic
al. 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 th
ings! I had great hopes of you at that time."
 "But what are you driving at now?"
Raskolnikov muttered at last, asking the question without thinking.
"What is he talking about?" he wondered distractedly, "does he really tak
e me to be innocent?"
"What am I driving at? I've come to explain myself, I consider it my duty,
so to speak. I want to make clear to you how the whole business, the whole
misunderstanding arose. I've caused you a great deal of suffering,
Rodion Romanovitch. I am not a monster. I understand what
it must mean for a man who has been unfortunate, but who is proud, imperi
ous 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 magnani
mity, though I don't agree with all your convictions. I wanted to tell you thi
s first, frankly and quite sincerely, for above all I don't want to deceive
you. When I made your acquaintance, I felt attracted by you. Perhaps
you will laugh at my saying so. You have a
right to. I know you disliked me from the first and indeed you've no reason t
o like me. You may think what you like, but I desire now to do all I can to e
fface that impression and to show that I am a man of heart and conscience. I
speak sincerely."

Porfiry Petrovitch made a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a rush of

renewed alarm. The thought that
Porfiry believed him to be innocent began to make him uneasy.
"It's scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail," Porfiry
Petrovitch went on. "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 af
fected you, I need not go into. My suspicions were aroused by a complete a
ccident, 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—
for one may as well make a clean breast of it—
I was the first to pitch on you. The old woman's notes on the pledges and the
rest of it—
that all came to nothing. Yours was one of a hundred. I happened, too, to hea
r 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't make a horse, a
hundred suspicions don't make a proof, as the English proverb says,
but that's only from the rational point of view—
you can't help being partial, for after all a lawyer is only human. I thought, t
oo, of your article in that journal, do you remember, on your first visit we ta
lked 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 sl
eepless 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 amat
eur, 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 fan
tastic, but there's a transparent sincerity,
a youthful incorruptible pride and the daring of despair in it. It's a gloomy
article, but that's what's fine in it. I read
your article and put it aside, thinking as I did so 'that man won't go the
common way.' 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 i
n it? I reflected. There's nothing in it, that is really nothing and perhaps abs
olutely nothing. And it's not at all the thing for the prosecutor to let himself
be carried away by notions: here I have Nikolay on my hands with actual e
vidence against him—
you may think what you like of it, but it's evidence. He brings in his psychol
ogy, too; one has to consider him, too, for it'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'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 umsonst! I thought to myself, now that man will come,
will come of himself and quickly, too; if
he's guilty, he's sure to come. Another man wouldn'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 indi
gnation. Mr. Zametov was tremendously struck by your anger and your
open daring. Think
of blurting out in a restaurant 'I killed her.' It was too daring, too reckless. I
thought so myself, if he is guilty he will be a formidable opponent. That w
as what I thought at the time. I was expecting you. But you simply bowled Z
ametov over and... well, you see, it all lies in this—
that this damnable psychology can be taken two ways! Well, I kept expectin
g you, and so it was, you came! My heart was
fairly throbbing. Ach!
"Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in,
do you remember? I saw it all plain
as daylight, but if I hadn't expected you so specially, I should not have noti
ced anything in your laughter. You see what influence a mood has! Mr. Razu
mihin then—
ah, that stone, that stone under which the things were hidden! I seem to see
it somewhere in a kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden, you told
Zametov and afterwards you
repeated that in my office? And when we began picking your article to pie
ces, how you explained it! One could take every word of yours in two
senses, as though there were another meaning hidden.
 "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 ca
n take it all in another sense if you like, and it's more natural so, indeed. I c
ouldn't help admitting it was more natural. I was bothered! 'No, I'd better g
et hold of some little fact' I said. So when I heard of the bell‐
ringing, I held my breath and was all in a tremor. 'Here is my little fact,' th
ought I, and I didn't think it over, I simply wouldn't. I would have given a th
ousand 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?
"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 hi
m! I didn't believe in the thunderbolt, not for a minute. You could see it for
yourself; and how could I? Even afterwards, when you had gone and he beg
an making very, very plausible answers on certain points, so that I was sur
prised at him myself, even then I didn't believe his story! You see what
it is to be as firm as a rock!
No, thought I, Morgenfrüh. What has Nikolay got to do with it!"
"Razumihin told me just now that you think
Nikolay guilty and had yourself assured him of it...."
His voice failed 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 an
d did not believe it. In those still ambiguous words he kept eagerly
looking for something more definite and conclusive.
 "Mr. Razumihin!" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, seeming glad of a question
from Raskolnikov, who had till then been silent. "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 t
o 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, ho
w 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't laugh at my descri
bing 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—not
as a regular vice, but at
times, when people treat him, like a child. And he stole, too, then, without k
nowing it himself, for 'How can it be stealing, if one picks it up?' And do yo
u know he is an Old Believer, or rather a dissenter? There have been Wande
rers[*] in his family, and he was for two years in his village under the spirit
ual guidance of a certain elder. I learnt all this from Nikolay and from his f
ellow villagers. And what's more, he wanted to run into the wilderness! He
was full of fervour, prayed at night, read the old books, 'the true' ones, and r
ead himself crazy.

[*] A religious sect.—TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.

"Petersburg had a great effect upon him, especially the women and the wi
ne. He responds to everything and he forgot the elder and all that. I learnt th
at an artist here took a fancy to him, and used to go and see him, and now t
his business came upon him.
"Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He ran away! How ca
n 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 s
eems, he remembered the venerable elder; the Bible, too, made its appeara
nce 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 wh
o spent a whole year in prison always reading his Bible on the stove at nig
ht and he read himself crazy, and so crazy, do you know, that one day, aprop
os 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: ai
med it a yard on one side on purpose, for fear of hurting him. Well, we kno
w 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 ho
ur 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 booki
sh 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 ov
er a precipice or from a bell tower and his legs shook as he went to the cri
me. He forgot to shut the door after him, and murdered two people for a th
eory. He committed the murder and couldn't take the money, and what he di
d manage to snatch up he hid under a stone. It wasn't enough for him to suffe
r agony behind the door while they battered at the door and rung the bell, n
o, 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 him
self as an honest man, despises others, poses as
injured innocence. No, that's not the work of a Nikolay, my dear Rodion R
omanovitch!"
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, you, Rodion Romanovitch! You are the murderer," he added,
almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction.

Raskolnikov leapt from the sofa, stood up for a

few seconds and sat down again without uttering a word. His face twitched
convulsively.
"Your lip is twitching just as it did before,"
Porfiry Petrovitch observed almost sympathetically. "You've been misunder
standing me, I think, Rodion Romanovitch,"
he added after a brief pause, "that's why you are so surprised. I came on pu
rpose 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 whis
pered sternly, with conviction.
They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten minu
tes. 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 pl
ace, 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 sh
ould I put you in safety? You know that's it, since you ask me to do it. If I co
nfront you with that workman for instance and you say to him 'were you dru
nk 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 psych
ology 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 th
e right to put it off any longer, I must arrest you. So think it over: it makes n
o difference to me
now and so I speak only for your sake. Believe me, it will be better, Rod
ion 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 app
ear to have been something like an aberration, for in truth it was an aberrati
on. 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 le
ssening 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 m
itigation of sentence."
Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him.
"Ah, don't disdain life!" Porfiry went on. "You have a great deal of it still
before you. How can you say you don't want a mitigation of sentence?
You are an impatient fellow!"
"A great deal of what lies before me?"
"Of life. What sort of prophet are you, do you
know much about it? Seek and ye shall find. This may be God's means for
bringing you to Him. And it's not for ever, the bondage...."
"The time will be shortened," laughed Raskolnikov.
"Why, is it the bourgeois disgrace you are afraid of? It may be that you
are afraid of it without knowing it, because you are young! But
anyway you shouldn't be afraid of giving yourself up and confessing."
"Ach, hang it!" Raskolnikov whispered with
loathing and 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 evi
dent 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 reg
ard you? I regard you as one of those men who would stand and smile at the
ir torturer while he cuts
their entrails out, if only they have found faith or God. Find it and you wil
l 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. Wha
t 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? Perha
ps God is saving you for something. But keep a good heart and have less fe
ar! 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 hear
t. There is justice in it. You must fulfil the demands of justice. I know that y
ou 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, wil
l pass off in smoke and come to nothing. Come, what does it matter, that yo
u 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 flatter
y. Well, perhaps I am, he‐he‐
he! Perhaps you'd better not believe my word, perhaps you'd better never b
elieve 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 inter
est, 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 lif
e is a definite position, an atmosphere to suit

you. And what sort of atmosphere would you have? If you ran away, you'
d come back to yourself. You can't get on without us. And if
I put you in prison—say you've been there a month, or two, or three—
remember my word, you'll confess of yourself and perhaps to your
own surprise. You won't know an hour beforehand that you are coming
with a confession. I am convinced that you will decide, 'to take
your suffering.' You don't believe
my words now, but you'll come to it of yourself. For suffering, Rodion
Romanovitch, is a great thing. Never mind
my having grown fat, I know all the same. Don't laugh at it, there's an idea
in suffering, Nokolay is right. No, you won't run away, Rodion Romanovitc
h."
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 hav
e 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 t
o you to‐
day," Raskolnikov pronounced with sullen insistence. "You're a strange ma
n and I have listened to you from simple curiosity. But I have admitted noth
ing, 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. Wa
lk 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 awkwar
d one, but important. If anything were to happen (though indeed I don't beli
eve in it and think you quite incapable of it), yet in case you were taken dur
ing 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, an
d mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come, till we meet! Good th
oughts and sound decisions to you!"
Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking
at Raskolnikov. The latter went to the window and waited with irritable i
mpatience till he calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and
moved away. Then he too went hurriedly out of the room.
 CHAPTER III

He hurried to Svidrigaïlov's. What he had to hope from that man he did no

t know. But that man had some hidden
power over him. Having once recognised this, he could not rest, and now
the time had come.
On the way, one question particularly worried him: had Svidrigaïlov bee
n to Porfiry's?
As far as he could judge, he would swear to it, that he had not. He ponder
ed again and again, went over Porfiry's visit; no, he hadn't been, of course h
e hadn't.
But if he had not been yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for the present he
fancied he couldn't. Why? He could
not have explained, but if he could, he would not have wasted much though
t 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 a
nxiety about his immediate future. Another, much more important anxiety
tormented him—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 o
f late.
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 Porfi
ry's? Was it worth while to investigate, to ascertain the facts, to waste
time over anyone like Svidrigaïlov?
Oh, how sick he was of it all!
 And yet he was hastening to Svidrigaïlov; could he be expecting somethin
g new 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, despa
ir; 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 Soni
a 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 esp
ecially 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 t
hat he must see him for some reason.
But what could they have in common? Their very evil‐
doing could not be of the same kind. The 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's children, but who could tell with what motive and what it
meant? The man always had some design, some project.
There was another thought which had been continually hovering of late
about Raskolnikov'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 the
m still? Wasn'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?
This idea sometimes even tormented his dreams, but it had never presente
d itself so vividly to him as on his way to Svidrigaïlov. The very thought mo
ved 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'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.
In any case he must see Svidrigaïlov as soon
as possible, he decided finally. Thank God, the details of the interview we
re 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—then...
Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had passed through that
month that he could only decide such

questions in one way; "then I shall kill him," he thought in cold despair.
A sudden anguish oppressed his heart, he stood still in the middle of the s
treet 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 windo
ws 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 wome
n 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 Svidrigaïlo
v, 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 prete
nded not to have seen him, but to be looking absent‐
mindedly away, while he watched him out of the corner of his eye. His hear
t 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 conceal
ing himself, but as he got up and moved back his chair, he seemed to
have become suddenly aware
that Raskolnikov had seen him, and was watching him. What had passed
between them was much the same as
what happened at their first meeting in Raskolnikov's room. A sly smile ca
me into Svidrigaïlov's face and grew broader and broader. Each knew that
he was seen and watched by the other. At last Svidrigaïlov broke into a lou
d laugh.

