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<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Crime and Punishment, by Fyodor Dostoevsky</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
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of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
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country where you are located before using this eBook.
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<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Crime and Punishment</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Fyodor Dostoevsky</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: Constance Garnett</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March, 2001 [eBook #2554]<br />
[Most recently updated: August 6, 2021]</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: John Bickers, Dagny and David Widger</div>
<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRIME AND PUNISHMENT ***</div>

    <h1>
      CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
    </h1>

    <h2 class="no-break">
      By Fyodor Dostoevsky
    </h2>

    <h3>
      Translated By Constance Garnett
    </h3>

    <hr />

      <p>
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TRANSLATOR&rsquo;S PREFACE </a><br /> <br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0002"> <big><b>CRIME AND PUNISHMENT</b></big> </a><br />
        <br /> <br />
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2H_PART1"> <b>PART I</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>PART II</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER V </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER VI </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER VII </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2H_PART3"> <b>PART III</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER V </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER VI </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2H_PART4"> <b>PART IV</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER V </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER VI </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2H_PART5"> <b>PART V</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER V </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2H_PART6"> <b>PART VI</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER V </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER VI </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER VII </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER VIII </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE </a>
      </p>

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a>
      TRANSLATOR&rsquo;S PREFACE
    </h2>
    <p>
      A few words about Dostoevsky himself may help the English reader to
      understand his work.
    </p>
    <p>
      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
      character.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though always sickly and delicate Dostoevsky came out third in the final
      examination of the Petersburg school of Engineering. There he had already
      begun his first work, &ldquo;Poor Folk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Under Nicholas I. (that &ldquo;stern
      and just man,&rdquo; as Maurice Baring calls him) this was enough, and he was
      condemned to death. After eight months&rsquo; imprisonment he was with
      twenty-one others taken out to the Semyonovsky Square to be shot. Writing
      to his brother Mihail, Dostoevsky says: &ldquo;They snapped words over our
      heads, and they made us put on the white shirts worn by persons condemned
      to death. Thereupon 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 tattoo, we were unbound, brought
      back upon the scaffold, and informed that his Majesty had spared us our
      lives.&rdquo; The sentence was commuted to hard labour.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the prisoners, Grigoryev, went mad as soon as he was untied, and
      never regained his sanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The intense suffering of this experience left a lasting stamp on
      Dostoevsky&rsquo;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
      &ldquo;Dead House,&rdquo; and some years of service in a disciplinary battalion.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. The 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 journal&mdash;&ldquo;Vremya,&rdquo; which
      was forbidden by the Censorship through a misunderstanding. 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&rsquo;s debts. He started
      another journal&mdash;&ldquo;The Epoch,&rdquo; which within a few months was also
      prohibited. He was weighed down by debt, his brother&rsquo;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 years of his life were
      much softened by the tenderness and devotion of his second wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few months later Dostoevsky died. He was followed to the grave by a vast
      multitude of mourners, who &ldquo;gave the hapless man the funeral of a king.&rdquo;
       He is still probably the most widely read writer in Russia.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the words of a Russian critic, who seeks to explain the feeling
      inspired by Dostoevsky: &ldquo;He was one of ourselves, a man of our blood and
      our bone, but one who has suffered and has seen so much more deeply than
      we have his insight impresses us as wisdom... that wisdom of the heart
      which we seek that we may learn from it how to live. All his other gifts
      came to him from nature, this he won for himself and through it he became
      great.&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a>
      CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
    </h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"></a>
      PART I
    </h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"></a>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 who provided him with garret,
      dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, 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 had 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
      verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in himself,
      and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his
      landlady, but anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties
      of his position 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 brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie&mdash;no,
      rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out
      unseen.
    </p>
    <p>
      This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely
      aware of his fears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to attempt a thing <i>like that</i> and am frightened by these
      trifles,&rdquo; he thought, with an odd smile. &ldquo;Hm... yes, all is in a man&rsquo;s
      hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that&rsquo;s an axiom. It would be
      interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step,
      uttering a new word is what they fear most.... But I am talking too much.
      It&rsquo;s because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter
      because I do nothing. I&rsquo;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 <i>that</i>? Is <i>that</i> serious? It
      is not serious at all. It&rsquo;s simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything!
      Yes, maybe it is a plaything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle and
      the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that special
      Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in
      summer&mdash;all worked painfully upon the young man&rsquo;s already overwrought
      nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot-houses, which are
      particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men whom
      he met continually, although it was a working day, completed the revolting
      misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed
      for a moment in the young man&rsquo;s refined face. He was, by the way,
      exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, well-built,
      with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank into deep
      thought, 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 food.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would
      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&rsquo;s heart, that, in
      spite of all the fastidiousness of 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 man who, for some unknown reason, was being
      taken somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly
      shouted at him as he drove past: &ldquo;Hey there, German hatter&rdquo; bawling at the
      top of his voice and pointing at him&mdash;the young man stopped suddenly
      and clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall round hat from
      Zimmerman&rsquo;s, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and
      bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not
      shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew it,&rdquo; he muttered in confusion, &ldquo;I thought so! That&rsquo;s the worst of
      all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail 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,
      trifles are what matter! Why, it&rsquo;s just such trifles that always ruin
      everything....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 in which he jeered at his own
      impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard this
      &ldquo;hideous&rdquo; dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he still did not
      realise this himself. He was positively going now for a &ldquo;rehearsal&rdquo; of his
      project, and at every step his excitement grew more and more violent.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house
      which 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&mdash;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 the
      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. It 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that I
      were really going to do it?&rdquo; he could not help asking himself as he
      reached the fourth storey. There his progress was barred by some porters
      who were 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. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a good thing anyway,&rdquo;
       he thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman&rsquo;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
      remind 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 crack, 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 inquiringly at him. She was a
      diminutive, withered up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and
      a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly
      smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long
      neck, which looked like a hen&rsquo;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. The young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar
      expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago,&rdquo; the young man made
      haste to mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be more
      polite.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here,&rdquo; the old
      woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And here... I am again on the same errand,&rdquo; Raskolnikov continued, a
      little disconcerted and surprised at the old woman&rsquo;s mistrust. &ldquo;Perhaps
      she is always like that though, only I did not notice it the other time,&rdquo;
       he thought with an uneasy feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one side, and
      pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor pass in
      front of her:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Step in, my good sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The little room into which the young man walked, with yellow paper on the
      walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly lighted
      up at that moment by the setting sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So the sun will shine like this <i>then</i> too!&rdquo; flashed as it were by
      chance through Raskolnikov&rsquo;s mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned
      everything in the room, trying as far as possible to notice and remember
      its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the room. The furniture,
      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&mdash;that was all. In the corner a
      light was burning before a small ikon. Everything was very clean; the
      floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything shone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lizaveta&rsquo;s work,&rdquo; thought the young man. There was not a speck of dust to
      be seen in the whole flat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds such
      cleanliness,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s bed and chest of drawers and into which he had never
      looked before. These two rooms made up the whole flat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; the old woman said severely, coming into the room and,
      as before, standing in front of him so as to look him straight in the
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve brought something to pawn here,&rdquo; and he drew out of his pocket an
      old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back of which was engraved a
      globe; the chain was of steel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day before
      yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait or to sell your
      pledge at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You come with such trifles, my good sir, it&rsquo;s scarcely worth anything. I
      gave you two roubles last time for your ring and one could buy it quite
      new at a jeweler&rsquo;s for a rouble and a half.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my father&rsquo;s. I
      shall be getting some money soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A rouble and a half!&rdquo; cried the young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please yourself&rdquo;&mdash;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 could go, and that he had had another object also in coming.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hand it over,&rdquo; he said roughly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared behind
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be the top drawer,&rdquo; he reflected. &ldquo;So she carries the keys in a
      pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a steel ring.... And there&rsquo;s one
      key there, three times as big as all the others, with deep notches; that
      can&rsquo;t be the key of the chest of drawers... then there must be some other
      chest or strong-box... that&rsquo;s worth knowing. Strong-boxes always have keys
      like that... but how degrading it all is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old woman came back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so I must take
      fifteen 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at the old
      woman, and was in no hurry to get away, as though there was still
      something he wanted to say or to do, but he did not himself quite know
      what.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna&mdash;a
      valuable thing&mdash;silver&mdash;a cigarette-box, as soon as I get it
      back from a friend...&rdquo; he broke off in confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we will talk about it then, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye&mdash;are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with
      you?&rdquo; He asked her as casually as possible as he went out into the
      passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What business is she of yours, my good sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick.... Good-day,
      Alyona Ivanovna.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 suddenly struck by some thought. When he was in the
      street he cried out, &ldquo;Oh, God, how loathsome it all is! and can I, can I
      possibly.... No, it&rsquo;s nonsense, it&rsquo;s rubbish!&rdquo; he added resolutely. &ldquo;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!&mdash;and for a whole month I&rsquo;ve been....&rdquo; But no words, no
      exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling of intense
      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 taken
      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 the next street. Looking round, he
      noticed that he was standing close to a tavern 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All that&rsquo;s nonsense,&rdquo; he said hopefully, &ldquo;and there is nothing in it all
      to worry about! It&rsquo;s simply physical derangement. Just a glass of beer, a
      piece of dry bread&mdash;and in one moment the brain is stronger, the mind
      is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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
      round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But even at that moment
      he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also not
      normal.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 quiet 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 companion, 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 apart and the upper part of his
      body bounding about on the bench, while he hummed some meaningless
      refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these:
    </p>

      <p class="poem">
        &ldquo;His wife a year he fondly loved<br />
        His wife a&mdash;a year he&mdash;fondly loved.&rdquo;
       </p>

    <p class="noindent">
      Or suddenly waking up again:
    </p>

      <p class="poem">
        &ldquo;Walking along the crowded row<br />
        He met the one he used to know.&rdquo;
       </p>

    <p class="noindent">
      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 agitation.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"></a>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
    <p>
      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 desire 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently
      came 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first
      moment, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on
      Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked
      like a retired 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 staring persistently at
      him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At the other persons in
      the room, including the tavern-keeper, the clerk looked as though he were
      used to their company, and weary 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,
      bloated 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 something very strange in him; there was a light in
      his eyes as though of intense feeling&mdash;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 black
      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 looked 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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation?
      Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not command respect, my
      experience admonishes 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 counsellor
      in rank. Marmeladov&mdash;such is my name; titular counsellor. I make bold
      to inquire&mdash;have you been in the service?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I am studying,&rdquo; 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 his
      habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached or
      attempted to approach him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A student then, or formerly a student,&rdquo; cried the clerk. &ldquo;Just what I
      thought! I&rsquo;m a man of experience, immense experience, sir,&rdquo; and he tapped
      his forehead with his fingers in self-approval. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been a student or
      have attended some learned institution!... But allow me....&rdquo; He got up,
      staggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down beside the young man,
      facing 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 upon Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too had not
      spoken to a soul for a month.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Honoured sir,&rdquo; he began almost with solemnity, &ldquo;poverty is not a vice,
      that&rsquo;s a true saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue, and
      that that&rsquo;s even truer. But beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a vice. In
      poverty you may still retain your innate nobility of soul, but in beggary&mdash;never&mdash;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;
      and 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 beating, and my wife is a very different
      matter from me! Do you understand? Allow me to ask you another question
      out of simple curiosity: have you ever spent a night on a hay barge, on
      the Neva?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I have not happened to,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ve just come from one and it&rsquo;s the fifth night I&rsquo;ve slept so....&rdquo;
       He filled his glass, emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in fact
      clinging to his 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;funny fellow&rdquo; 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 home. Hence in the company
      of other drinkers they try to justify themselves and even if possible
      obtain consideration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Funny fellow!&rdquo; pronounced the innkeeper. &ldquo;And why don&rsquo;t you work, why
      aren&rsquo;t you at your duty, if you are in the service?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir,&rdquo; Marmeladov went on, addressing
      himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put that
      question to him. &ldquo;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&rsquo;t I suffer? Excuse me, young
      man, has it ever happened to you... hm... well, to petition hopelessly for
      a loan?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you will
      get nothing by it. You know, for instance, beforehand 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&rsquo;t pay it back. From compassion? But Mr.
      Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas explained the other day that
      compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that&rsquo;s what
      is done now in England, where there is political economy. Why, I ask you,
      should he give it to me? And yet though I know beforehand that he won&rsquo;t, I
      set off to him and...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you go?&rdquo; put in Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must
      have somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must go
      somewhere! When my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket, then
      I had to go... (for my daughter has a yellow passport),&rdquo; he added in
      parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness at the young man. &ldquo;No
      matter, sir, no matter!&rdquo; he went on hurriedly and with apparent composure
      when both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the innkeeper smiled&mdash;&ldquo;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 contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be
      it! &lsquo;Behold the man!&rsquo; Excuse me, young man, can you.... No, to put it more
      strongly and more distinctly; not <i>can</i> you but <i>dare</i> you,
      looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man did not answer a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; the orator began again stolidly and with even increased dignity,
      after waiting for the laughter in the room to subside. &ldquo;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&rsquo;s daughter.
      Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel, but she is a woman 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&mdash;for I repeat
      without being ashamed, she pulls my hair, young man,&rdquo; he declared with
      redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering again&mdash;&ldquo;but, my God, if she
      would but once.... But no, no! It&rsquo;s all in vain and it&rsquo;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 beast by
      nature!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rather!&rdquo; assented the innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov struck his fist
      resolutely on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you know, I have sold her very
      stockings for drink? Not her shoes&mdash;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 live 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&rsquo;s been used to
      cleanliness from a child. But her chest is weak and she has a tendency to
      consumption and I feel it! Do you suppose I don&rsquo;t feel it? And the more I
      drink the more I feel it. That&rsquo;s why I drink too. I try to find sympathy
      and feeling in drink.... I drink so that I may suffer twice as much!&rdquo; And
      as though in despair he laid his head down on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Young man,&rdquo; he went on, raising his head again, &ldquo;in your face I seem to
      read some trouble of mind. When you came in I read it, and that was why I
      addressed 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&mdash;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&rsquo;t condemn her for it, I don&rsquo;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 determined. She scrubs
      the floors herself and has nothing but black bread to eat, but won&rsquo;t allow
      herself to be treated with disrespect. That&rsquo;s why she would not overlook
      Mr. Lebeziatnikov&rsquo;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 from 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
      officer, for love, and ran away with him from her father&rsquo;s house. She was
      exceedingly fond of her husband; but he gave way to cards, got into
      trouble and with 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 throws 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 at
      his death with three children in a wild and remote district where I
      happened to be at the time; and she was left in such hopeless poverty
      that, although I have seen many ups and downs of all sort, I don&rsquo;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 my hand, for I could not bear the sight of such
      suffering. You can judge the extremity of her calamities, that she, a
      woman of education and culture and distinguished 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&rsquo;t understand yet.... And for a whole year, I
      performed my duties conscientiously and faithfully, and did not touch
      this&rdquo; (he tapped the jug with his finger), &ldquo;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 and a half ago soon since we found ourselves at
      last after many wanderings and 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 have now part of a room at Amalia Fyodorovna Lippevechsel&rsquo;s;
      and what we live upon and what we pay our rent with, I could not say.
      There are a lot of people 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&rsquo;t speak of. For, though
      Katerina Ivanovna is full of generous feelings, she is a spirited lady,
      irritable and short-tempered.... Yes. But it&rsquo;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 what books we had... hm, anyway we have not even those
      now, so all our instruction came to an end. We stopped at Cyrus of Persia.
      Since she has attained 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&rsquo; Physiology&mdash;do you know it?&mdash;and
      even recounted extracts from it to us: and that&rsquo;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 that a respectable poor
      girl can earn much by honest work? Not fifteen farthings 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&rsquo;s more, Ivan Ivanitch
      Klopstock the civil counsellor&mdash;have you heard of him?&mdash;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 are in
      that disease: &lsquo;Here you live with us,&rsquo; says she, &lsquo;you eat and drink and
      are kept warm and you do nothing to help.&rsquo; And much she gets to eat and
      drink when there is not a crust for the little ones for three days! I was
      lying at the 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, thin little face). She said: &lsquo;Katerina Ivanovna, am
      I really to do a thing like that?&rsquo; And Darya 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. &lsquo;And why not?&rsquo; said Katerina Ivanovna
      with a jeer, &lsquo;you are something mighty precious to be so careful of!&rsquo; But
      don&rsquo;t blame her, don&rsquo;t blame her, honoured sir, don&rsquo;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&rsquo;s Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s character, and when
      children cry, even from hunger, she falls to beating them at once. At six
      o&rsquo;clock I saw Sonia get up, put on her kerchief and her cape, and go out
      of the room and about nine o&rsquo;clock she came back. She walked straight up
      to Katerina 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 <i>drap de dames</i> shawl (we have a
      shawl, made of <i>drap de dames</i>), put 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&rsquo;s little bed; she was on her knees all the evening
      kissing Sonia&rsquo;s feet, and would not get up, and then they both fell asleep
      in each other&rsquo;s arms... together, together... yes... and I... lay drunk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice had failed him. Then he
      hurriedly filled his glass, drank, and cleared his throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since then, sir,&rdquo; he went on after a brief pause&mdash;&ldquo;Since then, owing
      to an unfortunate occurrence and through information given by
      evil-intentioned persons&mdash;in all which Darya Frantsovna took a
      leading part on the pretext that she had been treated with want of respect&mdash;since
      then my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has been forced to take a yellow 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 trouble
      between him and Katerina Ivanovna was on Sonia&rsquo;s account. At first he was
      for making up to Sonia himself and then all of a sudden he stood on his
      dignity: &lsquo;how,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;can a highly educated man like me live in the
      same rooms with a girl like that?&rsquo; And Katerina Ivanovna would not let it
      pass, she stood up for her... and so that&rsquo;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&rsquo; the tailors,
      she lodges with them; Kapernaumov is a lame man with a cleft palate and
      all of his numerous family have cleft palates too. And his wife, too, has
      a cleft palate. They all live in one room, but Sonia has her own,
      partitioned off.... Hm... yes... very 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&rsquo;s a man
      of God you don&rsquo;t know. He is wax... wax before the face of the Lord; even
      as wax melteth!... His eyes were dim when he heard my story. &lsquo;Marmeladov,
      once already you have deceived my expectations... I&rsquo;ll take you once more
      on my own responsibility&rsquo;&mdash;that&rsquo;s what he said, &lsquo;remember,&rsquo; he said,
      &lsquo;and now you can go.&rsquo; I kissed the dust at his feet&mdash;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&rsquo;d been taken back into the service and should
      receive a salary, heavens, what a to-do there was!...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;The Hamlet&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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 like a beast, nothing but
      abuse. Now they were walking on tiptoe, hushing the children. &lsquo;Semyon
      Zaharovitch is tired with his work at the office, he is resting, shh!&rsquo;
      They made me coffee before I went to work and boiled cream 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&mdash;eleven roubles, fifty
      copecks, I can&rsquo;t guess. Boots, cotton shirt-fronts&mdash;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&mdash;soup and salt meat with
      horse radish&mdash;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&rsquo;d anything to do it with, she smartened
      herself up with nothing at all, she&rsquo;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 &lsquo;for the time,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;it won&rsquo;t do for me to come
      and see you too often. After dark maybe when no one can see.&rsquo; Do you hear,
      do you hear? I lay down for a nap after 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 her in to coffee. For two hours they were sitting, whispering
      together. &lsquo;Semyon Zaharovitch is in the service again, now, and receiving
      a salary,&rsquo; says she, &lsquo;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.&rsquo; Do you
      hear, do you hear? &lsquo;To be sure,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;Semyon Zaharovitch, remembering
      your past services,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;and in spite of your propensity to that
      foolish weakness, since you promise now and since moreover we&rsquo;ve got on
      badly without you,&rsquo; (do you hear, do you hear;) &lsquo;and so,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;I rely
      now on your word as a gentleman.&rsquo; And 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&rsquo;t blame her for it, no, I
      don&rsquo;t blame her!... Six days ago when I brought her my first earnings in
      full&mdash;twenty-three roubles forty copecks altogether&mdash;she called
      me her poppet: &lsquo;poppet,&rsquo; said she, &lsquo;my little poppet.&rsquo; And when we were by
      ourselves, 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,
      &lsquo;my little poppet,&rsquo; said she.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin began to
      twitch. 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Honoured sir, honoured sir,&rdquo; cried Marmeladov recovering himself&mdash;&ldquo;Oh,
      sir, perhaps all this seems a laughing matter to you, as it does to
      others, and perhaps I am only worrying you with the stupidity of all the
      trivial details of my home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me.
      For I can feel it all.... And the whole of that heavenly day of my life
      and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting dreams 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 deal more.... Quite
      excusable, sir. Well, then, sir&rdquo; (Marmeladov suddenly gave a sort of
      start, raised his head and gazed intently at his listener) &ldquo;well, on the
      very next day after all those dreams, that is to say, exactly five days
      ago, in the evening, by a cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I
      stole from Katerina 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&rsquo;s the fifth day since I left home, and they are looking for me
      there and it&rsquo;s the end of my employment, and my uniform is lying in a
      tavern on the Egyptian bridge. I exchanged it for the garments I have
      on... and it&rsquo;s the end of everything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for a pick-me-up!
      He-he-he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say she gave it to you?&rdquo; cried one of the new-comers; he
      shouted the words and went off into a guffaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This very quart was bought with her money,&rdquo; Marmeladov declared,
      addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. &ldquo;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&rsquo;t blame them, they don&rsquo;t
      blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when they don&rsquo;t blame! Thirty
      copecks yes! And maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you think, my dear
      sir? For now she&rsquo;s got to keep up her appearance. It costs money, that
      smartness, that special smartness, you know? Do you understand? And
      there&rsquo;s pomatum, too, you see, she must have things; petticoats, starched
      ones, shoes, too, real jaunty ones to show off her foot when she has 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He would have filled his glass, but there was no drink left. The pot was
      empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you to be pitied for?&rdquo; shouted the tavern-keeper who was again
      near them.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?&rdquo; Marmeladov suddenly declaimed,
      standing up with his arm outstretched, as though he had been only waiting
      for that question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! there&rsquo;s nothing to pity me for! I
      ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, oh
      judge, crucify me but pity me! And then I will go of myself to be
      crucified, for it&rsquo;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 bottom of it, tears and
      tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He 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:
      &lsquo;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?&rsquo; And He will say, &lsquo;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....&rsquo; 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 will 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. &lsquo;You too come forth,&rsquo; He will say, &lsquo;Come forth ye
      drunkards, come forth, ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!&rsquo;
      And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand before him. And
      He will say unto us, &lsquo;Ye are swine, made in the Image of the Beast and
      with his mark; but come ye also!&rsquo; And the wise ones and those of
      understanding will say, &lsquo;Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?&rsquo; And He
      will say, &lsquo;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.&rsquo; And He will hold out His hands to us and we shall fall
      down before him... and we shall weep... and we shall understand all
      things! Then we shall understand all!... and all will understand, Katerina
      Ivanovna even... she will understand.... Lord, Thy kingdom come!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s his notion!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Talked himself silly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fine clerk he is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so on, and so on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us go, sir,&rdquo; said Marmeladov all at once, raising his head and
      addressing Raskolnikov&mdash;&ldquo;come along with me... Kozel&rsquo;s house, looking
      into the yard. I&rsquo;m going to Katerina Ivanovna&mdash;time I did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now,&rdquo; he muttered in agitation&mdash;&ldquo;and
      that she will begin pulling my hair. What does my hair matter! Bother my
      hair! That&rsquo;s what I say! Indeed it will be better if she does begin
      pulling it, that&rsquo;s not what I am afraid of... it&rsquo;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&rsquo;s crying, too....
      For if Sonia has not taken them food... I don&rsquo;t know what&rsquo;s happened! I
      don&rsquo;t know! But blows I am not afraid of.... Know, sir, that such blows
      are not a pain to me, but even an enjoyment. In fact I can&rsquo;t get on
      without it.... It&rsquo;s better so. Let her strike me, it relieves her heart...
      it&rsquo;s better so... There is the house. The house of Kozel, the
      cabinet-maker... a German, well-to-do. Lead the way!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The staircase got
      darker and darker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o&rsquo;clock and
      although in summer in Petersburg there is no real night, yet it was quite
      dark at the top of the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&rsquo;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
      cupboards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel&rsquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 and was certainly a strange wife for
      Marmeladov.... She had not heard them and 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 older 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&rsquo;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 stranger 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
      outer door to close it and uttered a sudden scream on seeing her husband
      on his knees in the doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; she cried out in a frenzy, &ldquo;he has come back! The criminal! the
      monster!... And where is the money? What&rsquo;s in your pocket, show me! And
      your clothes are all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the
      money! Speak!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively and obediently held
      up both arms to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the money?&rdquo; she cried&mdash;&ldquo;Mercy on us, can he have drunk it
      all? There were twelve silver roubles left in the chest!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, but is a positive
      con-so-la-tion, ho-nou-red sir,&rdquo; 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 began to cry. The boy in the corner losing all
      control began trembling and screaming and rushed to his sister in violent
      terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was shaking like a leaf.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s drunk it! he&rsquo;s drunk it all,&rdquo; the poor woman screamed in despair&mdash;&ldquo;and
      his clothes are gone! And they are hungry, hungry!&rdquo;&mdash;and wringing her
      hands she pointed to the children. &ldquo;Oh, accursed life! And you, are you
      not ashamed?&rdquo;&mdash;she pounced all at once upon Raskolnikov&mdash;&ldquo;from
      the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have been drinking with
      him, too! Go away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 be 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 herself 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 into 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a stupid thing I&rsquo;ve done,&rdquo; he thought to himself, &ldquo;they have Sonia
      and I want it myself.&rdquo; But reflecting that it would be impossible to take
      it back 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. &ldquo;Sonia wants
      pomatum too,&rdquo; he said as he walked along the street, and he laughed
      malignantly&mdash;&ldquo;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&rsquo;ve dug
      there! And they&rsquo;re making the most of it! Yes, they are making the most of
      it! They&rsquo;ve wept over it and grown used to it. Man grows used to
      everything, the scoundrel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sank into thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what if I am wrong,&rdquo; he cried suddenly after a moment&rsquo;s thought.
      &ldquo;What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the whole
      race of mankind&mdash;then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial
      terrors and there are no barriers and it&rsquo;s all as it should be.&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"></a>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
    <p>
      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 room 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 every 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 dust
      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
      served Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he was,
      without undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his old student&rsquo;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 sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of disorder, but to
      Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this was positively 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 had 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&rsquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get up, why are you asleep?&rdquo; she called to him. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s past nine, I have
      brought you some tea; will you have a cup? I should think you&rsquo;re fairly
      starving?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognised Nastasya.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From the landlady, eh?&rdquo; he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting
      up on the sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From the landlady, indeed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, Nastasya, take it please,&rdquo; he said, fumbling in his pocket (for he
      had slept in his clothes) and taking out a handful of coppers&mdash;&ldquo;run
      and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the
      pork-butcher&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The loaf I&rsquo;ll fetch you this very minute, but wouldn&rsquo;t you rather have
      some cabbage soup instead of sausage? It&rsquo;s capital soup, yesterday&rsquo;s. I
      saved it for you yesterday, but you came in late. It&rsquo;s fine soup.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police about you,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      He scowled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the police? What does she want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t pay her money and you won&rsquo;t turn out of the room. That&rsquo;s what
      she wants, to be sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil, that&rsquo;s the last straw,&rdquo; he muttered, grinding his teeth, &ldquo;no,
      that would not suit me... just now. She is a fool,&rdquo; he added aloud. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
      go and talk to her to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if you are so clever,
      do you lie here like a sack and have nothing to show for it? One time you
      used to go out, you say, to teach children. But why is it you do nothing
      now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am doing...&rdquo; Raskolnikov began sullenly and reluctantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Work...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of work?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am thinking,&rdquo; he answered seriously after a pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And have you made much money by your thinking?&rdquo; she managed to articulate
      at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One can&rsquo;t go out to give lessons without boots. And I&rsquo;m sick of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t quarrel with your bread and butter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They pay so little for lessons. What&rsquo;s the use of a few coppers?&rdquo; he
      answered, reluctantly, as though replying to his own thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you want to get a fortune all at once?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her strangely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I want a fortune,&rdquo; he answered firmly, after a brief pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall I get you the loaf
      or not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday when you were out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A letter? for me! from whom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say. I gave three copecks of my own to the postman for it. Will
      you pay me back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then bring it to me, for God&rsquo;s sake, bring it,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov greatly
      excited&mdash;&ldquo;good God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it: from his mother,
      from the province of R&mdash;&mdash;. 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness&rsquo; sake; here are your three
      copecks, but for goodness&rsquo; sake, make haste and go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to open it in her
      presence; he wanted to be left <i>alone</i> 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 over two ounces, two large
      sheets of note paper were covered with very small handwriting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Rodya,&rdquo; wrote his mother&mdash;&ldquo;it&rsquo;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 to, 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 yourself 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 good 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 last six weeks and we shall
      not be separated in the future. Thank God, her sufferings are over, but I
      will tell you everything in order, so that you may know just how
      everything has happened and all that we have hitherto concealed 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 Svidrigaïlovs&rsquo; house, when you wrote
      that and asked me to tell you all about it&mdash;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, even if you had to
      walk all the way, for I know your character and your feelings, and you
      would not let your sister be insulted. I was in despair myself, but what
      could I do? And, besides, I did not know 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 governess 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 sum (now I can
      explain it all to you, my precious Rodya) she took chiefly in order 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 money
      came from Dounia&rsquo;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,
      and that you may know how Dounia loves you and what a heart she has. At
      first indeed Mr. Svidrigaïlov treated her very rudely and used to make
      disrespectful and jeering remarks at table.... But I don&rsquo;t want to go into
      all those painful details, so as not to worry you for nothing when it is
      now all over. In short, in spite of the kind and generous behaviour of
      Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s wife, and all the rest of the
      household, Dounia had a very hard time, especially when Mr. Svidrigaïlov,
      relapsing into his old regimental habits, was under the influence of
      Bacchus. And how do you think it was all explained later on? Would you
      believe that the crazy fellow had conceived a passion for Dounia from the
      beginning, 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 being the father of a family; and that made
      him angry with Dounia. And possibly, too, he hoped by his rude and
      sneering behaviour to hide the truth from others. 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 to another estate of his, or even abroad. You can
      imagine all she went through! 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 not even write to
      me about everything for fear of upsetting me, although we were constantly
      in communication. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna
      accidentally 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 took 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&rsquo;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 dared 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 perhaps 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 about this
      scandal, and it came to such a pass that Dounia and I dared not even go to
      church on account of the contemptuous looks, whispers, and even remarks
      made aloud about us. All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody even bowed
      to us in the street, and I learnt that some shopmen and clerks were
      intending 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 going by Marfa Petrovna who managed to slander Dounia and throw
      dirt at her in every family. She knows everyone in the neighbourhood, and
      that month she was continually coming into the town, and as she is rather
      talkative and fond of gossiping about her family affairs and particularly
      of complaining to all and each of her husband&mdash;which is not at all
      right&mdash;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 endured
      it all and tried to comfort me and cheer me up! She is an angel! But by
      God&rsquo;s mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr. Svidrigaïlov returned to
      his senses and repented and, probably feeling sorry for Dounia, he laid
      before Marfa Petrovna a complete and unmistakable proof of Dounia&rsquo;s
      innocence, 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&rsquo;s hands after her departure,
      she had written to refuse personal explanations and secret interviews, for
      which he was entreating her. In that letter she reproached him with great
      heat and indignation for the baseness 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&rsquo;s reputation; they had seen and known a
      great deal more than Mr. Svidrigaïlov had himself supposed&mdash;as indeed
      is always the case with servants. Marfa Petrovna was completely taken
      aback, and &lsquo;again crushed&rsquo; as she said herself to us, but she was
      completely convinced of Dounia&rsquo;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 trial 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 the town and everywhere, shedding tears, she
      asserted in the most flattering terms Dounia&rsquo;s innocence and the nobility
      of her feelings and her behavior. What was more, she showed and read to
      everyone the letter in Dounia&rsquo;s own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigaïlov and
      even allowed them to take copies of it&mdash;which I must say I think was
      superfluous. In this way she was busy for several 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 people assembled for every reading of it, even many
      who had heard it several times already both in their own houses and in
      other people&rsquo;s. In my opinion a great deal, a very great deal of all this
      was unnecessary; but that&rsquo;s Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s character. Anyway she
      succeeded in completely re-establishing Dounia&rsquo;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 respect 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 the matter, and though it has been arranged without asking your
      consent, I think 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 from you. And you could not have judged all the
      facts without being on the spot. 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 properly received, drank coffee with us and the very
      next day he sent us a letter in which he very courteously made an offer
      and begged for a speedy and decided 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 still be thought attractive by women, and he is altogether a very
      respectable and 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 sight. 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 man. 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 &lsquo;of our most rising
      generation&rsquo; and he is an opponent of all prejudices. He said a good deal
      more, 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&rsquo;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 happy who
      on his side will make her happiness his care. Of that we have no good
      reason to doubt, though it must be admitted the matter has been arranged
      in great haste. Besides he is a man of great prudence and he will see, to
      be sure, of himself, that his own happiness will be the more secure, the
      happier Dounia is with him. And as for some defects of character, for some
      habits and even certain differences of opinion&mdash;which indeed are
      inevitable even in the happiest marriages&mdash;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 straightforward one. He
      struck me, for instance, at first, as rather abrupt, but that may well
      come from his being an outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it is. For
      instance, at his second visit, after he had received Dounia&rsquo;s consent, in
      the course of conversation, he declared that before making Dounia&rsquo;s
      acquaintance, he had made up his mind to marry a girl of good reputation,
      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 that it is
      better for a wife to look upon her husband as her benefactor. I must add
      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
      conversation, 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
      afterwards to Dounia. But Dounia was vexed, and answered that &lsquo;words are
      not deeds,&rsquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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
      Senate. So, Rodya dear, he may be of the greatest use to you, in every way
      indeed, 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 only 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 Petrovitch. 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&rsquo;s business,
      which might well be, seeing that you are a student of law. I am in
      complete 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&rsquo;s evasiveness, very natural at present (since he does not know
      you), Dounia is firmly persuaded that she will gain everything by her good
      influence over her future husband; this she is reckoning upon. Of course
      we are careful not to talk of any of these more remote plans to Pyotr
      Petrovitch, especially of your becoming his partner. He is 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 studies; we
      have not spoken of it in the first place, because it will come to pass 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. And we have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that is,
      because I particularly wanted you to feel on an equal footing when you
      first meet him. When Dounia spoke to him with enthusiasm about you, he
      answered that one could never judge of a man without seeing him close, for
      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&rsquo;t quite get on with their mothers-in-law, and I
      don&rsquo;t want to be the least bit in anyone&rsquo;s way, and for my own sake, 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 possible, I would settle
      somewhere near you, for the most joyful piece of news, dear Rodya, I have
      kept for the end of my letter: know then, my dear boy, that 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 <i>for
      certain</i> that Dounia and I are to set off for Petersburg, exactly when
      I don&rsquo;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 soon 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 not 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 shall 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 our travelling expenses; for though Pyotr Petrovitch has
      been so kind as to undertake 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 can&rsquo;t be left
      without a halfpenny, at least for the first few days. But we have
      calculated 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 readiness; 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&rsquo;s blessing till we meet. 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&mdash;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 Creator 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&mdash;I embrace you warmly, warmly, with many kisses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yours till death,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolnikov&rsquo;s face was
      wet with tears; but when he finished it, his face was pale and distorted
      and a bitter, wrathful and malignant smile was on his lips. He laid his
      head down on his threadbare dirty pillow 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 eyes and his mind craved for space. He took up his
      hat and went out, this time 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,
      muttering and even speaking aloud to himself, to the astonishment of the
      passers-by. Many of them took him to be drunk.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"></a>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      His mother&rsquo;s letter had been a torture to him, but as regards the chief
      fact in it, he had felt not one moment&rsquo;s hesitation, even whilst he was
      reading the letter. The essential question was settled, and irrevocably
      settled, in his mind: &ldquo;Never such a marriage while I am alive and Mr.
      Luzhin be damned!&rdquo; &ldquo;The thing is perfectly clear,&rdquo; he muttered to himself,
      with a malignant smile anticipating the triumph of his decision. &ldquo;No,
      mother, no, Dounia, you won&rsquo;t deceive me! and then they apologise for not
      asking my advice and for taking the decision without me! I dare say! They
      imagine it is arranged now and can&rsquo;t be broken off; but we will see
      whether it can or not! A magnificent excuse: &lsquo;Pyotr Petrovitch is such a
      busy man that even his wedding has to be in post-haste, almost by
      express.&rsquo; No, Dounia, I see it all and I know what you want to say to me;
      and I know too what you were thinking about, when you walked up and down
      all night, and what your prayers were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan
      who stands in mother&rsquo;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 <i>already</i> 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 generation,
      as mother writes, and who <i>seems</i> to be kind, as Dounia herself
      observes. That <i>seems</i> beats everything! And that very Dounia for
      that very &lsquo;<i>seems</i>&rsquo; is marrying him! Splendid! splendid!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;... But I should like to know why mother has written to me about &lsquo;our
      most rising generation&rsquo;? 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 <i>words</i>,
      or did both understand that they had the same thing at heart and in their
      minds, so that there was no need to speak of it aloud, and better not to
      speak of it. Most likely it was partly like that, from mother&rsquo;s letter
      it&rsquo;s evident: he struck her as rude <i>a little</i>, and mother in her
      simplicity took her observations to Dounia. And she was sure to be vexed
      and &lsquo;answered her angrily.&rsquo; I should think so! Who would not be angered
      when it was quite clear without any naïve questions and when it was
      understood that it was useless to discuss it. And why does she write to
      me, &lsquo;love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you more than herself&rsquo;? Has she a
      secret conscience-prick at sacrificing her daughter to her son? &lsquo;You are
      our one comfort, you are everything to us.&rsquo; Oh, mother!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he had happened to meet
      Mr. Luzhin at the moment, he might have murdered him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hm... yes, that&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; he continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that
      chased each other in his brain, &ldquo;it is true that &lsquo;it needs time and care
      to get to know a man,&rsquo; but there is no mistake about Mr. Luzhin. The chief
      thing is he is &lsquo;a man of business and <i>seems</i> kind,&rsquo; that was
      something, wasn&rsquo;t it, to send the bags and big box for them! A kind man,
      no doubt after that! But his <i>bride</i> and her mother are to drive in a
      peasant&rsquo;s cart covered with sacking (I know, I have been driven in it). No
      matter! It is only ninety versts and then they can &lsquo;travel very
      comfortably, third class,&rsquo; for a thousand versts! Quite right, too. One
      must cut one&rsquo;s coat according to one&rsquo;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&rsquo;s a matter of
      business, a partnership for mutual benefit, with equal shares and
      expenses;&mdash;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&rsquo;t
      both see all that, or is it that they don&rsquo;t want to see? And they are
      pleased, pleased! And to think that this is only the first blossoming, and
      that the real fruits are to come! But what really matters is not the
      stinginess, is not the meanness, but the <i>tone</i> of the whole thing.
      For that will be the tone after marriage, it&rsquo;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 &lsquo;paper ones&rsquo; as <i>she</i>
      says.... that old woman... hm. What does she expect to live upon in
      Petersburg afterwards? She has her reasons already for guessing that she
      <i>could not</i> 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: &lsquo;I shall refuse,&rsquo; says she. On whom is
      she reckoning then? Is she counting on what is left of her hundred and
      twenty roubles of pension when Afanasy Ivanovitch&rsquo;s debt is paid? She
      knits woollen shawls and embroiders cuffs, ruining her old eyes. And all
      her shawls don&rsquo;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&rsquo;s generosity; &lsquo;he will offer it of himself, he will press it on
      me.&rsquo; You may wait a long time for that! That&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 puts a fool&rsquo;s cap on
      them with his own hands. I should like to know whether Mr. 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 him, confound him!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,... mother I don&rsquo;t wonder at, it&rsquo;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 &lsquo;Dounia can put up with a great deal.&rsquo; 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 &lsquo;Dounia can put
      up with a great deal.&rsquo; If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigaïlov 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&rsquo;s bounty&mdash;who
      propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted that he &lsquo;let it
      slip,&rsquo; 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&rsquo;d live on black bread and water, she would not sell her
      soul, she would not barter her moral freedom for comfort; she would not
      barter it for all Schleswig-Holstein, much less Mr. Luzhin&rsquo;s money. No,
      Dounia was not that sort when I knew her and... she is still the same, of
      course! Yes, there&rsquo;s no denying, the Svidrigaïlovs are a bitter pill! It&rsquo;s
      a bitter thing to spend one&rsquo;s life a governess in the provinces for two
      hundred roubles, but I know she would rather be a nigger 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&mdash;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 consenting
      then? What&rsquo;s the point of it? What&rsquo;s the answer? It&rsquo;s clear enough: for
      herself, for her comfort, to save her life she 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&rsquo;s what it all amounts to; for her brother, for
      her mother, she will sell herself! She will sell everything! In such
      cases, &lsquo;we overcome our moral feeling if necessary,&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s duty for a good object. That&rsquo;s
      just like us, it&rsquo;s as clear as daylight. It&rsquo;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,
      make 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 life a famous man! But my mother? It&rsquo;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&rsquo;s fate. 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 you bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in it?
      And let me tell you, Dounia, Sonia&rsquo;s life is no worse than life with Mr.
      Luzhin. &lsquo;There can be no question of love,&rsquo; 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 &lsquo;keep up your
      appearance,&rsquo; too. Is not that so? Do you understand what that smartness
      means? Do you understand that the Luzhin smartness is just the same thing
      as Sonia&rsquo;s and may be worse, viler, baser, because in your case, Dounia,
      it&rsquo;s a bargain for luxuries, after all, but with Sonia it&rsquo;s simply a
      question of starvation. It has to be paid for, it has to be paid for,
      Dounia, this smartness. And what if it&rsquo;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 uneasy, she is worried, but
      then, when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes, indeed, what have you
      taken me for? I won&rsquo;t have your sacrifice, Dounia, I won&rsquo;t have it,
      mother! It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it shall not, it shall
      not! I won&rsquo;t accept it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood still.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It shall not be? But what are you going to do to prevent it? You&rsquo;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 <i>when you have finished your studies and obtained a post</i>?
      Yes, we have heard all that before, and that&rsquo;s all <i>words</i>, 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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such questions, and finding
      a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions were not new ones
      suddenly confronting him, they were old familiar aches. 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 gathered
      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&rsquo;s letter had
      burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear that he must not now suffer
      passively, worrying himself over unsolved questions, but that he must do
      something, do it at once, and do it quickly. Anyway he must decide on
      something, or else...
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or throw up life altogether!&rdquo; he cried suddenly, in a frenzy&mdash;&ldquo;accept
      one&rsquo;s lot humbly as it is, once for all and stifle everything in oneself,
      giving up all claim to activity, life and love!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have
      absolutely nowhere to turn?&rdquo; Marmeladov&rsquo;s question came suddenly into his
      mind, &ldquo;for every man must have somewhere to turn....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had had yesterday,
      slipped back into his mind. But he did not start at the thought recurring
      to him, for he knew, he had <i>felt beforehand</i>, that it must come
      back, he was expecting it; besides it was not only yesterday&rsquo;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.... He felt a hammering in his head, and there was a darkness
      before his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&mdash;
      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
      adventure 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 notice 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 riveted 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, waving 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 skirt, close to the waist: a great piece was rent and hanging
      loose. A little kerchief 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&rsquo;s whole attention at
      last. He overtook the girl at the seat, but, on reaching it, she dropped
      down 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 once 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&mdash;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; she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it
      indecorously, and showed every sign of being unconscious that she was in
      the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&rsquo;clock, in the stifling heat, it was quite deserted. And
      yet on the further side of the boulevard, 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 seen 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What do you want here?&rdquo; he shouted, clenching his
      fists and laughing, spluttering with rage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; the gentleman asked sternly, scowling in haughty
      astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get away, that&rsquo;s what I mean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How dare you, you low fellow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place. What do
      you want? Who are you?&rdquo; he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his rags.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight-forward, sensible,
      soldierly face, with grey moustaches and whiskers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are just the man I want,&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried, catching at his arm. &ldquo;I
      am a student, Raskolnikov.... You may as well know that too,&rdquo; he added,
      addressing the gentleman, &ldquo;come along, I have something to show you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him towards the seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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
      professional. It&rsquo;s more likely she has been given drink and deceived
      somewhere... for the first time... you understand? and they&rsquo;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&rsquo;s hands; that&rsquo;s
      evident. And now look there: I don&rsquo;t know that dandy with whom I was going
      to fight, I see him for the first 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 away somewhere while she is in this
      state... that&rsquo;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
      standing still, pretending to make a cigarette.... Think how can we keep
      her out of his hands, and how are we to get her home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout gentleman was easy to
      understand, he turned to consider the girl. The policeman bent over to
      examine her more closely, and his face worked with genuine compassion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, what a pity!&rdquo; he said, shaking his head&mdash;&ldquo;why, she is quite a
      child! She has been deceived, you can see that at once. Listen, lady,&rdquo; he
      began addressing her, &ldquo;where do you live?&rdquo; The girl opened her weary and
      sleepy-looking eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and waved her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and finding twenty copecks,
      &ldquo;here, call a cab and tell him to drive her to her address. The only thing
      is to find out her address!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Missy, missy!&rdquo; the policeman began again, taking the money. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll fetch
      you a cab and take you home myself. Where shall I take you, eh? Where do
      you live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go away! They won&rsquo;t let me alone,&rdquo; the girl muttered, and once more waved
      her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, ach, how shocking! It&rsquo;s shameful, missy, it&rsquo;s a shame!&rdquo; He shook his
      head again, shocked, sympathetic and indignant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a difficult job,&rdquo; 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!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you meet her far from here?&rdquo; he asked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering, just here, in the
      boulevard. She only just reached the seat and sank down on it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, the shameful things that are done in the world nowadays, God have
      mercy on us! An innocent creature like that, drunk already! She has been
      deceived, that&rsquo;s a sure thing. See how her dress has been torn too.... Ah,
      the vice one sees nowadays! And as likely as not she belongs to gentlefolk
      too, poor ones maybe.... There are many like that nowadays. She looks
      refined, too, as though she were a lady,&rdquo; and he bent over her once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, &ldquo;looking like ladies and
      refined&rdquo; with pretensions to gentility and smartness....
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The chief thing is,&rdquo; Raskolnikov persisted, &ldquo;to keep her out of this
      scoundrel&rsquo;s hands! Why should he outrage her! It&rsquo;s as clear as day what he
      is after; ah, the brute, he is not moving off!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep her out of his hands we can,&rdquo; said the constable thoughtfully, &ldquo;if
      only she&rsquo;d tell us where to take her, but as it is.... Missy, hey, missy!&rdquo;
       he bent over her once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him intently, as
      though realising something, got up from the seat and walked away in the
      direction from which she had come. &ldquo;Oh shameful wretches, they won&rsquo;t let
      me alone!&rdquo; she said, waving her hand again. She walked quickly, though
      staggering as before. The dandy followed her, but along another avenue,
      keeping his eye on her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be anxious, I won&rsquo;t let him have her,&rdquo; the policeman said
      resolutely, and he set off after them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!&rdquo; he repeated aloud, sighing.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an instant a
      complete revulsion of feeling came over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey, here!&rdquo; he shouted after the policeman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter turned round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her go! Let him amuse
      himself.&rdquo; He pointed at the dandy, &ldquo;What is it to do with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him open-eyed. Raskolnikov
      laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has carried off my twenty copecks,&rdquo; Raskolnikov murmured angrily when
      he was left alone. &ldquo;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 help? Have I any right to help? Let them devour
      each other alive&mdash;what is it to me? How did I dare to give him twenty
      copecks? Were they mine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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....
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor girl!&rdquo; he said, looking at the empty corner where she had sat&mdash;&ldquo;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, turn
      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&rsquo;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&mdash;a wreck, and her life over at eighteen or nineteen....
      Have not I seen cases like that? And how have they been brought to it?
      Why, they&rsquo;ve all come to it like that. Ugh! But what does it matter?
      That&rsquo;s as it should be, they tell us. A certain percentage, they tell us,
      must every year go... that way... to the devil, 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&rsquo;ve said &lsquo;percentage&rsquo; there&rsquo;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?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But where am I going?&rdquo; he thought suddenly. &ldquo;Strange, I came out for
      something. As soon as I had read the letter I came out.... I was going to
      Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to Razumihin. That&rsquo;s what it was... now I remember.
      What for, though? And what put the idea of going to Razumihin into my head
      just now? That&rsquo;s curious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 from 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&rsquo; gatherings, amusements or
      conversations. He worked with great intensity without sparing himself, and
      he was respected 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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
      concealed 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&mdash;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
      extremes of cold and hunger. He was very poor, and kept himself entirely
      on what he could earn by work of one sort or another. He knew of no end of
      resources 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 in the cold. For the present he, too, had been
      obliged to give up the university, 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 for 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 crossed to the
      other side that he might not be observed. And though Razumihin noticed
      him, he passed him by, as he did not want to annoy him.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"></a>
      CHAPTER V
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, I&rsquo;ve been meaning lately to go to Razumihin&rsquo;s to ask for work,
      to ask him to get me lessons or something...&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought, &ldquo;but
      what help can he be to me now? Suppose he gets me lessons, suppose he
      shares his last farthing with me, if he has any farthings, so that I could
      get some boots and make myself tidy enough to give lessons... hm... Well
      and what then? What shall I do with the few coppers I earn? That&rsquo;s not
      what I want now. It&rsquo;s really absurd for me to go to Razumihin....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 ordinary action.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find a way out by
      means of Razumihin alone?&rdquo; he asked himself in perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hm... to Razumihin&rsquo;s,&rdquo; he said all at once, calmly, as though he had
      reached a final determination. &ldquo;I shall go to Razumihin&rsquo;s of course,
      but... not now. I shall go to him... on the next day after It, when It
      will be over and everything will begin afresh....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After It,&rdquo; he shouted, jumping up from the seat, &ldquo;but is It really going
      to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?&rdquo; He left the seat, and
      went off almost at a run; he meant to turn 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 <i>this</i> had for a
      month past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.
    </p>
    <p>
      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
      unconsciously, 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 succeed, and kept dropping every moment into brooding. When with a
      start he lifted 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 right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came out on to the Lesser Neva,
      crossed the 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
      dressed 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 anything. He was met, too, by luxurious carriages and by
      men and women on horseback; he watched them with curious eyes and forgot
      about them before they had vanished from his sight. Once he stood still
      and counted his money; he found he had thirty copecks. &ldquo;Twenty to the
      policeman, three to Nastasya for the letter, so I must have given
      forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs yesterday,&rdquo; 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 on 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular
      actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times
      monstrous images 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 deranged nervous system.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, not
      even a willow near it; only in the far 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 of
      aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it with his father. There was
      always a crowd there, always shouting, laughter and abuse, hideous hoarse
      singing 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 green 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 long 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 pudding 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 his grandmother&rsquo;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
      whenever 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 walking with his father past the tavern on the way to the
      graveyard; he was holding his father&rsquo;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 liked looking at those great cart-horses, with their long
      manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing along 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 such a cart he
      saw a thin little sorrel beast, one of those peasants&rsquo; nags which 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 cruelly, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get in, get in!&rdquo; shouted one of them, a young thick-necked peasant with a
      fleshy face red as a carrot. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll take you all, get in!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in the
      crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take us all with a beast like that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get in, I&rsquo;ll take you all,&rdquo; Mikolka shouted again, leaping first into the
      cart, seizing the reins and standing straight up in front. &ldquo;The bay has
      gone with Matvey,&rdquo; he shouted from the cart&mdash;&ldquo;and this brute, mates,
      is just breaking my heart, I feel as if I could kill her. She&rsquo;s just
      eating her head off. Get in, I tell you! I&rsquo;ll make her gallop! She&rsquo;ll
      gallop!&rdquo; and he picked up the whip, preparing himself with relish to flog
      the little mare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get in! Come along!&rdquo; The crowd laughed. &ldquo;D&rsquo;you hear, she&rsquo;ll gallop!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;ll jog along!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, get ready!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right! Give it to her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They all clambered into Mikolka&rsquo;s cart, laughing and making jokes. Six men
      got in and there was still room for more. They hauled in a fat,
      rosy-cheeked woman. She was dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded
      headdress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and laughing. The
      crowd 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 young fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready to
      help Mikolka. With the cry of &ldquo;now,&rdquo; 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 showered upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and in the
      crowd was redoubled, but Mikolka flew into a rage and furiously thrashed
      the mare, as though he supposed she really could gallop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me get in, too, mates,&rdquo; shouted a young man in the crowd whose
      appetite was aroused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get in, all get in,&rdquo; cried Mikolka, &ldquo;she will draw you all. I&rsquo;ll beat her
      to death!&rdquo; And he thrashed and thrashed at the mare, beside himself with
      fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father, father,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;father, what are they doing? Father, they are
      beating the poor horse!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along, come along!&rdquo; said his father. &ldquo;They are drunken and foolish,
      they are in fun; come away, don&rsquo;t look!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beat her to death,&rdquo; cried Mikolka, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s come to that. I&rsquo;ll do for her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?&rdquo; shouted an old man
      in the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling such a
      cartload,&rdquo; said another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll kill her,&rdquo; shouted the third.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t meddle! It&rsquo;s my property, I&rsquo;ll do what I choose. Get in, more of
      you! Get in, all of you! I will have her go at a gallop!...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the mare to beat her
      about the ribs. One ran each side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes,&rdquo; cried Mikolka.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give us a song, mates,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      ... He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her being whipped
      across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he felt choking, his
      tears were streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with the whip across
      the face, he 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 gasp, but began kicking once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll teach you to kick,&rdquo; Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw down the
      whip, bent forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a long, thick
      shaft, he took hold of one end with both hands and with an effort
      brandished it over the mare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll crush her,&rdquo; was shouted round him. &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll kill her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s my property,&rdquo; shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down with a
      swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy thud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?&rdquo; shouted voices in the
      crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second time on the
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a tough one,&rdquo; was shouted in the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;ll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her,&rdquo; said
      an admiring spectator in the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off,&rdquo; shouted a third.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll show you! Stand off,&rdquo; Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw down
      the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron crowbar. &ldquo;Look
      out,&rdquo; he shouted, and with all his might he dealt a stunning blow at the
      poor mare. The blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull,
      but the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her back and she fell on
      the ground like a log.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Finish her off,&rdquo; shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of the
      cart. Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized anything they
      could come across&mdash;whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dying mare.
      Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing random blows with the crowbar.
      The mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You butchered her,&rdquo; someone shouted in the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why wouldn&rsquo;t she gallop then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My property!&rdquo; shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the bar
      in his hands. He stood as though regretting that he had nothing more to
      beat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,&rdquo; many voices were shouting
      in the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming, through the
      crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head and
      kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips.... Then 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along, come! Let us go home,&rdquo; he said to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!&rdquo; he sobbed, but his voice
      broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting chest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are drunk.... They are brutal... it&rsquo;s not our business!&rdquo; said his
      father. He put his arms round his father but he felt choked, choked. He
      tried to draw a breath, to cry out&mdash;and woke up.
    </p>
    <p>
      He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and
      stood up in terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God, that was only a dream,&rdquo; he said, sitting down under a tree and
      drawing deep breaths. &ldquo;But what is it? Is it some fever coming on? Such a
      hideous dream!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why am I going on like this?&rdquo; he continued, sitting up again, as it
      were in profound amazement. &ldquo;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... <i>experiment</i>, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I couldn&rsquo;t do it, I couldn&rsquo;t do it! Granted, granted that there is no
      flaw 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&rsquo;t bring
      myself to it! I couldn&rsquo;t do it, I couldn&rsquo;t do it! Why, why then am I
      still...?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 there was a sense of relief and
      peace in his soul. &ldquo;Lord,&rdquo; he prayed, &ldquo;show me my path&mdash;I renounce
      that accursed... dream of mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the
      glowing red sun setting in the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness he
      was not conscious 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 free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession!
    </p>
    <p>
      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 circumstance, which, though in itself not very
      exceptional, always seemed to him afterwards the predestined turning-point
      of his fate. He could never understand and explain to himself why, when 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 it
      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 important, such a decisive and at the same time such an absolutely
      chance meeting happened in the Hay Market (where he had moreover no reason
      to go) 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!
    </p>
    <p>
      It was about nine o&rsquo;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 alleys, when he wandered aimlessly in the streets.
      Here his rags did not attract contemptuous attention, and one could walk
      about in any attire without scandalising 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 <i>experiment</i>....
      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 in 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
      nothing astonishing about this meeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna,&rdquo; the
      huckster was saying aloud. &ldquo;Come round to-morrow about seven. They will be
      here too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow?&rdquo; said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to
      make up her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna,&rdquo; gabbled the
      huckster&rsquo;s wife, a lively little woman. &ldquo;I look at you, you are like some
      little babe. And she is not your own sister either&mdash;nothing but a
      step-sister and what a hand she keeps over you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this time don&rsquo;t say a word to Alyona Ivanovna,&rdquo; her husband
      interrupted; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s my advice, but come round to us without asking. It
      will be worth your while. Later on your sister herself may have a notion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I to come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About seven o&rsquo;clock to-morrow. And they will be here. You will be able to
      decide for yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And we&rsquo;ll have a cup of tea,&rdquo; added his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, I&rsquo;ll come,&rdquo; said Lizaveta, still pondering, and she began
      slowly moving away.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&rsquo;clock Lizaveta, the old woman&rsquo;s sister and only companion, would be away
      from home and that therefore at seven o&rsquo;clock precisely the old woman <i>would
      be left alone</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in like a man condemned
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, he
      could 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
      investigations, that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whose
      life an attempt was contemplated, would be at home and entirely alone.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"></a>
      CHAPTER VI
    </h2>
    <p>
      Later on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his wife
      had invited Lizaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there was nothing
      exceptional about it. A family who had come to the town and been reduced
      to poverty were selling their household goods and clothes, all women&rsquo;s
      things. As the things would have fetched little in the market, they were
      looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta&rsquo;s business. She undertook such
      jobs and was frequently employed, as she was very honest and always fixed
      a fair price and stuck to it. She spoke as a rule little and, as we have
      said already, she was very submissive and timid.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The traces of
      superstition remained in him long after, and were almost ineradicable. And
      in all this he was always afterwards disposed to see something strange and
      mysterious, as it were, the presence of some peculiar influences and
      coincidences. In the previous winter a student he knew called Pokorev, who
      had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversation to give him the address
      of Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn
      anything. For a long while he did not go to her, for he had lessons and
      managed to get along somehow. Six weeks ago he had remembered the address;
      he had two articles that could be pawned: his father&rsquo;s old silver watch
      and a little gold ring with three red stones, a present from his sister at
      parting. He decided to take the ring. When he found the old woman he had
      felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first glance, though he
      knew nothing special about her. He got two roubles from her and went into
      a miserable little tavern on his way home. He asked for tea, sat down and
      sank into deep thought. A strange idea was pecking at his brain like a
      chicken in the egg, and very, very much absorbed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he
      did not know and had never seen, and with him a young officer. They had
      played a game of billiards and began drinking tea. All at once he heard
      the student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna and give
      him her address. This of itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov; he had just
      come from her and here at once he heard her name. Of course it was a
      chance, but he could not shake off a very extraordinary impression, and
      here someone seemed to be speaking expressly for him; the student began
      telling his friend various details about Alyona Ivanovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is first-rate,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You can always get money from her. She is
      as rich as a Jew, she can give you five thousand roubles at a time and she
      is not above taking a pledge for a rouble. Lots of our fellows have had
      dealings with her. But she is an awful old harpy....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she was, how if you
      were only a day late with your interest the pledge was lost; how she gave
      a quarter of the value of an article and took five and even seven percent
      a month on it and so on. The student chattered on, saying that she had a
      sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little creature was continually
      beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child, though Lizaveta
      was at least six feet high.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a phenomenon for you,&rdquo; cried the student and he laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her with a
      peculiar relish and was continually laughing and the officer listened with
      great interest and asked him to send Lizaveta to do some mending for him.
      Raskolnikov did not miss a word and learned everything about her. Lizaveta
      was younger than the old woman and was her half-sister, being the child of
      a different mother. She was thirty-five. She worked day and night for her
      sister, and besides doing the cooking and the washing, she did sewing and
      worked as a charwoman and gave her sister all she earned. She did not dare
      to accept an order or job of any kind without her sister&rsquo;s permission. The
      old woman had already made her will, and Lizaveta knew of it, and by this
      will she would not get a farthing; nothing but the movables, chairs and so
      on; all the money was left to a monastery in the province of N&mdash;&mdash;,
      that prayers might be said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower
      rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouth in appearance,
      remarkably tall with long feet that looked as if they were bent outwards.
      She always wore battered goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What
      the student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that
      Lizaveta was continually with child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you say she is hideous?&rdquo; observed the officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but you
      know she is not at all hideous. She has such a good-natured face and eyes.
      Strikingly so. And the proof of it is that lots of people are attracted by
      her. She is such a soft, gentle creature, ready to put up with anything,
      always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is really very
      sweet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to find her attractive yourself,&rdquo; laughed the officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From her queerness. No, I&rsquo;ll tell you what. I could kill that damned old
      woman and make off with her money, I assure you, without the faintest
      conscience-prick,&rdquo; the student added with warmth. The officer laughed
      again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,&rdquo; the student said hotly. &ldquo;I
      was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid,
      senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply
      useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is living
      for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You understand?
      You understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, I understand,&rdquo; answered the officer, watching his excited
      companion attentively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for
      want of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good
      deeds could be done and helped, on that old woman&rsquo;s money which will be
      buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on the
      right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from ruin, from
      vice, from the Lock hospitals&mdash;and all with her money. Kill her, take
      her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of
      humanity and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny crime
      be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands would be
      saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives in
      exchange&mdash;it&rsquo;s simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of
      that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence! No
      more than the life of a louse, of a black-beetle, less in fact because the
      old woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of others; the other
      day she bit Lizaveta&rsquo;s finger out of spite; it almost had to be
      amputated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course she does not deserve to live,&rdquo; remarked the officer, &ldquo;but there
      it is, it&rsquo;s nature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but for
      that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that, there would
      never have been a single great man. They talk of duty, conscience&mdash;I
      don&rsquo;t want to say anything against duty and conscience;&mdash;but the
      point is, what do we mean by them? Stay, I have another question to ask
      you. Listen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you stay, I&rsquo;ll ask you a question. Listen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the
      old woman <i>yourself</i>?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it.... It&rsquo;s nothing to
      do with me....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there&rsquo;s no justice about
      it.... Let us have another game.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary
      youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in different
      forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear such a
      discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain was just
      conceiving... <i>the very same ideas</i>? And why, just at the moment when
      he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old woman had he
      dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This coincidence always
      seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern had an immense
      influence on him in his later action; as though there had really been in
      it something preordained, some guiding hint....
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and sat for
      a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no candle
      and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never recollect
      whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At last he was
      conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised with relief
      that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over
      him, as it were crushing him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya,
      coming into his room at ten o&rsquo;clock the next morning, had difficulty in
      rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the
      second brew and again in her own tea-pot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My goodness, how he sleeps!&rdquo; she cried indignantly. &ldquo;And he is always
      asleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in his
      garret and sank back on the sofa again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Going to sleep again,&rdquo; cried Nastasya. &ldquo;Are you ill, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you want some tea?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Afterwards,&rdquo; he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning
      to the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nastasya stood over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps he really is ill,&rdquo; she said, turned and went out. She came in
      again at two o&rsquo;clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood
      untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began wrathfully rousing
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why are you lying like a log?&rdquo; she shouted, looking at him with
      repulsion.
    </p>
    <p>
      He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you ill or not?&rdquo; asked Nastasya and again received no answer. &ldquo;You&rsquo;d
      better go out and get a breath of air,&rdquo; she said after a pause. &ldquo;Will you
      eat it or not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Afterwards,&rdquo; he said weakly. &ldquo;You can go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he motioned her out.
    </p>
    <p>
      She remained a little longer, looked at him with compassion and went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked for a long while
      at the tea and the soup. Then he took the bread, took up a spoon and began
      to eat.
    </p>
    <p>
      He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite, as it were
      mechanically. His head ached less. After his meal he stretched himself on
      the sofa again, but now he could not sleep; he lay without stirring, with
      his face in the pillow. He was haunted by day-dreams and such strange
      day-dreams; in one, that kept recurring, he fancied that he was in Africa,
      in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan was resting, the camels were
      peacefully lying down; the palms stood all around in a complete circle;
      all the party were at dinner. But he was drinking water from a spring
      which flowed gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was wonderful,
      wonderful, blue, cold water running among the parti-coloured stones and
      over the clean sand which glistened here and there like gold.... Suddenly
      he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself, raised his head,
      looked out of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly jumped up
      wide awake as though someone had pulled him off the sofa. He crept on
      tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and began listening on the
      staircase. His heart beat terribly. But all was quiet on the stairs as if
      everyone was asleep.... It seemed to him strange and monstrous that he
      could have slept in such forgetfulness from the previous day and had done
      nothing, had prepared nothing yet.... And meanwhile perhaps it had struck
      six. And his drowsiness and stupefaction were followed by an
      extraordinary, feverish, as it were distracted haste. But the preparations
      to be made were few. He concentrated all his energies on thinking of
      everything and forgetting nothing; and his heart kept beating and thumping
      so that he could hardly breathe. First he had to make a noose and sew it
      into his overcoat&mdash;a work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow
      and picked out amongst the linen stuffed away under it, a worn out, old
      unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long strip, a couple of inches
      wide and about sixteen inches long. He folded this strip in two, took off
      his wide, strong summer overcoat of some stout cotton material (his only
      outer garment) and began sewing the two ends of the rag on the inside,
      under the left armhole. His hands shook as he sewed, but he did it
      successfully so that nothing showed outside when he put the coat on again.
      The needle and thread he had got ready long before and they lay on his
      table in a piece of paper. As for the noose, it was a very ingenious
      device of his own; the noose was intended for the axe. It was impossible
      for him to carry the axe through the street in his hands. And if hidden
      under his coat he would still have had to support it with his hand, which
      would have been noticeable. Now he had only to put the head of the axe in
      the noose, and it would hang quietly under his arm on the inside. Putting
      his hand in his coat pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all the
      way, so that it did not swing; and as the coat was very full, a regular
      sack in fact, it could not be seen from outside that he was holding
      something with the hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had
      designed a fortnight before.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little opening
      between his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and drew out
      the <i>pledge</i>, which he had got ready long before and hidden there.
      This pledge was, however, only a smoothly planed piece of wood the size
      and thickness of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of wood
      in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there was some sort of a
      workshop. Afterwards he had added to the wood a thin smooth piece of iron,
      which he had also picked up at the same time in the street. Putting the
      iron which was a little the smaller on the piece of wood, he fastened them
      very firmly, crossing and re-crossing the thread round them; then wrapped
      them carefully and daintily in clean white paper and tied up the parcel so
      that it would be very difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert
      the attention of the old woman for a time, while she was trying to undo
      the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip was added to give
      weight, so that the woman might not guess the first minute that the
      &ldquo;thing&rdquo; was made of wood. All this had been stored by him beforehand under
      the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when he heard someone
      suddenly about in the yard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It struck six long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Long ago! My God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and began to descend
      his thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had still the
      most important thing to do&mdash;to steal the axe from the kitchen. That
      the deed must be done with an axe he had decided long ago. He had also a
      pocket pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still less on
      his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We may note in
      passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the final resolutions taken by
      him in the matter; they had one strange characteristic: the more final
      they were, the more hideous and the more absurd they at once became in his
      eyes. In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never for a single
      instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his plans.
    </p>
    <p>
      And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point
      could have been considered and finally settled, and no uncertainty of any
      kind had remained, he would, it seems, have renounced it all as something
      absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a whole mass of unsettled points and
      uncertainties remained. As for getting the axe, that trifling business
      cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier. Nastasya was continually
      out of the house, especially in the evenings; she would run in to the
      neighbours or to a shop, and always left the door ajar. It was the one
      thing the landlady was always scolding her about. And so, when the time
      came, he would only have to go quietly into the kitchen and to take the
      axe, and an hour later (when everything was over) go in and put it back
      again. But these were doubtful points. Supposing he returned an hour later
      to put it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot. He would
      of course have to go by and wait till she went out again. But supposing
      she were in the meantime to miss the axe, look for it, make an outcry&mdash;that
      would mean suspicion or at least grounds for suspicion.
    </p>
    <p>
      But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and
      indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off
      trifling details, until <i>he could believe in it all</i>. But that seemed
      utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at least. He could not
      imagine, for instance, that he would sometime leave off thinking, get up
      and simply go there.... Even his late experiment (i.e. his visit with the
      object of a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt at an
      experiment, far from being the real thing, as though one should say &ldquo;come,
      let us go and try it&mdash;why dream about it!&rdquo;&mdash;and at once he had
      broken down and had run away cursing, in a frenzy with himself. Meanwhile
      it would seem, as regards the moral question, that his analysis was
      complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he could not find
      rational objections in himself. But in the last resort he simply ceased to
      believe in himself, and doggedly, slavishly sought arguments in all
      directions, fumbling for them, as though someone were forcing and drawing
      him to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first&mdash;long before indeed&mdash;he had been much occupied with one
      question; why almost all crimes are so badly concealed and so easily
      detected, and why almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He had
      come gradually to many different and curious conclusions, and in his
      opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the material impossibility of
      concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every criminal is
      subject to a failure of will and reasoning power by a childish and
      phenomenal heedlessness, at the very instant when prudence and caution are
      most essential. It was his conviction that this eclipse of reason and
      failure of will power attacked a man like a disease, developed gradually
      and reached its highest point just before the perpetration of the crime,
      continued with equal violence at the moment of the crime and for longer or
      shorter time after, according to the individual case, and then passed off
      like any other disease. The question whether the disease gives rise to the
      crime, or whether the crime from its own peculiar nature is always
      accompanied by something of the nature of disease, he did not yet feel
      able to decide.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there
      could not be such a morbid reaction, that his reason and will would remain
      unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for the simple reason
      that his design was &ldquo;not a crime....&rdquo; We will omit all the process by
      means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have run too far
      ahead already.... We may add only that the practical, purely material
      difficulties of the affair occupied a secondary position in his mind. &ldquo;One
      has but to keep all one&rsquo;s will-power and reason to deal with them, and
      they will all be overcome at the time when once one has familiarised
      oneself with the minutest details of the business....&rdquo; But this
      preparation had never been begun. His final decisions were what he came to
      trust least, and when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite
      differently, as it were accidentally and unexpectedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even left
      the staircase. When he reached the landlady&rsquo;s kitchen, the door of which
      was open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether, in Nastasya&rsquo;s
      absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether the door to
      her own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when he went in
      for the axe. But what was his amazement when he suddenly saw that Nastasya
      was not only at home in the kitchen, but was occupied there, taking linen
      out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she left off hanging
      the clothes, turned to him and stared at him all the time he was passing.
      He turned away his eyes, and walked past as though he noticed nothing. But
      it was the end of everything; he had not the axe! He was overwhelmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What made me think,&rdquo; he reflected, as he went under the gateway, &ldquo;what
      made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment!
      Why, why, why did I assume this so certainly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself in
      his anger.... A dull animal rage boiled within him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go a walk
      for appearance&rsquo; sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even more
      revolting. &ldquo;And what a chance I have lost for ever!&rdquo; he muttered, standing
      aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter&rsquo;s little dark room,
      which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter&rsquo;s room, two
      paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the right caught
      his eye.... He looked about him&mdash;nobody. He approached the room on
      tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a faint voice called the
      porter. &ldquo;Yes, not at home! Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the
      door is wide open.&rdquo; He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled it out
      from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks of wood; at once,
      before going out, he made it fast in the noose, he thrust both hands into
      his pockets and went out of the room; no one had noticed him! &ldquo;When reason
      fails, the devil helps!&rdquo; he thought with a strange grin. This chance
      raised his spirits extraordinarily.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening
      suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passers-by, tried to escape looking
      at their faces at all, and to be as little noticeable as possible.
      Suddenly he thought of his hat. &ldquo;Good heavens! I had the money the day
      before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!&rdquo; A curse rose from
      the bottom of his soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock on
      the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste and at
      the same time to go someway round, so as to approach the house from the
      other side....
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes
      thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much afraid
      now, was not afraid at all, indeed. His mind was even occupied by
      irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov
      garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great
      fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere in all the
      squares. By degrees he passed to the conviction that if the summer garden
      were extended to the field of Mars, and perhaps joined to the garden of
      the Mihailovsky Palace, it would be a splendid thing and a great benefit
      to the town. Then he was interested by the question why in all great towns
      men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some peculiar way inclined
      to live in those parts of the town where there are no gardens nor
      fountains; where there is most dirt and smell and all sorts of nastiness.
      Then his own walks through the Hay Market came back to his mind, and for a
      moment he waked up to reality. &ldquo;What nonsense!&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;better think
      of nothing at all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that
      meets them on the way,&rdquo; flashed through his mind, but simply flashed, like
      lightning; he made haste to dismiss this thought.... And by now he was
      near; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock somewhere
      struck once. &ldquo;What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it must be
      fast!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very
      moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay had just
      driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under the
      gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time to drive through into the
      yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other side of
      the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrelling; but no one noticed him
      and no one met him. Many windows looking into that huge quadrangular yard
      were open at that moment, but he did not raise his head&mdash;he had not
      the strength to. The staircase leading to the old woman&rsquo;s room was close
      by, just on the right of the gateway. He was already on the stairs....
    </p>
    <p>
      Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and once
      more feeling for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly and
      cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every minute. But the stairs,
      too, were quite deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no one. One flat
      indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were at work in it,
      but they did not glance at him. He stood still, thought a minute and went
      on. &ldquo;Of course it would be better if they had not been here, but... it&rsquo;s
      two storeys above them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the flat
      opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old woman&rsquo;s was
      apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had been torn
      off&mdash;they had gone away!... He was out of breath. For one instant the
      thought floated through his mind &ldquo;Shall I go back?&rdquo; But he made no answer
      and began listening at the old woman&rsquo;s door, a dead silence. Then he
      listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently... then looked
      about him for the last time, pulled himself together, drew himself up, and
      once more tried the axe in the noose. &ldquo;Am I very pale?&rdquo; he wondered. &ldquo;Am I
      not evidently agitated? She is mistrustful.... Had I better wait a little
      longer... till my heart leaves off thumping?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite him,
      it throbbed more and more violently. He could stand it no longer, he
      slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang. Half a minute later he rang
      again, more loudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman
      was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He had some
      knowledge of her habits... and once more he put his ear to the door.
      Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to suppose),
      or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he suddenly heard something
      like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the rustle of a skirt at
      the very door. Someone was standing stealthily close to the lock and just
      as he was doing on the outside was secretly listening within, and seemed
      to have her ear to the door.... He moved a little on purpose and muttered
      something aloud that he might not have the appearance of hiding, then rang
      a third time, but quietly, soberly, and without impatience, Recalling it
      afterwards, that moment stood out in his mind vividly, distinctly, for
      ever; he could not make out how he had had such cunning, for his mind was
      as it were clouded at moments and he was almost unconscious of his
      body.... An instant later he heard the latch unfastened.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"></a>
      CHAPTER VII
    </h2>
    <p>
      The door was as before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp and
      suspicious eyes stared at him out of the darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost
      his head and nearly made a great mistake.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being alone, and not
      hoping that the sight of him would disarm her suspicions, he took hold of
      the door and drew it towards him to prevent the old woman from attempting
      to shut it again. Seeing this she did not pull the door back, but she did
      not let go the handle so that he almost dragged her out with it on to the
      stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the doorway not allowing him to
      pass, he advanced straight upon her. She stepped back in alarm, tried to
      say something, but seemed unable to speak and stared with open eyes at
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna,&rdquo; he began, trying to speak easily, but his
      voice would not obey him, it broke and shook. &ldquo;I have come... I have
      brought something... but we&rsquo;d better come in... to the light....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old woman
      ran after him; her tongue was unloosed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov... here, I brought you
      the pledge I promised the other day...&rdquo; And he held out the pledge.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at once stared in
      the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked intently, maliciously and
      mistrustfully. A minute passed; he even fancied something like a sneer in
      her eyes, as though she had already guessed everything. He felt that he
      was losing his head, that he was almost frightened, so frightened that if
      she were to look like that and not say a word for another half minute, he
      thought he would have run away from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?&rdquo; he said suddenly,
      also with malice. &ldquo;Take it if you like, if not I&rsquo;ll go elsewhere, I am in
      a hurry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had not even thought of saying this, but it was suddenly said of
      itself. The old woman recovered herself, and her visitor&rsquo;s resolute tone
      evidently restored her confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why, my good sir, all of a minute.... What is it?&rdquo; she asked, looking
      at the pledge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She held out her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how pale you are, to be sure... and your hands are trembling too?
      Have you been bathing, or what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fever,&rdquo; he answered abruptly. &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t help getting pale... if you&rsquo;ve
      nothing to eat,&rdquo; he added, with difficulty articulating the words.
    </p>
    <p>
      His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like the truth;
      the old woman took the pledge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and
      weighing the pledge in her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A thing... cigarette case.... Silver.... Look at it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It does not seem somehow like silver.... How he has wrapped it up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all
      her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him
      altogether for some seconds and stood with her back to him. He unbuttoned
      his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did not yet take it out
      altogether, simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His hands
      were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing more numb and more
      wooden. He was afraid he would let the axe slip and fall.... A sudden
      giddiness came over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what has he tied it up like this for?&rdquo; the old woman cried with
      vexation and moved towards him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe quite out, swung it
      with both arms, scarcely conscious of himself, and almost without effort,
      almost mechanically, brought the blunt side down on her head. He seemed
      not to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he had once brought
      the axe down, his strength returned to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light hair, streaked
      with grey, thickly smeared with grease, was plaited in a rat&rsquo;s tail and
      fastened by a broken horn comb which stood out on the nape of her neck. As
      she was so short, the blow fell on the very top of her skull. She cried
      out, but very faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on the floor,
      raising her hands to her head. In one hand she still held &ldquo;the pledge.&rdquo;
       Then he dealt her another and another blow with the blunt side and on the
      same spot. The blood gushed as from an overturned glass, the body fell
      back. He stepped back, let it fall, and at once bent over her face; she
      was dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their sockets, the brow
      and the whole face were drawn and contorted convulsively.
    </p>
    <p>
      He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her
      pocket (trying to avoid the streaming body)&mdash;the same right-hand
      pocket from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in full
      possession of his faculties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his
      hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been
      particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to get smeared
      with blood.... He pulled out the keys at once, they were all, as before,
      in one bunch on a steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom with them.
      It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy images. Against the
      other wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with a silk patchwork
      wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of drawers. Strange to say,
      so soon as he began to fit the keys into the chest, so soon as he heard
      their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt
      tempted again to give it all up and go away. But that was only for an
      instant; it was too late to go back. He positively smiled at himself, when
      suddenly another terrifying idea occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied
      that the old woman might be still alive and might recover her senses.
      Leaving the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up the
      axe and lifted it once more over the old woman, but did not bring it down.
      There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and examining her again
      more closely, he saw clearly that the skull was broken and even battered
      in on one side. He was about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his
      hand and indeed it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect
      pool of blood. All at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at
      it, but the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked
      with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but
      something held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised
      the axe again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not dare,
      and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood, after two
      minutes&rsquo; hurried effort, he cut the string and took it off without
      touching the body with the axe; he was not mistaken&mdash;it was a purse.
      On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of copper, and
      an image in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy chamois leather
      purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed very full;
      Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it, flung the
      crosses on the old woman&rsquo;s body and rushed back into the bedroom, this
      time taking the axe with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began trying them
      again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It was
      not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making mistakes;
      though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one and would not
      fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered and realised that
      the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging there with the small
      keys could not possibly belong to the chest of drawers (on his last visit
      this had struck him), but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps
      was hidden in that box. He left the chest of drawers, and at once felt
      under the bedstead, knowing that old women usually keep boxes under their
      beds. And so it was; there was a good-sized box under the bed, at least a
      yard in length, with an arched lid covered with red leather and studded
      with steel nails. The notched key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the
      top, under a white sheet, was a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin;
      under it was a silk dress, then a shawl and it seemed as though there was
      nothing below but clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his
      blood-stained hands on the red brocade. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s red, and on red blood will
      be less noticeable,&rdquo; the thought passed through his mind; then he suddenly
      came to himself. &ldquo;Good God, am I going out of my senses?&rdquo; he thought with
      terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped from
      under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them all over. There turned out
      to be various articles made of gold among the clothes&mdash;probably all
      pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed&mdash;bracelets, chains,
      ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in cases, others simply wrapped
      in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with tape.
      Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of his trousers and
      overcoat without examining or undoing the parcels and cases; but he had
      not time to take many....
    </p>
    <p>
      He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He stopped
      short and was still as death. But all was quiet, so it must have been his
      fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry, as though someone had
      uttered a low broken moan. Then again dead silence for a minute or two. He
      sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited holding his breath.
      Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of the bedroom.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her arms.
      She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white as a sheet
      and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him run out of the
      bedroom, she began faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a shudder ran
      down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but still did not
      scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the corner, staring
      intently, persistently at him, but still uttered no sound, as though she
      could not get breath to scream. He rushed at her with the axe; her mouth
      twitched piteously, as one sees babies&rsquo; mouths, when they begin to be
      frightened, stare intently at what frightens them and are on the point of
      screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so simple and had been so
      thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not even raise a hand to guard
      her face, though that was the most necessary and natural action at the
      moment, for the axe was raised over her face. She only put up her empty
      left hand, but not to her face, slowly holding it out before her as though
      motioning him away. The axe fell with the sharp edge just on the skull and
      split at one blow all the top of the head. She fell heavily at once.
      Raskolnikov completely lost his head, snatching up her bundle, dropped it
      again and ran into the entry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this second,
      quite unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the place as fast as
      possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing and
      reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realise all the
      difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the
      absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and,
      perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of that
      place and to make his way home, it is very possible that he would have
      flung up everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and not from
      fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had done. The feeling
      of loathing especially surged up within him and grew stronger every
      minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even into the room for
      anything in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take
      possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot what
      was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the
      kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought
      him of washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with blood. He
      dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap that
      lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands in the
      bucket. When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and
      spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood where there were
      spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all with some
      linen that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and then he was a
      long while attentively examining the axe at the window. There was no trace
      left on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in the
      noose under his coat. Then as far as was possible, in the dim light in the
      kitchen, he looked over his overcoat, his trousers and his boots. At the
      first glance there seemed to be nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted
      the rag and rubbed the boots. But he knew he was not looking thoroughly,
      that there might be something quite noticeable that he was overlooking. He
      stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas
      rose in his mind&mdash;the idea that he was mad and that at that moment he
      was incapable of reasoning, of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps
      to be doing something utterly different from what he was now doing. &ldquo;Good
      God!&rdquo; he muttered &ldquo;I must fly, fly,&rdquo; and he rushed into the entry. But
      here a shock of terror awaited him such as he had never known before.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer
      door from the stairs, at which he had not long before waited and rung, was
      standing unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all
      the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it after him perhaps
      as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen Lizaveta afterwards! And
      how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that she must have come
      in somehow! She could not have come through the wall!
    </p>
    <p>
      He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the
      staircase.
    </p>
    <p>
      He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the gateway,
      two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding.
      &ldquo;What are they about?&rdquo; He waited patiently. At last all was still, as
      though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out, but
      suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and someone began
      going downstairs humming a tune. &ldquo;How is it they all make such a noise?&rdquo;
       flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door and waited. At last
      all was still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a step towards the
      stairs when he heard fresh footsteps.
    </p>
    <p>
      The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but he
      remembered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he began
      for some reason to suspect that this was someone coming <i>there</i>, to
      the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar,
      significant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now <i>he</i> had
      passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it was growing more
      and more distinct! He could hear his heavy breathing. And now the third
      storey had been reached. Coming here! And it seemed to him all at once
      that he was turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is
      being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is rooted to the spot
      and cannot even move one&rsquo;s arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floor, he suddenly
      started, and succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the flat
      and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook and softly,
      noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had done
      this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown visitor was
      by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one another, as
      he had just before been standing with the old woman, when the door divided
      them and he was listening.
    </p>
    <p>
      The visitor panted several times. &ldquo;He must be a big, fat man,&rdquo; thought
      Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream indeed.