"Well, well, come in if you want me; I am here!" he

shouted from the window.
Raskolnikov went up into the tavern. He
found Svidrigaïlov in a tiny back room, adjoining the saloon in which merc
hants, 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 bill
iard 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' hall song in a rather husky contr
alto, to the accompaniment of the organ.
"Come, that's enough," Svidrigaïlov stopped her at Raskolnikov's
entrance. The girl at once broke off and stood waiting respectfully.
She had sung her
guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful expression in her face.
"Hey, Philip, a glass!" shouted Svidrigaïlov.
"I won't drink anything," said Raskolnikov.
 "As you like, I didn't mean it for you. Drink, Katia! I don't want anything
more to‐
day, you can go." He poured her out a full glass, and laid down a yellow no
te.
Katia drank off her glass of wine, as women do, without putting it down,
in twenty gulps, took the note and kissed Svidrigaïlov's hand, which he allo
wed 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.
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.
"I was going to see you and looking for
you," Raskolnikov began, "but I don't know what made me turn from the H
ay Market into the X. Prospect just now. I never take this turning. I turn to th
e right from the Hay Market. And this isn't the way to you. I simply turned a
nd here you are. It is strange!"
"Why don't you say at once 'it's a miracle'?"
"Because it may be only chance."
"Oh, that's the way with all you folk,"
laughed Svidrigaïlov. "You won't admit 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't fancy,
Rodion Romanovitch. I don't mean you, you have an opinion of your own a
nd are not afraid to have it. That's how it was you attracted my curiosity."
"Nothing else?"
 "Well, that's enough, you know," Svidrigaïlov
was obviously exhilarated, but only slightly so, he had not had more than h
alf a glass of wine.
"I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of havin
g what you call an opinion of my own," observed Raskolnikov.
"Oh, well, it was a different matter. Everyone has his own plans. And apr
opos 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 i
n your

coming straight here. I explained the way myself, told you where it was, a
nd the hours you could find me here. Do you remember?"
"I don't remember," answered Raskolnikov with surprise.
"I believe you. I told you twice. The address has been stamped mechanic
ally 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 Rom
anovitch. And another thing, I'm convinced there are lots of people in Peter
sburg 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 mak
e most valuable investigations in Petersburg each in his own line.
There are few places where there are so many gloomy, strong and
queer influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The mere influences
of climate mean so much. And it's
the administrative centre of all Russia and its character must
be reflected on the whole country. But that is neither here nor there
now. The point is that I have several
times watched you. You walk out of your house—holding your head high—
twenty paces from home you let it sink, and fold your hands behind your ba
ck. 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 o
ne hand and declaim, and at last stand still in the middle of the road. That's
not at all the thing. Someone may be watching you besides me, and it won't
do you any good. It's nothing really to do with me and I can't cure you, but,
of course, you understand me."

"Do you know that I am being followed?"

asked Raskolnikov, looking inquisitively at him.
"No, I know nothing about it," said Svidrigaïlov, seeming surprised.
"Well, then, let us leave me alone,"
Raskolnikov muttered, frowning.
"Very good, let us leave you alone."
"You had better tell me, if you come here to drink, and directed me twice
to come here to you, why did you hide, and try to get away just now when I
looked at the window from the street? I saw it."
"He‐he! And why was it you lay on your sofa
with closed eyes and pretended to be asleep, though you were wide awake
while I stood in your doorway? I saw it."
"I may have had... reasons. You know that yourself."
"And I may have had my reasons, though you don't know them."
Raskolnikov dropped his right elbow on the
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 hands
ome 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 hu
ge ring with a precious stone in it.
 "Have I got to bother myself about you, too, now?" said Raskolnikov
suddenly, coming with nervous
impatience straight to the point. "Even though perhaps you are the most dan
gerous man if you care to injure me, I don't want

to put myself out any more. I will show you at once that I don't prize myse
lf as you probably think I do. I've come to tell you at once that if you keep t
o 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 w
ord. You know that I can keep it. And in the second place if you want to
tell me anything—for
I keep fancying all this time that you have something to tell me—
make haste and tell it, for time is precious and very likely it will soon be to
o late."
"Why in such haste?" asked Svidrigaïlov, looking at him curiously.
"Everyone has his plans," Raskolnikov
answered gloomily and impatiently.
"You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at the first question
you refuse to answer,"
Svidrigaïlov observed with a smile. "You keep fancying that I have aims o
f my own and so you look at me with suspicion. Of course it's perfectly nat
ural in your position. But though I should like to be friends with you, I
shan't trouble myself to convince you of the contrary. The
game isn't worth the candle and I wasn't intending to talk to you about anyth
ing special."
"What did you want me, for, then? It was you who came hanging about me
."
"Why, simply as an interesting subject for observation. I liked the fantasti
c nature of your position—
that's what it was! Besides you are the brother of a person who greatly inte
rested me, and from that person I had in the
past heard a very great deal about you, from which I gathered that you had
a great influence over her; isn't that enough? Ha‐ha‐
ha! Still I must admit that your question is rather
 complex, and is difficult for me to answer. Here, you, for instance, have c
ome to me not only for a definite object, but for the sake of hearing somethi
ng new. Isn't that so? Isn't that so?" persisted Svidrigaïlov with a sly
smile. "Well, can'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!"
"What profit could you make?"
"How can I tell you? How do I know? You see in what a tavern I spend al
l my time and it's my enjoyment, that's to say it's no great enjoyment, but on
e must sit somewhere; that poor Katia now—
you saw her?... If only I had been a glutton now, a club gourmand, but you s
ee I can eat this."
He pointed to a little table in the corner where
the remnants of a terrible‐looking beef‐
steak and potatoes lay on a tin dish.
"Have you dined, by the way? I've had something and want nothing
more. I don't drink, for instance, at all. Except for champagne I
never touch anything, and
not more than a glass of that all the evening, and even that is enough to mak
e my head ache. I ordered it just now to wind myself up, for I am just going
off somewhere and you see me in a peculiar state of mind. That was why I
hid myself just now like a schoolboy, for I was afraid
you would hinder me. But I believe," he pulled out his watch, "I can spend
an hour with you. It's half‐past four now. If only I'd been something, a
landowner, a father, a cavalry officer, a photographer, a journalist... I
am nothing, no specialty, and sometimes I am positively bored. I
really thought you would tell me something new."
"But what are you, and why have you come here?"

"What am I? You know, a gentleman, I served for two years in the

cavalry, then I knocked about here
in Petersburg, then I married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the country. Ther
e you have my biography!"
"You are a gambler, I believe?"
"No, a poor sort of gambler. A card‐sharper—not a gambler."
"You have been a card‐sharper then?"
"Yes, I've been a card‐sharper too."
"Didn't you get thrashed sometimes?"
"It did happen. Why?"
"Why, you might have challenged them... altogether it must have been live
ly."
"I won't contradict you, and besides I am no hand at philosophy. I confess
that I hastened here for the sake of the women."
"As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna?"
"Quite so," Svidrigaïlov smiled with engaging candour. "What of it?
You seem to find something wrong in
my speaking like that about women?"
"You ask whether I find anything wrong in vice?"
"Vice! Oh, that's what you are after! But I'll answer you in order, first
about women in general; you know I
am fond of talking. Tell me, what should I restrain myself for? Why should
I give up women, since I have a passion for them? It's an occupation, anyw
ay."
"So you hope for nothing here but vice?"
"Oh, very well, for vice then. You insist on its being vice. But anyway I li
ke 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 li
ke an ever‐burning ember, for ever setting
 one on fire and, maybe, not to be quickly
extinguished, even with years. You'll agree it's an occupation of a sort."
"That's nothing to rejoice at, it's a disease and a dangerous one."
"Oh, that's what you think, is it! I agree, that it is
a disease like everything that exceeds moderation. And, of course, in this
one must exceed moderation. But in
the first place, everybody does so in one way or another, and in the second
place, of course, one ought to be moderate and prudent, however mean it m
ay be, but what am I to do? If I hadn't this, I might have to shoot
myself. I
am ready to admit that a decent man ought to put up with being bored, but y
et..."
"And could you shoot yourself?"
"Oh, come!" Svidrigaïlov parried with disgust. "Please don't speak of it,"
he added hurriedly and with none of the bragging tone he had shown in
all the previous conversation. His face quite changed. "I admit it's
an unpardonable weakness, but I can't help it. I am afraid of death and I dis
like its being talked of. Do you know that I am to a certain extent a mystic?"

"Ah, the apparitions of Marfa Petrovna! Do they still go on visiting you?"

"Oh, don't talk of them; there have been no more in Petersburg,

confound them!" he cried with an air
of irritation. "Let's rather talk of that... though... H'm! I have not much time,
and can't stay long with you, it's a pity! I should have found plenty to tell y
ou."
"What's your engagement, a woman?"
"Yes, a woman, a casual incident.... No, that's not what I want to talk of."
 "And the hideousness, the filthiness of all
your surroundings, doesn't that affect you? Have you lost the strength to sto
p yourself?"
"And do you pretend to strength, too? He‐he‐he! You surprised me just
now, Rodion Romanovitch, though
I knew beforehand it would be so. You preach to me about vice and æstheti
cs! You—a Schiller, you—
an idealist! Of course that's all as it should be and it would be surprising if
it were not so, yet it is strange in reality.... Ah, what a pity I have no time, f
or you're a most interesting type! And, by‐ the‐way, are you fond of
Schiller? I am awfully fond of him."
"But what a braggart you are," Raskolnikov said with some disgust.
"Upon my word, I am not," answered Svidrigaïlov laughing.
"However, I won't dispute it, let me be
a braggart, why not brag, if it hurts no one? I spent seven years in the count
ry with Marfa Petrovna, so now when I come across an intelligent
person like you—intelligent and highly interesting—I am simply glad
to talk and, besides, I've drunk that half‐
glass of champagne and it's gone to my head a little. And besides, there's a
certain fact that has wound me up tremendously, but about that I... will kee
p quiet. Where are you off to?" he asked in alarm.
Raskolnikov had begun getting up.
He felt oppressed and stifled and, as it were, ill at ease at having come her
e. He felt convinced that Svidrigaïlov was the most worthless scoundrel o
n the face of the earth.
"A‐
ach! Sit down, stay a little!" Svidrigaïlov begged. "Let them bring you som
e tea, anyway. Stay a little, I won't talk nonsense, about myself, I mean. I'll t
ell you something. If you like I'll tell you how a woman tried 'to save' me, a
s 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 spe
nd the time."
 "Tell me, but I trust that you..."
"Oh, don't be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low fellow like me,
Avdotya Romanovna can only excite the deepest respect."

CHAPTER IV

"You know perhaps—yes, I told you myself,"

began Svidrigaïlov, "that I was in the debtors' prison here, for an immense
sum, and had not any expectation of being able to pay it. There's no need to
go into particulars how Marfa Petrovna bought me out; do you know to wha
t 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 whi
ch 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 str
aight out that I couldn't be absolutely faithful to her. This confession drove
her to frenzy, but yet she seems in a way to have liked my brutal
frankness. She thought it showed I was unwilling to deceive her if
I warned her like this beforehand and for a jealous woman,

you know, that's the first consideration. After many tears an unwritten
contract was drawn up between us:
first, that I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always be her
husband; secondly, that I would never
absent myself without her permission; thirdly, that I would never set up a p
ermanent mistress; fourthly, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna gave me a
free hand with
the maidservants, but only with her secret knowledge; fifthly, God forbid
my falling in love with a woman of our class; sixthly, in case I—
which God forbid—
should be visited by a great serious passion I was bound to reveal it to Mar
fa Petrovna. On this last score, however, Marfa Petrovna was fairly at eas
e. 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 wo
man are two very different things, and that's where the trouble came in. But
to judge some people impartially we must renounce certain
preconceived opinions and
our habitual attitude to the ordinary people about us. I have reason to
have faith in your judgment rather than
in anyone's. Perhaps you have already heard a great deal that was
ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. She
certainly had some very ridiculous ways, but I tell
you frankly that I feel really sorry for the innumerable woes of which I wa
s the cause. Well, and that's enough, I think, by way of a decorous oraisonf
unèbre for the most tender wife of a most tender husband. When we quarre
lled, 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 p
ositively proud of me. But your sister she couldn't put up with, anyway. An
d however she came to risk taking such a beautiful creature into her house a
sa

governess. My explanation is that Marfa Petrovna was an ardent and impr

essionable woman and simply fell in love herself—literally fell in love—
with your sister. Well, little wonder—
look at Avdotya Romanovna! I saw the danger at the first glance and what d
o you think, I resolved not to look at her even. But Avdotya Romanovna her
self made the first step, would you believe it? Would you believe it too tha
t Marfa Petrovna was positively angry with me at first for my persistent
silence about your sister, for my careless reception of her continual
adoring praises of Avdotya Romanovna. I don't know what it was
she wanted! Well, of course, Marfa Petrovna told
Avdotya Romanovna every detail about me. She had the unfortunate
habit of telling literally everyone all our family secrets and
continually complaining of me;
how could she fail to confide in such a delightful new friend? I expect they
talked of nothing else but me and no doubt Avdotya Romanovna heard
all those dark mysterious rumours that were current about me.... I
don't mind betting that you too have heard something of the
sort already?"
"I have. Luzhin charged you with having caused
the death of a child. Is that true?"
"Don't refer to those vulgar tales, I beg,"
said Svidrigaïlov with disgust and annoyance. "If you insist on wanting to
know about all that idiocy, I will tell you one day, but now..."
"I was told too about some footman of yours in
the country whom you treated badly."
"I beg you to drop the subject," Svidrigaïlov interrupted again with obvio
us impatience.

"Was that the footman who came to you after death to fill your pipe?... yo
u told me about it yourself." Raskolnikov felt more and more irritated.
Svidrigaïlov looked at him attentively and Raskolnikov fancied he caught
a flash of spiteful mockery in that look. But Svidrigaïlov restrained
himself and answered very civilly:
"Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested and shall feel it
my duty to satisfy your curiosity at the first opportunity. Upon my soul! I see
that I really might pass for a romantic figure with some people. Judge how g
rateful I must be to Marfa Petrovna for having repeated to Avdotya
Romanovna
such mysterious and interesting gossip about me. I dare not guess what impr
ession it made on her, but in any case it worked in my interests. With all Av
dotya Romanovna's natural aversion and in spite of my invariably gloomy a
nd repellent aspect—
she did at least feel pity for me, pity for a lost soul. And if once a girl's hear
t is moved to pity, it's more dangerous than anything. She is bound to want
to 'save him,' to bring him to his senses, and lift him up and draw him to nob
ler aims, and restore him to new life and usefulness—
well, we all know how far such dreams can go. I saw at once that the bird
was flying into the cage of herself. And I too made ready. I think you are fro
wning, Rodion Romanovitch? There's no need. As you know, it all ended in
smoke. (Hang it all, what a lot I am drinking!) Do you know, I always, from
the very beginning, regretted that it wasn't your sister's fate to be born in the
second or third century A.D., as the daughter of a reigning prince or some g
overnor 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 wo
uld have walked away into the
Egyptian desert and would have stayed there thirty years living on roots an
d ecstasies and visions. She is simply thirsting to face some torture for som
eone, and if she can't get her torture, she'll throw herself out of a window. I'
ve heard something of a Mr. Razumihin—
he's said to be a sensible fellow; his surname suggests it, indeed. He's prob
ably a divinity student. Well, he'd better look after your sister! I believe I u
nderstand her, and I am proud of it. But at the beginning of an acquaintance,
as you know, one is apt to be more heedless and stupid. One doesn't see cl
early. Hang it all, why is she so handsome? It's not my fault. In fact, it bega
n 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 in
telligence, and it will stand in her way. There happened to be a girl in the h
ouse then, Parasha, a black‐ eyed wench, whom I had never seen before—
she had just come from another village—very pretty, but
incredibly stupid: she burst into tears, wailed so that she could be heard al
l over the place and caused scandal. One day after dinner Avdotya Romano
vna followed me into an avenue in the garden and with flashing eyes insist
ed 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 t
o appear disconcerted, embarrassed, in fact played my part not badly.
Then came
interviews, mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties, supplic
ations, even tears—would you believe it,
even tears? Think what the passion for propaganda will bring some girls t
o! I, of course, threw it all on my destiny, posed

as hungering and thirsting for light, and finally resorted to the most power
ful weapon in the subjection of the female heart, a weapon which never fail
s one. It's the well‐known resource—flattery. Nothing in the world is
harder than speaking the truth and nothing easier than flattery.
If there's the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to
a discord, and that leads to trouble. But if all, to the last note, is false
in flattery, it is just
as agreeable, and is heard not without satisfaction. It may be a coarse satis
faction, but still a satisfaction. And however coarse the flattery, at least half
will be sure to seem true. That's so for all stages of development and
classes
of society. A vestal virgin might be seduced by flattery. I can never remem
ber without laughter how I once seduced a lady who was devoted to her hu
sband, her children, and her principles. What fun it was and how little trou
ble! And the lady really had principles—
of her own, anyway. All my tactics lay in simply being utterly
annihilated and prostrate before her purity. I flattered her
shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in getting a pressure of the hand, e
ven a glance from her, I would reproach myself for having snatched it by fo
rce, and would declare that she had resisted, so that I could never have gai
ned 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 uncons
ciously, unawares, and so on. In fact, I triumphed, while my lady
remained
firmly convinced that she was innocent, chaste, and faithful to all her dutie
s 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 flatter
y, and if I had only cared
 to, I might have had all her property settled on me during her lifetime. (I a
m drinking an awful lot of wine now and talking too much.) I hope you won
't be angry if I mention now that I was beginning to produce the same effect
on Avdotya Romanovna. But I was stupid and impatient and spoiled it all.
Avdotya Romanovna had several times—and one time in particular—
been greatly displeased by
the expression of my eyes, would you believe it? There was sometimes a l
ight 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 s
tupidly again. I fell to jeering in the coarsest way at all such propaganda
and efforts to convert
me; Parasha came on to the scene again, and not she alone; in fact there
was a tremendous to‐do. Ah,
Rodion Romanovitch, if you could only see how your sister's eyes can flas
h 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 ne
ver have believed that I could be moved to such a frenzy. It was essential, i
ndeed, 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 bro
ught by frenzy! Never undertake anything in a frenzy, Rodion Romanovitch.
I reflected that Avdotya Romanovna was after all a beggar (ach, excuse me,
that's not the word... but does it matter if it expresses
the meaning?), that she lived by her work, that she had her mother and you
to keep (ach, hang it, you are frowning again), and I resolved to offer her al
l my money—thirty thousand roubles I could have realised then—
if she would

run away with me here, to Petersburg. Of course I should have vowed ete
rnal love, rapture, and so on. Do you know, I was so wild about her at that t
ime that if she had told me
to poison Marfa Petrovna or to cut her throat and to marry herself, it woul
d have been done at once! But it ended in the catastrophe of which you kno
w already. You can fancy how frantic I was when I heard that Marfa Petrov
na had
got hold of that scoundrelly attorney, Luzhin, and
had almost made a match between them—which would really have been
just the same thing as I was
proposing. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? I notice that you've begun to be very at
tentive... you interesting young man...."
Svidrigaïlov struck the table with his fist impatiently. He was flushed. Ra
skolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne that h
e had sipped almost unconsciously was affecting him—
and he resolved to take advantage of the opportunity. He felt very suspiciou
s of Svidrigaïlov.
"Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that you have
come to Petersburg with designs on
my sister," he said directly to Svidrigaïlov, in order to irritate him further.

"Oh, nonsense," said Svidrigaïlov, seeming to

rouse himself. "Why, I told you... besides your sister can't endure me."
"Yes, I am certain that she can't, but that's not the point."
"Are you so sure that she can't?" Svidrigaïlov screwed up his eyes and
smiled mockingly. "You are right,
she doesn't love me, but you can never be sure of what has passed between
husband and wife or lover and mistress. There's always a little corner whi
ch remains a secret to the world and is only known to those two. Will you a
nswer

for it that Avdotya Romanovna regarded me with

aversion?"
"From some words you've dropped, I notice that you still have designs
—and of course evil ones—on
Dounia and mean to carry them out promptly."
 "What, have I dropped words like that?"
Svidrigaïlov asked in naïve dismay, taking not the slightest notice of the ep
ithet bestowed on his designs.
"Why, you are dropping them even now. Why are you so frightened? What
are you so afraid of now?"
"Me—afraid? Afraid of you? You have rather to
be afraid of me, cher ami. But what nonsense.... I've drunk too much
though, I see that. I was almost saying too
much again. Damn the wine! Hi! there, water!"
He snatched up the champagne bottle and flung
it without ceremony out of the window. Philip brought the
water.
"That's all nonsense!" said Svidrigaïlov, wetting a towel and putting it to
his head. "But I can answer you in one word and annihilate all your suspici
ons. Do you know that I am going to get married?"
"You told me so before."
"Did I? I've forgotten. But I couldn't have told you so for certain for I had
not even seen my betrothed; I only meant to. But now I really have a
betrothed and it's a
settled thing, and if it weren't that I have business that can't be put off, I wo
uld have taken you to see them at once, for I should like to ask your
advice. Ach, hang it, only
ten minutes left! See, look at the watch. But I must tell you, for it's an
interesting story, my marriage, in its own
way. Where are you off to? Going again?"
"No, I'm not going away now."

"Not at all? We shall see. I'll take you there, I'll show you my betrothed, o
nly not now. For you'll soon have to be off. You have to go to the right and I
to the left. Do you know that Madame Resslich, the woman I am lodging w
ith now, eh? I know what you're thinking, that she's
the woman whose girl they say drowned herself in the winter. Come, are y
ou listening? She arranged it all for me. You're bored, she said, you want so
mething to fill up your time. For, you know, I am a gloomy, depressed perso
n. Do you think I'm light‐
hearted? No, I'm gloomy. I do no harm, but sit in a corner without speaking
a word for three days at a time. And that Resslich is a sly hussy, I tell you. I
know what she has got in her mind; she thinks I shall get sick of it, abando
n my wife and depart, and she'll get hold of her and make a profit out of her
—in our class, of course, or higher. She told me the father was a broken‐
down retired official, who has been sitting in a chair for the last three year
s with his legs paralysed. The mamma, she said, was a sensible woman. Th
ere is a son serving in the provinces, but he doesn't help; there is a daughter
, who is married, but she doesn't visit them. And they've two little nephews
on their hands, as though their own children were not enough, and
they've taken from school their
youngest daughter, a girl who'll be sixteen in another month, so that then sh
e can be married. She was for me. We went there.
How funny it was! I present myself—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's fascinating, isn't it? It is fascinating, ha‐
ha! You should have seen how I talked to the papa and mamma. It was
worth paying to have seen me at
that moment. She comes in, curtseys, you can fancy, still in a short frock—
an unopened bud! Flushing like a sunset—

she had been told, no doubt. I don't know how you feel about female face
s, but to my mind these sixteen years, these childish eyes, shyness and tears
of bashfulness are better than beauty; and she is a perfect little picture, too.
Fair hair in little curls, like a lamb's, full little rosy lips, tiny feet, a charm
er!... 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 o
f course impresses on her that this is her husband and that this must be
so. It's simply delicious! The present betrothed condition is
perhaps better than marriage. Here you have what is called la
nature et la vérité, ha‐ha! I've talked to her twice, she is far from a
fool. Sometimes she steals a look at me that
positively scorches me. Her face is like Raphael's Madonna. You
know, the Sistine Madonna's face has something fantastic in it, the
face of mournful
religious ecstasy. Haven't you noticed it? Well, she's something in that line.
The day after we'd been betrothed, I bought her presents to the value of fift
een hundred roubles—
a set of diamonds and another of pearls and a silver dressing‐
case as large as this, with all sorts of things in it, so that even my
Madonna's face glowed. I sat her on my knee, yesterday, and I
suppose rather too unceremoniously
— she flushed crimson and the tears started, but she didn't want to show it.
We were left alone, she suddenly flung herself on my neck (for the first time
of her own accord), put her little arms round me, kissed me, and vowed th
at she would be an obedient, faithful, and good wife, would make me happ
y, would devote all her life, every minute of her life, would sacrifice every
thing, everything, and that all
 she asks in return is my respect, and that she
wants 'nothing, nothing more from me, no presents.' You'll admit that to
hear such a confession, alone, from an angel
of sixteen in a muslin frock, with little curls, with a flush of maiden shynes
s in her cheeks and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes is rather fascinating!
Isn't it fascinating?
It's worth paying for, isn't it? Well... listen, we'll go to see my betrothed, o
nly not just now!"
"The fact is this monstrous difference in age
and development excites your sensuality! Will you really make such a marr
iage?"
"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 frie
nd. I am a sinful man. Ha‐ha‐ha!"
"But you have provided for the children of
Katerina Ivanovna. Though... though you had your own reasons.... I underst
and it all now."
"I am always fond of children, very fond of
them," laughed Svidrigaïlov. "I can tell you one curious instance of it. The
first day I came here I visited various haunts, after seven years I simply rus
hed at them. You probably notice that I am not in a hurry to renew acquainta
nce with my old friends. I shall do without them as long as I can. Do you k
now, when I was with Marfa Petrovna in the country, I was haunted by the t
hought of these places where anyone who knows his way about can find a g
reat 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—I like my dens dirty—
it was a dance, so called, and there was a cancan 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 vis à‐
vis. Her mother was sitting on a chair by the wall. You can't fancy what a c
ancan that was! The girl was ashamed, blushed, at last felt insulted, and b
egan to cry. Her partner seized her and began whirling her round and perfor
ming before her; everyone laughed and—
I like your public, even the cancan public—
they laughed and shouted, 'Serves her right—serves her right! Shouldn't
bring children!'
Well, it'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 sayin
g that I too was a stranger and that people here were ill‐bred and that
they
couldn't distinguish decent folks and treat them with respect, gave her to un
derstand that I had plenty of money, offered to take them home in my carriag
e. I took them home and got to know them. They were lodging in a miserabl
e 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's education in French and dancing. My offer was accepted w
ith enthusiasm as an honour— and we are still friendly.... If you like,
we'll go and see them, only not just now."
"Stop! Enough of your vile, nasty anecdotes, depraved vile, sensual man!
"

"Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! O la vertu vatelle

se nicher? But you know I shall tell you these things on purpose, for the
pleasure of hearing your outcries!"
 "I dare say. I can see I am ridiculous myself," muttered Raskolnikov angri
ly.
Svidrigaïlov laughed heartily; finally he called
Philip, paid his bill, and began getting up.
"I say, but I am drunk, assez causé," he said. "It's been a pleasure."
"I should rather think it must be a pleasure!"
cried Raskolnikov, getting up. "No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn‐out
profligate to describe such adventures with a monstrous project of
the same sort in his mind
— especially under such circumstances and to such a man as me.... It's stim
ulating!"
"Well, if you come to that," Svidrigaïlov
answered, scrutinising Raskolnikov with some surprise, "if you come to th
at, you are a thorough cynic yourself. You've plenty to make you so, anyway
. You can understand a great deal... and you can do a great deal too. But eno
ugh. I sincerely regret not having had more talk with you, but I shan't lose s
ight of you.... Only wait a bit."
Svidrigaïlov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov walked out after h
im. Svidrigaïlov was not however very drunk, the wine had affected him fo
r 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 e
very moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He
became very suspicious of Svidrigaïlov and resolved to follow him.