      The visitor took hold of the bell and rang it loudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of
      something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite
      seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged violently
      and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror at
      the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every
      minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem
      possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the
      fastening, but <i>he</i> might be aware of it. A giddiness came over him
      again. &ldquo;I shall fall down!&rdquo; flashed through his mind, but the unknown
      began to speak and he recovered himself at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!&rdquo; he bawled in a
      thick voice, &ldquo;Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my
      beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say there&rsquo;s no one at home,&rdquo; the new-comer cried in a cheerful,
      ringing voice, addressing the first visitor, who still went on pulling the
      bell. &ldquo;Good evening, Koch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From his voice he must be quite young,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who the devil can tell? I&rsquo;ve almost broken the lock,&rdquo; answered Koch. &ldquo;But
      how do you come to know me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times running at billiards
      at Gambrinus&rsquo;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So they are not at home? That&rsquo;s queer. It&rsquo;s awfully stupid though. Where
      could the old woman have gone? I&rsquo;ve come on business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; and I have business with her, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aie&mdash;aie! And I was hoping
      to get some money!&rdquo; cried the young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this time for? The
      old witch fixed the time for me to come herself. It&rsquo;s out of my way. And
      where the devil she can have got to, I can&rsquo;t make out. She sits here from
      year&rsquo;s end to year&rsquo;s end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet here all
      of a sudden she is out for a walk!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hadn&rsquo;t we better ask the porter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where she&rsquo;s gone and when she&rsquo;ll be back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hm.... Damn it all!... We might ask.... But you know she never does go
      anywhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he once more tugged at the door-handle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damn it all. There&rsquo;s nothing to be done, we must go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay!&rdquo; cried the young man suddenly. &ldquo;Do you see how the door shakes if
      you pull it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That shows it&rsquo;s not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how
      the hook clanks?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, don&rsquo;t you see? That proves that one of them is at home. If they were
      all out, they would have locked the door from the outside with the key and
      not with the hook from inside. There, do you hear how the hook is
      clanking? To fasten the hook on the inside they must be at home, don&rsquo;t you
      see. So there they are sitting inside and don&rsquo;t open the door!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! And so they must be!&rdquo; cried Koch, astonished. &ldquo;What are they about
      in there?&rdquo; And he began furiously shaking the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay!&rdquo; cried the young man again. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t pull at it! There must be
      something wrong.... Here, you&rsquo;ve been ringing and pulling at the door and
      still they don&rsquo;t open! So either they&rsquo;ve both fainted or...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you what. Let&rsquo;s go fetch the porter, let him wake them up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both were going down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you&rsquo;d better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m studying the law you see! It&rsquo;s evident, e-vi-dent there&rsquo;s something
      wrong here!&rdquo; the young man cried hotly, and he ran downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell which gave one tinkle,
      then gently, as though reflecting and looking about him, began touching
      the door-handle pulling it and letting it go to make sure once more that
      it was only fastened by the hook. Then puffing and panting he bent down
      and began looking at the keyhole: but the key was in the lock on the
      inside and so nothing could be seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was in a sort of
      delirium. He was even making ready to fight when they should come in.
      While they were knocking and talking together, the idea several times
      occurred to him to end it all at once and shout to them through the door.
      Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them, while they
      could not open the door! &ldquo;Only make haste!&rdquo; was the thought that flashed
      through his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what the devil is he about?...&rdquo; Time was passing, one minute, and
      another&mdash;no one came. Koch began to be restless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil?&rdquo; he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his sentry
      duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and thumping with his heavy boots on
      the stairs. The steps died away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! What am I to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door&mdash;there was no sound.
      Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closing the door as
      thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice below&mdash;where
      could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going back to the
      flat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey there! Catch the brute!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran
      down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was
      still. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast began
      noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them. He
      distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. &ldquo;Hey!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling &ldquo;come what
      must!&rdquo; If they stopped him&mdash;all was lost; if they let him pass&mdash;all
      was lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they were
      only a flight from him&mdash;and suddenly deliverance! A few steps from
      him on the right, there was an empty flat with the door wide open, the
      flat on the second floor where the painters had been at work, and which,
      as though for his benefit, they had just left. It was they, no doubt, who
      had just run down, shouting. The floor had only just been painted, in the
      middle of the room stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes.
      In one instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden behind the
      wall and only in the nick of time; they had already reached the landing.
      Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He
      waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through
      the gateway and turned to the left in the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the flat,
      that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as the door had
      just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the bodies, that
      before another minute had passed they would guess and completely realise
      that the murderer had just been there, and had succeeded in hiding
      somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would guess most likely
      that he had been in the empty flat, while they were going upstairs. And
      meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much, though the next turning was
      still nearly a hundred yards away. &ldquo;Should he slip through some gateway
      and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No, hopeless! Should he fling
      away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless, hopeless!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive.
      Here he was half way to safety, and he understood it; it was less risky
      because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a
      grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could
      scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck was all wet.
      &ldquo;My word, he has been going it!&rdquo; someone shouted at him when he came out
      on the canal bank.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the
      worse it was. He remembered however, that on coming out on to the canal
      bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and so being more
      conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost
      falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get home from
      quite a different direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his
      house! He was already on the staircase before he recollected the axe. And
      yet he had a very grave problem before him, to put it back and to escape
      observation as far as possible in doing so. He was of course incapable of
      reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to restore the axe at
      all, but to drop it later on in somebody&rsquo;s yard. But it all happened
      fortunately, the door of the porter&rsquo;s room was closed but not locked, so
      that it seemed most likely that the porter was at home. But he had so
      completely lost all power of reflection that he walked straight to the
      door and opened it. If the porter had asked him, &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; he
      would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But again the porter was not
      at home, and he succeeded in putting the axe back under the bench, and
      even covering it with the chunk of wood as before. He met no one, not a
      soul, afterwards on the way to his room; the landlady&rsquo;s door was shut.
      When he was in his room, he flung himself on the sofa just as he was&mdash;he
      did not sleep, but sank into blank forgetfulness. If anyone had come into
      his room then, he would have jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and
      shreds of thoughts were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not
      catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts....
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"></a>
      PART II
    </h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"></a>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
    <p>
      So he lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed to wake up, and at
      such moments he noticed that it was far into the night, but it did not
      occur to him to get up. At last he noticed that it was beginning to get
      light. He was lying on his back, still dazed from his recent oblivion.
      Fearful, despairing cries rose shrilly from the street, sounds which he
      heard every night, indeed, under his window after two o&rsquo;clock. They woke
      him up now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s
      past two o&rsquo;clock,&rdquo; and at once he leaped up, as though someone had pulled
      him from the sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Past two o&rsquo;clock!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sat down on the sofa&mdash;and instantly recollected everything! All at
      once, in one flash, he recollected everything.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the first moment he thought he was going mad. A dreadful chill came
      over him; but the chill was from the fever that had begun long before in
      his sleep. Now he was suddenly taken with violent shivering, so that his
      teeth chattered and all his limbs were shaking. He opened the door and
      began listening&mdash;everything in the house was asleep. With amazement
      he gazed at himself and everything in the room around him, wondering how
      he could have come in the night before without fastening the door, and
      have flung himself on the sofa without undressing, without even taking his
      hat off. It had fallen off and was lying on the floor near his pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If anyone had come in, what would he have thought? That I&rsquo;m drunk but...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rushed to the window. There was light enough, and he began hurriedly
      looking himself all over from head to foot, all his clothes; were there no
      traces? But there was no doing it like that; shivering with cold, he began
      taking off everything and looking over again. He turned everything over to
      the last threads and rags, and mistrusting himself, went through his
      search three times.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one place, where some
      thick drops of congealed blood were clinging to the frayed edge of his
      trousers. He picked up a big claspknife and cut off the frayed threads.
      There seemed to be nothing more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he had taken out of
      the old woman&rsquo;s box were still in his pockets! He had not thought till
      then of taking them out and hiding them! He had not even thought of them
      while he was examining his clothes! What next? Instantly he rushed to take
      them out and fling them on the table. When he had pulled out everything,
      and turned the pocket inside out to be sure there was nothing left, he
      carried the whole heap to the corner. The paper had come off the bottom of
      the wall and hung there in tatters. He began stuffing all the things into
      the hole under the paper: &ldquo;They&rsquo;re in! All out of sight, and the purse
      too!&rdquo; he thought gleefully, getting up and gazing blankly at the hole
      which bulged out more than ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with
      horror; &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; he whispered in despair: &ldquo;what&rsquo;s the matter with me? Is
      that hidden? Is that the way to hide things?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had only thought of
      money, and so had not prepared a hiding-place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But now, now, what am I glad of?&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;Is that hiding things? My
      reason&rsquo;s deserting me&mdash;simply!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once shaken by another
      unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically he drew from a chair beside him
      his old student&rsquo;s winter coat, which was still warm though almost in rags,
      covered himself up with it and once more sank into drowsiness and
      delirium. He lost consciousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I have not
      taken the loop off the armhole! I forgot it, forgot a thing like that!
      Such a piece of evidence!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw the bits
      among his linen under the pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pieces of torn linen couldn&rsquo;t rouse suspicion, whatever happened; I think
      not, I think not, any way!&rdquo; he repeated, standing in the middle of the
      room, and with painful concentration he fell to gazing about him again, at
      the floor and everywhere, trying to make sure he had not forgotten
      anything. The conviction that all his faculties, even memory, and the
      simplest power of reflection were failing him, began to be an insufferable
      torture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely it isn&rsquo;t beginning already! Surely it isn&rsquo;t my punishment coming
      upon me? It is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on the
      floor in the middle of the room, where anyone coming in would see them!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with me!&rdquo; he cried again, like one distraught.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes were
      covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many stains, but
      that he did not see them, did not notice them because his perceptions were
      failing, were going to pieces... his reason was clouded.... Suddenly he
      remembered that there had been blood on the purse too. &ldquo;Ah! Then there
      must be blood on the pocket too, for I put the wet purse in my pocket!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!&mdash;there were
      traces, stains on the lining of the pocket!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some sense and
      memory, since I guessed it of myself,&rdquo; he thought triumphantly, with a
      deep sigh of relief; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s simply the weakness of fever, a moment&rsquo;s
      delirium,&rdquo; and he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his
      trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the sock
      which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces! He flung off
      his boots; &ldquo;traces indeed! The tip of the sock was soaked with blood;&rdquo; he
      must have unwarily stepped into that pool.... &ldquo;But what am I to do with
      this now? Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn them?
      But what can I burn them with? There are no matches even. No, better go
      out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away,&rdquo; he
      repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, &ldquo;and at once, this minute,
      without lingering...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy
      shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to &ldquo;go
      off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so that it may
      be out of sight and done with, at once, at once!&rdquo; Several times he tried
      to rise from the sofa, but could not.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking at his door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!&rdquo; shouted
      Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. &ldquo;For whole days together he&rsquo;s
      snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell you. It&rsquo;s past ten.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe he&rsquo;s not at home,&rdquo; said a man&rsquo;s voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! that&rsquo;s the porter&rsquo;s voice.... What does he want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a positive
      pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then who can have latched the door?&rdquo; retorted Nastasya. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s taken to
      bolting himself in! As if he were worth stealing! Open, you stupid, wake
      up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do they want? Why the porter? All&rsquo;s discovered. Resist or open? Come
      what may!...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the
      bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing there.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and
      desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey folded
      paper sealed with bottle-wax.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A notice from the office,&rdquo; he announced, as he gave him the paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From what office?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the police?... What for?...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can I tell? You&rsquo;re sent for, so you go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to go
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s downright ill!&rdquo; observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him. The
      porter turned his head for a moment. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s been in a fever since
      yesterday,&rdquo; she added.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without
      opening it. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you get up then,&rdquo; Nastasya went on compassionately,
      seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re ill, and
      so don&rsquo;t go; there&rsquo;s no such hurry. What have you got there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his
      trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep with
      them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it, he remembered that half
      waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand and so
      fallen asleep again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at the rags he&rsquo;s collected and sleeps with them, as though he has
      got hold of a treasure...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his eyes
      intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational reflection
      at that moment, he felt that no one would behave like that with a person
      who was going to be arrested. &ldquo;But... the police?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better have some tea! Yes? I&rsquo;ll bring it, there&rsquo;s some left.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No... I&rsquo;m going; I&rsquo;ll go at once,&rdquo; he muttered, getting on to his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you&rsquo;ll never get downstairs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ll go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She followed the porter out.
    </p>
    <p>
      At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt, and
      rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion could
      distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed,
      thank God!&rdquo; Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began
      reading; he was a long while reading, before he understood. It was an
      ordinary summons from the district police-station to appear that day at
      half-past nine at the office of the district superintendent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with the
      police! And why just to-day?&rdquo; he thought in agonising bewilderment. &ldquo;Good
      God, only get it over soon!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into laughter&mdash;not
      at the idea of prayer, but at himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      He began, hurriedly dressing. &ldquo;If I&rsquo;m lost, I am lost, I don&rsquo;t care! Shall
      I put the sock on?&rdquo; he suddenly wondered, &ldquo;it will get dustier still and
      the traces will be gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in loathing and
      horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no other socks, he
      picked it up and put it on again&mdash;and again he laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all conventional, that&rsquo;s all relative, merely a way of looking at
      it,&rdquo; he thought in a flash, but only on the top surface of his mind, while
      he was shuddering all over, &ldquo;there, I&rsquo;ve got it on! I have finished by
      getting it on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But his laughter was quickly followed by despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s too much for me...&rdquo; he thought. His legs shook. &ldquo;From fear,&rdquo; he
      muttered. His head swam and ached with fever. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a trick! They want to
      decoy me there and confound me over everything,&rdquo; he mused, as he went out
      on to the stairs&mdash;&ldquo;the worst of it is I&rsquo;m almost light-headed... I
      may blurt out something stupid...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things just as
      they were in the hole in the wall, &ldquo;and very likely, it&rsquo;s on purpose to
      search when I&rsquo;m out,&rdquo; he thought, and stopped short. But he was possessed
      by such despair, such cynicism of misery, if one may so call it, that with
      a wave of his hand he went on. &ldquo;Only to get it over!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain had
      fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and mortar, again the stench
      from the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken men, the Finnish pedlars
      and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes, so that it
      hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head going round&mdash;as a
      man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out into the street on a
      bright sunny day.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he reached the turning into <i>the</i> street, in an agony of
      trepidation he looked down it... at <i>the</i> house... and at once
      averted his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they question me, perhaps I&rsquo;ll simply tell,&rdquo; he thought, as he drew
      near the police-station.
    </p>
    <p>
      The police-station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had lately been
      moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a new house. He had been once
      for a moment in the old office but long ago. Turning in at the gateway, he
      saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mounting with a
      book in his hand. &ldquo;A house-porter, no doubt; so then, the office is here,&rdquo;
       and he began ascending the stairs on the chance. He did not want to ask
      questions of anyone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything...&rdquo; he thought, as
      he reached the fourth floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty water. The
      kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and stood open almost the
      whole day. So there was a fearful smell and heat. The staircase was
      crowded with porters going up and down with their books under their arms,
      policemen, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The door of the
      office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting within. There, too,
      the heat was stifling and there was a sickening smell of fresh paint and
      stale oil from the newly decorated rooms.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He showed the notice he had received.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a student?&rdquo; the man asked, glancing at the notice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, formerly a student.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no interest
      in anything,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go in there to the head clerk,&rdquo; said the clerk, pointing towards the
      furthest room.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went into that room&mdash;the fourth in order; it was a small room and
      packed full of people, rather better dressed than in the outer rooms.
      Among them were two ladies. One, poorly dressed in mourning, sat at the
      table opposite the chief clerk, writing something at his dictation. The
      other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face,
      excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as big as a saucer,
      was standing on one side, apparently waiting for something. Raskolnikov
      thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The latter glanced at it, said:
      &ldquo;Wait a minute,&rdquo; and went on attending to the lady in mourning.
    </p>
    <p>
      He breathed more freely. &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging himself to have
      courage and be calm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray myself!
      Hm... it&rsquo;s a pity there&rsquo;s no air here,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s stifling.... It
      makes one&rsquo;s head dizzier than ever... and one&rsquo;s mind too...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was afraid of losing his
      self-control; he tried to catch at something and fix his mind on it,
      something quite irrelevant, but he could not succeed in this at all. Yet
      the head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him
      and guess something from his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a dark mobile face
      that looked older than his years. He was fashionably dressed and foppish,
      with his hair parted in the middle, well combed and pomaded, and wore a
      number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain on his
      waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to a foreigner who was in
      the room, and said them fairly correctly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down,&rdquo; he said casually to the gaily-dressed,
      purple-faced lady, who was still standing as though not venturing to sit
      down, though there was a chair beside her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ich danke,&rdquo; said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk she sank
      into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with white lace floated about
      the table like an air-balloon and filled almost half the room. She smelt
      of scent. But she was obviously embarrassed at filling half the room and
      smelling so strongly of scent; and though her smile was impudent as well
      as cringing, it betrayed evident uneasiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady in mourning had done at last, and got up. All at once, with some
      noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, with a peculiar swing of his
      shoulders at each step. He tossed his cockaded cap on the table and sat
      down in an easy-chair. The small lady positively skipped from her seat on
      seeing him, and fell to curtsying in a sort of ecstasy; but the officer
      took not the smallest notice of her, and she did not venture to sit down
      again in his presence. He was the assistant superintendent. He had a
      reddish moustache that stood out horizontally on each side of his face,
      and extremely small features, expressive of nothing much except a certain
      insolence. He looked askance and rather indignantly at Raskolnikov; he was
      so very badly dressed, and in spite of his humiliating position, his
      bearing was by no means in keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov had
      unwarily fixed a very long and direct look on him, so that he felt
      positively affronted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; he shouted, apparently astonished that such a ragged
      fellow was not annihilated by the majesty of his glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was summoned... by a notice...&rdquo; Raskolnikov faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the recovery of money due, from <i>the student</i>,&rdquo; the head clerk
      interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his papers. &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; and he
      flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. &ldquo;Read that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Money? What money?&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov, &ldquo;but... then... it&rsquo;s certainly
      not <i>that</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense indescribable relief. A
      load was lifted from his back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?&rdquo; shouted the
      assistant superintendent, seeming for some unknown reason more and more
      aggrieved. &ldquo;You are told to come at nine, and now it&rsquo;s twelve!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour ago,&rdquo; Raskolnikov
      answered loudly over his shoulder. To his own surprise he, too, grew
      suddenly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. &ldquo;And it&rsquo;s enough that I
      have come here ill with fever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kindly refrain from shouting!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not shouting, I&rsquo;m speaking very quietly, it&rsquo;s you who are shouting at
      me. I&rsquo;m a student, and allow no one to shout at me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the first minute he
      could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped up from his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be silent! You are in a government office. Don&rsquo;t be impudent, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re in a government office, too,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov, &ldquo;and you&rsquo;re
      smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect to
      all of us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.
    </p>
    <p>
      The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant
      superintendent was obviously disconcerted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not your business!&rdquo; he shouted at last with unnatural loudness.
      &ldquo;Kindly make the declaration demanded of you. Show him. Alexandr
      Grigorievitch. There is a complaint against you! You don&rsquo;t pay your debts!
      You&rsquo;re a fine bird!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at the
      paper, in haste to find an explanation. He read it once, and a second
      time, and still did not understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is this?&rdquo; he asked the head clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is for the recovery of money on an I O U, a writ. You must either pay
      it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give a written declaration when
      you can pay it, and at the same time an undertaking not to leave the
      capital without payment, and nor to sell or conceal your property. The
      creditor is at liberty to sell your property, and proceed against you
      according to the law.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I... am not in debt to anyone!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not our business. Here, an I O U for a hundred and fifteen
      roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has been brought us for
      recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine months
      ago, and paid over by the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov. We
      therefore summon you, hereupon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But she is my landlady!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what if she is your landlady?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The head clerk looked at him with a condescending smile of compassion, and
      at the same time with a certain triumph, as at a novice under fire for the
      first time&mdash;as though he would say: &ldquo;Well, how do you feel now?&rdquo; But
      what did he care now for an I O U, for a writ of recovery! Was that worth
      worrying about now, was it worth attention even! He stood, he read, he
      listened, he answered, he even asked questions himself, but all
      mechanically. The triumphant sense of security, of deliverance from
      overwhelming danger, that was what filled his whole soul that moment
      without thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions or
      surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was an instant of
      full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But at that very moment something
      like a thunderstorm took place in the office. The assistant
      superintendent, still shaken by Raskolnikov&rsquo;s disrespect, still fuming and
      obviously anxious to keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the
      unfortunate smart lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came in
      with an exceedingly silly smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shameful hussy!&rdquo; he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice. (The
      lady in mourning had left the office.) &ldquo;What was going on at your house
      last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you&rsquo;re a scandal to the whole street.
      Fighting and drinking again. Do you want the house of correction? Why, I
      have warned you ten times over that I would not let you off the eleventh!
      And here you are again, again, you... you...!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The paper fell out of Raskolnikov&rsquo;s hands, and he looked wildly at the
      smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw what it
      meant, and at once began to find positive amusement in the scandal. He
      listened with pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and laugh... all his
      nerves were on edge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ilya Petrovitch!&rdquo; the head clerk was beginning anxiously, but stopped
      short, for he knew from experience that the enraged assistant could not be
      stopped except by force.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled before the storm.
      But, strange to say, the more numerous and violent the terms of abuse
      became, the more amiable she looked, and the more seductive the smiles she
      lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and curtsied
      incessantly, waiting impatiently for a chance of putting in her word: and
      at last she found it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain,&rdquo; she
      pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speaking Russian confidently,
      though with a strong German accent, &ldquo;and no sort of scandal, and his
      honour came drunk, and it&rsquo;s the whole truth I am telling, Mr. Captain, and
      I am not to blame.... Mine is an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and
      honourable behaviour, Mr. Captain, and I always, always dislike any
      scandal myself. But he came quite tipsy, and asked for three bottles
      again, and then he lifted up one leg, and began playing the pianoforte
      with one foot, and that is not at all right in an honourable house, and he
      <i>ganz</i> broke the piano, and it was very bad manners indeed and I said
      so. And he took up a bottle and began hitting everyone with it. And then I
      called the porter, and Karl came, and he took Karl and hit him in the eye;
      and he hit Henriette in the eye, too, and gave me five slaps on the cheek.
      And it was so ungentlemanly in an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and I
      screamed. And he opened the window over the canal, and stood in the
      window, squealing like a little pig; it was a disgrace. The idea of
      squealing like a little pig at the window into the street! Fie upon him!
      And Karl pulled him away from the window by his coat, and it is true, Mr.
      Captain, he tore <i>sein rock</i>. And then he shouted that <i>man muss</i>
      pay him fifteen roubles damages. And I did pay him, Mr. Captain, five
      roubles for <i>sein rock</i>. And he is an ungentlemanly visitor and
      caused all the scandal. &lsquo;I will show you up,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;for I can write to
      all the papers about you.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he was an author?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in an honourable
      house....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now then! Enough! I have told you already...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ilya Petrovitch!&rdquo; the head clerk repeated significantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head clerk slightly shook his
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;... So I tell you this, most respectable Luise Ivanovna, and I tell it
      you for the last time,&rdquo; the assistant went on. &ldquo;If there is a scandal in
      your honourable house once again, I will put you yourself in the lock-up,
      as it is called in polite society. Do you hear? So a literary man, an
      author took five roubles for his coat-tail in an &lsquo;honourable house&rsquo;? A
      nice set, these authors!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. &ldquo;There was a scandal the
      other day in a restaurant, too. An author had eaten his dinner and would
      not pay; &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll write a satire on you,&rsquo; says he. And there was another of
      them on a steamer last week used the most disgraceful language to the
      respectable family of a civil councillor, his wife and daughter. And there
      was one of them turned out of a confectioner&rsquo;s shop the other day. They
      are like that, authors, literary men, students, town-criers.... Pfoo! You
      get along! I shall look in upon you myself one day. Then you had better be
      careful! Do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With hurried deference, Luise Ivanovna fell to curtsying in all
      directions, and so curtsied herself to the door. But at the door, she
      stumbled backwards against a good-looking officer with a fresh, open face
      and splendid thick fair whiskers. This was the superintendent of the
      district himself, Nikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna made haste to curtsy
      almost to the ground, and with mincing little steps, she fluttered out of
      the office.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again thunder and lightning&mdash;a hurricane!&rdquo; said Nikodim Fomitch to
      Ilya Petrovitch in a civil and friendly tone. &ldquo;You are aroused again, you
      are fuming again! I heard it on the stairs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what then!&rdquo; Ilya Petrovitch drawled with gentlemanly nonchalance;
      and he walked with some papers to another table, with a jaunty swing of
      his shoulders at each step. &ldquo;Here, if you will kindly look: an author, or
      a student, has been one at least, does not pay his debts, has given an I O
      U, won&rsquo;t clear out of his room, and complaints are constantly being lodged
      against him, and here he has been pleased to make a protest against my
      smoking in his presence! He behaves like a cad himself, and just look at
      him, please. Here&rsquo;s the gentleman, and very attractive he is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go off like powder, you
      can&rsquo;t bear a slight, I daresay you took offence at something and went too
      far yourself,&rdquo; continued Nikodim Fomitch, turning affably to Raskolnikov.
      &ldquo;But you were wrong there; he is a capital fellow, I assure you, but
      explosive, explosive! He gets hot, fires up, boils over, and no stopping
      him! And then it&rsquo;s all over! And at the bottom he&rsquo;s a heart of gold! His
      nickname in the regiment was the Explosive Lieutenant....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what a regiment it was, too,&rdquo; cried Ilya Petrovitch, much gratified
      at this agreeable banter, though still sulky.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say something exceptionally pleasant to
      them all. &ldquo;Excuse me, Captain,&rdquo; he began easily, suddenly addressing
      Nikodim Fomitch, &ldquo;will you enter into my position?... I am ready to ask
      pardon, if I have been ill-mannered. I am a poor student, sick and
      shattered (shattered was the word he used) by poverty. I am not studying,
      because I cannot keep myself now, but I shall get money.... I have a
      mother and sister in the province of X. They will send it to me, and I
      will pay. My landlady is a good-hearted woman, but she is so exasperated
      at my having lost my lessons, and not paying her for the last four months,
      that she does not even send up my dinner... and I don&rsquo;t understand this I
      O U at all. She is asking me to pay her on this I O U. How am I to pay
      her? Judge for yourselves!...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that is not our business, you know,&rdquo; the head clerk was observing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to explain...&rdquo;
       Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing Nikodim Fomitch, but trying his
      best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently
      appeared to be rummaging among his papers and to be contemptuously
      oblivious of him. &ldquo;Allow me to explain that I have been living with her
      for nearly three years and at first... at first... for why should I not
      confess it, at the very beginning I promised to marry her daughter, it was
      a verbal promise, freely given... she was a girl... indeed, I liked her,
      though I was not in love with her... a youthful affair in fact... that is,
      I mean to say, that my landlady gave me credit freely in those days, and I
      led a life of... I was very heedless...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we&rsquo;ve no time to waste,&rdquo;
       Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and with a note of triumph; but
      Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he suddenly found it exceedingly
      difficult to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain... how it all
      happened... In my turn... though I agree with you... it is unnecessary.
      But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained lodging there as
      before, and when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said to
      me... and in a friendly way... that she had complete trust in me, but
      still, would I not give her an I O U for one hundred and fifteen roubles,
      all the debt I owed her. She said if only I gave her that, she would trust
      me again, as much as I liked, and that she would never, never&mdash;those
      were her own words&mdash;make use of that I O U till I could pay of
      myself... and now, when I have lost my lessons and have nothing to eat,
      she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All these affecting details are no business of ours.&rdquo; Ilya Petrovitch
      interrupted rudely. &ldquo;You must give a written undertaking but as for your
      love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come now... you are harsh,&rdquo; muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at the
      table and also beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Write!&rdquo; said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Write what?&rdquo; the latter asked, gruffly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will dictate to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually and
      contemptuously after his speech, but strange to say he suddenly felt
      completely indifferent to anyone&rsquo;s opinion, and this revulsion took place
      in a flash, in one instant. If he had cared to think a little, he would
      have been amazed indeed that he could have talked to them like that a
      minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And where had those
      feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not with police
      officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he would not have
      found one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A gloomy sensation
      of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took conscious form in
      his soul. It was not the meanness of his sentimental effusions before Ilya
      Petrovitch, nor the meanness of the latter&rsquo;s triumph over him that had
      caused this sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh, what had he to do now with
      his own baseness, with all these petty vanities, officers, German women,
      debts, police-offices? If he had been sentenced to be burnt at that
      moment, he would not have stirred, would hardly have heard the sentence to
      the end. Something was happening to him entirely new, sudden and unknown.
      It was not that he understood, but he felt clearly with all the intensity
      of sensation that he could never more appeal to these people in the
      police-office with sentimental effusions like his recent outburst, or with
      anything whatever; and that if they had been his own brothers and sisters
      and not police-officers, it would have been utterly out of the question to
      appeal to them in any circumstance of life. He had never experienced such
      a strange and awful sensation. And what was most agonising&mdash;it was
      more a sensation than a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most
      agonising of all the sensations he had known in his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration, that
      he could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date, that he
      would not leave the town, nor sell his property, and so on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you can&rsquo;t write, you can hardly hold the pen,&rdquo; observed the head
      clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Are you ill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am giddy. Go on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all. Sign it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going away,
      he put his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his hands. He felt
      as if a nail were being driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly
      occurred to him, to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim Fomitch, and tell
      him everything that had happened yesterday, and then to go with him to his
      lodgings and to show him the things in the hole in the corner. The impulse
      was so strong that he got up from his seat to carry it out. &ldquo;Hadn&rsquo;t I
      better think a minute?&rdquo; flashed through his mind. &ldquo;No, better cast off the
      burden without thinking.&rdquo; But all at once he stood still, rooted to the
      spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the
      words reached him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s impossible, they&rsquo;ll both be released. To begin with, the whole story
      contradicts itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it had been
      their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a blind? No, that would
      be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen at the gate by
      both the porters and a woman as he went in. He was walking with three
      friends, who left him only at the gate, and he asked the porters to direct
      him, in the presence of the friends. Now, would he have asked his way if
      he had been going with such an object? As for Koch, he spent half an hour
      at the silversmith&rsquo;s below, before he went up to the old woman and he left
      him at exactly a quarter to eight. Now just consider...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction? They state
      themselves that they knocked and the door was locked; yet three minutes
      later when they went up with the porter, it turned out the door was
      unfastened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just it; the murderer must have been there and bolted himself in;
      and they&rsquo;d have caught him for a certainty if Koch had not been an ass and
      gone to look for the porter too. <i>He</i> must have seized the interval
      to get downstairs and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps crossing himself
      and saying: &lsquo;If I had been there, he would have jumped out and killed me
      with his axe.&rsquo; He is going to have a thanksgiving service&mdash;ha, ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And no one saw the murderer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They might well not see him; the house is a regular Noah&rsquo;s Ark,&rdquo; said the
      head clerk, who was listening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s clear, quite clear,&rdquo; Nikodim Fomitch repeated warmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it is anything but clear,&rdquo; Ilya Petrovitch maintained.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did not
      reach it....
    </p>
    <p>
      When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting in a chair,
      supported by someone on the right side, while someone else was standing on
      the left, holding a yellowish glass filled with yellow water, and Nikodim
      Fomitch standing before him, looking intently at him. He got up from the
      chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this? Are you ill?&rdquo; Nikodim Fomitch asked, rather sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing,&rdquo; said the head clerk,
      settling back in his place, and taking up his work again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you been ill long?&rdquo; cried Ilya Petrovitch from his place, where he,
      too, was looking through papers. He had, of course, come to look at the
      sick man when he fainted, but retired at once when he recovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since yesterday,&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov in reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you go out yesterday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Though you were ill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At what time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About seven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where did you go, may I ask?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Along the street.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Short and clear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily,
      without dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch&rsquo;s stare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He can scarcely stand upright. And you...&rdquo; Nikodim Fomitch was beginning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter,&rdquo; Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather peculiarly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then,&rdquo; concluded Ilya Petrovitch, &ldquo;we will not detain you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on his
      departure, and above the rest rose the questioning voice of Nikodim
      Fomitch. In the street, his faintness passed off completely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A search&mdash;there will be a search at once,&rdquo; he repeated to himself,
      hurrying home. &ldquo;The brutes! they suspect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His former terror mastered him completely again.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"></a>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what if there has been a search already? What if I find them in my
      room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the
      things out and lined his pockets with them. There were eight articles in
      all: two little boxes with ear-rings or something of the sort, he hardly
      looked to see; then four small leather cases. There was a chain, too,
      merely wrapped in newspaper and something else in newspaper, that looked
      like a decoration.... He put them all in the different pockets of his
      overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his trousers, trying to conceal them
      as much as possible. He took the purse, too. Then he went out of his room,
      leaving the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, and though he
      felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He was afraid of pursuit, he
      was afraid that in another half-hour, another quarter of an hour perhaps,
      instructions would be issued for his pursuit, and so at all costs, he must
      hide all traces before then. He must clear everything up while he still
      had some strength, some reasoning power left him.... Where was he to go?
    </p>
    <p>
      That had long been settled: &ldquo;Fling them into the canal, and all traces
      hidden in the water, the thing would be at an end.&rdquo; So he had decided in
      the night of his delirium when several times he had had the impulse to get
      up and go away, to make haste, and get rid of it all. But to get rid of
      it, turned out to be a very difficult task. He wandered along the bank of
      the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or more and looked several times
      at the steps running down to the water, but he could not think of carrying
      out his plan; either rafts stood at the steps&rsquo; edge, and women were
      washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and people were
      swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and noticed from the banks
      on all sides; it would look suspicious for a man to go down on purpose,
      stop, and throw something into the water. And what if the boxes were to
      float instead of sinking? And of course they would. Even as it was,
      everyone he met seemed to stare and look round, as if they had nothing to
      do but to watch him. &ldquo;Why is it, or can it be my fancy?&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to the Neva.
      There were not so many people there, he would be less observed, and it
      would be more convenient in every way, above all it was further off. He
      wondered how he could have been wandering for a good half-hour, worried
      and anxious in this dangerous past without thinking of it before. And that
      half-hour he had lost over an irrational plan, simply because he had
      thought of it in delirium! He had become extremely absent and forgetful
      and he was aware of it. He certainly must make haste.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked towards the Neva along V&mdash;&mdash; Prospect, but on the way
      another idea struck him. &ldquo;Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to go
      somewhere far off, to the Islands again, and there hide the things in some
      solitary place, in a wood or under a bush, and mark the spot perhaps?&rdquo; And
      though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the idea seemed to him a sound
      one. But he was not destined to go there. For coming out of V&mdash;&mdash;
      Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left a passage leading between
      two blank walls to a courtyard. On the right hand, the blank unwhitewashed
      wall of a four-storied house stretched far into the court; on the left, a
      wooden hoarding ran parallel with it for twenty paces into the court, and
      then turned sharply to the left. Here was a deserted fenced-off place
      where rubbish of different sorts was lying. At the end of the court, the
      corner of a low, smutty, stone shed, apparently part of some workshop,
      peeped from behind the hoarding. It was probably a carriage builder&rsquo;s or
      carpenter&rsquo;s shed; the whole place from the entrance was black with coal
      dust. Here would be the place to throw it, he thought. Not seeing anyone
      in the yard, he slipped in, and at once saw near the gate a sink, such as
      is often put in yards where there are many workmen or cab-drivers; and on
      the hoarding above had been scribbled in chalk the time-honoured
      witticism, &ldquo;Standing here strictly forbidden.&rdquo; This was all the better,
      for there would be nothing suspicious about his going in. &ldquo;Here I could
      throw it all in a heap and get away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense, almost
      unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had in the
      police-office. &ldquo;I have buried my tracks! And who, who can think of looking
      under that stone? It has been lying there most likely ever since the house
      was built, and will lie as many years more. And if it were found, who
      would think of me? It is all over! No clue!&rdquo; And he laughed. Yes, he
      remembered that he began laughing a thin, nervous noiseless laugh, and
      went on laughing all the time he was crossing the square. But when he
      reached the K&mdash;&mdash; Boulevard where two days before he had come
      upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other ideas crept into his
      mind. He felt all at once that it would be loathsome to pass that seat on
      which after the girl was gone, he had sat and pondered, and that it would
      be hateful, too, to meet that whiskered policeman to whom he had given the
      twenty copecks: &ldquo;Damn him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas now
      seemed to be circling round some single point, and he felt that there
      really was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing that point&mdash;and
      for the first time, indeed, during the last two months.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damn it all!&rdquo; he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury. &ldquo;If it
      has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how stupid it
      is!... And what lies I told to-day! How despicably I fawned upon that
      wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I care for them
      all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! It is not that at
      all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple
      question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if I
      really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even glance
      into the purse and don&rsquo;t know what I had there, for which I have undergone
      these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy
      degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water the
      purse together with all the things which I had not seen either... how&rsquo;s
      that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and it
      was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night
      without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though
      it could not possibly be otherwise.... Yes, he had known it all, and
      understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the
      moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out of
      it.... Yes, so it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is because I am very ill,&rdquo; he decided grimly at last, &ldquo;I have been
      worrying and fretting myself, and I don&rsquo;t know what I am doing....
      Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been
      worrying myself.... I shall get well and I shall not worry.... But what if
      I don&rsquo;t get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some
      distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new
      overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every
      moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for
      everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All
      who met him were loathsome to him&mdash;he loathed their faces, their
      movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he
      might have spat at him or bitten him....
    </p>
    <p>
      He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near
      the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. &ldquo;Why, he lives here, in that house,&rdquo; he
      thought, &ldquo;why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it&rsquo;s
      the same thing over again.... Very interesting to know, though; have I
      come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never mind, I said
      the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the day <i>after</i>;
      well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went up to Razumihin&rsquo;s room on the fifth floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it you?&rdquo; he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a
      brief pause, he whistled. &ldquo;As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you&rsquo;ve
      cut me out!&rdquo; he added, looking at Raskolnikov&rsquo;s rags. &ldquo;Come sit down, you
      are tired, I&rsquo;ll be bound.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?&rdquo; He began feeling his
      pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I have come for this: I have no lessons.... I
      wanted,... but I don&rsquo;t really want lessons....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I say! You are delirious, you know!&rdquo; Razumihin observed, watching him
      carefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I am not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to
      Razumihin&rsquo;s, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend face
      to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed
      for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the wide world.
      His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon
      as he crossed Razumihin&rsquo;s threshold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye,&rdquo; he said abruptly, and walked to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop, stop! You queer fish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to,&rdquo; said the other, again pulling away his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is...
      almost insulting! I won&rsquo;t let you go like that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help...
      to begin... because you are kinder than anyone&mdash;cleverer, I mean, and
      can judge... and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at
      all... no one&rsquo;s services... no one&rsquo;s sympathy. I am by myself... alone.
      Come, that&rsquo;s enough. Leave me alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I
      care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don&rsquo;t care about that, but
      there&rsquo;s a bookseller, Heruvimov&mdash;and he takes the place of a lesson.
      I would not exchange him for five lessons. He&rsquo;s doing publishing of a
      kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they
      have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I
      was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am! Now he
      is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything,
      but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German
      text&mdash;in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the
      question, &lsquo;Is woman a human being?&rsquo; And, of course, triumphantly proves
      that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution
      to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a
      half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page
      long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six roubles
      the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles for the job, and I&rsquo;ve
      had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to
      begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals
      out of the second part of <i>Les Confessions</i> we have marked for
      translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind of
      Radishchev. You may be sure I don&rsquo;t contradict him, hang him! Well, would
      you like to do the second signature of &lsquo;<i>Is woman a human being?</i>&rsquo; If
      you would, take the German and pens and paper&mdash;all those are
      provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advance
      on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share. And when you
      have finished the signature there will be another three roubles for you.
      And please don&rsquo;t think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as
      soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin with, I am weak
      in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly adrift in German, so
      that I make it up as I go along for the most part. The only comfort is,
      that it&rsquo;s bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe
      it&rsquo;s sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles and
      without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment. But
      when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the
      stairs to Razumihin&rsquo;s again and laying on the table the German article and
      the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you raving, or what?&rdquo; Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last.
      &ldquo;What farce is this? You&rsquo;ll drive me crazy too... what did you come to see
      me for, damn you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want... translation,&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then what the devil do you want?&rdquo; shouted Razumihin from above.
      Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey, there! Where are you living?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, confound you then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky
      Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant
      incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a
      violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his
      horses&rsquo; hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the
      railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of
      the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He
      heard laughter, of course.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Serves him right!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A pickpocket I dare say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on
      purpose; and you have to answer for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a regular profession, that&rsquo;s what it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered
      after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt
      someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in
      a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter, wearing
      a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take it, my good man, in Christ&rsquo;s name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From his
      dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking
      alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed
      to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and
      turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a
      cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva.
      The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the bridge
      about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the
      pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain
      from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and
      not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and
      gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially
      familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of
      times&mdash;generally on his way home&mdash;stood still on this spot,
      gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a
      vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold;
      this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every
      time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put
      off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts
      and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he
      recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he should
      have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he
      could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and
      pictures that had interested him... so short a time ago. He felt it almost
      amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of
      sight all that seemed to him now&mdash;all his old past, his old thoughts,
      his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and
      himself and all, all.... He felt as though he were flying upwards, and
      everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement
      with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist.
      He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung
      it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had
      cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been
      walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember.
      Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the
      sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion....
    </p>
    <p>
      It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a
      scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears,
      blows and curses he had never heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat
      up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing and
      cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he
      caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing,
      rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she
      was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she
      was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was
      so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too,
      was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and
      spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice&mdash;it
      was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the
      landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How
      is it, is the world topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds
      from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices,
      exclamations, knocking, doors banging. &ldquo;But why, why, and how could it
      be?&rdquo; he repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he
      heard too distinctly! And they would come to him then next, &ldquo;for no
      doubt... it&rsquo;s all about that... about yesterday.... Good God!&rdquo; He would
      have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not lift his hand...
      besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured
      him and numbed him.... But at last all this uproar, after continuing about
      ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and
      groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses.... But at
      last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. &ldquo;Can he
      have gone away? Good Lord!&rdquo; Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still
      weeping and moaning... and then her door slammed.... Now the crowd was
      going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to
      one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper.
      There must have been numbers of them&mdash;almost all the inmates of the
      block. &ldquo;But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He
      lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of
      infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright
      light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of
      soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not asleep,
      she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought&mdash;bread,
      salt, a plate, a spoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You&rsquo;ve been trudging
      about all day, and you&rsquo;re shaking with fever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked intently at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who beat the landlady?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant
      superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he ill-treating her like that,
      and... why was he here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a
      long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nastasya, why don&rsquo;t you speak?&rdquo; he said timidly at last in a weak voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the blood,&rdquo; she answered at last softly, as though speaking to
      herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blood? What blood?&rdquo; he muttered, growing white and turning towards the
      wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody has been beating the landlady,&rdquo; she declared at last in a firm,
      resolute voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard it myself.... I was not asleep... I was sitting up,&rdquo; he said
      still more timidly. &ldquo;I listened a long while. The assistant superintendent
      came.... Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the flats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one has been here. That&rsquo;s the blood crying in your ears. When there&rsquo;s
      no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying things.... Will
      you eat something?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me something to drink... Nastasya.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"></a>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
    <p>
      He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he
      was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious. He
      remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there
      were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away somewhere,
      there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he
      would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only
      now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him,
      plotted something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered
      Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom
      he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, and
      this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been
      lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day.
      But of <i>that</i>&mdash;of <i>that</i> he had no recollection, and yet
      every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember.
      He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a
      rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up,
      would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and he
      sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to
      complete consciousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened at ten o&rsquo;clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone into
      the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right wall and
      the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him with another
      person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. He
      was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat, and
      looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the half-opened
      door. Raskolnikov sat up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is this, Nastasya?&rdquo; he asked, pointing to the young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, he&rsquo;s himself again!&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is himself,&rdquo; echoed the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the
      door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or
      discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and
      buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and
      laziness, and absurdly bashful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who... are you?&rdquo; he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment the
      door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin
      came in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a cabin it is!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I am always knocking my head. You call
      this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I&rsquo;ve just heard the news
      from Pashenka.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has just come to,&rdquo; said Nastasya.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just come to,&rdquo; echoed the man again, with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who are you?&rdquo; Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. &ldquo;My name is
      Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but
      Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I&rsquo;ve
      come on business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please sit down.&rdquo; Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the
      table. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a good thing you&rsquo;ve come to, brother,&rdquo; he went on to
      Raskolnikov. &ldquo;For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk
      anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see
      you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at
      once it was nothing serious&mdash;something seemed to have gone to your
      head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have
      not had enough beer and radish, but it&rsquo;s nothing much, it will pass and
      you will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite
      a name. Come, I won&rsquo;t keep you,&rdquo; he said, addressing the man again. &ldquo;Will
      you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time
      they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I
      talked to him. Who was it came before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please, sir.
      That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was more intelligent than you, don&rsquo;t you think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so; go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At your mamma&rsquo;s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of whom I
      presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent to you from
      our office,&rdquo; the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. &ldquo;If you are in an
      intelligible condition, I&rsquo;ve thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as
      Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma&rsquo;s
      request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know
      him, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I remember... Vahrushin,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said dreamily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hear, he knows Vahrushin,&rdquo; cried Razumihin. &ldquo;He is in &lsquo;an
      intelligible condition&rsquo;! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well,
      it&rsquo;s always pleasant to hear words of wisdom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the request
      of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in the same
      manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and sent
      instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you
      thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That &lsquo;hoping for better to come&rsquo; is the best thing you&rsquo;ve said, though
      &lsquo;your mamma&rsquo; is not bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is he fully
      conscious, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, here&rsquo;s the book.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I&rsquo;ll hold you. Take the pen and
      scribble &lsquo;Raskolnikov&rsquo; for him. For just now, brother, money is sweeter to
      us than treacle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want it,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not want it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t sign it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How the devil can you do without signing it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want... the money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t want the money! Come, brother, that&rsquo;s nonsense, I bear witness.
      Don&rsquo;t trouble, please, it&rsquo;s only that he is on his travels again. But
      that&rsquo;s pretty common with him at all times though.... You are a man of
      judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand
      and he will sign it. Here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I can come another time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment.... Now,
      Rodya, don&rsquo;t keep your visitor, you see he is waiting,&rdquo; and he made ready
      to hold Raskolnikov&rsquo;s hand in earnest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop, I&rsquo;ll do it alone,&rdquo; said the latter, taking the pen and signing his
      name.
    </p>
    <p>
      The messenger took out the money and went away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any soup?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some of yesterday&rsquo;s,&rdquo; answered Nastasya, who was still standing there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With potatoes and rice in it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull,
      unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would
      happen. &ldquo;I believe I am not wandering. I believe it&rsquo;s reality,&rdquo; he
      thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced that
      the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two spoons, two
      plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set
      as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up
      a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you are a cool hand,&rdquo; muttered Nastasya, and she departed to carry
      out his orders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile
      Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his
      left arm round Raskolnikov&rsquo;s head, although he was able to sit up, and
      with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it
      might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed
      one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a
      few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said that he
      must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And will you have tea?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture on
      without the faculty. But here is the beer!&rdquo; He moved back to his chair,
      pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he
      had not touched food for three days.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now,&rdquo; he mumbled
      with his mouth full of beef, &ldquo;and it&rsquo;s all Pashenka, your dear little
      landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don&rsquo;t ask
      for it, but, of course, I don&rsquo;t object. And here&rsquo;s Nastasya with the tea.
      She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won&rsquo;t you have some beer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get along with your nonsense!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A cup of tea, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A cup of tea, maybe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pour it out. Stay, I&rsquo;ll pour it out myself. Sit down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As
      before, he put his left arm round the sick man&rsquo;s head, raised him up and
      gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and
      earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective
      means towards his friend&rsquo;s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made no
      resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa
      without support and could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even
      perhaps could have walked about. But from some queer, almost animal,
      cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a
      time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession of his
      faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he
      could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen
      spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away
      capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real
      pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that,
      too, and took note of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some
      raspberry tea,&rdquo; said Razumihin, going back to his chair and attacking his
      soup and beer again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where is she to get raspberries for you?&rdquo; asked Nastasya, balancing a
      saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of
      sugar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;ll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of things
      have been happening while you have been laid up. When you decamped in that
      rascally way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved
      to find you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran
      about making inquiries for you! This lodging of yours I had forgotten,
      though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know it; and as
      for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners,
      Harlamov&rsquo;s house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov&rsquo;s house, and
      afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov&rsquo;s, but Buch&rsquo;s. How one
      muddles up sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance
      to the address bureau next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked
      you up! Your name is down there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while I
      was there. Well, it&rsquo;s a long story. But as soon as I did land on this
      place, I soon got to know all your affairs&mdash;all, all, brother, I know
      everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of
      Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house-porter and Mr. Zametov,
      Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office, and, last,
      but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here knows....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s got round her,&rdquo; Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a one!&rdquo; Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. &ldquo;I am
      not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,&rdquo; she added suddenly, recovering from her
      mirth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short, I was
      going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all malignant influences
      in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected, brother, to
      find her so... prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him, full
      of alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,&rdquo; Razumihin went
      on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, the sly dog!&rdquo; Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation afforded her
      unspeakable delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way at
      first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak,
      a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character
      later.... How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up
      sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You must have been mad to sign an
      I O U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna,
      was alive?... I know all about it! But I see that&rsquo;s a delicate matter and
      I am an ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know
      Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would think at first
      sight?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better to
      keep up the conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She isn&rsquo;t, is she?&rdquo; cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out of
      him. &ldquo;But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially,
      essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a loss, I
      assure you.... She must be forty; she says she is thirty-six, and of
      course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge her
      intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a
      sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what not! I
      don&rsquo;t understand it! Well, that&rsquo;s all nonsense. Only, seeing that you are
      not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that
      through the young lady&rsquo;s death she has no need to treat you as a relation,
      she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your
      old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she&rsquo;s been
      cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to lose the I O U, for
      you assured her yourself that your mother would pay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was base of me to say that.... My mother herself is almost a beggar...
      and I told a lie to keep my lodging... and be fed,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said
      loudly and distinctly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr.
      Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have thought of
      doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but the business
      man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, &lsquo;Is
      there any hope of realising the I O U?&rsquo; Answer: there is, because he has a
      mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred and twenty-five roubles
      pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go
      into bondage for his sake. That&rsquo;s what he was building upon.... Why do you
      start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear boy&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her
      prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend.... But I tell you
      what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business man
      &lsquo;listens and goes on eating&rsquo; you up. Well, then she gave the I O U by way
      of payment to this Tchebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal
      demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too,
      to clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned between me and
      Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that you
      would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called
      Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the I O U back from him, and here
      I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here,
      take it, you see I have torn it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see, brother,&rdquo; he said a moment later, &ldquo;that I have been playing the
      fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I believe I
      have only made you cross.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked,
      after a moment&rsquo;s pause without turning his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov
      one day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Zametov? The head clerk? What for?&rdquo; Raskolnikov turned round quickly and
      fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with you?... What are you upset about? He wanted to
      make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about you.... How
      could I have found out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow,
      brother, first-rate... in his own way, of course. Now we are friends&mdash;see
      each other almost every day. I have moved into this part, you know. I have
      only just moved. I&rsquo;ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice.... Do
      you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I say anything in delirium?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think so! You were beside yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did I rave about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about.... Well,
      brother, now I must not lose time. To work.&rdquo; He got up from the table and
      took up his cap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did I rave about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don&rsquo;t
      worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot
      about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky
      Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the
      assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest
      to you was your own sock. You whined, &lsquo;Give me my sock.&rsquo; Zametov hunted
      all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented,
      ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you
      comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing
      in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely somewhere
      under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so piteously for
      fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but we
      could not make it out. Now to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I
      take ten of them, and shall give you an account of them in an hour or two.
      I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been
      here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty
      often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else.
      And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he&rsquo;s a deep one!&rdquo; said Nastasya as he went
      out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist
      running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say
      to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the bedclothes
      and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching impatience he
      had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work. But to what
      work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What if
      they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up, and
      then they will come in and tell me that it&rsquo;s been discovered long ago and
      that they have only... What am I to do now? That&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;ve forgotten, as
      though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered a minute ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment
      about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not
      what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to the
      corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his
      hand into the hole, fumbled&mdash;but that was not it. He went to the
      stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of his
      trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he had
      thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about
      which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on the sofa
      under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov
      could not have seen anything on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police
      office? Where&rsquo;s the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I
      looked at my sock then, too, but now... now I have been ill. But what did
      Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?&rdquo; he muttered, helplessly
      sitting on the sofa again. &ldquo;What does it mean? Am I still in delirium, or
      is it real? I believe it is real.... Ah, I remember; I must escape! Make
      haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes... but where? And where
      are my clothes? I&rsquo;ve no boots. They&rsquo;ve taken them away! They&rsquo;ve hidden
      them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat&mdash;they passed that over! And
      here is money on the table, thank God! And here&rsquo;s the I O U... I&rsquo;ll take
      the money and go and take another lodging. They won&rsquo;t find me!... Yes, but
      the address bureau? They&rsquo;ll find me, Razumihin will find me. Better escape
      altogether... far away... to America, and let them do their worst! And
      take the I O U... it would be of use there.... What else shall I take?
      They think I am ill! They don&rsquo;t know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could
      see by their eyes that they know all about it! If only I could get
      downstairs! And what if they have set a watch there&mdash;policemen!
      What&rsquo;s this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and
      gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his breast. But
      in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even
      pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over
      him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more disconnected, and
      soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With a sense of comfort
      he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the
      soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed
      softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!&rdquo;
       Razumihin shouted down the stairs. &ldquo;You shall have the account directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What time is it?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it&rsquo;s almost evening, it will be six
      o&rsquo;clock directly. You have slept more than six hours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! Have I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why not? It will do you good. What&rsquo;s the hurry? A tryst, is it? We&rsquo;ve
      all time before us. I&rsquo;ve been waiting for the last three hours for you;
      I&rsquo;ve been up twice and found you asleep. I&rsquo;ve called on Zossimov twice;
      not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And I&rsquo;ve been out
      on my own business, too. You know I&rsquo;ve been moving to-day, moving with my
      uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that&rsquo;s no matter, to
      business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how
      do you feel now, brother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you I&rsquo;ve been waiting for the last three hours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How long have you been coming here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why I told you all about it this morning. Don&rsquo;t you remember?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not
      remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hm!&rdquo; said the latter, &ldquo;he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were not
      quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep.... You really look much
      better. First-rate! Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For we
      must make a man of you. Let&rsquo;s begin from the top. Do you see this cap?&rdquo; he
      said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and ordinary
      cap. &ldquo;Let me try it on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Presently, afterwards,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, waving it off pettishly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Rodya, my boy, don&rsquo;t oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I
      shan&rsquo;t sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without measure. Just
      right!&rdquo; he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, &ldquo;just your size! A proper
      head-covering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in its own
      way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his
      pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear
      their hats or caps. People think he does it from slavish politeness, but
      it&rsquo;s simply because he is ashamed of his bird&rsquo;s nest; he is such a
      boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens of headgear: this
      Palmerston&rdquo;&mdash;he took from the corner Raskolnikov&rsquo;s old, battered hat,
      which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston&mdash;&ldquo;or this
      jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it,
      Nastasya!&rdquo; he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,&rdquo; answered Nastasya.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty copecks, silly!&rdquo; he cried, offended. &ldquo;Why, nowadays you would cost
      more than that&mdash;eighty copecks! And that only because it has been
      worn. And it&rsquo;s bought on condition that when&rsquo;s it&rsquo;s worn out, they will
      give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to the
      United States of America, as they called them at school. I assure you I am
      proud of these breeches,&rdquo; and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light,
      summer trousers of grey woollen material. &ldquo;No holes, no spots, and quite
      respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in
      the fashion. And its being worn really is an improvement, it&rsquo;s softer,
      smoother.... You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the great thing for getting
      on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don&rsquo;t insist on
      having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse; and it&rsquo;s
      the same with this purchase. It&rsquo;s summer now, so I&rsquo;ve been buying summer
      things&mdash;warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have
      to throw these away in any case... especially as they will be done for by
      then from their own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of
      luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles twenty-five
      copecks! And remember the condition: if you wear these out, you will have
      another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at
      Fedyaev&rsquo;s; if you&rsquo;ve bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for
      you will never go there again of your own free will. Now for the boots.
      What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn, but they&rsquo;ll last a
      couple of months, for it&rsquo;s foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary
      of the English Embassy sold them last week&mdash;he had only worn them six
      days, but he was very short of cash. Price&mdash;a rouble and a half. A
      bargain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But perhaps they won&rsquo;t fit,&rdquo; observed Nastasya.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not fit? Just look!&rdquo; and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov&rsquo;s old,
      broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. &ldquo;I did not go empty-handed&mdash;they
      took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And as to your
      linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with are three
      shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front.... Well now then, eighty
      copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the suit&mdash;together
      three roubles five copecks&mdash;a rouble and a half for the boots&mdash;for,
      you see, they are very good&mdash;and that makes four roubles fifty-five
      copecks; five roubles for the underclothes&mdash;they were bought in the
      lot&mdash;which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five
      copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you are set up
      with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will serve, and even has a
      style of its own. That comes from getting one&rsquo;s clothes from Sharmer&rsquo;s! As
      for your socks and other things, I leave them to you; we&rsquo;ve twenty-five
      roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don&rsquo;t you
      worry. I tell you she&rsquo;ll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let me
      change your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your
      shirt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me be! I don&rsquo;t want to!&rdquo; Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened
      with disgust to Razumihin&rsquo;s efforts to be playful about his purchases.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, brother, don&rsquo;t tell me I&rsquo;ve been trudging around for nothing,&rdquo;
       Razumihin insisted. &ldquo;Nastasya, don&rsquo;t be bashful, but help me&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      it,&rdquo; and in spite of Raskolnikov&rsquo;s resistance he changed his linen. The
      latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be long before I get rid of them,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;What money was
      all that bought with?&rdquo; he asked at last, gazing at the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your
      mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember now,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumihin
      looked at him, frowning and uneasy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar to
      Raskolnikov came in.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"></a>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, clean-shaven face
      and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on his
      fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable loose
      coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, fashionable
      and spick and span; his linen was irreproachable, his watch-chain was
      massive. In manner he was slow and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the
      same time studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his
      self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant. All his
      acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he&rsquo;s come to himself,&rdquo;
       cried Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?&rdquo; said Zossimov to Raskolnikov,
      watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he
      settled himself as comfortably as he could.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is still depressed,&rdquo; Razumihin went on. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve just changed his linen
      and he almost cried.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish it....
      His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am well, I am perfectly well!&rdquo; Raskolnikov declared positively and
      irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with
      glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to the
      wall. Zossimov watched him intently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good.... Going on all right,&rdquo; he said lazily. &ldquo;Has he eaten
      anything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They told him, and asked what he might have.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He may have anything... soup, tea... mushrooms and cucumbers, of course,
      you must not give him; he&rsquo;d better not have meat either, and... but no
      need to tell you that!&rdquo; Razumihin and he looked at each other. &ldquo;No more
      medicine or anything. I&rsquo;ll look at him again to-morrow. Perhaps, to-day
      even... but never mind...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk,&rdquo; said Razumihin. &ldquo;We are
      going to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Cristal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don&rsquo;t know... a little,
      maybe... but we&rsquo;ll see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, what a nuisance! I&rsquo;ve got a house-warming party to-night; it&rsquo;s only
      a step from here. Couldn&rsquo;t he come? He could lie on the sofa. You are
      coming?&rdquo; Razumihin said to Zossimov. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t forget, you promised.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing&mdash;tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie... just our
      friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he
      is new too&mdash;he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some
      business of his. We meet once in five years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a little
      pension. He is sixty-five&mdash;not worth talking about.... But I am fond
      of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation Department
      here... But you know him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he a relation of yours, too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled
      once, won&rsquo;t you come then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care a damn for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a
      government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do tell me, please, what you or he&rdquo;&mdash;Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov&mdash;&ldquo;can
      have in common with this Zametov?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles,
      as it were by springs; you won&rsquo;t venture to turn round on your own
      account. If a man is a nice fellow, that&rsquo;s the only principle I go upon.
      Zametov is a delightful person.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Though he does take bribes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he does! and what of it? I don&rsquo;t care if he does take bribes,&rdquo;
       Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t praise him for
      taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one
      looks at men in all ways&mdash;are there many good ones left? Why, I am
      sure I shouldn&rsquo;t be worth a baked onion myself... perhaps with you thrown
      in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s too little; I&rsquo;d give two for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I wouldn&rsquo;t give more than one for you. No more of your jokes! Zametov
      is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him not repel
      him. You&rsquo;ll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One
      has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dullards! You
      don&rsquo;t understand. You harm yourselves running another man down.... But if
      you want to know, we really have something in common.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like to know what.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it&rsquo;s all about a house-painter.... We are getting him out of a mess!
      Though indeed there&rsquo;s nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely
      self-evident. We only put on steam.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A painter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, haven&rsquo;t I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then
      about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is mixed
      up in it...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it...
      partly... for one reason.... I read about it in the papers, too....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lizaveta was murdered, too,&rdquo; Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing
      Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door
      listening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lizaveta,&rdquo; murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn&rsquo;t you know her? She used to come
      here. She mended a shirt for you, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked
      out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining
      how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how
      many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they
      had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at
      the flower.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what about the painter?&rdquo; Zossimov interrupted Nastasya&rsquo;s chatter with
      marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, he was accused of the murder,&rdquo; Razumihin went on hotly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was there evidence against him then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that&rsquo;s what we have
      to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and
      Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it&rsquo;s all done, it makes one sick,
      though it&rsquo;s not one&rsquo;s business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night.... By
      the way, Rodya, you&rsquo;ve heard about the business already; it happened
      before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while
      they were talking about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!&rdquo; Zossimov
      observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,&rdquo; shouted Razumihin, bringing
      his fist down on the table. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the most offensive is not their lying&mdash;one
      can always forgive lying&mdash;lying is a delightful thing, for it leads
      to truth&mdash;what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own
      lying.... I respect Porfiry, but... What threw them out at first? The door
      was locked, and when they came back with the porter it was open. So it
      followed that Koch and Pestryakov were the murderers&mdash;that was their
      logic!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But don&rsquo;t excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not help
      that.... And, by the way, I&rsquo;ve met that man Koch. He used to buy
      unredeemed pledges from the old woman? Eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession
      of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It&rsquo;s their
      sickening rotten, petrified routine.... And this case might be the means
      of introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data
      alone how to get on the track of the real man. &lsquo;We have facts,&rsquo; they say.
      But facts are not everything&mdash;at least half the business lies in how
      you interpret them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you interpret them, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anyway, one can&rsquo;t hold one&rsquo;s tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible
      feeling, that one might be a help if only.... Eh! Do you know the details
      of the case?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am waiting to hear about the painter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes! Well, here&rsquo;s the story. Early on the third day after the murder,
      when they were still dandling Koch and Pestryakov&mdash;though they
      accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaff&mdash;an
      unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram-shop
      facing the house, brought to the police office a jeweller&rsquo;s case
      containing some gold ear-rings, and told a long rigamarole. &lsquo;The day
      before yesterday, just after eight o&rsquo;clock&rsquo;&mdash;mark the day and the
      hour!&mdash;&lsquo;a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see
      me already that day, brought me this box of gold ear-rings and stones, and
      asked me to give him two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got
      them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him
      anything more.&rsquo; I am telling you Dushkin&rsquo;s story. &lsquo;I gave him a note&rsquo;&mdash;a
      rouble that is&mdash;&lsquo;for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would
      with another. It would all come to the same thing&mdash;he&rsquo;d spend it on
      drink, so the thing had better be with me. The further you hide it the
      quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumours,
      I&rsquo;ll take it to the police.&rsquo; Of course, that&rsquo;s all taradiddle; he lies
      like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker and a receiver
      of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolay out of a thirty-rouble
      trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply afraid. But no
      matter, to return to Dushkin&rsquo;s story. &lsquo;I&rsquo;ve known this peasant, Nikolay
      Dementyev, from a child; he comes from the same province and district of
      Zaraïsk, we are both Ryazan men. And though Nikolay is not a drunkard, he
      drinks, and I knew he had a job in that house, painting work with Dmitri,
      who comes from the same village, too. As soon as he got the rouble he
      changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I
      did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day I heard that someone
      had murdered Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an
      axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious about the ear-rings at once, for I
      knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and
      began to make careful inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of
      all I asked, &ldquo;Is Nikolay here?&rdquo; Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off
      on the spree; he had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the house
      about ten minutes, and went out again. Dmitri didn&rsquo;t see him again and is
      finishing the job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the
      murder, on the second floor. When I heard all that I did not say a word to
      anyone&rsquo;&mdash;that&rsquo;s Dushkin&rsquo;s tale&mdash;&lsquo;but I found out what I could
      about the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at
      eight o&rsquo;clock this morning&rsquo;&mdash;that was the third day, you understand&mdash;&lsquo;I
      saw Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not to say very drunk&mdash;he
      could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and did
      not speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep
      on a bench and our two boys. &ldquo;Have you seen Dmitri?&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;No, I
      haven&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;And you&rsquo;ve not been here either?&rdquo; &ldquo;Not since the day
      before yesterday,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;And where did you sleep last night?&rdquo; &ldquo;In
      Peski, with the Kolomensky men.&rdquo; &ldquo;And where did you get those ear-rings?&rdquo;
       I asked. &ldquo;I found them in the street,&rdquo; and the way he said it was a bit
      queer; he did not look at me. &ldquo;Did you hear what happened that very
      evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase?&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said
      he, &ldquo;I had not heard,&rdquo; and all the while he was listening, his eyes were
      staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all
      about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him.
      &ldquo;Wait a bit, Nikolay,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;won&rsquo;t you have a drink?&rdquo; And I signed to
      the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the bar; but he
      darted out and down the street to the turning at a run. I have not seen
      him since. Then my doubts were at an end&mdash;it was his doing, as clear
      as could be....&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think so,&rdquo; said Zossimov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay; they
      detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the
      Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday
      they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone
      there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a dram for it.
      They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to the
      cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining
      he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood,
      and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched her
      hardest; people ran in. &lsquo;So that&rsquo;s what you are up to!&rsquo; &lsquo;Take me,&rsquo; he
      says, &lsquo;to such-and-such a police officer; I&rsquo;ll confess everything.&rsquo; Well,
      they took him to that police station&mdash;that is here&mdash;with a
      suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old he is,
      &lsquo;twenty-two,&rsquo; and so on. At the question, &lsquo;When you were working with
      Dmitri, didn&rsquo;t you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a time?&rsquo;&mdash;answer:
      &lsquo;To be sure folks may have gone up and down, but I did not notice them.&rsquo;
      &lsquo;And didn&rsquo;t you hear anything, any noise, and so on?&rsquo; &lsquo;We heard nothing
      special.&rsquo; &lsquo;And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same day Widow So-and-so
      and her sister were murdered and robbed?&rsquo; &lsquo;I never knew a thing about it.
      The first I heard of it was from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before
      yesterday.&rsquo; &lsquo;And where did you find the ear-rings?&rsquo; &lsquo;I found them on the
      pavement.&rsquo; &lsquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you go to work with Dmitri the other day?&rsquo; &lsquo;Because
      I was drinking.&rsquo; &lsquo;And where were you drinking?&rsquo; &lsquo;Oh, in such-and-such a
      place.&rsquo; &lsquo;Why did you run away from Dushkin&rsquo;s?&rsquo; &lsquo;Because I was awfully
      frightened.&rsquo; &lsquo;What were you frightened of?&rsquo; &lsquo;That I should be accused.&rsquo;
      &lsquo;How could you be frightened, if you felt free from guilt?&rsquo; Now, Zossimov,
      you may not believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I
      know it for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to
      that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, anyway, there&rsquo;s the evidence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about that question,
      of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed him
      and he confessed: &lsquo;I did not find it in the street, but in the flat where
      I was painting with Dmitri.&rsquo; &lsquo;And how was that?&rsquo; &lsquo;Why, Dmitri and I were
      painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and Dmitri
      took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him. I ran
      after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran
      right against the porter and some gentlemen&mdash;and how many gentlemen
      were there I don&rsquo;t remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other
      porter swore, too, and the porter&rsquo;s wife came out, and swore at us, too;
      and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us, too,
      for Dmitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri&rsquo;s hair and
      knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, caught me by the
      hair and began beating me. But we did it all not for temper but in a
      friendly way, for sport. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street,
      and I ran after him; but I did not catch him, and went back to the flat
      alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together,
      expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the corner by the
      door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I
      took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were
      the ear-rings....&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?&rdquo; Raskolnikov
      cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he
      slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... why? What&rsquo;s the matter? What&rsquo;s wrong?&rdquo; Razumihin, too, got up from
      his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. All were
      silent for a while.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must have waked from a dream,&rdquo; Razumihin said at last, looking
      inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, go on,&rdquo; said Zossimov. &ldquo;What next?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting Dmitri and
      everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got a
      rouble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and
      went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder: &lsquo;I
      know nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yesterday.&rsquo; &lsquo;And
      why didn&rsquo;t you come to the police till now?&rsquo; &lsquo;I was frightened.&rsquo; &lsquo;And why
      did you try to hang yourself?&rsquo; &lsquo;From anxiety.&rsquo; &lsquo;What anxiety?&rsquo; &lsquo;That I
      should be accused of it.&rsquo; Well, that&rsquo;s the whole story. And now what do
      you suppose they deduced from that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, there&rsquo;s no supposing. There&rsquo;s a clue, such as it is, a fact. You
      wouldn&rsquo;t have your painter set free?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now they&rsquo;ve simply taken him for the murderer. They haven&rsquo;t a shadow of
      doubt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s nonsense. You are excited. But what about the ear-rings? You must
      admit that, if on the very same day and hour ear-rings from the old
      woman&rsquo;s box have come into Nikolay&rsquo;s hands, they must have come there
      somehow. That&rsquo;s a good deal in such a case.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did they get there? How did they get there?&rdquo; cried Razumihin. &ldquo;How
      can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more
      opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature&mdash;how can you
      fail to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don&rsquo;t you see at
      once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy truth?
      They came into his hand precisely as he has told us&mdash;he stepped on
      the box and picked it up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The holy truth! But didn&rsquo;t he own himself that he told a lie at first?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and Pestryakov and
      the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was
      sitting in the porter&rsquo;s lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of
      a cab at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm, that
      is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on the ground,
      was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his hair, beating
      him, too. They lay right across the way, blocking the thoroughfare. They
      were sworn at on all sides while they &lsquo;like children&rsquo; (the very words of
      the witnesses) were falling over one another, squealing, fighting and
      laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing one another like children,
      they ran into the street. Now take careful note. The bodies upstairs were
      warm, you understand, warm when they found them! If they, or Nikolay
      alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or simply taken part
      in the robbery, allow me to ask you one question: do their state of mind,
      their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with
      axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning, robbery? They&rsquo;d just killed them, not
      five or ten minutes before, for the bodies were still warm, and at once,
      leaving the flat open, knowing that people would go there at once,
      flinging away their booty, they rolled about like children, laughing and
      attracting general attention. And there are a dozen witnesses to swear to
      that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course it is strange! It&rsquo;s impossible, indeed, but...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, brother, no <i>buts</i>. And if the ear-rings being found in
      Nikolay&rsquo;s hands at the very day and hour of the murder constitutes an
      important piece of circumstantial evidence against him&mdash;although the
      explanation given by him accounts for it, and therefore it does not tell
      seriously against him&mdash;one must take into consideration the facts
      which prove him innocent, especially as they are facts that <i>cannot be
      denied</i>. And do you suppose, from the character of our legal system,
      that they will accept, or that they are in a position to accept, this fact&mdash;resting
      simply on a psychological impossibility&mdash;as irrefutable and
      conclusively breaking down the circumstantial evidence for the
      prosecution? No, they won&rsquo;t accept it, they certainly won&rsquo;t, because they
      found the jewel-case and the man tried to hang himself, &lsquo;which he could
      not have done if he hadn&rsquo;t felt guilty.&rsquo; That&rsquo;s the point, that&rsquo;s what
      excites me, you must understand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof is
      there that the box came from the old woman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s been proved,&rdquo; said Razumihin with apparent reluctance, frowning.
      &ldquo;Koch recognised the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner, who proved
      conclusively that it was his.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolay at the time that
      Koch and Pestryakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence
      about that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody did see him,&rdquo; Razumihin answered with vexation. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the worst
      of it. Even Koch and Pestryakov did not notice them on their way upstairs,
      though, indeed, their evidence could not have been worth much. They said
      they saw the flat was open, and that there must be work going on in it,
      but they took no special notice and could not remember whether there
      actually were men at work in it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hm!... So the only evidence for the defence is that they were beating one
      another and laughing. That constitutes a strong presumption, but... How do
      you explain the facts yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It&rsquo;s clear. At any rate,
      the direction in which explanation is to be sought is clear, and the
      jewel-case points to it. The real murderer dropped those ear-rings. The
      murderer was upstairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestryakov knocked at the
      door. Koch, like an ass, did not stay at the door; so the murderer popped
      out and ran down, too; for he had no other way of escape. He hid from
      Koch, Pestryakov and the porter in the flat when Nikolay and Dmitri had
      just run out of it. He stopped there while the porter and others were
      going upstairs, waited till they were out of hearing, and then went calmly
      downstairs at the very minute when Dmitri and Nikolay ran out into the
      street and there was no one in the entry; possibly he was seen, but not
      noticed. There are lots of people going in and out. He must have dropped
      the ear-rings out of his pocket when he stood behind the door, and did not
      notice he dropped them, because he had other things to think of. The
      jewel-case is a conclusive proof that he did stand there.... That&rsquo;s how I
      explain it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Too clever! No, my boy, you&rsquo;re too clever. That beats everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, why, why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, because everything fits too well... it&rsquo;s too melodramatic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A-ach!&rdquo; Razumihin was exclaiming, but at that moment the door opened and
      a personage came in who was a stranger to all present.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"></a>
      CHAPTER V
    </h2>
    <p>
      This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance,
      and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the
      doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as
      though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and
      with an affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s low and narrow &ldquo;cabin.&rdquo; With the same amazement he stared at
      Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, on his miserable
      dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he
      scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin,
      who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his
      seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as
      might be expected, some scene-shifting took place. Reflecting, probably
      from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this
      &ldquo;cabin&rdquo; by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat,
      and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his
      question, addressed Zossimov:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not
      Razumihin anticipated him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This familiar &ldquo;what do you want&rdquo; seemed to cut the ground from the feet of
      the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in
      time and turned to Zossimov again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is Raskolnikov,&rdquo; mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he gave
      a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily
      put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a
      round hunter&rsquo;s case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and lazily
      proceeded to put it back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing
      persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his
      face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was
      extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone
      an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But the new-comer
      gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion
      and even alarm. When Zossimov said &ldquo;This is Raskolnikov&rdquo; he jumped up
      quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and
      breaking, voice articulated:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is
      not wholly unknown to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly
      and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he heard the name of Pyotr
      Petrovitch for the first time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no
      information?&rdquo; asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted.
    </p>
    <p>
      In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands
      behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into
      Luzhin&rsquo;s face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively
      than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had presumed and calculated,&rdquo; he faltered, &ldquo;that a letter posted more
      than ten days, if not a fortnight ago...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, why are you standing in the doorway?&rdquo; Razumihin interrupted
      suddenly. &ldquo;If you&rsquo;ve something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so
      crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here&rsquo;s a chair, thread your way in!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the
      table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the
      visitor to &ldquo;thread his way in.&rdquo; The minute was so chosen that it was
      impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying
      and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at
      Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No need to be nervous,&rdquo; the latter blurted out. &ldquo;Rodya has been ill for
      the last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and
      has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I
      am a comrade of Rodya&rsquo;s, like him, formerly a student, and now I am
      nursing him; so don&rsquo;t you take any notice of us, but go on with your
      business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and
      conversation?&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch asked of Zossimov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no,&rdquo; mumbled Zossimov; &ldquo;you may amuse him.&rdquo; He yawned again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has been conscious a long time, since the morning,&rdquo; went on Razumihin,
      whose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good-nature that Pyotr
      Petrovitch began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby
      and impudent person had introduced himself as a student.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your mamma,&rdquo; began Luzhin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hm!&rdquo; Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him
      inquiringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right, go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in her
      neighbourhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse
      before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured that you
      were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my astonishment...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, I know!&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. &ldquo;So
      you are the <i>fiancé</i>? I know, and that&rsquo;s enough!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s being offended this time, but
      he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant.
      There was a moment&rsquo;s silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he
      answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as
      though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something new
      had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There
      certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s whole appearance,
      something which seemed to justify the title of &ldquo;fiancé&rdquo; so unceremoniously
      applied to him. In the first place, it was evident, far too much so
      indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few days in the
      capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation of his
      betrothed&mdash;a perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding, indeed.
      Even his own, perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the agreeable
      improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such
      circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the rôle of
      fiancé. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor&rsquo;s and were all right,
      except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even the stylish
      new round hat had the same significance. Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too
      respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of
      lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale, if only from the fact
      of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand for show. Light and
      youthful colours predominated in Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s attire. He wore a
      charming summer jacket of a fawn shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat
      of the same, new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambric with
      pink stripes on it, and the best of it was, this all suited Pyotr
      Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face looked younger than his
      forty-five years at all times. His dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an
      agreeable setting on both sides, growing thickly upon his shining,
      clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, touched here and there with grey, though
      it had been combed and curled at a hairdresser&rsquo;s, did not give him a
      stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a
      German on his wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasing and
      repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due
      to quite other causes. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously,
      Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the pillow and stared at the
      ceiling as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no
      notice of their oddities.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation,&rdquo; he began,
      again breaking the silence with an effort. &ldquo;If I had been aware of your
      illness I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have,
      too, a very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other
      preoccupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting your mamma
      and sister any minute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;... Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov weakly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very near here, in Bakaleyev&rsquo;s house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s in Voskresensky,&rdquo; put in Razumihin. &ldquo;There are two storeys of
      rooms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I&rsquo;ve been there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, rooms...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A disgusting place&mdash;filthy, stinking and, what&rsquo;s more, of doubtful
      character. Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer
      people living there. And I went there about a scandalous business. It&rsquo;s
      cheap, though...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in
      Petersburg myself,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. &ldquo;However, the two
      rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time... I have
      already taken a permanent, that is, our future flat,&rdquo; he said, addressing
      Raskolnikov, &ldquo;and I am having it done up. And meanwhile I am myself
      cramped for room in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch
      Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lippevechsel; it was he who told me
      of Bakaleyev&rsquo;s house, too...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lebeziatnikov?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you
      know him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... no,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian.... A
      very nice young man and advanced. I like to meet young people: one learns
      new things from them.&rdquo; Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you mean?&rdquo; asked Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the most serious and essential matters,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as
      though delighted at the question. &ldquo;You see, it&rsquo;s ten years since I visited
      Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in the
      provinces, but to see it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And
      it&rsquo;s my notion that you observe and learn most by watching the younger
      generation. And I confess I am delighted...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find
      clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more practicality...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; Zossimov let drop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense! There&rsquo;s no practicality.&rdquo; Razumihin flew at him. &ldquo;Practicality
      is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. And for
      the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life.
      Ideas, if you like, are fermenting,&rdquo; he said to Pyotr Petrovitch, &ldquo;and
      desire for good exists, though it&rsquo;s in a childish form, and honesty you
      may find, although there are crowds of brigands. Anyway, there&rsquo;s no
      practicality. Practicality goes well shod.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t agree with you,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident
      enjoyment. &ldquo;Of course, people do get carried away and make mistakes, but
      one must have indulgence; those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm
      for the cause and of abnormal external environment. If little has been
      done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak. It&rsquo;s my
      personal view, if you care to know, that something has been accomplished
      already. New valuable ideas, new valuable works are circulating in the
      place of our old dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a
      maturer form, many injurious prejudices have been rooted up and turned
      into ridicule.... In a word, we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from
      the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s learnt it by heart to show off!&rdquo; Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; but he received no
      reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all true,&rdquo; Zossimov hastened to interpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it so?&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov.
      &ldquo;You must admit,&rdquo; he went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph
      and superciliousness&mdash;he almost added &ldquo;young man&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;that there
      is an advance, or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and
      economic truth...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A commonplace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance, if I were told, &lsquo;love thy
      neighbour,&rsquo; what came of it?&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps with
      excessive haste. &ldquo;It came to my tearing my coat in half to share with my
      neighbour and we both were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has it,
      &lsquo;Catch several hares and you won&rsquo;t catch one.&rsquo; Science now tells us, love
      yourself before all men, for everything in the world rests on
      self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly and
      your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private
      affairs are organised in society&mdash;the more whole coats, so to say&mdash;the
      firmer are its foundations and the better is the common welfare organised
      too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I
      am acquiring, so to speak, for all, and helping to bring to pass my
      neighbour&rsquo;s getting a little more than a torn coat; and that not from
      private, personal liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance.
      The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us,
      being hindered by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it would seem to
      want very little wit to perceive it...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, I&rsquo;ve very little wit myself,&rdquo; Razumihin cut in sharply, &ldquo;and
      so let us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I&rsquo;ve grown
      so sick during the last three years of this chattering to amuse oneself,
      of this incessant flow of commonplaces, always the same, that, by Jove, I
      blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt,
      to exhibit your acquirements; and I don&rsquo;t blame you, that&rsquo;s quite
      pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you are, for so
      many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive cause of late
      and have so distorted in their own interests everything they touched, that
      the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That&rsquo;s enough!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, sir,&rdquo; said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive
      dignity. &ldquo;Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I too...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my dear sir... how could I?... Come, that&rsquo;s enough,&rdquo; Razumihin
      concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous
      conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up
      his mind to take leave in another minute or two.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I trust our acquaintance,&rdquo; he said, addressing Raskolnikov, &ldquo;may, upon
      your recovery and in view of the circumstances of which you are aware,
      become closer... Above all, I hope for your return to health...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began getting up
      from his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of her customers must have killed her,&rdquo; Zossimov declared positively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a doubt of it,&rdquo; replied Razumihin. &ldquo;Porfiry doesn&rsquo;t give his opinion,
      but is examining all who have left pledges with her there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Examining them?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. What then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How does he get hold of them?&rdquo; asked Zossimov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Koch has given the names of some of them, other names are on the wrappers
      of the pledges and some have come forward of themselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it!
      The coolness!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just what it wasn&rsquo;t!&rdquo; interposed Razumihin. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what throws
      you all off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, not
      practised, and probably this was his first crime! The supposition that it
      was a calculated crime and a cunning criminal doesn&rsquo;t work. Suppose him to
      have been inexperienced, and it&rsquo;s clear that it was only a chance that
      saved him&mdash;and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee
      obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten
      or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old
      woman&rsquo;s trunks, her rags&mdash;and they found fifteen hundred roubles,
      besides notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know
      how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first crime, I assure you,
      his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good
      counsel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?&rdquo; Pyotr
      Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in
      hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more
      intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favourable
      impression and his vanity overcame his prudence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. You&rsquo;ve heard of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know the details?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say that; but another circumstance interests me in the case&mdash;the
      whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been
      greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last five
      years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what
      strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too,
      crime is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a student&rsquo;s
      robbing the mail on the high road; in another place people of good social
      position forge false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has been
      captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was
      a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was murdered
      from some obscure motive of gain.... And if this old woman, the
      pawnbroker, has been murdered by someone of a higher class in society&mdash;for
      peasants don&rsquo;t pawn gold trinkets&mdash;how are we to explain this
      demoralisation of the civilised part of our society?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are many economic changes,&rdquo; put in Zossimov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How are we to explain it?&rdquo; Razumihin caught him up. &ldquo;It might be
      explained by our inveterate impracticality.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he
      was forging notes? &lsquo;Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I
      want to make haste to get rich too.&rsquo; I don&rsquo;t remember the exact words, but
      the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or
      working! We&rsquo;ve grown used to having everything ready-made, to walking on
      crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour struck,[*]
      and every man showed himself in his true colours.&rdquo;
     </p>
<p class="footnote">
     [*] The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.&mdash;TRANSLATOR&rsquo;S NOTE.
</p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But morality? And so to speak, principles...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why do you worry about it?&rdquo; Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s in
      accordance with your theory!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In accordance with my theory?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and it
      follows that people may be killed...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word!&rdquo; cried Luzhin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, that&rsquo;s not so,&rdquo; put in Zossimov.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing
      painfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a measure in all things,&rdquo; Luzhin went on superciliously.
      &ldquo;Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and one has but to
      suppose...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is it true,&rdquo; Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a
      voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, &ldquo;is it true that
      you told your <i>fiancée</i>... within an hour of her acceptance, that
      what pleased you most... was that she was a beggar... because it was
      better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have complete control
      over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word,&rdquo; Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with
      confusion, &ldquo;to distort my words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to assure
      you that the report which has reached you, or rather, let me say, has been
      conveyed to you, has no foundation in truth, and I... suspect who... in a
      word... this arrow... in a word, your mamma... She seemed to me in other
      things, with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat high-flown and
      romantic way of thinking.... But I was a thousand miles from supposing
      that she would misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a
      way.... And indeed... indeed...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you what,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and
      fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, &ldquo;I tell you what.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face.
      Silence lasted for some seconds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, if ever again... you dare to mention a single word... about my
      mother... I shall send you flying downstairs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with you?&rdquo; cried Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s how it is?&rdquo; Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. &ldquo;Let me tell
      you, sir,&rdquo; he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself but
      breathing hard, &ldquo;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...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not ill,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the worse...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to hell!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing
      between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him
      pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who
      had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he
      went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid crushing
      it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine
      was expressive of the horrible insult he had received.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could you&mdash;how could you!&rdquo; Razumihin said, shaking his head in
      perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me alone&mdash;let me alone all of you!&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried in a
      frenzy. &ldquo;Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I
      am not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone,
      alone, alone!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along,&rdquo; said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we can&rsquo;t leave him like this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along,&rdquo; Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin
      thought a minute and ran to overtake him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It might be worse not to obey him,&rdquo; said Zossimov on the stairs. &ldquo;He
      mustn&rsquo;t be irritated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If only he could get some favourable shock, that&rsquo;s what would do it! At
      first he was better.... You know he has got something on his mind! Some
      fixed idea weighing on him.... I am very much afraid so; he must have!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps it&rsquo;s that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation I
      gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter
      about it just before his illness....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;that&rsquo;s the
      murder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; Razumihin agreed, &ldquo;I noticed that, too. He is interested,
      frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police
      office; he fainted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me more about that this evening and I&rsquo;ll tell you something
      afterwards. He interests me very much! In half an hour I&rsquo;ll go and see him
      again.... There&rsquo;ll be no inflammation though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks! And I&rsquo;ll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him
      through Nastasya....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya,
      but she still lingered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you have some tea now?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Later! I am sleepy! Leave me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"></a>
      CHAPTER VI
    </h2>
    <p>
      But as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the parcel
      which Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up again and
      began dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have become
      perfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium nor of the panic fear
      that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strange sudden
      calm. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident
      in them. &ldquo;To-day, to-day,&rdquo; he muttered to himself. He understood that he
      was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him strength
      and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down in
      the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the
      money lying on the table, and after a moment&rsquo;s thought put it in his
      pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took also all the copper change
      from the ten roubles spent by Razumihin on the clothes. Then he softly
      unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs and glanced in at the
      open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back to him, blowing up
      the landlady&rsquo;s samovar. She heard nothing. Who would have dreamed of his
      going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was nearly eight o&rsquo;clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as
      before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head
      felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his
      feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and
      did not think where he was going, he had one thought only: &ldquo;that all <i>this</i>
      must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he would not return
      home without it, because he <i>would not go on living like that</i>.&rdquo; How,
      with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even
      want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he
      knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed &ldquo;one way or
      another,&rdquo; he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and
      determination.
    </p>
    <p>
      From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market.
      A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in
      front of a little general shop and was grinding out a very sentimental
      song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement in
      front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat
      with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a strong
      and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing, she
      sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or
      three listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in the girl&rsquo;s
      hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply
      to the organ grinder &ldquo;Come on,&rdquo; and both moved on to the next shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you like street music?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged man
      standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I love to hear singing to a street organ,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, and his
      manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject&mdash;&ldquo;I like it
      on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings&mdash;they must be damp&mdash;when all
      the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet
      snow is falling straight down, when there&rsquo;s no wind&mdash;you know what I
      mean?&mdash;and the street lamps shine through it...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.... Excuse me...&rdquo; muttered the stranger, frightened by the
      question and Raskolnikov&rsquo;s strange manner, and he crossed over to the
      other side of the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay
      Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they
      were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round and
      addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn
      chandler&rsquo;s shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All sorts of people keep booths here,&rdquo; answered the young man, glancing
      superciliously at Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s his name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What he was christened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which province?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive
      me, your excellency!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that a tavern at the top there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s an eating-house and there&rsquo;s a billiard-room and you&rsquo;ll find
      princesses there too.... La-la!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of
      peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the
      faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation
      with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all
      shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little and took a
      turning to the right in the direction of V.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading
      from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to
      wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might feel
      more so.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great
      block of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating-houses;
      women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in their indoor
      clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement,
      especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in the
      lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the
      tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A
      crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the
      steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken
      soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing;
      he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where.
      One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man dead drunk was lying
      right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were
      talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses and
      goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than
      seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in
      the saloon below.... someone could be heard within dancing frantically,
      marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin
      falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and
      dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping inquisitively in from
      the pavement.
    </p>

      <p class="poem">
        &ldquo;Oh, my handsome soldier<br />
        Don&rsquo;t beat me for nothing,&rdquo;
       </p>

    <p class="noindent">
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I go in?&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get
      drunk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you come in?&rdquo; one of the women asked him. Her voice was still
      musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive&mdash;the
      only one of the group.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, she&rsquo;s pretty,&rdquo; he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re very nice looking yourself,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t he thin though!&rdquo; observed another woman in a deep bass. &ldquo;Have you
      just come out of a hospital?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They&rsquo;re all generals&rsquo; daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses,&rdquo;
       interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose
      coat. &ldquo;See how jolly they are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go along with you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go, sweetie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, sir,&rdquo; the girl shouted after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now
      I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there&rsquo;s a nice young man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov gave her what came first&mdash;fifteen copecks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s your name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask for Duclida.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s too much,&rdquo; one of the women observed, shaking her head at
      Duclida. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop
      with shame....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench
      of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her
      criticism quietly and earnestly. &ldquo;Where is it,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
      &ldquo;Where is it I&rsquo;ve read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an
      hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a
      narrow ledge that he&rsquo;d only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting
      darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had
      to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand
      years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to
      live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!... How true it is! Good
      God, how true! Man is a vile creature!... And vile is he who calls him
      vile for that,&rdquo; he added a moment later.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went into another street. &ldquo;Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was
      just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted?
      Yes, the newspapers.... Zossimov said he&rsquo;d read it in the papers. Have you
      the papers?&rdquo; he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean
      restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather
      empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away
      were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov
      was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. &ldquo;What if it
      is?&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you have vodka?&rdquo; asked the waiter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five
      days, and I&rsquo;ll give you something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir, here&rsquo;s to-day&rsquo;s. No vodka?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and
      began to look through them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, damn... these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a
      staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in
      Peski... a fire in the Petersburg quarter... another fire in the
      Petersburg quarter... and another fire in the Petersburg quarter.... Ah,
      here it is!&rdquo; He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it.
      The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly
      seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands shook with
      nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down
      beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerk Zametov,
      looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch-chain,
      with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat,
      rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least
      he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His dark face was rather
      flushed from the champagne he had drunk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, you here?&rdquo; he began in surprise, speaking as though he&rsquo;d known him
      all his life. &ldquo;Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you were unconscious.
      How strange! And do you know I&rsquo;ve been to see you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know you have,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard it. You looked for my sock....
      And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says you&rsquo;ve been with
      him to Luise Ivanovna&rsquo;s&mdash;you know, the woman you tried to befriend,
      for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he would not
      understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to understand&mdash;it was
      quite clear, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a hot head he is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The explosive one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, your friend Razumihin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most
      agreeable places. Who&rsquo;s been pouring champagne into you just now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve just been... having a drink together.... You talk about pouring it
      into me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By way of a fee! You profit by everything!&rdquo; Raskolnikov laughed, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s
      all right, my dear boy,&rdquo; he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. &ldquo;I am
      not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that
      workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of
      the old woman....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know about it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I know more about it than you do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How strange you are.... I am sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn&rsquo;t
      to have come out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, do I seem strange to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a lot about the fires.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I am not reading about the fires.&rdquo; Here he looked mysteriously at
      Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. &ldquo;No, I am not
      reading about the fires,&rdquo; he went on, winking at Zametov. &ldquo;But confess
      now, my dear fellow, you&rsquo;re awfully anxious to know what I am reading
      about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not in the least. Mayn&rsquo;t I ask a question? Why do you keep on...?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, you are a man of culture and education?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium,&rdquo; said Zametov with some
      dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your parting and your rings&mdash;you
      are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!&rdquo; Here Raskolnikov
      broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov&rsquo;s face. The latter drew back,
      more amazed than offended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Foo! how strange you are!&rdquo; Zametov repeated very seriously. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t help
      thinking you are still delirious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You
      find me curious, do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, curious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See
      what a lot of papers I&rsquo;ve made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You prick up your ears?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you mean&mdash;&lsquo;prick up my ears&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare to you... no,
      better &lsquo;I confess&rsquo;... No, that&rsquo;s not right either; &lsquo;I make a deposition
      and you take it.&rsquo; I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and
      searching....&rdquo; he screwed up his eyes and paused. &ldquo;I was searching&mdash;and
      came here on purpose to do it&mdash;for news of the murder of the old
      pawnbroker woman,&rdquo; he articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing
      his face exceedingly close to the face of Zametov. Zametov looked at him
      steadily, without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov
      afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for
      exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What if you have been reading about it?&rdquo; he cried at last, perplexed and
      impatient. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s no business of mine! What of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same old woman,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper, not heeding
      Zametov&rsquo;s explanation, &ldquo;about whom you were talking in the police-office,
      you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean? Understand... what?&rdquo; Zametov brought out, almost
      alarmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he
      suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as though utterly
      unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with
      extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, that
      moment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch
      trembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden
      desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them,
      to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are either mad, or...&rdquo; began Zametov, and he broke off, as though
      stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; said Zametov, getting angry, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s all nonsense!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you drink your tea? It&rsquo;s getting cold,&rdquo; said Zametov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Tea? Oh, yes....&rdquo; Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel of
      bread in his mouth and, suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to remember
      everything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his face
      resumed its original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There have been a great many of these crimes lately,&rdquo; said Zametov. &ldquo;Only
      the other day I read in the <i>Moscow News</i> that a whole gang of false
      coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to
      forge tickets!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago,&rdquo; Raskolnikov
      answered calmly. &ldquo;So you consider them criminals?&rdquo; he added, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course they are criminals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Why, half a hundred
      people meeting for such an object&mdash;what an idea! Three would be too
      many, and then they want to have more faith in one another than in
      themselves! One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses.
      Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes&mdash;what
      a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that these
      simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and what follows for the rest
      of their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of his life!
      Better hang oneself at once! And they did not know how to change the notes
      either; the man who changed the notes took five thousand roubles, and his
      hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand, but did not count the
      fifth thousand&mdash;he was in such a hurry to get the money into his
      pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. And the whole thing
      came to a crash through one fool! Is it possible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That his hands trembled?&rdquo; observed Zametov, &ldquo;yes, that&rsquo;s quite possible.
      That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can&rsquo;t stand things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t stand that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn&rsquo;t. For the sake of a hundred
      roubles to face such a terrible experience? To go with false notes into a
      bank where it&rsquo;s their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I should
      not have the face to do it. Would you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov had an intense desire again &ldquo;to put his tongue out.&rdquo; Shivers
      kept running down his spine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should do it quite differently,&rdquo; Raskolnikov began. &ldquo;This is how I
      would change the notes: I&rsquo;d count the first thousand three or four times
      backwards and forwards, looking at every note and then I&rsquo;d set to the
      second thousand; I&rsquo;d count that half-way through and then hold some
      fifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light
      again&mdash;to see whether it was a good one. &lsquo;I am afraid,&rsquo; I would say,
      &lsquo;a relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the other day through a false
      note,&rsquo; and then I&rsquo;d tell them the whole story. And after I began counting
      the third, &lsquo;No, excuse me,&rsquo; I would say, &lsquo;I fancy I made a mistake in the
      seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.&rsquo; And so I would
      give up the third thousand and go back to the second and so on to the end.
      And when I had finished, I&rsquo;d pick out one from the fifth and one from the
      second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again, &lsquo;Change
      them, please,&rsquo; and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know
      how to get rid of me. When I&rsquo;d finished and had gone out, I&rsquo;d come back,
      &lsquo;No, excuse me,&rsquo; and ask for some explanation. That&rsquo;s how I&rsquo;d do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Foo! what terrible things you say!&rdquo; said Zametov, laughing. &ldquo;But all that
      is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you&rsquo;d make a slip. I
      believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon on
      himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home&mdash;that old
      woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a
      desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a
      miracle&mdash;but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the
      place, he couldn&rsquo;t stand it. That was clear from the...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov seemed offended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clear? Why don&rsquo;t you catch him then?&rdquo; he cried, maliciously gibing at
      Zametov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, they will catch him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? You&rsquo;ve a tough job! A great
      point for you is whether a man is spending money or not. If he had no
      money and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any child
      can mislead you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fact is they always do that, though,&rdquo; answered Zametov. &ldquo;A man will
      commit a clever murder at the risk of his life and then at once he goes
      drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all as
      cunning as you are. You wouldn&rsquo;t go to a tavern, of course?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should behave
      in that case, too?&rdquo; he asked with displeasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like to,&rdquo; Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too
      much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very much!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right then. This is how I should behave,&rdquo; Raskolnikov began, again
      bringing his face close to Zametov&rsquo;s, again staring at him and speaking in
      a whisper, so that the latter positively shuddered. &ldquo;This is what I should
      have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should have walked
      out of there and have gone straight to some deserted place with fences
      round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen garden or place of
      that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some stone weighing a
      hundredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from the time the
      house was built. I would lift that stone&mdash;there would sure to be a
      hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that hole. Then
      I&rsquo;d roll the stone back so that it would look as before, would press it
      down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe, I
      would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There&rsquo;d be no trace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a madman,&rdquo; said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a
      whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He
      had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering.
      He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to move
      without uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew what he
      was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on
      his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break
      out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?&rdquo; he said
      suddenly and&mdash;realised what he had done.
    </p>
    <p>
      Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His face
      wore a contorted smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But is it possible?&rdquo; he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked
      wrathfully at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now,&rdquo; Zametov cried hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you
      believe less than ever?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. &ldquo;Have you been
      frightening me so as to lead up to this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back
      when I went out of the police-office? And why did the explosive lieutenant
      question me after I fainted? Hey, there,&rdquo; he shouted to the waiter,
      getting up and taking his cap, &ldquo;how much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thirty copecks,&rdquo; the latter replied, running up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!&rdquo; he held
      out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. &ldquo;Red notes and blue,
      twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes
      come from? You know I had not a copeck. You&rsquo;ve cross-examined my landlady,
      I&rsquo;ll be bound.... Well, that&rsquo;s enough! <i>Assez causé!</i> Till we meet
      again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation,
      in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy
      and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue
      increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and
      revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as quickly when the
      stimulus was removed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in
      thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on a
      certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead,&rdquo; he decided.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So here you are!&rdquo; he shouted at the top of his voice&mdash;&ldquo;you ran away
      from your bed! And here I&rsquo;ve been looking for you under the sofa! We went
      up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is
      after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth!
      Confess! Do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It means that I&rsquo;m sick to death of you all and I want to be alone,&rdquo;
       Raskolnikov answered calmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a
      sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot!... What have you been doing
      in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me go!&rdquo; said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much for
      Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I&rsquo;ll do with
      you directly? I&rsquo;ll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you home
      under my arm and lock you up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, Razumihin,&rdquo; Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm&mdash;&ldquo;can&rsquo;t
      you see that I don&rsquo;t want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to
      shower benefits on a man who... curses them, who feels them a burden in
      fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was
      very glad to die. Didn&rsquo;t I tell you plainly enough to-day that you were
      torturing me, that I was... sick of you! You seem to want to torture
      people! I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery,
      because it&rsquo;s continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away just
      now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness&rsquo; sake!
      What right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don&rsquo;t you see that I am
      in possession of all my faculties now? How, how can I persuade you not to
      persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only
      let me be, for God&rsquo;s sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, go to hell then,&rdquo; he said gently and thoughtfully. &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; he
      roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. &ldquo;Listen to me. Let me tell you,
      that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you&rsquo;ve any little
      trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists
      even in that! There isn&rsquo;t a sign of independent life in you! You are made
      of spermaceti ointment and you&rsquo;ve lymph in your veins instead of blood. I
      don&rsquo;t believe in anyone of you! In any circumstances the first thing for
      all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!&rdquo; he cried with redoubled
      fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement&mdash;&ldquo;hear me
      out! You know I&rsquo;m having a house-warming this evening, I dare say they&rsquo;ve
      arrived by now, but I left my uncle there&mdash;I just ran in&mdash;to
      receive the guests. And if you weren&rsquo;t a fool, a common fool, a perfect
      fool, if you were an original instead of a translation... you see, Rodya,
      I recognise you&rsquo;re a clever fellow, but you&rsquo;re a fool!&mdash;and if you
      weren&rsquo;t a fool you&rsquo;d come round to me this evening instead of wearing out
      your boots in the street! Since you have gone out, there&rsquo;s no help for it!
      I&rsquo;d give you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one... a cup of tea,
      company.... Or you could lie on the sofa&mdash;any way you would be with
      us.... Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;R-rubbish!&rdquo; Razumihin shouted, out of patience. &ldquo;How do you know? You
      can&rsquo;t answer for yourself! You don&rsquo;t know anything about it.... Thousands
      of times I&rsquo;ve fought tooth and nail with people and run back to them
      afterwards.... One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So remember,
      Potchinkov&rsquo;s house on the third storey....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you&rsquo;d let anybody beat you from sheer
      benevolence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beat? Whom? Me? I&rsquo;d twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov&rsquo;s
      house, 47, Babushkin&rsquo;s flat....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not come, Razumihin.&rdquo; Raskolnikov turned and walked away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I bet you will,&rdquo; Razumihin shouted after him. &ldquo;I refuse to know you if
      you don&rsquo;t! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you see him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Talked to him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What about? Confound you, don&rsquo;t tell me then. Potchinkov&rsquo;s house, 47,
      Babushkin&rsquo;s flat, remember!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confound it,&rdquo; he went on almost aloud. &ldquo;He talked sensibly but yet... I
      am a fool! As if madmen didn&rsquo;t talk sensibly! And this was just what
      Zossimov seemed afraid of.&rdquo; He struck his finger on his forehead. &ldquo;What
      if... how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself.... Ach, what
      a blunder! I can&rsquo;t.&rdquo; And he ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, but there
      was no trace of him. With a curse he returned with rapid steps to the
      Palais de Cristal to question Zametov.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov walked straight to X&mdash;&mdash; Bridge, stood in the
      middle, and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On
      parting with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely
      reach this place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street.
      Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of
      the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight,
      at one distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire
      in the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal,
      and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed
      before his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal
      banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started,
      saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He
      became aware of someone standing on the right side of him; he looked and
      saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow, wasted
      face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but obviously
      she saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand
      on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, then her left and
      threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its
      victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to
      the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head and legs in the
      water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A woman drowning! A woman drowning!&rdquo; shouted dozens of voices; people ran
      up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded
      about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy on it! it&rsquo;s our Afrosinya!&rdquo; a woman cried tearfully close by.
      &ldquo;Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A boat, a boat&rdquo; was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a
      boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his great
      coat and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her:
      she floated within a couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her
      clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a
      comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They
      laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered
      consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing,
      stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s drunk herself out of her senses,&rdquo; the same woman&rsquo;s voice wailed at
      her side. &ldquo;Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang herself, we
      cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look
      after her&mdash;and here she&rsquo;s in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a
      neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end, see
      yonder....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someone
      mentioned the police station.... Raskolnikov looked on with a strange
      sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. &ldquo;No, that&rsquo;s
      loathsome... water... it&rsquo;s not good enough,&rdquo; he muttered to himself.
      &ldquo;Nothing will come of it,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;no use to wait. What about the
      police office...? And why isn&rsquo;t Zametov at the police office? The police
      office is open till ten o&rsquo;clock....&rdquo; He turned his back to the railing and
      looked about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well then!&rdquo; he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and walked
      in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and empty. He
      did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, there was not a
      trace now of the energy with which he had set out &ldquo;to make an end of it
      all.&rdquo; Complete apathy had succeeded to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it&rsquo;s a way out of it,&rdquo; he thought, walking slowly and listlessly
      along the canal bank. &ldquo;Anyway I&rsquo;ll make an end, for I want to.... But is
      it a way out? What does it matter! There&rsquo;ll be the square yard of space&mdash;ha!
      But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah...
      damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon!
      What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don&rsquo;t care about
      that either! What idiotic ideas come into one&rsquo;s head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the
      second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first
      turning he stopped and, after a minute&rsquo;s thought, turned into a side
      street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any object,
      or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking at the
      ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he lifted his head
      and saw that he was standing at the very gate of <i>the</i> house. He had
      not passed it, he had not been near it since <i>that</i> evening. An
      overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house,
      passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and
      began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow,
      steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked round
      him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had
      been taken out. &ldquo;That wasn&rsquo;t so then,&rdquo; he thought. Here was the flat on
      the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s shut up
      and the door newly painted. So it&rsquo;s to let.&rdquo; Then the third storey and the
      fourth. &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; He was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open.
      There were men there, he could hear voices; he had not expected that.
      After brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the flat.
      It, too, was being done up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze
      him; he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left it, even
      perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor. And now, bare walls,
      no furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat down on
      the window-sill. There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much
      younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white
      paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one.
      Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at
      the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so
      changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they
      were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They
      took no notice of Raskolnikov&rsquo;s coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov
      folded his arms and listened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She comes to me in the morning,&rdquo; said the elder to the younger, &ldquo;very
      early, all dressed up. &lsquo;Why are you preening and prinking?&rsquo; says I. &lsquo;I am
      ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!&rsquo; That&rsquo;s a way of going
      on! And she dressed up like a regular fashion book!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what is a fashion book?&rdquo; the younger one asked. He obviously regarded
      the other as an authority.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to the
      tailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show folks how to
      dress, the male sex as well as the female. They&rsquo;re pictures. The gentlemen
      are generally wearing fur coats and for the ladies&rsquo; fluffles, they&rsquo;re
      beyond anything you can fancy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing you can&rsquo;t find in Petersburg,&rdquo; the younger cried
      enthusiastically, &ldquo;except father and mother, there&rsquo;s everything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Except them, there&rsquo;s everything to be found, my boy,&rdquo; the elder declared
      sententiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; he asked suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the
      bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and a
      third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly
      fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more
      vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more
      satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what do you want? Who are you?&rdquo; the workman shouted, going out to
      him. Raskolnikov went inside again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to take a flat,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I am looking round.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up
      with the porter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The floors have been washed, will they be painted?&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on.
      &ldquo;Is there no blood?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What blood?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect
      pool there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But who are you?&rdquo; the workman cried, uneasy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who am I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You want to know? Come to the police station, I&rsquo;ll tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The workmen looked at him in amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock
      up,&rdquo; said the elder workman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, come along,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out
      first, he went slowly downstairs. &ldquo;Hey, porter,&rdquo; he cried in the gateway.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; asked one of the porters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you been to the police office?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve just been there. What do you want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it open?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is the assistant there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was there for a time. What do you want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s been to look at the flat,&rdquo; said the elder workman, coming forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which flat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where we are at work. &lsquo;Why have you washed away the blood?&rsquo; says he.
      &lsquo;There has been a murder here,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;and I&rsquo;ve come to take it.&rsquo; And
      he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. &lsquo;Come to the police
      station,&rsquo; says he. &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you everything there.&rsquo; He wouldn&rsquo;t leave
      us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo; he shouted as impressively as he could.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in Shil&rsquo;s
      house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me.&rdquo;
       Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but
      looking intently into the darkening street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why have you been to the flat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To look at it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is there to look at?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take him straight to the police station,&rdquo; the man in the long coat jerked
      in abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same
      slow, lazy tones:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, take him,&rdquo; the man went on more confidently. &ldquo;Why was he going into
      <i>that</i>, what&rsquo;s in his mind, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s not drunk, but God knows what&rsquo;s the matter with him,&rdquo; muttered the
      workman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what do you want?&rdquo; the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry
      in earnest&mdash;&ldquo;Why are you hanging about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You funk the police station then?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov jeeringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How funk it? Why are you hanging about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a rogue!&rdquo; shouted the peasant woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why waste time talking to him?&rdquo; cried the other porter, a huge peasant in
      a full open coat and with keys on his belt. &ldquo;Get along! He is a rogue and
      no mistake. Get along!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strange man!&rdquo; observed the workman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are strange folks about nowadays,&rdquo; said the woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should have taken him to the police station all the same,&rdquo; said the
      man in the long coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better have nothing to do with him,&rdquo; decided the big porter. &ldquo;A regular
      rogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you
      won&rsquo;t get rid of him.... We know the sort!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I go there or not?&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle of
      the thoroughfare at the cross-roads, and he looked about him, as though
      expecting from someone a decisive word. But no sound came, all was dead
      and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to him
      alone.... All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yards away, in
      the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and shouts. In the middle
      of the crowd stood a carriage.... A light gleamed in the middle of the
      street. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the
      crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he
      recognised it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police
      station and knew that it would all soon be over.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"></a>
      CHAPTER VII
    </h2>
    <p>
      An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of
      spirited grey horses; there was no one in it, and the coachman had got off
      his box and stood by; the horses were being held by the bridle.... A mass
      of people had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of them
      held a lighted lantern which he was turning on something lying close to
      the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming; the coachman
      seemed at a loss and kept repeating:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last in
      seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a man who
      had been run over lay apparently unconscious, and covered with blood; he
      was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing from his
      head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated and disfigured. He was
      evidently badly injured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Merciful heaven!&rdquo; wailed the coachman, &ldquo;what more could I do? If I&rsquo;d been
      driving fast or had not shouted to him, but I was going quietly, not in a
      hurry. Everyone could see I was going along just like everybody else. A
      drunken man can&rsquo;t walk straight, we all know.... I saw him crossing the
      street, staggering and almost falling. I shouted again and a second and a
      third time, then I held the horses in, but he fell straight under their
      feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was very tipsy.... The horses are
      young and ready to take fright... they started, he screamed... that made
      them worse. That&rsquo;s how it happened!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just how it was,&rdquo; a voice in the crowd confirmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He shouted, that&rsquo;s true, he shouted three times,&rdquo; another voice declared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three times it was, we all heard it,&rdquo; shouted a third.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was
      evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was
      awaiting it somewhere; the police, of course, were in no little anxiety to
      avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the
      injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one knew his name.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The
      lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate man&rsquo;s face. He recognised him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know him! I know him!&rdquo; he shouted, pushing to the front. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a
      government clerk retired from the service, Marmeladov. He lives close by
      in Kozel&rsquo;s house.... Make haste for a doctor! I will pay, see?&rdquo; He pulled
      money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in violent
      agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just here, three houses away,&rdquo; he said eagerly, &ldquo;the house belongs to
      Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he is
      a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife, children, he has one
      daughter.... It will take time to take him to the hospital, and there is
      sure to be a doctor in the house. I&rsquo;ll pay, I&rsquo;ll pay! At least he will be
      looked after at home... they will help him at once. But he&rsquo;ll die before
      you get him to the hospital.&rdquo; He managed to slip something unseen into the
      policeman&rsquo;s hand. But the thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in
      any case help was closer here. They raised the injured man; people
      volunteered to help.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kozel&rsquo;s house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully
      holding Marmeladov&rsquo;s head and showing the way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head foremost. Turn round!
      I&rsquo;ll pay, I&rsquo;ll make it worth your while,&rdquo; he muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment,
      walking to and fro in her little room from window to stove and back again,
      with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of
      late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a
      child of ten, who, though there was much she did not understand,
      understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her
      with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost to appear to understand.
      This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell
      all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off his
      shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and
      motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs
      stretched out straight before him&mdash;heels together and toes turned
      out.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting
      perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, just as all good
      little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little
      girl, still younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen,
      waiting for her turn. The door on to the stairs was open to relieve them a
      little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other
      rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in the poor,
      consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner
      during that week and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t believe, you can&rsquo;t imagine, Polenka,&rdquo; she said, walking
      about the room, &ldquo;what a happy luxurious life we had in my papa&rsquo;s house and
      how this drunkard has brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin! Papa
      was a civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; so that
      everyone who came to see him said, &lsquo;We look upon you, Ivan Mihailovitch,
      as our governor!&rsquo; When I... when...&rdquo; she coughed violently, &ldquo;oh, cursed
      life,&rdquo; she cried, clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her
      breast, &ldquo;when I... when at the last ball... at the marshal&rsquo;s... Princess
      Bezzemelny saw me&mdash;who gave me the blessing when your father and I
      were married, Polenka&mdash;she asked at once &lsquo;Isn&rsquo;t that the pretty girl
      who danced the shawl dance at the breaking-up?&rsquo; (You must mend that tear,
      you must take your needle and darn it as I showed you, or to-morrow&mdash;cough,
      cough, cough&mdash;he will make the hole bigger,&rdquo; she articulated with
      effort.) &ldquo;Prince Schegolskoy, a kammerjunker, had just come from
      Petersburg then... he danced the mazurka with me and wanted to make me an
      offer next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions and told him
      that my heart had long been another&rsquo;s. That other was your father, Polya;
      papa was fearfully angry.... Is the water ready? Give me the shirt, and
      the stockings! Lida,&rdquo; said she to the youngest one, &ldquo;you must manage
      without your chemise to-night... and lay your stockings out with it...
      I&rsquo;ll wash them together.... How is it that drunken vagabond doesn&rsquo;t come
      in? He has worn his shirt till it looks like a dish-clout, he has torn it
      to rags! I&rsquo;d do it all together, so as not to have to work two nights
      running! Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What&rsquo;s this?&rdquo; she
      cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the men, who were pushing into
      her room, carrying a burden. &ldquo;What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on
      us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are we to put him?&rdquo; asked the policeman, looking round when
      Marmeladov, unconscious and covered with blood, had been carried in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way,&rdquo;
       Raskolnikov showed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Run over in the road! Drunk!&rdquo; someone shouted in the passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The
      children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka and
      clutched at her, trembling all over.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew to Katerina Ivanovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake be calm, don&rsquo;t be frightened!&rdquo; he said, speaking quickly,
      &ldquo;he was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage, don&rsquo;t be
      frightened, he will come to, I told them bring him here... I&rsquo;ve been here
      already, you remember? He will come to; I&rsquo;ll pay!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s done it this time!&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly and she
      rushed to her husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who swoon
      easily. She instantly placed under the luckless man&rsquo;s head a pillow, which
      no one had thought of and began undressing and examining him. She kept her
      head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling the
      screams which were ready to break from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov meanwhile induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a
      doctor, it appeared, next door but one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve sent for a doctor,&rdquo; he kept assuring Katerina Ivanovna, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t be
      uneasy, I&rsquo;ll pay. Haven&rsquo;t you water?... and give me a napkin or a towel,
      anything, as quick as you can.... He is injured, but not killed, believe
      me.... We shall see what the doctor says!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken chair in the
      corner, a large earthenware basin full of water had been stood, in
      readiness for washing her children&rsquo;s and husband&rsquo;s linen that night. This
      washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a week, if
      not oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they were
      practically without change of linen, and Katerina Ivanovna could not
      endure uncleanliness and, rather than see dirt in the house, she preferred
      to wear herself out at night, working beyond her strength when the rest
      were asleep, so as to get the wet linen hung on a line and dry by the
      morning. She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov&rsquo;s request, but
      almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already succeeded in
      finding a towel, wetted it and began washing the blood off Marmeladov&rsquo;s
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Polenka,&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna, &ldquo;run to Sonia, make haste. If you
      don&rsquo;t find her at home, leave word that her father has been run over and
      that she is to come here at once... when she comes in. Run, Polenka!
      there, put on the shawl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Run your fastest!&rdquo; cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after
      which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his heels
      thrust forward and his toes spread out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you couldn&rsquo;t have
      dropped a pin. The policemen left, all except one, who remained for a
      time, trying to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost
      all Madame Lippevechsel&rsquo;s lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of
      the flat; at first they were squeezed together in the doorway, but
      afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a
      fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might let him die in peace, at least,&rdquo; she shouted at the crowd, &ldquo;is
      it a spectacle for you to gape at? With cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!)
      You might as well keep your hats on.... And there is one in his hat!...
      Get away! You should respect the dead, at least!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her cough choked her&mdash;but her reproaches were not without result.
      They evidently stood in some awe of Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one
      after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner
      feeling of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a sudden
      accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which no
      living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest sympathy and
      compassion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital and saying
      that they&rsquo;d no business to make a disturbance here.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No business to die!&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to the
      door to vent her wrath upon them, but in the doorway came face to face
      with Madame Lippevechsel who had only just heard of the accident and ran
      in to restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible
      German.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my God!&rdquo; she cried, clasping her hands, &ldquo;your husband drunken horses
      have trampled! To the hospital with him! I am the landlady!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are saying,&rdquo; Katerina
      Ivanovna began haughtily (she always took a haughty tone with the landlady
      that she might &ldquo;remember her place&rdquo; and even now could not deny herself
      this satisfaction). &ldquo;Amalia Ludwigovna...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may not
      dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and as I am not one
      of your despicable flatterers like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who&rsquo;s laughing
      behind the door at this moment (a laugh and a cry of &lsquo;they are at it
      again&rsquo; was in fact audible at the door) so I shall always call you Amalia
      Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike that name. You can
      see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zaharovitch; he is dying. I
      beg you to close that door at once and to admit no one. Let him at least
      die in peace! Or I warn you the Governor-General, himself, shall be
      informed of your conduct to-morrow. The prince knew me as a girl; he
      remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well and has often been a benefactor to him.
      Everyone knows that Semyon Zaharovitch had many friends and protectors,
      whom he abandoned himself from an honourable pride, knowing his unhappy
      weakness, but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) a generous young man has
      come to our assistance, who has wealth and connections and whom Semyon
      Zaharovitch has known from a child. You may rest assured, Amalia
      Ludwigovna...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker,
      but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s eloquence. At that
      instant the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan; she ran
      to him. The injured man opened his eyes and without recognition or
      understanding gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him. He drew deep,
      slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the corners of his mouth and drops
      of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognising Raskolnikov, he
      began looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad
      but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding,&rdquo; she said in
      despair. &ldquo;We must take off his clothes. Turn a little, Semyon Zaharovitch,
      if you can,&rdquo; she cried to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marmeladov recognised her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A priest,&rdquo; he articulated huskily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window
      frame and exclaimed in despair:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, cursed life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A priest,&rdquo; the dying man said again after a moment&rsquo;s silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve gone for him,&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him, he obeyed her
      shout and was silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her; she
      returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little easier but not for
      long.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favourite, who was shaking in the
      corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring at him with her wondering
      childish eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A-ah,&rdquo; he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What now?&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barefoot, barefoot!&rdquo; he muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the
      child&rsquo;s bare feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be silent,&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, &ldquo;you know why she is
      barefooted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God, the doctor,&rdquo; exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking about him
      mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefully felt
      his head and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the
      blood-stained shirt, and bared the injured man&rsquo;s chest. It was gashed,
      crushed and fractured, several ribs on the right side were broken. On the
      left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking
      yellowish-black bruise&mdash;a cruel kick from the horse&rsquo;s hoof. The
      doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel and
      turned round with it for thirty yards on the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s wonderful that he has recovered consciousness,&rdquo; the doctor whispered
      softly to Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think of him?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will die immediately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there really no hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp.... His head is badly injured,
      too... Hm... I could bleed him if you like, but... it would be useless. He
      is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better bleed him then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you like.... But I warn you it will be perfectly useless.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted,
      and the priest, a little, grey old man, appeared in the doorway bearing
      the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident.
      The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glances with him.
      Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He shrugged his
      shoulders and remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably
      understood little; he could only utter indistinct broken sounds. Katerina
      Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in
      the corner by the stove and made the children kneel in front of her. The
      little girl was still trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his little bare
      knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision and
      bowed down, touching the floor with his forehead, which seemed to afford
      him especial satisfaction. Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back
      her tears; she prayed, too, now and then pulling straight the boy&rsquo;s shirt,
      and managed to cover the girl&rsquo;s bare shoulders with a kerchief, which she
      took from the chest without rising from her knees or ceasing to pray.
      Meanwhile the door from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively again. In
      the passage the crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircase
      grew denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the threshold. A
      single candle-end lighted up the scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She
      came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for
      her mother, went up to her and said, &ldquo;She&rsquo;s coming, I met her in the
      street.&rdquo; Her mother made her kneel beside her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through the crowd, and
      strange was her appearance in that room, in the midst of want, rags, death
      and despair. She, too, was in rags, her attire was all of the cheapest,
      but decked out in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmistakably betraying
      its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and looked about
      her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She forgot her fourth-hand,
      gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train, and her
      immense crinoline that filled up the whole doorway, and her light-coloured
      shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at
      night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-coloured
      feather. Under this rakishly-tilted hat was a pale, frightened little face
      with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl
      of eighteen with fair hair, rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She
      looked intently at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath with
      running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably, reached her.
      She looked down and took a step forward into the room, still keeping close
      to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband again. The
      priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of admonition and
      consolation to Katerina Ivanovna on leaving.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What am I to do with these?&rdquo; she interrupted sharply and irritably,
      pointing to the little ones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God is merciful; look to the Most High for succour,&rdquo; the priest began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach! He is merciful, but not to us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a sin, a sin, madam,&rdquo; observed the priest, shaking his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And isn&rsquo;t that a sin?&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying
      man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to
      compensate you, at least for the loss of his earnings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t understand!&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily waving her hand.
      &ldquo;And why should they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and threw himself
      under the horses! What earnings? He brought us in nothing but misery. He
      drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get drink, he wasted
      their lives and mine for drink! And thank God he&rsquo;s dying! One less to
      keep!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must forgive in the hour of death, that&rsquo;s a sin, madam, such feelings
      are a great sin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was giving him water,
      wiping the blood and sweat from his head, setting his pillow straight, and
      had only turned now and then for a moment to address the priest. Now she
      flew at him almost in a frenzy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, father! That&rsquo;s words and only words! Forgive! If he&rsquo;d not been run
      over, he&rsquo;d have come home to-day drunk and his only shirt dirty and in
      rags and he&rsquo;d have fallen asleep like a log, and I should have been
      sousing and rinsing till daybreak, washing his rags and the children&rsquo;s and
      then drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight I should
      have been darning them. That&rsquo;s how I spend my nights!... What&rsquo;s the use of
      talking of forgiveness! I have forgiven as it is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to
      her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her
      aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed
      his head and said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not take his eyes off the face of
      Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending over him again. He kept trying to say
      something to her; he began moving his tongue with difficulty and
      articulating indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he
      wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!&rdquo; And the sick man was
      silent, but at the same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway
      and he saw Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the shadow in a
      corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s that? Who&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; he said suddenly in a thick gasping voice, in
      agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his daughter
      was standing, and trying to sit up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lie down! Lie do-own!&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow.
      He looked wildly and fixedly for some time on his daughter, as though not
      recognising her. He had never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he
      recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy finery,
      meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to her dying father. His face
      showed intense suffering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!&rdquo; he cried, and he tried to hold out his hand to
      her, but losing his balance, he fell off the sofa, face downwards on the
      floor. They rushed to pick him up, they put him on the sofa; but he was
      dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so without
      moving. He died in her arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s got what he wanted,&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband&rsquo;s
      dead body. &ldquo;Well, what&rsquo;s to be done now? How am I to bury him! What can I
      give them to-morrow to eat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Katerina Ivanovna,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;last week your husband told me all his
      life and circumstances.... Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate
      reverence. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted he was to you all
      and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in spite
      of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we became friends.... Allow
      me now... to do something... to repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are
      twenty roubles, I think&mdash;and if that can be of any assistance to you,
      then... I... in short, I will come again, I will be sure to come again...
      I shall, perhaps, come again to-morrow.... Good-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, is that you?&rdquo; he asked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s dead,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;The doctor and the priest have been,
      all as it should have been. Don&rsquo;t worry the poor woman too much, she is in
      consumption as it is. Try and cheer her up, if possible... you are a
      kind-hearted man, I know...&rdquo; he added with a smile, looking straight in
      his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are spattered with blood,&rdquo; observed Nikodim Fomitch, noticing in
      the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov&rsquo;s waistcoat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... I&rsquo;m covered with blood,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air;
      then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it,
      entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and strength
      that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be compared to
      that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Halfway
      down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on his way home;
      Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting with him. He was
      just descending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him.
      Someone overtook him; it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling
      &ldquo;Wait! wait!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped short
      a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Raskolnikov could
      distinguish the child&rsquo;s thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a
      bright childish smile. She had run after him with a message which she was
      evidently glad to give.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, what is your name?... and where do you live?&rdquo; she said hurriedly
      in a breathless voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who sent you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sister Sonia sent me,&rdquo; answered the girl, smiling still more brightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew it was sister Sonia sent you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mamma sent me, too... when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma came up,
      too, and said &lsquo;Run fast, Polenka.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you love sister Sonia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I love her more than anyone,&rdquo; Polenka answered with a peculiar
      earnestness, and her smile became graver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And will you love me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By way of answer he saw the little girl&rsquo;s face approaching him, her full
      lips naïvely held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks
      held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder and the little girl wept
      softly, pressing her face against him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry for father,&rdquo; she said a moment later, raising her tear-stained
      face and brushing away the tears with her hands. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s nothing but
      misfortunes now,&rdquo; she added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air which
      children try hard to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did your father love you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He loved Lida most,&rdquo; she went on very seriously without a smile, exactly
      like grown-up people, &ldquo;he loved her because she is little and because she
      is ill, too. And he always used to bring her presents. But he taught us to
      read and me grammar and scripture, too,&rdquo; she added with dignity. &ldquo;And
      mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she liked it and
      father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach me French, for it&rsquo;s time my
      education began.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you know your prayers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, we do! We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself as I
      am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida say them aloud with mother. First
      they repeat the &lsquo;Ave Maria&rsquo; and then another prayer: &lsquo;Lord, forgive and
      bless sister Sonia,&rsquo; and then another, &lsquo;Lord, forgive and bless our second
      father.&rsquo; For our elder father is dead and this is another one, but we do
      pray for the other as well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me, too. &lsquo;And Thy servant
      Rodion,&rsquo; nothing more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll pray for you all the rest of my life,&rdquo; the little girl declared
      hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and hugged him warmly
      once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come
      next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him. It was past ten
      when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on the
      bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough,&rdquo; he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve done with
      fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! Life is real! haven&rsquo;t I lived
      just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman! The Kingdom of
      Heaven to her&mdash;and now enough, madam, leave me in peace! Now for the
      reign of reason and light... and of will, and of strength... and now we
      will see! We will try our strength!&rdquo; he added defiantly, as though
      challenging some power of darkness. &ldquo;And I was ready to consent to live in
      a square of space!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am very weak at this moment, but... I believe my illness is all over. I
      knew it would be over when I went out. By the way, Potchinkov&rsquo;s house is
      only a few steps away. I certainly must go to Razumihin even if it were
      not close by... let him win his bet! Let us give him some satisfaction,
      too&mdash;no matter! Strength, strength is what one wants, you can get
      nothing without it, and strength must be won by strength&mdash;that&rsquo;s what
      they don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; he added proudly and self-confidently and he walked with
      flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew
      continually stronger in him; he was becoming a different man every moment.
      What was it had happened to work this revolution in him? He did not know
      himself; like a man catching at a straw, he suddenly felt that he, too,
      &lsquo;could live, that there was still life for him, that his life had not died
      with the old woman.&rsquo; Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his
      conclusions, but he did not think of that.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I did ask her to remember &lsquo;Thy servant Rodion&rsquo; in her prayers,&rdquo; the
      idea struck him. &ldquo;Well, that was... in case of emergency,&rdquo; he added and
      laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits.
    </p>
    <p>
      He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already known at
      Potchinkov&rsquo;s and the porter at once showed him the way. Half-way upstairs
      he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big gathering of
      people. The door was wide open on the stairs; he could hear exclamations
      and discussion. Razumihin&rsquo;s room was fairly large; the company consisted
      of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entry, where two of the
      landlady&rsquo;s servants were busy behind a screen with two samovars, bottles,
      plates and dishes of pie and savouries, brought up from the landlady&rsquo;s
      kitchen. Raskolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran out delighted. At the
      first glance it was apparent that he had had a great deal to drink and,
      though no amount of liquor made Razumihin quite drunk, this time he was
      perceptibly affected by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; Raskolnikov hastened to say, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve only just come to tell you
      you&rsquo;ve won your bet and that no one really knows what may not happen to
      him. I can&rsquo;t come in; I am so weak that I shall fall down directly. And so
      good evening and good-bye! Come and see me to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know what? I&rsquo;ll see you home. If you say you&rsquo;re weak yourself, you
      must...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has just peeped out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle&rsquo;s, I expect, or perhaps he
      has come without being invited... I&rsquo;ll leave uncle with them, he is an
      invaluable person, pity I can&rsquo;t introduce you to him now. But confound
      them all now! They won&rsquo;t notice me, and I need a little fresh air, for
      you&rsquo;ve come just in the nick of time&mdash;another two minutes and I
      should have come to blows! They are talking such a lot of wild stuff...
      you simply can&rsquo;t imagine what men will say! Though why shouldn&rsquo;t you
      imagine? Don&rsquo;t we talk nonsense ourselves? And let them... that&rsquo;s the way
      to learn not to!... Wait a minute, I&rsquo;ll fetch Zossimov.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily; he showed a special
      interest in him; soon his face brightened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must go to bed at once,&rdquo; he pronounced, examining the patient as far
      as he could, &ldquo;and take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it
      ready some time ago... a powder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two, if you like,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a good thing you are taking him home,&rdquo; observed Zossimov to
      Razumihin&mdash;&ldquo;we shall see how he is to-morrow, to-day he&rsquo;s not at all
      amiss&mdash;a considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were coming out?&rdquo;
       Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they were in the street. &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t tell
      you everything, brother, because they are such fools. Zossimov told me to
      talk freely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and
      afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he&rsquo;s got a notion in his head
      that you are... mad or close on it. Only fancy! In the first place, you&rsquo;ve
      three times the brains he has; in the second, if you are not mad, you
      needn&rsquo;t care a hang that he has got such a wild idea; and thirdly, that
      piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases,
      and what&rsquo;s brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation
      to-day with Zametov.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Zametov told you all about it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does
      Zametov.... Well, the fact is, Rodya... the point is... I am a little
      drunk now.... But that&rsquo;s... no matter... the point is that this idea...
      you understand? was just being hatched in their brains... you understand?
      That is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the idea is too absurd
      and especially since the arrest of that painter, that bubble&rsquo;s burst and
      gone for ever. But why are they such fools? I gave Zametov a bit of a
      thrashing at the time&mdash;that&rsquo;s between ourselves, brother; please
      don&rsquo;t let out a hint that you know of it; I&rsquo;ve noticed he is a ticklish
      subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna&rsquo;s. But to-day, to-day it&rsquo;s all cleared
      up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! He took advantage of your
      fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now; I
      know that...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk enough to talk too
      freely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of paint,&rdquo; said
      Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No need to explain that! And it wasn&rsquo;t the paint only: the fever had been
      coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how crushed that
      boy is now, you wouldn&rsquo;t believe! &lsquo;I am not worth his little finger,&rsquo; he
      says. Yours, he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the
      lesson, the lesson you gave him to-day in the Palais de Cristal, that was
      too good for anything! You frightened him at first, you know, he nearly
      went into convulsions! You almost convinced him again of the truth of all
      that hideous nonsense, and then you suddenly&mdash;put out your tongue at
      him: &lsquo;There now, what do you make of it?&rsquo; It was perfect! He is crushed,
      annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove, it&rsquo;s what they deserve! Ah,
      that I wasn&rsquo;t there! He was hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, too, wants
      to make your acquaintance...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!... he too... but why did they put me down as mad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother.... What struck him, you
      see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it&rsquo;s clear why
      it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances... and how that
      irritated you and worked in with your illness... I am a little drunk,
      brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own... I tell you,
      he&rsquo;s mad on mental diseases. But don&rsquo;t you mind him...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For half a minute both were silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, Razumihin,&rdquo; began Raskolnikov, &ldquo;I want to tell you plainly: I&rsquo;ve
      just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died... I gave them all my money...
      and besides I&rsquo;ve just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone,
      would just the same... in fact I saw someone else there... with a
      flame-coloured feather... but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak,
      support me... we shall be at the stairs directly...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter? What&rsquo;s the matter with you?&rdquo; Razumihin asked
      anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a little giddy, but that&rsquo;s not the point, I am so sad, so sad...
      like a woman. Look, what&rsquo;s that? Look, look!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level
      of the landlady&rsquo;s door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that
      there was a light in Raskolnikov&rsquo;s garret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Queer! Nastasya, perhaps,&rdquo; observed Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago,
      but... I don&rsquo;t care! Good-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean? I am coming with you, we&rsquo;ll come in together!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say
      good-bye to you here. So give me your hand, good-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with you, Rodya?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing... come along... you shall be witness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that perhaps
      Zossimov might be right after all. &ldquo;Ah, I&rsquo;ve upset him with my chatter!&rdquo;
       he muttered to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached the door they heard voices in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door;
      he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered.
    </p>
    <p>
      His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an
      hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of them,
      though the news that they had started, were on their way and would arrive
      immediately, had been repeated to him only that day? They had spent that
      hour and a half plying Nastasya with questions. She was standing before
      them and had told them everything by now. They were beside themselves with
      alarm when they heard of his &ldquo;running away&rdquo; to-day, ill and, as they
      understood from her story, delirious! &ldquo;Good Heavens, what had become of
      him?&rdquo; Both had been weeping, both had been in anguish for that hour and a
      half.
    </p>
    <p>
      A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov&rsquo;s entrance. Both rushed to
      him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden intolerable sensation struck him
      like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them, he could
      not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed
      and cried. He took a step, tottered and fell to the ground, fainting.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s nothing, nothing!&rdquo; he cried to the mother and sister&mdash;&ldquo;it&rsquo;s
      only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was much
      better, that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming to himself, he
      is all right again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated it, he made her
      bend down to see that &ldquo;he is all right again.&rdquo; The mother and sister
      looked on him with emotion and gratitude, as their Providence. They had
      heard already from Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya during
      his illness, by this &ldquo;very competent young man,&rdquo; as Pulcheria Alexandrovna
      Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with Dounia.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"></a>
      PART III
    </h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"></a>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov got up, and sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly to
      Razumihin to cut short the flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was
      addressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand and for a
      minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking. His mother was
      alarmed by his expression. It revealed an emotion agonisingly poignant,
      and at the same time something immovable, almost insane. Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna began to cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go home... with him,&rdquo; he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumihin,
      &ldquo;good-bye till to-morrow; to-morrow everything... Is it long since you
      arrived?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This evening, Rodya,&rdquo; answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, &ldquo;the train was
      awfully late. But, Rodya, nothing would induce me to leave you now! I will
      spend the night here, near you...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t torture me!&rdquo; he said with a gesture of irritation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will stay with him,&rdquo; cried Razumihin, &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t leave him for a moment.
      Bother all my visitors! Let them rage to their hearts&rsquo; content! My uncle
      is presiding there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How, how can I thank you!&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning, once
      more pressing Razumihin&rsquo;s hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t have it! I can&rsquo;t have it!&rdquo; he repeated irritably, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t worry
      me! Enough, go away... I can&rsquo;t stand it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, mamma, come out of the room at least for a minute,&rdquo; Dounia
      whispered in dismay; &ldquo;we are distressing him, that&rsquo;s evident.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mayn&rsquo;t I look at him after three years?&rdquo; wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; he stopped them again, &ldquo;you keep interrupting me, and my ideas get
      muddled.... Have you seen Luzhin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya,
      that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit you today,&rdquo; Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna added somewhat timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... he was so kind... Dounia, I promised Luzhin I&rsquo;d throw him
      downstairs and told him to go to hell....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don&rsquo;t mean to tell us...&rdquo;
       Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her brother, waiting for what
      would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from Nastasya, so
      far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in
      painful perplexity and suspense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dounia,&rdquo; Raskolnikov continued with an effort, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want that
      marriage, so at the first opportunity to-morrow you must refuse Luzhin, so
      that we may never hear his name again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Heavens!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother, think what you are saying!&rdquo; Avdotya Romanovna began impetuously,
      but immediately checked herself. &ldquo;You are not fit to talk now, perhaps;
      you are tired,&rdquo; she added gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think I am delirious? No... You are marrying Luzhin for <i>my</i>
      sake. But I won&rsquo;t accept the sacrifice. And so write a letter before
      to-morrow, to refuse him... Let me read it in the morning and that will be
      the end of it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I can&rsquo;t do!&rdquo; the girl cried, offended, &ldquo;what right have you...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to-morrow... Don&rsquo;t you see...&rdquo; the
      mother interposed in dismay. &ldquo;Better come away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is raving,&rdquo; Razumihin cried tipsily, &ldquo;or how would he dare! To-morrow
      all this nonsense will be over... to-day he certainly did drive him away.
      That was so. And Luzhin got angry, too.... He made speeches here, wanted
      to show off his learning and he went out crest-fallen....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it&rsquo;s true?&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye till to-morrow, brother,&rdquo; said Dounia compassionately&mdash;&ldquo;let
      us go, mother... Good-bye, Rodya.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear, sister,&rdquo; he repeated after them, making a last effort, &ldquo;I am
      not delirious; this marriage is&mdash;an infamy. Let me act like a
      scoundrel, but you mustn&rsquo;t... one is enough... and though I am a
      scoundrel, I wouldn&rsquo;t own such a sister. It&rsquo;s me or Luzhin! Go now....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you&rsquo;re out of your mind! Despot!&rdquo; roared Razumihin; but Raskolnikov
      did not and perhaps could not answer. He lay down on the sofa, and turned
      to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with interest at
      Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively started at her
      glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing would induce me to go,&rdquo; she whispered in despair to Razumihin. &ldquo;I
      will stay somewhere here... escort Dounia home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll spoil everything,&rdquo; Razumihin answered in the same whisper, losing
      patience&mdash;&ldquo;come out on to the stairs, anyway. Nastasya, show a light!
      I assure you,&rdquo; he went on in a half whisper on the stairs&mdash;&ldquo;that he
      was almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand?
      The doctor himself! Even he gave way and left him, so as not to irritate
      him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once and slipped
      off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him, at this time of
      night, and will do himself some mischief....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you saying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Avdotya Romanovna can&rsquo;t possibly be left in those lodgings without
      you. Just think where you are staying! That blackguard Pyotr Petrovitch
      couldn&rsquo;t find you better lodgings... But you know I&rsquo;ve had a little to
      drink, and that&rsquo;s what makes me... swear; don&rsquo;t mind it....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I&rsquo;ll go to the landlady here,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
      beseech her to find some corner for Dounia and me for the night. I can&rsquo;t
      leave him like that, I cannot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This conversation took place on the landing just before the landlady&rsquo;s
      door. Nastasya lighted them from a step below. Razumihin was in
      extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earlier, while he was bringing
      Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it
      himself, and his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities he had
      imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he had
      drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with the
      two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading them, and giving them
      reasons with astonishing plainness of speech, and at almost every word he
      uttered, probably to emphasise his arguments, he squeezed their hands
      painfully as in a vise. He stared at Avdotya Romanovna without the least
      regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge
      bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew them all the
      closer to him. If they&rsquo;d told him to jump head foremost from the
      staircase, he would have done it without thought or hesitation in their
      service. Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really
      too eccentric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her Rodya
      she looked on his presence as providential, and was unwilling to notice
      all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya Romanovna shared her anxiety,
      and was not of timorous disposition, she could not see the glowing light
      in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded
      confidence inspired by Nastasya&rsquo;s account of her brother&rsquo;s queer friend,
      which prevented her from trying to run away from him, and to persuade her
      mother to do the same. She realised, too, that even running away was
      perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later, however, she was considerably
      reassured; it was characteristic of Razumihin that he showed his true
      nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so that people quickly saw
      the sort of man they had to deal with.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t go to the landlady, that&rsquo;s perfect nonsense!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;If you
      stay, though you are his mother, you&rsquo;ll drive him to a frenzy, and then
      goodness knows what will happen! Listen, I&rsquo;ll tell you what I&rsquo;ll do:
      Nastasya will stay with him now, and I&rsquo;ll conduct you both home, you can&rsquo;t
      be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that way.... But
      no matter! Then I&rsquo;ll run straight back here and a quarter of an hour
      later, on my word of honour, I&rsquo;ll bring you news how he is, whether he is
      asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I&rsquo;ll run home in a twinkling&mdash;I&rsquo;ve
      a lot of friends there, all drunk&mdash;I&rsquo;ll fetch Zossimov&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      the doctor who is looking after him, he is there, too, but he is not
      drunk; he is not drunk, he is never drunk! I&rsquo;ll drag him to Rodya, and
      then to you, so that you&rsquo;ll get two reports in the hour&mdash;from the
      doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself, that&rsquo;s a very different
      thing from my account of him! If there&rsquo;s anything wrong, I swear I&rsquo;ll
      bring you here myself, but, if it&rsquo;s all right, you go to bed. And I&rsquo;ll
      spend the night here, in the passage, he won&rsquo;t hear me, and I&rsquo;ll tell
      Zossimov to sleep at the landlady&rsquo;s, to be at hand. Which is better for
      him: you or the doctor? So come home then! But the landlady is out of the
      question; it&rsquo;s all right for me, but it&rsquo;s out of the question for you: she
      wouldn&rsquo;t take you, for she&rsquo;s... for she&rsquo;s a fool... She&rsquo;d be jealous on my
      account of Avdotya Romanovna and of you, too, if you want to know... of
      Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She is an absolutely, absolutely
      unaccountable character! But I am a fool, too!... No matter! Come along!
      Do you trust me? Come, do you trust me or not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us go, mother,&rdquo; said Avdotya Romanovna, &ldquo;he will certainly do what he
      has promised. He has saved Rodya already, and if the doctor really will
      consent to spend the night here, what could be better?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, you... you... understand me, because you are an angel!&rdquo;
       Razumihin cried in ecstasy, &ldquo;let us go! Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit
      with him with a light; I&rsquo;ll come in a quarter of an hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly convinced, she made no
      further resistance. Razumihin gave an arm to each and drew them down the
      stairs. He still made her uneasy, as though he was competent and
      good-natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed in
      such a condition....
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I see you think I am in such a condition!&rdquo; Razumihin broke in upon
      her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled along the pavement with huge
      steps, so that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him, a fact he did
      not observe, however. &ldquo;Nonsense! That is... I am drunk like a fool, but
      that&rsquo;s not it; I am not drunk from wine. It&rsquo;s seeing you has turned my
      head... But don&rsquo;t mind me! Don&rsquo;t take any notice: I am talking nonsense, I
      am not worthy of you.... I am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I&rsquo;ve
      taken you home, I&rsquo;ll pour a couple of pailfuls of water over my head in
      the gutter here, and then I shall be all right.... If only you knew how I
      love you both! Don&rsquo;t laugh, and don&rsquo;t be angry! You may be angry with
      anyone, but not with me! I am his friend, and therefore I am your friend,
      too, I want to be... I had a presentiment... Last year there was a
      moment... though it wasn&rsquo;t a presentiment really, for you seem to have
      fallen from heaven. And I expect I shan&rsquo;t sleep all night... Zossimov was
      afraid a little time ago that he would go mad... that&rsquo;s why he mustn&rsquo;t be
      irritated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you say?&rdquo; cried the mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did the doctor really say that?&rdquo; asked Avdotya Romanovna, alarmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but it&rsquo;s not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a
      powder, I saw it, and then your coming here.... Ah! It would have been
      better if you had come to-morrow. It&rsquo;s a good thing we went away. And in
      an hour Zossimov himself will report to you about everything. He is not
      drunk! And I shan&rsquo;t be drunk.... And what made me get so tight? Because
      they got me into an argument, damn them! I&rsquo;ve sworn never to argue! They
      talk such trash! I almost came to blows! I&rsquo;ve left my uncle to preside.
      Would you believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism and
      that&rsquo;s just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as unlike
      themselves as they can. That&rsquo;s what they regard as the highest point of
      progress. If only their nonsense were their own, but as it is...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen!&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only added
      fuel to the flames.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think?&rdquo; shouted Razumihin, louder than ever, &ldquo;you think I am
      attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk
      nonsense. That&rsquo;s man&rsquo;s one privilege over all creation. Through error you
      come to the truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any truth
      without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a hundred and fourteen.
      And a fine thing, too, in its way; but we can&rsquo;t even make mistakes on our
      own account! Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and I&rsquo;ll kiss you
      for it. To go wrong in one&rsquo;s own way is better than to go right in someone
      else&rsquo;s. In the first case you are a man, in the second you&rsquo;re no better
      than a bird. Truth won&rsquo;t escape you, but life can be cramped. There have
      been examples. And what are we doing now? In science, development,
      thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, experience and
      everything, everything, everything, we are still in the preparatory class
      at school. We prefer to live on other people&rsquo;s ideas, it&rsquo;s what we are
      used to! Am I right, am I right?&rdquo; cried Razumihin, pressing and shaking
      the two ladies&rsquo; hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, mercy, I do not know,&rdquo; cried poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes... though I don&rsquo;t agree with you in everything,&rdquo; added Avdotya
      Romanovna earnestly and at once uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand so
      painfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you say yes... well after that you... you...&rdquo; he cried in a
      transport, &ldquo;you are a fount of goodness, purity, sense... and perfection.
      Give me your hand... you give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands
      here at once, on my knees...&rdquo; and he fell on his knees on the pavement,
      fortunately at that time deserted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
      cried, greatly distressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get up, get up!&rdquo; said Dounia laughing, though she, too, was upset.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That&rsquo;s it! Enough! I
      get up and we&rsquo;ll go on! I am a luckless fool, I am unworthy of you and
      drunk... and I am ashamed.... I am not worthy to love you, but to do
      homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And
      I&rsquo;ve done homage.... Here are your lodgings, and for that alone Rodya was
      right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch away.... How dare he! how dare he
      put you in such lodgings! It&rsquo;s a scandal! Do you know the sort of people
      they take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his betrothed? Yes?
      Well, then, I&rsquo;ll tell you, your <i>fiancé</i> is a scoundrel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting...&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
      was beginning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of it,&rdquo;
       Razumihin made haste to apologise. &ldquo;But... but you can&rsquo;t be angry with me
      for speaking so! For I speak sincerely and not because... hm, hm! That
      would be disgraceful; in fact not because I&rsquo;m in... hm! Well, anyway, I
      won&rsquo;t say why, I daren&rsquo;t.... But we all saw to-day when he came in that
      that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair curled at the
      barber&rsquo;s, not because he was in such a hurry to show his wit, but because
      he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a skin-flint and a buffoon.
      That&rsquo;s evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a fool, a fool. And is
      he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see, ladies?&rdquo; he stopped suddenly
      on the way upstairs to their rooms, &ldquo;though all my friends there are
      drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash, and
      I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last, for we are on
      the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch... is not on the right path. Though
      I&rsquo;ve been calling them all sorts of names just now, I do respect them
      all... though I don&rsquo;t respect Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and
      that bullock Zossimov, because he is an honest man and knows his work. But
      enough, it&rsquo;s all said and forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let&rsquo;s go
      on. I know this corridor, I&rsquo;ve been here, there was a scandal here at
      Number 3.... Where are you here? Which number? eight? Well, lock
      yourselves in for the night, then. Don&rsquo;t let anybody in. In a quarter of
      an hour I&rsquo;ll come back with news, and half an hour later I&rsquo;ll bring
      Zossimov, you&rsquo;ll see! Good-bye, I&rsquo;ll run.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?&rdquo; said Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry yourself, mother,&rdquo; said Dounia, taking off her hat and cape.
      &ldquo;God has sent this gentleman to our aid, though he has come from a
      drinking party. We can depend on him, I assure you. And all that he has
      done for Rodya....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring myself
      to leave Rodya?... And how different, how different I had fancied our
      meeting! How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tears came into her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s not that, mother. You didn&rsquo;t see, you were crying all the time.
      He is quite unhinged by serious illness&mdash;that&rsquo;s the reason.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? And how he talked
      to you, Dounia!&rdquo; said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying
      to read her thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia&rsquo;s standing up
      for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. &ldquo;I am sure
      he will think better of it to-morrow,&rdquo; she added, probing her further.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow... about that,&rdquo; Avdotya
      Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going beyond that,
      for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss.
      Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her
      without speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumihin&rsquo;s
      return, timidly watching her daughter who walked up and down the room with
      her arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was
      thinking was a habit of Avdotya Romanovna&rsquo;s and the mother was always
      afraid to break in on her daughter&rsquo;s mood at such moments.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the latter quality was apparent in every gesture,
      though it did not in the least detract from the grace and softness of her
      movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she might be described
      as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her
      brother&rsquo;s; there was a proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at
      times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy
      pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and vigour. Her mouth was
      rather small; the full red lower lip projected a little as did her chin;
      it was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a
      peculiarly individual and almost haughty expression. Her face was always
      more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles, how well
      youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible, laughter suited her face! It was
      natural enough that a warm, open, simple-hearted, honest giant like
      Razumihin, who had never seen anyone like her and was not quite sober at
      the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides, as chance would have
      it, he saw Dounia for the first time transfigured by her love for her
      brother and her joy at meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver
      with indignation at her brother&rsquo;s insolent, cruel and ungrateful words&mdash;and
      his fate was sealed.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his drunken talk
      on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna, Raskolnikov&rsquo;s eccentric landlady,
      would be jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotya Romanovna
      on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face
      still retained traces of her former beauty; she looked much younger than
      her age, indeed, which is almost always the case with women who retain
      serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of heart to old
      age. We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the only means
      of retaining beauty to old age. Her hair had begun to grow grey and thin,
      there had long been little crow&rsquo;s foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks
      were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome
      face. She was Dounia over again, twenty years older, but without the
      projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not
      sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could
      give way and accept a great deal even of what was contrary to her
      convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle
      and the deepest convictions which nothing would induce her to cross.
    </p>
    <p>
      Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin&rsquo;s departure, there came two subdued
      but hurried knocks at the door: he had come back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t come in, I haven&rsquo;t time,&rdquo; he hastened to say when the door was
      opened. &ldquo;He sleeps like a top, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may
      sleep ten hours. Nastasya&rsquo;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&rsquo;d better
      turn in; I can see you are too tired to do anything....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he ran off down the corridor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a very competent and... devoted young man!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He seems a splendid person!&rdquo; Avdotya Romanovna replied with some warmth,
      resuming her walk up and down the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&rsquo;s promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov.
      Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s, but he came reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to
      see the ladies, mistrusting Razumihin in his exhilarated condition. But
      his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were
      really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten minutes and
      succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
      He spoke with marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme
      seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation. He did not
      utter a word on any other subject and did not display the slightest desire
      to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Remarking at
      his first entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he
      endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and addressed
      himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary
      inward satisfaction. He declared that he thought the invalid at this
      moment going on very satisfactorily. According to his observations the
      patient&rsquo;s illness was due partly to his unfortunate material surroundings
      during the last few months, but it had partly also a moral origin, &ldquo;was,
      so to speak, the product of several material and moral influences,
      anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas... and so on.&rdquo; Noticing
      stealthily that Avdotya Romanovna was following his words with close
      attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. On Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna&rsquo;s anxiously and timidly inquiring as to &ldquo;some suspicion of
      insanity,&rdquo; 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&mdash;he, Zossimov, was now particularly
      studying this interesting branch of medicine&mdash;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, &ldquo;if only all fresh shocks can be
      avoided,&rdquo; he added significantly. Then he got up, took leave with an
      impressive and affable bow, while blessings, warm gratitude, and
      entreaties were showered upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously
      offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit
      and still more so with himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!&rdquo; Razumihin said in conclusion,
      following Zossimov out. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be with you to-morrow morning as early as
      possible with my report.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna,&rdquo; remarked Zossimov,
      almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fetching? You said fetching?&rdquo; roared Razumihin and he flew at Zossimov
      and seized him by the throat. &ldquo;If you ever dare.... Do you understand? Do
      you understand?&rdquo; he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him
      against the wall. &ldquo;Do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me go, you drunken devil,&rdquo; said Zossimov, struggling and when he had
      let him go, he stared at him and went off into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin
      stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, I am an ass,&rdquo; he observed, sombre as a storm cloud, &ldquo;but
      still... you are another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming of any folly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They walked along in silence and only when they were close to
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence in considerable
      anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re a first-rate fellow, but among your other
      failings, you&rsquo;re a loose fish, that I know, and a dirty one, too. You are
      a feeble, nervous wretch, and a mass of whims, you&rsquo;re getting fat and lazy
      and can&rsquo;t deny yourself anything&mdash;and I call that dirty because it
      leads one straight into the dirt. You&rsquo;ve let yourself get so slack that I
      don&rsquo;t know how it is you are still a good, even a devoted doctor. You&mdash;a
      doctor&mdash;sleep on a feather bed and get up at night to your patients!
      In another three or four years you won&rsquo;t get up for your patients... But
      hang it all, that&rsquo;s not the point!... You are going to spend to-night in
      the landlady&rsquo;s flat here. (Hard work I&rsquo;ve had to persuade her!) And I&rsquo;ll
      be in the kitchen. So here&rsquo;s a chance for you to get to know her
      better.... It&rsquo;s not as you think! There&rsquo;s not a trace of anything of the
      sort, brother...!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t think!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue...
      and yet she&rsquo;s sighing and melting like wax, simply melting! Save me from
      her, by all that&rsquo;s unholy! She&rsquo;s most prepossessing... I&rsquo;ll repay you,
      I&rsquo;ll do anything....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Zossimov laughed more violently than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It won&rsquo;t be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her, as
      long as you sit by her and talk. You&rsquo;re a doctor, too; try curing her of
      something. I swear you won&rsquo;t regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I
      strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: &lsquo;I shed hot
      tears.&rsquo; She likes the genuine article&mdash;and well, it all began with
      that song; Now you&rsquo;re a regular performer, a <i>maître</i>, a
      Rubinstein.... I assure you, you won&rsquo;t regret it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of
      marriage, perhaps?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! Besides she is not that
      sort at all.... Tchebarov tried that....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well then, drop her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I can&rsquo;t drop her like that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why can&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I can&rsquo;t, that&rsquo;s all about it! There&rsquo;s an element of attraction
      here, brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why have you fascinated her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t fascinated her; perhaps I was fascinated myself in my folly.
      But she won&rsquo;t care a straw whether it&rsquo;s you or I, so long as somebody sits
      beside her, sighing.... I can&rsquo;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&rsquo;m not joking, I&rsquo;m in earnest,
      it&rsquo;ll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh for a whole
      year together. I talked to her once for two days at a time about the
      Prussian House of Lords (for one must talk of something)&mdash;she just
      sighed and perspired! And you mustn&rsquo;t talk of love&mdash;she&rsquo;s bashful to
      hysterics&mdash;but just let her see you can&rsquo;t tear yourself away&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      enough. It&rsquo;s fearfully comfortable; you&rsquo;re quite at home, you can read,
      sit, lie about, write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you&rsquo;re careful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what do I want with her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, I can&rsquo;t make you understand! You see, you are made for each other! I
      have often been reminded of you!... You&rsquo;ll come to it in the end! So does
      it matter whether it&rsquo;s sooner or later? There&rsquo;s the feather-bed element
      here, brother&mdash;ach! and not only that! There&rsquo;s an attraction here&mdash;here
      you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of
      the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the world, the
      essence of pancakes, of savoury fish-pies, of the evening samovar, of soft
      sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on&mdash;as snug as though
      you were dead, and yet you&rsquo;re alive&mdash;the advantages of both at once!
      Well, hang it, brother, what stuff I&rsquo;m talking, it&rsquo;s bedtime! Listen. I
      sometimes wake up at night; so I&rsquo;ll go in and look at him. But there&rsquo;s no
      need, it&rsquo;s all right. Don&rsquo;t you worry yourself, yet if you like, you might
      just look in once, too. But if you notice anything&mdash;delirium or fever&mdash;wake
      me at once. But there can&rsquo;t be....&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"></a>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
    <p>
      Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o&rsquo;clock, troubled and serious. He
      found himself confronted with many new and unlooked-for perplexities. He
      had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He
      remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly
      novel experience had befallen him, that he had received an impression
      unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognised
      clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly
      unattainable&mdash;so unattainable that he felt positively ashamed of it,
      and he hastened to pass to the other more practical cares and difficulties
      bequeathed him by that &ldquo;thrice accursed yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had shown
      himself &ldquo;base and mean,&rdquo; not only because he had been drunk, but because
      he had taken advantage of the young girl&rsquo;s position to abuse her <i>fiancé</i>
      in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual relations and
      obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And what right had he
      to criticise him in that hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for his
      opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Avdotya Romanovna would
      be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there must be something in him.
      The lodgings? But after all how could he know the character of the
      lodgings? He was furnishing a flat... Foo! how despicable it all was! And
      what justification was it that he was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even
      more degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out, &ldquo;that
      is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious heart&rdquo;! And would such a
      dream ever be permissible to him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a
      girl&mdash;he, the drunken noisy braggart of last night? Was it possible
      to imagine so absurd and cynical a juxtaposition? Razumihin blushed
      desperately at the very idea and suddenly the recollection forced itself
      vividly upon him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the
      landlady would be jealous of Avdotya Romanovna... that was simply
      intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt
      his hand and sent one of the bricks flying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of
      self-abasement, &ldquo;of course, all these infamies can never be wiped out or
      smoothed over... and so it&rsquo;s useless even to think of it, and I must go to
      them in silence and do my duty... in silence, too... and not ask
      forgiveness, and say nothing... for all is lost now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more carefully than usual. He
      hadn&rsquo;t another suit&mdash;if he had had, perhaps he wouldn&rsquo;t have put it
      on. &ldquo;I would have made a point of not putting it on.&rdquo; But in any case he
      could not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no right to offend the
      feelings of others, especially when they were in need of his assistance
      and asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully. His linen
      was always decent; in that respect he was especially clean.
    </p>
    <p>
      He washed that morning scrupulously&mdash;he got some soap from Nastasya&mdash;he
      washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to the
      question whether to shave his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya Pavlovna had
      capital razors that had been left by her late husband), the question was
      angrily answered in the negative. &ldquo;Let it stay as it is! What if they
      think that I shaved on purpose to...? They certainly would think so! Not
      on any account!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And... the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the manners
      of a pothouse; and... and even admitting that he knew he had some of the
      essentials of a gentleman... what was there in that to be proud of?
      Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that... and all the same
      (he remembered) he, too, had done little things... not exactly dishonest,
      and yet.... And what thoughts he sometimes had; hm... and to set all that
      beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he&rsquo;d make a point
      then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and he wouldn&rsquo;t care!
      He&rsquo;d be worse!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night
      in Praskovya Pavlovna&rsquo;s parlour, came in.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first.
      Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse.
      Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn&rsquo;t wake him and promised to see him
      again about eleven.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he is still at home,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;Damn it all! If one can&rsquo;t control
      one&rsquo;s patients, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether <i>he</i>
      will go to them, or whether <i>they</i> are coming here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are coming, I think,&rdquo; said Razumihin, understanding the object of
      the question, &ldquo;and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt. I&rsquo;ll
      be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I&rsquo;ve plenty to
      do besides looking after them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One thing worries me,&rdquo; interposed Razumihin, frowning. &ldquo;On the way home I
      talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him... all sorts of things... and
      amongst them that you were afraid that he... might become insane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You told the ladies so, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so
      seriously?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously? You,
      yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to him... and
      we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with your story
      about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was, perhaps, mad
      on that very point! If only I&rsquo;d known what happened then at the police
      station and that some wretch... had insulted him with this suspicion!
      Hm... I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These
      monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a mole-hill... and see their
      fancies as solid realities.... As far as I remember, it was Zametov&rsquo;s
      story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I know one case
      in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat of a little boy
      of eight, because he couldn&rsquo;t endure the jokes he made every day at table!
      And in this case his rags, the insolent police officer, the fever and this
      suspicion! All that working upon a man half frantic with hypochondria, and
      with his morbid exceptional vanity! That may well have been the
      starting-point of illness. Well, bother it all!... And, by the way, that
      Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but hm... he shouldn&rsquo;t have told all
      that last night. He is an awful chatterbox!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But whom did he tell it to? You and me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Porfiry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does that matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his mother and sister?
      Tell them to be more careful with him to-day....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They&rsquo;ll get on all right!&rdquo; Razumihin answered reluctantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn&rsquo;t
      seem to dislike him... and they haven&rsquo;t a farthing, I suppose? eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what business is it of yours?&rdquo; Razumihin cried with annoyance. &ldquo;How
      can I tell whether they&rsquo;ve a farthing? Ask them yourself and perhaps
      you&rsquo;ll find out....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Foo! what an ass you are sometimes! Last night&rsquo;s wine has not gone off
      yet.... Good-bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna from me for my night&rsquo;s
      lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my <i>bonjour</i> through
      the door; she was up at seven o&rsquo;clock, the samovar was taken into her from
      the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal interview....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At nine o&rsquo;clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev&rsquo;s
      house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They had
      risen at seven o&rsquo;clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night,
      bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had
      reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna fairly rushed at him,
      seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced timidly
      at Avdotya Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore at that moment an
      expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and
      unlooked-for respect (in place of the sneering looks and ill-disguised
      contempt he had expected), that it threw him into greater confusion than
      if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a subject for
      conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet waked,
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it, because &ldquo;she
      had something which it was very, very necessary to talk over beforehand.&rdquo;
       Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with
      them; they had waited to have it with him. Avdotya Romanovna rang the
      bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and they asked him to
      bring tea which was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way
      that the ladies were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously attacked the lodgings,
      but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in embarrassment and was greatly relieved
      by Pulcheria Alexandrovna&rsquo;s questions, which showered in a continual
      stream upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted by
      their questions, and succeeded in describing to them all the most
      important facts he knew of the last year of Raskolnikov&rsquo;s life, concluding
      with a circumstantial account of his illness. He omitted, however, many
      things, which were better omitted, including the scene at the police
      station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to his story,
      and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied his listeners, he found
      that they considered he had hardly begun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, tell me! What do you think...? Excuse me, I still don&rsquo;t know
      your name!&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dmitri Prokofitch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch... how he
      looks... on things in general now, that is, how can I explain, what are
      his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can,
      what are his hopes and, so to say, his dreams? Under what influences is he
      now? In a word, I should like...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?&rdquo; observed Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this,
      Dmitri Prokofitch!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally,&rdquo; answered Razumihin. &ldquo;I have no mother, but my uncle comes
      every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise me, even in
      appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years&rsquo; separation
      means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion for a year
      and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and haughty, and of late&mdash;and
      perhaps for a long time before&mdash;he has been suspicious and fanciful.
      He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his
      feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely.
      Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and inhumanly
      callous; it&rsquo;s as though he were alternating between two characters.
      Sometimes he is fearfully reserved! He says he is so busy that everything
      is a hindrance, and yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn&rsquo;t jeer at
      things, not because he hasn&rsquo;t the wit, but as though he hadn&rsquo;t time to
      waste on such trifles. He never listens to what is said to him. He is
      never interested in what interests other people at any given moment. He
      thinks very highly of himself and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I
      think your arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God grant it may,&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, distressed by
      Razumihin&rsquo;s account of her Rodya.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna at last.
      He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a moment and
      looked away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the table, listening
      attentively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with her arms
      folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting in a question,
      without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not listening to what
      was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white
      transparent scarf round her neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of extreme
      poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a
      queen, he felt that he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps just
      because she was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her
      surroundings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be afraid of
      every word he uttered, every gesture he made, which was very trying for a
      man who already felt diffident.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve told us a great deal that is interesting about my brother&rsquo;s
      character... and have told it impartially. I am glad. I thought that you
      were too uncritically devoted to him,&rdquo; observed Avdotya Romanovna with a
      smile. &ldquo;I think you are right that he needs a woman&rsquo;s care,&rdquo; she added
      thoughtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t say so; but I daresay you are right, only...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He loves no one and perhaps he never will,&rdquo; Razumihin declared
      decisively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean he is not capable of love?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully like your brother, in
      everything, indeed!&rdquo; he blurted out suddenly to his own surprise, but
      remembering at once what he had just before said of her brother, he turned
      as red as a crab and was overcome with confusion. Avdotya Romanovna
      couldn&rsquo;t help laughing when she looked at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may both be mistaken about Rodya,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked,
      slightly piqued. &ldquo;I am not talking of our present difficulty, Dounia. What
      Pyotr Petrovitch writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed
      may be mistaken, but you can&rsquo;t imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch, how moody and,
      so to say, capricious he is. I never could depend on what he would do when
      he was only fifteen. And I am sure that he might do something now that
      nobody else would think of doing... Well, for instance, do you know how a
      year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly killed
      me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl&mdash;what was her name&mdash;his
      landlady&rsquo;s daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you hear about that affair?&rdquo; asked Avdotya Romanovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you suppose&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly.
      &ldquo;Do you suppose that my tears, my entreaties, my illness, my possible
      death from grief, our poverty would have made him pause? No, he would
      calmly have disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn&rsquo;t that he doesn&rsquo;t
      love us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has never spoken a word of that affair to me,&rdquo; Razumihin answered
      cautiously. &ldquo;But I did hear something from Praskovya Pavlovna herself,
      though she is by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather
      strange.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what did you hear?&rdquo; both the ladies asked at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, which only
      failed to take place through the girl&rsquo;s death, was not at all to Praskovya
      Pavlovna&rsquo;s liking. They say, too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact
      I am told positively ugly... and such an invalid... and queer. But she
      seems to have had some good qualities. She must have had some good
      qualities or it&rsquo;s quite inexplicable.... She had no money either and he
      wouldn&rsquo;t have considered her money.... But it&rsquo;s always difficult to judge
      in such matters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure she was a good girl,&rdquo; Avdotya Romanovna observed briefly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I don&rsquo;t know which
      of them would have caused most misery to the other&mdash;he to her or she
      to him,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began tentatively
      questioning him about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin,
      hesitating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to the latter&rsquo;s
      annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently caused her
      uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin described it in detail again,
      but this time he added his own conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov
      for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not seeking to excuse him on
      the score of his illness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had planned it before his illness,&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so, too,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air. But
      she was very much surprised at hearing Razumihin express himself so
      carefully and even with a certain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch. Avdotya
      Romanovna, too, was struck by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovitch?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
      could not resist asking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can have no other opinion of your daughter&rsquo;s future husband,&rdquo; Razumihin
      answered firmly and with warmth, &ldquo;and I don&rsquo;t say it simply from vulgar
      politeness, but because... simply because Avdotya Romanovna has of her own
      free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so rudely of him last
      night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and... mad besides; yes,
      mad, crazy, I lost my head completely... and this morning I am ashamed of
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not
      break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment they began
      to speak of Luzhin.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, Dmitri Prokofitch,&rdquo; she began. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be perfectly open with
      Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, mother,&rdquo; said Avdotya Romanovna emphatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is what it is,&rdquo; she began in haste, as though the permission to
      speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her mind. &ldquo;Very early this
      morning we got a note from Pyotr Petrovitch in reply to our letter
      announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station, you know;
      instead of that he sent a servant to bring us the address of these
      lodgings and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would be
      here himself this morning. But this morning this note came from him. You&rsquo;d
      better read it yourself; there is one point in it which worries me very
      much... you will soon see what that is, and... tell me your candid
      opinion, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya&rsquo;s character better than anyone
      and no one can advise us better than you can. Dounia, I must tell you,
      made her decision at once, but I still don&rsquo;t feel sure how to act and I...