They came out on to the pavement.

"You go to the right, and I to the left, or if you like, the other way. Only ad
ieu, mon plaisir, may we meet again."
And he walked to the right towards the Hay Market.
 CHAPTER V
RASKOLNIKOV WALKED AFTER HIM.

"What's this?" cried Svidrigaïlov turning round, "I

thought I said..."
"It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now."
"What?"
Both stood still and gazed at one
another, as though measuring their strength.
"From all your half tipsy stories," Raskolnikov observed harshly, "I am p
ositive that you have not given up your designs on my sister, but are pursuin
g 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 nothin
g. I should like to make certain myself."
Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what
he wanted and of what he wished to make certain.
"Upon my word! I'll call the police!"
"Call away!"
Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last
Svidrigaïlov's face changed. Having satisfied himself that

Raskolnikov was not frightened at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and fri
endly air.
"What a fellow! I purposely refrained from referring to your affair,
though I am devoured by curiosity. It's
a fantastic affair. I've put it off till another time, but you're enough to rouse t
he 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 t
he flat, take a cab and go to spend the evening at the Islands. Now,
now are you going to follow me?"
"I'm coming to your lodgings, not to see you but Sofya Semyonovna, to
say I'm sorry not to have been at the funeral."
"That's as you like, but Sofya Semyonovna is not
at home. She has taken the three children to an old lady of high rank, the pa
troness of some orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I
charmed the old lady by depositing a sum of money with her to
provide for
the three children of Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution
as well. I told her too the story of Sofya Semyonovna in full detail,
suppressing nothing.
It produced an indescribable effect on her. That's why Sofya Semyonovna
has been invited to call to‐
day at the X. Hotel where the lady is staying for the time."
"No matter, I'll come all the same."
"As you like, it's nothing to me, but I won't come with you; here we are at
home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with suspicion just b
ecause I have shown such delicacy and have not so far troubled you
with questions... you understand? It struck you as extraordinary; I
don't mind betting it's that. Well, it teaches one to show delicacy!"
"And to listen at doors!"

"Ah, that's it, is it?" laughed Svidrigaïlov. "Yes, I should have been surpri
sed 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? Perhap
s I am quite behind the times and can't understand.
For goodness' sake, explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!"
"You couldn't have heard anything. You're making it all up!"
 "But I'm not talking about that (though I did
hear something). No, I'm talking of the way you keep sighing and groaning
now. The Schiller in you is in revolt every moment, and now you tell
me not to listen at doors.
If that's how you feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance
: you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you are convinced that one
mustn't listen at doors, but one may murder old women at one's pleasure, yo
u'd better be off to America and make haste. Run, young man! There may st
ill be time. I'm speaking sincerely. Haven't you the money? I'll give you the
fare."
"I'm not thinking of that at all,"
Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust.
"I understand (but don't put yourself out, don't discuss it if you don't want
to). I understand the questions you are worrying over—
moral ones, aren't they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. The
y are nothing to you now, ha‐
ha! You'll say you are still a man and a citizen. If so you ought not to have g
ot into this coil. It's no use taking up a job you are not fit for. Well, you'd be
tter shoot yourself, or don't you want to?"
"You seem trying to enrage me, to make me leave you."

"What a queer fellow! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You se
e, that's the way to Sofya Semyonovna. Look, there is no one at home. Don't
you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with him.
Here is Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She
is rather deaf. Has she gone out? Where? Did you hear? She is not in
and won't be till late in the evening
probably. Well, come to my room; you wanted to come and see me, didn't y
ou? Here we are. Madame Resslich's not at home. She is a woman who is a
lways busy, an excellent woman I assure you.... She might have been of use
to you if you had been a little more sensible. Now, see! I take this five‐per‐
cent bond out of the bureau—see what a lot I've got of them still—this
one will be turned into cash to‐day.
I mustn't waste any more time. The bureau is locked, the flat is locked, and
here we are again on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I'm going to the Islan
ds. Would you like a lift? I'll take this carriage. Ah, you refuse? You are tire
d of it! Come for a drive! I believe it will come on to rain. Never mind, w
e'll put down the hood...."
Svidrigaïlov was already in the carriage.
Raskolnikov decided that his suspicions were at least for that moment unju
st. 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 Svidriga
ïlov 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.
"To think that I could for one instant have looked for
help from that coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and blackguard!" he
cried.
Raskolnikov's judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there
was something about Svidrigaïlov which

gave him a certain original, even a mysterious character. As concerned hi

s sister, Raskolnikov was convinced that Svidrigaïlov would not leave her
in peace. But it was too tiresome and unbearable to go on thinking and think
ing about this.
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.
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.
He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go on to the bridge, b
ut stood aside on the pavement, doing all he could to avoid
Raskolnikov's seeing him. He had observed Dounia for some time
and had been
making signs to her. She fancied he was signalling to beg her not to speak to
her brother, but to come to him.
That was what Dounia did. She stole by her brother and went up to Svidri
gaïlov.
"Let us make haste away," Svidrigaïlov whispered to her, "I don't
want Rodion Romanovitch to know of
our meeting. I must tell you I've been sitting with him in the restaurant
close by, where he looked me up and I had great difficulty in getting
rid of him. He has somehow heard of my letter to you and suspects
something.
It wasn't you who told him, of course, but if not you, who then?"
"Well, we've turned the corner now," Dounia
interrupted, "and my brother won't see us. I have to tell

you that I am going no further with you. Speak to me here.

You can tell it all in the street."
"In the first place, I can't say it in the street; secondly, you must hear Sofy
a Semyonovna too; and, thirdly, I will show you some papers.... Oh well, if
you won't agree to come with me, I shall refuse to give any explanation an
d go away at once. But I beg you not to forget that a
very curious secret of your beloved brother's is entirely in my keeping."
Dounia stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigaïlov with searching
eyes.
"What are you afraid of?" he observed quietly.
"The town is not the country. And even in the country you did me more har
m than I did you."
"Have you prepared Sofya Semyonovna?"
 "No, I have not said a word to her and am not quite certain whether she is
at home now. But most likely she is. She has buried her stepmother to‐
day: she is not likely to go visiting on such a day. For the time I don't
want
to speak to anyone about it and I half regret having spoken to you. The slig
htest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal in a thing like this. I live there in that
house, we are coming to it. That's the porter of our house—
he knows me very well; you see, he's bowing; he sees I'm coming with a la
dy and no doubt he has noticed your face already and you will be glad of t
hat if you are afraid of me and suspicious. Excuse my putting things so coar
sely. I haven't a flat to myself; Sofya Semyonovna's room is next to mine—
she lodges in the next flat. The whole floor is let out in lodgings. Why are
you frightened like a child? Am I really so terrible?"
Svidrigaïlov's lips were twisted in a condescending smile; but he
was in no smiling mood. His heart
was throbbing and he could scarcely breathe. He spoke rather

loud to cover his growing excitement. But Dounia did not notice this pecu
liar excitement, she was so irritated by his remark that she was frightened o
f him like a child and that he was so terrible to her.
"Though I know that you are not a man... of honour, I am not in the least af
raid of you. Lead the way," she said with apparent composure, but her face
was very pale.
Svidrigaïlov stopped at Sonia's room.
"Allow me to inquire whether she is at home.... She is not. How
unfortunate! But I know she may come
quite soon. If she's gone out, it can only be to see a lady about the orphans.
Their mother is dead.... I've been meddling and making arrangements for th
em. If Sofya Semyonovna does not come back in ten minutes, I will send he
r 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 c
hief 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 wi
th some attention."
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's flat was exactly between two sets of almost uninhabited
apartments. His rooms were not
entered directly from the passage, but through the landlady's two almost em
pty 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.

"Look here, at this second large room. Notice that door, it's locked. By th
e 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 Semyonov
na's table; she sat there talking to
Rodion Romanovitch. And I sat here listening on two successive evenings,
for two hours each time—
and of course I was able to learn something, what do you think?"
"You listened?"
"Yes, I did. Now come back to my room; we can't sit
down here."
He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sitting‐
room and offered her a chair. He sat down at the opposite side of the 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's lodging had suddenly struck her. She wanted to
ask whether his landlady at least were at home, but pride kept her from aski
ng. Moreover, she had another trouble in her heart incomparably greater tha
n fear for herself. She was in great distress.
"Here is your letter," she said, laying it on the table. "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't deny it now. I must tell you that I'd heard of this
stupid story before you wrote and don't believe a word of it. It's a
disgusting and ridiculous suspicion. I know the story and why and
how it was invented. You can have no proofs. You promised to prove

it. Speak! But let me warn you that I don't believe you! I don't believe you
!"
Dounia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the colour rushed t
o her face.
"If you didn't believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my
rooms? Why have you come? Simply from curiosity?"
"Don't torment me. Speak, speak!"
"There's no denying that you are a brave girl. Upon my word, I thought yo
u would have asked Mr. Razumihin to escort you here. But he was not with
you nor anywhere near. I was on the look‐
out. It's spirited of you, it proves you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovitch
. But everything is divine in you.... About your brother, what am I to say to
you? You've just seen him yourself. What did you think of him?"
"Surely that's not the only thing you are building on?"
"No, not on that, but on his own words. He came here on two successive
evenings to see Sofya Semyonovna. I've shown you where they sat. He mad
e 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 sist
er 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 th
em 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. Bu
t she has had no share by word or deed in the murder; she was as horrified
at it as you are now. Don't be anxious, she won't betray him."

"It cannot be," muttered Dounia, with white lips. She gasped for breath.
"It cannot be. There was not
the slightest cause, no sort of ground.... It's a lie, a lie!"
"He robbed her, that was the cause, he took money and things. It's true tha
t by his own admission he made no use of the money or things, but hid them
under a stone, where they are now. But that was because he dared not make
use of them."
"But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it?" cried Dounia,
and she jumped up from the chair. "Why, you know him, and you've seen hi
m, can he be a thief?"
She seemed to be imploring Svidrigaïlov; she
had entirely forgotten her fear.
"There are thousands and millions of combinations and
possibilities, Avdotya Romanovna. A thief steals and knows he is a
scoundrel, but I've heard of a gentleman who broke open the mail.
Who knows, very likely he thought he was doing a gentlemanly
thing! Of course
I should not have believed it myself if I'd been told of it as you have, but I
believe my own ears. He explained all the causes of it to Sofya
Semyonovna too, but she did
not believe her ears at first, yet she believed her own eyes at last."
"What... were the causes?"
"It's a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. Here's... how shall I tell you?
—
A theory of a sort, the same one by which I for instance consider that a sing
le misdeed is permissible if the principal aim is right, a solitary
wrongdoing
and hundreds of good deeds! It's galling too, of course, for a young man of
gifts and overweening pride to know that if he had, for instance, a
paltry three thousand,
his whole career, his whole future would be differently shaped and yet not
to have that three thousand. Add to that, nervous

irritability from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a vivid se
nse of the charm of his social position and his sister's and mother's
position too. Above all, vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness
knows he may
have good qualities too.... I am not blaming him, please don't think it;
besides, it's not my business. A special little theory came in too—
a theory of a sort—dividing mankind, you see, into material and
superior persons, that
is persons to whom the law does not apply owing to their superiority, who
make laws for the rest of mankind, the material, that is. It's all right as
a theory, une théorie
comme une autre. Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is, what affe
cted 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 fanci
ed that he was a genius too—
that is, he was convinced of it for a time. He has suffered a great deal and i
s still suffering from the idea that he could make a theory, but was incapabl
e of boldly overstepping the law, and so he is not a man of genius.
And that's humiliating for
a young man of any pride, in our day especially...."
"But remorse? You deny him any moral feeling then? Is he like that?"
"Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, everything is in a
muddle now; not that it was ever in very good order. Russians in general
are broad in their ideas, Avdotya Romanovna, broad like their land
and exceedingly disposed to the fantastic, the chaotic. But it's a
misfortune to be
broad without a special genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk we ha
d 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 we
re 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 fro
m some old chronicle. But those are for the most part the learned and all ol
d fogeys, so that it would be almost ill‐bred in a man of society. You
know
my opinions in general, though. I never blame anyone. I do nothing at all, I
persevere in that. But we've talked of this more than once before. I was
so happy indeed as
to interest you in my opinions.... You are very pale, Avdotya Romanovna."

"I know his theory. I read that article of his about men to whom all is per
mitted. Razumihin brought it to me."
"Mr. Razumihin? Your brother's article? In a magazine? Is there such
an article? I didn't know. It must be
interesting. But where are you going, Avdotya Romanovna?"
"I want to see Sofya Semyonovna," Dounia articulated faintly. "How do I
go to her? She has come in, perhaps. I must see her at once. Perhaps she..."