      I&rsquo;ve been waiting for your opinion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous evening and read as
      follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to inform you that
      owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered unable to meet you at the
      railway station; I sent a very competent person with the same object in
      view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honour of an interview with you
      to-morrow morning by business in the Senate that does not admit of delay,
      and also that I may not intrude on your family circle while you are
      meeting your son, and Avdotya Romanovna her brother. I shall have the
      honour of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings not
      later than to-morrow evening at eight o&rsquo;clock precisely, and herewith I
      venture to present my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that
      Rodion Romanovitch may not be present at our interview&mdash;as he offered
      me a gross and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my visit to him in
      his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally
      an indispensable and circumstantial explanation upon a certain point, in
      regard to which I wish to learn your own interpretation. I have the honour
      to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet
      Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately and then
      you have only yourself to blame. I write on the assumption that Rodion
      Romanovitch who appeared so ill at my visit, suddenly recovered two hours
      later and so, being able to leave the house, may visit you also. I was
      confirmed in that belief by the testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of
      a drunken man who was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a
      young woman of notorious behaviour, he gave twenty-five roubles on the
      pretext of the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what pains you
      were at to raise that sum. Herewith expressing my special respect to your
      estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectful
      homage of
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your humble servant,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;P. LUZHIN.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?&rdquo; began Pulcheria Alexandrovna,
      almost weeping. &ldquo;How can I ask Rodya not to come? Yesterday he insisted so
      earnestly on our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch and now we are ordered not to
      receive Rodya! He will come on purpose if he knows, and... what will
      happen then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Act on Avdotya Romanovna&rsquo;s decision,&rdquo; Razumihin answered calmly at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear me! She says... goodness knows what she says, she doesn&rsquo;t
      explain her object! She says that it would be best, at least, not that it
      would be best, but that it&rsquo;s absolutely necessary that Rodya should make a
      point of being here at eight o&rsquo;clock and that they must meet.... I didn&rsquo;t
      want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him from coming by some
      stratagem with your help... because he is so irritable.... Besides I don&rsquo;t
      understand about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he
      could have given the daughter all the money... which...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which cost you such sacrifice, mother,&rdquo; put in Avdotya Romanovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was not himself yesterday,&rdquo; Razumihin said thoughtfully, &ldquo;if you only
      knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there was sense
      in it too.... Hm! He did say something, as we were going home yesterday
      evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I didn&rsquo;t understand a word....
      But last night, I myself...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him ourselves and there I
      assure you we shall see at once what&rsquo;s to be done. Besides, it&rsquo;s getting
      late&mdash;good heavens, it&rsquo;s past ten,&rdquo; she cried looking at a splendid
      gold enamelled watch which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain,
      and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress. &ldquo;A present
      from her <i>fiancé</i>,&rdquo; thought Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must start, Dounia, we must start,&rdquo; her mother cried in a flutter. &ldquo;He
      will be thinking we are still angry after yesterday, from our coming so
      late. Merciful heavens!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle;
      Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as Razumihin noticed, were not
      merely shabby but had holes in them, and yet this evident poverty gave the
      two ladies an air of special dignity, which is always found in people who
      know how to wear poor clothes. Razumihin looked reverently at Dounia and
      felt proud of escorting her. &ldquo;The queen who mended her stockings in
      prison,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;must have looked then every inch a queen and even
      more a queen than at sumptuous banquets and levées.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, &ldquo;little did I think that I
      should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodya! I am afraid,
      Dmitri Prokofitch,&rdquo; she added, glancing at him timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid, mother,&rdquo; said Dounia, kissing her, &ldquo;better have faith in
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven&rsquo;t slept all night,&rdquo; exclaimed
      the poor woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      They came out into the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of
      Marfa Petrovna... she was all in white... she came up to me, took my hand,
      and shook her head at me, but so sternly as though she were blaming me....
      Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don&rsquo;t know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that
      Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I didn&rsquo;t know; who is Marfa Petrovna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She died suddenly; and only fancy...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Afterwards, mamma,&rdquo; put in Dounia. &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t know who Marfa Petrovna
      is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you don&rsquo;t know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us.
      Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don&rsquo;t know what I am thinking about these
      last few days. I look upon you really as a providence for us, and so I
      took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a
      relation.... Don&rsquo;t be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what&rsquo;s the
      matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I bruised it,&rdquo; muttered Razumihin overjoyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds fault
      with me.... But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he
      is awake? Does this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you
      say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him
      with my... weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri Prokofitch, how am I to treat
      him? I feel quite distracted, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t question him too much about anything if you see him frown; don&rsquo;t
      ask him too much about his health; he doesn&rsquo;t like that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here are the
      stairs.... What an awful staircase!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, you are quite pale, don&rsquo;t distress yourself, darling,&rdquo; said
      Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes she added: &ldquo;He ought to be
      happy at seeing you, and you are tormenting yourself so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait, I&rsquo;ll peep in and see whether he has waked up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, and when they
      reached the landlady&rsquo;s door on the fourth storey, they noticed that her
      door was a tiny crack open and that two keen black eyes were watching them
      from the darkness within. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut
      with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"></a>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is well, quite well!&rdquo; Zossimov cried cheerfully as they entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as
      before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner, fully
      dressed and carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for some time
      past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed to follow the
      visitors in and stayed to listen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his condition the day
      before, but he was still pale, listless, and sombre. He looked like a
      wounded man or one who has undergone some terrible physical suffering. His
      brows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke
      little and reluctantly, as though performing a duty, and there was a
      restlessness in his movements.
    </p>
    <p>
      He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete
      the impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. The pale,
      sombre face lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered,
      but this only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its
      listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of suffering
      remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying his patient with all the
      zest of a young doctor beginning to practise, noticed in him no joy at the
      arrival of his mother and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden
      determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw
      later that almost every word of the following conversation seemed to touch
      on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same time he marvelled at
      the power of controlling himself and hiding his feelings in a patient who
      the previous day had, like a monomaniac, fallen into a frenzy at the
      slightest word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, giving
      his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna
      radiant at once. &ldquo;And I don&rsquo;t say this <i>as I did yesterday</i>,&rdquo; he
      said, addressing Razumihin, with a friendly pressure of his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day,&rdquo; began Zossimov, much
      delighted at the ladies&rsquo; entrance, for he had not succeeded in keeping up
      a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. &ldquo;In another three or four
      days, if he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he
      was a month ago, or two... or perhaps even three. This has been coming on
      for a long while.... eh? Confess, now, that it has been perhaps your own
      fault?&rdquo; he added, with a tentative smile, as though still afraid of
      irritating him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very possible,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should say, too,&rdquo; continued Zossimov with zest, &ldquo;that your complete
      recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you, I
      should like to impress upon you that it is essential to avoid the
      elementary, so to speak, fundamental causes tending to produce your morbid
      condition: in that case you will be cured, if not, it will go from bad to
      worse. These fundamental causes I don&rsquo;t know, but they must be known to
      you. You are an intelligent man, and must have observed yourself, of
      course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement coincides with your
      leaving the university. You must not be left without occupation, and so,
      work and a definite aim set before you might, I fancy, be very
      beneficial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes; you are perfectly right.... I will make haste and return to the
      university: and then everything will go smoothly....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before
      the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified, when, glancing at his
      patient, he observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted an
      instant, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov,
      especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! he saw you last night?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked, as though startled.
      &ldquo;Then you have not slept either after your journey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o&rsquo;clock. Dounia and I never go to bed
      before two at home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know how to thank him either,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on, suddenly
      frowning and looking down. &ldquo;Setting aside the question of payment&mdash;forgive
      me for referring to it (he turned to Zossimov)&mdash;I really don&rsquo;t know
      what I have done to deserve such special attention from you! I simply
      don&rsquo;t understand it... and... and... it weighs upon me, indeed, because I
      don&rsquo;t understand it. I tell you so candidly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be irritated.&rdquo; Zossimov forced himself to laugh. &ldquo;Assume that you
      are my first patient&mdash;well&mdash;we fellows just beginning to
      practise love our first patients as if they were our children, and some
      almost fall in love with them. And, of course, I am not rich in patients.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say nothing about him,&rdquo; added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin,
      &ldquo;though he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood to-day,
      are you?&rdquo; shouted Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for you, mother, I don&rsquo;t dare to speak,&rdquo; he went on, as though
      repeating a lesson learned by heart. &ldquo;It is only to-day that I have been
      able to realise a little how distressed you must have been here yesterday,
      waiting for me to come back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister,
      smiling without a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real
      unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at once, and warmly pressed his hand,
      overjoyed and thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her since
      their dispute the previous day. The mother&rsquo;s face lighted up with ecstatic
      happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. &ldquo;Yes,
      that is what I love him for,&rdquo; Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to
      himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. &ldquo;He has these movements.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how well he does it all,&rdquo; the mother was thinking to herself. &ldquo;What
      generous impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he put an end to
      all the misunderstanding with his sister&mdash;simply by holding out his
      hand at the right minute and looking at her like that.... And what fine
      eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is!... He is even better looking
      than Dounia.... But, good heavens, what a suit&mdash;how terribly he&rsquo;s
      dressed!... Vasya, the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanitch&rsquo;s shop, is better
      dressed! I could rush at him and hug him... weep over him&mdash;but I am
      afraid.... Oh, dear, he&rsquo;s so strange! He&rsquo;s talking kindly, but I&rsquo;m afraid!
      Why, what am I afraid of?...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Rodya, you wouldn&rsquo;t believe,&rdquo; she began suddenly, in haste to answer
      his words to her, &ldquo;how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now that it&rsquo;s
      all over and done with and we are quite happy again&mdash;I can tell you.
      Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that
      woman&mdash;ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya!... She told us at
      once that you were lying in a high fever and had just run away from the
      doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets. You
      can&rsquo;t imagine how we felt! I couldn&rsquo;t help thinking of the tragic end of
      Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father&rsquo;s&mdash;you can&rsquo;t remember
      him, Rodya&mdash;who ran out in the same way in a high fever and fell into
      the well in the court-yard and they couldn&rsquo;t pull him out till next day.
      Of course, we exaggerated things. We were on the point of rushing to find
      Pyotr Petrovitch to ask him to help.... Because we were alone, utterly
      alone,&rdquo; she said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it
      was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, although &ldquo;we
      are quite happy again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes.... Of course it&rsquo;s very annoying....&rdquo; Raskolnikov muttered in
      reply, but with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Dounia gazed
      at him in perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else was it I wanted to say?&rdquo; He went on trying to recollect. &ldquo;Oh,
      yes; mother, and you too, Dounia, please don&rsquo;t think that I didn&rsquo;t mean to
      come and see you to-day and was waiting for you to come first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you saying, Rodya?&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too, was
      surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he answering us as a duty?&rdquo; Dounia wondered. &ldquo;Is he being reconciled
      and asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating a
      lesson?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing
      to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her... Nastasya... to wash out
      the blood... I&rsquo;ve only just dressed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blood! What blood?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing&mdash;don&rsquo;t be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about
      yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced upon a man who had been run over...
      a clerk...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Delirious? But you remember everything!&rdquo; Razumihin interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. &ldquo;I remember
      everything even to the slightest detail, and yet&mdash;why I did that and
      went there and said that, I can&rsquo;t clearly explain now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A familiar phenomenon,&rdquo; interposed Zossimov, &ldquo;actions are sometimes
      performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the
      actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      like a dream.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps it&rsquo;s a good thing really that he should think me almost a
      madman,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too,&rdquo; observed Dounia,
      looking uneasily at Zossimov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is some truth in your observation,&rdquo; the latter replied. &ldquo;In that
      sense we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen, but with the
      slight difference that the deranged are somewhat madder, for we must draw
      a line. A normal man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens&mdash;perhaps
      hundreds of thousands&mdash;hardly one is to be met with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the word &ldquo;madman,&rdquo; carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter on his
      favourite subject, everyone frowned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a
      strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!&rdquo; Razumihin
      cried hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. &ldquo;Oh... I got spattered with blood
      helping to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mamma, I did an
      unpardonable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away
      all the money you sent me... to his wife for the funeral. She&rsquo;s a widow
      now, in consumption, a poor creature... three little children, starving...
      nothing in the house... there&rsquo;s a daughter, too... perhaps you&rsquo;d have
      given it yourself if you&rsquo;d seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit,
      especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others one
      must have the right to do it, or else <i>Crevez, chiens, si vous n&rsquo;êtes
      pas contents</i>.&rdquo; He laughed, &ldquo;That&rsquo;s right, isn&rsquo;t it, Dounia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s not,&rdquo; answered Dounia firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! you, too, have ideals,&rdquo; he muttered, looking at her almost with
      hatred, and smiling sarcastically. &ldquo;I ought to have considered that....
      Well, that&rsquo;s praiseworthy, and it&rsquo;s better for you... and if you reach a
      line you won&rsquo;t overstep, you will be unhappy... and if you overstep it,
      maybe you will be still unhappier.... But all that&rsquo;s nonsense,&rdquo; he added
      irritably, vexed at being carried away. &ldquo;I only meant to say that I beg
      your forgiveness, mother,&rdquo; he concluded, shortly and abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good,&rdquo;
       said his mother, delighted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be too sure,&rdquo; he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is as though they were afraid of me,&rdquo; Raskolnikov was thinking to
      himself, looking askance at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna
      was indeed growing more timid the longer she kept silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much,&rdquo; flashed through his
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
      suddenly blurted out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What Marfa Petrovna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, mercy on us&mdash;Marfa Petrovna Svidrigaïlov. I wrote you so much
      about her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A-a-h! Yes, I remember.... So she&rsquo;s dead! Oh, really?&rdquo; he roused himself
      suddenly, as if waking up. &ldquo;What did she die of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only imagine, quite suddenly,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered hurriedly,
      encouraged by his curiosity. &ldquo;On the very day I was sending you that
      letter! Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been the cause
      of her death. They say he beat her dreadfully.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, were they on such bad terms?&rdquo; he asked, addressing his sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was always very
      patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven years of their married
      life he gave way to her, too much so indeed, in many cases. All of a
      sudden he seems to have lost patience.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven
      years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, he&rsquo;s an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!&rdquo; Dounia
      answered, almost with a shudder, knitting her brows, and sinking into
      thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That had happened in the morning,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on
      hurriedly. &ldquo;And directly afterwards she ordered the horses to be harnessed
      to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to
      the town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am told....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After the beating?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was always her... habit; and immediately after dinner, so as not to
      be late in starting, she went to the bath-house.... You see, she was
      undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and
      she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got
      into the water when she suddenly had a stroke!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think so,&rdquo; said Zossimov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did he beat her badly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does that matter!&rdquo; put in Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H&rsquo;m! But I don&rsquo;t know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother,&rdquo; said
      Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite of himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my dear, I don&rsquo;t know what to talk about,&rdquo; broke from Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, are you all afraid of me?&rdquo; he asked, with a constrained smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s certainly true,&rdquo; said Dounia, looking directly and sternly at her
      brother. &ldquo;Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the
      stairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His face worked, as though in convulsion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don&rsquo;t be angry, please, Rodya.... Why
      did you say that, Dounia?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed&mdash;&ldquo;You
      see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the train, how we should
      meet, how we should talk over everything together.... And I was so happy,
      I did not notice the journey! But what am I saying? I am happy now.... You
      should not, Dounia.... I am happy now&mdash;simply in seeing you,
      Rodya....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, mother,&rdquo; he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing
      her hand. &ldquo;We shall have time to speak freely of everything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned
      pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly
      chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him
      that he had just told a fearful lie&mdash;that he would never now be able
      to speak freely of everything&mdash;that he would never again be able to
      <i>speak</i> of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such
      that for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and
      not looking at anyone walked towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you about?&rdquo; cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. They were all
      looking at him in perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what are you all so dull for?&rdquo; he shouted, suddenly and quite
      unexpectedly. &ldquo;Do say something! What&rsquo;s the use of sitting like this?
      Come, do speak. Let us talk.... We meet together and sit in silence....
      Come, anything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning again,&rdquo;
       said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter, Rodya?&rdquo; asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing! I remembered something,&rdquo; he answered, and suddenly laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if you remembered something; that&rsquo;s all right!... I was beginning
      to think...&rdquo; muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. &ldquo;It is time for
      me to be off. I will look in again perhaps... if I can...&rdquo; He made his
      bows, and went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What an excellent man!&rdquo; observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent,&rdquo; Raskolnikov began,
      suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he had not
      shown till then. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t remember where I met him before my illness.... I
      believe I have met him somewhere&mdash;&mdash;... And this is a good man,
      too,&rdquo; he nodded at Razumihin. &ldquo;Do you like him, Dounia?&rdquo; he asked her; and
      suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very much,&rdquo; answered Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Foo!&mdash;what a pig you are!&rdquo; Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible
      confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled
      faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you off to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don&rsquo;t go.
      What&rsquo;s the time? Is it twelve o&rsquo;clock? What a pretty watch you have got,
      Dounia. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a present from Marfa Petrovna,&rdquo; answered Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And a very expensive one!&rdquo; added Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like that sort,&rdquo; said Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So it is not a present from her <i>fiancé</i>,&rdquo; thought Razumihin, and
      was unreasonably delighted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought it was Luzhin&rsquo;s present,&rdquo; observed Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and wanted to get
      married?&rdquo; he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted by
      the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia and Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H&rsquo;m, yes. What shall I tell you? I don&rsquo;t remember much indeed. She was
      such a sickly girl,&rdquo; he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again.
      &ldquo;Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was always
      dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she began
      talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very well. She
      was an ugly little thing. I really don&rsquo;t know what drew me to her then&mdash;I
      think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or
      hunchback, I believe I should have liked her better still,&rdquo; he smiled
      dreamily. &ldquo;Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it was not only spring delirium,&rdquo; said Dounia, with warm feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not hear or did not
      understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up, went up
      to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place and sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You love her even now?&rdquo; said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her? Now? Oh, yes.... You ask about her? No... that&rsquo;s all now, as it
      were, in another world... and so long ago. And indeed everything happening
      here seems somehow far away.&rdquo; He looked attentively at them. &ldquo;You, now...
      I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away... but, goodness
      knows why we are talking of that! And what&rsquo;s the use of asking about it?&rdquo;
       he added with annoyance, and biting his nails, fell into dreamy silence
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It&rsquo;s like a tomb,&rdquo; said
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. &ldquo;I am
      sure it&rsquo;s quite half through your lodging you have become so melancholy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lodging,&rdquo; he answered, listlessly. &ldquo;Yes, the lodging had a great deal
      to do with it.... I thought that, too.... If only you knew, though, what a
      strange thing you said just now, mother,&rdquo; he said, laughing strangely.
    </p>
    <p>
      A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister, with
      him after three years&rsquo; absence, this intimate tone of conversation, in
      face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything, would
      have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent matter
      which must be settled one way or the other that day&mdash;so he had
      decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, as a means of
      escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, Dounia,&rdquo; he began, gravely and drily, &ldquo;of course I beg your
      pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to tell you again that I
      do not withdraw from my chief point. It is me or Luzhin. If I am a
      scoundrel, you must not be. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease at
      once to look on you as a sister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
      cried, mournfully. &ldquo;And why do you call yourself a scoundrel? I can&rsquo;t bear
      it. You said the same yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother,&rdquo; Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. &ldquo;In all this
      there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at night, and found out
      the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself
      to someone and for someone. That is not the case at all. I am simply
      marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for me. Though, of
      course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to my family. But
      that is not the chief motive for my decision....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is lying,&rdquo; he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively.
      &ldquo;Proud creature! She won&rsquo;t admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too
      haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate.... Oh,
      how I... hate them all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In fact,&rdquo; continued Dounia, &ldquo;I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because of
      two evils I choose the less. I intend to do honestly all he expects of me,
      so I am not deceiving him.... Why did you smile just now?&rdquo; She, too,
      flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All?&rdquo; he asked, with a malignant grin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s
      courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too
      well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too.... Why are you laughing
      again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. You are
      intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold your
      own against me.... You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked
      with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you
      are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not true. I am not lying,&rdquo; cried Dounia, losing her composure. &ldquo;I
      would not marry him if I were not convinced that he esteems me and thinks
      highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I
      can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it this very
      day... and such a marriage is not a vileness, as you say! And even if you
      were right, if I really had determined on a vile action, is it not
      merciless on your part to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a
      heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is despotism; it is tyranny.
      If I ruin anyone, it is only myself.... I am not committing a murder. Why
      do you look at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what&rsquo;s
      the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! You have made him faint,&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, nonsense! It&rsquo;s nothing. A little giddiness&mdash;not fainting.
      You have fainting on the brain. H&rsquo;m, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In
      what way will you get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him,
      and that he... esteems you, as you said. I think you said to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s letter,&rdquo; said Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He took
      it with great interest, but, before opening it, he suddenly looked with a
      sort of wonder at Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is strange,&rdquo; he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. &ldquo;What am
      I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some
      time at his sister, as though puzzled. He opened the letter at last, still
      with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then, slowly and
      attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected something
      particular.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What surprises me,&rdquo; he began, after a short pause, handing the letter to
      his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, &ldquo;is that he is a
      business man, a lawyer, and his conversation is pretentious indeed, and
      yet he writes such an uneducated letter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They all started. They had expected something quite different.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But they all write like that, you know,&rdquo; Razumihin observed, abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you read it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We showed him, Rodya. We... consulted him just now,&rdquo; Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just the jargon of the courts,&rdquo; Razumihin put in. &ldquo;Legal documents
      are written like that to this day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Legal? Yes, it&rsquo;s just legal&mdash;business language&mdash;not so very
      uneducated, and not quite educated&mdash;business language!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap
      education, he is proud indeed of having made his own way,&rdquo; Avdotya
      Romanovna observed, somewhat offended by her brother&rsquo;s tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if he&rsquo;s proud of it, he has reason, I don&rsquo;t deny it. You seem to be
      offended, sister, at my making only such a frivolous criticism on the
      letter, and to think that I speak of such trifling matters on purpose to
      annoy you. It is quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style
      occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things stand. There is
      one expression, &lsquo;blame yourselves&rsquo; put in very significantly and plainly,
      and there is besides a threat that he will go away at once if I am
      present. That threat to go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon you
      both if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after summoning you to
      Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can one resent such an expression
      from Luzhin, as we should if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had written it,
      or Zossimov, or one of us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no,&rdquo; answered Dounia, with more animation. &ldquo;I saw clearly that it was
      too naïvely expressed, and that perhaps he simply has no skill in
      writing... that is a true criticism, brother. I did not expect, indeed...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than perhaps he
      intended. But I must disillusion you a little. There is one expression in
      the letter, one slander about me, and rather a contemptible one. I gave
      the money last night to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed with
      trouble, and not &lsquo;on the pretext of the funeral,&rsquo; but simply to pay for
      the funeral, and not to the daughter&mdash;a young woman, as he writes, of
      notorious behaviour (whom I saw last night for the first time in my life)&mdash;but
      to the widow. In all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to
      raise dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon, that
      is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and with a very naïve
      eagerness. He is a man of intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence
      is not enough. It all shows the man and... I don&rsquo;t think he has a great
      esteem for you. I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely
      wish for your good...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only awaiting
      the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then what is your decision, Rodya?&rdquo; asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was
      more uneasy than ever at the sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What decision?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be with us this
      evening, and that he will go away if you come. So will you... come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you first, if you are
      not offended by such a request; and secondly, by Dounia, if she, too, is
      not offended. I will do what you think best,&rdquo; he added, drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her,&rdquo; Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna hastened to declare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to be with us at
      this interview,&rdquo; said Dounia. &ldquo;Will you come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o&rsquo;clock,&rdquo; she said,
      addressing Razumihin. &ldquo;Mother, I am inviting him, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided,&rdquo; added Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna, &ldquo;so be it. I shall feel easier myself. I do not like
      concealment and deception. Better let us have the whole truth.... Pyotr
      Petrovitch may be angry or not, now!&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"></a>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      At that moment the door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into
      the room, looking timidly about her. Everyone turned towards her with
      surprise and curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognise her.
      It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her yesterday for the
      first time, but at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such a
      dress, that his memory retained a very different image of her. Now she was
      a modestly and poorly-dressed young girl, very young, indeed, almost like
      a child, with a modest and refined manner, with a candid but somewhat
      frightened-looking face. She was wearing a very plain indoor dress, and
      had on a shabby old-fashioned hat, but she still carried a parasol.
      Unexpectedly finding the room full of people, she was not so much
      embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like a little child.
      She was even about to retreat. &ldquo;Oh... it&rsquo;s you!&rdquo; said Raskolnikov,
      extremely astonished, and he, too, was confused. He at once recollected
      that his mother and sister knew through Luzhin&rsquo;s letter of &ldquo;some young
      woman of notorious behaviour.&rdquo; He had only just been protesting against
      Luzhin&rsquo;s calumny and declaring that he had seen the girl last night for
      the first time, and suddenly she had walked in. He remembered, too, that
      he had not protested against the expression &ldquo;of notorious behaviour.&rdquo; All
      this passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brain, but looking at her
      more intently, he saw that the humiliated creature was so humiliated that
      he felt suddenly sorry for her. When she made a movement to retreat in
      terror, it sent a pang to his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not expect you,&rdquo; he said, hurriedly, with a look that made her
      stop. &ldquo;Please sit down. You come, no doubt, from Katerina Ivanovna. Allow
      me&mdash;not there. Sit here....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At Sonia&rsquo;s entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on one of
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s three chairs, close to the door, got up to allow her to
      enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa where
      Zossimov had been sitting, but feeling that the sofa which served him as a
      bed, was too <i>familiar</i> a place, he hurriedly motioned her to
      Razumihin&rsquo;s chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You sit here,&rdquo; he said to Razumihin, putting him on the sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked timidly at the two
      ladies. It was evidently almost inconceivable to herself that she could
      sit down beside them. At the thought of it, she was so frightened that she
      hurriedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I... I... have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you,&rdquo; she
      began falteringly. &ldquo;I come from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to
      send. Katerina Ivanovna told me to beg you... to be at the service... in
      the morning... at Mitrofanievsky... and then... to us... to her... to do
      her the honour... she told me to beg you...&rdquo; Sonia stammered and ceased
      speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will try, certainly, most certainly,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. He, too,
      stood up, and he, too, faltered and could not finish his sentence. &ldquo;Please
      sit down,&rdquo; he said, suddenly. &ldquo;I want to talk to you. You are perhaps in a
      hurry, but please, be so kind, spare me two minutes,&rdquo; and he drew up a
      chair for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried, frightened
      look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes. Raskolnikov&rsquo;s pale face
      flushed, a shudder passed over him, his eyes glowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; he said, firmly and insistently, &ldquo;this is Sofya Semyonovna
      Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was run
      over yesterday before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly screwed up her eyes.
      In spite of her embarrassment before Rodya&rsquo;s urgent and challenging look,
      she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dounia gazed gravely and
      intently into the poor girl&rsquo;s face, and scrutinised her with perplexity.
      Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes again, but was
      more embarrassed than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wanted to ask you,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, hastily, &ldquo;how things were
      arranged yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, that was all right... it was too evident, the cause of death... they
      did not worry us... only the lodgers are angry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At the body&rsquo;s remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that, to-day,
      they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until to-morrow. At
      first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it&rsquo;s
      necessary...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-day, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church to-morrow for the
      service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is giving a funeral lunch?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... just a little.... She told me to thank you very much for helping
      us yesterday. But for you, we should have had nothing for the funeral.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with an effort, she
      controlled herself, looking down again.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her carefully. She had a
      thin, very thin, pale little face, rather irregular and angular, with a
      sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called pretty, but her
      blue eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such a
      kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help being
      attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had another peculiar
      characteristic. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked almost a little
      girl&mdash;almost a child. And in some of her gestures, this childishness
      seemed almost absurd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such small means? Does
      she even mean to have a funeral lunch?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked, persistently
      keeping up the conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The coffin will be plain, of course... and everything will be plain, so
      it won&rsquo;t cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it all out, so
      that there will be enough left... and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious
      it should be so. You know one can&rsquo;t... it&rsquo;s a comfort to her... she is
      like that, you know....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand, I understand... of course... why do you look at my room
      like that? My mother has just said it is like a tomb.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You gave us everything yesterday,&rdquo; Sonia said suddenly, in reply, in a
      loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down in confusion. Her lips and
      chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once by
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s poor surroundings, and now these words broke out
      spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Dounia&rsquo;s eyes, and
      even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodya,&rdquo; she said, getting up, &ldquo;we shall have dinner together, of course.
      Come, Dounia.... And you, Rodya, had better go for a little walk, and then
      rest and lie down before you come to see us.... I am afraid we have
      exhausted you....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, I&rsquo;ll come,&rdquo; he answered, getting up fussily. &ldquo;But I have
      something to see to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But surely you will have dinner together?&rdquo; cried Razumihin, looking in
      surprise at Raskolnikov. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, I am coming... of course, of course! And you stay a minute. You
      do not want him just now, do you, mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of dining
      with us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please do,&rdquo; added Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all
      strangely embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like saying good-bye.
      Good-bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said good-bye again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it somehow failed to
      come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and following her mother
      out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a
      hurried, frightened curtsy. There was a look of poignant discomfort in her
      face, as though Avdotya Romanovna&rsquo;s courtesy and attention were oppressive
      and painful to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dounia, good-bye,&rdquo; called Raskolnikov, in the passage. &ldquo;Give me your
      hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?&rdquo; said Dounia, turning
      warmly and awkwardly to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, give it to me again.&rdquo; And he squeezed her fingers warmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went off quite happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, that&rsquo;s capital,&rdquo; he said to Sonia, going back and looking brightly
      at her. &ldquo;God give peace to the dead, the living have still to live. That
      is right, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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....
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens, Dounia,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they were in
      the street, &ldquo;I really feel relieved myself at coming away&mdash;more at
      ease. How little did I think yesterday in the train that I could ever be
      glad of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don&rsquo;t you see it? Perhaps
      worrying about us upset him. We must be patient, and much, much can be
      forgiven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you were not very patient!&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up,
      hotly and jealously. &ldquo;Do you know, Dounia, I was looking at you two. You
      are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You are
      both melancholy, both morose and hot-tempered, both haughty and both
      generous.... Surely he can&rsquo;t be an egoist, Dounia. Eh? When I think of
      what is in store for us this evening, my heart sinks!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr Petrovitch
      breaks it off?&rdquo; poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He won&rsquo;t be worth much if he does,&rdquo; answered Dounia, sharply and
      contemptuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We did well to come away,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in. &ldquo;He
      was in a hurry about some business or other. If he gets out and has a
      breath of air... it is fearfully close in his room.... But where is one to
      get a breath of air here? The very streets here feel like shut-up rooms.
      Good heavens! what a town!... stay... this side... they will crush you&mdash;carrying
      something. Why, it is a piano they have got, I declare... how they
      push!... I am very much afraid of that young woman, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What young woman, mother?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it or not, but as
      soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief cause
      of the trouble....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing of the sort!&rdquo; cried Dounia, in vexation. &ldquo;What nonsense, with
      your presentiments, mother! He only made her acquaintance the evening
      before, and he did not know her when she came in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you will see.... She worries me; but you will see, you will see! I
      was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes. I could scarcely
      sit still in my chair when he began introducing her, do you remember? It
      seems so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like that about her, and he
      introduces her to us&mdash;to you! So he must think a great deal of her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;People will write anything. We were talked about and written about, too.
      Have you forgotten? I am sure that she is a good girl, and that it is all
      nonsense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God grant it may be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer,&rdquo; Dounia snapped out,
      suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not resumed.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you what I want with you,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, drawing
      Razumihin to the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming,&rdquo; Sonia said
      hurriedly, preparing to depart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets. You are not in our way.
      I want to have another word or two with you. Listen!&rdquo; he turned suddenly
      to Razumihin again. &ldquo;You know that... what&rsquo;s his name... Porfiry
      Petrovitch?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think so! He is a relation. Why?&rdquo; added the latter, with
      interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is not he managing that case... you know, about that murder?... You were
      speaking about it yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... well?&rdquo; Razumihin&rsquo;s eyes opened wide.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have some
      pledges there, too&mdash;trifles&mdash;a ring my sister gave me as a
      keepsake when I left home, and my father&rsquo;s silver watch&mdash;they are
      only worth five or six roubles altogether... but I value them. So what am
      I to do now? I do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was
      quaking just now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, when we spoke
      of Dounia&rsquo;s watch. It is the only thing of father&rsquo;s left us. She would be
      ill if it were lost. You know what women are. So tell me what to do. I
      know I ought to have given notice at the police station, but would it not
      be better to go straight to Porfiry? Eh? What do you think? The matter
      might be settled more quickly. You see, mother may ask for it before
      dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry,&rdquo; Razumihin
      shouted in extraordinary excitement. &ldquo;Well, how glad I am. Let us go at
      once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, let us go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he will be very, very glad to make your acquaintance. I have often
      talked to him of you at different times. I was speaking of you yesterday.
      Let us go. So you knew the old woman? So that&rsquo;s it! It is all turning out
      splendidly.... Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sofya Semyonovna,&rdquo; corrected Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Sofya Semyonovna, this is my
      friend Razumihin, and he is a good man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you have to go now,&rdquo; Sonia was beginning, not looking at Razumihin at
      all, and still more embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us go,&rdquo; decided Raskolnikov. &ldquo;I will come to you to-day, Sofya
      Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and avoided her eyes.
      Sonia gave her address, and flushed as she did so. They all went out
      together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you lock up?&rdquo; asked Razumihin, following him on to the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;I have been meaning to buy a lock for
      these two years. People are happy who have no need of locks,&rdquo; he said,
      laughing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did you find me, by the
      way?&rdquo; he added, as though he wanted to say something quite different. He
      wanted to look at her soft clear eyes, but this was not easy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is your sister?
      Did I give her the address?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, had you forgotten?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I remember.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had heard my father speak of you... only I did not know your name, and
      he did not know it. And now I came... and as I had learnt your name, I
      asked to-day, &lsquo;Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?&rsquo; I did not know you had
      only a room too.... Good-bye, I will tell Katerina Ivanovna.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only not to-day, please, not to-day!&rdquo; she kept muttering with a sinking
      heart, as though entreating someone, like a frightened child. &ldquo;Mercy! to
      me... to that room... he will see... oh, dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was not capable at that instant of noticing an unknown gentleman who
      was watching her and following at her heels. He had accompanied her from
      the gateway. At the moment when Razumihin, Raskolnikov, and she stood
      still at parting on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing,
      started on hearing Sonia&rsquo;s words: &ldquo;and I asked where Mr. Raskolnikov
      lived?&rdquo; He turned a rapid but attentive look upon all three, especially
      upon Raskolnikov, to whom Sonia was speaking; then looked back and noted
      the house. All this was done in an instant as he passed, and trying not to
      betray his interest, he walked on more slowly as though waiting for
      something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were parting, and
      that Sonia was going home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Home? Where? I&rsquo;ve seen that face somewhere,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;I must find
      out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw Sonia coming the
      same way, noticing nothing. She turned the corner. He followed her on the
      other side. After about fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her
      and kept two or three yards behind her.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad high
      shoulders which made him look as though he stooped a little. He wore good
      and fashionable clothes, and looked like a gentleman of position. He
      carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement at each step; his
      gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather pleasant face with high
      cheek-bones and a fresh colour, not often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen
      hair was still abundant, and only touched here and there with grey, and
      his thick square beard was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue
      and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips were crimson. He was a
      remarkedly well-preserved man and looked much younger than his years.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the only two persons on
      the pavement. He observed her dreaminess and preoccupation. On reaching
      the house where she lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed her,
      seeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right corner.
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; muttered the unknown gentleman, and mounted the stairs behind her.
      Only then Sonia noticed him. She reached the third storey, turned down the
      passage, and rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed in chalk,
      &ldquo;Kapernaumov, Tailor.&rdquo; &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; the stranger repeated again, wondering at
      the strange coincidence, and he rang next door, at No. 8. The doors were
      two or three yards apart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You lodge at Kapernaumov&rsquo;s,&rdquo; he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. &ldquo;He
      altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close here at Madame
      Resslich&rsquo;s. How odd!&rdquo; Sonia looked at him attentively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are neighbours,&rdquo; he went on gaily. &ldquo;I only came to town the day before
      yesterday. Good-bye for the present.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt for some
      reason ashamed and uneasy.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      On the way to Porfiry&rsquo;s, Razumihin was obviously excited.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s capital, brother,&rdquo; he repeated several times, &ldquo;and I am glad! I am
      glad!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you glad about?&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t know that you pledged things at the old woman&rsquo;s, too. And... was
      it long ago? I mean, was it long since you were there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a simple-hearted fool he is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When was it?&rdquo; Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. &ldquo;Two or three days
      before her death it must have been. But I am not going to redeem the
      things now,&rdquo; he put in with a sort of hurried and conspicuous solicitude
      about the things. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve not more than a silver rouble left... after last
      night&rsquo;s accursed delirium!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He laid special emphasis on the delirium.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; Razumihin hastened to agree&mdash;with what was not clear.
      &ldquo;Then that&rsquo;s why you... were stuck... partly... you know in your delirium
      you were continually mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes... that&rsquo;s
      clear, it&rsquo;s all clear now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hullo! How that idea must have got about among them. Here this man will
      go to the stake for me, and I find him delighted at having it <i>cleared
      up</i> why I spoke of rings in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have
      on all of them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall we find him?&rdquo; he asked suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; Razumihin answered quickly. &ldquo;He is a nice fellow, you will see,
      brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say, he is a man of polished manners,
      but I mean clumsy in a different sense. He is an intelligent fellow, very
      much so indeed, but he has his own range of ideas.... He is incredulous,
      sceptical, cynical... he likes to impose on people, or rather to make fun
      of them. His is the old, circumstantial method.... But he understands his
      work... thoroughly.... Last year he cleared up a case of murder in which
      the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very anxious to make your
      acquaintance!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On what grounds is he so anxious?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s not exactly... you see, since you&rsquo;ve been ill I happen to have
      mentioned you several times.... So, when he heard about you... about your
      being a law student and not able to finish your studies, he said, &lsquo;What a
      pity!&rsquo; And so I concluded... from everything together, not only that;
      yesterday Zametov... you know, Rodya, I talked some nonsense on the way
      home to you yesterday, when I was drunk... I am afraid, brother, of your
      exaggerating it, you see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right,&rdquo; he said with
      a constrained smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes.... That is, pooh, no!... But all that I said (and there was
      something else too) it was all nonsense, drunken nonsense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried
      with exaggerated irritability. It was partly assumed, however.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. One&rsquo;s ashamed to
      speak of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you are ashamed, then don&rsquo;t speak of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall have to pull a long face with him too,&rdquo; he thought, with a
      beating heart, and he turned white, &ldquo;and do it naturally, too. But the
      most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do nothing at
      all! No, <i>carefully</i> would not be natural again.... Oh, well, we
      shall see how it turns out.... We shall see... directly. Is it a good
      thing to go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is beating,
      that&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s bad!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In this grey house,&rdquo; said Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was at the old hag&rsquo;s
      flat yesterday... and asked about the blood? I must find that out
      instantly, as soon as I go in, find out from his face; otherwise... I&rsquo;ll
      find out, if it&rsquo;s my ruin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, brother,&rdquo; he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin, with a sly
      smile, &ldquo;I have been noticing all day that you seem to be curiously
      excited. Isn&rsquo;t it so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excited? Not a bit of it,&rdquo; said Razumihin, stung to the quick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, brother, I assure you it&rsquo;s noticeable. Why, you sat on your chair in
      a way you never do sit, on the edge somehow, and you seemed to be writhing
      all the time. You kept jumping up for nothing. One moment you were angry,
      and the next your face looked like a sweetmeat. You even blushed;
      especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed awfully.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? By Jove, there
      he&rsquo;s blushing again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a pig you are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I&rsquo;ll tell of you
      to-day. Ha-ha-ha! I&rsquo;ll make mother laugh, and someone else, too...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, listen, listen, this is serious.... What next, you fiend!&rdquo;
       Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror. &ldquo;What will
      you tell them? Come, brother... foo! what a pig you are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew how it suits you; a
      Romeo over six foot high! And how you&rsquo;ve washed to-day&mdash;you cleaned
      your nails, I declare. Eh? That&rsquo;s something unheard of! Why, I do believe
      you&rsquo;ve got pomatum on your hair! Bend down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pig!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain himself. So laughing,
      they entered Porfiry Petrovitch&rsquo;s flat. This is what Raskolnikov wanted:
      from within they could be heard laughing as they came in, still guffawing
      in the passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a word here or I&rsquo;ll... brain you!&rdquo; Razumihin whispered furiously,
      seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"></a>
      CHAPTER V
    </h2>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov was already entering the room. He came in looking as though he
      had the utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing again. Behind him
      Razumihin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as a peony, with
      an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and whole figure
      really were ridiculous at that moment and amply justified Raskolnikov&rsquo;s
      laughter. Raskolnikov, not waiting for an introduction, bowed to Porfiry
      Petrovitch, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquiringly at
      them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still apparently making
      desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few words to introduce
      himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and
      muttering something when he suddenly glanced again as though accidentally
      at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself: his stifled laughter
      broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried to restrain it. The
      extraordinary ferocity with which Razumihin received this &ldquo;spontaneous&rdquo;
       mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and
      naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fool! You fiend,&rdquo; he roared, waving his arm which at once struck a little
      round table with an empty tea-glass on it. Everything was sent flying and
      crashing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it&rsquo;s a loss to the Crown,&rdquo;
       Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry Petrovitch&rsquo;s, but
      anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment to put a natural end to
      it. Razumihin, completely put to confusion by upsetting the table and
      smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned
      sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his back to the
      company with a fiercely scowling countenance, seeing nothing. Porfiry
      Petrovitch laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but obviously looked
      for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the corner, but he rose at
      the visitors&rsquo; entrance and was standing in expectation with a smile on his
      lips, though he looked with surprise and even it seemed incredulity at the
      whole scene and at Raskolnikov with a certain embarrassment. Zametov&rsquo;s
      unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got to think of that,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;Excuse me, please,&rdquo; he began,
      affecting extreme embarrassment. &ldquo;Raskolnikov.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all, very pleasant to see you... and how pleasantly you&rsquo;ve come
      in.... Why, won&rsquo;t he even say good-morning?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch nodded at
      Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my honour I don&rsquo;t know why he is in such a rage with me. I only told
      him as we came along that he was like Romeo... and proved it. And that was
      all, I think!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pig!&rdquo; ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he is so furious at
      the word,&rdquo; Porfiry laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you sharp lawyer!... Damn you all!&rdquo; snapped Razumihin, and suddenly
      bursting out laughing himself, he went up to Porfiry with a more cheerful
      face as though nothing had happened. &ldquo;That&rsquo;ll do! We are all fools. To
      come to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov; in the
      first place he has heard of you and wants to make your acquaintance, and
      secondly, he has a little matter of business with you. Bah! Zametov, what
      brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does this mean?&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday,&rdquo; he said easily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to
      introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other out without
      me. Where is your tobacco?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very clean linen, and
      trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short, stout
      even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had a
      large round head, particularly prominent at the back. His soft, round,
      rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish colour, but had a
      vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been good-natured
      except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery, mawkish light
      under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was
      strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, and gave it
      something far more serious than could be guessed at first sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a little matter
      of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and sat down
      himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with
      that careful and over-serious attention which is at once oppressive and
      embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are
      discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such
      exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Raskolnikov
      explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so well satisfied with
      himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry. Porfiry
      Petrovitch did not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin, sitting opposite
      at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently, looking from one to
      the other every moment with rather excessive interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fool,&rdquo; Raskolnikov swore to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have to give information to the police,&rdquo; Porfiry replied, with a most
      businesslike air, &ldquo;that having learnt of this incident, that is of the
      murder, you beg to inform the lawyer in charge of the case that such and
      such things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem them... or... but
      they will write to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just the point, that at the present moment,&rdquo; Raskolnikov tried his
      utmost to feign embarrassment, &ldquo;I am not quite in funds... and even this
      trifling sum is beyond me... I only wanted, you see, for the present to
      declare that the things are mine, and that when I have money....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s no matter,&rdquo; answered Porfiry Petrovitch, receiving his explanation
      of his pecuniary position coldly, &ldquo;but you can, if you prefer, write
      straight to me, to say, that having been informed of the matter, and
      claiming such and such as your property, you beg...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On an ordinary sheet of paper?&rdquo; Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again
      interested in the financial side of the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the most ordinary,&rdquo; and suddenly Porfiry Petrovitch looked with
      obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and, as it were, winking at
      him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov&rsquo;s fancy, for it all lasted but a
      moment. There was certainly something of the sort, Raskolnikov could have
      sworn he winked at him, goodness knows why.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He knows,&rdquo; flashed through his mind like lightning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive my troubling you about such trifles,&rdquo; he went on, a little
      disconcerted, &ldquo;the things are only worth five roubles, but I prize them
      particularly for the sake of those from whom they came to me, and I must
      confess that I was alarmed when I heard...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zossimov that
      Porfiry was inquiring for everyone who had pledges!&rdquo; Razumihin put in with
      obvious intention.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him
      with a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately
      recollected himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to be jeering at me, brother?&rdquo; he said to him, with a
      well-feigned irritability. &ldquo;I dare say I do seem to you absurdly anxious
      about such trash; but you mustn&rsquo;t think me selfish or grasping for that,
      and these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just
      now that the silver watch, though it&rsquo;s not worth a cent, is the only thing
      left us of my father&rsquo;s. You may laugh at me, but my mother is here,&rdquo; he
      turned suddenly to Porfiry, &ldquo;and if she knew,&rdquo; he turned again hurriedly
      to Razumihin, carefully making his voice tremble, &ldquo;that the watch was
      lost, she would be in despair! You know what women are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a bit of it! I didn&rsquo;t mean that at all! Quite the contrary!&rdquo; shouted
      Razumihin distressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked himself
      in a tremor. &ldquo;Why did I say that about women?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, your mother is with you?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When did she come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry paused as though reflecting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your things would not in any case be lost,&rdquo; he went on calmly and coldly.
      &ldquo;I have been expecting you here for some time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered the
      ash-tray to Razumihin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash over
      the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be looking
      at him, and was still concerned with Razumihin&rsquo;s cigarette.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges <i>there</i>?&rdquo;
       cried Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on the
      paper your name was legibly written in pencil, together with the date on
      which you left them with her...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How observant you are!&rdquo; Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, doing his very
      utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed, and suddenly
      added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges... that it
      must be difficult to remember them all.... But you remember them all so
      clearly, and... and...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stupid! Feeble!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;Why did I add that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who hasn&rsquo;t come
      forward,&rdquo; Porfiry answered with hardly perceptible irony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t been quite well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in great distress about
      something. You look pale still.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not pale at all.... No, I am quite well,&rdquo; Raskolnikov snapped out
      rudely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was mounting,
      he could not repress it. &ldquo;And in my anger I shall betray myself,&rdquo; flashed
      through his mind again. &ldquo;Why are they torturing me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite well!&rdquo; Razumihin caught him up. &ldquo;What next! He was unconscious
      and delirious all yesterday. Would you believe, Porfiry, as soon as our
      backs were turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave us
      the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight, delirious all
      the time! Would you believe it! Extraordinary!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really delirious? You don&rsquo;t say so!&rdquo; Porfiry shook his head in a womanish
      way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense! Don&rsquo;t you believe it! But you don&rsquo;t believe it anyway,&rdquo;
       Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovitch did not seem to
      catch those strange words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how could you have gone out if you hadn&rsquo;t been delirious?&rdquo; Razumihin
      got hot suddenly. &ldquo;What did you go out for? What was the object of it? And
      why on the sly? Were you in your senses when you did it? Now that all
      danger is over I can speak plainly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was awfully sick of them yesterday.&rdquo; Raskolnikov addressed Porfiry
      suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance, &ldquo;I ran away from them to take
      lodgings where they wouldn&rsquo;t find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr.
      Zametov there saw it. I say, Mr. Zametov, was I sensible or delirious
      yesterday; settle our dispute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hateful were his
      expression and his silence to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, but you were
      extremely irritable,&rdquo; Zametov pronounced dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to-day,&rdquo; put in Porfiry Petrovitch,
      &ldquo;that he met you very late last night in the lodging of a man who had been
      run over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there,&rdquo; said Razumihin, &ldquo;weren&rsquo;t you mad then? You gave your last
      penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen or
      twenty even, but keep three roubles for yourself at least, but he flung
      away all the twenty-five at once!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So that&rsquo;s
      why I was liberal yesterday.... Mr. Zametov knows I&rsquo;ve found a treasure!
      Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such
      trivialities,&rdquo; he said, turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with trembling
      lips. &ldquo;We are boring you, aren&rsquo;t we?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how you
      interest me! It&rsquo;s interesting to look on and listen... and I am really
      glad you have come forward at last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you might give us some tea! My throat&rsquo;s dry,&rdquo; cried Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn&rsquo;t you like...
      something more essential before tea?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get along with you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s thoughts were in a whirl. He was in terrible exasperation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The worst of it is they don&rsquo;t disguise it; they don&rsquo;t care to stand on
      ceremony! And how if you didn&rsquo;t know me at all, did you come to talk to
      Nikodim Fomitch about me? So they don&rsquo;t care to hide that they are
      tracking me like a pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face.&rdquo; He was
      shaking with rage. &ldquo;Come, strike me openly, don&rsquo;t play with me like a cat
      with a mouse. It&rsquo;s hardly civil, Porfiry Petrovitch, but perhaps I won&rsquo;t
      allow it! I shall get up and throw the whole truth in your ugly faces, and
      you&rsquo;ll see how I despise you.&rdquo; He could hardly breathe. &ldquo;And what if it&rsquo;s
      only my fancy? What if I am mistaken, and through inexperience I get angry
      and don&rsquo;t keep up my nasty part? Perhaps it&rsquo;s all unintentional. All their
      phrases are the usual ones, but there is something about them.... It all
      might be said, but there is something. Why did he say bluntly, &lsquo;With her&rsquo;?
      Why did Zametov add that I spoke artfully? Why do they speak in that tone?
      Yes, the tone.... Razumihin is sitting here, why does he see nothing? That
      innocent blockhead never does see anything! Feverish again! Did Porfiry
      wink at me just now? Of course it&rsquo;s nonsense! What could he wink for? Are
      they trying to upset my nerves or are they teasing me? Either it&rsquo;s ill
      fancy or they know! Even Zametov is rude.... Is Zametov rude? Zametov has
      changed his mind. I foresaw he would change his mind! He is at home here,
      while it&rsquo;s my first visit. Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits
      with his back to him. They&rsquo;re as thick as thieves, no doubt, over me! Not
      a doubt they were talking about me before we came. Do they know about the
      flat? If only they&rsquo;d make haste! When I said that I ran away to take a
      flat he let it pass.... I put that in cleverly about a flat, it may be of
      use afterwards.... Delirious, indeed... ha-ha-ha! He knows all about last
      night! He didn&rsquo;t know of my mother&rsquo;s arrival! The hag had written the date
      on in pencil! You are wrong, you won&rsquo;t catch me! There are no facts...
      it&rsquo;s all supposition! You produce facts! The flat even isn&rsquo;t a fact but
      delirium. I know what to say to them.... Do they know about the flat? I
      won&rsquo;t go without finding out. What did I come for? But my being angry now,
      maybe is a fact! Fool, how irritable I am! Perhaps that&rsquo;s right; to play
      the invalid.... He is feeling me. He will try to catch me. Why did I
      come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All this flashed like lightning through his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather.... And I am out
      of sorts altogether,&rdquo; he began in quite a different tone, laughing to
      Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point.
      Who got the best of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated off
      into space.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is such a
      thing as crime. I told you that we talked our heads off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is there strange? It&rsquo;s an everyday social question,&rdquo; Raskolnikov
      answered casually.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The question wasn&rsquo;t put quite like that,&rdquo; observed Porfiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite, that&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; Razumihin agreed at once, getting warm and
      hurried as usual. &ldquo;Listen, Rodion, and tell us your opinion, I want to
      hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them and wanted you to help
      me. I told them you were coming.... It began with the socialist doctrine.
      You know their doctrine; crime is a protest against the abnormality of the
      social organisation and nothing more, and nothing more; no other causes
      admitted!...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are wrong there,&rdquo; cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was noticeably
      animated and kept laughing as he looked at Razumihin, which made him more
      excited than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing is admitted,&rdquo; Razumihin interrupted with heat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not wrong. I&rsquo;ll show you their pamphlets. Everything with them is
      &lsquo;the influence of environment,&rsquo; and nothing else. Their favourite phrase!
      From which it follows that, if society is normally organised, all crime
      will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest against and all
      men will become righteous in one instant. Human nature is not taken into
      account, it is excluded, it&rsquo;s not supposed to exist! They don&rsquo;t recognise
      that humanity, developing by a historical living process, will become at
      last a normal society, but they believe that a social system that has come
      out of some mathematical brain is going to organise all humanity at once
      and make it just and sinless in an instant, quicker than any living
      process! That&rsquo;s why they instinctively dislike history, &lsquo;nothing but
      ugliness and stupidity in it,&rsquo; and they explain it all as stupidity!
      That&rsquo;s why they so dislike the <i>living</i> process of life; they don&rsquo;t
      want a <i>living soul</i>! The living soul demands life, the soul won&rsquo;t
      obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of suspicion, the soul
      is retrograde! But what they want though it smells of death and can be
      made of India-rubber, at least is not alive, has no will, is servile and
      won&rsquo;t revolt! And it comes in the end to their reducing everything to the
      building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages in a phalanstery!
      The phalanstery is ready, indeed, but your human nature is not ready for
      the phalanstery&mdash;it wants life, it hasn&rsquo;t completed its vital
      process, it&rsquo;s too soon for the graveyard! You can&rsquo;t skip over nature by
      logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions! Cut
      away a million, and reduce it all to the question of comfort! That&rsquo;s the
      easiest solution of the problem! It&rsquo;s seductively clear and you musn&rsquo;t
      think about it. That&rsquo;s the great thing, you mustn&rsquo;t think! The whole
      secret of life in two pages of print!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, do!&rdquo; laughed Porfiry.
      &ldquo;Can you imagine,&rdquo; he turned to Raskolnikov, &ldquo;six people holding forth
      like that last night, in one room, with punch as a preliminary! No,
      brother, you are wrong, environment accounts for a great deal in crime; I
      can assure you of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty violates a child of
      ten; was it environment drove him to it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, strictly speaking, it did,&rdquo; Porfiry observed with noteworthy
      gravity; &ldquo;a crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the
      influence of environment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. &ldquo;Oh, if you like,&rdquo; he roared. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
      prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed to the
      Church of Ivan the Great&rsquo;s being two hundred and fifty feet high, and I
      will prove it clearly, exactly, progressively, and even with a Liberal
      tendency! I undertake to! Will you bet on it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Done! Let&rsquo;s hear, please, how he will prove it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is always humbugging, confound him,&rdquo; cried Razumihin, jumping up and
      gesticulating. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the use of talking to you? He does all that on
      purpose; you don&rsquo;t know him, Rodion! He took their side yesterday, simply
      to make fools of them. And the things he said yesterday! And they were
      delighted! He can keep it up for a fortnight together. Last year he
      persuaded us that he was going into a monastery: he stuck to it for two
      months. Not long ago he took it into his head to declare he was going to
      get married, that he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new
      clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no bride,
      nothing, all pure fantasy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes in
      fact that made me think of taking you in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you such a good dissembler?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked carelessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in, too.
      Ha-ha-ha! No, I&rsquo;ll tell you the truth. All these questions about crime,
      environment, children, recall to my mind an article of yours which
      interested me at the time. &lsquo;On Crime&rsquo;... or something of the sort, I
      forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months ago in the <i>Periodical
      Review</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My article? In the <i>Periodical Review</i>?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked in
      astonishment. &ldquo;I certainly did write an article upon a book six months ago
      when I left the university, but I sent it to the <i>Weekly Review</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it came out in the <i>Periodical</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the <i>Weekly Review</i> ceased to exist, so that&rsquo;s why it wasn&rsquo;t
      printed at the time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true; but when it ceased to exist, the <i>Weekly Review</i> was
      amalgamated with the <i>Periodical</i>, and so your article appeared two
      months ago in the latter. Didn&rsquo;t you know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov had not known.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you might get some money out of them for the article! What a strange
      person you are! You lead such a solitary life that you know nothing of
      matters that concern you directly. It&rsquo;s a fact, I assure you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!&rdquo; cried Razumihin. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll run
      to-day to the reading-room and ask for the number. Two months ago? What
      was the date? It doesn&rsquo;t matter though, I will find it. Think of not
      telling us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did you find out that the article was mine? It&rsquo;s only signed with an
      initial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the editor; I know
      him.... I was very much interested.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I analysed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and after
      the crime.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime is always
      accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but... it was not that part
      of your article that interested me so much, but an idea at the end of the
      article which I regret to say you merely suggested without working it out
      clearly. There is, if you recollect, a suggestion that there are certain
      persons who can... that is, not precisely are able to, but have a perfect
      right to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not
      for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his
      idea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the
      influence of environment?&rdquo; Razumihin inquired with some alarm even.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not exactly because of it,&rdquo; answered Porfiry. &ldquo;In his article all men
      are divided into &lsquo;ordinary&rsquo; and &lsquo;extraordinary.&rsquo; Ordinary men have to live
      in submission, have no right to transgress the law, because, don&rsquo;t you
      see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right to commit any
      crime and to transgress the law in any way, just because they are
      extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean? That can&rsquo;t be right?&rdquo; Razumihin muttered in
      bewilderment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they
      wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That wasn&rsquo;t quite my contention,&rdquo; he began simply and modestly. &ldquo;Yet I
      admit that you have stated it almost correctly; perhaps, if you like,
      perfectly so.&rdquo; (It almost gave him pleasure to admit this.) &ldquo;The only
      difference is that I don&rsquo;t contend that extraordinary people are always
      bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt
      whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an
      &lsquo;extraordinary&rsquo; man has the right... that is not an official right, but an
      inner right to decide in his own conscience to overstep... certain
      obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfilment
      of his idea (sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity). You
      say that my article isn&rsquo;t definite; I am ready to make it as clear as I
      can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to; very well. I maintain
      that if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made
      known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more
      men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have been in
duty-bound... to <i>eliminate</i> the dozen or the hundred men for the sake of
      making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not
      follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people right and left
      and to steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I maintain in my
      article that all... well, legislators and leaders of men, such as
      Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception
      criminals, from the very fact that, making a new law, they transgressed
      the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the
      people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshed&mdash;often
      of innocent persons fighting bravely in defence of ancient law&mdash;were
      of use to their cause. It&rsquo;s remarkable, in fact, that the majority,
      indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of
      terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men or even men a
      little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word,
      must from their very nature be criminals&mdash;more or less, of course.
      Otherwise it&rsquo;s hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain
      in the common rut is what they can&rsquo;t submit to, from their very nature
      again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see
      that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has
      been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of
      people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it&rsquo;s somewhat
      arbitrary, but I don&rsquo;t insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my
      leading idea that men are <i>in general</i> 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 <i>a new word</i>. There are, of course, innumerable
      sub-divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are
      fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men
      conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and
      love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled,
      because that&rsquo;s their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for
      them. The second category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or
      disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these
      men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very
      varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But
      if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or
      wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his
      conscience, a sanction for wading through blood&mdash;that depends on the
      idea and its dimensions, note that. It&rsquo;s only in that sense I speak of
      their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal
      question). There&rsquo;s no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will
      scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or
      less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative vocation.
      But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next
      generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always
      the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first
      preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to
      its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal
      rights with me&mdash;and <i>vive la guerre éternelle</i>&mdash;till the
      New Jerusalem, of course!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the
      whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And... and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And... do you believe in Lazarus&rsquo; rising from the dead?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I... I do. Why do you ask all this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You believe it literally?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Literally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;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...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in this life,
      and then...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They begin executing other people?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your remark is very
      witty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish those extraordinary
      people from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel
      there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the
      natural anxiety of a practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn&rsquo;t they
      adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn&rsquo;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 &lsquo;eliminate
      obstacles&rsquo; as you so happily expressed it, then...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than the other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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, &lsquo;destroyers,&rsquo; and to push
      themselves into the &lsquo;new movement,&rsquo; and this quite sincerely. Meanwhile
      the really <i>new</i> people are very often unobserved by them, or even
      despised as reactionaries of grovelling tendencies. But I don&rsquo;t think
      there is any considerable danger here, and you really need not be uneasy
      for they never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing
      sometimes for letting their fancy run away with them and to teach them
      their place, but no more; in fact, even this isn&rsquo;t necessary as they
      castigate themselves, for they are very conscientious: some perform this
      service for one another and others chastise themselves with their own
      hands.... They will impose various public acts of penitence upon
      themselves with a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact you&rsquo;ve nothing to
      be uneasy about.... It&rsquo;s a law of nature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score; but
      there&rsquo;s another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there many people
      who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary people? I am ready
      to bow down to them, of course, but you must admit it&rsquo;s alarming if there
      are a great many of them, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you needn&rsquo;t worry about that either,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on in the same
      tone. &ldquo;People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying
      something <i>new</i>, are extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in
      fact. One thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades and
      sub-divisions of men must follow with unfailing regularity some law of
      nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present, but I am convinced
      that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is
      mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by some
      mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to
      bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a
      spark of independence. One in ten thousand perhaps&mdash;I speak roughly,
      approximately&mdash;is born with some independence, and with still greater
      independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of
      millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth
      perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have not peeped into the
      retort in which all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a
      definite law, it cannot be a matter of chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, are you both joking?&rdquo; Razumihin cried at last. &ldquo;There you sit,
      making fun of one another. Are you serious, Rodya?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no reply.
      And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and <i>discourteous</i> sarcasm
      of Porfiry seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, brother, if you are really serious... You are right, of course, in
      saying that it&rsquo;s not new, that it&rsquo;s like what we&rsquo;ve read and heard a
      thousand times already; but what is really original in all this, and is
      exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed <i>in
      the name of conscience</i>, and, excuse my saying so, with such
      fanaticism.... That, I take it, is the point of your article. But that
      sanction of bloodshed <i>by conscience</i> is to my mind... more terrible
      than the official, legal sanction of bloodshed....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are quite right, it is more terrible,&rdquo; Porfiry agreed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read it.
      You can&rsquo;t think that! I shall read it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All that is not in the article, there&rsquo;s only a hint of it,&rdquo; said
      Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes.&rdquo; Porfiry couldn&rsquo;t sit still. &ldquo;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&rsquo;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&mdash;a future one of course&mdash;and suppose
      he begins to remove all obstacles.... He has some great enterprise before
      him and needs money for it... and tries to get it... do you see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise
      his eyes to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must admit,&rdquo; he went on calmly, &ldquo;that such cases certainly must arise.
      The vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare; young
      people especially.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you see. Well then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What then?&rdquo; Raskolnikov smiled in reply; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s not my fault. So it is
      and so it always will be. He said just now (he nodded at Razumihin) that I
      sanction bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons, banishment,
      criminal investigators, penal servitude. There&rsquo;s no need to be uneasy. You
      have but to catch the thief.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what if we do catch him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he gets what he deserves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you care about that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simply from humanity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his
      punishment&mdash;as well as the prison.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the real geniuses,&rdquo; asked Razumihin frowning, &ldquo;those who have the
      right to murder? Oughtn&rsquo;t they to suffer at all even for the blood they&rsquo;ve
      shed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why the word <i>ought</i>? It&rsquo;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,&rdquo; he added
      dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like,&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch
      began again, &ldquo;but I can&rsquo;t resist. Allow me one little question (I know I
      am troubling you). There is just one little notion I want to express,
      simply that I may not forget it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good, tell me your little notion,&rdquo; Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale
      and grave before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you see... I really don&rsquo;t know how to express it properly.... It&rsquo;s
      a playful, psychological idea.... When you were writing your article,
      surely you couldn&rsquo;t have helped, he-he! fancying yourself... just a
      little, an &lsquo;extraordinary&rsquo; man, uttering a <i>new word</i> in your
      sense.... That&rsquo;s so, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite possibly,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered contemptuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      Razumihin made a movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties and
      hardship or for some service to humanity&mdash;to overstep obstacles?...
      For instance, to rob and murder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly just as
      before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I did I certainly should not tell you,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered with
      defiant and haughty contempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I was only interested on account of your article, from a literary
      point of view...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Foo! how obvious and insolent that is!&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought with
      repulsion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Allow me to observe,&rdquo; he answered dryly, &ldquo;that I don&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, come, don&rsquo;t we all think ourselves Napoleons now in Russia?&rdquo; Porfiry
      Petrovitch said with alarming familiarity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona Ivanovna
      last week?&rdquo; Zametov blurted out from the corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Porfiry.
      Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing
      something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy silence.
      Raskolnikov turned to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going already?&rdquo; Porfiry said amiably, holding out his hand with
      excessive politeness. &ldquo;Very, very glad of your acquaintance. As for your
      request, have no uneasiness, write just as I told you, or, better still,
      come to me there yourself in a day or two... to-morrow, indeed. I shall be
      there at eleven o&rsquo;clock for certain. We&rsquo;ll arrange it all; we&rsquo;ll have a
      talk. As one of the last to be <i>there</i>, you might perhaps be able to
      tell us something,&rdquo; he added with a most good-natured expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked
      sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, why? That&rsquo;s not necessary for the present. You misunderstand me. I
      lose no opportunity, you see, and... I&rsquo;ve talked with all who had
      pledges.... I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the
      last.... Yes, by the way,&rdquo; he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted, &ldquo;I just
      remember, what was I thinking of?&rdquo; he turned to Razumihin, &ldquo;you were
      talking my ears off about that Nikolay... of course, I know, I know very
      well,&rdquo; he turned to Raskolnikov, &ldquo;that the fellow is innocent, but what is
      one to do? We had to trouble Dmitri too.... This is the point, this is
      all: when you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very
      moment he spoke that he need not have said it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn&rsquo;t you see in a
      flat that stood open on a second storey, do you remember? two workmen or
      at least one of them? They were painting there, didn&rsquo;t you notice them?
      It&rsquo;s very, very important for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Painters? No, I didn&rsquo;t see them,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered slowly, as though
      ransacking his memory, while at the same instant he was racking every
      nerve, almost swooning with anxiety to conjecture as quickly as possible
      where the trap lay and not to overlook anything. &ldquo;No, I didn&rsquo;t see them,
      and I don&rsquo;t think I noticed a flat like that open.... But on the fourth
      storey&rdquo; (he had mastered the trap now and was triumphant) &ldquo;I remember now
      that someone was moving out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovna&rsquo;s.... I
      remember... I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa
      and they squeezed me against the wall. But painters... no, I don&rsquo;t
      remember that there were any painters, and I don&rsquo;t think that there was a
      flat open anywhere, no, there wasn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had reflected
      and realised. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Foo! I have muddled it!&rdquo; Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. &ldquo;Deuce
      take it! This business is turning my brain!&rdquo; he addressed Raskolnikov
      somewhat apologetically. &ldquo;It would be such a great thing for us to find
      out whether anyone had seen them between seven and eight at the flat, so I
      fancied you could perhaps have told us something.... I quite muddled it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you should be more careful,&rdquo; Razumihin observed grimly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry Petrovitch saw them to
      the door with excessive politeness.
    </p>
    <p>
      They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some steps they
      did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"></a>
      CHAPTER VI
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe it, I can&rsquo;t believe it!&rdquo; repeated Razumihin, trying in
      perplexity to refute Raskolnikov&rsquo;s arguments.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were by now approaching Bakaleyev&rsquo;s lodgings, where Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while. Razumihin
      kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited
      by the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about
      <i>it</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t believe it, then!&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless
      smile. &ldquo;You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every
      word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words... h&rsquo;m...
      certainly, I agree, Porfiry&rsquo;s tone was rather strange, and still more that
      wretch Zametov!... You are right, there was something about him&mdash;but
      why? Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has changed his mind since last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would do their
      utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch you
      afterwards.... But it was all impudent and careless.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they had had facts&mdash;I mean, real facts&mdash;or at least grounds
      for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game, in
      the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long ago besides).
      But they have no facts, not one. It is all mirage&mdash;all ambiguous.
      Simply a floating idea. So they try to throw me out by impudence. And
      perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted it out in his
      vexation&mdash;or perhaps he has some plan... he seems an intelligent man.
      Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have a
      psychology of their own, brother. But it is loathsome explaining it all.
      Stop!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it&rsquo;s insulting, insulting! I understand you. But... since we have
      spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last&mdash;I
      am glad) I will own now frankly that I noticed it in them long ago, this
      idea. Of course the merest hint only&mdash;an insinuation&mdash;but why an
      insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they? If only you
      knew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a poor student,
      unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious
      illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul to
      speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to face
      some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; and the
      unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U. presented by Tchebarov,
      the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd
      of people, the talk about the murder of a person where he had been just
      before, and all that on an empty stomach&mdash;he might well have a
      fainting fit! And that, that is what they found it all on! Damn them! I
      understand how annoying it is, but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at
      them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in
      all directions. I&rsquo;d hit out in all directions, neatly too, and so I&rsquo;d put
      an end to it. Damn them! Don&rsquo;t be downhearted. It&rsquo;s a shame!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He really has put it well, though,&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?&rdquo; he said with
      bitterness. &ldquo;Must I really enter into explanations with them? I feel vexed
      as it is, that I condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in the
      restaurant....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, as
      one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! And as
      for Zametov...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At last he sees through him!&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay!&rdquo; cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. &ldquo;Stay! you
      were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wrong! How was that a trap? You
      say that the question about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done <i>that</i>,
      could you have said you had seen them painting the flat... and the
      workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had
      seen it. Who would own it against himself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had done <i>that thing</i>, I should certainly have said that I had
      seen the workmen and the flat,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance and
      obvious disgust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why speak against yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny everything
      flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little developed and
      experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that
      can&rsquo;t be avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, will introduce
      some special, unexpected turn, that will give them another significance
      and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon that I should be
      sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give an air of truth, and
      then make some explanation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have been
      there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on the
      day of the murder at eight o&rsquo;clock. And so he would have caught you over a
      detail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time to
      reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so
      would forget that the workmen could not have been there two days before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how could you forget it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are most
      easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he
      will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simpler
      the trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you
      think....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is a knave then, if that is so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am getting a relish for certain aspects!&rdquo; he thought to himself. But
      almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy, as though an
      unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on
      increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go in alone!&rdquo; said Raskolnikov suddenly. &ldquo;I will be back directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you going? Why, we are just here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t help it.... I will come in half an hour. Tell them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say what you like, I will come with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, too, want to torture me!&rdquo; he screamed, with such bitter irritation,
      such despair in his eyes that Razumihin&rsquo;s hands dropped. He stood for some
      time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away
      in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching
      his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day,
      and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now
      alarmed at their long absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was
      breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his unlocked
      room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed to
      the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the things; put
      his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in the hole, in every
      crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep
      breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev&rsquo;s, he suddenly fancied
      that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had
      been wrapped with the old woman&rsquo;s handwriting on it, might somehow have
      slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up
      as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here he is himself,&rdquo; shouted a loud voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He raised his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing
      him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coat and
      a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He
      stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled
      flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and
      they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your
      name and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out and he
      went away. It&rsquo;s funny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after wondering
      for a moment he turned and went back to his room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of him
      walking along the other side of the street with the same even, deliberate
      step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in meditation. He soon
      overtook him, but for some time walked behind him. At last, moving on to a
      level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked
      at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a
      minute side by side without uttering a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were inquiring for me... of the porter?&rdquo; Raskolnikov said at last,
      but in a curiously quiet voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man made no answer; he didn&rsquo;t even look at him. Again they were both
      silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing.... What&rsquo;s the
      meaning of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words
      clearly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at
      Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Murderer!&rdquo; he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a
      cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a
      moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they
      walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man did not look at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean... what is.... Who is a murderer?&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov
      hardly audibly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>You</i> are a murderer,&rdquo; the man answered still more articulately and
      emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked
      straight into Raskolnikov&rsquo;s pale face and stricken eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the left without
      looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He
      saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing
      there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again
      smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way
      back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap
      and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving. Then
      he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched
      himself on it. So he lay for half an hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images
      without order or coherence floated before his mind&mdash;faces of people
      he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never
      have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a
      restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in
      some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite dark,
      all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the Sunday
      bells floating in from somewhere.... The images followed one another,
      whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at,
      but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but
      it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant.... The slight
      shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation.
    </p>
    <p>
      He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and
      pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some time
      in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the room
      and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya&rsquo;s whisper:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the
      door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his
      back again, clasping his hands behind his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he,
      what did he see? He has seen it all, that&rsquo;s clear. Where was he then? And
      from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And
      how could he see? Is it possible? Hm...&rdquo; continued Raskolnikov, turning
      cold and shivering, &ldquo;and the jewel case Nikolay found behind the door&mdash;was
      that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it
      into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?&rdquo; He
      felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. &ldquo;I
      ought to have known it,&rdquo; he thought with a bitter smile. &ldquo;And how dared I,
      knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed blood! I
      ought to have known beforehand.... Ah, but I did know!&rdquo; he whispered in
      despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, those men are not made so. The real <i>Master</i> to whom all is
      permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, <i>forgets</i> an army
      in Egypt, <i>wastes</i> 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 <i>all</i> is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not
      of flesh but of bronze!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids,
      Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk
      under her bed&mdash;it&rsquo;s a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How
      can they digest it! It&rsquo;s too inartistic. &ldquo;A Napoleon creep under an old
      woman&rsquo;s bed! Ugh, how loathsome!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish
      excitement. &ldquo;The old woman is of no consequence,&rdquo; he thought, hotly and
      incoherently. &ldquo;The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what
      matters! The old woman was only an illness.... I was in a hurry to
      overstep.... I didn&rsquo;t kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the
      principle, but I didn&rsquo;t overstep, I stopped on this side.... I was only
      capable of killing. And it seems I wasn&rsquo;t even capable of that...
      Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They are
      industrious, commercial people; &lsquo;the happiness of all&rsquo; is their case. No,
      life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I don&rsquo;t
      want to wait for &lsquo;the happiness of all.&rsquo; I want to live myself, or else
      better not live at all. I simply couldn&rsquo;t pass by my mother starving,
      keeping my rouble in my pocket while I waited for the &lsquo;happiness of all.&rsquo;
      I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all and so my heart is
      at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too
      want.... Ech, I am an æsthetic louse and nothing more,&rdquo; he added suddenly,
      laughing like a madman. &ldquo;Yes, I am certainly a louse,&rdquo; he went on,
      clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with
      vindictive pleasure. &ldquo;In the first place, because I can reason that I am
      one, and secondly, because for a month past I have been troubling
      benevolent Providence, calling it to witness that not for my own fleshly
      lusts did I undertake it, but with a grand and noble object&mdash;ha-ha!
      Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible,
      weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most
      useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for the
      first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery,
      according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am utterly a louse,&rdquo;
       he added, grinding his teeth, &ldquo;is that I am perhaps viler and more
      loathsome than the louse I killed, and <i>I felt beforehand</i> that I
      should tell myself so <i>after</i> killing her. Can anything be compared
      with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand the
      &lsquo;prophet&rsquo; with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and &lsquo;trembling&rsquo;
      creation must obey! The &lsquo;prophet&rsquo; is right, he is right when he sets a
      battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty without
      deigning to explain! It&rsquo;s for you to obey, trembling creation, and not <i>to
      have desires</i>, for that&rsquo;s not for you!... I shall never, never forgive
      the old woman!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes
      were fixed on the ceiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, sister&mdash;how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I
      hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can&rsquo;t bear them near
      me.... I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember.... To embrace
      her and think if she only knew... shall I tell her then? That&rsquo;s just what
      I might do.... <i>She</i> must be the same as I am,&rdquo; he added, straining
      himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. &ldquo;Ah, how I hate the
      old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor
      Lizaveta! Why did she come in?... It&rsquo;s strange though, why is it I
      scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn&rsquo;t killed her? Lizaveta!
      Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes.... Dear women! Why don&rsquo;t they
      weep? Why don&rsquo;t they moan? They give up everything... their eyes are soft
      and gentle.... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn&rsquo;t remember
      how he got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight had fallen
      and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a
      peculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the
      street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other
      people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and
      stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was
      distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do
      something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood
      still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to
      him. He crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away
      with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. &ldquo;Stay, did he
      really beckon?&rdquo; Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. When
      he was within ten paces he recognised him and was frightened; it was the
      same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed
      him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the
      man still did not look round. &ldquo;Does he know I am following him?&rdquo; thought
      Raskolnikov. The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov
      hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and
      sign to him. In the court-yard the man did turn round and again seemed to
      beckon him. Raskolnikov at once followed him into the yard, but the man
      was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed
      after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights above. The staircase
      seemed strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the
      moon shone through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then
      he reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters were
      at work... but how was it he did not recognise it at once? The steps of
      the man above had died away. &ldquo;So he must have stopped or hidden
      somewhere.&rdquo; He reached the third storey, should he go on? There was a
      stillness that was dreadful.... But he went on. The sound of his own
      footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be
      hiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he
      hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as
      though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour
      which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the
      chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames.
      A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the moon
      that makes it so still, weaving some mystery,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov. He
      stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent the moonlight,
      the more violently his heart beat, till it was painful. And still the same
      hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a
      splinter and all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the
      window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he noticed in the corner
      between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging
      on the wall. &ldquo;Why is that cloak here?&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;it wasn&rsquo;t there
      before....&rdquo; He went up to it quietly and felt that there was someone
      hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a
      chair in the corner, the old woman bent double so that he couldn&rsquo;t see her
      face; but it was she. He stood over her. &ldquo;She is afraid,&rdquo; he thought. He
      stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then
      another on the skull. But strange to say she did not stir, as though she
      were made of wood. He was frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look
      at her; but she, too, bent her head lower. He bent right down to the
      ground and peeped up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold
      with horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with
      noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly
      he fancied that the door from the bedroom was opened a little and that
      there was laughter and whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and
      he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force, but at
      every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew
      louder and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing
      away, but the passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood
      open and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were
      people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and
      expectation. Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the
      spot, they would not move.... He tried to scream and woke up.
    </p>
    <p>
      He drew a deep breath&mdash;but his dream seemed strangely to persist: his
      door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway
      watching him intently.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again.
      He lay on his back without stirring.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it still a dream?&rdquo; he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly
      perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him,
      went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on
      Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he
      put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and
      his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait
      indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen
      glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost
      whitish beard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There
      was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only
      a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable
      at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, tell me what you want.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,&rdquo; the stranger answered
      oddly, laughing calmly. &ldquo;Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, allow me to
      introduce myself....&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_PART4" id="link2H_PART4"></a>
      PART IV
    </h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"></a>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can this be still a dream?&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Svidrigaïlov! What nonsense! It can&rsquo;t be!&rdquo; he said at last aloud in
      bewilderment.
    </p>
    <p>
      His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I wanted to make
      your personal acquaintance, as I have already heard a great deal about you
      that is interesting and flattering; secondly, I cherish the hope that you
      may not refuse to assist me in a matter directly concerning the welfare of
      your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. For without your support she might not let
      me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against me, but with your
      assistance I reckon on...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You reckon wrongly,&rdquo; interrupted Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well, let
      me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, I don&rsquo;t consider it necessary to
      justify myself, but kindly tell me what was there particularly criminal on
      my part in all this business, speaking without prejudice, with common
      sense?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and &lsquo;insulted her
      with my infamous proposals&rsquo;&mdash;is that it? (I am anticipating you.) But
      you&rsquo;ve only to assume that I, too, am a man <i>et nihil humanum</i>... in
      a word, that I am capable of being attracted and falling in love (which
      does not depend on our will), then everything can be explained in the most
      natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I myself a victim?
      And what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my passion to
      elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest
      respect for her and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual
      happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why, probably, I was
      doing more harm to myself than anyone!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s not the point,&rdquo; Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
      simply that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We don&rsquo;t want
      to have anything to do with you. We show you the door. Go out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov broke into a sudden laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you&rsquo;re... but there&rsquo;s no getting round you,&rdquo; he said, laughing in the
      frankest way. &ldquo;I hoped to get round you, but you took up the right line at
      once!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are trying to get round me still!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What of it? What of it?&rdquo; cried Svidrigaïlov, laughing openly. &ldquo;But this
      is what the French call <i>bonne guerre</i>, and the most innocent form of
      deception!... But still you have interrupted me; one way or another, I
      repeat again: there would never have been any unpleasantness except for
      what happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?&rdquo; Raskolnikov
      interrupted rudely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you&rsquo;ve heard that, too, then? You&rsquo;d be sure to, though.... But as for
      your question, I really don&rsquo;t know what to say, though my own conscience
      is quite at rest on that score. Don&rsquo;t suppose that I am in any
      apprehension about it. All was regular and in order; the medical inquiry
      diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy dinner and a
      bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing else. But I&rsquo;ll
      tell you what I have been thinking to myself of late, on my way here in
      the train, especially: didn&rsquo;t I contribute to all that... calamity,
      morally, in a way, by irritation or something of the sort. But I came to
      the conclusion that that, too, was quite out of the question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder you trouble yourself about it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice with
      a switch&mdash;there were no marks even... don&rsquo;t regard me as a cynic,
      please; I am perfectly aware how atrocious it was of me and all that; but
      I know for certain, too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at
      my, so to say, warmth. The story of your sister had been wrung out to the
      last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna had been forced to sit
      at home; she had nothing to show herself with in the town. Besides, she
      had bored them so with that letter (you heard about her reading the
      letter). And all of a sudden those two switches fell from heaven! Her
      first act was to order the carriage to be got out.... Not to speak of the
      fact that there are cases when women are very, very glad to be insulted in
      spite of all their show of indignation. There are instances of it with
      everyone; human beings in general, indeed, greatly love to be insulted,
      have you noticed that? But it&rsquo;s particularly so with women. One might even
      say it&rsquo;s their only amusement.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are fond of fighting?&rdquo; he asked carelessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not very,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov answered, calmly. &ldquo;And Marfa Petrovna and I
      scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was always
      pleased with me. I only used the whip twice in all our seven years (not
      counting a third occasion of a very ambiguous character). The first time,
      two months after our marriage, immediately after we arrived in the
      country, and the last time was that of which we are speaking. Did you
      suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary, such a slave driver? Ha,
      ha! By the way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovitch, how a few years ago,
      in those days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman, I&rsquo;ve forgotten his
      name, was put to shame everywhere, in all the papers, for having thrashed
      a German woman in the railway train. You remember? It was in those days,
      that very year I believe, the &lsquo;disgraceful action of the <i>Age</i>&rsquo; took
      place (you know, &lsquo;The Egyptian Nights,&rsquo; that public reading, you remember?
      The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden days of our youth, where are
      they?). Well, as for the gentleman who thrashed the German, I feel no
      sympathy with him, because after all what need is there for sympathy? But
      I must say that there are sometimes such provoking &lsquo;Germans&rsquo; that I don&rsquo;t
      believe there is a progressive who could quite answer for himself. No one
      looked at the subject from that point of view then, but that&rsquo;s the truly
      humane point of view, I assure you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I expect you&rsquo;ve not talked to anyone for some days?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Scarcely anyone. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an
      adaptable man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your questions? Is that it?
      But why take offence? As you asked, so I answered,&rdquo; he replied, with a
      surprising expression of simplicity. &ldquo;You know, there&rsquo;s hardly anything I
      take interest in,&rdquo; he went on, as it were dreamily, &ldquo;especially now, I&rsquo;ve
      nothing to do.... You are quite at liberty to imagine though that I am
      making up to you with a motive, particularly as I told you I want to see
      your sister about something. But I&rsquo;ll confess frankly, I am very much
      bored. The last three days especially, so I am delighted to see you....
      Don&rsquo;t be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you seem to be somehow awfully
      strange yourself. Say what you like, there&rsquo;s something wrong with you, and
      now, too... not this very minute, I mean, but now, generally.... Well,
      well, I won&rsquo;t, I won&rsquo;t, don&rsquo;t scowl! I am not such a bear, you know, as
      you think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not a bear, perhaps, at all,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I fancy indeed that you
      are a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on occasion to
      behave like one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not particularly interested in anyone&rsquo;s opinion,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov
      answered, dryly and even with a shade of haughtiness, &ldquo;and therefore why
      not be vulgar at times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our
      climate... and especially if one has a natural propensity that way,&rdquo; he
      added, laughing again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I&rsquo;ve heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, &lsquo;not
      without connections.&rsquo; What can you want with me, then, unless you&rsquo;ve some
      special object?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true that I have friends here,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov admitted, not
      replying to the chief point. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve met some already. I&rsquo;ve been lounging
      about for the last three days, and I&rsquo;ve seen them, or they&rsquo;ve seen me.