Avdotya Romanovna could not finish. Her breath literally failed her.
"Sofya Semyonovna will not be back till night, at least I believe not. She
was to have been back at once, but if not, then she will not be in till quite la
te."
"Ah, then you are lying! I see... you were lying... lying all the time.... I do
n't believe you! I don't believe you!" cried Dounia, completely losing her h
ead.
 Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair
which Svidrigaïlov made haste to give her.
"Avdotya Romanovna, what is it? Control
yourself! Here is some water. Drink a little...."
 He sprinkled some water over her. Dounia shuddered
and came to herself.
"It has acted violently," Svidrigaïlov muttered to himself, frowning.
"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 d
eeds yet, to atone for it. Calm yourself. He may become a great man yet. We
ll, how are you? How do you feel?"
"Cruel man! To be able to jeer at it! Let me go..."
"Where are you going?"
"To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We
came in at that door and now it is locked.
When did you manage to lock it?"
"We couldn't be shouting all over the flat on such
a subject. I am far from jeering; it's simply that I'm sick of talking like this.
But how can you go in such a state? Do you want to betray him? You will dr
ive him to fury, and he will give himself up. Let me tell you, he is already b
eing watched; they are already on his track. You will simply be giving him a
way. 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 si
t down!"
"How can you save him? Can he really be saved?"
Dounia sat down. Svidrigaïlov sat down beside her.
"It all depends on you, on you, on you alone," he began with glowing eyes
, almost in a whisper and hardly able to utter the words for emotion.
Dounia drew back from him in alarm. He too was
 trembling all over.

"You... one word from you, and he is saved. I... I'll save him. I have mone
y and friends. I'll send him away at once. I'll get a passport, two passports,
one for him and one for me. I have friends... capable people.... If you like, I
'll take a passport for you... for your mother.... What do you want with
Razumihin? I love you too.... I love you
beyond everything.... Let me kiss the hem of your dress, let me, let me.... T
he very rustle of it is too much for me. Tell me, 'do that,' and I'll do it.
I'll do everything. I will do the impossible. What you believe, I will
believe. I'll do anything—
anything! Don't, don't look at me like that. Do you know that you are killing
me?..."
He was almost beginning to rave.... Something seemed suddenly to go to
his head. Dounia jumped up and rushed to the door.
"Open it! Open it!" she called, shaking the door. "Open it! Is there no one
there?"
Svidrigaïlov got up and came to himself. His
still trembling lips slowly broke into an angry mocking smile.
"There is no one at home," he said quietly
and emphatically. "The landlady has gone out, and it's waste of time to
shout like that. You are only exciting yourself uselessly."
"Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, base man!"
"I have lost the key and cannot find it."
"This is an outrage," cried Dounia, turning pale
as death. She rushed to the furthest corner, where she made haste to barrica
de herself with a little table.
She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on
her tormentor and watched every movement he made.
Svidrigaïlov remained standing at the other end of the room facing her. He
was positively composed, at least in
 appearance, but his face was pale as before. The mocking
smile did not leave his face.
"You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna. In that case you ma
y be sure I've taken measures. Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. The Kape
rnaumovs are far away—
there are five locked rooms between. I am at least twice as strong as
you are and I have nothing to fear, besides. For you could not
complain afterwards. You surely would not be willing actually to
betray
your brother? Besides, no one would believe you. How should a girl have
come alone to visit a solitary man in his lodgings? So that even if you do sa
crifice your brother, you could prove nothing. It is very difficult to
prove an assault, Avdotya Romanovna."
"Scoundrel!" whispered Dounia indignantly.
"As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a general propo
sition. It's my personal conviction that you are perfectly right—violence
is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have no remorse
even if...
you were willing to save your brother of your own accord, as I suggest to
you. You would be simply submitting to circumstances, to violence,
in fact, if we must use
that word. Think about it. Your brother's and your mother's fate are in your
hands. I will be your slave... all my life... I will wait here."
Svidrigaïlov sat down on the sofa about eight
steps from Dounia. She had not the slightest doubt now of his unbending
determination. 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.
"Aha! So that's it, is it?" he cried, surprised but smiling
maliciously. "Well, that completely alters the aspect of
 affairs. You've made things wonderfully easier for
me, Avdotya Romanovna. But where did you get the revolver? Was it Mr.
Razumihin? Why, it's my revolver, an old friend! And how I've hunted for it
! The shooting lessons I've given you in the country have not been thrown a
way."
"It's not your revolver, it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, whom you killed,
wretch! There was nothing of yours in her house. I took it when I began to s
uspect what you were capable of. If you dare to advance one step, I swear I
'll kill you." She was frantic.
"But your brother? I ask from curiosity,"
said Svidrigaïlov, still standing where he was.
"Inform, if you want to! Don't stir! Don't come nearer! I'll shoot! You
poisoned your wife, I know; you are
a murderer yourself!" She held the revolver ready.
"Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?"
"You did! You hinted it yourself; you talked to me of poison.... I know
you went to get it... you had it
in readiness.... It was your doing.... It must have been your doing.... Scound
rel!"
"Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake... you would ha
ve been the cause."
"You are lying! I hated you always, always...."
"Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened
to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you
remember that moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?"
"That's a lie," there was a flash of fury in Dounia's eyes, "that's a lie and
a libel!"
"A lie? Well, if you like, it's a lie. I made it up. Women ought not to be re
minded of such things," he smiled. "I know you will shoot, you pretty wild
creature. Well, shoot away!"
 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 he
r so handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment she raised the re
volver seemed to kindle him and there was a pang of anguish in his heart. H
e took a step forward and a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and
flew into the wall behind. He stood still and
laughed softly.
"The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at
my head. What's this? Blood?" he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the b
lood, which flowed in a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seem
ed to have just grazed the skin.
Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigaïlov not so much in te
rror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what she
was doing and what was going on.
"Well, you missed! Fire again, I'll wait,"
said Svidrigaïlov softly, still smiling, but gloomily. "If you go on like that, I
shall have time to seize you before you cock again."
Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it.
"Let me be," she cried in despair. "I swear I'll
shoot again. I... I'll kill you."
"Well... at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don't... then."
His eyes flashed and he took two
steps forward. Dounia shot again: it missed fire.
"You haven't loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge the
re. Get it ready, I'll wait."

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. "And... now, of course
she would kill him, at two paces!" Suddenly she flung away the revolver.
"She's dropped it!" said Svidrigaïlov with surprise, and he drew a deep b
reath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart—
perhaps not only the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it
at that moment. It
was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter, which he
could not himself have defined.
He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not res
ist, 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.
"Let me go," Dounia implored. Svidrigaïlov shuddered. Her voice now
was quite different.
"Then you don't love me?" he asked softly. Dounia shook her head.
"And... and you can't? Never?" he whispered in despair.
"Never!"
There followed a moment of 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.
"Here's the key."
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.
"Take it! Make haste!"

He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dounia went up to the table to ta

ke the key.
"Make haste! Make haste!" repeated Svidrigaïlov, still without turning
or moving. But there seemed a
terrible significance in the tone of that "make haste."
Dounia understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the door, unlocked it qu
ickly 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.
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 was
hed his temple. The revolver which Dounia had flung away lay near the doo
r and suddenly caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a littl
e 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'clock going from one low haunt to
another. Katia too turned up and
sang another gutter song, how a certain "villain and tyrant,"

"began kissing Katia."

Svidrigaïlov treated Katia and the organ‐grinder
and some singers and the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly
drawn to these clerks by the fact that
they both had crooked 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 "Vauxhall," which was in real
ity 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 r
ed nose entertained the public. The clerks quarrelled with some other clerk
s and a fight seemed imminent. Svidrigaïlov was chosen to decide the disp
ute. 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'clock. He had not drunk a drop of wine all
this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than anythi
ng.
It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm‐
clouds came over the sky about ten o'clock. There was a clap of thunder, a
nd 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 las
ted while one could count five.

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 mo
ney 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.

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 soa
king clothes. The children all ran away at once in indescribable terror.
Svidrigaïlov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him. She t
imidly prepared to listen.
 "I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna," said Svidrigaïlov, "and
as I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some arr
angements. Well, did you see the lady to‐
day? I know what she said to you, you need not tell me." (Sonia made a mov
ement and blushed.) "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've put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgm
ents. You had better take charge of the receipts, in case anything
happens. Here, take them! Well now, that'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."

"I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and my stepmother
," said Sonia hurriedly, "and if I've said so little... please don't consider..."

"That's enough! that's enough!"

"But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am
very grateful to you, but I don't need it now. I can always earn my own livi
ng. Don't think me ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money...."
"It's for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and
please don't waste words over it. I haven't time for it. You will want it. Ro
dion Romanovitch has two alternatives: a bullet
in the brain or Siberia." (Sonia looked wildly at him, and started.) "Don't
be uneasy, I know all about it from himself and I am not a gossip; I won't te
ll anyone. It was good advice when you told him to give himself up and con
fess. It would be much better for him. Well, if it turns out to be Siberia, he
will go and you will follow him. That's so, isn't it? And if so, you'll need m
oney. You'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 wh
at's owing. I heard you. How can you undertake such obligations so
heedlessly, Sofya Semyonovna? It
was Katerina Ivanovna's debt and not yours, so you ought not to have taken
any notice of the German woman. You can't get through the world like that.
If you are ever questioned about me—to‐morrow or the day after you
will be asked—don't say anything about my coming to see
you now and don't show the money to anyone or say a word about it. Well,
now good‐
bye." (He got up.) "My greetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way, you'
d better put the money for the present in Mr. Razumihin's keeping.
You know Mr. Razumihin? Of course you do. He's not a bad

fellow. Take it to him to‐morrow or... when the time

comes. And till then, hide it carefully."
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 ho
w to begin.
"How can you... how can you be going now, in such rain?"
"Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain! Ha, ha! 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 hi
m Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov sends his greetings. Be sure to."
He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of
wondering anxiety and vague apprehension.
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 Isl
and. He knocked some time before he was admitted, and his visit at first ca
used 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 w
heeled in to see Svidrigaïlov by the tender and sensible mother, who as usu
al began the conversation with various irrelevant questions. She never ask
ed a direct question, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands and
then, if she were obliged to ascertain something—
for instance, when Svidrigaïlov would like to have the wedding—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.
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 midni
ght 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 restraine
d. On the other hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and was rei
nforced by tears from the most sensible of mothers. Svidrigaïlov got
up,
laughed, kissed his betrothed, patted her cheek, declared he would soon co
me 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. H
e 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—

there was no knowing what he had in his mind. He would start off on a jour
ney 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't think of what was said of them
and didn't stand on ceremony. Possibly, indeed, he came like that on purpo
se 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 whisperin
g till two o'clock, but the girl went to bed much earlier, amazed and
rather sorrowful.
Svidrigaïlov meanwhile, exactly at midnight,
crossed the bridge on the way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased a
nd there was a roaring wind. He began shivering, and for one moment he ga
zed at the black waters of the Little Neva with a look of special interest, ev
en 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 mista
ken: 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 lat
e 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 t
o 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 in
quiringly.
"Is there tea?" asked Svidrigaïlov.
"Yes, sir."
"What else is there?"
"Veal, vodka, savouries."
"Bring me tea and veal."
"And you want nothing else?" he asked with apparent surprise.
"Nothing, nothing."
The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.
"It must be a nice place," thought Svidrigaïlov.
"How was it I didn't know it? I expect I look as if I came from a café chant
ant and have had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to kno
w who stay here?"
He lighted the candle and looked at the room
more carefully. It was a room so low‐
pitched that Svidrigaïlov could only just stand up in it; it had one window; t
he 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 th
e pattern was indistinguishable, though the general colour—yellow—
could still be made out. One of the walls was cut short by the sloping ceilin
g, though the room was not an attic but just under the stairs.
Svidrigaïlov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank into thou
ght. 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 voic
e.
Svidrigaïlov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he saw lig
ht through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The room, w
hich 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 smit
ing himself on the breast. He reproached the other with being a beggar, wit
h 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't. He sometimes
turned sheepish and befogged eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not th
e slightest idea what he was talking about and scarcely heard it. A candle w
as burning down on the table; there were wine‐
glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses w
ith the dregs of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Svidrigaïlov
turned away indifferently and sat down on the bed.
The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking him a
gain whether he didn'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 hi
s coat and, wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the bed. He
was annoyed. "It
 would have been better to be well for the occasion," he thought with a
smile. The room was close, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was
roaring outside, he heard
a mouse scratching in the corner and the room smelt of mice and of
leather. He lay in a sort of reverie: one
thought followed another. He felt a longing to fix his imagination on somet
hing. "It must be a garden under the window," he thought. "There's a sound
of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark! The
y give one a horrid feeling." He remembered how he had disliked
it when he passed Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the
bridge over the Little Neva and he felt
cold again as he had when standing there. "I never have liked water," he th
ought, "even in a landscape," and he suddenly smiled again at a strange
idea: "Surely now all
these questions of taste and comfort ought not to matter, but I've become m
ore particular, like an animal that picks out a special place... for such an oc
casion. I ought to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed da
rk, cold, ha‐
ha! As though I were seeking pleasant sensations!... By the way, why haven'
t I put out the candle?" he blew it out. "They've gone to bed next door," he t
hought, not seeing the light at the crack. "Well, now, Marfa Petrovna, now i
s the time for you to turn up; it's dark, and the very time and place for you.
But now you won't come!"
He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on Dou
nia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin's keeping.
"I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to tease myself. But
what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He's gone through a good deal. He may b
e a successful rogue in time when he's got over his nonsense. But now he's
too eager for life. These young