      That&rsquo;s a matter of course. I am well dressed and reckoned not a poor man;
      the emancipation of the serfs hasn&rsquo;t affected me; my property consists
      chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue has not fallen off;
      but... I am not going to see them, I was sick of them long ago. I&rsquo;ve been
      here three days and have called on no one.... What a town it is! How has
      it come into existence among us, tell me that? A town of officials and
      students of all sorts. Yes, there&rsquo;s a great deal I didn&rsquo;t notice when I
      was here eight years ago, kicking up my heels.... My only hope now is in
      anatomy, by Jove, it is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anatomy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed, maybe&mdash;well,
      all that can go on without me,&rdquo; he went on, again without noticing the
      question. &ldquo;Besides, who wants to be a card-sharper?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, have you been a card-sharper then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the best
      society, eight years ago; we had a fine time. And all men of breeding, you
      know, poets, men of property. And indeed as a rule in our Russian society
      the best manners are found among those who&rsquo;ve been thrashed, have you
      noticed that? I&rsquo;ve deteriorated in the country. But I did get into prison
      for debt, through a low Greek who came from Nezhin. Then Marfa Petrovna
      turned up; she bargained with him and bought me off for thirty thousand
      silver pieces (I owed seventy thousand). We were united in lawful wedlock
      and she bore me off into the country like a treasure. You know she was
      five years older than I. She was very fond of me. For seven years I never
      left the country. And, take note, that all my life she held a document
      over me, the IOU for thirty thousand roubles, so if I were to elect to be
      restive about anything I should be trapped at once! And she would have
      done it! Women find nothing incompatible in that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it hadn&rsquo;t been for that, would you have given her the slip?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what to say. It was scarcely the document restrained me. I
      didn&rsquo;t want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go
      abroad, seeing I was bored, but I&rsquo;ve been abroad before, and always felt
      sick there. For no reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the sea&mdash;you
      look at them and it makes you sad. What&rsquo;s most revolting is that one is
      really sad! No, it&rsquo;s better at home. Here at least one blames others for
      everything and excuses oneself. I should have gone perhaps on an
      expedition to the North Pole, because <i>j&rsquo;ai le vin mauvais</i> and hate
      drinking, and there&rsquo;s nothing left but wine. I have tried it. But, I say,
      I&rsquo;ve been told Berg is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from the
      Yusupov Garden and will take up passengers at a fee. Is it true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, would you go up?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I... No, oh, no,&rdquo; muttered Svidrigaïlov really seeming to be deep in
      thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does he mean? Is he in earnest?&rdquo; Raskolnikov wondered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, the document didn&rsquo;t restrain me,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov went on, meditatively.
      &ldquo;It was my own doing, not leaving the country, and nearly a year ago Marfa
      Petrovna gave me back the document on my name-day and made me a present of
      a considerable sum of money, too. She had a fortune, you know. &lsquo;You see
      how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovitch&rsquo;&mdash;that was actually her
      expression. You don&rsquo;t believe she used it? But do you know I managed the
      estate quite decently, they know me in the neighbourhood. I ordered books,
      too. Marfa Petrovna at first approved, but afterwards she was afraid of my
      over-studying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you
      believe in ghosts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What ghosts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, ordinary ghosts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you believe in them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps not, <i>pour vous plaire</i>.... I wouldn&rsquo;t say no exactly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you see them, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov looked at him rather oddly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me,&rdquo; he said, twisting his mouth into
      a strange smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you mean &lsquo;she is pleased to visit you&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral,
      an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to come here.
      The second time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey
      at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was two hours ago in
      the room where I am staying. I was alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were you awake?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for a
      minute and goes out at the door&mdash;always at the door. I can almost
      hear her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you?&rdquo;
       Raskolnikov said suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much
      excited.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Did you think so?&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov asked in astonishment. &ldquo;Did you
      really? Didn&rsquo;t I say that there was something in common between us, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never said so!&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut,
      pretending, I said to myself at once, &lsquo;Here&rsquo;s the man.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by &lsquo;the man?&rsquo; What are you talking about?&rdquo; cried
      Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do I mean? I really don&rsquo;t know....&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov muttered
      ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other&rsquo;s faces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all nonsense!&rdquo; Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. &ldquo;What does she
      say when she comes to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and&mdash;man
      is a strange creature&mdash;it makes me angry. The first time she came in
      (I was tired you know: the funeral service, the funeral ceremony, the
      lunch afterwards. At last I was left alone in my study. I lighted a cigar
      and began to think), she came in at the door. &lsquo;You&rsquo;ve been so busy to-day,
      Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the dining-room clock,&rsquo; she
      said. All those seven years I&rsquo;ve wound that clock every week, and if I
      forgot it she would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way
      here. I got out at the station at daybreak; I&rsquo;d been asleep, tired out,
      with my eyes half open, I was drinking some coffee. I looked up and there
      was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting beside me with a pack of cards in her
      hands. &lsquo;Shall I tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovitch?&rsquo; She
      was a great hand at telling fortunes. I shall never forgive myself for not
      asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and, besides, the bell rang. I was
      sitting to-day, feeling very heavy after a miserable dinner from a
      cookshop; I was sitting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna again. She
      came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a long train. &lsquo;Good day,
      Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like my dress? Aniska can&rsquo;t make like this.&rsquo;
      (Aniska was a dressmaker in the country, one of our former serf girls who
      had been trained in Moscow, a pretty wench.) She stood turning round
      before me. I looked at the dress, and then I looked carefully, very
      carefully, at her face. &lsquo;I wonder you trouble to come to me about such
      trifles, Marfa Petrovna.&rsquo; &lsquo;Good gracious, you won&rsquo;t let one disturb you
      about anything!&rsquo; To tease her I said, &lsquo;I want to get married, Marfa
      Petrovna.&rsquo; &lsquo;That&rsquo;s just like you, Arkady Ivanovitch; it does you very
      little credit to come looking for a bride when you&rsquo;ve hardly buried your
      wife. And if you could make a good choice, at least, but I know it won&rsquo;t
      be for your happiness or hers, you will only be a laughing-stock to all
      good people.&rsquo; Then she went out and her train seemed to rustle. Isn&rsquo;t it
      nonsense, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But perhaps you are telling lies?&rdquo; Raskolnikov put in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I rarely lie,&rdquo; answered Svidrigaïlov thoughtfully, apparently not
      noticing the rudeness of the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had a
      serf, Filka; just after his burial I called out forgetting &lsquo;Filka, my
      pipe!&rsquo; He came in and went to the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat
      still and thought &lsquo;he is doing it out of revenge,&rsquo; because we had a
      violent quarrel just before his death. &lsquo;How dare you come in with a hole
      in your elbow?&rsquo; I said. &lsquo;Go away, you scamp!&rsquo; He turned and went out, and
      never came again. I didn&rsquo;t tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted to
      have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should go to a doctor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don&rsquo;t know what&rsquo;s
      wrong; I believe I am five times as strong as you are. I didn&rsquo;t ask you
      whether you believe that ghosts are seen, but whether you believe that
      they exist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I won&rsquo;t believe it!&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried, with positive anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do people generally say?&rdquo; muttered Svidrigaïlov, as though speaking
      to himself, looking aside and bowing his head. &ldquo;They say, &lsquo;You are ill, so
      what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.&rsquo; But that&rsquo;s not strictly
      logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to the sick, but that only proves
      that they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that they don&rsquo;t
      exist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing of the sort,&rdquo; Raskolnikov insisted irritably.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No? You don&rsquo;t think so?&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov went on, looking at him
      deliberately. &ldquo;But what do you say to this argument (help me with it):
      ghosts are, as it were, shreds and fragments of other worlds, the
      beginning of them. A man in health has, of course, no reason to see them,
      because he is above all a man of this earth and is bound for the sake of
      completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon as one is
      ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is broken, one
      begins to realise the possibility of another world; and the more seriously
      ill one is, the closer becomes one&rsquo;s contact with that other world, so
      that as soon as the man dies he steps straight into that world. I thought
      of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you could believe in
      that, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe in a future life,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov sat lost in thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort,&rdquo; he
      said suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is a madman,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something
      vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it&rsquo;s one
      little room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders
      in every corner, and that&rsquo;s all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting than that?&rdquo;
       Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of anguish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you know it&rsquo;s
      what I would certainly have made it,&rdquo; answered Svidrigaïlov, with a vague
      smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov. Svidrigaïlov
      raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly began laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only think,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;half an hour ago we had never seen each other, we
      regarded each other as enemies; there is a matter unsettled between us;
      we&rsquo;ve thrown it aside, and away we&rsquo;ve gone into the abstract! Wasn&rsquo;t I
      right in saying that we were birds of a feather?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kindly allow me,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on irritably, &ldquo;to ask you to explain
      why you have honoured me with your visit... and... and I am in a hurry, I
      have no time to waste. I want to go out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to
      be married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovitch?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from mentioning her
      name? I can&rsquo;t understand how you dare utter her name in my presence, if
      you really are Svidrigaïlov.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, but I&rsquo;ve come here to speak about her; how can I avoid mentioning
      her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good, speak, but make haste.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr. Luzhin,
      who is a connection of mine through my wife, if you have only seen him for
      half an hour, or heard any facts about him. He is no match for Avdotya
      Romanovna. I believe Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself generously
      and imprudently for the sake of... for the sake of her family. I fancied
      from all I had heard of you that you would be very glad if the match could
      be broken off without the sacrifice of worldly advantages. Now I know you
      personally, I am convinced of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All this is very naïve... excuse me, I should have said impudent on your
      part,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don&rsquo;t be uneasy, Rodion
      Romanovitch, if I were working for my own advantage, I would not have
      spoken out so directly. I am not quite a fool. I will confess something
      psychologically curious about that: just now, defending my love for
      Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well, let me tell you
      that I&rsquo;ve no feeling of love now, not the slightest, so that I wonder
      myself indeed, for I really did feel something...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Through idleness and depravity,&rdquo; Raskolnikov put in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such qualities that
      even I could not help being impressed by them. But that&rsquo;s all nonsense, as
      I see myself now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you seen that long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it the
      day before yesterday, almost at the moment I arrived in Petersburg. I
      still fancied in Moscow, though, that I was coming to try to get Avdotya
      Romanovna&rsquo;s hand and to cut out Mr. Luzhin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and come to the object
      of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want to go out...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here and determining on a
      certain... journey, I should like to make some necessary preliminary
      arrangements. I left my children with an aunt; they are well provided for;
      and they have no need of me personally. And a nice father I should make,
      too! I have taken nothing but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago.
      That&rsquo;s enough for me. Excuse me, I am just coming to the point. Before the
      journey which may come off, I want to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It&rsquo;s not
      that I detest him so much, but it was through him I quarrelled with Marfa
      Petrovna when I learned that she had dished up this marriage. I want now
      to see Avdotya Romanovna through your mediation, and if you like in your
      presence, to explain to her that in the first place she will never gain
      anything but harm from Mr. Luzhin. Then, begging her pardon for all past
      unpleasantness, to make her a present of ten thousand roubles and so
      assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to which I believe she is
      herself not disinclined, if she could see the way to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are certainly mad,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov not so much angered as
      astonished. &ldquo;How dare you talk like that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, though I am not
      rich, this ten thousand roubles is perfectly free; I have absolutely no
      need for it. If Avdotya Romanovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in
      some more foolish way. That&rsquo;s the first thing. Secondly, my conscience is
      perfectly easy; I make the offer with no ulterior motive. You may not
      believe it, but in the end Avdotya Romanovna and you will know. The point
      is, that I did actually cause your sister, whom I greatly respect, some
      trouble and unpleasantness, and so, sincerely regretting it, I want&mdash;not
      to compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but simply to do
      something to her advantage, to show that I am not, after all, privileged
      to do nothing but harm. If there were a millionth fraction of
      self-interest in my offer, I should not have made it so openly; and I
      should not have offered her ten thousand only, when five weeks ago I
      offered her more, Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry a young lady,
      and that alone ought to prevent suspicion of any design on Avdotya
      Romanovna. In conclusion, let me say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is
      taking money just the same, only from another man. Don&rsquo;t be angry, Rodion
      Romanovitch, think it over coolly and quietly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he was saying this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg you to say no more,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov. &ldquo;In any case this is
      unpardonable impertinence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm to his neighbour in
      this world, and is prevented from doing the tiniest bit of good by trivial
      conventional formalities. That&rsquo;s absurd. If I died, for instance, and left
      that sum to your sister in my will, surely she wouldn&rsquo;t refuse it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very likely she would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be it, though ten thousand
      roubles is a capital thing to have on occasion. In any case I beg you to
      repeat what I have said to Avdotya Romanovna.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to try and see her
      myself and worry her by doing so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know really what to say. I should like very much to see her once
      more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t hope for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry. But you don&rsquo;t know me. Perhaps we may become better friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think we may become friends?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why not?&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov said, smiling. He stood up and took his hat.
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t quite intend to disturb you and I came here without reckoning on
      it... though I was very much struck by your face this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where did you see me this morning?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw you by chance.... I kept fancying there is something about you like
      me.... But don&rsquo;t be uneasy. I am not intrusive; I used to get on all right
      with card-sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great personage
      who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about Raphael&rsquo;s <i>Madonna</i>
      in Madam Prilukov&rsquo;s album, and I never left Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s side for
      seven years, and I used to stay the night at Viazemsky&rsquo;s house in the Hay
      Market in the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg, perhaps.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, may I ask?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What travels?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, on that &lsquo;journey&rsquo;; you spoke of it yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well, that&rsquo;s a wide
      subject.... if only you knew what you are asking,&rdquo; he added, and gave a
      sudden, loud, short laugh. &ldquo;Perhaps I&rsquo;ll get married instead of the
      journey. They&rsquo;re making a match for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How have you had time for that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once. I earnestly beg it.
      Well, good-bye for the present. Oh, yes. I have forgotten something. Tell
      your sister, Rodion Romanovitch, that Marfa Petrovna remembered her in her
      will and left her three thousand roubles. That&rsquo;s absolutely certain. Marfa
      Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, and it was done in my
      presence. Avdotya Romanovna will be able to receive the money in two or
      three weeks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you telling the truth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, tell her. Well, your servant. I am staying very near you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he went out, Svidrigaïlov ran up against Razumihin in the doorway.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"></a>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was nearly eight o&rsquo;clock. The two young men hurried to Bakaleyev&rsquo;s, to
      arrive before Luzhin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, who was that?&rdquo; asked Razumihin, as soon as they were in the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was Svidrigaïlov, that landowner in whose house my sister was insulted
      when she was their governess. Through his persecuting her with his
      attentions, she was turned out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. This Marfa
      Petrovna begged Dounia&rsquo;s forgiveness afterwards, and she&rsquo;s just died
      suddenly. It was of her we were talking this morning. I don&rsquo;t know why I&rsquo;m
      afraid of that man. He came here at once after his wife&rsquo;s funeral. He is
      very strange, and is determined on doing something.... We must guard
      Dounia from him... that&rsquo;s what I wanted to tell you, do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guard her! What can he do to harm Avdotya Romanovna? Thank you, Rodya,
      for speaking to me like that.... We will, we will guard her. Where does he
      live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you ask? What a pity! I&rsquo;ll find out, though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you see him?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov after a pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I noticed him, I noticed him well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did really see him? You saw him clearly?&rdquo; Raskolnikov insisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I remember him perfectly, I should know him in a thousand; I have a
      good memory for faces.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were silent again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hm!... that&rsquo;s all right,&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Do you know, I
      fancied... I keep thinking that it may have been an hallucination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean? I don&rsquo;t understand you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you all say,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile,
      &ldquo;that I am mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am mad, and have
      only seen a phantom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps everything that
      happened all these days may be only imagination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again!... But what did he say, what did
      he come for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now let me tell you my story,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;I came to you, you were asleep.
      Then we had dinner and then I went to Porfiry&rsquo;s, Zametov was still with
      him. I tried to begin, but it was no use. I couldn&rsquo;t speak in the right
      way. They don&rsquo;t seem to understand and can&rsquo;t understand, but are not a bit
      ashamed. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking to him, but it
      was still no use. He looked away and I looked away. At last I shook my
      fist in his ugly face, and told him as a cousin I&rsquo;d brain him. He merely
      looked at me, I cursed and came away. That was all. It was very stupid. To
      Zametov I didn&rsquo;t say a word. But, you see, I thought I&rsquo;d made a mess of
      it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea struck me: why should we
      trouble? Of course if you were in any danger or anything, but why need you
      care? You needn&rsquo;t care a hang for them. We shall have a laugh at them
      afterwards, and if I were in your place I&rsquo;d mystify them more than ever.
      How ashamed they&rsquo;ll be afterwards! Hang them! We can thrash them
      afterwards, but let&rsquo;s laugh at them now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;But what will you say to-morrow?&rdquo; he
      thought to himself. Strange to say, till that moment it had never occurred
      to him to wonder what Razumihin would think when he knew. As he thought
      it, Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumihin&rsquo;s account of his visit to Porfiry
      had very little interest for him, so much had come and gone since then.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the corridor they came upon Luzhin; he had arrived punctually at eight,
      and was looking for the number, so that all three went in together without
      greeting or looking at one another. The young men walked in first, while
      Pyotr Petrovitch, for good manners, lingered a little in the passage,
      taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna came forward at once to greet
      him in the doorway, Dounia was welcoming her brother. Pyotr Petrovitch
      walked in and quite amiably, though with redoubled dignity, bowed to the
      ladies. He looked, however, as though he were a little put out and could
      not yet recover himself. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who seemed also a little
      embarrassed, hastened to make them all sit down at the round table where a
      samovar was boiling. Dounia and Luzhin were facing one another on opposite
      sides of the table. Razumihin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna, Razumihin was next to Luzhin and Raskolnikov was beside his
      sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment&rsquo;s silence followed. Pyotr Petrovitch deliberately drew out a
      cambric handkerchief reeking of scent and blew his nose with an air of a
      benevolent man who felt himself slighted, and was firmly resolved to
      insist on an explanation. In the passage the idea had occurred to him to
      keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so give the two ladies a sharp and
      emphatic lesson and make them feel the gravity of the position. But he
      could not bring himself to do this. Besides, he could not endure
      uncertainty, and he wanted an explanation: if his request had been so
      openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that case it was
      better to find it out beforehand; it rested with him to punish them and
      there would always be time for that.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I trust you had a favourable journey,&rdquo; he inquired officially of
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, very, Pyotr Petrovitch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am gratified to hear it. And Avdotya Romanovna is not over-fatigued
      either?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am young and strong, I don&rsquo;t get tired, but it was a great strain for
      mother,&rdquo; answered Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s unavoidable! our national railways are of terrible length. &lsquo;Mother
      Russia,&rsquo; as they say, is a vast country.... In spite of all my desire to
      do so, I was unable to meet you yesterday. But I trust all passed off
      without inconvenience?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was all terribly disheartening,&rdquo; Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna hastened to declare with peculiar intonation, &ldquo;and if Dmitri
      Prokofitch had not been sent us, I really believe by God Himself, we
      should have been utterly lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofitch Razumihin,&rdquo;
       she added, introducing him to Luzhin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had the pleasure... yesterday,&rdquo; muttered Pyotr Petrovitch with a
      hostile glance sidelong at Razumihin; then he scowled and was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch belonged to that class of persons, on the surface very
      polite in society, who make a great point of punctiliousness, but who,
      directly they are crossed in anything, are completely disconcerted, and
      become more like sacks of flour than elegant and lively men of society.
      Again all was silent; Raskolnikov was obstinately mute, Avdotya Romanovna
      was unwilling to open the conversation too soon. Razumihin had nothing to
      say, so Pulcheria Alexandrovna was anxious again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marfa Petrovna is dead, have you heard?&rdquo; she began having recourse to her
      leading item of conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure, I heard so. I was immediately informed, and I have come to
      make you acquainted with the fact that Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov set
      off in haste for Petersburg immediately after his wife&rsquo;s funeral. So at
      least I have excellent authority for believing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Petersburg? here?&rdquo; Dounia asked in alarm and looked at her mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed, and doubtless not without some design, having in view the
      rapidity of his departure, and all the circumstances preceding it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! won&rsquo;t he leave Dounia in peace even here?&rdquo; cried Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna have any grounds for
      uneasiness, unless, of course, you are yourselves desirous of getting into
      communication with him. For my part I am on my guard, and am now
      discovering where he is lodging.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Pyotr Petrovitch, you would not believe what a fright you have given
      me,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on: &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve only seen him twice, but I
      thought him terrible, terrible! I am convinced that he was the cause of
      Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s impossible to be certain about that. I have precise information. I
      do not dispute that he may have contributed to accelerate the course of
      events by the moral influence, so to say, of the affront; but as to the
      general conduct and moral characteristics of that personage, I am in
      agreement with you. I do not know whether he is well off now, and
      precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; this will be known to me within a
      very short period; but no doubt here in Petersburg, if he has any
      pecuniary resources, he will relapse at once into his old ways. He is the
      most depraved, and abjectly vicious specimen of that class of men. I have
      considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna, who was so unfortunate
      as to fall in love with him and to pay his debts eight years ago, was of
      service to him also in another way. Solely by her exertions and
      sacrifices, a criminal charge, involving an element of fantastic and
      homicidal brutality for which he might well have been sentenced to
      Siberia, was hushed up. That&rsquo;s the sort of man he is, if you care to
      know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov listened
      attentively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good evidence of
      this?&rdquo; Dounia asked sternly and emphatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa Petrovna. I must observe
      that from the legal point of view the case was far from clear. There was,
      and I believe still is, living here a woman called Resslich, a foreigner,
      who lent small sums of money at interest, and did other commissions, and
      with this woman Svidrigaïlov had for a long while close and mysterious
      relations. She had a relation, a niece I believe, living with her, a deaf
      and dumb girl of fifteen, or perhaps not more than fourteen. Resslich
      hated this girl, and grudged her every crust; she used to beat her
      mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging in the garret. At the
      inquest the verdict was suicide. After the usual proceedings the matter
      ended, but, later on, information was given that the child had been...
      cruelly outraged by Svidrigaïlov. It is true, this was not clearly
      established, the information was given by another German woman of loose
      character whose word could not be trusted; no statement was actually made
      to the police, thanks to Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s money and exertions; it did not
      get beyond gossip. And yet the story is a very significant one. You heard,
      no doubt, Avdotya Romanovna, when you were with them the story of the
      servant Philip who died of ill treatment he received six years ago, before
      the abolition of serfdom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard, on the contrary, that this Philip hanged himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so, but what drove him, or rather perhaps disposed him, to suicide
      was the systematic persecution and severity of Mr. Svidrigaïlov.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know that,&rdquo; answered Dounia, dryly. &ldquo;I only heard a queer story
      that Philip was a sort of hypochondriac, a sort of domestic philosopher,
      the servants used to say, &lsquo;he read himself silly,&rsquo; and that he hanged
      himself partly on account of Mr. Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s mockery of him and not his
      blows. When I was there he behaved well to the servants, and they were
      actually fond of him, though they certainly did blame him for Philip&rsquo;s
      death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I perceive, Avdotya Romanovna, that you seem disposed to undertake his
      defence all of a sudden,&rdquo; Luzhin observed, twisting his lips into an
      ambiguous smile, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s no doubt that he is an astute man, and
      insinuating where ladies are concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has
      died so strangely, is a terrible instance. My only desire has been to be
      of service to you and your mother with my advice, in view of the renewed
      efforts which may certainly be anticipated from him. For my part it&rsquo;s my
      firm conviction, that he will end in a debtor&rsquo;s prison again. Marfa
      Petrovna had not the slightest intention of settling anything substantial
      on him, having regard for his children&rsquo;s interests, and, if she left him
      anything, it would only be the merest sufficiency, something insignificant
      and ephemeral, which would not last a year for a man of his habits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch, I beg you,&rdquo; said Dounia, &ldquo;say no more of Mr.
      Svidrigaïlov. It makes me miserable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has just been to see me,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for
      the first time.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were exclamations from all, and they all turned to him. Even Pyotr
      Petrovitch was roused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An hour and a half ago, he came in when I was asleep, waked me, and
      introduced himself,&rdquo; Raskolnikov continued. &ldquo;He was fairly cheerful and at
      ease, and quite hopes that we shall become friends. He is particularly
      anxious, by the way, Dounia, for an interview with you, at which he asked
      me to assist. He has a proposition to make to you, and he told me about
      it. He told me, too, that a week before her death Marfa Petrovna left you
      three thousand roubles in her will, Dounia, and that you can receive the
      money very shortly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. &ldquo;Pray for her
      soul, Dounia!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fact!&rdquo; broke from Luzhin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell us, what more?&rdquo; Dounia urged Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he said that he wasn&rsquo;t rich and all the estate was left to his
      children who are now with an aunt, then that he was staying somewhere not
      far from me, but where, I don&rsquo;t know, I didn&rsquo;t ask....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what, what does he want to propose to Dounia?&rdquo; cried Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna in a fright. &ldquo;Did he tell you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you afterwards.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention to his tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch looked at his watch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be in
      your way,&rdquo; he added with an air of some pique and he began getting up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go, Pyotr Petrovitch,&rdquo; said Dounia, &ldquo;you intended to spend the
      evening. Besides, you wrote yourself that you wanted to have an
      explanation with mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch answered impressively,
      sitting down again, but still holding his hat. &ldquo;I certainly desired an
      explanation with you and your honoured mother upon a very important point
      indeed. But as your brother cannot speak openly in my presence of some
      proposals of Mr. Svidrigaïlov, I, too, do not desire and am not able to
      speak openly... in the presence of others... of certain matters of the
      greatest gravity. Moreover, my most weighty and urgent request has been
      disregarded....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin relapsed into dignified silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting was
      disregarded solely at my insistance,&rdquo; said Dounia. &ldquo;You wrote that you had
      been insulted by my brother; I think that this must be explained at once,
      and you must be reconciled. And if Rodya really has insulted you, then he
      <i>should</i> and <i>will</i> apologise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch took a stronger line.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which no goodwill can make us
      forget. There is a line in everything which it is dangerous to overstep;
      and when it has been overstepped, there is no return.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That wasn&rsquo;t what I was speaking of exactly, Pyotr Petrovitch,&rdquo; Dounia
      interrupted with some impatience. &ldquo;Please understand that our whole future
      depends now on whether all this is explained and set right as soon as
      possible. I tell you frankly at the start that I cannot look at it in any
      other light, and if you have the least regard for me, all this business
      must be ended to-day, however hard that may be. I repeat that if my
      brother is to blame he will ask your forgiveness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am surprised at your putting the question like that,&rdquo; said Luzhin,
      getting more and more irritated. &ldquo;Esteeming, and so to say, adoring you, I
      may at the same time, very well indeed, be able to dislike some member of
      your family. Though I lay claim to the happiness of your hand, I cannot
      accept duties incompatible with...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, don&rsquo;t be so ready to take offence, Pyotr Petrovitch,&rdquo; Dounia
      interrupted with feeling, &ldquo;and be the sensible and generous man I have
      always considered, and wish to consider, you to be. I&rsquo;ve given you a great
      promise, I am your betrothed. Trust me in this matter and, believe me, I
      shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming the part of judge is
      as much a surprise for my brother as for you. When I insisted on his
      coming to our interview to-day after your letter, I told him nothing of
      what I meant to do. Understand that, if you are not reconciled, I must
      choose between you&mdash;it must be either you or he. That is how the
      question rests on your side and on his. I don&rsquo;t want to be mistaken in my
      choice, and I must not be. For your sake I must break off with my brother,
      for my brother&rsquo;s sake I must break off with you. I can find out for
      certain now whether he is a brother to me, and I want to know it; and of
      you, whether I am dear to you, whether you esteem me, whether you are the
      husband for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Avdotya Romanovna,&rdquo; Luzhin declared huffily, &ldquo;your words are of too much
      consequence to me; I will say more, they are offensive in view of the
      position I have the honour to occupy in relation to you. To say nothing of
      your strange and offensive setting me on a level with an impertinent boy,
      you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to me. You say &lsquo;you or
      he,&rsquo; showing thereby of how little consequence I am in your eyes... I
      cannot let this pass considering the relationship and... the obligations
      existing between us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; cried Dounia, flushing. &ldquo;I set your interest beside all that has
      hitherto been most precious in my life, what has made up the <i>whole</i>
      of my life, and here you are offended at my making too <i>little</i>
      account of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumihin fidgeted, but Pyotr Petrovitch
      did not accept the reproof; on the contrary, at every word he became more
      persistent and irritable, as though he relished it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Love for the future partner of your life, for your husband, ought to
      outweigh your love for your brother,&rdquo; he pronounced sententiously, &ldquo;and in
      any case I cannot be put on the same level.... Although I said so
      emphatically that I would not speak openly in your brother&rsquo;s presence,
      nevertheless, I intend now to ask your honoured mother for a necessary
      explanation on a point of great importance closely affecting my dignity.
      Your son,&rdquo; he turned to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, &ldquo;yesterday in the presence
      of Mr. Razsudkin (or... I think that&rsquo;s it? excuse me I have forgotten your
      surname,&rdquo; he bowed politely to Razumihin) &ldquo;insulted me by misrepresenting
      the idea I expressed to you in a private conversation, drinking coffee,
      that is, that marriage with a poor girl who has had experience of trouble
      is more advantageous from the conjugal point of view than with one who has
      lived in luxury, since it is more profitable for the moral character. Your
      son intentionally exaggerated the significance of my words and made them
      ridiculous, accusing me of malicious intentions, and, as far as I could
      see, relied upon your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself
      happy, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, if it is possible for you to convince me of
      an opposite conclusion, and thereby considerately reassure me. Kindly let
      me know in what terms precisely you repeated my words in your letter to
      Rodion Romanovitch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t remember,&rdquo; faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. &ldquo;I repeated them as I
      understood them. I don&rsquo;t know how Rodya repeated them to you, perhaps he
      exaggerated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He could not have exaggerated them, except at your instigation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity, &ldquo;the
      proof that Dounia and I did not take your words in a very bad sense is the
      fact that we are here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good, mother,&rdquo; said Dounia approvingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then this is my fault again,&rdquo; said Luzhin, aggrieved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Pyotr Petrovitch, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself have
      just written what was false about him,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna added,
      gaining courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t remember writing anything false.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wrote,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin, &ldquo;that I gave
      money yesterday not to the widow of the man who was killed, as was the
      fact, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen till yesterday). You
      wrote this to make dissension between me and my family, and for that
      object added coarse expressions about the conduct of a girl whom you don&rsquo;t
      know. All that is mean slander.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, sir,&rdquo; said Luzhin, quivering with fury. &ldquo;I enlarged upon your
      qualities and conduct in my letter solely in response to your sister&rsquo;s and
      mother&rsquo;s inquiries, how I found you, and what impression you made on me.
      As for what you&rsquo;ve alluded to in my letter, be so good as to point out one
      word of falsehood, show, that is, that you didn&rsquo;t throw away your money,
      and that there are not worthless persons in that family, however
      unfortunate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To my thinking, you, with all your virtues, are not worth the little
      finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you throw stones.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you go so far then as to let her associate with your mother and
      sister?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down to-day
      with mother and Dounia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodya!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dounia crimsoned, Razumihin knitted
      his brows. Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;whether it is
      possible for us to agree. I hope now that this question is at an end, once
      and for all. I will withdraw, that I may not hinder the pleasures of
      family intimacy, and the discussion of secrets.&rdquo; He got up from his chair
      and took his hat. &ldquo;But in withdrawing, I venture to request that for the
      future I may be spared similar meetings, and, so to say, compromises. I
      appeal particularly to you, honoured Pulcheria Alexandrovna, on this
      subject, the more as my letter was addressed to you and to no one else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to think we are completely under your authority, Pyotr
      Petrovitch. Dounia has told you the reason your desire was disregarded,
      she had the best intentions. And indeed you write as though you were
      laying commands upon me. Are we to consider every desire of yours as a
      command? Let me tell you on the contrary that you ought to show particular
      delicacy and consideration for us now, because we have thrown up
      everything, and have come here relying on you, and so we are in any case
      in a sense in your hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at the present
      moment, when the news has come of Marfa Petrovna&rsquo;s legacy, which seems
      indeed very apropos, judging from the new tone you take to me,&rdquo; he added
      sarcastically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that you were
      reckoning on our helplessness,&rdquo; Dounia observed irritably.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I particularly desire not
      to hinder your discussion of the secret proposals of Arkady Ivanovitch
      Svidrigaïlov, which he has entrusted to your brother and which have, I
      perceive, a great and possibly a very agreeable interest for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      Razumihin could not sit still on his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you ashamed now, sister?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am ashamed, Rodya,&rdquo; said Dounia. &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch, go away,&rdquo; she
      turned to him, white with anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Avdotya Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after such a dismissal,
      then, you may reckon on it, I will never come back. Consider what you are
      doing. My word is not to be shaken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What insolence!&rdquo; cried Dounia, springing up from her seat. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want
      you to come back again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! So that&rsquo;s how it stands!&rdquo; cried Luzhin, utterly unable to the last
      moment to believe in the rupture and so completely thrown out of his
      reckoning now. &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s how it stands! But do you know, Avdotya
      Romanovna, that I might protest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What right have you to speak to her like that?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
      intervened hotly. &ldquo;And what can you protest about? What rights have you?
      Am I to give my Dounia to a man like you? Go away, leave us altogether! We
      are to blame for having agreed to a wrong action, and I above all....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna,&rdquo; Luzhin stormed in a
      frenzy, &ldquo;by your promise, and now you deny it and... besides... I have
      been led on account of that into expenses....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of our trunk? But the conductor
      brought it for nothing for you. Mercy on us, we have bound you! What are
      you thinking about, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was you bound us, hand and foot,
      not we!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough, mother, no more please,&rdquo; Avdotya Romanovna implored. &ldquo;Pyotr
      Petrovitch, do be kind and go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going, but one last word,&rdquo; he said, quite unable to control himself.
      &ldquo;Your mamma seems to have entirely forgotten that I made up my mind to
      take you, so to speak, after the gossip of the town had spread all over
      the district in regard to your reputation. Disregarding public opinion for
      your sake and reinstating your reputation, I certainly might very well
      reckon on a fitting return, and might indeed look for gratitude on your
      part. And my eyes have only now been opened! I see myself that I may have
      acted very, very recklessly in disregarding the universal verdict....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does the fellow want his head smashed?&rdquo; cried Razumihin, jumping up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a mean and spiteful man!&rdquo; cried Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a word! Not a movement!&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov, holding Razumihin back;
      then going close up to Luzhin, &ldquo;Kindly leave the room!&rdquo; he said quietly
      and distinctly, &ldquo;and not a word more or...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face that
      worked with anger, then he turned, went out, and rarely has any man
      carried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against
      Raskolnikov. Him, and him alone, he blamed for everything. It is
      noteworthy that as he went downstairs he still imagined that his case was
      perhaps not utterly lost, and that, so far as the ladies were concerned,
      all might &ldquo;very well indeed&rdquo; be set right again.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"></a>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
    <p>
      The fact was that up to the last moment he had never expected such an
      ending; he had been overbearing to the last degree, never dreaming that
      two destitute and defenceless women could escape from his control. This
      conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit to the
      point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, who had made his way up from
      insignificance, was morbidly given to self-admiration, had the highest
      opinion of his intelligence and capacities, and sometimes even gloated in
      solitude over his image in the glass. But what he loved and valued above
      all was the money he had amassed by his labour, and by all sorts of
      devices: that money made him the equal of all who had been his superiors.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he had decided to take her in
      spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch had spoken with perfect sincerity
      and had, indeed, felt genuinely indignant at such &ldquo;black ingratitude.&rdquo; And
      yet, when he made Dounia his offer, he was fully aware of the
      groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had been everywhere
      contradicted by Marfa Petrovna, and was by then disbelieved by all the
      townspeople, who were warm in Dounia&rsquo;a defence. And he would not have
      denied that he knew all that at the time. Yet he still thought highly of
      his own resolution in lifting Dounia to his level and regarded it as
      something heroic. In speaking of it to Dounia, he had let out the secret
      feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not understand that others
      should fail to admire it too. He had called on Raskolnikov with the
      feelings of a benefactor who is about to reap the fruits of his good deeds
      and to hear agreeable flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he
      considered himself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dounia was simply essential to him; to do without her was unthinkable. For
      many years he had had voluptuous dreams of marriage, but he had gone on
      waiting and amassing money. He brooded with relish, in profound secret,
      over the image of a girl&mdash;virtuous, poor (she must be poor), very
      young, very pretty, of good birth and education, very timid, one who had
      suffered much, and was completely humbled before him, one who would all
      her life look on him as her saviour, worship him, admire him and only him.
      How many scenes, how many amorous episodes he had imagined on this
      seductive and playful theme, when his work was over! And, behold, the
      dream of so many years was all but realised; the beauty and education of
      Avdotya Romanovna had impressed him; her helpless position had been a
      great allurement; in her he had found even more than he dreamed of. Here
      was a girl of pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior
      to his own (he felt that), and this creature would be slavishly grateful
      all her life for his heroic condescension, and would humble herself in the
      dust before him, and he would have absolute, unbounded power over her!...
      Not long before, he had, too, after long reflection and hesitation, made
      an important change in his career and was now entering on a wider circle
      of business. With this change his cherished dreams of rising into a higher
      class of society seemed likely to be realised.... He was, in fact,
      determined to try his fortune in Petersburg. He knew that women could do a
      very great deal. The fascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated
      woman might make his way easier, might do wonders in attracting people to
      him, throwing an aureole round him, and now everything was in ruins! This
      sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it was like a
      hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit masterful, had not
      even time to speak out, had simply made a joke, been carried away&mdash;and
      it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dounia in his
      own way; he already possessed her in his dreams&mdash;and all at once! No!
      The next day, the very next day, it must all be set right, smoothed over,
      settled. Above all he must crush that conceited milksop who was the cause
      of it all. With a sick feeling he could not help recalling Razumihin too,
      but, he soon reassured himself on that score; as though a fellow like that
      could be put on a level with him! The man he really dreaded in earnest was
      Svidrigaïlov.... He had, in short, a great deal to attend to....
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I, I am more to blame than anyone!&rdquo; said Dounia, kissing and
      embracing her mother. &ldquo;I was tempted by his money, but on my honour,
      brother, I had no idea he was such a base man. If I had seen through him
      before, nothing would have tempted me! Don&rsquo;t blame me, brother!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God has delivered us! God has delivered us!&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna
      muttered, but half consciously, as though scarcely able to realise what
      had happened.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only now
      and then Dounia turned white and frowned, remembering what had passed.
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad: she
      had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terrible misfortune.
      Razumihin was delighted. He did not yet dare to express his joy fully, but
      he was in a fever of excitement as though a ton-weight had fallen off his
      heart. Now he had the right to devote his life to them, to serve them....
      Anything might happen now! But he felt afraid to think of further
      possibilities and dared not let his imagination range. But Raskolnikov sat
      still in the same place, almost sullen and indifferent. Though he had been
      the most insistent on getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least
      concerned at what had happened. Dounia could not help thinking that he was
      still angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did Svidrigaïlov say to you?&rdquo; said Dounia, approaching him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov raised his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He wants to make you a present of ten thousand roubles and he desires to
      see you once in my presence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See her! On no account!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. &ldquo;And how dare he
      offer her money!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather dryly) his conversation with
      Svidrigaïlov, omitting his account of the ghostly visitations of Marfa
      Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What answer did you give him?&rdquo; asked Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that he
      would do his utmost to obtain an interview with you without my help. He
      assured me that his passion for you was a passing infatuation, now he has
      no feeling for you. He doesn&rsquo;t want you to marry Luzhin.... His talk was
      altogether rather muddled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must confess I don&rsquo;t quite understand him. He offers you ten thousand,
      and yet says he is not well off. He says he is going away, and in ten
      minutes he forgets he has said it. Then he says he is going to be married
      and has already fixed on the girl.... No doubt he has a motive, and
      probably a bad one. But it&rsquo;s odd that he should be so clumsy about it if
      he had any designs against you.... Of course, I refused this money on your
      account, once for all. Altogether, I thought him very strange.... One
      might almost think he was mad. But I may be mistaken; that may only be the
      part he assumes. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems to have made a great
      impression on him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God rest her soul,&rdquo; exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. &ldquo;I shall always,
      always pray for her! Where should we be now, Dounia, without this three
      thousand! It&rsquo;s as though it had fallen from heaven! Why, Rodya, this
      morning we had only three roubles in our pocket and Dounia and I were just
      planning to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowing from that man until
      he offered help.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s offer. She still stood
      meditating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has got some terrible plan,&rdquo; she said in a half whisper to herself,
      almost shuddering.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov noticed this disproportionate terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancy I shall have to see him more than once again,&rdquo; he said to Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will watch him! I will track him out!&rdquo; cried Razumihin, vigorously. &ldquo;I
      won&rsquo;t lose sight of him. Rodya has given me leave. He said to me himself
      just now. &lsquo;Take care of my sister.&rsquo; Will you give me leave, too, Avdotya
      Romanovna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of anxiety did not leave
      her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna gazed at her timidly, but the three
      thousand roubles had obviously a soothing effect on her.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why, why should you go away?&rdquo; he flowed on ecstatically. &ldquo;And what
      are you to do in a little town? The great thing is, you are all here
      together and you need one another&mdash;you do need one another, believe
      me. For a time, anyway.... Take me into partnership, and I assure you
      we&rsquo;ll plan a capital enterprise. Listen! I&rsquo;ll explain it all in detail to
      you, the whole project! It all flashed into my head this morning, before
      anything had happened... I tell you what; I have an uncle, I must
      introduce him to you (a most accommodating and respectable old man). This
      uncle has got a capital of a thousand roubles, and he lives on his pension
      and has no need of that money. For the last two years he has been
      bothering me to borrow it from him and pay him six per cent. interest. I
      know what that means; he simply wants to help me. Last year I had no need
      of it, but this year I resolved to borrow it as soon as he arrived. Then
      you lend me another thousand of your three and we have enough for a start,
      so we&rsquo;ll go into partnership, and what are we going to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Razumihin began to unfold his project, and he explained at length
      that almost all our publishers and booksellers know nothing at all of what
      they are selling, and for that reason they are usually bad publishers, and
      that any decent publications pay as a rule and give a profit, sometimes a
      considerable one. Razumihin had, indeed, been dreaming of setting up as a
      publisher. For the last two years he had been working in publishers&rsquo;
      offices, and knew three European languages well, though he had told
      Raskolnikov six days before that he was &ldquo;schwach&rdquo; in German with an object
      of persuading him to take half his translation and half the payment for
      it. He had told a lie then, and Raskolnikov knew he was lying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the chief
      means of success&mdash;money of our own!&rdquo; cried Razumihin warmly. &ldquo;Of
      course there will be a lot of work, but we will work, you, Avdotya
      Romanovna, I, Rodion.... You get a splendid profit on some books nowadays!
      And the great point of the business is that we shall know just what wants
      translating, and we shall be translating, publishing, learning all at
      once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two years I&rsquo;ve
      been scuttling about among the publishers, and now I know every detail of
      their business. You need not be a saint to make pots, believe me! And why,
      why should we let our chance slip! Why, I know&mdash;and I kept the secret&mdash;two
      or three books which one might get a hundred roubles simply for thinking
      of translating and publishing. Indeed, and I would not take five hundred
      for the very idea of one of them. And what do you think? If I were to tell
      a publisher, I dare say he&rsquo;d hesitate&mdash;they are such blockheads! And
      as for the business side, printing, paper, selling, you trust to me, I
      know my way about. We&rsquo;ll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In any
      case it will get us our living and we shall get back our capital.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia&rsquo;s eyes shone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know nothing about it, of course,&rdquo; put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna, &ldquo;it
      may be a good idea, but again God knows. It&rsquo;s new and untried. Of course,
      we must remain here at least for a time.&rdquo; She looked at Rodya.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think, brother?&rdquo; said Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think he&rsquo;s got a very good idea,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;Of course, it&rsquo;s too
      soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bring out five
      or six books and be sure of success. I know of one book myself which would
      be sure to go well. And as for his being able to manage it, there&rsquo;s no
      doubt about that either. He knows the business.... But we can talk it over
      later....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurrah!&rdquo; cried Razumihin. &ldquo;Now, stay, there&rsquo;s a flat here in this house,
      belonging to the same owner. It&rsquo;s a special flat apart, not communicating
      with these lodgings. It&rsquo;s furnished, rent moderate, three rooms. Suppose
      you take them to begin with. I&rsquo;ll pawn your watch to-morrow and bring you
      the money, and everything can be arranged then. You can all three live
      together, and Rodya will be with you. But where are you off to, Rodya?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, Rodya, you are going already?&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in
      dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At such a minute?&rdquo; cried Razumihin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held his cap in
      his hand, he was preparing to leave them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One would think you were burying me or saying good-bye for ever,&rdquo; he said
      somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did not turn out a smile.
      &ldquo;But who knows, perhaps it is the last time we shall see each other...&rdquo; he
      let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and it somehow was
      uttered aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you?&rdquo; cried his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you going, Rodya?&rdquo; asked Dounia rather strangely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;m quite obliged to...&rdquo; he answered vaguely, as though hesitating
      what he would say. But there was a look of sharp determination in his
      white face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I meant to say... as I was coming here... I meant to tell you, mother,
      and you, Dounia, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I feel
      ill, I am not at peace.... I will come afterwards, I will come of
      myself... when it&rsquo;s possible. I remember you and love you.... Leave me,
      leave me alone. I decided this even before... I&rsquo;m absolutely resolved on
      it. Whatever may come to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be
      alone. Forget me altogether, it&rsquo;s better. Don&rsquo;t inquire about me. When I
      can, I&rsquo;ll come of myself or... I&rsquo;ll send for you. Perhaps it will all come
      back, but now if you love me, give me up... else I shall begin to hate
      you, I feel it.... Good-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and his sister
      were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was also.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be as before!&rdquo; cried his poor
      mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Dounia
      overtook him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother, what are you doing to mother?&rdquo; she whispered, her eyes flashing
      with indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked dully at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter, I shall come.... I&rsquo;m coming,&rdquo; he muttered in an undertone, as
      though not fully conscious of what he was saying, and he went out of the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wicked, heartless egoist!&rdquo; cried Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don&rsquo;t you see it? You&rsquo;re
      heartless after that!&rdquo; Razumihin whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand
      tightly. &ldquo;I shall be back directly,&rdquo; he shouted to the horror-stricken
      mother, and he ran out of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew you would run after me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Go back to them&mdash;be with
      them... be with them to-morrow and always.... I... perhaps I shall come...
      if I can. Good-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And without holding out his hand he walked away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But where are you going? What are you doing? What&rsquo;s the matter with you?
      How can you go on like this?&rdquo; Razumihin muttered, at his wits&rsquo; end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov stopped once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tell you.
      Don&rsquo;t come to see me. Maybe I&rsquo;ll come here.... Leave me, but <i>don&rsquo;t
      leave</i> them. Do you understand me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the lamp. For a
      minute they were looking at one another in silence. Razumihin remembered
      that minute all his life. Raskolnikov&rsquo;s burning and intent eyes grew more
      penetrating every moment, piercing into his soul, into his consciousness.
      Suddenly Razumihin started. Something strange, as it were, passed between
      them.... Some idea, some hint, as it were, slipped, something awful,
      hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides.... Razumihin turned pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you understand now?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, his face twitching nervously.
      &ldquo;Go back, go to them,&rdquo; he said suddenly, and turning quickly, he went out
      of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back to the ladies, how
      he soothed them, how he protested that Rodya needed rest in his illness,
      protested that Rodya was sure to come, that he would come every day, that
      he was very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated, that he,
      Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the best doctor,
      a consultation.... In fact from that evening Razumihin took his place with
      them as a son and a brother.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"></a>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov went straight to the house on the canal bank where Sonia
      lived. It was an old green house of three storeys. He found the porter and
      obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts of Kapernaumov,
      the tailor. Having found in the corner of the courtyard the entrance to
      the dark and narrow staircase, he mounted to the second floor and came out
      into a gallery that ran round the whole second storey over the yard. While
      he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn for
      Kapernaumov&rsquo;s door, a door opened three paces from him; he mechanically
      took hold of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is there?&rdquo; a woman&rsquo;s voice asked uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s I... come to see you,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov and he walked into the
      tiny entry.
    </p>
    <p>
      On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper candlestick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s you! Good heavens!&rdquo; cried Sonia weakly, and she stood rooted to the
      spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which is your room? This way?&rdquo; and Raskolnikov, trying not to look at
      her, hastened in.
    </p>
    <p>
      A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set down the
      candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood before him inexpressibly
      agitated and apparently frightened by his unexpected visit. The colour
      rushed suddenly to her pale face and tears came into her eyes... She felt
      sick and ashamed and happy, too.... Raskolnikov turned away quickly and
      sat on a chair by the table. He scanned the room in a rapid glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a large but exceedingly low-pitched room, the only one let by the
      Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door led in the wall on the left. In
      the opposite side on the right hand wall was another door, always kept
      locked. That led to the next flat, which formed a separate lodging.
      Sonia&rsquo;s room looked like a barn; it was a very irregular quadrangle and
      this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three windows looking out
      on to the canal ran aslant so that one corner formed a very acute angle,
      and it was difficult to see in it without very strong light. The other
      corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in
      the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead, beside it,
      nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal table covered by a blue cloth
      stood against the same wall, close to the door into the other flat. Two
      rush-bottom chairs stood by the table. On the opposite wall near the acute
      angle stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers looking, as it were,
      lost in a desert. That was all there was in the room. The yellow,
      scratched and shabby wall-paper was black in the corners. It must have
      been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There was every sign of
      poverty; even the bedstead had no curtain.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am late.... It&rsquo;s eleven, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; he asked, still not lifting his
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; muttered Sonia, &ldquo;oh yes, it is,&rdquo; she added, hastily, as though in
      that lay her means of escape. &ldquo;My landlady&rsquo;s clock has just struck... I
      heard it myself....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to you for the last time,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on gloomily,
      although this was the first time. &ldquo;I may perhaps not see you again...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you... going away?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know... to-morrow....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna to-morrow?&rdquo; Sonia&rsquo;s voice
      shook.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. I shall know to-morrow morning.... Never mind that: I&rsquo;ve
      come to say one word....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was
      sitting down while she was all the while standing before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why are you standing? Sit down,&rdquo; he said in a changed voice, gentle and
      friendly.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compassionately at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How thin you are! What a hand! Quite transparent, like a dead hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have always been like that,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even when you lived at home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, you were,&rdquo; he added abruptly and the expression of his face
      and the sound of his voice changed again suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked round him once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You rent this room from the Kapernaumovs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They live there, through that door?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.... They have another room like this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All in one room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should be afraid in your room at night,&rdquo; he observed gloomily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are very good people, very kind,&rdquo; answered Sonia, who still seemed
      bewildered, &ldquo;and all the furniture, everything... everything is theirs.
      And they are very kind and the children, too, often come to see me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They all stammer, don&rsquo;t they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.... He stammers and he&rsquo;s lame. And his wife, too.... It&rsquo;s not exactly
      that she stammers, but she can&rsquo;t speak plainly. She is a very kind woman.
      And he used to be a house serf. And there are seven children... and it&rsquo;s
      only the eldest one that stammers and the others are simply ill... but
      they don&rsquo;t stammer.... But where did you hear about them?&rdquo; she added with
      some surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your father told me, then. He told me all about you.... And how you went
      out at six o&rsquo;clock and came back at nine and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt
      down by your bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia was confused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancied I saw him to-day,&rdquo; she whispered hesitatingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father. I was walking in the street, out there at the corner, about ten
      o&rsquo;clock and he seemed to be walking in front. It looked just like him. I
      wanted to go to Katerina Ivanovna....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were walking in the streets?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Sonia whispered abruptly, again overcome with confusion and looking
      down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Katerina Ivanovna used to beat you, I dare say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, what are you saying? No!&rdquo; Sonia looked at him almost with dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You love her, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Love her? Of course!&rdquo; said Sonia with plaintive emphasis, and she clasped
      her hands in distress. &ldquo;Ah, you don&rsquo;t.... If you only knew! You see, she
      is quite like a child.... Her mind is quite unhinged, you see... from
      sorrow. And how clever she used to be... how generous... how kind! Ah, you
      don&rsquo;t understand, you don&rsquo;t understand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia said this as though in despair, wringing her hands in excitement and
      distress. Her pale cheeks flushed, there was a look of anguish in her
      eyes. It was clear that she was stirred to the very depths, that she was
      longing to speak, to champion, to express something. A sort of <i>insatiable</i>
      compassion, if one may so express it, was reflected in every feature of
      her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beat me! how can you? Good heavens, beat me! And if she did beat me, what
      then? What of it? You know nothing, nothing about it.... She is so
      unhappy... ah, how unhappy! And ill.... She is seeking righteousness, she
      is pure. She has such faith that there must be righteousness everywhere
      and she expects it.... And if you were to torture her, she wouldn&rsquo;t do
      wrong. She doesn&rsquo;t see that it&rsquo;s impossible for people to be righteous and
      she is angry at it. Like a child, like a child. She is good!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what will happen to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia looked at him inquiringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on your hands before,
      though.... And your father came to you to beg for drink. Well, how will it
      be now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; Sonia articulated mournfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will they stay there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.... They are in debt for the lodging, but the landlady, I
      hear, said to-day that she wanted to get rid of them, and Katerina
      Ivanovna says that she won&rsquo;t stay another minute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How is it she is so bold? She relies upon you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, don&rsquo;t talk like that.... We are one, we live like one.&rdquo; Sonia was
      agitated again and even angry, as though a canary or some other little
      bird were to be angry. &ldquo;And what could she do? What, what could she do?&rdquo;
       she persisted, getting hot and excited. &ldquo;And how she cried to-day! Her
      mind is unhinged, haven&rsquo;t you noticed it? At one minute she is worrying
      like a child that everything should be right to-morrow, the lunch and all
      that.... Then she is wringing her hands, spitting blood, weeping, and all
      at once she will begin knocking her head against the wall, in despair.
      Then she will be comforted again. She builds all her hopes on you; she
      says that you will help her now and that she will borrow a little money
      somewhere and go to her native town with me and set up a boarding school
      for the daughters of gentlemen and take me to superintend it, and we will
      begin a new splendid life. And she kisses and hugs me, comforts me, and
      you know she has such faith, such faith in her fancies! One can&rsquo;t
      contradict her. And all the day long she has been washing, cleaning,
      mending. She dragged the wash tub into the room with her feeble hands and
      sank on the bed, gasping for breath. We went this morning to the shops to
      buy shoes for Polenka and Lida for theirs are quite worn out. Only the
      money we&rsquo;d reckoned wasn&rsquo;t enough, not nearly enough. And she picked out
      such dear little boots, for she has taste, you don&rsquo;t know. And there in
      the shop she burst out crying before the shopmen because she hadn&rsquo;t
      enough.... Ah, it was sad to see her....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, after that I can understand your living like this,&rdquo; Raskolnikov
      said with a bitter smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And aren&rsquo;t you sorry for them? Aren&rsquo;t you sorry?&rdquo; Sonia flew at him
      again. &ldquo;Why, I know, you gave your last penny yourself, though you&rsquo;d seen
      nothing of it, and if you&rsquo;d seen everything, oh dear! And how often, how
      often I&rsquo;ve brought her to tears! Only last week! Yes, I! Only a week
      before his death. I was cruel! And how often I&rsquo;ve done it! Ah, I&rsquo;ve been
      wretched at the thought of it all day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia wrung her hands as she spoke at the pain of remembering it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were cruel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I&mdash;I. I went to see them,&rdquo; she went on, weeping, &ldquo;and father
      said, &lsquo;read me something, Sonia, my head aches, read to me, here&rsquo;s a
      book.&rsquo; He had a book he had got from Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, he
      lives there, he always used to get hold of such funny books. And I said,
      &lsquo;I can&rsquo;t stay,&rsquo; as I didn&rsquo;t want to read, and I&rsquo;d gone in chiefly to show
      Katerina Ivanovna some collars. Lizaveta, the pedlar, sold me some collars
      and cuffs cheap, pretty, new, embroidered ones. Katerina Ivanovna liked
      them very much; she put them on and looked at herself in the glass and was
      delighted with them. &lsquo;Make me a present of them, Sonia,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;please
      do.&rsquo; &lsquo;<i>Please do</i>,&rsquo; she said, she wanted them so much. And when could
      she wear them? They just reminded her of her old happy days. She looked at
      herself in the glass, admired herself, and she has no clothes at all, no
      things of her own, hasn&rsquo;t had all these years! And she never asks anyone
      for anything; she is proud, she&rsquo;d sooner give away everything. And these
      she asked for, she liked them so much. And I was sorry to give them. &lsquo;What
      use are they to you, Katerina Ivanovna?&rsquo; I said. I spoke like that to her,
      I ought not to have said that! She gave me such a look. And she was so
      grieved, so grieved at my refusing her. And it was so sad to see.... And
      she was not grieved for the collars, but for my refusing, I saw that. Ah,
      if only I could bring it all back, change it, take back those words! Ah,
      if I... but it&rsquo;s nothing to you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you know Lizaveta, the pedlar?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.... Did you know her?&rdquo; Sonia asked with some surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Katerina Ivanovna is in consumption, rapid consumption; she will soon
      die,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov after a pause, without answering her question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no, no!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his hands, as though imploring that
      she should not.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it will be better if she does die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not better, not at all better!&rdquo; Sonia unconsciously repeated in
      dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the children? What can you do except take them to live with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; cried Sonia, almost in despair, and she put her hands
      to her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was evident that that idea had very often occurred to her before and he
      had only roused it again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, what, if even now, while Katerina Ivanovna is alive, you get ill and
      are taken to the hospital, what will happen then?&rdquo; he persisted
      pitilessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you? That cannot be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Sonia&rsquo;s face worked with awful terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cannot be?&rdquo; Raskolnikov went on with a harsh smile. &ldquo;You are not insured
      against it, are you? What will happen to them then? They will be in the
      street, all of them, she will cough and beg and knock her head against
      some wall, as she did to-day, and the children will cry.... Then she will
      fall down, be taken to the police station and to the hospital, she will
      die, and the children...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no.... God will not let it be!&rdquo; broke at last from Sonia&rsquo;s
      overburdened bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      She listened, looking imploringly at him, clasping her hands in dumb
      entreaty, as though it all depended upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov got up and began to walk about the room. A minute passed.
      Sonia was standing with her hands and her head hanging in terrible
      dejection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And can&rsquo;t you save? Put by for a rainy day?&rdquo; he asked, stopping suddenly
      before her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; whispered Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course not. Have you tried?&rdquo; he added almost ironically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it didn&rsquo;t come off! Of course not! No need to ask.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And again he paced the room. Another minute passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t get money every day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia was more confused than ever and colour rushed into her face again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she whispered with a painful effort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be the same with Polenka, no doubt,&rdquo; he said suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! It can&rsquo;t be, no!&rdquo; Sonia cried aloud in desperation, as though she
      had been stabbed. &ldquo;God would not allow anything so awful!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He lets others come to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! God will protect her, God!&rdquo; she repeated beside herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, perhaps, there is no God at all,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered with a sort
      of malignance, laughed and looked at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia&rsquo;s face suddenly changed; a tremor passed over it. She looked at him
      with unutterable reproach, tried to say something, but could not speak and
      broke into bitter, bitter sobs, hiding her face in her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s mind is unhinged; your own mind is unhinged,&rdquo;
       he said after a brief silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Five minutes passed. He still paced up and down the room in silence, not
      looking at her. At last he went up to her; his eyes glittered. He put his
      two hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her tearful face. His
      eyes were hard, feverish and piercing, his lips were twitching. All at
      once he bent down quickly and dropping to the ground, kissed her foot.
      Sonia drew back from him as from a madman. And certainly he looked like a
      madman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you doing to me?&rdquo; she muttered, turning pale, and a sudden
      anguish clutched at her heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood up at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffering of
      humanity,&rdquo; he said wildly and walked away to the window. &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; he
      added, turning to her a minute later. &ldquo;I said just now to an insolent man
      that he was not worth your little finger... and that I did my sister
      honour making her sit beside you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, you said that to them! And in her presence?&rdquo; cried Sonia,
      frightened. &ldquo;Sit down with me! An honour! Why, I&rsquo;m... dishonourable....
      Ah, why did you say that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said that of you, but
      because of your great suffering. But you are a great sinner, that&rsquo;s true,&rdquo;
       he added almost solemnly, &ldquo;and your worst sin is that you have destroyed
      and betrayed yourself <i>for nothing</i>. Isn&rsquo;t that fearful? Isn&rsquo;t it
      fearful that you are living in this filth which you loathe so, and at the
      same time you know yourself (you&rsquo;ve only to open your eyes) that you are
      not helping anyone by it, not saving anyone from anything? Tell me,&rdquo; he
      went on almost in a frenzy, &ldquo;how this shame and degradation can exist in
      you side by side with other, opposite, holy feelings? It would be better,
      a thousand times better and wiser to leap into the water and end it all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what would become of them?&rdquo; Sonia asked faintly, gazing at him with
      eyes of anguish, but not seeming surprised at his suggestion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her face; so she
      must have had that thought already, perhaps many times, and earnestly she
      had thought out in her despair how to end it and so earnestly, that now
      she scarcely wondered at his suggestion. She had not even noticed the
      cruelty of his words. (The significance of his reproaches and his peculiar
      attitude to her shame she had, of course, not noticed either, and that,
      too, was clear to him.) But he saw how monstrously the thought of her
      disgraceful, shameful position was torturing her and had long tortured
      her. &ldquo;What, what,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;could hitherto have hindered her from
      putting an end to it?&rdquo; Only then he realised what those poor little orphan
      children and that pitiful half-crazy Katerina Ivanovna, knocking her head
      against the wall in her consumption, meant for Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, nevertheless, it was clear to him again that with her character and
      the amount of education she had after all received, she could not in any
      case remain so. He was still confronted by the question, how could she
      have remained so long in that position without going out of her mind,
      since she could not bring herself to jump into the water? Of course he
      knew that Sonia&rsquo;s position was an exceptional case, though unhappily not
      unique and not infrequent, indeed; but that very exceptionalness, her
      tinge of education, her previous life might, one would have thought, have
      killed her at the first step on that revolting path. What held her up&mdash;surely
      not depravity? All that infamy had obviously only touched her
      mechanically, not one drop of real depravity had penetrated to her heart;
      he saw that. He saw through her as she stood before him....
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are three ways before her,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;the canal, the madhouse,
      or... at last to sink into depravity which obscures the mind and turns the
      heart to stone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a sceptic, he was young,
      abstract, and therefore cruel, and so he could not help believing that the
      last end was the most likely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But can that be true?&rdquo; he cried to himself. &ldquo;Can that creature who has
      still preserved the purity of her spirit be consciously drawn at last into
      that sink of filth and iniquity? Can the process already have begun? Can
      it be that she has only been able to bear it till now, because vice has
      begun to be less loathsome to her? No, no, that cannot be!&rdquo; he cried, as
      Sonia had just before. &ldquo;No, what has kept her from the canal till now is
      the idea of sin and they, the children.... And if she has not gone out of
      her mind... but who says she has not gone out of her mind? Is she in her
      senses? Can one talk, can one reason as she does? How can she sit on the
      edge of the abyss of loathsomeness into which she is slipping and refuse
      to listen when she is told of danger? Does she expect a miracle? No doubt
      she does. Doesn&rsquo;t that all mean madness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that explanation indeed
      better than any other. He began looking more intently at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you pray to God a great deal, Sonia?&rdquo; he asked her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia did not speak; he stood beside her waiting for an answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What should I be without God?&rdquo; she whispered rapidly, forcibly, glancing
      at him with suddenly flashing eyes, and squeezing his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, so that is it!&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what does God do for you?&rdquo; he asked, probing her further.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not answer. Her weak
      chest kept heaving with emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be silent! Don&rsquo;t ask! You don&rsquo;t deserve!&rdquo; she cried suddenly, looking
      sternly and wrathfully at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it, that&rsquo;s it,&rdquo; he repeated to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He does everything,&rdquo; she whispered quickly, looking down again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the way out! That&rsquo;s the explanation,&rdquo; he decided, scrutinising her
      with eager curiosity, with a new, strange, almost morbid feeling. He gazed
      at that pale, thin, irregular, angular little face, those soft blue eyes,
      which could flash with such fire, such stern energy, that little body
      still shaking with indignation and anger&mdash;and it all seemed to him
      more and more strange, almost impossible. &ldquo;She is a religious maniac!&rdquo; he
      repeated to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where did you get that?&rdquo; he called to her across the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was still standing in the same place, three steps from the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was brought me,&rdquo; she answered, as it were unwillingly, not looking at
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who brought it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lizaveta, I asked her for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lizaveta! strange!&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more wonderful every
      moment. He carried the book to the candle and began to turn over the
      pages.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the story of Lazarus?&rdquo; he asked suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not answer. She was
      standing sideways to the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stole a glance at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not looking in the right place.... It&rsquo;s in the fourth gospel,&rdquo;
       she whispered sternly, without looking at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Find it and read it to me,&rdquo; he said. He sat down with his elbow on the
      table, leaned his head on his hand and looked away sullenly, prepared to
      listen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In three weeks&rsquo; time they&rsquo;ll welcome me in the madhouse! I shall be there
      if I am not in a worse place,&rdquo; he muttered to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia heard Raskolnikov&rsquo;s request distrustfully and moved hesitatingly to
      the table. She took the book however.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t you read it?&rdquo; she asked, looking up at him across the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her voice became sterner and sterner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Long ago.... When I was at school. Read!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And haven&rsquo;t you heard it in church?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I... haven&rsquo;t been. Do you often go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no,&rdquo; whispered Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand.... And you won&rsquo;t go to your father&rsquo;s funeral to-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too... I had a requiem service.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For whom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His nerves were more and more strained. His head began to go round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were you friends with Lizaveta?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.... She was good... she used to come... not often... she couldn&rsquo;t....
      We used to read together and... talk. She will see God.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was something new
      again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta and both of them&mdash;religious
      maniacs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It&rsquo;s infectious!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Read!&rdquo; he cried irritably and insistently.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly dared to read
      to him. He looked almost with exasperation at the &ldquo;unhappy lunatic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for? You don&rsquo;t believe?...&rdquo; she whispered softly and as it were
      breathlessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Read! I want you to,&rdquo; he persisted. &ldquo;You used to read to Lizaveta.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands were shaking, her
      voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin and could not bring out the
      first syllable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany...&rdquo; she forced
      herself at last to read, but at the third word her voice broke like an
      overstrained string. There was a catch in her breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>own</i>. He understood that these
      feelings really were her <i>secret treasure</i>, which she had kept
      perhaps for years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived with an unhappy
      father and a distracted stepmother crazed by grief, in the midst of
      starving children and unseemly abuse and reproaches. But at the same time
      he knew now and knew for certain that, although it filled her with dread
      and suffering, yet she had a tormenting desire to read and to read to <i>him</i>
      that he might hear it, and to read <i>now</i> 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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to comfort them concerning
      their brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming went and met Him:
      but Mary sat still in the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother
      had not died.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I know that even now whatsoever Thou wilt ask of God, God will give
      it Thee....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she stopped again with a shamefaced feeling that her voice would
      quiver and break again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jesus said unto her, thy brother shall rise again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha saith unto Him, I know that he shall rise again in the
      resurrection, at the last day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that
      believeth in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die. Believest thou
      this?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She saith unto Him,&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and forcibly as
      though she were making a public confession of faith.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of God Which
      should come into the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell down at His
      feet, saying unto Him, Lord if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not
      died.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which
      came with her, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto Him, Lord, come and see.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jesus wept.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then said the Jews, behold how He loved him!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And some of them said, could not this Man which opened the eyes of the
      blind, have caused that even this man should not have died?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov turned and looked at her with emotion. Yes, he had known it!
      She was trembling in a real physical fever. He had expected it. She was
      getting near the story of the greatest miracle and a feeling of immense
      triumph came over her. Her voice rang out like a bell; triumph and joy
      gave it power. The lines danced before her eyes, but she knew what she was
      reading by heart. At the last verse &ldquo;Could not this Man which opened the
      eyes of the blind...&rdquo; dropping her voice she passionately reproduced the
      doubt, the reproach and censure of the blind disbelieving Jews, who in
      another moment would fall at His feet as though struck by thunder, sobbing
      and believing.... &ldquo;And <i>he, he</i>&mdash;too, is blinded and
      unbelieving, he, too, will hear, he, too, will believe, yes, yes! At once,
      now,&rdquo; was what she was dreaming, and she was quivering with happy
      anticipation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jesus therefore again groaning in Himself cometh to the grave. It was a
      cave, and a stone lay upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was
      dead, saith unto Him, Lord by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead
      four days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She laid emphasis on the word <i>four</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldest believe,
      thou shouldest see the glory of God?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And
      Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, Father, I thank Thee that Thou hast
      heard Me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I knew that Thou hearest Me always; but because of the people which
      stand by I said it, that they may believe that Thou hast sent Me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when He thus had spoken, He cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come
      forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he that was dead came forth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as though she were
      seeing it before her eyes.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about with
      a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him and let him go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen the things which
      Jesus did believed on Him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could read no more, closed the book and got up from her chair quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is all about the raising of Lazarus,&rdquo; she whispered severely and
      abruptly, and turning away she stood motionless, not daring to raise her
      eyes to him. She still trembled feverishly. The candle-end was flickering
      out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the poverty-stricken
      room the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely been reading
      together the eternal book. Five minutes or more passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came to speak of something,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said aloud, frowning. He got
      up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes to him in silence. His face was
      particularly stern and there was a sort of savage determination in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have abandoned my family to-day,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;my mother and sister. I am
      not going to see them. I&rsquo;ve broken with them completely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting with his mother and
      sister had left a great impression which she could not analyse. She heard
      his news almost with horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have only you now,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;Let us go together.... I&rsquo;ve come to you,
      we are both accursed, let us go our way together!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His eyes glittered &ldquo;as though he were mad,&rdquo; Sonia thought, in her turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go where?&rdquo; she asked in alarm and she involuntarily stepped back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do I know? I only know it&rsquo;s the same road, I know that and nothing
      more. It&rsquo;s the same goal!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only that he was
      terribly, infinitely unhappy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one of them will understand, if you tell them, but I have understood.
      I need you, that is why I have come to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand,&rdquo; whispered Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll understand later. Haven&rsquo;t you done the same? You, too, have
      transgressed... have had the strength to transgress. You have laid hands
      on yourself, you have destroyed a life... <i>your own</i> (it&rsquo;s all the
      same!). You might have lived in spirit and understanding, but you&rsquo;ll end
      in the Hay Market.... But you won&rsquo;t be able to stand it, and if you remain
      alone you&rsquo;ll go out of your mind like me. You are like a mad creature
      already. So we must go together on the same road! Let us go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for? What&rsquo;s all this for?&rdquo; said Sonia, strangely and violently
      agitated by his words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for? Because you can&rsquo;t remain like this, that&rsquo;s why! You must look
      things straight in the face at last, and not weep like a child and cry
      that God won&rsquo;t allow it. What will happen, if you should really be taken
      to the hospital to-morrow? She is mad and in consumption, she&rsquo;ll soon die
      and the children? Do you mean to tell me Polenka won&rsquo;t come to grief?
      Haven&rsquo;t you seen children here at the street corners sent out by their
      mothers to beg? I&rsquo;ve found out where those mothers live and in what
      surroundings. Children can&rsquo;t remain children there! At seven the child is
      vicious and a thief. Yet children, you know, are the image of Christ:
      &lsquo;theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.&rsquo; He bade us honour and love them, they
      are the humanity of the future....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s to be done, what&rsquo;s to be done?&rdquo; repeated Sonia, weeping
      hysterically and wringing her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s to be done? Break what must be broken, once for all, that&rsquo;s all,
      and take the suffering on oneself. What, you don&rsquo;t understand? You&rsquo;ll
      understand later.... Freedom and power, and above all, power! Over all
      trembling creation and all the ant-heap!... That&rsquo;s the goal, remember
      that! That&rsquo;s my farewell message. Perhaps it&rsquo;s the last time I shall speak
      to you. If I don&rsquo;t come to-morrow, you&rsquo;ll hear of it all, and then
      remember these words. And some day later on, in years to come, you&rsquo;ll
      understand perhaps what they meant. If I come to-morrow, I&rsquo;ll tell you who
      killed Lizaveta.... Good-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia started with terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, do you know who killed her?&rdquo; she asked, chilled with horror, looking
      wildly at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know and will tell... you, only you. I have chosen you out. I&rsquo;m not
      coming to you to ask forgiveness, but simply to tell you. I chose you out
      long ago to hear this, when your father talked of you and when Lizaveta
      was alive, I thought of it. Good-bye, don&rsquo;t shake hands. To-morrow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens, how does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those words
      mean? It&rsquo;s awful!&rdquo; But at the same time <i>the idea</i> did not enter her
      head, not for a moment! &ldquo;Oh, he must be terribly unhappy!... He has
      abandoned his mother and sister.... What for? What has happened? And what
      had he in his mind? What did he say to her? He had kissed her foot and
      said... said (yes, he had said it clearly) that he could not live without
      her.... Oh, merciful heavens!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She jumped up from
      time to time, wept and wrung her hands, then sank again into feverish
      sleep and dreamt of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna and Lizaveta, of reading
      the gospel and him... him with pale face, with burning eyes... kissing her
      feet, weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the other side of the door on the right, which divided Sonia&rsquo;s room
      from Madame Resslich&rsquo;s flat, was a room which had long stood empty. A card
      was fixed on the gate and a notice stuck in the windows over the canal
      advertising it to let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the room&rsquo;s being
      uninhabited. But all that time Mr. Svidrigaïlov had been standing,
      listening at the door of the empty room. When Raskolnikov went out he
      stood still, thought a moment, went on tiptoe to his own room which
      adjoined the empty one, brought a chair and noiselessly carried it to the
      door that led to Sonia&rsquo;s room. The conversation had struck him as
      interesting and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed it&mdash;so much so
      that he brought a chair that he might not in the future, to-morrow, for
      instance, have to endure the inconvenience of standing a whole hour, but
      might listen in comfort.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"></a>
      CHAPTER V
    </h2>
    <p>
      When next morning at eleven o&rsquo;clock punctually Raskolnikov went into the
      department of the investigation of criminal causes and sent his name in to
      Porfiry Petrovitch, he was surprised at being kept waiting so long: it was
      at least ten minutes before he was summoned. He had expected that they
      would pounce upon him. But he stood in the waiting-room, and people, who
      apparently had nothing to do with him, were continually passing to and fro
      before him. In the next room which looked like an office, several clerks
      were sitting writing and obviously they had no notion who or what
      Raskolnikov might be. He looked uneasily and suspiciously about him to see
      whether there was not some guard, some mysterious watch being kept on him
      to prevent his escape. But there was nothing of the sort: he saw only the
      faces of clerks absorbed in petty details, then other people, no one
      seemed to have any concern with him. He might go where he liked for them.
      The conviction grew stronger in him that if that enigmatic man of
      yesterday, that phantom sprung out of the earth, had seen everything, they
      would not have let him stand and wait like that. And would they have
      waited till he elected to appear at eleven? Either the man had not yet
      given information, or... or simply he knew nothing, had seen nothing (and
      how could he have seen anything?) and so all that had happened to him the
      day before was again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and overstrained
      imagination. This conjecture had begun to grow strong the day before, in
      the midst of all his alarm and despair. Thinking it all over now and
      preparing for a fresh conflict, he was suddenly aware that he was
      trembling&mdash;and he felt a rush of indignation at the thought that he
      was trembling with fear at facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovitch. What he
      dreaded above all was meeting that man again; he hated him with an
      intense, unmitigated hatred and was afraid his hatred might betray him.
      His indignation was such that he ceased trembling at once; he made ready
      to go in with a cold and arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep as
      silent as possible, to watch and listen and for once at least to control
      his overstrained nerves. At that moment he was summoned to Porfiry
      Petrovitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study. His study was a room
      neither large nor small, furnished with a large writing-table, that stood
      before a sofa, upholstered in checked material, a bureau, a bookcase in
      the corner and several chairs&mdash;all government furniture, of polished
      yellow wood. In the further wall there was a closed door, beyond it there
      were no doubt other rooms. On Raskolnikov&rsquo;s entrance Porfiry Petrovitch
      had at once closed the door by which he had come in and they remained
      alone. He met his visitor with an apparently genial and good-tempered air,
      and it was only after a few minutes that Raskolnikov saw signs of a
      certain awkwardness in him, as though he had been thrown out of his
      reckoning or caught in something very secret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my dear fellow! Here you are... in our domain&rdquo;... began Porfiry,
      holding out both hands to him. &ldquo;Come, sit down, old man... or perhaps you
      don&rsquo;t like to be called &lsquo;my dear fellow&rsquo; and &lsquo;old man!&rsquo;&mdash;<i>tout
      court</i>? Please don&rsquo;t think it too familiar.... Here, on the sofa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. &ldquo;In our domain,&rdquo; the
      apologies for familiarity, the French phrase <i>tout court</i>, were all
      characteristic signs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one&mdash;he drew it
      back in time,&rdquo; struck him suspiciously. Both were watching each other, but
      when their eyes met, quick as lightning they looked away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I brought you this paper... about the watch. Here it is. Is it all right
      or shall I copy it again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? A paper? Yes, yes, don&rsquo;t be uneasy, it&rsquo;s all right,&rdquo; Porfiry
      Petrovitch said as though in haste, and after he had said it he took the
      paper and looked at it. &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s all right. Nothing more is needed,&rdquo; he
      declared with the same rapidity and he laid the paper on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      A minute later when he was talking of something else he took it from the
      table and put it on his bureau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me... formally...
      about my acquaintance with the murdered woman?&rdquo; Raskolnikov was beginning
      again. &ldquo;Why did I put in &lsquo;I believe&rsquo;&rdquo; passed through his mind in a flash.
      &ldquo;Why am I so uneasy at having put in that &lsquo;<i>I believe</i>&rsquo;?&rdquo; came in a
      second flash. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact
      with Porfiry, at the first words, at the first looks, had grown in an
      instant to monstrous proportions, and that this was fearfully dangerous.
      His nerves were quivering, his emotion was increasing. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s bad, it&rsquo;s
      bad! I shall say too much again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, yes! There&rsquo;s no hurry, there&rsquo;s no hurry,&rdquo; muttered Porfiry
      Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the table without any apparent aim, as
      it were making dashes towards the window, the bureau and the table, at one
      moment avoiding Raskolnikov&rsquo;s suspicious glance, then again standing still
      and looking him straight in the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball rolling from
      one side to the other and rebounding back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve plenty of time. Do you smoke? have you your own? Here, a
      cigarette!&rdquo; he went on, offering his visitor a cigarette. &ldquo;You know I am
      receiving you here, but my own quarters are through there, you know, my
      government quarters. But I am living outside for the time, I had to have
      some repairs done here. It&rsquo;s almost finished now.... Government quarters,
      you know, are a capital thing. Eh, what do you think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a capital thing,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost
      ironically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A capital thing, a capital thing,&rdquo; repeated Porfiry Petrovitch, as though
      he had just thought of something quite different. &ldquo;Yes, a capital thing,&rdquo;
       he almost shouted at last, suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping
      short two steps from him.
    </p>
    <p>
      This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its ineptitude with the
      serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned upon his visitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this stirred Raskolnikov&rsquo;s spleen more than ever and he could not
      resist an ironical and rather incautious challenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, please,&rdquo; he asked suddenly, looking almost insolently at him and
      taking a kind of pleasure in his own insolence. &ldquo;I believe it&rsquo;s a sort of
      legal rule, a sort of legal tradition&mdash;for all investigating lawyers&mdash;to
      begin their attack from afar, with a trivial, or at least an irrelevant
      subject, so as to encourage, or rather, to divert the man they are
      cross-examining, to disarm his caution and then all at once to give him an
      unexpected knock-down blow with some fatal question. Isn&rsquo;t that so? It&rsquo;s a
      sacred tradition, mentioned, I fancy, in all the manuals of the art?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes.... Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke about government
      quarters... eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch screwed up his eyes and winked; a
      good-humoured, crafty look passed over his face. The wrinkles on his
      forehead were smoothed out, his eyes contracted, his features broadened
      and he suddenly went off into a nervous prolonged laugh, shaking all over
      and looking Raskolnikov straight in the face. The latter forced himself to
      laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing, broke into such
      a guffaw that he turned almost crimson, Raskolnikov&rsquo;s repulsion overcame
      all precaution; he left off laughing, scowled and stared with hatred at
      Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his intentionally prolonged
      laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on both sides, however, for
      Porfiry Petrovitch seemed to be laughing in his visitor&rsquo;s face and to be
      very little disturbed at the annoyance with which the visitor received it.
      The latter fact was very significant in Raskolnikov&rsquo;s eyes: he saw that
      Porfiry Petrovitch had not been embarrassed just before either, but that
      he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a trap; that there must be
      something, some motive here unknown to him; that, perhaps, everything was
      in readiness and in another moment would break upon him...
    </p>
    <p>
      He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat and took his
      cap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Porfiry Petrovitch,&rdquo; he began resolutely, though with considerable
      irritation, &ldquo;yesterday you expressed a desire that I should come to you
      for some inquiries&rdquo; (he laid special stress on the word &ldquo;inquiries&rdquo;). &ldquo;I
      have come and if you have anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow me
      to withdraw. I have no time to spare.... I have to be at the funeral of
      that man who was run over, of whom you... know also,&rdquo; he added, feeling
      angry at once at having made this addition and more irritated at his
      anger. &ldquo;I am sick of it all, do you hear? and have long been. It&rsquo;s partly
      what made me ill. In short,&rdquo; he shouted, feeling that the phrase about his
      illness was still more out of place, &ldquo;in short, kindly examine me or let
      me go, at once. And if you must examine me, do so in the proper form! I
      will not allow you to do so otherwise, and so meanwhile, good-bye, as we
      have evidently nothing to keep us now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I question you about?&rdquo; cackled
      Porfiry Petrovitch with a change of tone, instantly leaving off laughing.
      &ldquo;Please don&rsquo;t disturb yourself,&rdquo; he began fidgeting from place to place
      and fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no hurry, there&rsquo;s no
      hurry, it&rsquo;s all nonsense. Oh, no, I&rsquo;m very glad you&rsquo;ve come to see me at
      last... I look upon you simply as a visitor. And as for my confounded
      laughter, please excuse it, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion Romanovitch? That
      is your name?... It&rsquo;s my nerves, you tickled me so with your witty
      observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake with laughter like an
      india-rubber ball for half an hour at a time.... I&rsquo;m often afraid of an
      attack of paralysis. Do sit down. Please do, or I shall think you are
      angry...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still frowning
      angrily. He did sit down, but still held his cap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion Romanovitch,&rdquo;
       Porfiry Petrovitch continued, moving about the room and again avoiding his
      visitor&rsquo;s eyes. &ldquo;You see, I&rsquo;m a bachelor, a man of no consequence and not
      used to society; besides, I have nothing before me, I&rsquo;m set, I&rsquo;m running
      to seed and... and have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that in our
      Petersburg circles, if two clever men meet who are not intimate, but
      respect each other, like you and me, it takes them half an hour before
      they can find a subject for conversation&mdash;they are dumb, they sit
      opposite each other and feel awkward. Everyone has subjects of
      conversation, ladies for instance... people in high society always have
      their subjects of conversation, <i>c&rsquo;est de rigueur</i>, but people of the
      middle sort like us, thinking people that is, are always tongue-tied and
      awkward. What is the reason of it? Whether it is the lack of public
      interest, or whether it is we are so honest we don&rsquo;t want to deceive one
      another, I don&rsquo;t know. What do you think? Do put down your cap, it looks
      as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfortable... I am so
      delighted...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in silence with a
      serious frowning face to the vague and empty chatter of Porfiry
      Petrovitch. &ldquo;Does he really want to distract my attention with his silly
      babble?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t offer you coffee here; but why not spend five minutes with a
      friend?&rdquo; Porfiry pattered on, &ldquo;and you know all these official duties...
      please don&rsquo;t mind my running up and down, excuse it, my dear fellow, I am
      very much afraid of offending you, but exercise is absolutely
      indispensable for me. I&rsquo;m always sitting and so glad to be moving about
      for five minutes... I suffer from my sedentary life... I always intend to
      join a gymnasium; they say that officials of all ranks, even Privy
      Councillors, may be seen skipping gaily there; there you have it, modern
      science... yes, yes.... But as for my duties here, inquiries and all such
      formalities... you mentioned inquiries yourself just now... I assure you
      these interrogations are sometimes more embarrassing for the interrogator
      than for the interrogated.... You made the observation yourself just now
      very aptly and wittily.&rdquo; (Raskolnikov had made no observation of the
      kind.) &ldquo;One gets into a muddle! A regular muddle! One keeps harping on the
      same note, like a drum! There is to be a reform and we shall be called by
      a different name, at least, he-he-he! And as for our legal tradition, as
      you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree with you. Every prisoner on
      trial, even the rudest peasant, knows that they begin by disarming him
      with irrelevant questions (as you so happily put it) and then deal him a
      knock-down blow, he-he-he!&mdash;your felicitous comparison, he-he! So you
      really imagined that I meant by &lsquo;government quarters&rsquo;... he-he! You are an
      ironical person. Come. I won&rsquo;t go on! Ah, by the way, yes! One word leads
      to another. You spoke of formality just now, apropos of the inquiry, you
      know. But what&rsquo;s the use of formality? In many cases it&rsquo;s nonsense.
      Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets a good deal more out of it. One
      can always fall back on formality, allow me to assure you. And after all,
      what does it amount to? An examining lawyer cannot be bounded by formality
      at every step. The work of investigation is, so to speak, a free art in
      its own way, he-he-he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He had simply babbled on uttering
      empty phrases, letting slip a few enigmatic words and again reverting to
      incoherence. He was almost running about the room, moving his fat little
      legs quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his right hand
      behind his back, while with his left making gesticulations that were
      extraordinarily incongruous with his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed
      that as he ran about the room he seemed twice to stop for a moment near
      the door, as though he were listening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he expecting anything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are certainly quite right about it,&rdquo; Porfiry began gaily, looking
      with extraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov (which startled him and
      instantly put him on his guard); &ldquo;certainly quite right in laughing so
      wittily at our legal forms, he-he! Some of these elaborate psychological
      methods are exceedingly ridiculous and perhaps useless, if one adheres too
      closely to the forms. Yes... I am talking of forms again. Well, if I
      recognise, or more strictly speaking, if I suspect someone or other to be
      a criminal in any case entrusted to me... you&rsquo;re reading for the law, of
      course, Rodion Romanovitch?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I was...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future&mdash;though don&rsquo;t
      suppose I should venture to instruct you after the articles you publish
      about crime! No, I simply make bold to state it by way of fact, if I took
      this man or that for a criminal, why, I ask, should I worry him
      prematurely, even though I had evidence against him? In one case I may be
      bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another may be in quite
      a different position, you know, so why shouldn&rsquo;t I let him walk about the
      town a bit? he-he-he! But I see you don&rsquo;t quite understand, so I&rsquo;ll give
      you a clearer example. If I put him in prison too soon, I may very likely
      give him, so to speak, moral support, he-he! You&rsquo;re laughing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov had no idea of laughing. He was sitting with compressed lips,
      his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry Petrovitch&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet that is the case, with some types especially, for men are so
      different. You say &lsquo;evidence&rsquo;. Well, there may be evidence. But evidence,
      you know, can generally be taken two ways. I am an examining lawyer and a
      weak man, I confess it. I should like to make a proof, so to say,
      mathematically clear. I should like to make a chain of evidence such as
      twice two are four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable proof! And if I
      shut him up too soon&mdash;even though I might be convinced <i>he</i> was
      the man, I should very likely be depriving myself of the means of getting
      further evidence against him. And how? By giving him, so to speak, a
      definite position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his mind at
      rest, so that he will retreat into his shell. They say that at Sevastopol,
      soon after Alma, the clever people were in a terrible fright that the
      enemy would attack openly and take Sevastopol at once. But when they saw
      that the enemy preferred a regular siege, they were delighted, I am told
      and reassured, for the thing would drag on for two months at least. You&rsquo;re
      laughing, you don&rsquo;t believe me again? Of course, you&rsquo;re right, too. You&rsquo;re
      right, you&rsquo;re right. These are special cases, I admit. But you must
      observe this, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, the general case, the case for
      which all legal forms and rules are intended, for which they are
      calculated and laid down in books, does not exist at all, for the reason
      that every case, every crime, for instance, so soon as it actually occurs,
      at once becomes a thoroughly special case and sometimes a case unlike any
      that&rsquo;s gone before. Very comic cases of that sort sometimes occur. If I
      leave one man quite alone, if I don&rsquo;t touch him and don&rsquo;t worry him, but
      let him know or at least suspect every moment that I know all about it and
      am watching him day and night, and if he is in continual suspicion and
      terror, he&rsquo;ll be bound to lose his head. He&rsquo;ll come of himself, or maybe
      do something which will make it as plain as twice two are four&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      delightful. It may be so with a simple peasant, but with one of our sort,
      an intelligent man cultivated on a certain side, it&rsquo;s a dead certainty.
      For, my dear fellow, it&rsquo;s a very important matter to know on what side a
      man is cultivated. And then there are nerves, there are nerves, you have
      overlooked them! Why, they are all sick, nervous and irritable!... And
      then how they all suffer from spleen! That I assure you is a regular
      gold-mine for us. And it&rsquo;s no anxiety to me, his running about the town
      free! Let him, let him walk about for a bit! I know well enough that I&rsquo;ve
      caught him and that he won&rsquo;t escape me. Where could he escape to, he-he?
      Abroad, perhaps? A Pole will escape abroad, but not here, especially as I
      am watching and have taken measures. Will he escape into the depths of the
      country perhaps? But you know, peasants live there, real rude Russian
      peasants. A modern cultivated man would prefer prison to living with such
      strangers as our peasants. He-he! But that&rsquo;s all nonsense, and on the
      surface. It&rsquo;s not merely that he has nowhere to run to, he is <i>psychologically</i>
      unable to escape me, he-he! What an expression! Through a law of nature he
      can&rsquo;t escape me if he had anywhere to go. Have you seen a butterfly round
      a candle? That&rsquo;s how he will keep circling and circling round me. Freedom
      will lose its attractions. He&rsquo;ll begin to brood, he&rsquo;ll weave a tangle
      round himself, he&rsquo;ll worry himself to death! What&rsquo;s more he will provide
      me with a mathematical proof&mdash;if I only give him long enough
      interval.... And he&rsquo;ll keep circling round me, getting nearer and nearer
      and then&mdash;flop! He&rsquo;ll fly straight into my mouth and I&rsquo;ll swallow
      him, and that will be very amusing, he-he-he! You don&rsquo;t believe me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, still gazing with
      the same intensity into Porfiry&rsquo;s face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a lesson,&rdquo; he thought, turning cold. &ldquo;This is beyond the cat playing
      with a mouse, like yesterday. He can&rsquo;t be showing off his power with no
      motive... prompting me; he is far too clever for that... he must have
      another object. What is it? It&rsquo;s all nonsense, my friend, you are
      pretending, to scare me! You&rsquo;ve no proofs and the man I saw had no real
      existence. You simply want to make me lose my head, to work me up
      beforehand and so to crush me. But you are wrong, you won&rsquo;t do it! But why
      give me such a hint? Is he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my
      friend, you are wrong, you won&rsquo;t do it even though you have some trap for
      me... let us see what you have in store for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown ordeal. At times he
      longed to fall on Porfiry and strangle him. This anger was what he dreaded
      from the beginning. He felt that his parched lips were flecked with foam,
      his heart was throbbing. But he was still determined not to speak till the
      right moment. He realised that this was the best policy in his position,
      because instead of saying too much he would be irritating his enemy by his
      silence and provoking him into speaking too freely. Anyhow, this was what
      he hoped for.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I see you don&rsquo;t believe me, you think I am playing a harmless joke on
      you,&rdquo; Porfiry began again, getting more and more lively, chuckling at
      every instant and again pacing round the room. &ldquo;And to be sure you&rsquo;re
      right: God has given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in
      other people; a buffoon; but let me tell you, and I repeat it, excuse an
      old man, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, you are a man still young, so to say,
      in your first youth and so you put intellect above everything, like all
      young people. Playful wit and abstract arguments fascinate you and that&rsquo;s
      for all the world like the old Austrian <i>Hof-kriegsrath</i>, as far as I
      can judge of military matters, that is: on paper they&rsquo;d beaten Napoleon
      and taken him prisoner, and there in their study they worked it all out in
      the cleverest fashion, but look you, General Mack surrendered with all his
      army, he-he-he! I see, I see, Rodion Romanovitch, you are laughing at a
      civilian like me, taking examples out of military history! But I can&rsquo;t
      help it, it&rsquo;s my weakness. I am fond of military science. And I&rsquo;m ever so
      fond of reading all military histories. I&rsquo;ve certainly missed my proper
      career. I ought to have been in the army, upon my word I ought. I
      shouldn&rsquo;t have been a Napoleon, but I might have been a major, he-he!
      Well, I&rsquo;ll tell you the whole truth, my dear fellow, about this <i>special
      case</i>, I mean: actual fact and a man&rsquo;s temperament, my dear sir, are
      weighty matters and it&rsquo;s astonishing how they sometimes deceive the
      sharpest calculation! I&mdash;listen to an old man&mdash;am speaking
      seriously, Rodion Romanovitch&rdquo; (as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch, who
      was scarcely five-and-thirty, actually seemed to have grown old; even his
      voice changed and he seemed to shrink together) &ldquo;Moreover, I&rsquo;m a candid
      man... am I a candid man or not? What do you say? I fancy I really am: I
      tell you these things for nothing and don&rsquo;t even expect a reward for it,
      he-he! Well, to proceed, wit in my opinion is a splendid thing, it is, so
      to say, an adornment of nature and a consolation of life, and what tricks
      it can play! So that it sometimes is hard for a poor examining lawyer to
      know where he is, especially when he&rsquo;s liable to be carried away by his
      own fancy, too, for you know he is a man after all! But the poor fellow is
      saved by the criminal&rsquo;s temperament, worse luck for him! But young people
      carried away by their own wit don&rsquo;t think of that &lsquo;when they overstep all
      obstacles,&rsquo; as you wittily and cleverly expressed it yesterday. He will
      lie&mdash;that is, the man who is a <i>special case</i>, the incognito,
      and he will lie well, in the cleverest fashion; you might think he would
      triumph and enjoy the fruits of his wit, but at the most interesting, the
      most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course there may be illness and a
      stuffy room as well, but anyway! Anyway he&rsquo;s given us the idea! He lied
      incomparably, but he didn&rsquo;t reckon on his temperament. That&rsquo;s what betrays
      him! Another time he will be carried away by his playful wit into making
      fun of the man who suspects him, he will turn pale as it were on purpose
      to mislead, but his paleness will be <i>too natural</i>, too much like the
      real thing, again he has given us an idea! Though his questioner may be
      deceived at first, he will think differently next day if he is not a fool,
      and, of course, it is like that at every step! He puts himself forward
      where he is not wanted, speaks continually when he ought to keep silent,
      brings in all sorts of allegorical allusions, he-he! Comes and asks why
      didn&rsquo;t you take me long ago? he-he-he! And that can happen, you know, with
      the cleverest man, the psychologist, the literary man. The temperament
      reflects everything like a mirror! Gaze into it and admire what you see!
      But why are you so pale, Rodion Romanovitch? Is the room stuffy? Shall I
      open the window?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t trouble, please,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov and he suddenly broke into
      a laugh. &ldquo;Please don&rsquo;t trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly he too laughed.
      Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly checking his hysterical
      laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Porfiry Petrovitch,&rdquo; he began, speaking loudly and distinctly, though his
      legs trembled and he could scarcely stand. &ldquo;I see clearly at last that you
      actually suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister Lizaveta.
      Let me tell you for my part that I am sick of this. If you find that you
      have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then prosecute me,
      arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered at to my face and
      worried...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could not restrain his
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t allow it!&rdquo; he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. &ldquo;Do
      you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won&rsquo;t allow it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! What does it mean?&rdquo; cried Porfiry Petrovitch, apparently
      quite frightened. &ldquo;Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, what is the matter
      with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t allow it,&rdquo; Raskolnikov shouted again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, my dear man! They&rsquo;ll hear and come in. Just think, what could we
      say to them?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch whispered in horror, bringing his face
      close to Raskolnikov&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t allow it, I won&rsquo;t allow it,&rdquo; Raskolnikov repeated mechanically,
      but he too spoke in a sudden whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my dear fellow. You&rsquo;re
      ill!&rdquo; and he was running to the door to call for some when he found a
      decanter of water in the corner. &ldquo;Come, drink a little,&rdquo; he whispered,
      rushing up to him with the decanter. &ldquo;It will be sure to do you good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry Petrovitch&rsquo;s alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov
      was silent and began looking at him with wild curiosity. He did not take
      the water, however.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you&rsquo;ll drive yourself out of your
      mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some water, do drink a little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to his
      lips, but set it on the table again with disgust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you&rsquo;ve had a little attack! You&rsquo;ll bring back your illness again, my
      dear fellow,&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch cackled with friendly sympathy, though he
      still looked rather disconcerted. &ldquo;Good heavens, you must take more care
      of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me yesterday&mdash;I
      know, I know, I&rsquo;ve a nasty, ironical temper, but what they made of it!...
      Good heavens, he came yesterday after you&rsquo;d been. We dined and he talked
      and talked away, and I could only throw up my hands in despair! Did he
      come from you? But do sit down, for mercy&rsquo;s sake, sit down!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went,&rdquo; Raskolnikov
      answered sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You knew?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew. What of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than that about you; I
      know about everything. I know how you went <i>to take a flat</i> at night
      when it was dark and how you rang the bell and asked about the blood, so
      that the workmen and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I
      understand your state of mind at that time... but you&rsquo;ll drive yourself
      mad like that, upon my word! You&rsquo;ll lose your head! You&rsquo;re full of
      generous indignation at the wrongs you&rsquo;ve received, first from destiny,
      and then from the police officers, and so you rush from one thing to
      another to force them to speak out and make an end of it all, because you
      are sick of all this suspicion and foolishness. That&rsquo;s so, isn&rsquo;t it? I
      have guessed how you feel, haven&rsquo;t I? Only in that way you&rsquo;ll lose your
      head and Razumihin&rsquo;s, too; he&rsquo;s too <i>good</i> a man for such a position,
      you must know that. You are ill and he is good and your illness is
      infectious for him... I&rsquo;ll tell you about it when you are more
      yourself.... But do sit down, for goodness&rsquo; sake. Please rest, you look
      shocking, do sit down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov sat down; he no longer shivered, he was hot all over. In
      amazement he listened with strained attention to Porfiry Petrovitch who
      still seemed frightened as he looked after him with friendly solicitude.
      But he did not believe a word he said, though he felt a strange
      inclination to believe. Porfiry&rsquo;s unexpected words about the flat had
      utterly overwhelmed him. &ldquo;How can it be, he knows about the flat then,&rdquo; he
      thought suddenly, &ldquo;and he tells it me himself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, in our legal practice there was a case almost exactly similar, a
      case of morbid psychology,&rdquo; Porfiry went on quickly. &ldquo;A man confessed to
      murder and how he kept it up! It was a regular hallucination; he brought
      forward facts, he imposed upon everyone and why? He had been partly, but
      only partly, unintentionally the cause of a murder and when he knew that
      he had given the murderers the opportunity, he sank into dejection, it got
      on his mind and turned his brain, he began imagining things and he
      persuaded himself that he was the murderer. But at last the High Court of
      Appeal went into it and the poor fellow was acquitted and put under proper
      care. Thanks to the Court of Appeal! Tut-tut-tut! Why, my dear fellow, you
      may drive yourself into delirium if you have the impulse to work upon your
      nerves, to go ringing bells at night and asking about blood! I&rsquo;ve studied
      all this morbid psychology in my practice. A man is sometimes tempted to
      jump out of a window or from a belfry. Just the same with bell-ringing....
      It&rsquo;s all illness, Rodion Romanovitch! You have begun to neglect your
      illness. You should consult an experienced doctor, what&rsquo;s the good of that
      fat fellow? You are lightheaded! You were delirious when you did all
      this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything going round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible, is it possible,&rdquo; flashed through his mind, &ldquo;that he is
      still lying? He can&rsquo;t be, he can&rsquo;t be.&rdquo; He rejected that idea, feeling to
      what a degree of fury it might drive him, feeling that that fury might
      drive him mad.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing,&rdquo; he cried, straining every
      faculty to penetrate Porfiry&rsquo;s game, &ldquo;I was quite myself, do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday you were not delirious,
      you were particularly emphatic about it! I understand all you can tell me!
      A-ach!... Listen, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow. If you were actually
      a criminal, or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business, would you
      insist that you were not delirious but in full possession of your
      faculties? And so emphatically and persistently? Would it be possible?
      Quite impossible, to my thinking. If you had anything on your conscience,
      you certainly ought to insist that you were delirious. That&rsquo;s so, isn&rsquo;t
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another thing about Razumihin&mdash;you certainly ought to have said that
      he came of his own accord, to have concealed your part in it! But you
      don&rsquo;t conceal it! You lay stress on his coming at your instigation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You keep telling lies,&rdquo; he said slowly and weakly, twisting his lips into
      a sickly smile, &ldquo;you are trying again to show that you know all my game,
      that you know all I shall say beforehand,&rdquo; he said, conscious himself that
      he was not weighing his words as he ought. &ldquo;You want to frighten me... or
      you are simply laughing at me...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He still stared at him as he said this and again there was a light of
      intense hatred in his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You keep lying,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You know perfectly well that the best policy
      for the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly as possible... to conceal
      as little as possible. I don&rsquo;t believe you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a wily person you are!&rdquo; Porfiry tittered, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s no catching you;
      you&rsquo;ve a perfect monomania. So you don&rsquo;t believe me? But still you do
      believe me, you believe a quarter; I&rsquo;ll soon make you believe the whole,
      because I have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s lips trembled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I do,&rdquo; went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov&rsquo;s arm genially, &ldquo;you
      must take care of your illness. Besides, your mother and sister are here
      now; you must think of them. You must soothe and comfort them and you do
      nothing but frighten them...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has that to do with you? How do you know it? What concern is it of
      yours? You are keeping watch on me and want to let me know it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! Why, I learnt it all from you yourself! You don&rsquo;t notice
      that in your excitement you tell me and others everything. From Razumihin,
      too, I learnt a number of interesting details yesterday. No, you
      interrupted me, but I must tell you that, for all your wit, your
      suspiciousness makes you lose the common-sense view of things. To return
      to bell-ringing, for instance. I, an examining lawyer, have betrayed a
      precious thing like that, a real fact (for it is a fact worth having), and
      you see nothing in it! Why, if I had the slightest suspicion of you,
      should I have acted like that? No, I should first have disarmed your
      suspicions and not let you see I knew of that fact, should have diverted
      your attention and suddenly have dealt you a knock-down blow (your
      expression) saying: &lsquo;And what were you doing, sir, pray, at ten or nearly
      eleven at the murdered woman&rsquo;s flat and why did you ring the bell and why
      did you ask about blood? And why did you invite the porters to go with you
      to the police station, to the lieutenant?&rsquo; That&rsquo;s how I ought to have
      acted if I had a grain of suspicion of you. I ought to have taken your
      evidence in due form, searched your lodging and perhaps have arrested you,
      too... so I have no suspicion of you, since I have not done that! But you
      can&rsquo;t look at it normally and you see nothing, I say again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovitch could not fail to perceive
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are lying all the while,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know your object, but
      you are lying. You did not speak like that just now and I cannot be
      mistaken!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am lying?&rdquo; Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but preserving a
      good-humoured and ironical face, as though he were not in the least
      concerned at Raskolnikov&rsquo;s opinion of him. &ldquo;I am lying... but how did I
      treat you just now, I, the examining lawyer? Prompting you and giving you
      every means for your defence; illness, I said, delirium, injury,
      melancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it? Ah! He-he-he!
      Though, indeed, all those psychological means of defence are not very
      reliable and cut both ways: illness, delirium, I don&rsquo;t remember&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      all right, but why, my good sir, in your illness and in your delirium were
      you haunted by just those delusions and not by any others? There may have
      been others, eh? He-he-he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Briefly,&rdquo; he said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet and in so
      doing pushing Porfiry back a little, &ldquo;briefly, I want to know, do you
      acknowledge me perfectly free from suspicion or not? Tell me, Porfiry
      Petrovitch, tell me once for all and make haste!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a business I&rsquo;m having with you!&rdquo; cried Porfiry with a perfectly
      good-humoured, sly and composed face. &ldquo;And why do you want to know, why do
      you want to know so much, since they haven&rsquo;t begun to worry you? Why, you
      are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so uneasy? Why do you
      force yourself upon us, eh? He-he-he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I repeat,&rdquo; Raskolnikov cried furiously, &ldquo;that I can&rsquo;t put up with it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With what? Uncertainty?&rdquo; interrupted Porfiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t jeer at me! I won&rsquo;t have it! I tell you I won&rsquo;t have it. I can&rsquo;t
      and I won&rsquo;t, do you hear, do you hear?&rdquo; he shouted, bringing his fist down
      on the table again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! Hush! They&rsquo;ll overhear! I warn you seriously, take care of
      yourself. I am not joking,&rdquo; Porfiry whispered, but this time there was not
      the look of old womanish good nature and alarm in his face. Now he was
      peremptory, stern, frowning and for once laying aside all mystification.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered, suddenly fell
      into actual frenzy, but, strange to say, he again obeyed the command to
      speak quietly, though he was in a perfect paroxysm of fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not allow myself to be tortured,&rdquo; he whispered, instantly
      recognising with hatred that he could not help obeying the command and
      driven to even greater fury by the thought. &ldquo;Arrest me, search me, but
      kindly act in due form and don&rsquo;t play with me! Don&rsquo;t dare!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry about the form,&rdquo; Porfiry interrupted with the same sly smile,
      as it were, gloating with enjoyment over Raskolnikov. &ldquo;I invited you to
      see me quite in a friendly way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you hear? And, here, I
      take my cap and go. What will you say now if you mean to arrest me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took up his cap and went to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And won&rsquo;t you see my little surprise?&rdquo; chuckled Porfiry, again taking him
      by the arm and stopping him at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to become more playful and good-humoured which maddened
      Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What surprise?&rdquo; he asked, standing still and looking at Porfiry in alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My little surprise, it&rsquo;s sitting there behind the door, he-he-he!&rdquo; (He
      pointed to the locked door.) &ldquo;I locked him in that he should not escape.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it? Where? What?...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened it, but it was
      locked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s locked, here is the key!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he brought a key out of his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are lying,&rdquo; roared Raskolnikov without restraint, &ldquo;you lie, you
      damned punchinello!&rdquo; and he rushed at Porfiry who retreated to the other
      door, not at all alarmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand it all! You are lying and mocking so that I may betray
      myself to you...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear Rodion
      Romanovitch. You are in a passion. Don&rsquo;t shout, I shall call the clerks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are lying! Call the clerks! You knew I was ill and tried to work me
      into a frenzy to make me betray myself, that was your object! Produce your
      facts! I understand it all. You&rsquo;ve no evidence, you have only wretched
      rubbishly suspicions like Zametov&rsquo;s! You knew my character, you wanted to
      drive me to fury and then to knock me down with priests and deputies....
      Are you waiting for them? eh! What are you waiting for? Where are they?
      Produce them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why deputies, my good man? What things people will imagine! And to do so
      would not be acting in form as you say, you don&rsquo;t know the business, my
      dear fellow.... And there&rsquo;s no escaping form, as you see,&rdquo; Porfiry
      muttered, listening at the door through which a noise could be heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, they&rsquo;re coming,&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve sent for them! You
      expected them! Well, produce them all: your deputies, your witnesses, what
      you like!... I am ready!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected
      that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovitch could have looked for such
      a conclusion to their interview.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"></a>
      CHAPTER VI
    </h2>
    <p>
      When he remembered the scene afterwards, this is how Raskolnikov saw it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The noise behind the door increased, and suddenly the door was opened a
      little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. &ldquo;Why, I gave orders...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident that there were
      several persons at the door, and that they were apparently pushing
      somebody back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The prisoner Nikolay has been brought,&rdquo; someone answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! What&rsquo;s he doing here? How
      irregular!&rdquo; cried Porfiry, rushing to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he...&rdquo; began the same voice, and suddenly ceased.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      This man&rsquo;s appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared straight
      before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his
      eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though
      he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim,
      his hair cut in round crop, with thin spare features. The man whom he had
      thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the
      shoulder; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them tried
      to get in. All this took place almost instantaneously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go away, it&rsquo;s too soon! Wait till you are sent for!... Why have you
      brought him so soon?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch muttered, extremely annoyed, and
      as it were thrown out of his reckoning.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Nikolay suddenly knelt down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; cried Porfiry, surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer,&rdquo; Nikolay articulated
      suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking fairly loudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his momentary
      stupefaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I... am the murderer,&rdquo; repeated Nikolay, after a brief pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What... you... what... whom did you kill?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch was
      obviously bewildered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nikolay again was silent for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I... killed... with an
      axe. Darkness came over me,&rdquo; he added suddenly, and was again silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood for some moments
      as though meditating, but suddenly roused himself and waved back the
      uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he
      looked towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring wildly
      at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolay
      to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and seeming unable to restrain
      himself darted at the latter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re in too great a hurry,&rdquo; he shouted at him, almost angrily. &ldquo;I
      didn&rsquo;t ask you what came over you.... Speak, did you kill them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the murderer.... I want to give evidence,&rdquo; Nikolay pronounced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach! What did you kill them with?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An axe. I had it ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nikolay did not understand the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you do it alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it you ran downstairs
      like that at the time? The porters met you both!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was to put them off the scent... I ran after Mitka,&rdquo; Nikolay replied
      hurriedly, as though he had prepared the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew it!&rdquo; cried Porfiry, with vexation. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not his own tale he is
      telling,&rdquo; he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested
      on Raskolnikov again.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had
      forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!&rdquo; he flew up to him, &ldquo;this won&rsquo;t
      do; I&rsquo;m afraid you must go... it&rsquo;s no good your staying... I will... you
      see, what a surprise!... Good-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you didn&rsquo;t expect it?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov who, though he had not
      yet fully grasped the situation, had regained his courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling!
      He-he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am; I didn&rsquo;t expect it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to be
      gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your little surprise, aren&rsquo;t you going to show it to me?&rdquo; Raskolnikov
      said, sarcastically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You are an ironical
      person! Come, till we meet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe we can say <i>good-bye</i>!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s in God&rsquo;s hands,&rdquo; muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people were
      looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from <i>the</i> house,
      whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there
      waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of
      Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running
      after him, out of breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it&rsquo;s in God&rsquo;s hands,
      but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask
      you... so we shall meet again, shan&rsquo;t we?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shan&rsquo;t we?&rdquo; he added again.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I
      lost my temper,&rdquo; began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage
      that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t mention it, don&rsquo;t mention it,&rdquo; Porfiry replied, almost gleefully.
      &ldquo;I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet
      again. If it&rsquo;s God&rsquo;s will, we may see a great deal of one another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And will get to know each other through and through?&rdquo; added Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; know each other through and through,&rdquo; assented Porfiry Petrovitch,
      and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Now you&rsquo;re
      going to a birthday party?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To a funeral.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what to wish you,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, who had begun to
      descend the stairs, but looked back again. &ldquo;I should like to wish you
      success, but your office is such a comical one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why comical?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick
      up his ears at this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay
      psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been
      at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now
      that he has confessed, you&rsquo;ll begin vivisecting him again. &lsquo;You are
      lying,&rsquo; you&rsquo;ll say. &lsquo;You are not the murderer! You can&rsquo;t be! It&rsquo;s not your
      own tale you are telling!&rsquo; You must admit it&rsquo;s a comical business!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was
      not his own tale he was telling?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could I help noticing it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You&rsquo;ve really a
      playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say
      that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, of Gogol.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So shall I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on
      getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to
      collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was
      stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing&mdash;something
      beyond his understanding. But Nikolay&rsquo;s confession was an actual fact. The
      consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could
      not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till
      then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the
      danger was imminent.
    </p>
    <p>
      But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him. Remembering,
      sketchily, the main outlines of his recent scene with Porfiry, he could
      not help shuddering again with horror. Of course, he did not yet know all
      Porfiry&rsquo;s aims, he could not see into all his calculations. But he had
      already partly shown his hand, and no one knew better than Raskolnikov how
      terrible Porfiry&rsquo;s &ldquo;lead&rdquo; had been for him. A little more and he <i>might</i>
      have given himself away completely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous
      temperament and from the first glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though
      playing a bold game, was bound to win. There&rsquo;s no denying that Raskolnikov
      had compromised himself seriously, but no <i>facts</i> had come to light
      as yet; there was nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the
      position? Wasn&rsquo;t he mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had
      he really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really
      been expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not
      been for the unexpected appearance of Nikolay?
    </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry had shown almost all his cards&mdash;of course, he had risked
      something in showing them&mdash;and if he had really had anything up his
      sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would have shown that, too. What was
      that &ldquo;surprise&rdquo;? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have
      concealed anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His
      yesterday&rsquo;s visitor? What had become of him? Where was he to-day? If
      Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be connected with him....
    </p>
    <p>
      He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his
      hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his cap,
      thought a minute, and went to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had a sort of presentiment that for to-day, at least, he might consider
      himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense almost of joy; he wanted to
      make haste to Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s. He would be too late for the funeral,
      of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there at
      once he would see Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile came for a moment
      on to his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-day! To-day,&rdquo; he repeated to himself. &ldquo;Yes, to-day! So it must be....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of itself. He
      started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly, and there
      suddenly appeared a figure&mdash;yesterday&rsquo;s visitor <i>from underground</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without speaking, and
      took a step forward into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday;
      the same figure, the same dress, but there was a great change in his face;
      he looked dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his hand up to
      his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have looked exactly
      like a peasant woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov, numb with terror. The man was still
      silent, but suddenly he bowed down almost to the ground, touching it with
      his finger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have sinned,&rdquo; the man articulated softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By evil thoughts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They looked at one another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and bade the porters go to
      the police station and asked about the blood, I was vexed that they let
      you go and took you for drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep. And
      remembering the address we came here yesterday and asked for you....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who came?&rdquo; Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to recollect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did, I&rsquo;ve wronged you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you come from that house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was standing at the gate with them... don&rsquo;t you remember? We have
      carried on our trade in that house for years past. We cure and prepare
      hides, we take work home... most of all I was vexed....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the gateway came
      clearly before Raskolnikov&rsquo;s mind; he recollected that there had been
      several people there besides the porters, women among them. He remembered
      one voice had suggested taking him straight to the police-station. He
      could not recall the face of the speaker, and even now he did not
      recognise it, but he remembered that he had turned round and made him some
      answer....
    </p>
    <p>
      So this was the solution of yesterday&rsquo;s horror. The most awful thought was
      that he had been actually almost lost, had almost done for himself on
      account of such a <i>trivial</i> circumstance. So this man could tell
      nothing except his asking about the flat and the blood stains. So Porfiry,
      too, had nothing but that <i>delirium</i>, no facts but this <i>psychology</i>
      which <i>cuts both ways</i>, nothing positive. So if no more facts come to
      light (and they must not, they must not!) then... then what can they do to
      him? How can they convict him, even if they arrest him? And Porfiry then
      had only just heard about the flat and had not known about it before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it you who told Porfiry... that I&rsquo;d been there?&rdquo; he cried, struck by
      a sudden idea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What Porfiry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The head of the detective department?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. The porters did not go there, but I went.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I got there two minutes before you. And I heard, I heard it all, how he
      worried you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where? What? When?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, in the next room. I was sitting there all the time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? Why, then you were the surprise? But how could it happen? Upon my
      word!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw that the porters did not want to do what I said,&rdquo; began the man;
      &ldquo;for it&rsquo;s too late, said they, and maybe he&rsquo;ll be angry that we did not
      come at the time. I was vexed and I lost my sleep, and I began making
      inquiries. And finding out yesterday where to go, I went to-day. The first
      time I went he wasn&rsquo;t there, when I came an hour later he couldn&rsquo;t see me.
      I went the third time, and they showed me in. I informed him of
      everything, just as it happened, and he began skipping about the room and
      punching himself on the chest. &lsquo;What do you scoundrels mean by it? If I&rsquo;d
      known about it I should have arrested him!&rsquo; Then he ran out, called
      somebody and began talking to him in the corner, then he turned to me,
      scolding and questioning me. He scolded me a great deal; and I told him
      everything, and I told him that you didn&rsquo;t dare to say a word in answer to
      me yesterday and that you didn&rsquo;t recognise me. And he fell to running
      about again and kept hitting himself on the chest, and getting angry and
      running about, and when you were announced he told me to go into the next
      room. &lsquo;Sit there a bit,&rsquo; he said. &lsquo;Don&rsquo;t move, whatever you may hear.&rsquo; And
      he set a chair there for me and locked me in. &lsquo;Perhaps,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;I may
      call you.&rsquo; And when Nikolay&rsquo;d been brought he let me out as soon as you
      were gone. &lsquo;I shall send for you again and question you,&rsquo; he said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did he question Nikolay while you were there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He got rid of me as he did of you, before he spoke to Nikolay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed down, touching the ground
      with his finger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May God forgive you,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      And as he said this, the man bowed down again, but not to the ground,
      turned slowly and went out of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways,&rdquo; repeated Raskolnikov,
      and he went out more confident than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now we&rsquo;ll make a fight for it,&rdquo; he said, with a malicious smile, as he
      went down the stairs. His malice was aimed at himself; with shame and
      contempt he recollected his &ldquo;cowardice.&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_PART5" id="link2H_PART5"></a>
      PART V
    </h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"></a>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
    <p>
      The morning that followed the fateful interview with Dounia and her mother
      brought sobering influences to bear on Pyotr Petrovitch. Intensely
      unpleasant as it was, he was forced little by little to accept as a fact
      beyond recall what had seemed to him only the day before fantastic and
      incredible. The black snake of wounded vanity had been gnawing at his
      heart all night. When he got out of bed, Pyotr Petrovitch immediately
      looked in the looking-glass. He was afraid that he had jaundice. However
      his health seemed unimpaired so far, and looking at his noble,
      clear-skinned countenance which had grown fattish of late, Pyotr
      Petrovitch for an instant was positively comforted in the conviction that
      he would find another bride and, perhaps, even a better one. But coming
      back to the sense of his present position, he turned aside and spat
      vigorously, which excited a sarcastic smile in Andrey Semyonovitch
      Lebeziatnikov, the young friend with whom he was staying. That smile Pyotr
      Petrovitch noticed, and at once set it down against his young friend&rsquo;s
      account. He had set down a good many points against him of late. His anger
      was redoubled when he reflected that he ought not to have told Andrey
      Semyonovitch about the result of yesterday&rsquo;s interview. That was the
      second mistake he had made in temper, through impulsiveness and
      irritability.... Moreover, all that morning one unpleasantness followed
      another. He even found a hitch awaiting him in his legal case in the
      senate. He was particularly irritated by the owner of the flat which had
      been taken in view of his approaching marriage and was being redecorated
      at his own expense; the owner, a rich German tradesman, would not
      entertain the idea of breaking the contract which had just been signed and
      insisted on the full forfeit money, though Pyotr Petrovitch would be
      giving him back the flat practically redecorated. In the same way the
      upholsterers refused to return a single rouble of the instalment paid for
      the furniture purchased but not yet removed to the flat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I to get married simply for the sake of the furniture?&rdquo; Pyotr
      Petrovitch ground his teeth and at the same time once more he had a gleam
      of desperate hope. &ldquo;Can all that be really so irrevocably over? Is it no
      use to make another effort?&rdquo; The thought of Dounia sent a voluptuous pang
      through his heart. He endured anguish at that moment, and if it had been
      possible to slay Raskolnikov instantly by wishing it, Pyotr Petrovitch
      would promptly have uttered the wish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money,&rdquo; he thought, as he
      returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov&rsquo;s room, &ldquo;and why on earth was I such
      a Jew? It was false economy! I meant to keep them without a penny so that
      they should turn to me as their providence, and look at them! foo! If I&rsquo;d
      spent some fifteen hundred roubles on them for the trousseau and presents,
      on knick-knacks, dressing-cases, jewellery, materials, and all that sort
      of trash from Knopp&rsquo;s and the English shop, my position would have been
      better and... stronger! They could not have refused me so easily! They are
      the sort of people that would feel bound to return money and presents if
      they broke it off; and they would find it hard to do it! And their
      conscience would prick them: how can we dismiss a man who has hitherto
      been so generous and delicate?.... H&rsquo;m! I&rsquo;ve made a blunder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And grinding his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovitch called himself a fool&mdash;but
      not aloud, of course.
    </p>
    <p>
      He returned home, twice as irritated and angry as before. The preparations
      for the funeral dinner at Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s excited his curiosity as he
      passed. He had heard about it the day before; he fancied, indeed, that he
      had been invited, but absorbed in his own cares he had paid no attention.
      Inquiring of Madame Lippevechsel who was busy laying the table while
      Katerina Ivanovna was away at the cemetery, he heard that the
      entertainment was to be a great affair, that all the lodgers had been
      invited, among them some who had not known the dead man, that even Andrey
      Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov was invited in spite of his previous quarrel
      with Katerina Ivanovna, that he, Pyotr Petrovitch, was not only invited,
      but was eagerly expected as he was the most important of the lodgers.
      Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with great ceremony in spite of
      the recent unpleasantness, and so she was very busy with preparations and
      was taking a positive pleasure in them; she was moreover dressed up to the
      nines, all in new black silk, and she was proud of it. All this suggested
      an idea to Pyotr Petrovitch and he went into his room, or rather
      Lebeziatnikov&rsquo;s, somewhat thoughtful. He had learnt that Raskolnikov was
      to be one of the guests.
    </p>
    <p>
      Andrey Semyonovitch had been at home all the morning. The attitude of
      Pyotr Petrovitch to this gentleman was strange, though perhaps natural.
      Pyotr Petrovitch had despised and hated him from the day he came to stay
      with him and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. He had not
      come to stay with him on his arrival in Petersburg simply from parsimony,
      though that had been perhaps his chief object. He had heard of Andrey
      Semyonovitch, who had once been his ward, as a leading young progressive
      who was taking an important part in certain interesting circles, the
      doings of which were a legend in the provinces. It had impressed Pyotr
      Petrovitch. These powerful omniscient circles who despised everyone and
      showed everyone up had long inspired in him a peculiar but quite vague
      alarm. He had not, of course, been able to form even an approximate notion
      of what they meant. He, like everyone, had heard that there were,
      especially in Petersburg, progressives of some sort, nihilists and so on,
      and, like many people, he exaggerated and distorted the significance of
      those words to an absurd degree. What for many years past he had feared
      more than anything was <i>being shown up</i> and this was the chief ground
      for his continual uneasiness at the thought of transferring his business
      to Petersburg. He was afraid of this as little children are sometimes
      panic-stricken. Some years before, when he was just entering on his own
      career, he had come upon two cases in which rather important personages in
      the province, patrons of his, had been cruelly shown up. One instance had
      ended in great scandal for the person attacked and the other had very
      nearly ended in serious trouble. For this reason Pyotr Petrovitch intended
      to go into the subject as soon as he reached Petersburg and, if necessary,
      to anticipate contingencies by seeking the favour of &ldquo;our younger
      generation.&rdquo; He relied on Andrey Semyonovitch for this and before his
      visit to Raskolnikov he had succeeded in picking up some current phrases.
      He soon discovered that Andrey Semyonovitch was a commonplace simpleton,
      but that by no means reassured Pyotr Petrovitch. Even if he had been
      certain that all the progressives were fools like him, it would not have
      allayed his uneasiness. All the doctrines, the ideas, the systems, with
      which Andrey Semyonovitch pestered him had no interest for him. He had his
      own object&mdash;he simply wanted to find out at once what was happening
      <i>here</i>. Had these people any power or not? Had he anything to fear
      from them? Would they expose any enterprise of his? And what precisely was
      now the object of their attacks? Could he somehow make up to them and get
      round them if they really were powerful? Was this the thing to do or not?
      Couldn&rsquo;t he gain something through them? In fact hundreds of questions
      presented themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Andrey Semyonovitch was an anæmic, scrofulous little man, with strangely
      flaxen mutton-chop whiskers of which he was very proud. He was a clerk and
      had almost always something wrong with his eyes. He was rather
      soft-hearted, but self-confident and sometimes extremely conceited in
      speech, which had an absurd effect, incongruous with his little figure. He
      was one of the lodgers most respected by Amalia Ivanovna, for he did not
      get drunk and paid regularly for his lodgings. Andrey Semyonovitch really
      was rather stupid; he attached himself to the cause of progress and &ldquo;our
      younger generation&rdquo; from enthusiasm. He was one of the numerous and varied
      legion of dullards, of half-animate abortions, conceited, half-educated
      coxcombs, who attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to
      vulgarise it and who caricature every cause they serve, however sincerely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though Lebeziatnikov was so good-natured, he, too, was beginning to
      dislike Pyotr Petrovitch. This happened on both sides unconsciously.
      However simple Andrey Semyonovitch might be, he began to see that Pyotr
      Petrovitch was duping him and secretly despising him, and that &ldquo;he was not
      the right sort of man.&rdquo; He had tried expounding to him the system of
      Fourier and the Darwinian theory, but of late Pyotr Petrovitch began to
      listen too sarcastically and even to be rude. The fact was he had begun
      instinctively to guess that Lebeziatnikov was not merely a commonplace
      simpleton, but, perhaps, a liar, too, and that he had no connections of
      any consequence even in his own circle, but had simply picked things up
      third-hand; and that very likely he did not even know much about his own
      work of propaganda, for he was in too great a muddle. A fine person he
      would be to show anyone up! It must be noted, by the way, that Pyotr
      Petrovitch had during those ten days eagerly accepted the strangest praise
      from Andrey Semyonovitch; he had not protested, for instance, when Andrey
      Semyonovitch belauded him for being ready to contribute to the
      establishment of the new &ldquo;commune,&rdquo; or to abstain from christening his
      future children, or to acquiesce if Dounia were to take a lover a month
      after marriage, and so on. Pyotr Petrovitch so enjoyed hearing his own
      praises that he did not disdain even such virtues when they were
      attributed to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch had had occasion that morning to realise some
      five-per-cent bonds and now he sat down to the table and counted over
      bundles of notes. Andrey Semyonovitch who hardly ever had any money walked
      about the room pretending to himself to look at all those bank notes with
      indifference and even contempt. Nothing would have convinced Pyotr
      Petrovitch that Andrey Semyonovitch could really look on the money
      unmoved, and the latter, on his side, kept thinking bitterly that Pyotr
      Petrovitch was capable of entertaining such an idea about him and was,
      perhaps, glad of the opportunity of teasing his young friend by reminding
      him of his inferiority and the great difference between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found him incredibly inattentive and irritable, though he, Andrey
      Semyonovitch, began enlarging on his favourite subject, the foundation of
      a new special &ldquo;commune.&rdquo; The brief remarks that dropped from Pyotr
      Petrovitch between the clicking of the beads on the reckoning frame
      betrayed unmistakable and discourteous irony. But the &ldquo;humane&rdquo; Andrey
      Semyonovitch ascribed Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s ill-humour to his recent breach
      with Dounia and he was burning with impatience to discourse on that theme.
      He had something progressive to say on the subject which might console his
      worthy friend and &ldquo;could not fail&rdquo; to promote his development.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is some sort of festivity being prepared at that... at the widow&rsquo;s,
      isn&rsquo;t there?&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch asked suddenly, interrupting Andrey
      Semyonovitch at the most interesting passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, don&rsquo;t you know? Why, I was telling you last night what I think about
      all such ceremonies. And she invited you too, I heard. You were talking to
      her yesterday...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should never have expected that beggarly fool would have spent on this
      feast all the money she got from that other fool, Raskolnikov. I was
      surprised just now as I came through at the preparations there, the wines!
      Several people are invited. It&rsquo;s beyond everything!&rdquo; continued Pyotr
      Petrovitch, who seemed to have some object in pursuing the conversation.
      &ldquo;What? You say I am asked too? When was that? I don&rsquo;t remember. But I
      shan&rsquo;t go. Why should I? I only said a word to her in passing yesterday of
      the possibility of her obtaining a year&rsquo;s salary as a destitute widow of a
      government clerk. I suppose she has invited me on that account, hasn&rsquo;t
      she? He-he-he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t intend to go either,&rdquo; said Lebeziatnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think not, after giving her a thrashing! You might well
      hesitate, he-he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who thrashed? Whom?&rdquo; cried Lebeziatnikov, flustered and blushing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna a month ago. I heard so yesterday...
      so that&rsquo;s what your convictions amount to... and the woman question, too,
      wasn&rsquo;t quite sound, he-he-he!&rdquo; and Pyotr Petrovitch, as though comforted,
      went back to clicking his beads.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all slander and nonsense!&rdquo; cried Lebeziatnikov, who was always
      afraid of allusions to the subject. &ldquo;It was not like that at all, it was
      quite different. You&rsquo;ve heard it wrong; it&rsquo;s a libel. I was simply
      defending myself. She rushed at me first with her nails, she pulled out
      all my whiskers.... It&rsquo;s permissable for anyone, I should hope, to defend
      himself and I never allow anyone to use violence to me on principle, for
      it&rsquo;s an act of despotism. What was I to do? I simply pushed her back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He-he-he!&rdquo; Luzhin went on laughing maliciously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You keep on like that because you are out of humour yourself.... But
      that&rsquo;s nonsense and it has nothing, nothing whatever to do with the woman
      question! You don&rsquo;t understand; I used to think, indeed, that if women are
      equal to men in all respects, even in strength (as is maintained now)
      there ought to be equality in that, too. Of course, I reflected afterwards
      that such a question ought not really to arise, for there ought not to be
      fighting and in the future society fighting is unthinkable... and that it
      would be a queer thing to seek for equality in fighting. I am not so
      stupid... though, of course, there is fighting... there won&rsquo;t be later,
      but at present there is... confound it! How muddled one gets with you!
      It&rsquo;s not on that account that I am not going. I am not going on principle,
      not to take part in the revolting convention of memorial dinners, that&rsquo;s
      why! Though, of course, one might go to laugh at it.... I am sorry there
      won&rsquo;t be any priests at it. I should certainly go if there were.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you would sit down at another man&rsquo;s table and insult it and those
      who invited you. Eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not insult, but protest. I should do it with a good object. I
      might indirectly assist the cause of enlightenment and propaganda. It&rsquo;s a
      duty of every man to work for enlightenment and propaganda and the more
      harshly, perhaps, the better. I might drop a seed, an idea.... And
      something might grow up from that seed. How should I be insulting them?
      They might be offended at first, but afterwards they&rsquo;d see I&rsquo;d done them a
      service. You know, Terebyeva (who is in the community now) was blamed
      because when she left her family and... devoted... herself, she wrote to
      her father and mother that she wouldn&rsquo;t go on living conventionally and
      was entering on a free marriage and it was said that that was too harsh,
      that she might have spared them and have written more kindly. I think
      that&rsquo;s all nonsense and there&rsquo;s no need of softness; on the contrary,
      what&rsquo;s wanted is protest. Varents had been married seven years, she
      abandoned her two children, she told her husband straight out in a letter:
      &lsquo;I have realised that I cannot be happy with you. I can never forgive you
      that you have deceived me by concealing from me that there is another
      organisation of society by means of the communities. I have only lately
      learned it from a great-hearted man to whom I have given myself and with
      whom I am establishing a community. I speak plainly because I consider it
      dishonest to deceive you. Do as you think best. Do not hope to get me
      back, you are too late. I hope you will be happy.&rsquo; That&rsquo;s how letters like
      that ought to be written!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that Terebyeva the one you said had made a third free marriage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s only the second, really! But what if it were the fourth, what if
      it were the fifteenth, that&rsquo;s all nonsense! And if ever I regretted the
      death of my father and mother, it is now, and I sometimes think if my
      parents were living what a protest I would have aimed at them! I would
      have done something on purpose... I would have shown them! I would have
      astonished them! I am really sorry there is no one!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To surprise! He-he! Well, be that as you will,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch
      interrupted, &ldquo;but tell me this; do you know the dead man&rsquo;s daughter, the
      delicate-looking little thing? It&rsquo;s true what they say about her, isn&rsquo;t
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What of it? I think, that is, it is my own personal conviction that this
      is the normal condition of women. Why not? I mean, <i>distinguons</i>. In
      our present society it is not altogether normal, because it is compulsory,
      but in the future society it will be perfectly normal, because it will be
      voluntary. Even as it is, she was quite right: she was suffering and that
      was her asset, so to speak, her capital which she had a perfect right to
      dispose of. Of course, in the future society there will be no need of
      assets, but her part will have another significance, rational and in
      harmony with her environment. As to Sofya Semyonovna personally, I regard
      her action as a vigorous protest against the organisation of society, and
      I respect her deeply for it; I rejoice indeed when I look at her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was told that you got her turned out of these lodgings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lebeziatnikov was enraged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s another slander,&rdquo; he yelled. &ldquo;It was not so at all! That was all
      Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s invention, for she did not understand! And I never
      made love to Sofya Semyonovna! I was simply developing her, entirely
      disinterestedly, trying to rouse her to protest.... All I wanted was her
      protest and Sofya Semyonovna could not have remained here anyway!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you asked her to join your community?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You keep on laughing and very inappropriately, allow me to tell you. You
      don&rsquo;t understand! There is no such rôle in a community. The community is
      established that there should be no such rôles. In a community, such a
      rôle is essentially transformed and what is stupid here is sensible there,
      what, under present conditions, is unnatural becomes perfectly natural in
      the community. It all depends on the environment. It&rsquo;s all the environment
      and man himself is nothing. And I am on good terms with Sofya Semyonovna
      to this day, which is a proof that she never regarded me as having wronged
      her. I am trying now to attract her to the community, but on quite, quite
      a different footing. What are you laughing at? We are trying to establish
      a community of our own, a special one, on a broader basis. We have gone
      further in our convictions. We reject more! And meanwhile I&rsquo;m still
      developing Sofya Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful character!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you take advantage of her fine character, eh? He-he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! Oh, no! On the contrary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, on the contrary! He-he-he! A queer thing to say!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Believe me! Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel it strange myself
      how timid, chaste and modern she is with me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you, of course, are developing her... he-he! trying to prove to her
      that all that modesty is nonsense?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all, not at all! How coarsely, how stupidly&mdash;excuse me saying
      so&mdash;you misunderstand the word development! Good heavens, how...
      crude you still are! We are striving for the freedom of women and you have
      only one idea in your head.... Setting aside the general question of
      chastity and feminine modesty as useless in themselves and indeed
      prejudices, I fully accept her chastity with me, because that&rsquo;s for her to
      decide. Of course if she were to tell me herself that she wanted me, I
      should think myself very lucky, because I like the girl very much; but as
      it is, no one has ever treated her more courteously than I, with more
      respect for her dignity... I wait in hopes, that&rsquo;s all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had much better make her a present of something. I bet you never
      thought of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t understand, as I&rsquo;ve told you already! Of course, she is in such
      a position, but it&rsquo;s another question. Quite another question! You simply
      despise her. Seeing a fact which you mistakenly consider deserving of
      contempt, you refuse to take a humane view of a fellow creature. You don&rsquo;t
      know what a character she is! I am only sorry that of late she has quite
      given up reading and borrowing books. I used to lend them to her. I am
      sorry, too, that with all the energy and resolution in protesting&mdash;which
      she has already shown once&mdash;she has little self-reliance, little, so
      to say, independence, so as to break free from certain prejudices and
      certain foolish ideas. Yet she thoroughly understands some questions, for
      instance about kissing of hands, that is, that it&rsquo;s an insult to a woman
      for a man to kiss her hand, because it&rsquo;s a sign of inequality. We had a
      debate about it and I described it to her. She listened attentively to an
      account of the workmen&rsquo;s associations in France, too. Now I am explaining
      the question of coming into the room in the future society.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what&rsquo;s that, pray?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We had a debate lately on the question: Has a member of the community the
      right to enter another member&rsquo;s room, whether man or woman, at any time...
      and we decided that he has!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It might be at an inconvenient moment, he-he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lebeziatnikov was really angry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are always thinking of something unpleasant,&rdquo; he cried with aversion.
      &ldquo;Tfoo! How vexed I am that when I was expounding our system, I referred
      prematurely to the question of personal privacy! It&rsquo;s always a
      stumbling-block to people like you, they turn it into ridicule before they
      understand it. And how proud they are of it, too! Tfoo! I&rsquo;ve often
      maintained that that question should not be approached by a novice till he
      has a firm faith in the system. And tell me, please, what do you find so
      shameful even in cesspools? I should be the first to be ready to clean out
      any cesspool you like. And it&rsquo;s not a question of self-sacrifice, it&rsquo;s
      simply work, honourable, useful work which is as good as any other and
      much better than the work of a Raphael and a Pushkin, because it is more
      useful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And more honourable, more honourable, he-he-he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by &lsquo;more honourable&rsquo;? I don&rsquo;t understand such
      expressions to describe human activity. &lsquo;More honourable,&rsquo; &lsquo;nobler&rsquo;&mdash;all
      those are old-fashioned prejudices which I reject. Everything which is <i>of
      use</i> to mankind is honourable. I only understand one word: <i>useful</i>!
      You can snigger as much as you like, but that&rsquo;s so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch laughed heartily. He had finished counting the money and
      was putting it away. But some of the notes he left on the table. The
      &ldquo;cesspool question&rdquo; had already been a subject of dispute between them.
      What was absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov really angry, while it
      amused Luzhin and at that moment he particularly wanted to anger his young
      friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s your ill-luck yesterday that makes you so ill-humoured and
      annoying,&rdquo; blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who in spite of his &ldquo;independence&rdquo;
       and his &ldquo;protests&rdquo; did not venture to oppose Pyotr Petrovitch and still
      behaved to him with some of the respect habitual in earlier years.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better tell me this,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted with haughty
      displeasure, &ldquo;can you... or rather are you really friendly enough with
      that young person to ask her to step in here for a minute? I think they&rsquo;ve
      all come back from the cemetery... I heard the sound of steps... I want to
      see her, that young person.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov asked with surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I want to. I am leaving here to-day or to-morrow and therefore I
      wanted to speak to her about... However, you may be present during the
      interview. It&rsquo;s better you should be, indeed. For there&rsquo;s no knowing what
      you might imagine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t imagine anything. I only asked and, if you&rsquo;ve anything to say to
      her, nothing is easier than to call her in. I&rsquo;ll go directly and you may
      be sure I won&rsquo;t be in your way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Five minutes later Lebeziatnikov came in with Sonia. She came in very much
      surprised and overcome with shyness as usual. She was always shy in such
      circumstances and was always afraid of new people, she had been as a child
      and was even more so now.... Pyotr Petrovitch met her &ldquo;politely and
      affably,&rdquo; but with a certain shade of bantering familiarity which in his
      opinion was suitable for a man of his respectability and weight in dealing
      with a creature so young and so <i>interesting</i> as she. He hastened to
      &ldquo;reassure&rdquo; her and made her sit down facing him at the table. Sonia sat
      down, looked about her&mdash;at Lebeziatnikov, at the notes lying on the
      table and then again at Pyotr Petrovitch and her eyes remained riveted on
      him. Lebeziatnikov was moving to the door. Pyotr Petrovitch signed to
      Sonia to remain seated and stopped Lebeziatnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come?&rdquo; he asked him in a whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him just come in.... Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and not to leave me
      alone with this... young woman. I only want a few words with her, but God
      knows what they may make of it. I shouldn&rsquo;t like Raskolnikov to repeat
      anything.... You understand what I mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand!&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov saw the point. &ldquo;Yes, you are right.... Of
      course, I am convinced personally that you have no reason to be uneasy,
      but... still, you are right. Certainly I&rsquo;ll stay. I&rsquo;ll stand here at the
      window and not be in your way... I think you are right...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch returned to the sofa, sat down opposite Sonia, looked
      attentively at her and assumed an extremely dignified, even severe
      expression, as much as to say, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t you make any mistake, madam.&rdquo; Sonia
      was overwhelmed with embarrassment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the first place, Sofya Semyonovna, will you make my excuses to your
      respected mamma.... That&rsquo;s right, isn&rsquo;t it? Katerina Ivanovna stands in
      the place of a mother to you?&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch began with great dignity,
      though affably.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was evident that his intentions were friendly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so, yes; the place of a mother,&rdquo; Sonia answered, timidly and
      hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then will you make my apologies to her? Through inevitable circumstances
      I am forced to be absent and shall not be at the dinner in spite of your
      mamma&rsquo;s kind invitation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... I&rsquo;ll tell her... at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Sonia hastily jumped up from her seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait, that&rsquo;s not all,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch detained her, smiling at her
      simplicity and ignorance of good manners, &ldquo;and you know me little, my dear
      Sofya Semyonovna, if you suppose I would have ventured to trouble a person
      like you for a matter of so little consequence affecting myself only. I
      have another object.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>her</i>, to look at another
      person&rsquo;s money. She stared at the gold eye-glass which Pyotr Petrovitch
      held in his left hand and at the massive and extremely handsome ring with
      a yellow stone on his middle finger. But suddenly she looked away and, not
      knowing where to turn, ended by staring Pyotr Petrovitch again straight in
      the face. After a pause of still greater dignity he continued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I chanced yesterday in passing to exchange a couple of words with
      Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. That was sufficient to enable me to
      ascertain that she is in a position&mdash;preternatural, if one may so
      express it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... preternatural...&rdquo; Sonia hurriedly assented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or it would be simpler and more comprehensible to say, ill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, simpler and more comprehen... yes, ill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so. So then from a feeling of humanity and so to speak compassion,
      I should be glad to be of service to her in any way, foreseeing her
      unfortunate position. I believe the whole of this poverty-stricken family
      depends now entirely on you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Allow me to ask,&rdquo; Sonia rose to her feet, &ldquo;did you say something to her
      yesterday of the possibility of a pension? Because she told me you had
      undertaken to get her one. Was that true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in the slightest, and indeed it&rsquo;s an absurdity! I merely hinted at
      her obtaining temporary assistance as the widow of an official who had
      died in the service&mdash;if only she has patronage... but apparently your
      late parent had not served his full term and had not indeed been in the
      service at all of late. In fact, if there could be any hope, it would be
      very ephemeral, because there would be no claim for assistance in that
      case, far from it.... And she is dreaming of a pension already,
      he-he-he!... A go-ahead lady!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, she is. For she is credulous and good-hearted, and she believes
      everything from the goodness of her heart and... and... and she is like
      that... yes... You must excuse her,&rdquo; said Sonia, and again she got up to
      go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you haven&rsquo;t heard what I have to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I haven&rsquo;t heard,&rdquo; muttered Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then sit down.&rdquo; She was terribly confused; she sat down again a third
      time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I should be glad,
      as I have said before, so far as lies in my power, to be of service, that
      is, so far as is in my power, not more. One might for instance get up a
      subscription for her, or a lottery, something of the sort, such as is
      always arranged in such cases by friends or even outsiders desirous of
      assisting people. It was of that I intended to speak to you; it might be
      done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes... God will repay you for it,&rdquo; faltered Sonia, gazing intently
      at Pyotr Petrovitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It might be, but we will talk of it later. We might begin it to-day, we
      will talk it over this evening and lay the foundation so to speak. Come to
      me at seven o&rsquo;clock. Mr. Lebeziatnikov, I hope, will assist us. But there
      is one circumstance of which I ought to warn you beforehand and for which
      I venture to trouble you, Sofya Semyonovna, to come here. In my opinion
      money cannot be, indeed it&rsquo;s unsafe to put it into Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s own
      hands. The dinner to-day is a proof of that. Though she has not, so to
      speak, a crust of bread for to-morrow and... well, boots or shoes, or
      anything; she has bought to-day Jamaica rum, and even, I believe, Madeira
      and... and coffee. I saw it as I passed through. To-morrow it will all
      fall upon you again, they won&rsquo;t have a crust of bread. It&rsquo;s absurd,
      really, and so, to my thinking, a subscription ought to be raised so that
      the unhappy widow should not know of the money, but only you, for
      instance. Am I right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know... this is only to-day, once in her life.... She was so
      anxious to do honour, to celebrate the memory.... And she is very
      sensible... but just as you think and I shall be very, very... they will
      all be... and God will reward... and the orphans...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then, keep it in mind; and now will you accept for the benefit
      of your relation the small sum that I am able to spare, from me
      personally. I am very anxious that my name should not be mentioned in
      connection with it. Here... having so to speak anxieties of my own, I
      cannot do more...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this time Lebeziatnikov had stood at the window or walked about the
      room, anxious not to interrupt the conversation; when Sonia had gone he
      walked up to Pyotr Petrovitch and solemnly held out his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard and <i>saw</i> everything,&rdquo; he said, laying stress on the last
      verb. &ldquo;That is honourable, I mean to say, it&rsquo;s humane! You wanted to avoid
      gratitude, I saw! And although I cannot, I confess, in principle
      sympathise with private charity, for it not only fails to eradicate the
      evil but even promotes it, yet I must admit that I saw your action with
      pleasure&mdash;yes, yes, I like it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all nonsense,&rdquo; muttered Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted,
      looking carefully at Lebeziatnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s not nonsense! A man who has suffered distress and annoyance as
      you did yesterday and who yet can sympathise with the misery of others,
      such a man... even though he is making a social mistake&mdash;is still
      deserving of respect! I did not expect it indeed of you, Pyotr Petrovitch,
      especially as according to your ideas... oh, what a drawback your ideas
      are to you! How distressed you are for instance by your ill-luck
      yesterday,&rdquo; cried the simple-hearted Lebeziatnikov, who felt a return of
      affection for Pyotr Petrovitch. &ldquo;And, what do you want with marriage, with
      <i>legal</i> marriage, my dear, noble Pyotr Petrovitch? Why do you cling
      to this <i>legality</i> of marriage? Well, you may beat me if you like,
      but I am glad, positively glad it hasn&rsquo;t come off, that you are free, that
      you are not quite lost for humanity.... you see, I&rsquo;ve spoken my mind!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I don&rsquo;t want in your free marriage to be made a fool of and to
      bring up another man&rsquo;s children, that&rsquo;s why I want legal marriage,&rdquo; Luzhin
      replied in order to make some answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed preoccupied by something.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Children? You referred to children,&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov started off like a
      warhorse at the trumpet call. &ldquo;Children are a social question and a
      question of first importance, I agree; but the question of children has
      another solution. Some refuse to have children altogether, because they
      suggest the institution of the family. We&rsquo;ll speak of children later, but
      now as to the question of honour, I confess that&rsquo;s my weak point. That
      horrid, military, Pushkin expression is unthinkable in the dictionary of
      the future. What does it mean indeed? It&rsquo;s nonsense, there will be no
      deception in a free marriage! That is only the natural consequence of a
      legal marriage, so to say, its corrective, a protest. So that indeed it&rsquo;s
      not humiliating... and if I ever, to suppose an absurdity, were to be
      legally married, I should be positively glad of it. I should say to my
      wife: &lsquo;My dear, hitherto I have loved you, now I respect you, for you&rsquo;ve
      shown you can protest!&rsquo; You laugh! That&rsquo;s because you are incapable of
      getting away from prejudices. Confound it all! I understand now where the
      unpleasantness is of being deceived in a legal marriage, but it&rsquo;s simply a
      despicable consequence of a despicable position in which both are
      humiliated. When the deception is open, as in a free marriage, then it
      does not exist, it&rsquo;s unthinkable. Your wife will only prove how she
      respects you by considering you incapable of opposing her happiness and
      avenging yourself on her for her new husband. Damn it all! I sometimes
      dream if I were to be married, pfoo! I mean if I were to marry, legally or
      not, it&rsquo;s just the same, I should present my wife with a lover if she had
      not found one for herself. &lsquo;My dear,&rsquo; I should say, &lsquo;I love you, but even
      more than that I desire you to respect me. See!&rsquo; Am I not right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"></a>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
    <p>
      It would be difficult to explain exactly what could have originated the
      idea of that senseless dinner in Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s disordered brain.
      Nearly ten of the twenty roubles, given by Raskolnikov for Marmeladov&rsquo;s
      funeral, were wasted upon it. Possibly Katerina Ivanovna felt obliged to
      honour the memory of the deceased &ldquo;suitably,&rdquo; that all the lodgers, and
      still more Amalia Ivanovna, might know &ldquo;that he was in no way their
      inferior, and perhaps very much their superior,&rdquo; and that no one had the
      right &ldquo;to turn up his nose at him.&rdquo; Perhaps the chief element was that
      peculiar &ldquo;poor man&rsquo;s pride,&rdquo; which compels many poor people to spend their
      last savings on some traditional social ceremony, simply in order to do
      &ldquo;like other people,&rdquo; and not to &ldquo;be looked down upon.&rdquo; It is very
      probable, too, that Katerina Ivanovna longed on this occasion, at the
      moment when she seemed to be abandoned by everyone, to show those
      &ldquo;wretched contemptible lodgers&rdquo; that she knew &ldquo;how to do things, how to
      entertain&rdquo; and that she had been brought up &ldquo;in a genteel, she might
      almost say aristocratic colonel&rsquo;s family&rdquo; and had not been meant for
      sweeping floors and washing the children&rsquo;s rags at night. Even the poorest
      and most broken-spirited people are sometimes liable to these paroxysms of
      pride and vanity which take the form of an irresistible nervous craving.
      And Katerina Ivanovna was not broken-spirited; she might have been killed
      by circumstance, but her spirit could not have been broken, that is, she
      could not have been intimidated, her will could not be crushed. Moreover
      Sonia had said with good reason that her mind was unhinged. She could not
      be said to be insane, but for a year past she had been so harassed that
      her mind might well be overstrained. The later stages of consumption are
      apt, doctors tell us, to affect the intellect.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no great variety of wines, nor was there Madeira; but wine there
      was. There was vodka, rum and Lisbon wine, all of the poorest quality but
      in sufficient quantity. Besides the traditional rice and honey, there were
      three or four dishes, one of which consisted of pancakes, all prepared in
      Amalia Ivanovna&rsquo;s kitchen. Two samovars were boiling, that tea and punch
      might be offered after dinner. Katerina Ivanovna had herself seen to
      purchasing the provisions, with the help of one of the lodgers, an
      unfortunate little Pole who had somehow been stranded at Madame
      Lippevechsel&rsquo;s. He promptly put himself at Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s disposal
      and had been all that morning and all the day before running about as fast
      as his legs could carry him, and very anxious that everyone should be
      aware of it. For every trifle he ran to Katerina Ivanovna, even hunting
      her out at the bazaar, at every instant called her &ldquo;<i>Pani</i>.&rdquo; She was
      heartily sick of him before the end, though she had declared at first that
      she could not have got on without this &ldquo;serviceable and magnanimous man.&rdquo;
       It was one of Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s characteristics to paint everyone she
      met in the most glowing colours. Her praises were so exaggerated as
      sometimes to be embarrassing; she would invent various circumstances to
      the credit of her new acquaintance and quite genuinely believe in their
      reality. Then all of a sudden she would be disillusioned and would rudely
      and contemptuously repulse the person she had only a few hours before been
      literally adoring. She was naturally of a gay, lively and peace-loving
      disposition, but from continual failures and misfortunes she had come to
      desire so <i>keenly</i> that all should live in peace and joy and should
      not <i>dare</i> to break the peace, that the slightest jar, the smallest
      disaster reduced her almost to frenzy, and she would pass in an instant
      from the brightest hopes and fancies to cursing her fate and raving, and
      knocking her head against the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amalia Ivanovna, too, suddenly acquired extraordinary importance in
      Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s eyes and was treated by her with extraordinary
      respect, probably only because Amalia Ivanovna had thrown herself heart
      and soul into the preparations. She had undertaken to lay the table, to
      provide the linen, crockery, etc., and to cook the dishes in her kitchen,
      and Katerina Ivanovna had left it all in her hands and gone herself to the
      cemetery. Everything had been well done. Even the table-cloth was nearly
      clean; the crockery, knives, forks and glasses were, of course, of all
      shapes and patterns, lent by different lodgers, but the table was properly
      laid at the time fixed, and Amalia Ivanovna, feeling she had done her work
      well, had put on a black silk dress and a cap with new mourning ribbons
      and met the returning party with some pride. This pride, though
      justifiable, displeased Katerina Ivanovna for some reason: &ldquo;as though the
      table could not have been laid except by Amalia Ivanovna!&rdquo; She disliked
      the cap with new ribbons, too. &ldquo;Could she be stuck up, the stupid German,
      because she was mistress of the house, and had consented as a favour to
      help her poor lodgers! As a favour! Fancy that! Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s father
      who had been a colonel and almost a governor had sometimes had the table
      set for forty persons, and then anyone like Amalia Ivanovna, or rather
      Ludwigovna, would not have been allowed into the kitchen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna, however, put off expressing her feelings for the time
      and contented herself with treating her coldly, though she decided
      inwardly that she would certainly have to put Amalia Ivanovna down and set
      her in her proper place, for goodness only knew what she was fancying
      herself. Katerina Ivanovna was irritated too by the fact that hardly any
      of the lodgers invited had come to the funeral, except the Pole who had
      just managed to run into the cemetery, while to the memorial dinner the
      poorest and most insignificant of them had turned up, the wretched
      creatures, many of them not quite sober. The older and more respectable of
      them all, as if by common consent, stayed away. Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin,
      for instance, who might be said to be the most respectable of all the
      lodgers, did not appear, though Katerina Ivanovna had the evening before
      told all the world, that is Amalia Ivanovna, Polenka, Sonia and the Pole,
      that he was the most generous, noble-hearted man with a large property and
      vast connections, who had been a friend of her first husband&rsquo;s, and a
      guest in her father&rsquo;s house, and that he had promised to use all his
      influence to secure her a considerable pension. It must be noted that when
      Katerina Ivanovna exalted anyone&rsquo;s connections and fortune, it was without
      any ulterior motive, quite disinterestedly, for the mere pleasure of
      adding to the consequence of the person praised. Probably &ldquo;taking his cue&rdquo;
       from Luzhin, &ldquo;that contemptible wretch Lebeziatnikov had not turned up
      either. What did he fancy himself? He was only asked out of kindness and
      because he was sharing the same room with Pyotr Petrovitch and was a
      friend of his, so that it would have been awkward not to invite him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Among those who failed to appear were &ldquo;the genteel lady and her
      old-maidish daughter,&rdquo; who had only been lodgers in the house for the last
      fortnight, but had several times complained of the noise and uproar in
      Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s room, especially when Marmeladov had come back drunk.
      Katerina Ivanovna heard this from Amalia Ivanovna who, quarrelling with
      Katerina Ivanovna, and threatening to turn the whole family out of doors,
      had shouted at her that they &ldquo;were not worth the foot&rdquo; of the honourable
      lodgers whom they were disturbing. Katerina Ivanovna determined now to
      invite this lady and her daughter, &ldquo;whose foot she was not worth,&rdquo; and who
      had turned away haughtily when she casually met them, so that they might
      know that &ldquo;she was more noble in her thoughts and feelings and did not
      harbour malice,&rdquo; and might see that she was not accustomed to her way of
      living. She had proposed to make this clear to them at dinner with
      allusions to her late father&rsquo;s governorship, and also at the same time to
      hint that it was exceedingly stupid of them to turn away on meeting her.
      The fat colonel-major (he was really a discharged officer of low rank) was
      also absent, but it appeared that he had been &ldquo;not himself&rdquo; for the last
      two days. The party consisted of the Pole, a wretched looking clerk with a
      spotty face and a greasy coat, who had not a word to say for himself, and
      smelt abominably, a deaf and almost blind old man who had once been in the
      post office and who had been from immemorial ages maintained by someone at
      Amalia Ivanovna&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      A retired clerk of the commissariat department came, too; he was drunk,
      had a loud and most unseemly laugh and only fancy&mdash;was without a
      waistcoat! One of the visitors sat straight down to the table without even
      greeting Katerina Ivanovna. Finally one person having no suit appeared in
      his dressing-gown, but this was too much, and the efforts of Amalia
      Ivanovna and the Pole succeeded in removing him. The Pole brought with
      him, however, two other Poles who did not live at Amalia Ivanovna&rsquo;s and
      whom no one had seen here before. All this irritated Katerina Ivanovna
      intensely. &ldquo;For whom had they made all these preparations then?&rdquo; To make
      room for the visitors the children had not even been laid for at the
      table; but the two little ones were sitting on a bench in the furthest
      corner with their dinner laid on a box, while Polenka as a big girl had to
      look after them, feed them, and keep their noses wiped like well-bred
      children&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna, in fact, could hardly help meeting her guests with
      increased dignity, and even haughtiness. She stared at some of them with
      special severity, and loftily invited them to take their seats. Rushing to
      the conclusion that Amalia Ivanovna must be responsible for those who were
      absent, she began treating her with extreme nonchalance, which the latter
      promptly observed and resented. Such a beginning was no good omen for the
      end. All were seated at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov came in almost at the moment of their return from the
      cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly delighted to see him, in the first
      place, because he was the one &ldquo;educated visitor, and, as everyone knew,
      was in two years to take a professorship in the university,&rdquo; and secondly
      because he immediately and respectfully apologised for having been unable
      to be at the funeral. She positively pounced upon him, and made him sit on
      her left hand (Amalia Ivanovna was on her right). In spite of her
      continual anxiety that the dishes should be passed round correctly and
      that everyone should taste them, in spite of the agonising cough which
      interrupted her every minute and seemed to have grown worse during the
      last few days, she hastened to pour out in a half whisper to Raskolnikov
      all her suppressed feelings and her just indignation at the failure of the
      dinner, interspersing her remarks with lively and uncontrollable laughter
      at the expense of her visitors and especially of her landlady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all that cuckoo&rsquo;s fault! You know whom I mean? Her, her!&rdquo; Katerina
      Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady. &ldquo;Look at her, she&rsquo;s making round
      eyes, she feels that we are talking about her and can&rsquo;t understand. Pfoo,
      the owl! Ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) And what does she put on that cap
      for? (Cough-cough-cough.) Have you noticed that she wants everyone to
      consider that she is patronising me and doing me an honour by being here?
      I asked her like a sensible woman to invite people, especially those who
      knew my late husband, and look at the set of fools she has brought! The
      sweeps! Look at that one with the spotty face. And those wretched Poles,
      ha-ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) Not one of them has ever poked his nose in
      here, I&rsquo;ve never set eyes on them. What have they come here for, I ask
      you? There they sit in a row. Hey, <i>pan</i>!&rdquo; she cried suddenly to one
      of them, &ldquo;have you tasted the pancakes? Take some more! Have some beer!
      Won&rsquo;t you have some vodka? Look, he&rsquo;s jumped up and is making his bows,
      they must be quite starved, poor things. Never mind, let them eat! They
      don&rsquo;t make a noise, anyway, though I&rsquo;m really afraid for our landlady&rsquo;s
      silver spoons... Amalia Ivanovna!&rdquo; she addressed her suddenly, almost
      aloud, &ldquo;if your spoons should happen to be stolen, I won&rsquo;t be responsible,
      I warn you! Ha-ha-ha!&rdquo; She laughed turning to Raskolnikov, and again
      nodding towards the landlady, in high glee at her sally. &ldquo;She didn&rsquo;t
      understand, she didn&rsquo;t understand again! Look how she sits with her mouth
      open! An owl, a real owl! An owl in new ribbons, ha-ha-ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know, I gave her the most delicate instructions, so to speak, for
      inviting that lady and her daughter, you understand of whom I am speaking?
      It needed the utmost delicacy, the greatest nicety, but she has managed
      things so that that fool, that conceited baggage, that provincial
      nonentity, simply because she is the widow of a major, and has come to try
      and get a pension and to fray out her skirts in the government offices,
      because at fifty she paints her face (everybody knows it)... a creature
      like that did not think fit to come, and has not even answered the
      invitation, which the most ordinary good manners required! I can&rsquo;t
      understand why Pyotr Petrovitch has not come? But where&rsquo;s Sonia? Where has
      she gone? Ah, there she is at last! what is it, Sonia, where have you
      been? It&rsquo;s odd that even at your father&rsquo;s funeral you should be so
      unpunctual. Rodion Romanovitch, make room for her beside you. That&rsquo;s your
      place, Sonia... take what you like. Have some of the cold entrée with
      jelly, that&rsquo;s the best. They&rsquo;ll bring the pancakes directly. Have they
      given the children some? Polenka, have you got everything?
      (Cough-cough-cough.) That&rsquo;s all right. Be a good girl, Lida, and, Kolya,
      don&rsquo;t fidget with your feet; sit like a little gentleman. What are you
      saying, Sonia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia hastened to give her Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s apologies, trying to speak
      loud enough for everyone to hear and carefully choosing the most
      respectful phrases which she attributed to Pyotr Petrovitch. She added
      that Pyotr Petrovitch had particularly told her to say that, as soon as he
      possibly could, he would come immediately to discuss <i>business</i> alone
      with her and to consider what could be done for her, etc., etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia knew that this would comfort Katerina Ivanovna, would flatter her
      and gratify her pride. She sat down beside Raskolnikov; she made him a
      hurried bow, glancing curiously at him. But for the rest of the time she
      seemed to avoid looking at him or speaking to him. She seemed
      absent-minded, though she kept looking at Katerina Ivanovna, trying to
      please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna had been able to get
      mourning; Sonia was wearing dark brown, and Katerina Ivanovna had on her
      only dress, a dark striped cotton one.
    </p>
    <p>
      The message from Pyotr Petrovitch was very successful. Listening to Sonia
      with dignity, Katerina Ivanovna inquired with equal dignity how Pyotr
      Petrovitch was, then at once whispered almost aloud to Raskolnikov that it
      certainly would have been strange for a man of Pyotr Petrovitch&rsquo;s position
      and standing to find himself in such &ldquo;extraordinary company,&rdquo; in spite of
      his devotion to her family and his old friendship with her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s why I am so grateful to you, Rodion Romanovitch, that you have not
      disdained my hospitality, even in such surroundings,&rdquo; she added almost
      aloud. &ldquo;But I am sure that it was only your special affection for my poor
      husband that has made you keep your promise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then once more with pride and dignity she scanned her visitors, and
      suddenly inquired aloud across the table of the deaf man: &ldquo;Wouldn&rsquo;t he
      have some more meat, and had he been given some wine?&rdquo; The old man made no
      answer and for a long while could not understand what he was asked, though
      his neighbours amused themselves by poking and shaking him. He simply
      gazed about him with his mouth open, which only increased the general
      mirth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What an imbecile! Look, look! Why was he brought? But as to Pyotr
      Petrovitch, I always had confidence in him,&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna continued,
      &ldquo;and, of course, he is not like...&rdquo; with an extremely stern face she
      addressed Amalia Ivanovna so sharply and loudly that the latter was quite
      disconcerted, &ldquo;not like your dressed up draggletails whom my father would
      not have taken as cooks into his kitchen, and my late husband would have
      done them honour if he had invited them in the goodness of his heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he was fond of drink, he was fond of it, he did drink!&rdquo; cried the
      commissariat clerk, gulping down his twelfth glass of vodka.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My late husband certainly had that weakness, and everyone knows it,&rdquo;
       Katerina Ivanovna attacked him at once, &ldquo;but he was a kind and honourable
      man, who loved and respected his family. The worst of it was his good
      nature made him trust all sorts of disreputable people, and he drank with
      fellows who were not worth the sole of his shoe. Would you believe it,
      Rodion Romanovitch, they found a gingerbread cock in his pocket; he was
      dead drunk, but he did not forget the children!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A cock? Did you say a cock?&rdquo; shouted the commissariat clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna did not vouchsafe a reply. She sighed, lost in thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt you think, like everyone, that I was too severe with him,&rdquo; she
      went on, addressing Raskolnikov. &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s not so! He respected me, he
      respected me very much! He was a kind-hearted man! And how sorry I was for
      him sometimes! He would sit in a corner and look at me, I used to feel so
      sorry for him, I used to want to be kind to him and then would think to
      myself: &lsquo;Be kind to him and he will drink again,&rsquo; it was only by severity
      that you could keep him within bounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he used to get his hair pulled pretty often,&rdquo; roared the
      commissariat clerk again, swallowing another glass of vodka.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some fools would be the better for a good drubbing, as well as having
      their hair pulled. I am not talking of my late husband now!&rdquo; Katerina
      Ivanovna snapped at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The flush on her cheeks grew more and more marked, her chest heaved. In
      another minute she would have been ready to make a scene. Many of the
      visitors were sniggering, evidently delighted. They began poking the
      commissariat clerk and whispering something to him. They were evidently
      trying to egg him on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Allow me to ask what are you alluding to,&rdquo; began the clerk, &ldquo;that is to
      say, whose... about whom... did you say just now... But I don&rsquo;t care!
      That&rsquo;s nonsense! Widow! I forgive you.... Pass!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he took another drink of vodka.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov sat in silence, listening with disgust. He only ate from
      politeness, just tasting the food that Katerina Ivanovna was continually
      putting on his plate, to avoid hurting her feelings. He watched Sonia
      intently. But Sonia became more and more anxious and distressed; she, too,
      foresaw that the dinner would not end peaceably, and saw with terror
      Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s growing irritation. She knew that she, Sonia, was the
      chief reason for the &lsquo;genteel&rsquo; ladies&rsquo; contemptuous treatment of Katerina
      Ivanovna&rsquo;s invitation. She had heard from Amalia Ivanovna that the mother
      was positively offended at the invitation and had asked the question: &ldquo;How
      could she let her daughter sit down beside <i>that young person</i>?&rdquo;
       Sonia had a feeling that Katerina Ivanovna had already heard this and an
      insult to Sonia meant more to Katerina Ivanovna than an insult to herself,
      her children, or her father, Sonia knew that Katerina Ivanovna would not
      be satisfied now, &ldquo;till she had shown those draggletails that they were
      both...&rdquo; To make matters worse someone passed Sonia, from the other end of
      the table, a plate with two hearts pierced with an arrow, cut out of black
      bread. Katerina Ivanovna flushed crimson and at once said aloud across the
      table that the man who sent it was &ldquo;a drunken ass!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Amalia Ivanovna was foreseeing something amiss, and at the same time
      deeply wounded by Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s haughtiness, and to restore the
      good-humour of the company and raise herself in their esteem she began,
      apropos of nothing, telling a story about an acquaintance of hers &ldquo;Karl
      from the chemist&rsquo;s,&rdquo; who was driving one night in a cab, and that &ldquo;the
      cabman wanted him to kill, and Karl very much begged him not to kill, and
      wept and clasped hands, and frightened and from fear pierced his heart.&rdquo;
       Though Katerina Ivanovna smiled, she observed at once that Amalia Ivanovna
      ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian; the latter was still more
      offended, and she retorted that her &ldquo;<i>Vater aus Berlin</i> was a very
      important man, and always went with his hands in pockets.&rdquo; Katerina
      Ivanovna could not restrain herself and laughed so much that Amalia
      Ivanovna lost patience and could scarcely control herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to the owl!&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna whispered at once, her good-humour
      almost restored, &ldquo;she meant to say he kept his hands in his pockets, but
      she said he put his hands in people&rsquo;s pockets. (Cough-cough.) And have you
      noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that all these Petersburg foreigners, the
      Germans especially, are all stupider than we! Can you fancy anyone of us
      telling how &lsquo;Karl from the chemist&rsquo;s&rsquo; &lsquo;pierced his heart from fear&rsquo; and
      that the idiot, instead of punishing the cabman, &lsquo;clasped his hands and
      wept, and much begged.&rsquo; Ah, the fool! And you know she fancies it&rsquo;s very
      touching and does not suspect how stupid she is! To my thinking that
      drunken commissariat clerk is a great deal cleverer, anyway one can see
      that he has addled his brains with drink, but you know, these foreigners
      are always so well behaved and serious.... Look how she sits glaring! She
      is angry, ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.)&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Regaining her good-humour, Katerina Ivanovna began at once telling
      Raskolnikov that when she had obtained her pension, she intended to open a
      school for the daughters of gentlemen in her native town T&mdash;&mdash;.