men are contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him please h
imself, it's nothing to do with me."
He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia's image rose before him, an
d a shudder ran over him. "No, I must give up all that now," he thought, rou
sing himself. "I must think of something else. It's queer and funny. I never ha
d a great hatred for anyone, I never particularly desired
to avenge myself even, and that's a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad sign. I never
liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper—
that's a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too—
Damnation! But—who knows?— perhaps she would have made a
new man of me somehow...."
He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia's image
rose before him, just as she was
when, after shooting the first time, she had lowered the revolver in terror an
d 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 insta
nt he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his heart...
"Aïe! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!"
He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly someth
ing seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He started. "U
gh! hang it! I believe it's a mouse," he thought, "that's the veal I left
on
the table." He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the blanket, get up, get c
old, 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, sl
ipped 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 a
nd dart over his body and down his back under his shirt. He trembled nervo
usly and woke up.
The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in
the blanket as before. The wind
was howling under the window. "How disgusting," he thought with annoya
nce.
He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the
window. "It's better not to sleep at all,"
he decided. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however; w
ithout getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. H
e 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 gard
en, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday— Trinity day. A fine,
sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with
fragrant flowers,
with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers,
was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with ri
ch rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed
particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily
fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick
long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the
stairs and came into a large, high drawing‐

room and again everywhere—

at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself—
were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly‐
cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into t
he room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle o
f the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. Th
e coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wr
eaths 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 w
reath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face l
ooked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was
full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov k
new 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 des
pair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet
while the wind howled....
Svidrigaïlov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the windo
w. He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously into the litt
le 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 t
he trees and bushes; it was dark as in a

cellar, so that he could only just make out some dark blurs of objects. Svi
drigaïlov, bending down with elbows on the window‐
sill, gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, follow
ed by a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. "Ah, the
signal! The river
is overflowing," he thought. "By morning it will be swirling down the stre
et in the lower parts, flooding the basements and cellars. The cellar rats wi
ll 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?" And he
had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on the wall, ticking a
way hurriedly, struck three.
"Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I'll go out at once straight to t
he park. I'll choose a great bush there drenched with rain, so that as
soon as one's shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on one's head."
 He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his w
aistcoat, 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 i
n the midst of candle‐
ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay him for the room and leave the hotel. "I
t's the best minute; I couldn't choose a better."
He walked for some time through a long
narrow corridor without finding anyone and was just going to call 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, w
ith her clothes as wet as a soaking house‐
flannel. She did not seem afraid of Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with bl
ank amazement out of her big black eyes. Now and then she sobbed as child
ren do when they have

been crying a long time, but are beginning to be comforted.

The child's face was pale
and tired, she was numb with cold. "How can she have come here? She mu
st
have hidden here and not slept all night." He
began questioning her. The child suddenly becoming animated, chattered
away in her baby language, something
about "mammy" and that "mammy would beat her," and about some cup tha
t she had "bwoken." The child chattered on without stopping. He could only
guess from what she said that she was a neglected child, whose mother, pr
obably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped
and frightened her; that the child had broken a cup of
her mother's and was so frightened that she had run away the evening befor
e, 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 sh
e would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his arms, went back to his ro
om, 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 d
ownwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he sank into dreary musing again.

"What folly to trouble myself," he decided

suddenly with an oppressive feeling of annoyance. "What idiocy!" In vexat
ion he took up the candle to go and look for
the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away. "Damn the child!"
he thought as he opened the 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 co
arser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. "It's a flush of fever," thought Svidr
igaïlov. It was like the flush from drinking, as though she had been given a f
ull glass to drink. Her crimson lips were hot and glowing; but what was thi
s? He suddenly fancied that her long black eyelashes were quivering, as tho
ugh the lids were opening and a sly crafty eye peeped out with an unchildli
ke wink, as though the little girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it wa
s 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 w
as 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 c
hild. "What, at five years old?" Svidrigaïlov muttered in genuine horror.
"What does it mean?"
And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding out her arms..
.. "Accursed child!" Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand to strike her, but at
that moment he woke up.
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.
"I've had nightmare all night!" 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 fe
w 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 set
tled on the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared at them a
nd 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 resol
utely out of the room. A minute later he was in the street.
A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along
the slippery dirty wooden
pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the Little
Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, th
e wet trees and bushes and at last the bush.... He began ill‐
humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think of something else. There wa
s not a cabman or a passer‐
by in the street. The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and d
ejected 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 a
nd 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 pave
ment. He looked at him and went on. A high tower stood up on the
left. "Bah!"
he shouted, "here is a place. Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the pr
esence of an official witness anyway...."
He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where there
was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of the house, a l
ittle man stood

with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a grey soldier's coat,
with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a drowsy and indifferen
t glance at Svidrigaïlov. His face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejec
tion, which is so sourly printed on all faces of Jewish race
without exception. They both, Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, stared at each oth
er 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.
"What do you want here?" he said, without moving or changing his positi
on.
"Nothing, brother, good morning," answered Svidrigaïlov.
"This isn't the place."
"I am going to foreign parts, brother."
"To foreign parts?"
"To America."
"America."
Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it.
Achilles raised his eyebrows.
"I say, this is not the place for such jokes!"
"Why shouldn't it be the place?"
"Because it isn't."
 "Well, brother, I don't mind that. It's a good
place. When you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.
"
He put the revolver to his right temple.
"You can't do it here, it's not the place," cried Achilles, rousing himself, hi
s eyes growing bigger and bigger.
Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER VII

The same day, about seven o'clock in the

evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother's and sister's lodging—
the lodging in Bakaleyev's house
which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from the street.
Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps,
as though still hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turne
d him back: his decision was taken.
"Besides, it doesn't matter, they still know nothing," he thought, "and
they are used to thinking of me as eccentric."
He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a nigh
t's rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the inward co
nflict that had lasted for twenty‐
four hours. He had spent all the previous night alone, God knows where. Bu
t anyway he had reached a decision.
He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dounia
was not at home. Even the servant
happened to be out. At first Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless with
joy and surprise; then she took him by the hand and drew him into the room.

"Here you are!" she began, faltering with joy. "Don't be angry with me, R
odya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing not crying.
Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I've got into such a stup
id habit of shedding tears. I've been like that ever since your father's death.
I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be tired; I see you are. Ah,
how muddy you are."
"I was in the rain yesterday, mother...." Raskolnikov began.

"No, no," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, "you

thought I was going to cross‐
question you in the womanish way I used to; don't be anxious, I understand,
I understand it all: now I've learned the ways here and truly I see for mysel
f that they are better. I've made up my mind once for all: how could I unders
tand your plans and expect you to give an account of them? God knows wh
at concerns and plans you may have, or what ideas you are hatching; so it's
not for me to keep nudging your elbow, asking you what you are thinking ab
out? But, my goodness! why am I running to and fro as though
I were crazy...? I am reading your article in the magazine for the third time,
Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch brought it to me. Directly I saw it I cried out to
myself: 'There, foolish one,' I thought, 'that's what he is busy about; that's th
e solution of the mystery! Learned people are always like that. He may
have some new ideas in his head just now; he
is thinking them over and I worry him and upset him.' I read it, my dear, an
d of course there was a great deal I did not understand; but that's only natur
al—how should I?"
"Show me, mother."
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 inwar
d conflict of the preceding months. He flung the article on the table with dis
gust and anger.
 "But, however foolish I
may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you will very soon be one of the le
ading—if not the leading man—in the world of Russian thought. And

they dared to think you were mad! You don't know, but they really thought
that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how could they understand genius! And
Dounia, Dounia was all but believing it—
what do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazines—the first
time poems (I've got the manuscript and will show you) and the
second time
a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it out) and how we prayed that
they should be taken—
they weren't! I was breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over y
our food and your clothes and the way you are living. But now I see
again how foolish I was, for you can attain
any position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you don't care a
bout that for the present and you are occupied with much more important m
atters...."
"Dounia's not at home, mother?"
"No, Rodya. I often don't see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri Prokofitch
comes to see me, it's so good of him, and he always talks about you. He lov
es you and respects you, my dear. I don't say that Dounia is very
wanting
in consideration. I am not complaining. She has her ways and I have mine;
she seems to have got some secrets of late and I never have any secrets fro
m you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia has far too much sense, and be
sides she loves you and me... but I don't know what it will all lead to. You'
ve made me so happy by coming now, Rodya, but she has missed you by go
ing out; when she comes in I'll tell her: 'Your brother came in while
you were out.
Where have you been all this time?' You mustn't spoil me, Rodya, you kno
w; come when you can, but if you can't, it doesn't matter, I can wait. I shall
know, anyway, that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall r
ead what you write, I shall hear about you from everyone,
and sometimes you'll come yourself to see me. What could be
 better? Here you've come now to comfort your mother, I
see that."
Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
"Here I am again! Don't mind my foolishness.
My goodness, why am I sitting here?" she cried, jumping up. "There is coff
ee and I don't offer you any. Ah, that's the selfishness of old age. I'll get it at
once!"
"Mother, don't trouble, I am going at once. I
haven't come for that. Please listen to me."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.
"Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you ar
e told about me, will you always love me as you do now?" he asked sudden
ly from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words
and not weighing them.
"Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question?
Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn't believe any
one, I should refuse to listen."
"I've come to assure you that I've always loved you and I am glad that we
are alone, even glad Dounia is out," he went on with the same impulse. "I h
ave 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't
care about you, was all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you.... Well,
that's enough: I thought I must do this and begin with this...."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in
silence, pressing him to her bosom and weeping gently.
"I don't know what is wrong with you, Rodya," she said at last. "I've
been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now
I see that there is a great
 sorrow in store for you, and that's why you are miserable. I'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'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 g
oing? You are going away somewhere?"
"Yes."
"That's what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need me. A
nd Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly—
and Sofya Semyonovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to
look upon her as a daughter even... Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go tog
ether. But... where... are you going?"
"Good‐bye, mother."
"What, to‐day?" she cried, as though losing him for
ever.
"I can't stay, I must go now...."
"And can't I come with you?"
"No, but kneel down and pray to God for me.
Your prayer perhaps will reach Him."
"Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That's right, that's right. Oh
, God, what are we doing?"
Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one there, that he w
as 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 a
wful was happening to her son and that now some terrible minute had come
for him.

"Rodya, my darling, my first born," she said sobbing, "now you are just a
s 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 simp
ly by being with us and when I buried your father, how often we wept toget
her at his grave and embraced, as now. And if I've been crying lately, it's th
at my mother's heart had a foreboding of trouble. The first time I saw
you, that evening, you remember, as soon as we arrived here,
I guessed simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and to‐day when
I opened the door and looked at you,
I thought the fatal hour had come. Rodya, Rodya, you are not going away to
‐day?"
"No!"
"You'll come again?"
"Yes... I'll come."
"Rodya, don't be angry, I don't dare to question you. I know I mustn't. Onl
y say two words to me—is it far where you are going?"
"Very far."
"What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you?"
"What God sends... only pray for me." Raskolnikov went to the door, but
she clutched him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face worked wit
h terror.
"Enough, mother," said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come.
"Not for ever, it's not yet for ever? You'll come, you'll
come to‐morrow?"
"I will, I will, good‐bye." He tore himself away at last.
 It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in the morning. Ra
skolnikov went to his lodgings; he made haste. He wanted to finish all befo
re sunset. He did not
 want to meet anyone till then. Going up the stairs
he noticed that Nastasya rushed from the samovar to watch him intently.
"Can anyone have come to see me?" he wondered. He had a
disgusted vision of Porfiry. But opening his door he saw
Dounia. She was sitting
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. He
r eyes, fixed upon him, betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those e
yes alone he saw at once that she knew.
"Am I to come in or go away?" he asked uncertainly.
"I've been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We
were both waiting for you. We thought that you would be sure to come ther
e."
Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on
a chair.
"I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have liked at this mom
ent to be able to control myself."
He glanced at her mistrustfully.
"Where were you all night?"
"I don't remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind o
nce for all, and several times I walked by the Neva, I remember that I want
ed to end it all there, but... I couldn't make up my mind," he whispered, loo
king at her mistrustfully again.
"Thank God! That was just what we were afraid
of, Sofya Semyonovna and I. Then you still have faith in life? Thank God, t
hank God!"
Raskolnikov smiled bitterly.
 "I haven't faith, but I have just been weeping
in mother's arms; I haven't faith, but I have just asked her to

pray for me. I don't know how it is, Dounia, I don't

understand it."
"Have you been at mother's? Have you told her?" cried Dounia, horror‐
stricken. "Surely you haven't done that?"
"No, I didn't tell her... in words; but she understood a great deal. She hear
d you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it already. Perha
ps I did wrong in going to see her. I don't know why I did go. I am
a contemptible person, Dounia."
"A contemptible person, but ready to face
suffering! You are, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought of drowni
ng myself, Dounia, but as I looked into the water, I thought that if I had cons
idered myself strong till now I'd better not be afraid of disgrace," he
said, hurrying on. "It's pride, Dounia."
"Pride, Rodya."
There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes;
he seemed to be glad to think that he was still proud.
"You don't think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water?" he
asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile.
"Oh, Rodya, hush!" cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted for two minutes.
He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor; Dounia stood at the other end of the
table and looked at
him with anguish. Suddenly he got up.
"It's late, it's time to go! I am going at once to
give myself up. But I don't know why I am going to give myself up."
Big tears fell down her cheeks.
 "You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand to me?"
"You doubted it?"