      This was the first time she had spoken to him of the project, and she
      launched out into the most alluring details. It suddenly appeared that
      Katerina Ivanovna had in her hands the very certificate of honour of which
      Marmeladov had spoken to Raskolnikov in the tavern, when he told him that
      Katerina Ivanovna, his wife, had danced the shawl dance before the
      governor and other great personages on leaving school. This certificate of
      honour was obviously intended now to prove Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s right to
      open a boarding-school; but she had armed herself with it chiefly with the
      object of overwhelming &ldquo;those two stuck-up draggletails&rdquo; if they came to
      the dinner, and proving incontestably that Katerina Ivanovna was of the
      most noble, &ldquo;she might even say aristocratic family, a colonel&rsquo;s daughter
      and was far superior to certain adventuresses who have been so much to the
      fore of late.&rdquo; The certificate of honour immediately passed into the hands
      of the drunken guests, and Katerina Ivanovna did not try to retain it, for
      it actually contained the statement <i>en toutes lettres</i>, that her
      father was of the rank of a major, and also a companion of an order, so
      that she really was almost the daughter of a colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      Warming up, Katerina Ivanovna proceeded to enlarge on the peaceful and
      happy life they would lead in T&mdash;&mdash;, on the gymnasium teachers
      whom she would engage to give lessons in her boarding-school, one a most
      respectable old Frenchman, one Mangot, who had taught Katerina Ivanovna
      herself in old days and was still living in T&mdash;&mdash;, and would no
      doubt teach in her school on moderate terms. Next she spoke of Sonia who
      would go with her to T&mdash;&mdash; and help her in all her plans. At
      this someone at the further end of the table gave a sudden guffaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though Katerina Ivanovna tried to appear to be disdainfully unaware of it,
      she raised her voice and began at once speaking with conviction of Sonia&rsquo;s
      undoubted ability to assist her, of &ldquo;her gentleness, patience, devotion,
      generosity and good education,&rdquo; tapping Sonia on the cheek and kissing her
      warmly twice. Sonia flushed crimson, and Katerina Ivanovna suddenly burst
      into tears, immediately observing that she was &ldquo;nervous and silly, that
      she was too much upset, that it was time to finish, and as the dinner was
      over, it was time to hand round the tea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At that moment, Amalia Ivanovna, deeply aggrieved at taking no part in the
      conversation, and not being listened to, made one last effort, and with
      secret misgivings ventured on an exceedingly deep and weighty observation,
      that &ldquo;in the future boarding-school she would have to pay particular
      attention to <i>die Wäsche</i>, and that there certainly must be a good <i>dame</i>
      to look after the linen, and secondly that the young ladies must not
      novels at night read.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna, who certainly was upset and very tired, as well as
      heartily sick of the dinner, at once cut short Amalia Ivanovna, saying
      &ldquo;she knew nothing about it and was talking nonsense, that it was the
      business of the laundry maid, and not of the directress of a high-class
      boarding-school to look after <i>die Wäsche</i>, and as for novel-reading,
      that was simply rudeness, and she begged her to be silent.&rdquo; Amalia
      Ivanovna fired up and getting angry observed that she only &ldquo;meant her
      good,&rdquo; and that &ldquo;she had meant her very good,&rdquo; and that &ldquo;it was long since
      she had paid her <i>gold</i> for the lodgings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna at once &ldquo;set her down,&rdquo; saying that it was a lie to say
      she wished her good, because only yesterday when her dead husband was
      lying on the table, she had worried her about the lodgings. To this Amalia
      Ivanovna very appropriately observed that she had invited those ladies,
      but &ldquo;those ladies had not come, because those ladies <i>are</i> ladies and
      cannot come to a lady who is not a lady.&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna at once
      pointed out to her, that as she was a slut she could not judge what made
      one really a lady. Amalia Ivanovna at once declared that her &ldquo;<i>Vater aus
      Berlin</i> was a very, very important man, and both hands in pockets went,
      and always used to say: &lsquo;Poof! poof!&rsquo;&rdquo; and she leapt up from the table to
      represent her father, sticking her hands in her pockets, puffing her
      cheeks, and uttering vague sounds resembling &ldquo;poof! poof!&rdquo; amid loud
      laughter from all the lodgers, who purposely encouraged Amalia Ivanovna,
      hoping for a fight.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this was too much for Katerina Ivanovna, and she at once declared, so
      that all could hear, that Amalia Ivanovna probably never had a father, but
      was simply a drunken Petersburg Finn, and had certainly once been a cook
      and probably something worse. Amalia Ivanovna turned as red as a lobster
      and squealed that perhaps Katerina Ivanovna never had a father, &ldquo;but she
      had a <i>Vater aus Berlin</i> and that he wore a long coat and always said
      poof-poof-poof!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna observed contemptuously that all knew what her family
      was and that on that very certificate of honour it was stated in print
      that her father was a colonel, while Amalia Ivanovna&rsquo;s father&mdash;if she
      really had one&mdash;was probably some Finnish milkman, but that probably
      she never had a father at all, since it was still uncertain whether her
      name was Amalia Ivanovna or Amalia Ludwigovna.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this Amalia Ivanovna, lashed to fury, struck the table with her fist,
      and shrieked that she was Amalia Ivanovna, and not Ludwigovna, &ldquo;that her
      <i>Vater</i> was named Johann and that he was a burgomeister, and that
      Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s <i>Vater</i> was quite never a burgomeister.&rdquo; Katerina
      Ivanovna rose from her chair, and with a stern and apparently calm voice
      (though she was pale and her chest was heaving) observed that &ldquo;if she
      dared for one moment to set her contemptible wretch of a father on a level
      with her papa, she, Katerina Ivanovna, would tear her cap off her head and
      trample it under foot.&rdquo; Amalia Ivanovna ran about the room, shouting at
      the top of her voice, that she was mistress of the house and that Katerina
      Ivanovna should leave the lodgings that minute; then she rushed for some
      reason to collect the silver spoons from the table. There was a great
      outcry and uproar, the children began crying. Sonia ran to restrain
      Katerina Ivanovna, but when Amalia Ivanovna shouted something about &ldquo;the
      yellow ticket,&rdquo; Katerina Ivanovna pushed Sonia away, and rushed at the
      landlady to carry out her threat.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"></a>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pyotr Petrovitch,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;protect me... you at least! Make this
      foolish woman understand that she can&rsquo;t behave like this to a lady in
      misfortune... that there is a law for such things.... I&rsquo;ll go to the
      governor-general himself.... She shall answer for it.... Remembering my
      father&rsquo;s hospitality protect these orphans.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Allow me, madam.... Allow me.&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch waved her off. &ldquo;Your papa
      as you are well aware I had not the honour of knowing&rdquo; (someone laughed
      aloud) &ldquo;and I do not intend to take part in your everlasting squabbles
      with Amalia Ivanovna.... I have come here to speak of my own affairs...
      and I want to have a word with your stepdaughter, Sofya... Ivanovna, I
      think it is? Allow me to pass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch, edging by her, went to the opposite corner where Sonia
      was.
    </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she was, as though
      thunderstruck. She could not understand how Pyotr Petrovitch could deny
      having enjoyed her father&rsquo;s hospitality. Though she had invented it
      herself, she believed in it firmly by this time. She was struck too by the
      businesslike, dry and even contemptuous menacing tone of Pyotr Petrovitch.
      All the clamour gradually died away at his entrance. Not only was this
      &ldquo;serious business man&rdquo; strikingly incongruous with the rest of the party,
      but it was evident, too, that he had come upon some matter of consequence,
      that some exceptional cause must have brought him and that therefore
      something was going to happen. Raskolnikov, standing beside Sonia, moved
      aside to let him pass; Pyotr Petrovitch did not seem to notice him. A
      minute later Lebeziatnikov, too, appeared in the doorway; he did not come
      in, but stood still, listening with marked interest, almost wonder, and
      seemed for a time perplexed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it&rsquo;s a matter of some
      importance,&rdquo; Pyotr Petrovitch observed, addressing the company generally.
      &ldquo;I am glad indeed to find other persons present. Amalia Ivanovna, I humbly
      beg you as mistress of the house to pay careful attention to what I have
      to say to Sofya Ivanovna. Sofya Ivanovna,&rdquo; he went on, addressing Sonia,
      who was very much surprised and already alarmed, &ldquo;immediately after your
      visit I found that a hundred-rouble note was missing from my table, in the
      room of my friend Mr. Lebeziatnikov. If in any way whatever you know and
      will tell us where it is now, I assure you on my word of honour and call
      all present to witness that the matter shall end there. In the opposite
      case I shall be compelled to have recourse to very serious measures and
      then... you must blame yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, how is it to be then?&rdquo; asked Luzhin, looking intently at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.... I know nothing about it,&rdquo; Sonia articulated faintly at
      last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you know nothing?&rdquo; Luzhin repeated and again he paused for some
      seconds. &ldquo;Think a moment, mademoiselle,&rdquo; he began severely, but still, as
      it were, admonishing her. &ldquo;Reflect, I am prepared to give you time for
      consideration. Kindly observe this: if I were not so entirely convinced I
      should not, you may be sure, with my experience venture to accuse you so
      directly. Seeing that for such direct accusation before witnesses, if
      false or even mistaken, I should myself in a certain sense be made
      responsible, I am aware of that. This morning I changed for my own
      purposes several five-per-cent securities for the sum of approximately
      three thousand roubles. The account is noted down in my pocket-book. On my
      return home I proceeded to count the money&mdash;as Mr. Lebeziatnikov will
      bear witness&mdash;and after counting two thousand three hundred roubles I
      put the rest in my pocket-book in my coat pocket. About five hundred
      roubles remained on the table and among them three notes of a hundred
      roubles each. At that moment you entered (at my invitation)&mdash;and all
      the time you were present you were exceedingly embarrassed; so that three
      times you jumped up in the middle of the conversation and tried to make
      off. Mr. Lebeziatnikov can bear witness to this. You yourself,
      mademoiselle, probably will not refuse to confirm my statement that I
      invited you through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, solely in order to discuss with you
      the hopeless and destitute position of your relative, Katerina Ivanovna
      (whose dinner I was unable to attend), and the advisability of getting up
      something of the nature of a subscription, lottery or the like, for her
      benefit. You thanked me and even shed tears. I describe all this as it
      took place, primarily to recall it to your mind and secondly to show you
      that not the slightest detail has escaped my recollection. Then I took a
      ten-rouble note from the table and handed it to you by way of first
      instalment on my part for the benefit of your relative. Mr. Lebeziatnikov
      saw all this. Then I accompanied you to the door&mdash;you being still in
      the same state of embarrassment&mdash;after which, being left alone with
      Mr. Lebeziatnikov I talked to him for ten minutes&mdash;then Mr.
      Lebeziatnikov went out and I returned to the table with the money lying on
      it, intending to count it and to put it aside, as I proposed doing before.
      To my surprise one hundred-rouble note had disappeared. Kindly consider
      the position. Mr. Lebeziatnikov I cannot suspect. I am ashamed to allude
      to such a supposition. I cannot have made a mistake in my reckoning, for
      the minute before your entrance I had finished my accounts and found the
      total correct. You will admit that recollecting your embarrassment, your
      eagerness to get away and the fact that you kept your hands for some time
      on the table, and taking into consideration your social position and the
      habits associated with it, I was, so to say, with horror and positively
      against my will, <i>compelled</i> to entertain a suspicion&mdash;a cruel,
      but justifiable suspicion! I will add further and repeat that in spite of
      my positive conviction, I realise that I run a certain risk in making this
      accusation, but as you see, I could not let it pass. I have taken action
      and I will tell you why: solely, madam, solely, owing to your black
      ingratitude! Why! I invite you for the benefit of your destitute relative,
      I present you with my donation of ten roubles and you, on the spot, repay
      me for all that with such an action. It is too bad! You need a lesson.
      Reflect! Moreover, like a true friend I beg you&mdash;and you could have
      no better friend at this moment&mdash;think what you are doing, otherwise
      I shall be immovable! Well, what do you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have taken nothing,&rdquo; Sonia whispered in terror, &ldquo;you gave me ten
      roubles, here it is, take it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, untied a corner of it,
      took out the ten-rouble note and gave it to Luzhin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the hundred roubles you do not confess to taking?&rdquo; he insisted
      reproachfully, not taking the note.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; broke from Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to send word to the police and therefore I
      humbly beg you meanwhile to send for the house porter,&rdquo; Luzhin said softly
      and even kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Gott der Barmherzige</i>! I knew she was the thief,&rdquo; cried Amalia
      Ivanovna, throwing up her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You knew it?&rdquo; Luzhin caught her up, &ldquo;then I suppose you had some reason
      before this for thinking so. I beg you, worthy Amalia Ivanovna, to
      remember your words which have been uttered before witnesses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a buzz of loud conversation on all sides. All were in movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna, suddenly realising the position, and she
      rushed at Luzhin. &ldquo;What! You accuse her of stealing? Sonia? Ah, the
      wretches, the wretches!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And running to Sonia she flung her wasted arms round her and held her as
      in a vise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sonia! how dared you take ten roubles from him? Foolish girl! Give it to
      me! Give me the ten roubles at once&mdash;here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And snatching the note from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it up and
      flung it straight into Luzhin&rsquo;s face. It hit him in the eye and fell on
      the ground. Amalia Ivanovna hastened to pick it up. Pyotr Petrovitch lost
      his temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold that mad woman!&rdquo; he shouted.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment several other persons, besides Lebeziatnikov, appeared in
      the doorway, among them the two ladies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Mad? Am I mad? Idiot!&rdquo; shrieked Katerina Ivanovna. &ldquo;You are an
      idiot yourself, pettifogging lawyer, base man! Sonia, Sonia take his
      money! Sonia a thief! Why, she&rsquo;d give away her last penny!&rdquo; and Katerina
      Ivanovna broke into hysterical laughter. &ldquo;Did you ever see such an idiot?&rdquo;
       she turned from side to side. &ldquo;And you too?&rdquo; she suddenly saw the
      landlady, &ldquo;and you too, sausage eater, you declare that she is a thief,
      you trashy Prussian hen&rsquo;s leg in a crinoline! She hasn&rsquo;t been out of this
      room: she came straight from you, you wretch, and sat down beside me,
      everyone saw her. She sat here, by Rodion Romanovitch. Search her! Since
      she&rsquo;s not left the room, the money would have to be on her! Search her,
      search her! But if you don&rsquo;t find it, then excuse me, my dear fellow,
      you&rsquo;ll answer for it! I&rsquo;ll go to our Sovereign, to our Sovereign, to our
      gracious Tsar himself, and throw myself at his feet, to-day, this minute!
      I am alone in the world! They would let me in! Do you think they wouldn&rsquo;t?
      You&rsquo;re wrong, I will get in! I will get in! You reckoned on her meekness!
      You relied upon that! But I am not so submissive, let me tell you! You&rsquo;ve
      gone too far yourself. Search her, search her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Katerina Ivanovna in a frenzy shook Luzhin and dragged him towards
      Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am ready, I&rsquo;ll be responsible... but calm yourself, madam, calm
      yourself. I see that you are not so submissive!... Well, well, but as to
      that...&rdquo; Luzhin muttered, &ldquo;that ought to be before the police... though
      indeed there are witnesses enough as it is.... I am ready.... But in any
      case it&rsquo;s difficult for a man... on account of her sex.... But with the
      help of Amalia Ivanovna... though, of course, it&rsquo;s not the way to do
      things.... How is it to be done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you will! Let anyone who likes search her!&rdquo; cried Katerina Ivanovna.
      &ldquo;Sonia, turn out your pockets! See! Look, monster, the pocket is empty,
      here was her handkerchief! Here is the other pocket, look! D&rsquo;you see,
      d&rsquo;you see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Katerina Ivanovna turned&mdash;or rather snatched&mdash;both pockets
      inside out. But from the right pocket a piece of paper flew out and
      describing a parabola in the air fell at Luzhin&rsquo;s feet. Everyone saw it,
      several cried out. Pyotr Petrovitch stooped down, picked up the paper in
      two fingers, lifted it where all could see it and opened it. It was a
      hundred-rouble note folded in eight. Pyotr Petrovitch held up the note
      showing it to everyone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thief! Out of my lodging. Police, police!&rdquo; yelled Amalia Ivanovna. &ldquo;They
      must to Siberia be sent! Away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Exclamations arose on all sides. Raskolnikov was silent, keeping his eyes
      fixed on Sonia, except for an occasional rapid glance at Luzhin. Sonia
      stood still, as though unconscious. She was hardly able to feel surprise.
      Suddenly the colour rushed to her cheeks; she uttered a cry and hid her
      face in her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it wasn&rsquo;t I! I didn&rsquo;t take it! I know nothing about it,&rdquo; she cried
      with a heartrending wail, and she ran to Katerina Ivanovna, who clasped
      her tightly in her arms, as though she would shelter her from all the
      world.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sonia! Sonia! I don&rsquo;t believe it! You see, I don&rsquo;t believe it!&rdquo; she cried
      in the face of the obvious fact, swaying her to and fro in her arms like a
      baby, kissing her face continually, then snatching at her hands and
      kissing them, too, &ldquo;you took it! How stupid these people are! Oh dear! You
      are fools, fools,&rdquo; she cried, addressing the whole room, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t know,
      you don&rsquo;t know what a heart she has, what a girl she is! She take it, she?
      She&rsquo;d sell her last rag, she&rsquo;d go barefoot to help you if you needed it,
      that&rsquo;s what she is! She has the yellow passport because my children were
      starving, she sold herself for us! Ah, husband, husband! Do you see? Do
      you see? What a memorial dinner for you! Merciful heavens! Defend her, why
      are you all standing still? Rodion Romanovitch, why don&rsquo;t you stand up for
      her? Do you believe it, too? You are not worth her little finger, all of
      you together! Good God! Defend her now, at least!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed to produce a
      great effect on her audience. The agonised, wasted, consumptive face, the
      parched blood-stained lips, the hoarse voice, the tears unrestrained as a
      child&rsquo;s, the trustful, childish and yet despairing prayer for help were so
      piteous that everyone seemed to feel for her. Pyotr Petrovitch at any rate
      was at once moved to <i>compassion</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam, madam, this incident does not reflect upon you!&rdquo; he cried
      impressively, &ldquo;no one would take upon himself to accuse you of being an
      instigator or even an accomplice in it, especially as you have proved her
      guilt by turning out her pockets, showing that you had no previous idea of
      it. I am most ready, most ready to show compassion, if poverty, so to
      speak, drove Sofya Semyonovna to it, but why did you refuse to confess,
      mademoiselle? Were you afraid of the disgrace? The first step? You lost
      your head, perhaps? One can quite understand it.... But how could you have
      lowered yourself to such an action? Gentlemen,&rdquo; he addressed the whole
      company, &ldquo;gentlemen! Compassionate and, so to say, commiserating these
      people, I am ready to overlook it even now in spite of the personal insult
      lavished upon me! And may this disgrace be a lesson to you for the
      future,&rdquo; he said, addressing Sonia, &ldquo;and I will carry the matter no
      further. Enough!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch stole a glance at Raskolnikov. Their eyes met, and the
      fire in Raskolnikov&rsquo;s seemed ready to reduce him to ashes. Meanwhile
      Katerina Ivanovna apparently heard nothing. She was kissing and hugging
      Sonia like a madwoman. The children, too, were embracing Sonia on all
      sides, and Polenka&mdash;though she did not fully understand what was
      wrong&mdash;was drowned in tears and shaking with sobs, as she hid her
      pretty little face, swollen with weeping, on Sonia&rsquo;s shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How vile!&rdquo; a loud voice cried suddenly in the doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch looked round quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What vileness!&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov repeated, staring him straight in the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pyotr Petrovitch gave a positive start&mdash;all noticed it and recalled
      it afterwards. Lebeziatnikov strode into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you dared to call me as witness?&rdquo; he said, going up to Pyotr
      Petrovitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean? What are you talking about?&rdquo; muttered Luzhin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean that you... are a slanderer, that&rsquo;s what my words mean!&rdquo;
       Lebeziatnikov said hotly, looking sternly at him with his short-sighted
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you mean that for me,...&rdquo; he began, stammering. &ldquo;But what&rsquo;s the matter
      with you? Are you out of your mind?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m in my mind, but you are a scoundrel! Ah, how vile! I have heard
      everything. I kept waiting on purpose to understand it, for I must own
      even now it is not quite logical.... What you have done it all for I can&rsquo;t
      understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what have I done then? Give over talking in your nonsensical
      riddles! Or maybe you are drunk!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may be a drunkard, perhaps, vile man, but I am not! I never touch
      vodka, for it&rsquo;s against my convictions. Would you believe it, he, he
      himself, with his own hands gave Sofya Semyonovna that hundred-rouble note&mdash;I
      saw it, I was a witness, I&rsquo;ll take my oath! He did it, he!&rdquo; repeated
      Lebeziatnikov, addressing all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you crazy, milksop?&rdquo; squealed Luzhin. &ldquo;She is herself before you&mdash;she
      herself here declared just now before everyone that I gave her only ten
      roubles. How could I have given it to her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw it, I saw it,&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov repeated, &ldquo;and though it is against my
      principles, I am ready this very minute to take any oath you like before
      the court, for I saw how you slipped it in her pocket. Only like a fool I
      thought you did it out of kindness! When you were saying good-bye to her
      at the door, while you held her hand in one hand, with the other, the
      left, you slipped the note into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Luzhin turned pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What lies!&rdquo; he cried impudently, &ldquo;why, how could you, standing by the
      window, see the note? You fancied it with your short-sighted eyes. You are
      raving!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I didn&rsquo;t fancy it. And though I was standing some way off, I saw it
      all. And though it certainly would be hard to distinguish a note from the
      window&mdash;that&rsquo;s true&mdash;I knew for certain that it was a
      hundred-rouble note, because, when you were going to give Sofya Semyonovna
      ten roubles, you took up from the table a hundred-rouble note (I saw it
      because I was standing near then, and an idea struck me at once, so that I
      did not forget you had it in your hand). You folded it and kept it in your
      hand all the time. I didn&rsquo;t think of it again until, when you were getting
      up, you changed it from your right hand to your left and nearly dropped
      it! I noticed it because the same idea struck me again, that you meant to
      do her a kindness without my seeing. You can fancy how I watched you and I
      saw how you succeeded in slipping it into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it,
      I&rsquo;ll take my oath.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was mistaken in you! Protect her! You are the only one to take her
      part! She is an orphan. God has sent you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna, hardly knowing what she was doing, sank on her knees
      before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A pack of nonsense!&rdquo; yelled Luzhin, roused to fury, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s all nonsense
      you&rsquo;ve been talking! &lsquo;An idea struck you, you didn&rsquo;t think, you noticed&rsquo;&mdash;what
      does it amount to? So I gave it to her on the sly on purpose? What for?
      With what object? What have I to do with this...?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for? That&rsquo;s what I can&rsquo;t understand, but that what I am telling you
      is the fact, that&rsquo;s certain! So far from my being mistaken, you infamous
      criminal man, I remember how, on account of it, a question occurred to me
      at once, just when I was thanking you and pressing your hand. What made
      you put it secretly in her pocket? Why you did it secretly, I mean? Could
      it be simply to conceal it from me, knowing that my convictions are
      opposed to yours and that I do not approve of private benevolence, which
      effects no radical cure? Well, I decided that you really were ashamed of
      giving such a large sum before me. Perhaps, too, I thought, he wants to
      give her a surprise, when she finds a whole hundred-rouble note in her
      pocket. (For I know, some benevolent people are very fond of decking out
      their charitable actions in that way.) Then the idea struck me, too, that
      you wanted to test her, to see whether, when she found it, she would come
      to thank you. Then, too, that you wanted to avoid thanks and that, as the
      saying is, your right hand should not know... something of that sort, in
      fact. I thought of so many possibilities that I put off considering it,
      but still thought it indelicate to show you that I knew your secret. But
      another idea struck me again that Sofya Semyonovna might easily lose the
      money before she noticed it, that was why I decided to come in here to
      call her out of the room and to tell her that you put a hundred roubles in
      her pocket. But on my way I went first to Madame Kobilatnikov&rsquo;s to take
      them the &lsquo;General Treatise on the Positive Method&rsquo; and especially to
      recommend Piderit&rsquo;s article (and also Wagner&rsquo;s); then I come on here and
      what a state of things I find! Now could I, could I, have all these ideas
      and reflections if I had not seen you put the hundred-rouble note in her
      pocket?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Lebeziatnikov finished his long-winded harangue with the logical
      deduction at the end, he was quite tired, and the perspiration streamed
      from his face. He could not, alas, even express himself correctly in
      Russian, though he knew no other language, so that he was quite exhausted,
      almost emaciated after this heroic exploit. But his speech produced a
      powerful effect. He had spoken with such vehemence, with such conviction
      that everyone obviously believed him. Pyotr Petrovitch felt that things
      were going badly with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it to do with me if silly ideas did occur to you?&rdquo; he shouted,
      &ldquo;that&rsquo;s no evidence. You may have dreamt it, that&rsquo;s all! And I tell you,
      you are lying, sir. You are lying and slandering from some spite against
      me, simply from pique, because I did not agree with your free-thinking,
      godless, social propositions!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But this retort did not benefit Pyotr Petrovitch. Murmurs of disapproval
      were heard on all sides.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s your line now, is it!&rdquo; cried Lebeziatnikov, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s nonsense!
      Call the police and I&rsquo;ll take my oath! There&rsquo;s only one thing I can&rsquo;t
      understand: what made him risk such a contemptible action. Oh, pitiful,
      despicable man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can explain why he risked such an action, and if necessary, I, too,
      will swear to it,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said at last in a firm voice, and he
      stepped forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I can explain it all to myself,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, addressing
      Lebeziatnikov. &ldquo;From the very beginning of the business, I suspected that
      there was some scoundrelly intrigue at the bottom of it. I began to
      suspect it from some special circumstances known to me only, which I will
      explain at once to everyone: they account for everything. Your valuable
      evidence has finally made everything clear to me. I beg all, all to
      listen. This gentleman (he pointed to Luzhin) was recently engaged to be
      married to a young lady&mdash;my sister, Avdotya Romanovna Raskolnikov.
      But coming to Petersburg he quarrelled with me, the day before yesterday,
      at our first meeting and I drove him out of my room&mdash;I have two
      witnesses to prove it. He is a very spiteful man.... The day before
      yesterday I did not know that he was staying here, in your room, and that
      consequently on the very day we quarrelled&mdash;the day before yesterday&mdash;he
      saw me give Katerina Ivanovna some money for the funeral, as a friend of
      the late Mr. Marmeladov. He at once wrote a note to my mother and informed
      her that I had given away all my money, not to Katerina Ivanovna but to
      Sofya Semyonovna, and referred in a most contemptible way to the...
      character of Sofya Semyonovna, that is, hinted at the character of my
      attitude to Sofya Semyonovna. All this you understand was with the object
      of dividing me from my mother and sister, by insinuating that I was
      squandering on unworthy objects the money which they had sent me and which
      was all they had. Yesterday evening, before my mother and sister and in
      his presence, I declared that I had given the money to Katerina Ivanovna
      for the funeral and not to Sofya Semyonovna and that I had no acquaintance
      with Sofya Semyonovna and had never seen her before, indeed. At the same
      time I added that he, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, with all his virtues, was
      not worth Sofya Semyonovna&rsquo;s little finger, though he spoke so ill of her.
      To his question&mdash;would I let Sofya Semyonovna sit down beside my
      sister, I answered that I had already done so that day. Irritated that my
      mother and sister were unwilling to quarrel with me at his insinuations,
      he gradually began being unpardonably rude to them. A final rupture took
      place and he was turned out of the house. All this happened yesterday
      evening. Now I beg your special attention: consider: if he had now
      succeeded in proving that Sofya Semyonovna was a thief, he would have
      shown to my mother and sister that he was almost right in his suspicions,
      that he had reason to be angry at my putting my sister on a level with
      Sofya Semyonovna, that, in attacking me, he was protecting and preserving
      the honour of my sister, his betrothed. In fact he might even, through all
      this, have been able to estrange me from my family, and no doubt he hoped
      to be restored to favour with them; to say nothing of revenging himself on
      me personally, for he has grounds for supposing that the honour and
      happiness of Sofya Semyonovna are very precious to me. That was what he
      was working for! That&rsquo;s how I understand it. That&rsquo;s the whole reason for
      it and there can be no other!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was like this, or somewhat like this, that Raskolnikov wound up his
      speech which was followed very attentively, though often interrupted by
      exclamations from his audience. But in spite of interruptions he spoke
      clearly, calmly, exactly, firmly. His decisive voice, his tone of
      conviction and his stern face made a great impression on everyone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, that&rsquo;s it,&rdquo; Lebeziatnikov assented gleefully, &ldquo;that must be it,
      for he asked me, as soon as Sofya Semyonovna came into our room, whether
      you were here, whether I had seen you among Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s guests. He
      called me aside to the window and asked me in secret. It was essential for
      him that you should be here! That&rsquo;s it, that&rsquo;s it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Luzhin smiled contemptuously and did not speak. But he was very pale. He
      seemed to be deliberating on some means of escape. Perhaps he would have
      been glad to give up everything and get away, but at the moment this was
      scarcely possible. It would have implied admitting the truth of the
      accusations brought against him. Moreover, the company, which had already
      been excited by drink, was now too much stirred to allow it. The
      commissariat clerk, though indeed he had not grasped the whole position,
      was shouting louder than anyone and was making some suggestions very
      unpleasant to Luzhin. But not all those present were drunk; lodgers came
      in from all the rooms. The three Poles were tremendously excited and were
      continually shouting at him: &ldquo;The <i>pan</i> is a <i>lajdak</i>!&rdquo; and
      muttering threats in Polish. Sonia had been listening with strained
      attention, though she too seemed unable to grasp it all; she seemed as
      though she had just returned to consciousness. She did not take her eyes
      off Raskolnikov, feeling that all her safety lay in him. Katerina Ivanovna
      breathed hard and painfully and seemed fearfully exhausted. Amalia
      Ivanovna stood looking more stupid than anyone, with her mouth wide open,
      unable to make out what had happened. She only saw that Pyotr Petrovitch
      had somehow come to grief.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov was attempting to speak again, but they did not let him.
      Everyone was crowding round Luzhin with threats and shouts of abuse. But
      Pyotr Petrovitch was not intimidated. Seeing that his accusation of Sonia
      had completely failed, he had recourse to insolence:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Allow me, gentlemen, allow me! Don&rsquo;t squeeze, let me pass!&rdquo; he said,
      making his way through the crowd. &ldquo;And no threats, if you please! I assure
      you it will be useless, you will gain nothing by it. On the contrary,
      you&rsquo;ll have to answer, gentlemen, for violently obstructing the course of
      justice. The thief has been more than unmasked, and I shall prosecute. Our
      judges are not so blind and... not so drunk, and will not believe the
      testimony of two notorious infidels, agitators, and atheists, who accuse
      me from motives of personal revenge which they are foolish enough to
      admit.... Yes, allow me to pass!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let me find a trace of you in my room! Kindly leave at once, and
      everything is at an end between us! When I think of the trouble I&rsquo;ve been
      taking, the way I&rsquo;ve been expounding... all this fortnight!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you myself to-day that I was going, when you tried to keep me; now
      I will simply add that you are a fool. I advise you to see a doctor for
      your brains and your short sight. Let me pass, gentlemen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He forced his way through. But the commissariat clerk was unwilling to let
      him off so easily: he picked up a glass from the table, brandished it in
      the air and flung it at Pyotr Petrovitch; but the glass flew straight at
      Amalia Ivanovna. She screamed, and the clerk, overbalancing, fell heavily
      under the table. Pyotr Petrovitch made his way to his room and half an
      hour later had left the house. Sonia, timid by nature, had felt before
      that day that she could be ill-treated more easily than anyone, and that
      she could be wronged with impunity. Yet till that moment she had fancied
      that she might escape misfortune by care, gentleness and submissiveness
      before everyone. Her disappointment was too great. She could, of course,
      bear with patience and almost without murmur anything, even this. But for
      the first minute she felt it too bitter. In spite of her triumph and her
      justification&mdash;when her first terror and stupefaction had passed and
      she could understand it all clearly&mdash;the feeling of her helplessness
      and of the wrong done to her made her heart throb with anguish and she was
      overcome with hysterical weeping. At last, unable to bear any more, she
      rushed out of the room and ran home, almost immediately after Luzhin&rsquo;s
      departure. When amidst loud laughter the glass flew at Amalia Ivanovna, it
      was more than the landlady could endure. With a shriek she rushed like a
      fury at Katerina Ivanovna, considering her to blame for everything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Out of my lodgings! At once! Quick march!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And with these words she began snatching up everything she could lay her
      hands on that belonged to Katerina Ivanovna, and throwing it on the floor.
      Katerina Ivanovna, pale, almost fainting, and gasping for breath, jumped
      up from the bed where she had sunk in exhaustion and darted at Amalia
      Ivanovna. But the battle was too unequal: the landlady waved her away like
      a feather.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! As though that godless calumny was not enough&mdash;this vile
      creature attacks me! What! On the day of my husband&rsquo;s funeral I am turned
      out of my lodging! After eating my bread and salt she turns me into the
      street, with my orphans! Where am I to go?&rdquo; wailed the poor woman, sobbing
      and gasping. &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; she cried with flashing eyes, &ldquo;is there no
      justice upon earth? Whom should you protect if not us orphans? We shall
      see! There is law and justice on earth, there is, I will find it! Wait a
      bit, godless creature! Polenka, stay with the children, I&rsquo;ll come back.
      Wait for me, if you have to wait in the street. We will see whether there
      is justice on earth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And throwing over her head that green shawl which Marmeladov had mentioned
      to Raskolnikov, Katerina Ivanovna squeezed her way through the disorderly
      and drunken crowd of lodgers who still filled the room, and, wailing and
      tearful, she ran into the street&mdash;with a vague intention of going at
      once somewhere to find justice. Polenka with the two little ones in her
      arms crouched, terrified, on the trunk in the corner of the room, where
      she waited trembling for her mother to come back. Amalia Ivanovna raged
      about the room, shrieking, lamenting and throwing everything she came
      across on the floor. The lodgers talked incoherently, some commented to
      the best of their ability on what had happened, others quarrelled and
      swore at one another, while others struck up a song....
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now it&rsquo;s time for me to go,&rdquo; thought Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Well, Sofya
      Semyonovna, we shall see what you&rsquo;ll say now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he set off in the direction of Sonia&rsquo;s lodgings.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"></a>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov had been a vigorous and active champion of Sonia against
      Luzhin, although he had such a load of horror and anguish in his own
      heart. But having gone through so much in the morning, he found a sort of
      relief in a change of sensations, apart from the strong personal feeling
      which impelled him to defend Sonia. He was agitated too, especially at
      some moments, by the thought of his approaching interview with Sonia: he
      <i>had</i> to tell her who had killed Lizaveta. He knew the terrible
      suffering it would be to him and, as it were, brushed away the thought of
      it. So when he cried as he left Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s, &ldquo;Well, Sofya
      Semyonovna, we shall see what you&rsquo;ll say now!&rdquo; he was still superficially
      excited, still vigorous and defiant from his triumph over Luzhin. But,
      strange to say, by the time he reached Sonia&rsquo;s lodging, he felt a sudden
      impotence and fear. He stood still in hesitation at the door, asking
      himself the strange question: &ldquo;Must he tell her who killed Lizaveta?&rdquo; It
      was a strange question because he felt at the very time not only that he
      could not help telling her, but also that he could not put off the
      telling. He did not yet know why it must be so, he only <i>felt</i> it,
      and the agonising sense of his impotence before the inevitable almost
      crushed him. To cut short his hesitation and suffering, he quickly opened
      the door and looked at Sonia from the doorway. She was sitting with her
      elbows on the table and her face in her hands, but seeing Raskolnikov she
      got up at once and came to meet him as though she were expecting him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would have become of me but for you?&rdquo; she said quickly, meeting him
      in the middle of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Evidently she was in haste to say this to him. It was what she had been
      waiting for.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Sonia?&rdquo; he said, and felt that his voice was trembling, &ldquo;it was all
      due to &lsquo;your social position and the habits associated with it.&rsquo; Did you
      understand that just now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her face showed her distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only don&rsquo;t talk to me as you did yesterday,&rdquo; she interrupted him. &ldquo;Please
      don&rsquo;t begin it. There is misery enough without that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made haste to smile, afraid that he might not like the reproach.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was silly to come away from there. What is happening there now? I
      wanted to go back directly, but I kept thinking that... you would come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was turning them out of their lodging and
      that Katerina Ivanovna had run off somewhere &ldquo;to seek justice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; cried Sonia, &ldquo;let&rsquo;s go at once....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she snatched up her cape.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s everlastingly the same thing!&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, irritably. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve
      no thought except for them! Stay a little with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But... Katerina Ivanovna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t lose Katerina Ivanovna, you may be sure, she&rsquo;ll come to you
      herself since she has run out,&rdquo; he added peevishly. &ldquo;If she doesn&rsquo;t find
      you here, you&rsquo;ll be blamed for it....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia sat down in painful suspense. Raskolnikov was silent, gazing at the
      floor and deliberating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This time Luzhin did not want to prosecute you,&rdquo; he began, not looking at
      Sonia, &ldquo;but if he had wanted to, if it had suited his plans, he would have
      sent you to prison if it had not been for Lebeziatnikov and me. Ah?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she assented in a faint voice. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she repeated, preoccupied and
      distressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I might easily not have been there. And it was quite an accident
      Lebeziatnikov&rsquo;s turning up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if you&rsquo;d gone to prison, what then? Do you remember what I said
      yesterday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again she did not answer. He waited.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought you would cry out again &lsquo;don&rsquo;t speak of it, leave off.&rsquo;&rdquo;
       Raskolnikov gave a laugh, but rather a forced one. &ldquo;What, silence again?&rdquo;
       he asked a minute later. &ldquo;We must talk about something, you know. It would
      be interesting for me to know how you would decide a certain &lsquo;problem&rsquo; as
      Lebeziatnikov would say.&rdquo; (He was beginning to lose the thread.) &ldquo;No,
      really, I am serious. Imagine, Sonia, that you had known all Luzhin&rsquo;s
      intentions beforehand. Known, that is, for a fact, that they would be the
      ruin of Katerina Ivanovna and the children and yourself thrown in&mdash;since
      you don&rsquo;t count yourself for anything&mdash;Polenka too... for she&rsquo;ll go
      the same way. Well, if suddenly it all depended on your decision whether
      he or they should go on living, that is whether Luzhin should go on living
      and doing wicked things, or Katerina Ivanovna should die? How would you
      decide which of them was to die? I ask you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia looked uneasily at him. There was something peculiar in this
      hesitating question, which seemed approaching something in a roundabout
      way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I felt that you were going to ask some question like that,&rdquo; she said,
      looking inquisitively at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say you did. But how is it to be answered?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you ask about what could not happen?&rdquo; said Sonia reluctantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it would be better for Luzhin to go on living and doing wicked
      things? You haven&rsquo;t dared to decide even that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I can&rsquo;t know the Divine Providence.... And why do you ask what can&rsquo;t
      be answered? What&rsquo;s the use of such foolish questions? How could it happen
      that it should depend on my decision&mdash;who has made me a judge to
      decide who is to live and who is not to live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if the Divine Providence is to be mixed up in it, there is no doing
      anything,&rdquo; Raskolnikov grumbled morosely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better say straight out what you want!&rdquo; Sonia cried in distress.
      &ldquo;You are leading up to something again.... Can you have come simply to
      torture me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could not control herself and began crying bitterly. He looked at her
      in gloomy misery. Five minutes passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you&rsquo;re right, Sonia,&rdquo; he said softly at last. He was suddenly
      changed. His tone of assumed arrogance and helpless defiance was gone.
      Even his voice was suddenly weak. &ldquo;I told you yesterday that I was not
      coming to ask forgiveness and almost the first thing I&rsquo;ve said is to ask
      forgiveness.... I said that about Luzhin and Providence for my own sake. I
      was asking forgiveness, Sonia....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      And suddenly a strange, surprising sensation of a sort of bitter hatred
      for Sonia passed through his heart. As it were wondering and frightened of
      this sensation, he raised his head and looked intently at her; but he met
      her uneasy and painfully anxious eyes fixed on him; there was love in
      them; his hatred vanished like a phantom. It was not the real feeling; he
      had taken the one feeling for the other. It only meant that <i>that</i>
      minute had come.
    </p>
    <p>
      He hid his face in his hands again and bowed his head. Suddenly he turned
      pale, got up from his chair, looked at Sonia, and without uttering a word
      sat down mechanically on her bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      His sensations that moment were terribly like the moment when he had stood
      over the old woman with the axe in his hand and felt that &ldquo;he must not
      lose another minute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; asked Sonia, dreadfully frightened.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could not utter a word. This was not at all, not at all the way he had
      intended to &ldquo;tell&rdquo; and he did not understand what was happening to him
      now. She went up to him, softly, sat down on the bed beside him and
      waited, not taking her eyes off him. Her heart throbbed and sank. It was
      unendurable; he turned his deadly pale face to her. His lips worked,
      helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang of terror passed through
      Sonia&rsquo;s heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; she repeated, drawing a little away from him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, Sonia, don&rsquo;t be frightened.... It&rsquo;s nonsense. It really is
      nonsense, if you think of it,&rdquo; he muttered, like a man in delirium. &ldquo;Why
      have I come to torture you?&rdquo; he added suddenly, looking at her. &ldquo;Why,
      really? I keep asking myself that question, Sonia....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how you are suffering!&rdquo; she muttered in distress, looking intently at
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all nonsense.... Listen, Sonia.&rdquo; He suddenly smiled, a pale helpless
      smile for two seconds. &ldquo;You remember what I meant to tell you yesterday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia waited uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said as I went away that perhaps I was saying good-bye for ever, but
      that if I came to-day I would tell you who... who killed Lizaveta.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She began trembling all over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, here I&rsquo;ve come to tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you really meant it yesterday?&rdquo; she whispered with difficulty. &ldquo;How
      do you know?&rdquo; she asked quickly, as though suddenly regaining her reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia&rsquo;s face grew paler and paler, and she breathed painfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She paused a minute.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have they found him?&rdquo; she asked timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then how do you know about <i>it</i>?&rdquo; she asked again, hardly audibly
      and again after a minute&rsquo;s pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned to her and looked very intently at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess,&rdquo; he said, with the same distorted helpless smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      A shudder passed over her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you... why do you frighten me like this?&rdquo; she said, smiling like a
      child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must be a great friend of <i>his</i>... since I know,&rdquo; Raskolnikov went
      on, still gazing into her face, as though he could not turn his eyes away.
      &ldquo;He... did not mean to kill that Lizaveta... he... killed her
      accidentally.... He meant to kill the old woman when she was alone and he
      went there... and then Lizaveta came in... he killed her too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another awful moment passed. Both still gazed at one another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t guess, then?&rdquo; he asked suddenly, feeling as though he were
      flinging himself down from a steeple.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no...&rdquo; whispered Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take a good look.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As soon as he had said this again, the same familiar sensation froze his
      heart. He looked at her and all at once seemed to see in her face the face
      of Lizaveta. He remembered clearly the expression in Lizaveta&rsquo;s face, when
      he approached her with the axe and she stepped back to the wall, putting
      out her hand, with childish terror in her face, looking as little children
      do when they begin to be frightened of something, looking intently and
      uneasily at what frightens them, shrinking back and holding out their
      little hands on the point of crying. Almost the same thing happened now to
      Sonia. With the same helplessness and the same terror, she looked at him
      for a while and, suddenly putting out her left hand, pressed her fingers
      faintly against his breast and slowly began to get up from the bed, moving
      further from him and keeping her eyes fixed even more immovably on him.
      Her terror infected him. The same fear showed itself on his face. In the
      same way he stared at her and almost with the same <i>childish</i> smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you guessed?&rdquo; he whispered at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; broke in an awful wail from her bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in the pillows, but a moment
      later she got up, moved quickly to him, seized both his hands and,
      gripping them tight in her thin fingers, began looking into his face again
      with the same intent stare. In this last desperate look she tried to look
      into him and catch some last hope. But there was no hope; there was no
      doubt remaining; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when she recalled that
      moment, she thought it strange and wondered why she had seen at once that
      there was no doubt. She could not have said, for instance, that she had
      foreseen something of the sort&mdash;and yet now, as soon as he told her,
      she suddenly fancied that she had really foreseen this very thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop, Sonia, enough! don&rsquo;t torture me,&rdquo; he begged her miserably.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not at all, not at all like this he had thought of telling her, but
      this is how it happened.
    </p>
    <p>
      She jumped up, seeming not to know what she was doing, and, wringing her
      hands, walked into the middle of the room; but quickly went back and sat
      down again beside him, her shoulder almost touching his. All of a sudden
      she started as though she had been stabbed, uttered a cry and fell on her
      knees before him, she did not know why.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have you done&mdash;what have you done to yourself?&rdquo; she said in
      despair, and, jumping up, she flung herself on his neck, threw her arms
      round him, and held him tightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov drew back and looked at her with a mournful smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a strange girl, Sonia&mdash;you kiss me and hug me when I tell
      you about that.... You don&rsquo;t think what you are doing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no one&mdash;no one in the whole world now so unhappy as you!&rdquo;
       she cried in a frenzy, not hearing what he said, and she suddenly broke
      into violent hysterical weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you won&rsquo;t leave me, Sonia?&rdquo; he said, looking at her almost with
      hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, never, nowhere!&rdquo; cried Sonia. &ldquo;I will follow you, I will follow
      you everywhere. Oh, my God! Oh, how miserable I am!... Why, why didn&rsquo;t I
      know you before! Why didn&rsquo;t you come before? Oh, dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here I have come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, now! What&rsquo;s to be done now?... Together, together!&rdquo; she repeated as
      it were unconsciously, and she hugged him again. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll follow you to
      Siberia!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He recoiled at this, and the same hostile, almost haughty smile came to
      his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I don&rsquo;t want to go to Siberia yet, Sonia,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia looked at him quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again after her first passionate, agonising sympathy for the unhappy man
      the terrible idea of the murder overwhelmed her. In his changed tone she
      seemed to hear the murderer speaking. She looked at him bewildered. She
      knew nothing as yet, why, how, with what object it had been. Now all these
      questions rushed at once into her mind. And again she could not believe
      it: &ldquo;He, he is a murderer! Could it be true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the meaning of it? Where am I?&rdquo; she said in complete bewilderment,
      as though still unable to recover herself. &ldquo;How could you, you, a man like
      you.... How could you bring yourself to it?... What does it mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, well&mdash;to plunder. Leave off, Sonia,&rdquo; he answered wearily, almost
      with vexation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia stood as though struck dumb, but suddenly she cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were hungry! It was... to help your mother? Yes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Sonia, no,&rdquo; he muttered, turning away and hanging his head. &ldquo;I was
      not so hungry.... I certainly did want to help my mother, but... that&rsquo;s
      not the real thing either.... Don&rsquo;t torture me, Sonia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia clasped her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Could it, could it all be true? Good God, what a truth! Who could believe
      it? And how could you give away your last farthing and yet rob and murder!
      Ah,&rdquo; she cried suddenly, &ldquo;that money you gave Katerina Ivanovna... that
      money.... Can that money...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Sonia,&rdquo; he broke in hurriedly, &ldquo;that money was not it. Don&rsquo;t worry
      yourself! That money my mother sent me and it came when I was ill, the day
      I gave it to you.... Razumihin saw it... he received it for me.... That
      money was mine&mdash;my own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia listened to him in bewilderment and did her utmost to comprehend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And <i>that</i> money.... I don&rsquo;t even know really whether there was any
      money,&rdquo; he added softly, as though reflecting. &ldquo;I took a purse off her
      neck, made of chamois leather... a purse stuffed full of something... but
      I didn&rsquo;t look in it; I suppose I hadn&rsquo;t time.... And the things&mdash;chains
      and trinkets&mdash;I buried under a stone with the purse next morning in a
      yard off the V&mdash;&mdash; Prospect. They are all there now....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia strained every nerve to listen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why... why, you said you did it to rob, but you took nothing?&rdquo; she
      asked quickly, catching at a straw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.... I haven&rsquo;t yet decided whether to take that money or
      not,&rdquo; he said, musing again; and, seeming to wake up with a start, he gave
      a brief ironical smile. &ldquo;Ach, what silly stuff I am talking, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The thought flashed through Sonia&rsquo;s mind, wasn&rsquo;t he mad? But she dismissed
      it at once. &ldquo;No, it was something else.&rdquo; She could make nothing of it,
      nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know, Sonia,&rdquo; he said suddenly with conviction, &ldquo;let me tell you:
      if I&rsquo;d simply killed because I was hungry,&rdquo; laying stress on every word
      and looking enigmatically but sincerely at her, &ldquo;I should be <i>happy</i>
      now. You must believe that! What would it matter to you,&rdquo; he cried a
      moment later with a sort of despair, &ldquo;what would it matter to you if I
      were to confess that I did wrong? What do you gain by such a stupid
      triumph over me? Ah, Sonia, was it for that I&rsquo;ve come to you to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again Sonia tried to say something, but did not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I asked you to go with me yesterday because you are all I have left.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go where?&rdquo; asked Sonia timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to steal and not to murder, don&rsquo;t be anxious,&rdquo; he smiled bitterly.
      &ldquo;We are so different.... And you know, Sonia, it&rsquo;s only now, only this
      moment that I understand <i>where</i> I asked you to go with me yesterday!
      Yesterday when I said it I did not know where. I asked you for one thing,
      I came to you for one thing&mdash;not to leave me. You won&rsquo;t leave me,
      Sonia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She squeezed his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?&rdquo; he cried a minute
      later in despair, looking with infinite anguish at her. &ldquo;Here you expect
      an explanation from me, Sonia; you are sitting and waiting for it, I see
      that. But what can I tell you? You won&rsquo;t understand and will only suffer
      misery... on my account! Well, you are crying and embracing me again. Why
      do you do it? Because I couldn&rsquo;t bear my burden and have come to throw it
      on another: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can you love such
      a mean wretch?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But aren&rsquo;t you suffering, too?&rdquo; cried Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an
      instant softened it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sonia, I have a bad heart, take note of that. It may explain a great
      deal. I have come because I am bad. There are men who wouldn&rsquo;t have come.
      But I am a coward and... a mean wretch. But... never mind! That&rsquo;s not the
      point. I must speak now, but I don&rsquo;t know how to begin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused and sank into thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, we are so different,&rdquo; he cried again, &ldquo;we are not alike. And why,
      why did I come? I shall never forgive myself that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, it was a good thing you came,&rdquo; cried Sonia. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s better I should
      know, far better!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her with anguish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What if it were really that?&rdquo; he said, as though reaching a conclusion.
      &ldquo;Yes, that&rsquo;s what it was! I wanted to become a Napoleon, that is why I
      killed her.... Do you understand now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no,&rdquo; Sonia whispered naïvely and timidly. &ldquo;Only speak, speak, I shall
      understand, I shall understand <i>in myself</i>!&rdquo; she kept begging him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll understand? Very well, we shall see!&rdquo; He paused and was for some
      time lost in meditation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was like this: I asked myself one day this question&mdash;what if
      Napoleon, for instance, had happened to be in my place, and if he had not
      had Toulon nor Egypt nor the passage of Mont Blanc to begin his career
      with, but instead of all those picturesque and monumental things, there
      had simply been some ridiculous old hag, a pawnbroker, who had to be
      murdered too to get money from her trunk (for his career, you understand).
      Well, would he have brought himself to that if there had been no other
      means? Wouldn&rsquo;t he have felt a pang at its being so far from monumental
      and... and sinful, too? Well, I must tell you that I worried myself
      fearfully over that &lsquo;question&rsquo; so that I was awfully ashamed when I
      guessed at last (all of a sudden, somehow) that it would not have given
      him the least pang, that it would not even have struck him that it was not
      monumental... that he would not have seen that there was anything in it to
      pause over, and that, if he had had no other way, he would have strangled
      her in a minute without thinking about it! Well, I too... left off
      thinking about it... murdered her, following his example. And that&rsquo;s
      exactly how it was! Do you think it funny? Yes, Sonia, the funniest thing
      of all is that perhaps that&rsquo;s just how it was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia did not think it at all funny.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better tell me straight out... without examples,&rdquo; she begged,
      still more timidly and scarcely audibly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned to her, looked sadly at her and took her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right again, Sonia. Of course that&rsquo;s all nonsense, it&rsquo;s almost
      all talk! You see, you know of course that my mother has scarcely
      anything, my sister happened to have a good education and was condemned to
      drudge as a governess. All their hopes were centered on me. I was a
      student, but I couldn&rsquo;t keep myself at the university and was forced for a
      time to leave it. Even if I had lingered on like that, in ten or twelve
      years I might (with luck) hope to be some sort of teacher or clerk with a
      salary of a thousand roubles&rdquo; (he repeated it as though it were a lesson)
      &ldquo;and by that time my mother would be worn out with grief and anxiety and I
      could not succeed in keeping her in comfort while my sister... well, my
      sister might well have fared worse! And it&rsquo;s a hard thing to pass
      everything by all one&rsquo;s life, to turn one&rsquo;s back upon everything, to
      forget one&rsquo;s mother and decorously accept the insults inflicted on one&rsquo;s
      sister. Why should one? When one has buried them to burden oneself with
      others&mdash;wife and children&mdash;and to leave them again without a
      farthing? So I resolved to gain possession of the old woman&rsquo;s money and to
      use it for my first years without worrying my mother, to keep myself at
      the university and for a little while after leaving it&mdash;and to do
      this all on a broad, thorough scale, so as to build up a completely new
      career and enter upon a new life of independence.... Well... that&rsquo;s
      all.... Well, of course in killing the old woman I did wrong.... Well,
      that&rsquo;s enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He struggled to the end of his speech in exhaustion and let his head sink.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s not it, that&rsquo;s not it,&rdquo; Sonia cried in distress. &ldquo;How could
      one... no, that&rsquo;s not right, not right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see yourself that it&rsquo;s not right. But I&rsquo;ve spoken truly, it&rsquo;s the
      truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As though that could be the truth! Good God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve only killed a louse, Sonia, a useless, loathsome, harmful creature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A human being&mdash;a louse!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I too know it wasn&rsquo;t a louse,&rdquo; he answered, looking strangely at her.
      &ldquo;But I am talking nonsense, Sonia,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been talking nonsense
      a long time.... That&rsquo;s not it, you are right there. There were quite,
      quite other causes for it! I haven&rsquo;t talked to anyone for so long,
      Sonia.... My head aches dreadfully now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His eyes shone with feverish brilliance. He was almost delirious; an
      uneasy smile strayed on his lips. His terrible exhaustion could be seen
      through his excitement. Sonia saw how he was suffering. She too was
      growing dizzy. And he talked so strangely; it seemed somehow
      comprehensible, but yet... &ldquo;But how, how! Good God!&rdquo; And she wrung her
      hands in despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Sonia, that&rsquo;s not it,&rdquo; he began again suddenly, raising his head, as
      though a new and sudden train of thought had struck and as it were roused
      him&mdash;&ldquo;that&rsquo;s not it! Better... imagine&mdash;yes, it&rsquo;s certainly
      better&mdash;imagine that I am vain, envious, malicious, base, vindictive
      and... well, perhaps with a tendency to insanity. (Let&rsquo;s have it all out
      at once! They&rsquo;ve talked of madness already, I noticed.) I told you just
      now I could not keep myself at the university. But do you know that
      perhaps I might have done? My mother would have sent me what I needed for
      the fees and I could have earned enough for clothes, boots and food, no
      doubt. Lessons had turned up at half a rouble. Razumihin works! But I
      turned sulky and wouldn&rsquo;t. (Yes, sulkiness, that&rsquo;s the right word for it!)
      I sat in my room like a spider. You&rsquo;ve been in my den, you&rsquo;ve seen it....
      And do you know, Sonia, that low ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul
      and the mind? Ah, how I hated that garret! And yet I wouldn&rsquo;t go out of
      it! I wouldn&rsquo;t on purpose! I didn&rsquo;t go out for days together, and I
      wouldn&rsquo;t work, I wouldn&rsquo;t even eat, I just lay there doing nothing. If
      Nastasya brought me anything, I ate it, if she didn&rsquo;t, I went all day
      without; I wouldn&rsquo;t ask, on purpose, from sulkiness! At night I had no
      light, I lay in the dark and I wouldn&rsquo;t earn money for candles. I ought to
      have studied, but I sold my books; and the dust lies an inch thick on the
      notebooks on my table. I preferred lying still and thinking. And I kept
      thinking.... And I had dreams all the time, strange dreams of all sorts,
      no need to describe! Only then I began to fancy that... No, that&rsquo;s not it!
      Again I am telling you wrong! You see I kept asking myself then: why am I
      so stupid that if others are stupid&mdash;and I know they are&mdash;yet I
      won&rsquo;t be wiser? Then I saw, Sonia, that if one waits for everyone to get
      wiser it will take too long.... Afterwards I understood that that would
      never come to pass, that men won&rsquo;t change and that nobody can alter it and
      that it&rsquo;s not worth wasting effort over it. Yes, that&rsquo;s so. That&rsquo;s the law
      of their nature, Sonia,... that&rsquo;s so!... And I know now, Sonia, that
      whoever is strong in mind and spirit will have power over them. Anyone who
      is greatly daring is right in their eyes. He who despises most things will
      be a lawgiver among them and he who dares most of all will be most in the
      right! So it has been till now and so it will always be. A man must be
      blind not to see it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Though Raskolnikov looked at Sonia as he said this, he no longer cared
      whether she understood or not. The fever had complete hold of him; he was
      in a sort of gloomy ecstasy (he certainly had been too long without
      talking to anyone). Sonia felt that his gloomy creed had become his faith
      and code.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I divined then, Sonia,&rdquo; he went on eagerly, &ldquo;that power is only
      vouchsafed to the man who dares to stoop and pick it up. There is only one
      thing, one thing needful: one has only to dare! Then for the first time in
      my life an idea took shape in my mind which no one had ever thought of
      before me, no one! I saw clear as daylight how strange it is that not a
      single person living in this mad world has had the daring to go straight
      for it all and send it flying to the devil! I... I wanted <i>to have the
      daring</i>... and I killed her. I only wanted to have the daring, Sonia!
      That was the whole cause of it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh hush, hush,&rdquo; cried Sonia, clasping her hands. &ldquo;You turned away from
      God and God has smitten you, has given you over to the devil!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and all this became
      clear to me, was it a temptation of the devil, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, don&rsquo;t laugh, blasphemer! You don&rsquo;t understand, you don&rsquo;t
      understand! Oh God! He won&rsquo;t understand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, Sonia! I am not laughing. I know myself that it was the devil
      leading me. Hush, Sonia, hush!&rdquo; he repeated with gloomy insistence. &ldquo;I
      know it all, I have thought it all over and over and whispered it all over
      to myself, lying there in the dark.... I&rsquo;ve argued it all over with
      myself, every point of it, and I know it all, all! And how sick, how sick
      I was then of going over it all! I have kept wanting to forget it and make
      a new beginning, Sonia, and leave off thinking. And you don&rsquo;t suppose that
      I went into it headlong like a fool? I went into it like a wise man, and
      that was just my destruction. And you mustn&rsquo;t suppose that I didn&rsquo;t know,
      for instance, that if I began to question myself whether I had the right
      to gain power&mdash;I certainly hadn&rsquo;t the right&mdash;or that if I asked
      myself whether a human being is a louse it proved that it wasn&rsquo;t so for
      me, though it might be for a man who would go straight to his goal without
      asking questions.... If I worried myself all those days, wondering whether
      Napoleon would have done it or not, I felt clearly of course that I wasn&rsquo;t
      Napoleon. I had to endure all the agony of that battle of ideas, Sonia,
      and I longed to throw it off: I wanted to murder without casuistry, to
      murder for my own sake, for myself alone! I didn&rsquo;t want to lie about it
      even to myself. It wasn&rsquo;t to help my mother I did the murder&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      nonsense&mdash;I didn&rsquo;t do the murder to gain wealth and power and to
      become a benefactor of mankind. Nonsense! I simply did it; I did the
      murder for myself, for myself alone, and whether I became a benefactor to
      others, or spent my life like a spider catching men in my web and sucking
      the life out of men, I couldn&rsquo;t have cared at that moment.... And it was
      not the money I wanted, Sonia, when I did it. It was not so much the money
      I wanted, but something else.... I know it all now.... Understand me!
      Perhaps I should never have committed a murder again. I wanted to find out
      something else; it was something else led me on. I wanted to find out then
      and quickly whether I was a louse like everybody else or a man. Whether I
      can step over barriers or not, whether I dare stoop to pick up or not,
      whether I am a trembling creature or whether I have the <i>right</i>...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To kill? Have the right to kill?&rdquo; Sonia clasped her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, Sonia!&rdquo; he cried irritably and seemed about to make some retort, but
      was contemptuously silent. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t interrupt me, Sonia. I want to prove one
      thing only, that the devil led me on then and he has shown me since that I
      had not the right to take that path, because I am just such a louse as all
      the rest. He was mocking me and here I&rsquo;ve come to you now! Welcome your
      guest! If I were not a louse, should I have come to you? Listen: when I
      went then to the old woman&rsquo;s I only went to <i>try</i>.... You may be sure
      of that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you murdered her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how did I murder her? Is that how men do murders? Do men go to commit
      a murder as I went then? I will tell you some day how I went! Did I murder
      the old woman? I murdered myself, not her! I crushed myself once for all,
      for ever.... But it was the devil that killed that old woman, not I.
      Enough, enough, Sonia, enough! Let me be!&rdquo; he cried in a sudden spasm of
      agony, &ldquo;let me be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head in his hands as in
      a vise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What suffering!&rdquo; A wail of anguish broke from Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what am I to do now?&rdquo; he asked, suddenly raising his head and
      looking at her with a face hideously distorted by despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you to do?&rdquo; she cried, jumping up, and her eyes that had been
      full of tears suddenly began to shine. &ldquo;Stand up!&rdquo; (She seized him by the
      shoulder, he got up, looking at her almost bewildered.) &ldquo;Go at once, this
      very minute, stand at the cross-roads, bow down, first kiss the earth
      which you have defiled and then bow down to all the world and say to all
      men aloud, &lsquo;I am a murderer!&rsquo; Then God will send you life again. Will you
      go, will you go?&rdquo; she asked him, trembling all over, snatching his two
      hands, squeezing them tight in hers and gazing at him with eyes full of
      fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was amazed at her sudden ecstasy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean Siberia, Sonia? I must give myself up?&rdquo; he asked gloomily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suffer and expiate your sin by it, that&rsquo;s what you must do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! I am not going to them, Sonia!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how will you go on living? What will you live for?&rdquo; cried Sonia, &ldquo;how
      is it possible now? Why, how can you talk to your mother? (Oh, what will
      become of them now?) But what am I saying? You have abandoned your mother
      and your sister already. He has abandoned them already! Oh, God!&rdquo; she
      cried, &ldquo;why, he knows it all himself. How, how can he live by himself!
      What will become of you now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be a child, Sonia,&rdquo; he said softly. &ldquo;What wrong have I done them?
      Why should I go to them? What should I say to them? That&rsquo;s only a
      phantom.... They destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a
      virtue. They are knaves and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not going to them. And
      what should I say to them&mdash;that I murdered her, but did not dare to
      take the money and hid it under a stone?&rdquo; he added with a bitter smile.
      &ldquo;Why, they would laugh at me, and would call me a fool for not getting it.
      A coward and a fool! They wouldn&rsquo;t understand and they don&rsquo;t deserve to
      understand. Why should I go to them? I won&rsquo;t. Don&rsquo;t be a child, Sonia....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be too much for you to bear, too much!&rdquo; she repeated, holding out
      her hands in despairing supplication.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I&rsquo;ve been unfair to myself,&rdquo; he observed gloomily, pondering,
      &ldquo;perhaps after all I am a man and not a louse and I&rsquo;ve been in too great a
      hurry to condemn myself. I&rsquo;ll make another fight for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A haughty smile appeared on his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a burden to bear! And your whole life, your whole life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall get used to it,&rdquo; he said grimly and thoughtfully. &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; he
      began a minute later, &ldquo;stop crying, it&rsquo;s time to talk of the facts: I&rsquo;ve
      come to tell you that the police are after me, on my track....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach!&rdquo; Sonia cried in terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, why do you cry out? You want me to go to Siberia and now you are
      frightened? But let me tell you: I shall not give myself up. I shall make
      a struggle for it and they won&rsquo;t do anything to me. They&rsquo;ve no real
      evidence. Yesterday I was in great danger and believed I was lost; but
      to-day things are going better. All the facts they know can be explained
      two ways, that&rsquo;s to say I can turn their accusations to my credit, do you
      understand? And I shall, for I&rsquo;ve learnt my lesson. But they will
      certainly arrest me. If it had not been for something that happened, they
      would have done so to-day for certain; perhaps even now they will arrest
      me to-day.... But that&rsquo;s no matter, Sonia; they&rsquo;ll let me out again... for
      there isn&rsquo;t any real proof against me, and there won&rsquo;t be, I give you my
      word for it. And they can&rsquo;t convict a man on what they have against me.
      Enough.... I only tell you that you may know.... I will try to manage
      somehow to put it to my mother and sister so that they won&rsquo;t be
      frightened.... My sister&rsquo;s future is secure, however, now, I believe...
      and my mother&rsquo;s must be too.... Well, that&rsquo;s all. Be careful, though. Will
      you come and see me in prison when I am there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I will, I will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been
      cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia
      and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it
      suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a strange and
      awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that all his hopes
      rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering,
      and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he
      was immeasurably unhappier than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sonia,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you&rsquo;d better not come and see me when I am in prison.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia did not answer, she was crying. Several minutes passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you a cross on you?&rdquo; she asked, as though suddenly thinking of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not at first understand the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, of course not. Here, take this one, of cypress wood. I have another,
      a copper one that belonged to Lizaveta. I changed with Lizaveta: she gave
      me her cross and I gave her my little ikon. I will wear Lizaveta&rsquo;s now and
      give you this. Take it... it&rsquo;s mine! It&rsquo;s mine, you know,&rdquo; she begged him.
      &ldquo;We will go to suffer together, and together we will bear our cross!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give it me,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not want to hurt her feelings. But immediately he drew back the
      hand he held out for the cross.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not now, Sonia. Better later,&rdquo; he added to comfort her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, better,&rdquo; she repeated with conviction, &ldquo;when you go to meet
      your suffering, then put it on. You will come to me, I&rsquo;ll put it on you,
      we will pray and go together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At that moment someone knocked three times at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sofya Semyonovna, may I come in?&rdquo; they heard in a very familiar and
      polite voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia rushed to the door in a fright. The flaxen head of Mr. Lebeziatnikov
      appeared at the door.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"></a>
      CHAPTER V
    </h2>
    <p>
      Lebeziatnikov looked perturbed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to you, Sofya Semyonovna,&rdquo; he began. &ldquo;Excuse me... I thought I
      should find you,&rdquo; he said, addressing Raskolnikov suddenly, &ldquo;that is, I
      didn&rsquo;t mean anything... of that sort... But I just thought... Katerina
      Ivanovna has gone out of her mind,&rdquo; he blurted out suddenly, turning from
      Raskolnikov to Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia screamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least it seems so. But... we don&rsquo;t know what to do, you see! She came
      back&mdash;she seems to have been turned out somewhere, perhaps beaten....
      So it seems at least,... She had run to your father&rsquo;s former chief, she
      didn&rsquo;t find him at home: he was dining at some other general&rsquo;s.... Only
      fancy, she rushed off there, to the other general&rsquo;s, and, imagine, she was
      so persistent that she managed to get the chief to see her, had him
      fetched out from dinner, it seems. You can imagine what happened. She was
      turned out, of course; but, according to her own story, she abused him and
      threw something at him. One may well believe it.... How it is she wasn&rsquo;t
      taken up, I can&rsquo;t understand! Now she is telling everyone, including
      Amalia Ivanovna; but it&rsquo;s difficult to understand her, she is screaming
      and flinging herself about.... Oh yes, she shouts that since everyone has
      abandoned her, she will take the children and go into the street with a
      barrel-organ, and the children will sing and dance, and she too, and
      collect money, and will go every day under the general&rsquo;s window... &lsquo;to let
      everyone see well-born children, whose father was an official, begging in
      the street.&rsquo; She keeps beating the children and they are all crying. She
      is teaching Lida to sing &lsquo;My Village,&rsquo; the boy to dance, Polenka the same.
      She is tearing up all the clothes, and making them little caps like
      actors; she means to carry a tin basin and make it tinkle, instead of
      music.... She won&rsquo;t listen to anything.... Imagine the state of things!
      It&rsquo;s beyond anything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lebeziatnikov would have gone on, but Sonia, who had heard him almost
      breathless, snatched up her cloak and hat, and ran out of the room,
      putting on her things as she went. Raskolnikov followed her and
      Lebeziatnikov came after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has certainly gone mad!&rdquo; he said to Raskolnikov, as they went out
      into the street. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t want to frighten Sofya Semyonovna, so I said
      &lsquo;it seemed like it,&rsquo; but there isn&rsquo;t a doubt of it. They say that in
      consumption the tubercles sometimes occur in the brain; it&rsquo;s a pity I know
      nothing of medicine. I did try to persuade her, but she wouldn&rsquo;t listen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you talk to her about the tubercles?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not precisely of the tubercles. Besides, she wouldn&rsquo;t have understood!
      But what I say is, that if you convince a person logically that he has
      nothing to cry about, he&rsquo;ll stop crying. That&rsquo;s clear. Is it your
      conviction that he won&rsquo;t?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Life would be too easy if it were so,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, excuse me; of course it would be rather difficult for Katerina
      Ivanovna to understand, but do you know that in Paris they have been
      conducting serious experiments as to the possibility of curing the insane,
      simply by logical argument? One professor there, a scientific man of
      standing, lately dead, believed in the possibility of such treatment. His
      idea was that there&rsquo;s nothing really wrong with the physical organism of
      the insane, and that insanity is, so to say, a logical mistake, an error
      of judgment, an incorrect view of things. He gradually showed the madman
      his error and, would you believe it, they say he was successful? But as he
      made use of douches too, how far success was due to that treatment remains
      uncertain.... So it seems at least.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov had long ceased to listen. Reaching the house where he lived,
      he nodded to Lebeziatnikov and went in at the gate. Lebeziatnikov woke up
      with a start, looked about him and hurried on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov went into his little room and stood still in the middle of it.
      Why had he come back here? He looked at the yellow and tattered paper, at
      the dust, at his sofa.... From the yard came a loud continuous knocking;
      someone seemed to be hammering... He went to the window, rose on tiptoe
      and looked out into the yard for a long time with an air of absorbed
      attention. But the yard was empty and he could not see who was hammering.
      In the house on the left he saw some open windows; on the window-sills
      were pots of sickly-looking geraniums. Linen was hung out of the
      windows... He knew it all by heart. He turned away and sat down on the
      sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never, never had he felt himself so fearfully alone!
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes, he felt once more that he would perhaps come to hate Sonia, now that
      he had made her more miserable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why had he gone to her to beg for her tears? What need had he to poison
      her life? Oh, the meanness of it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will remain alone,&rdquo; he said resolutely, &ldquo;and she shall not come to the
      prison!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Five minutes later he raised his head with a strange smile. That was a
      strange thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps it really would be better in Siberia,&rdquo; he thought suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could not have said how long he sat there with vague thoughts surging
      through his mind. All at once the door opened and Dounia came in. At first
      she stood still and looked at him from the doorway, just as he had done at
      Sonia; then she came in and sat down in the same place as yesterday, on
      the chair facing him. He looked silently and almost vacantly at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be angry, brother; I&rsquo;ve only come for one minute,&rdquo; said Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were bright and soft.
      He saw that she too had come to him with love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother, now I know all, <i>all</i>. Dmitri Prokofitch has explained and
      told me everything. They are worrying and persecuting you through a stupid
      and contemptible suspicion.... Dmitri Prokofitch told me that there is no
      danger, and that you are wrong in looking upon it with such horror. I
      don&rsquo;t think so, and I fully understand how indignant you must be, and that
      that indignation may have a permanent effect on you. That&rsquo;s what I am
      afraid of. As for your cutting yourself off from us, I don&rsquo;t judge you, I
      don&rsquo;t venture to judge you, and forgive me for having blamed you for it. I
      feel that I too, if I had so great a trouble, should keep away from
      everyone. I shall tell mother nothing <i>of this</i>, but I shall talk
      about you continually and shall tell her from you that you will come very
      soon. Don&rsquo;t worry about her; <i>I</i> will set her mind at rest; but don&rsquo;t
      you try her too much&mdash;come once at least; remember that she is your
      mother. And now I have come simply to say&rdquo; (Dounia began to get up) &ldquo;that
      if you should need me or should need... all my life or anything... call
      me, and I&rsquo;ll come. Good-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned abruptly and went towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dounia!&rdquo; Raskolnikov stopped her and went towards her. &ldquo;That Razumihin,
      Dmitri Prokofitch, is a very good fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia flushed slightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; she asked, waiting a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real love....
      Good-bye, Dounia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia flushed crimson, then suddenly she took alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what does it mean, brother? Are we really parting for ever that
      you... give me such a parting message?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind.... Good-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned away, and walked to the window. She stood a moment, looked at
      him uneasily, and went out troubled.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>say good-bye</i> to her, and
      even <i>to tell</i> her, but he had not dared even to touch her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Afterwards she may shudder when she remembers that I embraced her, and
      will feel that I stole her kiss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And would <i>she</i> stand that test?&rdquo; he went on a few minutes later to
      himself. &ldquo;No, she wouldn&rsquo;t; girls like that can&rsquo;t stand things! They never
      do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he thought of Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a breath of fresh air from the window. The daylight was fading.
      He took up his cap and went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could not, of course, and would not consider how ill he was. But all
      this continual anxiety and agony of mind could not but affect him. And if
      he were not lying in high fever it was perhaps just because this continual
      inner strain helped to keep him on his legs and in possession of his
      faculties. But this artificial excitement could not last long.
    </p>
    <p>
      He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A special form of misery had
      begun to oppress him of late. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute
      about it; but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about it; it
      brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a
      foretaste of an eternity &ldquo;on a square yard of space.&rdquo; Towards evening this
      sensation usually began to weigh on him more heavily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With this idiotic, purely physical weakness, depending on the sunset or
      something, one can&rsquo;t help doing something stupid! You&rsquo;ll go to Dounia, as
      well as to Sonia,&rdquo; he muttered bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He heard his name called. He looked round. Lebeziatnikov rushed up to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only fancy, I&rsquo;ve been to your room looking for you. Only fancy, she&rsquo;s
      carried out her plan, and taken away the children. Sofya Semyonovna and I
      have had a job to find them. She is rapping on a frying-pan and making the
      children dance. The children are crying. They keep stopping at the
      cross-roads and in front of shops; there&rsquo;s a crowd of fools running after
      them. Come along!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Sonia?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked anxiously, hurrying after Lebeziatnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simply frantic. That is, it&rsquo;s not Sofya Semyonovna&rsquo;s frantic, but
      Katerina Ivanovna, though Sofya Semyonova&rsquo;s frantic too. But Katerina
      Ivanovna is absolutely frantic. I tell you she is quite mad. They&rsquo;ll be
      taken to the police. You can fancy what an effect that will have.... They
      are on the canal bank, near the bridge now, not far from Sofya
      Semyonovna&rsquo;s, quite close.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the canal bank near the bridge and not two houses away from the one
      where Sonia lodged, there was a crowd of people, consisting principally of
      gutter children. The hoarse broken voice of Katerina Ivanovna could be
      heard from the bridge, and it certainly was a strange spectacle likely to
      attract a street crowd. Katerina Ivanovna in her old dress with the green
      shawl, wearing a torn straw hat, crushed in a hideous way on one side, was
      really frantic. She was exhausted and breathless. Her wasted consumptive
      face looked more suffering than ever, and indeed out of doors in the
      sunshine a consumptive always looks worse than at home. But her excitement
      did not flag, and every moment her irritation grew more intense. She
      rushed at the children, shouted at them, coaxed them, told them before the
      crowd how to dance and what to sing, began explaining to them why it was
      necessary, and driven to desperation by their not understanding, beat
      them.... Then she would make a rush at the crowd; if she noticed any
      decently dressed person stopping to look, she immediately appealed to him
      to see what these children &ldquo;from a genteel, one may say aristocratic,
      house&rdquo; had been brought to. If she heard laughter or jeering in the crowd,
      she would rush at once at the scoffers and begin squabbling with them.
      Some people laughed, others shook their heads, but everyone felt curious
      at the sight of the madwoman with the frightened children. The frying-pan
      of which Lebeziatnikov had spoken was not there, at least Raskolnikov did
      not see it. But instead of rapping on the pan, Katerina Ivanovna began
      clapping her wasted hands, when she made Lida and Kolya dance and Polenka
      sing. She too joined in the singing, but broke down at the second note
      with a fearful cough, which made her curse in despair and even shed tears.
      What made her most furious was the weeping and terror of Kolya and Lida.
      Some effort had been made to dress the children up as street singers are
      dressed. The boy had on a turban made of something red and white to look
      like a Turk. There had been no costume for Lida; she simply had a red
      knitted cap, or rather a night cap that had belonged to Marmeladov,
      decorated with a broken piece of white ostrich feather, which had been
      Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s grandmother&rsquo;s and had been preserved as a family
      possession. Polenka was in her everyday dress; she looked in timid
      perplexity at her mother, and kept at her side, hiding her tears. She
      dimly realised her mother&rsquo;s condition, and looked uneasily about her. She
      was terribly frightened of the street and the crowd. Sonia followed
      Katerina Ivanovna, weeping and beseeching her to return home, but Katerina
      Ivanovna was not to be persuaded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave off, Sonia, leave off,&rdquo; she shouted, speaking fast, panting and
      coughing. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know what you ask; you are like a child! I&rsquo;ve told
      you before that I am not coming back to that drunken German. Let everyone,
      let all Petersburg see the children begging in the streets, though their
      father was an honourable man who served all his life in truth and
      fidelity, and one may say died in the service.&rdquo; (Katerina Ivanovna had by
      now invented this fantastic story and thoroughly believed it.) &ldquo;Let that
      wretch of a general see it! And you are silly, Sonia: what have we to eat?
      Tell me that. We have worried you enough, I won&rsquo;t go on so! Ah, Rodion
      Romanovitch, is that you?&rdquo; she cried, seeing Raskolnikov and rushing up to
      him. &ldquo;Explain to this silly girl, please, that nothing better could be
      done! Even organ-grinders earn their living, and everyone will see at once
      that we are different, that we are an honourable and bereaved family
      reduced to beggary. And that general will lose his post, you&rsquo;ll see! We
      shall perform under his windows every day, and if the Tsar drives by, I&rsquo;ll
      fall on my knees, put the children before me, show them to him, and say
      &lsquo;Defend us father.&rsquo; He is the father of the fatherless, he is merciful,
      he&rsquo;ll protect us, you&rsquo;ll see, and that wretch of a general.... Lida, <i>tenez
      vous droite</i>! Kolya, you&rsquo;ll dance again. Why are you whimpering?
      Whimpering again! What are you afraid of, stupid? Goodness, what am I to
      do with them, Rodion Romanovitch? If you only knew how stupid they are!
      What&rsquo;s one to do with such children?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she, almost crying herself&mdash;which did not stop her uninterrupted,
      rapid flow of talk&mdash;pointed to the crying children. Raskolnikov tried
      to persuade her to go home, and even said, hoping to work on her vanity,
      that it was unseemly for her to be wandering about the streets like an
      organ-grinder, as she was intending to become the principal of a
      boarding-school.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A boarding-school, ha-ha-ha! A castle in the air,&rdquo; cried Katerina
      Ivanovna, her laugh ending in a cough. &ldquo;No, Rodion Romanovitch, that dream
      is over! All have forsaken us!... And that general.... You know, Rodion
      Romanovitch, I threw an inkpot at him&mdash;it happened to be standing in
      the waiting-room by the paper where you sign your name. I wrote my name,
      threw it at him and ran away. Oh, the scoundrels, the scoundrels! But
      enough of them, now I&rsquo;ll provide for the children myself, I won&rsquo;t bow down
      to anybody! She has had to bear enough for us!&rdquo; she pointed to Sonia.
      &ldquo;Polenka, how much have you got? Show me! What, only two farthings! Oh,
      the mean wretches! They give us nothing, only run after us, putting their
      tongues out. There, what is that blockhead laughing at?&rdquo; (She pointed to a
      man in the crowd.) &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all because Kolya here is so stupid; I have such
      a bother with him. What do you want, Polenka? Tell me in French, <i>parlez-moi
      français</i>. Why, I&rsquo;ve taught you, you know some phrases. Else how are
      you to show that you are of good family, well brought-up children, and not
      at all like other organ-grinders? We aren&rsquo;t going to have a Punch and Judy
      show in the street, but to sing a genteel song.... Ah, yes,... What are we
      to sing? You keep putting me out, but we... you see, we are standing here,
      Rodion Romanovitch, to find something to sing and get money, something
      Kolya can dance to.... For, as you can fancy, our performance is all
      impromptu.... We must talk it over and rehearse it all thoroughly, and
      then we shall go to Nevsky, where there are far more people of good
      society, and we shall be noticed at once. Lida knows &lsquo;My Village&rsquo; only,
      nothing but &lsquo;My Village,&rsquo; and everyone sings that. We must sing something
      far more genteel.... Well, have you thought of anything, Polenka? If only
      you&rsquo;d help your mother! My memory&rsquo;s quite gone, or I should have thought
      of something. We really can&rsquo;t sing &lsquo;An Hussar.&rsquo; Ah, let us sing in French,
      &lsquo;Cinq sous,&rsquo; I have taught it you, I have taught it you. And as it is in
      French, people will see at once that you are children of good family, and
      that will be much more touching.... You might sing &lsquo;Marlborough s&rsquo;en
      va-t-en guerre,&rsquo; for that&rsquo;s quite a child&rsquo;s song and is sung as a lullaby
      in all the aristocratic houses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Marlborough s&rsquo;en va-t-en guerre Ne sait quand reviendra</i>...&rdquo; she
      began singing. &ldquo;But no, better sing &lsquo;Cinq sous.&rsquo; Now, Kolya, your hands on
      your hips, make haste, and you, Lida, keep turning the other way, and
      Polenka and I will sing and clap our hands!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Cinq sous, cinq sous Pour monter notre menage</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (Cough-cough-cough!) &ldquo;Set your dress straight, Polenka, it&rsquo;s slipped down
      on your shoulders,&rdquo; she observed, panting from coughing. &ldquo;Now it&rsquo;s
      particularly necessary to behave nicely and genteelly, that all may see
      that you are well-born children. I said at the time that the bodice should
      be cut longer, and made of two widths. It was your fault, Sonia, with your
      advice to make it shorter, and now you see the child is quite deformed by
      it.... Why, you&rsquo;re all crying again! What&rsquo;s the matter, stupids? Come,
      Kolya, begin. Make haste, make haste! Oh, what an unbearable child!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cinq sous, cinq sous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A policeman again! What do you want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A policeman was indeed forcing his way through the crowd. But at that
      moment a gentleman in civilian uniform and an overcoat&mdash;a
      solid-looking official of about fifty with a decoration on his neck (which
      delighted Katerina Ivanovna and had its effect on the policeman)&mdash;approached
      and without a word handed her a green three-rouble note. His face wore a
      look of genuine sympathy. Katerina Ivanovna took it and gave him a polite,
      even ceremonious, bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank you, honoured sir,&rdquo; she began loftily. &ldquo;The causes that have
      induced us (take the money, Polenka: you see there are generous and
      honourable people who are ready to help a poor gentlewoman in distress).
      You see, honoured sir, these orphans of good family&mdash;I might even say
      of aristocratic connections&mdash;and that wretch of a general sat eating
      grouse... and stamped at my disturbing him. &lsquo;Your excellency,&rsquo; I said,
      &lsquo;protect the orphans, for you knew my late husband, Semyon Zaharovitch,
      and on the very day of his death the basest of scoundrels slandered his
      only daughter.&rsquo;... That policeman again! Protect me,&rdquo; she cried to the
      official. &ldquo;Why is that policeman edging up to me? We have only just run
      away from one of them. What do you want, fool?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s forbidden in the streets. You mustn&rsquo;t make a disturbance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s you&rsquo;re making a disturbance. It&rsquo;s just the same as if I were
      grinding an organ. What business is it of yours?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have to get a licence for an organ, and you haven&rsquo;t got one, and in
      that way you collect a crowd. Where do you lodge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, a license?&rdquo; wailed Katerina Ivanovna. &ldquo;I buried my husband to-day.
      What need of a license?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Calm yourself, madam, calm yourself,&rdquo; began the official. &ldquo;Come along; I
      will escort you.... This is no place for you in the crowd. You are ill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Honoured sir, honoured sir, you don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; screamed Katerina Ivanovna.