She threw her arms round him.

"Aren't you half expiating your crime by facing
the suffering?" she cried, holding him close and kissing him.
"Crime? What crime?" he cried in sudden fury. "That I killed a vile noxio
us insect, an old pawnbroker woman, of use to no one!... Killing her was at
onement for forty sins. She was sucking the life out of poor people. Was tha
t a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not thinking of expiating it, and w
hy are you all rubbing it in on all sides? 'A crime! a crime!' Only now I see
clearly the imbecility of my cowardice, now that I have decided to
face this superfluous disgrace. It's simply because I
am contemptible and have nothing in me that I have decided to, perhaps
too for my advantage, as that... Porfiry... suggested!"
"Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, you have shed blood?" crie
d Dounia in despair.
"Which all men shed," he put in almost
frantically, "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 stupidit
y 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 c
ouldn't carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible, that's
what's the matter! And yet I won't
 look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I should have been crowned with
glory, but now I'm trapped."
"But that's not so, not so! Brother, what are you saying?"
"Ah, it's not picturesque, not æsthetically attractive! I fail to understand
why bombarding people by
regular siege is more honourable. The fear of appearances is the first symp
tom of impotence. I've never, never recognised this more clearly than now,
and I am further than
ever from seeing that what I did was a crime. I've never, never been strong
er and more convinced than now."
The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as he uttered his l
ast explanation, he happened to meet Dounia's eyes and he saw such anguis
h 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...
"Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I cannot be
forgiven if I am guilty). Good‐bye! We won't dispute. It's time, high
time to go. Don't follow me,
I beseech you, I have somewhere else to go.... But you go at once and sit
with mother. I entreat you to! It's my
last request of you. Don't leave her at all; I left her in a state of anxiety, that
she is not fit to bear; she will die or go out of her mind. Be with her! Razu
mihin will be with you. I've been talking to him.... Don't cry about me:
I'll try to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a
murderer. Perhaps I shall some day make a name. I won't disgrace you, you
will see; I'll still show.... Now good‐
bye for the present," he concluded hurriedly, noticing again a strange expre
ssion in Dounia's eyes at his last words
and promises. "Why are you crying? Don't cry, don't cry: we

are not parting for ever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I'd forgotten!"
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's daughter, who had died of fever, that strange girl who had w
anted 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.
"I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her," he said
thoughtfully. "To her heart I confided much of what has since been
so hideously realised. Don't be uneasy," he returned to Dounia, "she
was as
much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great point i
s that everything now is going to be different, is going to be broken in two,"
he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. "Everything, everything,
and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself? They say it
is necessary for me to suffer! What's the object of
these senseless sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when
I am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty
years' penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I co
nsenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood look
ing at the Neva at daybreak to‐day!"
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 ag
ain. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned and for the last time th
eir eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him, he motioned her awa
y with impatience and even vexation, and turned the corner abruptly.

"I am wicked, I see that," he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a momen

t later of his angry gesture to Dounia. "But why are they so fond of me if I d
on't deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved me and I too had
never loved anyone! Nothing ofall this would have happened. But I won
der 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's it, that's it, that
's what they are sending me there for, that's what they want. Look at them ru
nning to and fro about the streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a crimi
nal at heart and, worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they'd be wi
ld with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!"
 He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could
be humbled before all of them, indiscriminately—humbled by
conviction. And yet
why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual bondage crush h
im 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 hundre
dth time perhaps that he had asked himself that question since the previous e
vening, but still he went.

Ebd
E‐BooksDirectory.com

CHAPTER VIII

When he went into Sonia's room, it was already getting dark. All day Soni
a had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety. Dounia had been waiting with
her. She had come to her that morning, remembering Svidrigaïlov'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 alon
e. 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's gracious image when she had bowed to her so attentively and
respectfully at their first meeting in Raskolnikov's room had remained
in her mind as one of the fairest
visions of her life.
 Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving
Sonia, went to her brother'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 re
membered how Svidrigaïlov had said to her the day before that
Raskolnikov had two alternatives—

Siberia or... Besides she knew his vanity, his pride and his lack of faith.
"Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear of death to
make him live?" she thought at last in despair.
Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, looking
intently out of the window, but from it she could see nothing but the unwhite
washed blank wall of the next house. At last when she began to feel sure of
his death—he walked into the room.
She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face she turned pale.
"Yes," said Raskolnikov, smiling. "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's come to that?"
Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange to her; a cold shi
ver 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.
"You see, Sonia, I've decided that it will be better so. There is one fact....
But it's a long story and there's no need to discuss it. But do you know wha
t angers me? It annoys me that all those stupid brutish faces will be gaping
at me directly, pestering me with their stupid questions, which I shall have
to answer—
they'll point their fingers at me.... Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry,
I am sick of him. I'd rather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how I
shall surprise him, what a sensation I shall make! But
I must be cooler; I've become too irritable of late. You know I was nearly s
haking my fist at my sister just now, because she turned to take a last look a
t me. It's a brutal state to be in! Ah! what am I coming to! Well, where are th
e crosses?"

He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still or c
oncentrate his attention on anything; his ideas seemed to gallop after one
another, he talked incoherently, his hands trembled slightly.
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.
"It's the symbol of my taking up the cross," he laughed. "As though I had n
ot suffered much till now! The wooden cross, that is the peasant one;
the copper one, that is Lizaveta's—
you will wear yourself, show me! So she had it on... at that moment? I reme
mber two things like these too, a silver one and a little ikon. I threw them b
ack on the old
woman'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'm
somehow forgetful.... You see I have come to warn you, Sonia, so that you
might know... that's all—that's all I came for. But
I thought I had more to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I am
going to prison and you'll have your wish. Well, what are you crying for? Y
ou too? Don't. Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!"
But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as
he looked at her. "Why is she grieving too?" he thought to himself. "What a
m I to her? Why does she weep? Why is she looking after me, like my moth
er or Dounia? She'll be my nurse."
 "Cross yourself, say at least one prayer," Sonia begged in a timid broken
voice.
"Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia, sincerely...."
But he wanted to say something quite different.

He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up

her shawl and put it over her head. It was the green drap dedames shawl
of which Marmeladov had spoken,
"the family shawl." Raskolnikov thought of that looking at it, but he did not a
sk. He began to feel himself that he was certainly forgetting things and was
disgustingly agitated. He was frightened at this. He was suddenly struck too
by the thought that Sonia meant to go with him.
"What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I'll go
alone," he cried in cowardly vexation,
and almost resentful, he moved towards the door. "What's the use of going i
n procession?" he muttered going out.
Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said g
ood‐
bye to her; he had forgotten her. A poignant and rebellious doubt surged in h
is heart.
"Was it right, was it right, all this?" he thought again as he went down the
stairs. "Couldn't he stop and retract it all... and not go?"
But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he mustn't ask himself
questions. As he turned into the street he remembered that he had not said go
od‐
bye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle of the room in her green shaw
l, 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 wai
t to strike him then.
"Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told her—on business;
on what business? I had no sort
of business! To tell her I was going; but where was the need? Do I love he
r? No, no, I drove her away just now like a dog. Did I want her crosses?
Oh, how low I've sunk! No,
I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heart ached!
I had to have something to cling to,

something to delay me, some friendly face to see! And I dared to believe
in myself, to dream of what I would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretc
h, contemptible!"
He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. But o
n reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along it went to
the Hay Market.
He looked eagerly to right and left,
gazed intently at every object and could not fix his attention on anything; ev
erything slipped away. "In another week,
another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this bridge, how
shall I look at the canal then? I should like to
remember this!" slipped into his mind. "Look at this sign! How shall I
read those letters then? It's written here
'Campany,' that's a thing to remember, that letter a, and to look at it again
in a month—
how shall I look at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then?... Ho
w 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—
a German he must be—
who pushed against me, does he know whom he pushed? There's a peasant
woman with a baby, begging. It's curious that she thinks
me happier than she is. I might give her something, for the incongruity of
it. Here's a five copeck piece left in
my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here... take it, my good woman!"
"God bless you," the beggar chanted in a lachrymose
 voice.
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 mi
nutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a short jerky laugh. A minute lat
er he had forgotten him and did not see him, though he still stared. He move
d away at last, not remembering where he was; but when he got into the mi
ddle of the square an emotion suddenly came over him, overwhelming him
body and mind.
He suddenly recalled Sonia's words, "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, 'I am a murderer.'" He trembled, r
emembering that. And the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, espe
cially 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 singl
e spark kindled in his soul and spreading fire through him. Everything in
him softened at once and the
tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot....
He knelt down in the middle of the square,
bowed down to the earth, and kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture
. He got up and bowed down a second time.
"He's boozed," a youth near him observed.
There was a roar of laughter.
"He's going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good‐
bye to his children and his country. He's bowing down to all the world and
 kissing the great city of St. Petersburg and its pavement," added a workma
n who was a little drunk.
"Quite a young man, too!" observed a third.
"And a gentleman," someone observed soberly.

"There's no knowing who's a gentleman and who isn't nowadays."

These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, "I
am a murderer," 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 t
hat it must be so. The second time he bowed down in the Hay Market he sa
w, standing fifty paces from him on the left, Sonia. She was hiding from hi
m 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 h
e was just reaching the fatal place.
He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had
to mount to the third storey. "I shall be some time going up," he thought. He
felt as though the fateful moment was still far off, as though he had
plenty of time left for consideration.
Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on the spiral stairs
, again the open doors of the flats, again the same kitchens and the same fum
es and stench coming from them. Raskolnikov had not been here since that d
ay. His legs were numb and gave way under him, but still they moved forw
ard. He stopped for a moment to take breath, to collect himself, so as to
enter like a man . "But why? what for?" he wondered, reflecting. "If I
must
drink the cup what difference does it make? The more revolting the better."
He imagined for an instant the figure of the "explosive lieutenant,"
Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actually

going to him? Couldn't he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch? Cou

ldn't he turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch's lodgings? At
least then it would be done privately.... No, no! To the "explosive
lieutenant"! If he must drink it, drink it off at once.
Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office. Ther
e were very few people in it this time
— only a house porter and a peasant. The doorkeeper did not even peep ou
t from behind his screen. Raskolnikov walked into the next room. "Perhaps
I still need not speak," passed through his mind. Some sort of clerk not
wearing a uniform was settling himself at a bureau to write. In
a corner another clerk was seating himself. Zametov
was not there, nor, of course, Nikodim Fomitch.
"No one in?" Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau.
"Whom do you want?"
"A‐
ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I scent the Russian... h
ow does it go on in the fairy tale... I've forgotten! 'At your service!'" a
familiar voice cried suddenly.
Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive
Lieutenant stood before him. He had just come in from the third room. "It i
s the hand of fate," thought Raskolnikov. "Why is he here?"
"You've come to see us? What about?" cried Ilya Petrovitch. He
was obviously in an exceedingly good humour and perhaps a trifle
exhilarated. "If it's on business you are rather early.
[*] It's only a chance that I am here... however I'll do what I can. I must ad
mit, I... what is it, what is it? Excuse me...."

[*] 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.—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 t
o 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 w
hat's under the hat, what the hat covers, I can't buy that! I was even meanin
g 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 looki
ng suspiciously at your fainting fit—
that affair has been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and fanaticism! I unders
tand 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 n
ot here. Yes, we've lost Zametov. He's not been here since yesterday... he q
uarrelled 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 g
o 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. R
azumihin there, your friend. Your career is an intellectual one and you won't
be deterred by failure. For you, one may say, all the attractions of
life nihil est—you are
an ascetic, a monk, a hermit!... A book, a pen behind your ear, a learned re
search—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 s
ort 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! Offic
ial duty is one thing but... you are thinking I meant to say friendship is
quite another? No,
you're wrong! It's not friendship, but the feeling of a man and a citizen,
the feeling of humanity and of love for
the Almighty. I may be an official, but I am always bound to feel myself a
man and a citizen.... You were asking about Zametov. Zametov will make a
scandal in the French style
 in a house of bad reputation, over a glass of champagne... that's all your Z
ametov 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 child
ren, I fulfil the duties of a man and a citizen, but who is he, may I ask? I app
eal 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 immoderat
e 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 na
me of that gentleman who shot himself?"
"Svidrigaïlov," someone answered from the other room with drowsy listl
essness.
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 suspici
on?"
"I saw him yesterday... he... was drinking wine; I knew nothing."
Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him and was stifling h
im.
"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 gla
d 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 fanci
ed that a porter pushed past him on his way upstairs to the police office, tha
t 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 fro
m 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 wor
ked 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 ha
d 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:
"It was I killed the old pawnbroker woman and her sister
Lizaveta with an axe and robbed them."
Ilya Petrovitch opened his mouth. People ran up on all
 sides.
Raskolnikov repeated his statement.

EPILOGUE

Siberia. On the banks of a broad solitary river stands a town, one of the a
dministrative centres of Russia; in the town there is a fortress, in the fortres
s 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 ha
s passed since his crime.
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 pledge (the piece of wood
with a strip
of metal) which was found in the murdered woman's hand. He described mi
nutely how he had taken her keys, what they were like, as well as the chest a
nd its contents; he explained the mystery of Lizaveta'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 go
ne 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 stru
ck, 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 a
nd 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 copeck
s. 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 re
ally not looked into the purse, and so didn't know what was in it when he hi
d 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'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 anot
her element in the case.
To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this opinion, the crimin
al scarcely attempted to defend himself. To the decisive question as to what
motive impelled him to the murder and the robbery, he answered very clear
ly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was
his miserable position, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to provi
de 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 coars
e....
 The sentence however was more merciful than could have been expected,
perhaps partly because the criminal had not tried to justify himself, but had r
ather shown a desire to exaggerate his guilt. All the strange and peculiar cir
cumstances 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)—all this
did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances, too, in
the prisoner's favour came out quite unexpectedly. Razumihin somehow dis
covered and proved that while Raskolnikov was at the university he had he
lped a poor consumptive fellow student and had spent his last penny on sup
porting him for six months, and when this student died, leaving a decrepit
old father whom he had maintained almost from his thirteenth year, Raskoln
ikov had got the old man into a hospital and paid for his funeral when
he died. Raskolnikov'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.
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.
 At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov's mother fell ill. Dounia an
d 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's illness was a strange nervous one and was acco
mpanied by a partial derangement of her intellect.
When Dounia returned from her last interview with her brother, she had f
ound her mother already ill, in feverish delirium. That evening
Razumihin and she agreed
what answers they must make to her mother's questions about Raskolnikov
and made up a complete story for
her mother's benefit of his having to go away to a distant part of Russia on
a business commission, which would bring him in the end money and reput
ation.
But they were struck by the fact that
Pulcheria Alexandrovna never asked them anything on the subject, neither t
hen nor thereafter. On the contrary, she had her own version of her son's su
dden 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 th
at 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 e
nough to awaken her suspicions.
 They began to be frightened at last at
Pulcheria Alexandrovna's strange silence on certain subjects. She did not,
for instance, complain of getting no letters from him, though in previous yea
rs 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 susp
ected that there was something terrible in her son's fate and was afraid to a
sk, 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.
It happened once or twice, however, that
Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave such a turn to the conversation that it was im
possible to answer her without mentioning where Rodya was, and on recei
ving 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's telling her that her mother had overheard her talking in her sle
ep on the night after her interview with Svidrigaïlov and before the fatal da
y 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 h
er, pretended to agree with her (she saw perhaps that they were pretending)
, but she still went on talking.
Five months after Raskolnikov'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 fou
ndations at least of a secure livelihood during the next three or four years, a
nd 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 the
y would settle in the town where Rodya was and all together would
begin a new life. They all wept at parting.
Raskolnikov had been very dreamy for a few
days before. He asked a great deal about his mother and was constantly an
xious about her. He worried so much about her that it alarmed Dounia.
When he heard about his
mother's illness he became very gloomy. With Sonia
he was particularly reserved all the time. With the help of the money left to
her by Svidrigaïlov, Sonia had long ago made her preparations to follow t
he party of convicts in which he was despatched to Siberia. Not a word pa
ssed 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's and Razumihin's fervent anticipations
of their happy future together when he should come out of

prison. He predicted that their mother's illness would

soon have a fatal ending. Sonia and he at last set off.
Two months later Dounia was married to Razumihin. It
was a quiet and sorrowful wedding; Porfiry Petrovitch and Zossimov
were invited however. During all this
period Razumihin wore an air of resolute determination. Dounia put implic
it 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 lect
ures again in order to take his degree. They were continually making
plans for the future;
both counted on settling in Siberia within five years at least. Till then they
rested their hopes on Sonia.
 Pulcheria Alexandrovna was delighted to give
her blessing to Dounia's marriage with Razumihin; but after the marriage
she became even more melancholy and anxious. To give her pleasure
Razumihin told her how Raskolnikov had looked after the poor
student and
his decrepit father and how a year ago he had been burnt and injured in res
cuing two little children from a fire. These two pieces of news excited
Pulcheria Alexandrovna's disordered imagination almost to ecstasy.
She was continually talking about 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 disc
ourse 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's recalling Raskolnikov's name
and speaking of the recent trial. Pulcheria Alexandrovna found

out the address of the mother of the two children her son
had saved and insisted on going to see her.
At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She would sometimes b
egin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One mornin
g 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 fur
niture, 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 sh
e was feverish and delirious. It was brain fever. She died within a fortnight
. In her delirium she dropped words which showed that she knew a
great deal more about her son's terrible fate than they had supposed.
 For a long time Raskolnikov did not know of his mother's death,
though a regular correspondence
had been maintained from the time he reached Siberia. It was carried on b
y means of Sonia, who wrote every month to the Razumihins and
received an answer with unfailing regularity. At first they found
Sonia's letters dry
and unsatisfactory, but later on they came to the conclusion that the letters c
ould not be better, for from these letters they received a complete
picture of their
unfortunate brother's life. Sonia's letters were full of the most matter‐
of‐fact detail, the simplest and clearest description of all Raskolnikov'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—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.
But Dounia and her husband could get little
comfort out of the news, especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was consta
ntly sullen and not ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the ne
ws 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 h
er death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly affected by i
t, 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
— 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 surpr
ised 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, S
onia, 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 pl
an or design, but simply from inattention and indifference.
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 w
as 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.
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.
At last the news came (Dounia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and unea
siness in the preceding letters) that he held aloof from everyone, that his fell
ow 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 ver
y 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 har
d 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 o
f the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at
least reckon on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to him—
the thin cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a student he h
ad 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 sham
e and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated
conscience found no
particularly terrible fault in his past, except a simple blunder which migh
t 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 "the idiocy" of a sentence, if he were anyho
w to be at peace.
Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a continual s
acrifice leading to nothing—
that was all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to him
 that at the end of eight years he would only be thirty‐
two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had he to l
ook 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 ho
pe, 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.
And if only fate would have sent him repentance— 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.
At least he might have found relief in raging at
his stupidity, as he had raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought hi
m to prison. But now in prison, infreedom, he thought over and criticised a
ll his actions again and by no means found them so blundering and so grotes
que as they had seemed at the fatal time.
"In what way," he asked himself, "was my
theory stupider than others that have swarmed and clashed from the beginn
ing of the world? One has only to look at the thing quite independently, bro
adly, and uninfluenced by commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no mea
ns seem so... strange. Oh, sceptics and halfpenny philosophers, why do you
halt half‐way!"
"Why does my action strike them as so horrible?" he said to himself.
"Is it because it was a crime? What is
meant by crime? My conscience is at rest. Of course, it was a legal crime
, of course, the letter of the law was broken
 and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the law... and that's
enough. Of course, in that case many of the benefactors of mankind who
snatched power for themselves instead of inheriting it ought to have
been punished at their first steps. But those men succeeded and
so they were right, and I didn't, and so I had no right to have taken that st
ep."
It was only in that that he recognised his criminality, only in the fact
that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it.
He suffered too from the question: why had he
not killed himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and preferred to
confess? Was the desire to live so strong and was it so hard to
overcome it? Had not
Svidrigaïlov overcome it, although he was afraid of death?
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't understand that that consciousness
might be the promise of a future crisis, of a new view of
life and of his future resurrection.
He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he
could not step 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 th
ey 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 i
n the bush? As he went on he saw still more inexplicable examples.
 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 invol
untarily, to notice much that he had not suspected before. What surprised hi
m 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 n
ever have admitted till then that those reasons
were so deep and strong. There were some Polish exiles, political prison
ers, among them. They simply looked down upon all the rest as ignorant ch
urls; 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—
why, he could not tell. Men who had been far more guilty despised and lau
ghed at his crime.
"You're a gentleman," they used to say. "You shouldn't hack about with an
axe; that's not a gentleman's work."
The second week in 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 i
n a fury.
"You're an infidel! You don't believe in God,"
they shouted. "You ought to be killed."

He had never talked to them about God nor his belief, but they wanted to k
ill 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 blood
shed.
There was another question he could not decide: why were they all so fon
d of Sonia? She did not try to win their favour; she rarely met them, someti
mes only she came to see him at work for a moment. And yet everybody kne
w her, they knew that she had come out to follow him, knew how and wher
e she lived. She never gave them money, did them no particular services. O
nly once at Christmas she sent them all presents of pies and rolls. But by de
grees closer relations sprang up between them and Sonia. She would write
and post letters for them to their relations. Relations of the prisoners who v
isited the town, at their instructions, left with Sonia presents and money for t
hem. Their wives and sweethearts knew her and used to visit
her. And when she visited Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the pris
oners on the road, they all took off their hats to her. "Little mother Sofya Se
myonovna, you are our dear, good little mother," coarse branded criminals
said to that frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them
and everyone was delighted when she smiled. They even admired her gai
t and turned round to watch her walking; they admired her too for being so l
ittle, and, in fact, did not know what to admire her most for. They even cam
e to her for help in their illnesses.
He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When he
was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish an
d 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 we
re attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were endowed with intel
ligence 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 s
ort 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 soldi
ers 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 w
ere summoned and who was summoning them no one knew. The most ordin
ary 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 th
e earth, but no one had seen these men, no one had heard their words and th
eir voices.
Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream
haunted his memory so miserably, the impression of this feverish deliriu
m persisted so long. The second week after Easter had come. There were
warm bright spring days; in the prison ward the grating windows under
which the sentinel paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit
him twice during his illness; each time she had
to obtain permission, and it was difficult. But she often used to come to
the hospital yard, especially in the evening, sometimes only to stand
a minute and look up at the windows of the ward.
One evening, when he was almost well
again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. On waking up he chanced to go to the wind
ow, 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 c
ome, nor the day after; he noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last
he was discharged. On reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that
Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go
out.
He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that her ill
ness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her, Sonia sent h
im a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better, that she had a sligh
t cold and that she would soon, very soon come and

see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he

read it.
Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o'clock, he w
ent off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster and w
here there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only three of them s
ent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to fetch a tool; th
e other began getting the wood ready and laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov c
ame out of the shed on to the river bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the s
hed and began
gazing at the wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad landscape ope
ned before him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other b
ank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see,
like black specks, the nomads' tents. There there was freedom, there other
men were living, utterly unlike those
here; there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham a
nd 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 pa
ler. 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 alo
ne, no one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time.
How it happened he did not know. But all at
once something seemed to seize him and fling him at her feet. He wept and
threw his arms round her knees. For the first instant she was terribly frighte
ned 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 l
oved her beyond everything and that at last the moment had come....
They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood
in their eyes. They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were b
right with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. Th
ey were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for t
he heart of the other.
They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to wai
t, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before them! But h
e had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his being, while she—
she only lived in his life.
 On the evening of the same day, when the
barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her.
He had even fancied that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies
looked at him differently; he had even entered into talk with them and they a
nswered him in a friendly way. He remembered that now, and thought
it was bound to be so. Wasn't everything now bound to be changed?

He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her

and wounded her heart. He
remembered her pale and thin little face. But these recollections
scarcely troubled him now; he knew
with what infinite love he would now repay all her sufferings. And what w
ere all, all the agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentenc
e and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an extern
al, strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not think
for long together of anything that evening, and he could not have
analysed anything consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had
stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would
work itself out in his mind.
Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The
book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the raising
of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him
about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But
to his great surprise she had not
once approached the subject and had not even offered him the Testament. H
e had asked her for it himself not long before his illness and she brought him
the book without a word. Till now he had not opened it.
He did not open it now, but one thought
passed through his mind: "Can her convictions not be mine now? Her feelin
gs, her aspirations at least...."
She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill
again. But she was so happy—and so unexpectedly happy—that she
was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, only seven
years! At
the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready to lo
ok on those seven years as though they

were seven days. He did not know that the new life would not be given hi
m for nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him
great striving, great suffering.
But that is the beginning of a new story—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 init
iation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but
our present story is ended.

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Document Outline
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
BY FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY
TRANSLATED BY CONSTANCE GARNETT
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
PART I
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
PART II
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
PART III
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
PART IV
CHAPTER I
"CAN THIS BE STILL A DREAM?" RASKOLNIKOV
THOUGHT ONCE MORE.
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
WHEN HE REMEMBERED THE SCENE AFTERWARDS,
THIS IS HOW RASKOLNIKOV SAW IT.
PART V
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
LEBEZIATNIKOV LOOKED PERTURBED.
PART VI
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
RASKOLNIKOV WALKED AFTER HIM.
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
EPILOGUE
I
II