      &ldquo;We are going to the Nevsky.... Sonia, Sonia! Where is she? She is crying
      too! What&rsquo;s the matter with you all? Kolya, Lida, where are you going?&rdquo;
       she cried suddenly in alarm. &ldquo;Oh, silly children! Kolya, Lida, where are
      they off to?...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kolya and Lida, scared out of their wits by the crowd, and their mother&rsquo;s
      mad pranks, suddenly seized each other by the hand, and ran off at the
      sight of the policeman who wanted to take them away somewhere. Weeping and
      wailing, poor Katerina Ivanovna ran after them. She was a piteous and
      unseemly spectacle, as she ran, weeping and panting for breath. Sonia and
      Polenka rushed after them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bring them back, bring them back, Sonia! Oh stupid, ungrateful
      children!... Polenka! catch them.... It&rsquo;s for your sakes I...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stumbled as she ran and fell down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s cut herself, she&rsquo;s bleeding! Oh, dear!&rdquo; cried Sonia, bending over
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      All ran up and crowded around. Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov were the
      first at her side, the official too hastened up, and behind him the
      policeman who muttered, &ldquo;Bother!&rdquo; with a gesture of impatience, feeling
      that the job was going to be a troublesome one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pass on! Pass on!&rdquo; he said to the crowd that pressed forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s dying,&rdquo; someone shouted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s gone out of her mind,&rdquo; said another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord have mercy upon us,&rdquo; said a woman, crossing herself. &ldquo;Have they
      caught the little girl and the boy? They&rsquo;re being brought back, the elder
      one&rsquo;s got them.... Ah, the naughty imps!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When they examined Katerina Ivanovna carefully, they saw that she had not
      cut herself against a stone, as Sonia thought, but that the blood that
      stained the pavement red was from her chest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve seen that before,&rdquo; muttered the official to Raskolnikov and
      Lebeziatnikov; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s consumption; the blood flows and chokes the
      patient. I saw the same thing with a relative of my own not long ago...
      nearly a pint of blood, all in a minute.... What&rsquo;s to be done though? She
      is dying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This way, this way, to my room!&rdquo; Sonia implored. &ldquo;I live here!... See,
      that house, the second from here.... Come to me, make haste,&rdquo; she turned
      from one to the other. &ldquo;Send for the doctor! Oh, dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thanks to the official&rsquo;s efforts, this plan was adopted, the policeman
      even helping to carry Katerina Ivanovna. She was carried to Sonia&rsquo;s room,
      almost unconscious, and laid on the bed. The blood was still flowing, but
      she seemed to be coming to herself. Raskolnikov, Lebeziatnikov, and the
      official accompanied Sonia into the room and were followed by the
      policeman, who first drove back the crowd which followed to the very door.
      Polenka came in holding Kolya and Lida, who were trembling and weeping.
      Several persons came in too from the Kapernaumovs&rsquo; room; the landlord, a
      lame one-eyed man of strange appearance with whiskers and hair that stood
      up like a brush, his wife, a woman with an everlastingly scared
      expression, and several open-mouthed children with wonder-struck faces.
      Among these, Svidrigaïlov suddenly made his appearance. Raskolnikov looked
      at him with surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not
      having noticed him in the crowd. A doctor and priest wore spoken of. The
      official whispered to Raskolnikov that he thought it was too late now for
      the doctor, but he ordered him to be sent for. Kapernaumov ran himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna had regained her breath. The bleeding ceased
      for a time. She looked with sick but intent and penetrating eyes at Sonia,
      who stood pale and trembling, wiping the sweat from her brow with a
      handkerchief. At last she asked to be raised. They sat her up on the bed,
      supporting her on both sides.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are the children?&rdquo; she said in a faint voice. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve brought them,
      Polenka? Oh the sillies! Why did you run away.... Och!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She moved her eyes,
      looking about her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s how you live, Sonia! Never once have I been in your room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at her with a face of suffering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have been your ruin, Sonia. Polenka, Lida, Kolya, come here! Well,
      here they are, Sonia, take them all! I hand them over to you, I&rsquo;ve had
      enough! The ball is over.&rdquo; (Cough!) &ldquo;Lay me down, let me die in peace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They laid her back on the pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, the priest? I don&rsquo;t want him. You haven&rsquo;t got a rouble to spare. I
      have no sins. God must forgive me without that. He knows how I have
      suffered.... And if He won&rsquo;t forgive me, I don&rsquo;t care!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said to him, your excellency,&rdquo; she ejaculated, gasping after each word.
      &ldquo;That Amalia Ludwigovna, ah! Lida, Kolya, hands on your hips, make haste!
      <i>Glissez, glissez! pas de basque!</i> Tap with your heels, be a graceful
      child!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Du hast Diamanten und Perlen</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What next? That&rsquo;s the thing to sing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Du hast die schönsten Augen Mädchen, was willst du mehr?</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What an idea! <i>Was willst du mehr?</i> What things the fool invents!
      Ah, yes!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the heat of midday in the vale of Dagestan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, how I loved it! I loved that song to distraction, Polenka! Your
      father, you know, used to sing it when we were engaged.... Oh those days!
      Oh that&rsquo;s the thing for us to sing! How does it go? I&rsquo;ve forgotten. Remind
      me! How was it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the heat of midday!... in the vale!... of Dagestan!... With lead in my
      breast!...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your excellency!&rdquo; she wailed suddenly with a heart-rending scream and a
      flood of tears, &ldquo;protect the orphans! You have been their father&rsquo;s
      guest... one may say aristocratic....&rdquo; She started, regaining
      consciousness, and gazed at all with a sort of terror, but at once
      recognised Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sonia, Sonia!&rdquo; she articulated softly and caressingly, as though
      surprised to find her there. &ldquo;Sonia darling, are you here, too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They lifted her up again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough! It&rsquo;s over! Farewell, poor thing! I am done for! I am broken!&rdquo; she
      cried with vindictive despair, and her head fell heavily back on the
      pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sank into unconsciousness again, but this time it did not last long.
      Her pale, yellow, wasted face dropped back, her mouth fell open, her leg
      moved convulsively, she gave a deep, deep sigh and died.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia fell upon her, flung her arms about her, and remained motionless
      with her head pressed to the dead woman&rsquo;s wasted bosom. Polenka threw
      herself at her mother&rsquo;s feet, kissing them and weeping violently. Though
      Kolya and Lida did not understand what had happened, they had a feeling
      that it was something terrible; they put their hands on each other&rsquo;s
      little shoulders, stared straight at one another and both at once opened
      their mouths and began screaming. They were both still in their fancy
      dress; one in a turban, the other in the cap with the ostrich feather.
    </p>
    <p>
      And how did &ldquo;the certificate of merit&rdquo; come to be on the bed beside
      Katerina Ivanovna? It lay there by the pillow; Raskolnikov saw it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked away to the window. Lebeziatnikov skipped up to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is dead,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodion Romanovitch, I must have two words with you,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov,
      coming up to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lebeziatnikov at once made room for him and delicately withdrew.
      Svidrigaïlov drew Raskolnikov further away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will undertake all the arrangements, the funeral and that. You know
      it&rsquo;s a question of money and, as I told you, I have plenty to spare. I
      will put those two little ones and Polenka into some good orphan asylum,
      and I will settle fifteen hundred roubles to be paid to each on coming of
      age, so that Sofya Semyonovna need have no anxiety about them. And I will
      pull her out of the mud too, for she is a good girl, isn&rsquo;t she? So tell
      Avdotya Romanovna that that is how I am spending her ten thousand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is your motive for such benevolence?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you sceptical person!&rdquo; laughed Svidrigaïlov. &ldquo;I told you I had no
      need of that money. Won&rsquo;t you admit that it&rsquo;s simply done from humanity?
      She wasn&rsquo;t &lsquo;a louse,&rsquo; you know&rdquo; (he pointed to the corner where the dead
      woman lay), &ldquo;was she, like some old pawnbroker woman? Come, you&rsquo;ll agree,
      is Luzhin to go on living, and doing wicked things or is she to die? And
      if I didn&rsquo;t help them, Polenka would go the same way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know?&rdquo; he whispered, hardly able to breathe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I lodge here at Madame Resslich&rsquo;s, the other side of the wall. Here
      is Kapernaumov, and there lives Madame Resslich, an old and devoted friend
      of mine. I am a neighbour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; continued Svidrigaïlov, shaking with laughter. &ldquo;I assure you on my
      honour, dear Rodion Romanovitch, that you have interested me enormously. I
      told you we should become friends, I foretold it. Well, here we have. And
      you will see what an accommodating person I am. You&rsquo;ll see that you can
      get on with me!&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_PART6" id="link2H_PART6"></a>
      PART VI
    </h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"></a>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
    <p>
      A strange period began for Raskolnikov: it was as though a fog had fallen
      upon him and wrapped him in a dreary solitude from which there was no
      escape. Recalling that period long after, he believed that his mind had
      been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, till
      the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had been mistaken about
      many things at that time, for instance as to the date of certain events.
      Anyway, when he tried later on to piece his recollections together, he
      learnt a great deal about himself from what other people told him. He had
      mixed up incidents and had explained events as due to circumstances which
      existed only in his imagination. At times he was a prey to agonies of
      morbid uneasiness, amounting sometimes to panic. But he remembered, too,
      moments, hours, perhaps whole days, of complete apathy, which came upon
      him as a reaction from his previous terror and might be compared with the
      abnormal insensibility, sometimes seen in the dying. He seemed to be
      trying in that latter stage to escape from a full and clear understanding
      of his position. Certain essential facts which required immediate
      consideration were particularly irksome to him. How glad he would have
      been to be free from some cares, the neglect of which would have
      threatened him with complete, inevitable ruin.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was particularly worried about Svidrigaïlov, he might be said to be
      permanently thinking of Svidrigaïlov. From the time of Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s too
      menacing and unmistakable words in Sonia&rsquo;s room at the moment of Katerina
      Ivanovna&rsquo;s death, the normal working of his mind seemed to break down. But
      although this new fact caused him extreme uneasiness, Raskolnikov was in
      no hurry for an explanation of it. At times, finding himself in a solitary
      and remote part of the town, in some wretched eating-house, sitting alone
      lost in thought, hardly knowing how he had come there, he suddenly thought
      of Svidrigaïlov. He recognised suddenly, clearly, and with dismay that he
      ought at once to come to an understanding with that man and to make what
      terms he could. Walking outside the city gates one day, he positively
      fancied that they had fixed a meeting there, that he was waiting for
      Svidrigaïlov. Another time he woke up before daybreak lying on the ground
      under some bushes and could not at first understand how he had come there.
    </p>
    <p>
      But during the two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s death, he had
      two or three times met Svidrigaïlov at Sonia&rsquo;s lodging, where he had gone
      aimlessly for a moment. They exchanged a few words and made no reference
      to the vital subject, as though they were tacitly agreed not to speak of
      it for a time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s body was still lying in the coffin, Svidrigaïlov was
      busy making arrangements for the funeral. Sonia too was very busy. At
      their last meeting Svidrigaïlov informed Raskolnikov that he had made an
      arrangement, and a very satisfactory one, for Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s
      children; that he had, through certain connections, succeeded in getting
      hold of certain personages by whose help the three orphans could be at
      once placed in very suitable institutions; that the money he had settled
      on them had been of great assistance, as it is much easier to place
      orphans with some property than destitute ones. He said something too
      about Sonia and promised to come himself in a day or two to see
      Raskolnikov, mentioning that &ldquo;he would like to consult with him, that
      there were things they must talk over....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs. Svidrigaïlov
      looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly, after a brief pause, dropping
      his voice, asked: &ldquo;But how is it, Rodion Romanovitch; you don&rsquo;t seem
      yourself? You look and you listen, but you don&rsquo;t seem to understand. Cheer
      up! We&rsquo;ll talk things over; I am only sorry, I&rsquo;ve so much to do of my own
      business and other people&rsquo;s. Ah, Rodion Romanovitch,&rdquo; he added suddenly,
      &ldquo;what all men need is fresh air, fresh air... more than anything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He moved to one side to make way for the priest and server, who were
      coming up the stairs. They had come for the requiem service. By
      Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s orders it was sung twice a day punctually. Svidrigaïlov
      went his way. Raskolnikov stood still a moment, thought, and followed the
      priest into Sonia&rsquo;s room. He stood at the door. They began quietly, slowly
      and mournfully singing the service. From his childhood the thought of
      death and the presence of death had something oppressive and mysteriously
      awful; and it was long since he had heard the requiem service. And there
      was something else here as well, too awful and disturbing. He looked at
      the children: they were all kneeling by the coffin; Polenka was weeping.
      Behind them Sonia prayed, softly and, as it were, timidly weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These last two days she hasn&rsquo;t said a word to me, she hasn&rsquo;t glanced at
      me,&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The sunlight was bright in the room;
      the incense rose in clouds; the priest read, &ldquo;Give rest, oh Lord....&rdquo;
       Raskolnikov stayed all through the service. As he blessed them and took
      his leave, the priest looked round strangely. After the service,
      Raskolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his hands and let her head
      sink on his shoulder. This slight friendly gesture bewildered Raskolnikov.
      It seemed strange to him that there was no trace of repugnance, no trace
      of disgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the furthest limit of
      self-abnegation, at least so he interpreted it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt
      very miserable. If it had been possible to escape to some solitude, he
      would have thought himself lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life
      there. But although he had almost always been by himself of late, he had
      never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out of the town on to
      the high road, once he had even reached a little wood, but the lonelier
      the place was, the more he seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near
      him. It did not frighten him, but greatly annoyed him, so that he made
      haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to enter
      restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thoroughfares. There he felt
      easier and even more solitary. One day at dusk he sat for an hour
      listening to songs in a tavern and he remembered that he positively
      enjoyed it. But at last he had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again, as
      though his conscience smote him. &ldquo;Here I sit listening to singing, is that
      what I ought to be doing?&rdquo; he thought. Yet he felt at once that that was
      not the only cause of his uneasiness; there was something requiring
      immediate decision, but it was something he could not clearly understand
      or put into words. It was a hopeless tangle. &ldquo;No, better the struggle
      again! Better Porfiry again... or Svidrigaïlov.... Better some challenge
      again... some attack. Yes, yes!&rdquo; he thought. He went out of the tavern and
      rushed away almost at a run. The thought of Dounia and his mother suddenly
      reduced him almost to a panic. That night he woke up before morning among
      some bushes in Krestovsky Island, trembling all over with fever; he walked
      home, and it was early morning when he arrived. After some hours&rsquo; sleep
      the fever left him, but he woke up late, two o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s funeral had been fixed for that
      day, and was glad that he was not present at it. Nastasya brought him some
      food; he ate and drank with appetite, almost with greediness. His head was
      fresher and he was calmer than he had been for the last three days. He
      even felt a passing wonder at his previous attacks of panic.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door opened and Razumihin came in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, he&rsquo;s eating, then he&rsquo;s not ill,&rdquo; said Razumihin. He took a chair and
      sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with evident
      annoyance, but without hurry or raising his voice. He looked as though he
      had some special fixed determination.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; he began resolutely. &ldquo;As far as I am concerned, you may all go
      to hell, but from what I see, it&rsquo;s clear to me that I can&rsquo;t make head or
      tail of it; please don&rsquo;t think I&rsquo;ve come to ask you questions. I don&rsquo;t
      want to know, hang it! If you begin telling me your secrets, I dare say I
      shouldn&rsquo;t stay to listen, I should go away cursing. I have only come to
      find out once for all whether it&rsquo;s a fact that you are mad? There is a
      conviction in the air that you are mad or very nearly so. I admit I&rsquo;ve
      been disposed to that opinion myself, judging from your stupid, repulsive
      and quite inexplicable actions, and from your recent behavior to your
      mother and sister. Only a monster or a madman could treat them as you
      have; so you must be mad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When did you see them last?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just now. Haven&rsquo;t you seen them since then? What have you been doing with
      yourself? Tell me, please. I&rsquo;ve been to you three times already. Your
      mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She had made up her mind to
      come to you; Avdotya Romanovna tried to prevent her; she wouldn&rsquo;t hear a
      word. &lsquo;If he is ill, if his mind is giving way, who can look after him
      like his mother?&rsquo; she said. We all came here together, we couldn&rsquo;t let her
      come alone all the way. We kept begging her to be calm. We came in, you
      weren&rsquo;t here; she sat down, and stayed ten minutes, while we stood waiting
      in silence. She got up and said: &lsquo;If he&rsquo;s gone out, that is, if he is
      well, and has forgotten his mother, it&rsquo;s humiliating and unseemly for his
      mother to stand at his door begging for kindness.&rsquo; She returned home and
      took to her bed; now she is in a fever. &lsquo;I see,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;that he has
      time for <i>his girl</i>.&rsquo; She means by <i>your girl</i> Sofya Semyonovna,
      your betrothed or your mistress, I don&rsquo;t know. I went at once to Sofya
      Semyonovna&rsquo;s, for I wanted to know what was going on. I looked round, I
      saw the coffin, the children crying, and Sofya Semyonovna trying them on
      mourning dresses. No sign of you. I apologised, came away, and reported to
      Avdotya Romanovna. So that&rsquo;s all nonsense and you haven&rsquo;t got a girl; the
      most likely thing is that you are mad. But here you sit, guzzling boiled
      beef as though you&rsquo;d not had a bite for three days. Though as far as that
      goes, madmen eat too, but though you have not said a word to me yet... you
      are not mad! That I&rsquo;d swear! Above all, you are not mad! So you may go to
      hell, all of you, for there&rsquo;s some mystery, some secret about it, and I
      don&rsquo;t intend to worry my brains over your secrets. So I&rsquo;ve simply come to
      swear at you,&rdquo; he finished, getting up, &ldquo;to relieve my mind. And I know
      what to do now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean to do now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What business is it of yours what I mean to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are going in for a drinking bout.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How... how did you know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it&rsquo;s pretty plain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Razumihin paused for a minute.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You always have been a very rational person and you&rsquo;ve never been mad,
      never,&rdquo; he observed suddenly with warmth. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re right: I shall drink.
      Good-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he moved to go out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was talking with my sister&mdash;the day before yesterday, I think it
      was&mdash;about you, Razumihin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About me! But... where can you have seen her the day before yesterday?&rdquo;
       Razumihin stopped short and even turned a little pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      One could see that his heart was throbbing slowly and violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She came here by herself, sat there and talked to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She did!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say to her... I mean, about me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told her you were a very good, honest, and industrious man. I didn&rsquo;t
      tell her you love her, because she knows that herself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She knows that herself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it&rsquo;s pretty plain. Wherever I might go, whatever happened to me,
      you would remain to look after them. I, so to speak, give them into your
      keeping, Razumihin. I say this because I know quite well how you love her,
      and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I know that she too may love
      you and perhaps does love you already. Now decide for yourself, as you
      know best, whether you need go in for a drinking bout or not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodya! You see... well.... Ach, damn it! But where do you mean to go? Of
      course, if it&rsquo;s all a secret, never mind.... But I... I shall find out the
      secret... and I am sure that it must be some ridiculous nonsense and that
      you&rsquo;ve made it all up. Anyway you are a capital fellow, a capital
      fellow!...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was just what I wanted to add, only you interrupted, that that was a
      very good decision of yours not to find out these secrets. Leave it to
      time, don&rsquo;t worry about it. You&rsquo;ll know it all in time when it must be.
      Yesterday a man said to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh air,
      fresh air. I mean to go to him directly to find out what he meant by
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Razumihin stood lost in thought and excitement, making a silent
      conclusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a political conspirator! He must be. And he&rsquo;s on the eve of some
      desperate step, that&rsquo;s certain. It can only be that! And... and Dounia
      knows,&rdquo; he thought suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you,&rdquo; he said, weighing each syllable,
      &ldquo;and you&rsquo;re going to see a man who says we need more air, and so of course
      that letter... that too must have something to do with it,&rdquo; he concluded
      to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What letter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She got a letter to-day. It upset her very much&mdash;very much indeed.
      Too much so. I began speaking of you, she begged me not to. Then... then
      she said that perhaps we should very soon have to part... then she began
      warmly thanking me for something; then she went to her room and locked
      herself in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She got a letter?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and you didn&rsquo;t know? hm...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were both silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, Rodion. There was a time, brother, when I.... Never mind,
      good-bye. You see, there was a time.... Well, good-bye! I must be off too.
      I am not going to drink. There&rsquo;s no need now.... That&rsquo;s all stuff!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hurried out; but when he had almost closed the door behind him, he
      suddenly opened it again, and said, looking away:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, by the way, do you remember that murder, you know Porfiry&rsquo;s, that old
      woman? Do you know the murderer has been found, he has confessed and given
      the proofs. It&rsquo;s one of those very workmen, the painter, only fancy! Do
      you remember I defended them here? Would you believe it, all that scene of
      fighting and laughing with his companions on the stairs while the porter
      and the two witnesses were going up, he got up on purpose to disarm
      suspicion. The cunning, the presence of mind of the young dog! One can
      hardly credit it; but it&rsquo;s his own explanation, he has confessed it all.
      And what a fool I was about it! Well, he&rsquo;s simply a genius of hypocrisy
      and resourcefulness in disarming the suspicions of the lawyers&mdash;so
      there&rsquo;s nothing much to wonder at, I suppose! Of course people like that
      are always possible. And the fact that he couldn&rsquo;t keep up the character,
      but confessed, makes him easier to believe in. But what a fool I was! I
      was frantic on their side!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, please, from whom did you hear that, and why does it interest
      you so?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked with unmistakable agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What next? You ask me why it interests me!... Well, I heard it from
      Porfiry, among others... It was from him I heard almost all about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From Porfiry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From Porfiry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What... what did he say?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked in dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He gave me a capital explanation of it. Psychologically, after his
      fashion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He explained it? Explained it himself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes; good-bye. I&rsquo;ll tell you all about it another time, but now I&rsquo;m
      busy. There was a time when I fancied... But no matter, another time!...
      What need is there for me to drink now? You have made me drunk without
      wine. I am drunk, Rodya! Good-bye, I&rsquo;m going. I&rsquo;ll come again very soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a political conspirator, there&rsquo;s not a doubt about it,&rdquo; Razumihin
      decided, as he slowly descended the stairs. &ldquo;And he&rsquo;s drawn his sister in;
      that&rsquo;s quite, quite in keeping with Avdotya Romanovna&rsquo;s character. There
      are interviews between them!... She hinted at it too... So many of her
      words.... and hints... bear that meaning! And how else can all this tangle
      be explained? Hm! And I was almost thinking... Good heavens, what I
      thought! Yes, I took leave of my senses and I wronged him! It was his
      doing, under the lamp in the corridor that day. Pfoo! What a crude, nasty,
      vile idea on my part! Nikolay is a brick, for confessing.... And how clear
      it all is now! His illness then, all his strange actions... before this,
      in the university, how morose he used to be, how gloomy.... But what&rsquo;s the
      meaning now of that letter? There&rsquo;s something in that, too, perhaps. Whom
      was it from? I suspect...! No, I must find out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He thought of Dounia, realising all he had heard and his heart throbbed,
      and he suddenly broke into a run.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a means of escape had come! It had been too stifling, too cramping,
      the burden had been too agonising. A lethargy had come upon him at times.
      From the moment of the scene with Nikolay at Porfiry&rsquo;s he had been
      suffocating, penned in without hope of escape. After Nikolay&rsquo;s confession,
      on that very day had come the scene with Sonia; his behaviour and his last
      words had been utterly unlike anything he could have imagined beforehand;
      he had grown feebler, instantly and fundamentally! And he had agreed at
      the time with Sonia, he had agreed in his heart he could not go on living
      alone with such a thing on his mind!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Svidrigaïlov was a riddle... He worried him, that was true, but
      somehow not on the same point. He might still have a struggle to come with
      Svidrigaïlov. Svidrigaïlov, too, might be a means of escape; but Porfiry
      was a different matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so Porfiry himself had explained it to Razumihin, had explained it <i>psychologically</i>.
      He had begun bringing in his damned psychology again! Porfiry? But to
      think that Porfiry should for one moment believe that Nikolay was guilty,
      after what had passed between them before Nikolay&rsquo;s appearance, after that
      tête-à-tête interview, which could have only <i>one</i> explanation?
      (During those days Raskolnikov had often recalled passages in that scene
      with Porfiry; he could not bear to let his mind rest on it.) Such words,
      such gestures had passed between them, they had exchanged such glances,
      things had been said in such a tone and had reached such a pass, that
      Nikolay, whom Porfiry had seen through at the first word, at the first
      gesture, could not have shaken his conviction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And to think that even Razumihin had begun to suspect! The scene in the
      corridor under the lamp had produced its effect then. He had rushed to
      Porfiry.... But what had induced the latter to receive him like that? What
      had been his object in putting Razumihin off with Nikolay? He must have
      some plan; there was some design, but what was it? It was true that a long
      time had passed since that morning&mdash;too long a time&mdash;and no
      sight nor sound of Porfiry. Well, that was a bad sign....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the room, still pondering. It was
      the first time for a long while that he had felt clear in his mind, at
      least. &ldquo;I must settle Svidrigaïlov,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;and as soon as possible;
      he, too, seems to be waiting for me to come to him of my own accord.&rdquo; And
      at that moment there was such a rush of hate in his weary heart that he
      might have killed either of those two&mdash;Porfiry or Svidrigaïlov. At
      least he felt that he would be capable of doing it later, if not now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall see, we shall see,&rdquo; he repeated to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      But no sooner had he opened the door than he stumbled upon Porfiry himself
      in the passage. He was coming in to see him. Raskolnikov was dumbfounded
      for a minute, but only for one minute. Strange to say, he was not very
      much astonished at seeing Porfiry and scarcely afraid of him. He was
      simply startled, but was quickly, instantly, on his guard. &ldquo;Perhaps this
      will mean the end? But how could Porfiry have approached so quietly, like
      a cat, so that he had heard nothing? Could he have been listening at the
      door?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t expect a visitor, Rodion Romanovitch,&rdquo; Porfiry explained,
      laughing. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been meaning to look in a long time; I was passing by and
      thought why not go in for five minutes. Are you going out? I won&rsquo;t keep
      you long. Just let me have one cigarette.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sit down, Porfiry Petrovitch, sit down.&rdquo; Raskolnikov gave his visitor a
      seat with so pleased and friendly an expression that he would have
      marvelled at himself, if he could have seen it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man will
      sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet
      when the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and looked at him
      without flinching. Porfiry screwed up his eyes and began lighting a
      cigarette.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak, speak,&rdquo; seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov&rsquo;s heart.
      &ldquo;Come, why don&rsquo;t you speak?&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"></a>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah these cigarettes!&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch ejaculated at last, having
      lighted one. &ldquo;They are pernicious, positively pernicious, and yet I can&rsquo;t
      give them up! I cough, I begin to have tickling in my throat and a
      difficulty in breathing. You know I am a coward, I went lately to Dr. B&mdash;&mdash;n;
      he always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He positively
      laughed looking at me; he sounded me: &lsquo;Tobacco&rsquo;s bad for you,&rsquo; he said,
      &lsquo;your lungs are affected.&rsquo; But how am I to give it up? What is there to
      take its place? I don&rsquo;t drink, that&rsquo;s the mischief, he-he-he, that I
      don&rsquo;t. Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovitch, everything is
      relative!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, he&rsquo;s playing his professional tricks again,&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought
      with disgust. All the circumstances of their last interview suddenly came
      back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that had come upon him
      then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came to see you the day before yesterday, in the evening; you didn&rsquo;t
      know?&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch went on, looking round the room. &ldquo;I came into
      this very room. I was passing by, just as I did to-day, and I thought I&rsquo;d
      return your call. I walked in as your door was wide open, I looked round,
      waited and went out without leaving my name with your servant. Don&rsquo;t you
      lock your door?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s face grew more and more gloomy. Porfiry seemed to guess his
      state of mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to have it out with you, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow! I
      owe you an explanation and must give it to you,&rdquo; he continued with a
      slight smile, just patting Raskolnikov&rsquo;s knee.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rodion Romanovitch.
      Our first interview, too, was a strange one; but then... and one thing
      after another! This is the point: I have perhaps acted unfairly to you; I
      feel it. Do you remember how we parted? Your nerves were unhinged and your
      knees were shaking and so were mine. And, you know, our behaviour was
      unseemly, even ungentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, above all, in any
      case, gentlemen; that must be understood. Do you remember what we came
      to?... and it was quite indecorous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is he up to, what does he take me for?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked himself in
      amazement, raising his head and looking with open eyes on Porfiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve decided openness is better between us,&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch went on,
      turning his head away and dropping his eyes, as though unwilling to
      disconcert his former victim and as though disdaining his former wiles.
      &ldquo;Yes, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Nikolay
      put a stop to it, or I don&rsquo;t know what we might not have come to. That
      damned workman was sitting at the time in the next room&mdash;can you
      realise that? You know that, of course; and I am aware that he came to you
      afterwards. But what you supposed then was not true: I had not sent for
      anyone, I had made no kind of arrangements. You ask why I hadn&rsquo;t? What
      shall I say to you? it had all come upon me so suddenly. I had scarcely
      sent for the porters (you noticed them as you went out, I dare say). An
      idea flashed upon me; I was firmly convinced at the time, you see, Rodion
      Romanovitch. Come, I thought&mdash;even if I let one thing slip for a
      time, I shall get hold of something else&mdash;I shan&rsquo;t lose what I want,
      anyway. You are nervously irritable, Rodion Romanovitch, by temperament;
      it&rsquo;s out of proportion with other qualities of your heart and character,
      which I flatter myself I have to some extent divined. Of course I did
      reflect even then that it does not always happen that a man gets up and
      blurts out his whole story. It does happen sometimes, if you make a man
      lose all patience, though even then it&rsquo;s rare. I was capable of realising
      that. If I only had a fact, I thought, the least little fact to go upon,
      something I could lay hold of, something tangible, not merely
      psychological. For if a man is guilty, you must be able to get something
      substantial out of him; one may reckon upon most surprising results
      indeed. I was reckoning on your temperament, Rodion Romanovitch, on your
      temperament above all things! I had great hopes of you at that time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what are you driving at now?&rdquo; Raskolnikov muttered at last, asking
      the question without thinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is he talking about?&rdquo; he wondered distractedly, &ldquo;does he really take
      me to be innocent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What am I driving at? I&rsquo;ve come to explain myself, I consider it my duty,
      so to speak. I want to make clear to you how the whole business, the whole
      misunderstanding arose. I&rsquo;ve caused you a great deal of suffering, Rodion
      Romanovitch. I am not a monster. I understand what it must mean for a man
      who has been unfortunate, but who is proud, imperious and above all,
      impatient, to have to bear such treatment! I regard you in any case as a
      man of noble character and not without elements of magnanimity, though I
      don&rsquo;t agree with all your convictions. I wanted to tell you this first,
      frankly and quite sincerely, for above all I don&rsquo;t want to deceive you.
      When I made your acquaintance, I felt attracted by you. Perhaps you will
      laugh at my saying so. You have a right to. I know you disliked me from
      the first and indeed you&rsquo;ve no reason to like me. You may think what you
      like, but I desire now to do all I can to efface that impression and to
      show that I am a man of heart and conscience. I speak sincerely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail,&rdquo; Porfiry
      Petrovitch went on. &ldquo;Indeed, I could scarcely attempt it. To begin with
      there were rumours. Through whom, how, and when those rumours came to
      me... and how they affected you, I need not go into. My suspicions were
      aroused by a complete accident, which might just as easily not have
      happened. What was it? Hm! I believe there is no need to go into that
      either. Those rumours and that accident led to one idea in my mind. I
      admit it openly&mdash;for one may as well make a clean breast of it&mdash;I
      was the first to pitch on you. The old woman&rsquo;s notes on the pledges and
      the rest of it&mdash;that all came to nothing. Yours was one of a hundred.
      I happened, too, to hear of the scene at the office, from a man who
      described it capitally, unconsciously reproducing the scene with great
      vividness. It was just one thing after another, Rodion Romanovitch, my
      dear fellow! How could I avoid being brought to certain ideas? From a
      hundred rabbits you can&rsquo;t make a horse, a hundred suspicions don&rsquo;t make a
      proof, as the English proverb says, but that&rsquo;s only from the rational
      point of view&mdash;you can&rsquo;t help being partial, for after all a lawyer
      is only human. I thought, too, of your article in that journal, do you
      remember, on your first visit we talked of it? I jeered at you at the
      time, but that was only to lead you on. I repeat, Rodion Romanovitch, you
      are ill and impatient. That you were bold, headstrong, in earnest and...
      had felt a great deal I recognised long before. I, too, have felt the
      same, so that your article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on
      sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and suppressed
      enthusiasm. And that proud suppressed enthusiasm in young people is
      dangerous! I jeered at you then, but let me tell you that, as a literary
      amateur, I am awfully fond of such first essays, full of the heat of
      youth. There is a mistiness and a chord vibrating in the mist. Your
      article is absurd and fantastic, but there&rsquo;s a transparent sincerity, a
      youthful incorruptible pride and the daring of despair in it. It&rsquo;s a
      gloomy article, but that&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s fine in it. I read your article and put
      it aside, thinking as I did so &lsquo;that man won&rsquo;t go the common way.&rsquo; Well, I
      ask you, after that as a preliminary, how could I help being carried away
      by what followed? Oh, dear, I am not saying anything, I am not making any
      statement now. I simply noted it at the time. What is there in it? I
      reflected. There&rsquo;s nothing in it, that is really nothing and perhaps
      absolutely nothing. And it&rsquo;s not at all the thing for the prosecutor to
      let himself be carried away by notions: here I have Nikolay on my hands
      with actual evidence against him&mdash;you may think what you like of it,
      but it&rsquo;s evidence. He brings in his psychology, too; one has to consider
      him, too, for it&rsquo;s a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining this to
      you? That you may understand, and not blame my malicious behaviour on that
      occasion. It was not malicious, I assure you, he-he! Do you suppose I
      didn&rsquo;t come to search your room at the time? I did, I did, he-he! I was
      here when you were lying ill in bed, not officially, not in my own person,
      but I was here. Your room was searched to the last thread at the first
      suspicion; but <i>umsonst</i>! I thought to myself, now that man will
      come, will come of himself and quickly, too; if he&rsquo;s guilty, he&rsquo;s sure to
      come. Another man wouldn&rsquo;t, but he will. And you remember how Mr.
      Razumihin began discussing the subject with you? We arranged that to
      excite you, so we purposely spread rumours, that he might discuss the case
      with you, and Razumihin is not a man to restrain his indignation. Mr.
      Zametov was tremendously struck by your anger and your open daring. Think
      of blurting out in a restaurant &lsquo;I killed her.&rsquo; It was too daring, too
      reckless. I thought so myself, if he is guilty he will be a formidable
      opponent. That was what I thought at the time. I was expecting you. But
      you simply bowled Zametov over and... well, you see, it all lies in this&mdash;that
      this damnable psychology can be taken two ways! Well, I kept expecting
      you, and so it was, you came! My heart was fairly throbbing. Ach!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in, do you
      remember? I saw it all plain as daylight, but if I hadn&rsquo;t expected you so
      specially, I should not have noticed anything in your laughter. You see
      what influence a mood has! Mr. Razumihin then&mdash;ah, that stone, that
      stone under which the things were hidden! I seem to see it somewhere in a
      kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden, you told Zametov and
      afterwards you repeated that in my office? And when we began picking your
      article to pieces, how you explained it! One could take every word of
      yours in two senses, as though there were another meaning hidden.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So in this way, Rodion Romanovitch, I reached the furthest limit, and
      knocking my head against a post, I pulled myself up, asking myself what I
      was about. After all, I said, you can take it all in another sense if you
      like, and it&rsquo;s more natural so, indeed. I couldn&rsquo;t help admitting it was
      more natural. I was bothered! &lsquo;No, I&rsquo;d better get hold of some little
      fact&rsquo; I said. So when I heard of the bell-ringing, I held my breath and
      was all in a tremor. &lsquo;Here is my little fact,&rsquo; thought I, and I didn&rsquo;t
      think it over, I simply wouldn&rsquo;t. I would have given a thousand roubles at
      that minute to have seen you with my own eyes, when you walked a hundred
      paces beside that workman, after he had called you murderer to your face,
      and you did not dare to ask him a question all the way. And then what
      about your trembling, what about your bell-ringing in your illness, in
      semi-delirium?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so, Rodion Romanovitch, can you wonder that I played such pranks on
      you? And what made you come at that very minute? Someone seemed to have
      sent you, by Jove! And if Nikolay had not parted us... and do you remember
      Nikolay at the time? Do you remember him clearly? It was a thunderbolt, a
      regular thunderbolt! And how I met him! I didn&rsquo;t believe in the
      thunderbolt, not for a minute. You could see it for yourself; and how
      could I? Even afterwards, when you had gone and he began making very, very
      plausible answers on certain points, so that I was surprised at him
      myself, even then I didn&rsquo;t believe his story! You see what it is to be as
      firm as a rock! No, thought I, <i>Morgenfrüh</i>. What has Nikolay got to
      do with it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Razumihin told me just now that you think Nikolay guilty and had yourself
      assured him of it....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His voice failed him, and he broke off. He had been listening in
      indescribable agitation, as this man who had seen through and through him,
      went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it and did not believe
      it. In those still ambiguous words he kept eagerly looking for something
      more definite and conclusive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Razumihin!&rdquo; cried Porfiry Petrovitch, seeming glad of a question from
      Raskolnikov, who had till then been silent. &ldquo;He-he-he! But I had to put
      Mr. Razumihin off; two is company, three is none. Mr. Razumihin is not the
      right man, besides he is an outsider. He came running to me with a pale
      face.... But never mind him, why bring him in? To return to Nikolay, would
      you like to know what sort of a type he is, how I understand him, that is?
      To begin with, he is still a child and not exactly a coward, but something
      by way of an artist. Really, don&rsquo;t laugh at my describing him so. He is
      innocent and responsive to influence. He has a heart, and is a fantastic
      fellow. He sings and dances, he tells stories, they say, so that people
      come from other villages to hear him. He attends school too, and laughs
      till he cries if you hold up a finger to him; he will drink himself
      senseless&mdash;not as a regular vice, but at times, when people treat
      him, like a child. And he stole, too, then, without knowing it himself,
      for &lsquo;How can it be stealing, if one picks it up?&rsquo; And do you know he is an
      Old Believer, or rather a dissenter? There have been Wanderers[*] in his
      family, and he was for two years in his village under the spiritual
      guidance of a certain elder. I learnt all this from Nikolay and from his
      fellow villagers. And what&rsquo;s more, he wanted to run into the wilderness!
      He was full of fervour, prayed at night, read the old books, &lsquo;the true&rsquo;
      ones, and read himself crazy.
    </p>
<p class="footnote">
     [*] A religious sect.&mdash;TRANSLATOR&rsquo;S NOTE.
</p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Petersburg had a great effect upon him, especially the women and the
      wine. He responds to everything and he forgot the elder and all that. I
      learnt that an artist here took a fancy to him, and used to go and see
      him, and now this business came upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He ran away! How can
      one get over the idea the people have of Russian legal proceedings? The
      very word &lsquo;trial&rsquo; frightens some of them. Whose fault is it? We shall see
      what the new juries will do. God grant they do good! Well, in prison, it
      seems, he remembered the venerable elder; the Bible, too, made its
      appearance again. Do you know, Rodion Romanovitch, the force of the word
      &lsquo;suffering&rsquo; among some of these people! It&rsquo;s not a question of suffering
      for someone&rsquo;s benefit, but simply, &lsquo;one must suffer.&rsquo; If they suffer at
      the hands of the authorities, so much the better. In my time there was a
      very meek and mild prisoner who spent a whole year in prison always
      reading his Bible on the stove at night and he read himself crazy, and so
      crazy, do you know, that one day, apropos of nothing, he seized a brick
      and flung it at the governor; though he had done him no harm. And the way
      he threw it too: aimed it a yard on one side on purpose, for fear of
      hurting him. Well, we know what happens to a prisoner who assaults an
      officer with a weapon. So &lsquo;he took his suffering.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&rsquo;t know
      that I know. What, you don&rsquo;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&rsquo;ll come and tell me all
      himself. You think he&rsquo;ll hold out? Wait a bit, he&rsquo;ll take his words back.
      I am waiting from hour to hour for him to come and abjure his evidence. I
      have come to like that Nikolay and am studying him in detail. And what do
      you think? He-he! He answered me very plausibly on some points, he
      obviously had collected some evidence and prepared himself cleverly. But
      on other points he is simply at sea, knows nothing and doesn&rsquo;t even
      suspect that he doesn&rsquo;t know!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Rodion Romanovitch, Nikolay doesn&rsquo;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 &lsquo;renews,&rsquo; when
      comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish dreams, a
      heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the first stage, but
      resolution of a special kind: he resolved to do it like jumping over a
      precipice or from a bell tower and his legs shook as he went to the crime.
      He forgot to shut the door after him, and murdered two people for a
      theory. He committed the murder and couldn&rsquo;t take the money, and what he
      did manage to snatch up he hid under a stone. It wasn&rsquo;t enough for him to
      suffer agony behind the door while they battered at the door and rung the
      bell, no, he had to go to the empty lodging, half delirious, to recall the
      bell-ringing, he wanted to feel the cold shiver over again.... Well, that
      we grant, was through illness, but consider this: he is a murderer, but
      looks upon himself as an honest man, despises others, poses as injured
      innocence. No, that&rsquo;s not the work of a Nikolay, my dear Rodion
      Romanovitch!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then... who then... is the murderer?&rdquo; he asked in a breathless voice,
      unable to restrain himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry Petrovitch sank back in his chair, as though he were amazed at the
      question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is the murderer?&rdquo; he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears.
      &ldquo;Why, <i>you</i>, Rodion Romanovitch! You are the murderer,&rdquo; he added,
      almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov leapt from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds and sat down
      again without uttering a word. His face twitched convulsively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your lip is twitching just as it did before,&rdquo; Porfiry Petrovitch observed
      almost sympathetically. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been misunderstanding me, I think, Rodion
      Romanovitch,&rdquo; he added after a brief pause, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s why you are so
      surprised. I came on purpose to tell you everything and deal openly with
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not I murdered her,&rdquo; Raskolnikov whispered like a frightened child
      caught in the act.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it was you, you Rodion Romanovitch, and no one else,&rdquo; Porfiry
      whispered sternly, with conviction.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten
      minutes. Raskolnikov put his elbow on the table and passed his fingers
      through his hair. Porfiry Petrovitch sat quietly waiting. Suddenly
      Raskolnikov looked scornfully at Porfiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovitch! Your old method
      again. I wonder you don&rsquo;t get sick of it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If so, what did you come for?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked irritably. &ldquo;I ask you
      the same question again: if you consider me guilty, why don&rsquo;t you take me
      to prison?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s your question! I will answer you, point for point. In the
      first place, to arrest you so directly is not to my interest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How so? If you are convinced you ought....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, what if I am convinced? That&rsquo;s only my dream for the time. Why
      should I put you in safety? You know that&rsquo;s it, since you ask me to do it.
      If I confront you with that workman for instance and you say to him &lsquo;were
      you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I simply took you to be drunk, and
      you were drunk, too.&rsquo; Well, what could I answer, especially as your story
      is a more likely one than his? for there&rsquo;s nothing but psychology to
      support his evidence&mdash;that&rsquo;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&mdash;quite contrary to etiquette&mdash;to inform you of it
      beforehand, yet I tell you frankly, also contrary to etiquette, that it
      won&rsquo;t be to my advantage. Well, secondly, I&rsquo;ve come to you because...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, secondly?&rdquo; Raskolnikov was listening breathless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because, as I told you just now, I consider I owe you an explanation. I
      don&rsquo;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&rsquo;ve come to
      you with a direct and open proposition&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov thought a minute.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, Porfiry Petrovitch. You said just now you have nothing but
      psychology to go on, yet now you&rsquo;ve gone on mathematics. Well, what if you
      are mistaken yourself, now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Rodion Romanovitch, I am not mistaken. I have a little fact even
      then, Providence sent it me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What little fact?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t tell you what, Rodion Romanovitch. And in any case, I haven&rsquo;t the
      right to put it off any longer, I must arrest you. So think it over: it
      makes no difference to me <i>now</i> and so I speak only for your sake.
      Believe me, it will be better, Rodion Romanovitch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov smiled malignantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not simply ridiculous, it&rsquo;s positively shameless. Why, even if I
      were guilty, which I don&rsquo;t admit, what reason should I have to confess,
      when you tell me yourself that I shall be in greater safety in prison?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, don&rsquo;t put too much faith in words, perhaps prison
      will not be altogether a restful place. That&rsquo;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&rsquo;t lay bare everything, he-he! And how can you
      ask what advantage? Don&rsquo;t you know how it would lessen your sentence? You
      would be confessing at a moment when another man has taken the crime on
      himself and so has muddled the whole case. Consider that! I swear before
      God that I will so arrange that your confession shall come as a complete
      surprise. We will make a clean sweep of all these psychological points, of
      a suspicion against you, so that your crime will appear to have been
      something like an aberration, for in truth it was an aberration. I am an
      honest man, Rodion Romanovitch, and will keep my word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; he said, apparently abandoning all attempt to keep up appearances
      with Porfiry, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s not worth it, I don&rsquo;t care about lessening the
      sentence!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just what I was afraid of!&rdquo; Porfiry cried warmly and, as it
      seemed, involuntarily. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just what I feared, that you wouldn&rsquo;t care
      about the mitigation of sentence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, don&rsquo;t disdain life!&rdquo; Porfiry went on. &ldquo;You have a great deal of it
      still before you. How can you say you don&rsquo;t want a mitigation of sentence?
      You are an impatient fellow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A great deal of what lies before me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of life. What sort of prophet are you, do you know much about it? Seek
      and ye shall find. This may be God&rsquo;s means for bringing you to Him. And
      it&rsquo;s not for ever, the bondage....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The time will be shortened,&rdquo; laughed Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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 <i>you</i>
      shouldn&rsquo;t be afraid of giving yourself up and confessing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, hang it!&rdquo; Raskolnikov whispered with loathing and contempt, as
      though he did not want to speak aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      He got up again as though he meant to go away, but sat down again in
      evident despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hang it, if you like! You&rsquo;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&rsquo;s true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base! At
      least you didn&rsquo;t deceive yourself for long, you went straight to the
      furthest point at one bound. How do I regard you? I regard you as one of
      those men who would stand and smile at their torturer while he cuts their
      entrails out, if only they have found faith or God. Find it and you will
      live. You have long needed a change of air. Suffering, too, is a good
      thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolay is right in wanting to suffer. I know you
      don&rsquo;t believe in it&mdash;but don&rsquo;t be over-wise; fling yourself straight
      into life, without deliberation; don&rsquo;t be afraid&mdash;the flood will bear
      you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again. What bank? How can I
      tell? I only believe that you have long life before you. I know that you
      take all my words now for a set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you
      will remember them after. They may be of use some time. That&rsquo;s why I
      speak. It&rsquo;s as well that you only killed the old woman. If you&rsquo;d invented
      another theory you might perhaps have done something a thousand times more
      hideous. You ought to thank God, perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God is
      saving you for something. But keep a good heart and have less fear! Are
      you afraid of the great expiation before you? No, it would be shameful to
      be afraid of it. Since you have taken such a step, you must harden your
      heart. There is justice in it. You must fulfil the demands of justice. I
      know that you don&rsquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov positively started.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But who are you? what prophet are you? From the height of what majestic
      calm do you proclaim these words of wisdom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that&rsquo;s all. A man perhaps
      of feeling and sympathy, maybe of some knowledge too, but my day is over.
      But you are a different matter, there is life waiting for you. Though, who
      knows? maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke and come to nothing.
      Come, what does it matter, that you will pass into another class of men?
      It&rsquo;s not comfort you regret, with your heart! What of it that perhaps no
      one will see you for so long? It&rsquo;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&rsquo;re
      imagining that I am trying to get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I
      am, he-he-he! Perhaps you&rsquo;d better not believe my word, perhaps you&rsquo;d
      better never believe it altogether&mdash;I&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When do you mean to arrest me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over, my dear
      fellow, and pray to God. It&rsquo;s more in your interest, believe me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what if I run away?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you won&rsquo;t run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable dissenter
      would run away, the flunkey of another man&rsquo;s thought, for you&rsquo;ve only to
      show him the end of your little finger and he&rsquo;ll be ready to believe in
      anything for the rest of his life. But you&rsquo;ve ceased to believe in your
      theory already, what will you run away with? And what would you do in
      hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for you, and what you need more
      than anything in life is a definite position, an atmosphere to suit you.
      And what sort of atmosphere would you have? If you ran away, you&rsquo;d come
      back to yourself. <i>You can&rsquo;t get on without us.</i> And if I put you in
      prison&mdash;say you&rsquo;ve been there a month, or two, or three&mdash;remember
      my word, you&rsquo;ll confess of yourself and perhaps to your own surprise. You
      won&rsquo;t know an hour beforehand that you are coming with a confession. I am
      convinced that you will decide, &lsquo;to take your suffering.&rsquo; You don&rsquo;t
      believe my words now, but you&rsquo;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&rsquo;t laugh at it, there&rsquo;s an idea in suffering,
      Nikolay is right. No, you won&rsquo;t run away, Rodion Romanovitch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovitch also rose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine, if only we don&rsquo;t have
      a storm. Though it would be a good thing to freshen the air.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He, too, took his cap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Porfiry Petrovitch, please don&rsquo;t take up the notion that I have confessed
      to you to-day,&rdquo; Raskolnikov pronounced with sullen insistence. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a
      strange man and I have listened to you from simple curiosity. But I have
      admitted nothing, remember that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I know that, I&rsquo;ll remember. Look at him, he&rsquo;s trembling! Don&rsquo;t be
      uneasy, my dear fellow, have it your own way. Walk about a bit, you won&rsquo;t
      be able to walk too far. If anything happens, I have one request to make
      of you,&rdquo; he added, dropping his voice. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s an awkward one, but
      important. If anything were to happen (though indeed I don&rsquo;t believe in it
      and think you quite incapable of it), yet in case you were taken during
      these forty or fifty hours with the notion of putting an end to the
      business in some other way, in some fantastic fashion&mdash;laying hands
      on yourself&mdash;(it&rsquo;s an absurd proposition, but you must forgive me for
      it) do leave a brief but precise note, only two lines, and mention the
      stone. It will be more generous. Come, till we meet! Good thoughts and
      sound decisions to you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Raskolnikov. The latter
      went to the window and waited with irritable impatience till he calculated
      that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away. Then he too went
      hurriedly out of the room.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"></a>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
    <p>
      He hurried to Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s. What he had to hope from that man he did not
      know. But that man had some hidden power over him. Having once recognised
      this, he could not rest, and now the time had come.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the way, one question particularly worried him: had Svidrigaïlov been
      to Porfiry&rsquo;s?
    </p>
    <p>
      As far as he could judge, he would swear to it, that he had not. He
      pondered again and again, went over Porfiry&rsquo;s visit; no, he hadn&rsquo;t been,
      of course he hadn&rsquo;t.
    </p>
    <p>
      But if he had not been yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for the present he
      fancied he couldn&rsquo;t. Why? He could not have explained, but if he could, he
      would not have wasted much thought over it at the moment. It all worried
      him and at the same time he could not attend to it. Strange to say, none
      would have believed it perhaps, but he only felt a faint vague anxiety
      about his immediate future. Another, much more important anxiety tormented
      him&mdash;it concerned himself, but in a different, more vital way.
      Moreover, he was conscious of immense moral fatigue, though his mind was
      working better that morning than it had done of late.
    </p>
    <p>
      And was it worth while, after all that had happened, to contend with these
      new trivial difficulties? Was it worth while, for instance, to manoeuvre
      that Svidrigaïlov should not go to Porfiry&rsquo;s? Was it worth while to
      investigate, to ascertain the facts, to waste time over anyone like
      Svidrigaïlov?
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh, how sick he was of it all!
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet he was hastening to Svidrigaïlov; could he be expecting something
      <i>new</i> from him, information, or means of escape? Men will catch at
      straws! Was it destiny or some instinct bringing them together? Perhaps it
      was only fatigue, despair; perhaps it was not Svidrigaïlov but some other
      whom he needed, and Svidrigaïlov had simply presented himself by chance.
      Sonia? But what should he go to Sonia for now? To beg her tears again? He
      was afraid of Sonia, too. Sonia stood before him as an irrevocable
      sentence. He must go his own way or hers. At that moment especially he did
      not feel equal to seeing her. No, would it not be better to try
      Svidrigaïlov? And he could not help inwardly owning that he had long felt
      that he must see him for some reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what could they have in common? Their very evil-doing could not be of
      the same kind. The man, moreover, was very unpleasant, evidently depraved,
      undoubtedly cunning and deceitful, possibly malignant. Such stories were
      told about him. It is true he was befriending Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s
      children, but who could tell with what motive and what it meant? The man
      always had some design, some project.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was another thought which had been continually hovering of late
      about Raskolnikov&rsquo;s mind, and causing him great uneasiness. It was so
      painful that he made distinct efforts to get rid of it. He sometimes
      thought that Svidrigaïlov was dogging his footsteps. Svidrigaïlov had
      found out his secret and had had designs on Dounia. What if he had them
      still? Wasn&rsquo;t it practically certain that he had? And what if, having
      learnt his secret and so having gained power over him, he were to use it
      as a weapon against Dounia?
    </p>
    <p>
      This idea sometimes even tormented his dreams, but it had never presented
      itself so vividly to him as on his way to Svidrigaïlov. The very thought
      moved him to gloomy rage. To begin with, this would transform everything,
      even his own position; he would have at once to confess his secret to
      Dounia. Would he have to give himself up perhaps to prevent Dounia from
      taking some rash step? The letter? This morning Dounia had received a
      letter. From whom could she get letters in Petersburg? Luzhin, perhaps?
      It&rsquo;s true Razumihin was there to protect her, but Razumihin knew nothing
      of the position. Perhaps it was his duty to tell Razumihin? He thought of
      it with repugnance.
    </p>
    <p>
      In any case he must see Svidrigaïlov as soon as possible, he decided
      finally. Thank God, the details of the interview were of little
      consequence, if only he could get at the root of the matter; but if
      Svidrigaïlov were capable... if he were intriguing against Dounia&mdash;then...
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had passed through that month that
      he could only decide such questions in one way; &ldquo;then I shall kill him,&rdquo;
       he thought in cold despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sudden anguish oppressed his heart, he stood still in the middle of the
      street and began looking about to see where he was and which way he was
      going. He found himself in X. Prospect, thirty or forty paces from the Hay
      Market, through which he had come. The whole second storey of the house on
      the left was used as a tavern. All the windows were wide open; judging
      from the figures moving at the windows, the rooms were full to
      overflowing. There were sounds of singing, of clarionet and violin, and
      the boom of a Turkish drum. He could hear women shrieking. He was about to
      turn back wondering why he had come to the X. Prospect, when suddenly at
      one of the end windows he saw Svidrigaïlov, sitting at a tea-table right
      in the open window with a pipe in his mouth. Raskolnikov was dreadfully
      taken aback, almost terrified. Svidrigaïlov was silently watching and
      scrutinising him and, what struck Raskolnikov at once, seemed to be
      meaning to get up and slip away unobserved. Raskolnikov at once pretended
      not to have seen him, but to be looking absent-mindedly away, while he
      watched him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was beating violently.
      Yet, it was evident that Svidrigaïlov did not want to be seen. He took the
      pipe out of his mouth and was on the point of concealing himself, but as
      he got up and moved back his chair, he seemed to have become suddenly
      aware that Raskolnikov had seen him, and was watching him. What had passed
      between them was much the same as what happened at their first meeting in
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s room. A sly smile came into Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s face and grew
      broader and broader. Each knew that he was seen and watched by the other.
      At last Svidrigaïlov broke into a loud laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, come in if you want me; I am here!&rdquo; he shouted from the
      window.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov went up into the tavern. He found Svidrigaïlov in a tiny back
      room, adjoining the saloon in which merchants, clerks and numbers of
      people of all sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables to the
      desperate bawling of a chorus of singers. The click of billiard balls
      could be heard in the distance. On the table before Svidrigaïlov stood an
      open bottle and a glass half full of champagne. In the room he found also
      a boy with a little hand organ, a healthy-looking red-cheeked girl of
      eighteen, wearing a tucked-up striped skirt, and a Tyrolese hat with
      ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other room, she was singing some
      servants&rsquo; hall song in a rather husky contralto, to the accompaniment of
      the organ.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, that&rsquo;s enough,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov stopped her at Raskolnikov&rsquo;s entrance.
      The girl at once broke off and stood waiting respectfully. She had sung
      her guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful expression in her
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey, Philip, a glass!&rdquo; shouted Svidrigaïlov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t drink anything,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you like, I didn&rsquo;t mean it for you. Drink, Katia! I don&rsquo;t want
      anything more to-day, you can go.&rdquo; He poured her out a full glass, and
      laid down a yellow note.
    </p>
    <p>
      Katia drank off her glass of wine, as women do, without putting it down,
      in twenty gulps, took the note and kissed Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s hand, which he
      allowed quite seriously. She went out of the room and the boy trailed
      after her with the organ. Both had been brought in from the street.
      Svidrigaïlov had not been a week in Petersburg, but everything about him
      was already, so to speak, on a patriarchal footing; the waiter, Philip,
      was by now an old friend and very obsequious.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was going to see you and looking for you,&rdquo; Raskolnikov began, &ldquo;but I
      don&rsquo;t know what made me turn from the Hay Market into the X. Prospect just
      now. I never take this turning. I turn to the right from the Hay Market.
      And this isn&rsquo;t the way to you. I simply turned and here you are. It is
      strange!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you say at once &lsquo;it&rsquo;s a miracle&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because it may be only chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s the way with all you folk,&rdquo; laughed Svidrigaïlov. &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t
      admit it, even if you do inwardly believe it a miracle! Here you say that
      it may be only chance. And what cowards they all are here, about having an
      opinion of their own, you can&rsquo;t fancy, Rodion Romanovitch. I don&rsquo;t mean
      you, you have an opinion of your own and are not afraid to have it. That&rsquo;s
      how it was you attracted my curiosity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s enough, you know,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov was obviously exhilarated,
      but only slightly so, he had not had more than half a glass of wine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of having
      what you call an opinion of my own,&rdquo; observed Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, well, it was a different matter. Everyone has his own plans. And
      apropos of the miracle let me tell you that I think you have been asleep
      for the last two or three days. I told you of this tavern myself, there is
      no miracle in your coming straight here. I explained the way myself, told
      you where it was, and the hours you could find me here. Do you remember?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t remember,&rdquo; answered Raskolnikov with surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe you. I told you twice. The address has been stamped
      mechanically on your memory. You turned this way mechanically and yet
      precisely according to the direction, though you are not aware of it. When
      I told you then, I hardly hoped you understood me. You give yourself away
      too much, Rodion Romanovitch. And another thing, I&rsquo;m convinced there are
      lots of people in Petersburg who talk to themselves as they walk. This is
      a town of crazy people. If only we had scientific men, doctors, lawyers
      and philosophers might make most valuable investigations in Petersburg
      each in his own line. There are few places where there are so many gloomy,
      strong and queer influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The mere
      influences of climate mean so much. And it&rsquo;s the administrative centre of
      all Russia and its character must be reflected on the whole country. But
      that is neither here nor there now. The point is that I have several times
      watched you. You walk out of your house&mdash;holding your head high&mdash;twenty
      paces from home you let it sink, and fold your hands behind your back. You
      look and evidently see nothing before nor beside you. At last you begin
      moving your lips and talking to yourself, and sometimes you wave one hand
      and declaim, and at last stand still in the middle of the road. That&rsquo;s not
      at all the thing. Someone may be watching you besides me, and it won&rsquo;t do
      you any good. It&rsquo;s nothing really to do with me and I can&rsquo;t cure you, but,
      of course, you understand me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know that I am being followed?&rdquo; asked Raskolnikov, looking
      inquisitively at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I know nothing about it,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov, seeming surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, let us leave me alone,&rdquo; Raskolnikov muttered, frowning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good, let us leave you alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better tell me, if you come here to drink, and directed me twice
      to come here to you, why did you hide, and try to get away just now when I
      looked at the window from the street? I saw it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He-he! And why was it you lay on your sofa with closed eyes and pretended
      to be asleep, though you were wide awake while I stood in your doorway? I
      saw it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may have had... reasons. You know that yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I may have had my reasons, though you don&rsquo;t know them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov dropped his right elbow on the table, leaned his chin in the
      fingers of his right hand, and stared intently at Svidrigaïlov. For a full
      minute he scrutinised his face, which had impressed him before. It was a
      strange face, like a mask; white and red, with bright red lips, with a
      flaxen beard, and still thick flaxen hair. His eyes were somehow too blue
      and their expression somehow too heavy and fixed. There was something
      awfully unpleasant in that handsome face, which looked so wonderfully
      young for his age. Svidrigaïlov was smartly dressed in light summer
      clothes and was particularly dainty in his linen. He wore a huge ring with
      a precious stone in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I got to bother myself about you, too, now?&rdquo; said Raskolnikov
      suddenly, coming with nervous impatience straight to the point. &ldquo;Even
      though perhaps you are the most dangerous man if you care to injure me, I
      don&rsquo;t want to put myself out any more. I will show you at once that I
      don&rsquo;t prize myself as you probably think I do. I&rsquo;ve come to tell you at
      once that if you keep to your former intentions with regard to my sister
      and if you think to derive any benefit in that direction from what has
      been discovered of late, I will kill you before you get me locked up. You
      can reckon on my word. You know that I can keep it. And in the second
      place if you want to tell me anything&mdash;for I keep fancying all this
      time that you have something to tell me&mdash;make haste and tell it, for
      time is precious and very likely it will soon be too late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why in such haste?&rdquo; asked Svidrigaïlov, looking at him curiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everyone has his plans,&rdquo; Raskolnikov answered gloomily and impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at the first question
      you refuse to answer,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov observed with a smile. &ldquo;You keep
      fancying that I have aims of my own and so you look at me with suspicion.
      Of course it&rsquo;s perfectly natural in your position. But though I should
      like to be friends with you, I shan&rsquo;t trouble myself to convince you of
      the contrary. The game isn&rsquo;t worth the candle and I wasn&rsquo;t intending to
      talk to you about anything special.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you want me, for, then? It was you who came hanging about me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, simply as an interesting subject for observation. I liked the
      fantastic nature of your position&mdash;that&rsquo;s what it was! Besides you
      are the brother of a person who greatly interested me, and from that
      person I had in the past heard a very great deal about you, from which I
      gathered that you had a great influence over her; isn&rsquo;t that enough?
      Ha-ha-ha! Still I must admit that your question is rather complex, and is
      difficult for me to answer. Here, you, for instance, have come to me not
      only for a definite object, but for the sake of hearing something new.
      Isn&rsquo;t that so? Isn&rsquo;t that so?&rdquo; persisted Svidrigaïlov with a sly smile.
      &ldquo;Well, can&rsquo;t you fancy then that I, too, on my way here in the train was
      reckoning on you, on your telling me something new, and on my making some
      profit out of you! You see what rich men we are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What profit could you make?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can I tell you? How do I know? You see in what a tavern I spend all
      my time and it&rsquo;s my enjoyment, that&rsquo;s to say it&rsquo;s no great enjoyment, but
      one must sit somewhere; that poor Katia now&mdash;you saw her?... If only
      I had been a glutton now, a club gourmand, but you see I can eat this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you dined, by the way? I&rsquo;ve had something and want nothing more. I
      don&rsquo;t drink, for instance, at all. Except for champagne I never touch
      anything, and not more than a glass of that all the evening, and even that
      is enough to make my head ache. I ordered it just now to wind myself up,
      for I am just going off somewhere and you see me in a peculiar state of
      mind. That was why I hid myself just now like a schoolboy, for I was
      afraid you would hinder me. But I believe,&rdquo; he pulled out his watch, &ldquo;I
      can spend an hour with you. It&rsquo;s half-past four now. If only I&rsquo;d been
      something, a landowner, a father, a cavalry officer, a photographer, a
      journalist... I am nothing, no specialty, and sometimes I am positively
      bored. I really thought you would tell me something new.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what are you, and why have you come here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What am I? You know, a gentleman, I served for two years in the cavalry,
      then I knocked about here in Petersburg, then I married Marfa Petrovna and
      lived in the country. There you have my biography!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a gambler, I believe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, a poor sort of gambler. A card-sharper&mdash;not a gambler.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have been a card-sharper then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ve been a card-sharper too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you get thrashed sometimes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It did happen. Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you might have challenged them... altogether it must have been
      lively.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t contradict you, and besides I am no hand at philosophy. I confess
      that I hastened here for the sake of the women.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov smiled with engaging candour. &ldquo;What of it? You
      seem to find something wrong in my speaking like that about women?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ask whether I find anything wrong in vice?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vice! Oh, that&rsquo;s what you are after! But I&rsquo;ll answer you in order, first
      about women in general; you know I am fond of talking. Tell me, what
      should I restrain myself for? Why should I give up women, since I have a
      passion for them? It&rsquo;s an occupation, anyway.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you hope for nothing here but vice?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, very well, for vice then. You insist on its being vice. But anyway I
      like a direct question. In this vice at least there is something
      permanent, founded indeed upon nature and not dependent on fantasy,
      something present in the blood like an ever-burning ember, for ever
      setting one on fire and, maybe, not to be quickly extinguished, even with
      years. You&rsquo;ll agree it&rsquo;s an occupation of a sort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s nothing to rejoice at, it&rsquo;s a disease and a dangerous one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s what you think, is it! I agree, that it is a disease like
      everything that exceeds moderation. And, of course, in this one must
      exceed moderation. But in the first place, everybody does so in one way or
      another, and in the second place, of course, one ought to be moderate and
      prudent, however mean it may be, but what am I to do? If I hadn&rsquo;t this, I
      might have to shoot myself. I am ready to admit that a decent man ought to
      put up with being bored, but yet...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And could you shoot yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, come!&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov parried with disgust. &ldquo;Please don&rsquo;t speak of it,&rdquo;
       he added hurriedly and with none of the bragging tone he had shown in all
      the previous conversation. His face quite changed. &ldquo;I admit it&rsquo;s an
      unpardonable weakness, but I can&rsquo;t help it. I am afraid of death and I
      dislike its being talked of. Do you know that I am to a certain extent a
      mystic?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, the apparitions of Marfa Petrovna! Do they still go on visiting you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t talk of them; there have been no more in Petersburg, confound
      them!&rdquo; he cried with an air of irritation. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s rather talk of that...
      though... H&rsquo;m! I have not much time, and can&rsquo;t stay long with you, it&rsquo;s a
      pity! I should have found plenty to tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s your engagement, a woman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a woman, a casual incident.... No, that&rsquo;s not what I want to talk
      of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the hideousness, the filthiness of all your surroundings, doesn&rsquo;t
      that affect you? Have you lost the strength to stop yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you pretend to strength, too? He-he-he! You surprised me just now,
      Rodion Romanovitch, though I knew beforehand it would be so. You preach to
      me about vice and æsthetics! You&mdash;a Schiller, you&mdash;an idealist!
      Of course that&rsquo;s all as it should be and it would be surprising if it were
      not so, yet it is strange in reality.... Ah, what a pity I have no time,
      for you&rsquo;re a most interesting type! And, by-the-way, are you fond of
      Schiller? I am awfully fond of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what a braggart you are,&rdquo; Raskolnikov said with some disgust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word, I am not,&rdquo; answered Svidrigaïlov laughing. &ldquo;However, I
      won&rsquo;t dispute it, let me be a braggart, why not brag, if it hurts no one?
      I spent seven years in the country with Marfa Petrovna, so now when I come
      across an intelligent person like you&mdash;intelligent and highly
      interesting&mdash;I am simply glad to talk and, besides, I&rsquo;ve drunk that
      half-glass of champagne and it&rsquo;s gone to my head a little. And besides,
      there&rsquo;s a certain fact that has wound me up tremendously, but about that
      I... will keep quiet. Where are you off to?&rdquo; he asked in alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov had begun getting up. He felt oppressed and stifled and, as it
      were, ill at ease at having come here. He felt convinced that Svidrigaïlov
      was the most worthless scoundrel on the face of the earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A-ach! Sit down, stay a little!&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov begged. &ldquo;Let them bring you
      some tea, anyway. Stay a little, I won&rsquo;t talk nonsense, about myself, I
      mean. I&rsquo;ll tell you something. If you like I&rsquo;ll tell you how a woman tried
      &lsquo;to save&rsquo; me, as you would call it? It will be an answer to your first
      question indeed, for the woman was your sister. May I tell you? It will
      help to spend the time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, but I trust that you...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low fellow like me,
      Avdotya Romanovna can only excite the deepest respect.&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"></a>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know perhaps&mdash;yes, I told you myself,&rdquo; began Svidrigaïlov, &ldquo;that
      I was in the debtors&rsquo; prison here, for an immense sum, and had not any
      expectation of being able to pay it. There&rsquo;s no need to go into
      particulars how Marfa Petrovna bought me out; do you know to what a point
      of insanity a woman can sometimes love? She was an honest woman, and very
      sensible, although completely uneducated. Would you believe that this
      honest and jealous woman, after many scenes of hysterics and reproaches,
      condescended to enter into a kind of contract with me which she kept
      throughout our married life? She was considerably older than I, and
      besides, she always kept a clove or something in her mouth. There was so
      much swinishness in my soul and honesty too, of a sort, as to tell her
      straight out that I couldn&rsquo;t be absolutely faithful to her. This
      confession drove her to frenzy, but yet she seems in a way to have liked
      my brutal frankness. She thought it showed I was unwilling to deceive her
      if I warned her like this beforehand and for a jealous woman, you know,
      that&rsquo;s the first consideration. After many tears an unwritten contract was
      drawn up between us: first, that I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and
      would always be her husband; secondly, that I would never absent myself
      without her permission; thirdly, that I would never set up a permanent
      mistress; fourthly, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna gave me a free hand
      with the maidservants, but only with her secret knowledge; fifthly, God
      forbid my falling in love with a woman of our class; sixthly, in case I&mdash;which
      God forbid&mdash;should be visited by a great serious passion I was bound
      to reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. On this last score, however, Marfa
      Petrovna was fairly at ease. She was a sensible woman and so she could not
      help looking upon me as a dissolute profligate incapable of real love. But
      a sensible woman and a jealous woman are two very different things, and
      that&rsquo;s where the trouble came in. But to judge some people impartially we
      must renounce certain preconceived opinions and our habitual attitude to
      the ordinary people about us. I have reason to have faith in your judgment
      rather than in anyone&rsquo;s. Perhaps you have already heard a great deal that
      was ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. She certainly had some
      very ridiculous ways, but I tell you frankly that I feel really sorry for
      the innumerable woes of which I was the cause. Well, and that&rsquo;s enough, I
      think, by way of a decorous <i>oraison funèbre</i> for the most tender
      wife of a most tender husband. When we quarrelled, I usually held my
      tongue and did not irritate her and that gentlemanly conduct rarely failed
      to attain its object, it influenced her, it pleased her, indeed. These
      were times when she was positively proud of me. But your sister she
      couldn&rsquo;t put up with, anyway. And however she came to risk taking such a
      beautiful creature into her house as a governess. My explanation is that
      Marfa Petrovna was an ardent and impressionable woman and simply fell in
      love herself&mdash;literally fell in love&mdash;with your sister. Well,
      little wonder&mdash;look at Avdotya Romanovna! I saw the danger at the
      first glance and what do you think, I resolved not to look at her even.
      But Avdotya Romanovna herself made the first step, would you believe it?
      Would you believe it too that Marfa Petrovna was positively angry with me
      at first for my persistent silence about your sister, for my careless
      reception of her continual adoring praises of Avdotya Romanovna. I don&rsquo;t
      know what it was she wanted! Well, of course, Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya
      Romanovna every detail about me. She had the unfortunate habit of telling
      literally everyone all our family secrets and continually complaining of
      me; how could she fail to confide in such a delightful new friend? I
      expect they talked of nothing else but me and no doubt Avdotya Romanovna
      heard all those dark mysterious rumours that were current about me.... I
      don&rsquo;t mind betting that you too have heard something of the sort already?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have. Luzhin charged you with having caused the death of a child. Is
      that true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t refer to those vulgar tales, I beg,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov with disgust
      and annoyance. &ldquo;If you insist on wanting to know about all that idiocy, I
      will tell you one day, but now...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was told too about some footman of yours in the country whom you
      treated badly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg you to drop the subject,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov interrupted again with
      obvious impatience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was that the footman who came to you after death to fill your pipe?...
      you told me about it yourself.&rdquo; Raskolnikov felt more and more irritated.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested and shall feel
      it my duty to satisfy your curiosity at the first opportunity. Upon my
      soul! I see that I really might pass for a romantic figure with some
      people. Judge how grateful I must be to Marfa Petrovna for having repeated
      to Avdotya Romanovna such mysterious and interesting gossip about me. I
      dare not guess what impression it made on her, but in any case it worked
      in my interests. With all Avdotya Romanovna&rsquo;s natural aversion and in
      spite of my invariably gloomy and repellent aspect&mdash;she did at least
      feel pity for me, pity for a lost soul. And if once a girl&rsquo;s heart is
      moved to <i>pity</i>, it&rsquo;s more dangerous than anything. She is bound to
      want to &lsquo;save him,&rsquo; to bring him to his senses, and lift him up and draw
      him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and usefulness&mdash;well,
      we all know how far such dreams can go. I saw at once that the bird was
      flying into the cage of herself. And I too made ready. I think you are
      frowning, Rodion Romanovitch? There&rsquo;s no need. As you know, it all ended
      in smoke. (Hang it all, what a lot I am drinking!) Do you know, I always,
      from the very beginning, regretted that it wasn&rsquo;t your sister&rsquo;s fate to be
      born in the second or third century A.D., as the daughter of a reigning
      prince or some governor or pro-consul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly
      have been one of those who would endure martyrdom and would have smiled
      when they branded her bosom with hot pincers. And she would have gone to
      it of herself. And in the fourth or fifth century she would have walked
      away into the Egyptian desert and would have stayed there thirty years
      living on roots and ecstasies and visions. She is simply thirsting to face
      some torture for someone, and if she can&rsquo;t get her torture, she&rsquo;ll throw
      herself out of a window. I&rsquo;ve heard something of a Mr. Razumihin&mdash;he&rsquo;s
      said to be a sensible fellow; his surname suggests it, indeed. He&rsquo;s
      probably a divinity student. Well, he&rsquo;d better look after your sister! I
      believe I understand her, and I am proud of it. But at the beginning of an
      acquaintance, as you know, one is apt to be more heedless and stupid. One
      doesn&rsquo;t see clearly. Hang it all, why is she so handsome? It&rsquo;s not my
      fault. In fact, it began on my side with a most irresistible physical
      desire. Avdotya Romanovna is awfully chaste, incredibly and phenomenally
      so. Take note, I tell you this about your sister as a fact. She is almost
      morbidly chaste, in spite of her broad intelligence, and it will stand in
      her way. There happened to be a girl in the house then, Parasha, a
      black-eyed wench, whom I had never seen before&mdash;she had just come
      from another village&mdash;very pretty, but incredibly stupid: she burst
      into tears, wailed so that she could be heard all over the place and
      caused scandal. One day after dinner Avdotya Romanovna followed me into an
      avenue in the garden and with flashing eyes <i>insisted</i> on my leaving
      poor Parasha alone. It was almost our first conversation by ourselves. I,
      of course, was only too pleased to obey her wishes, tried to appear
      disconcerted, embarrassed, in fact played my part not badly. Then came
      interviews, mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties,
      supplications, even tears&mdash;would you believe it, even tears? Think
      what the passion for propaganda will bring some girls to! I, of course,
      threw it all on my destiny, posed as hungering and thirsting for light,
      and finally resorted to the most powerful weapon in the subjection of the
      female heart, a weapon which never fails one. It&rsquo;s the well-known resource&mdash;flattery.
      Nothing in the world is harder than speaking the truth and nothing easier
      than flattery. If there&rsquo;s the hundredth part of a false note in speaking
      the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble. But if all,
      to the last note, is false in flattery, it is just as agreeable, and is
      heard not without satisfaction. It may be a coarse satisfaction, but still
      a satisfaction. And however coarse the flattery, at least half will be
      sure to seem true. That&rsquo;s so for all stages of development and classes of
      society. A vestal virgin might be seduced by flattery. I can never
      remember without laughter how I once seduced a lady who was devoted to her
      husband, her children, and her principles. What fun it was and how little
      trouble! And the lady really had principles&mdash;of her own, anyway. All
      my tactics lay in simply being utterly annihilated and prostrate before
      her purity. I flattered her shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in
      getting a pressure of the hand, even a glance from her, I would reproach
      myself for having snatched it by force, and would declare that she had
      resisted, so that I could never have gained anything but for my being so
      unprincipled. I maintained that she was so innocent that she could not
      foresee my treachery, and yielded to me unconsciously, unawares, and so
      on. In fact, I triumphed, while my lady remained firmly convinced that she
      was innocent, chaste, and faithful to all her duties and obligations and
      had succumbed quite by accident. And how angry she was with me when I
      explained to her at last that it was my sincere conviction that she was
      just as eager as I. Poor Marfa Petrovna was awfully weak on the side of
      flattery, and if I had only cared to, I might have had all her property
      settled on me during her lifetime. (I am drinking an awful lot of wine now
      and talking too much.) I hope you won&rsquo;t be angry if I mention now that I
      was beginning to produce the same effect on Avdotya Romanovna. But I was
      stupid and impatient and spoiled it all. Avdotya Romanovna had several
      times&mdash;and one time in particular&mdash;been greatly displeased by
      the expression of my eyes, would you believe it? There was sometimes a
      light in them which frightened her and grew stronger and stronger and more
      unguarded till it was hateful to her. No need to go into detail, but we
      parted. There I acted stupidly again. I fell to jeering in the coarsest
      way at all such propaganda and efforts to convert me; Parasha came on to
      the scene again, and not she alone; in fact there was a tremendous to-do.
      Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, if you could only see how your sister&rsquo;s eyes can
      flash sometimes! Never mind my being drunk at this moment and having had a
      whole glass of wine. I am speaking the truth. I assure you that this
      glance has haunted my dreams; the very rustle of her dress was more than I
      could stand at last. I really began to think that I might become
      epileptic. I could never have believed that I could be moved to such a
      frenzy. It was essential, indeed, to be reconciled, but by then it was
      impossible. And imagine what I did then! To what a pitch of stupidity a
      man can be brought by frenzy! Never undertake anything in a frenzy, Rodion
      Romanovitch. I reflected that Avdotya Romanovna was after all a beggar
      (ach, excuse me, that&rsquo;s not the word... but does it matter if it expresses
      the meaning?), that she lived by her work, that she had her mother and you
      to keep (ach, hang it, you are frowning again), and I resolved to offer
      her all my money&mdash;thirty thousand roubles I could have realised then&mdash;if
      she would run away with me here, to Petersburg. Of course I should have
      vowed eternal love, rapture, and so on. Do you know, I was so wild about
      her at that time that if she had told me to poison Marfa Petrovna or to
      cut her throat and to marry herself, it would have been done at once! But
      it ended in the catastrophe of which you know already. You can fancy how
      frantic I was when I heard that Marfa Petrovna had got hold of that
      scoundrelly attorney, Luzhin, and had almost made a match between them&mdash;which
      would really have been just the same thing as I was proposing. Wouldn&rsquo;t
      it? Wouldn&rsquo;t it? I notice that you&rsquo;ve begun to be very attentive... you
      interesting young man....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov struck the table with his fist impatiently. He was flushed.
      Raskolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne
      that he had sipped almost unconsciously was affecting him&mdash;and he
      resolved to take advantage of the opportunity. He felt very suspicious of
      Svidrigaïlov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that you have come
      to Petersburg with designs on my sister,&rdquo; he said directly to
      Svidrigaïlov, in order to irritate him further.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nonsense,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov, seeming to rouse himself. &ldquo;Why, I told
      you... besides your sister can&rsquo;t endure me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am certain that she can&rsquo;t, but that&rsquo;s not the point.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you so sure that she can&rsquo;t?&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov screwed up his eyes and
      smiled mockingly. &ldquo;You are right, she doesn&rsquo;t love me, but you can never
      be sure of what has passed between husband and wife or lover and mistress.
      There&rsquo;s always a little corner which remains a secret to the world and is
      only known to those two. Will you answer for it that Avdotya Romanovna
      regarded me with aversion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From some words you&rsquo;ve dropped, I notice that you still have designs&mdash;and
      of course evil ones&mdash;on Dounia and mean to carry them out promptly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, have I dropped words like that?&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov asked in naïve
      dismay, taking not the slightest notice of the epithet bestowed on his
      designs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you are dropping them even now. Why are you so frightened? What are
      you so afraid of now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me&mdash;afraid? Afraid of you? You have rather to be afraid of me, <i>cher
      ami</i>. But what nonsense.... I&rsquo;ve drunk too much though, I see that. I
      was almost saying too much again. Damn the wine! Hi! there, water!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He snatched up the champagne bottle and flung it without ceremony out of
      the window. Philip brought the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all nonsense!&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov, wetting a towel and putting it
      to his head. &ldquo;But I can answer you in one word and annihilate all your
      suspicions. Do you know that I am going to get married?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You told me so before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I? I&rsquo;ve forgotten. But I couldn&rsquo;t have told you so for certain for I
      had not even seen my betrothed; I only meant to. But now I really have a
      betrothed and it&rsquo;s a settled thing, and if it weren&rsquo;t that I have business
      that can&rsquo;t be put off, I would have taken you to see them at once, for I
      should like to ask your advice. Ach, hang it, only ten minutes left! See,
      look at the watch. But I must tell you, for it&rsquo;s an interesting story, my
      marriage, in its own way. Where are you off to? Going again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I&rsquo;m not going away now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all? We shall see. I&rsquo;ll take you there, I&rsquo;ll show you my
      betrothed, only not now. For you&rsquo;ll soon have to be off. You have to go to
      the right and I to the left. Do you know that Madame Resslich, the woman I
      am lodging with now, eh? I know what you&rsquo;re thinking, that she&rsquo;s the woman
      whose girl they say drowned herself in the winter. Come, are you
      listening? She arranged it all for me. You&rsquo;re bored, she said, you want
      something to fill up your time. For, you know, I am a gloomy, depressed
      person. Do you think I&rsquo;m light-hearted? No, I&rsquo;m gloomy. I do no harm, but
      sit in a corner without speaking a word for three days at a time. And that
      Resslich is a sly hussy, I tell you. I know what she has got in her mind;
      she thinks I shall get sick of it, abandon my wife and depart, and she&rsquo;ll
      get hold of her and make a profit out of her&mdash;in our class, of
      course, or higher. She told me the father was a broken-down retired
      official, who has been sitting in a chair for the last three years with
      his legs paralysed. The mamma, she said, was a sensible woman. There is a
      son serving in the provinces, but he doesn&rsquo;t help; there is a daughter,
      who is married, but she doesn&rsquo;t visit them. And they&rsquo;ve two little nephews
      on their hands, as though their own children were not enough, and they&rsquo;ve
      taken from school their youngest daughter, a girl who&rsquo;ll be sixteen in
      another month, so that then she can be married. She was for me. We went
      there. How funny it was! I present myself&mdash;a landowner, a widower, of
      a well-known name, with connections, with a fortune. What if I am fifty
      and she is not sixteen? Who thinks of that? But it&rsquo;s fascinating, isn&rsquo;t
      it? It is fascinating, ha-ha! You should have seen how I talked to the
      papa and mamma. It was worth paying to have seen me at that moment. She
      comes in, curtseys, you can fancy, still in a short frock&mdash;an
      unopened bud! Flushing like a sunset&mdash;she had been told, no doubt. I
      don&rsquo;t know how you feel about female faces, but to my mind these sixteen
      years, these childish eyes, shyness and tears of bashfulness are better
      than beauty; and she is a perfect little picture, too. Fair hair in little
      curls, like a lamb&rsquo;s, full little rosy lips, tiny feet, a charmer!...
      Well, we made friends. I told them I was in a hurry owing to domestic
      circumstances, and the next day, that is the day before yesterday, we were
      betrothed. When I go now I take her on my knee at once and keep her
      there.... Well, she flushes like a sunset and I kiss her every minute. Her
      mamma of course impresses on her that this is her husband and that this
      must be so. It&rsquo;s simply delicious! The present betrothed condition is
      perhaps better than marriage. Here you have what is called <i>la nature et
      la vérité</i>, ha-ha! I&rsquo;ve talked to her twice, she is far from a fool.
      Sometimes she steals a look at me that positively scorches me. Her face is
      like Raphael&rsquo;s Madonna. You know, the Sistine Madonna&rsquo;s face has something
      fantastic in it, the face of mournful religious ecstasy. Haven&rsquo;t you
      noticed it? Well, she&rsquo;s something in that line. The day after we&rsquo;d been
      betrothed, I bought her presents to the value of fifteen hundred roubles&mdash;a
      set of diamonds and another of pearls and a silver dressing-case as large
      as this, with all sorts of things in it, so that even my Madonna&rsquo;s face
      glowed. I sat her on my knee, yesterday, and I suppose rather too
      unceremoniously&mdash;she flushed crimson and the tears started, but she
      didn&rsquo;t want to show it. We were left alone, she suddenly flung herself on
      my neck (for the first time of her own accord), put her little arms round
      me, kissed me, and vowed that she would be an obedient, faithful, and good
      wife, would make me happy, would devote all her life, every minute of her
      life, would sacrifice everything, everything, and that all she asks in
      return is my <i>respect</i>, and that she wants &lsquo;nothing, nothing more
      from me, no presents.&rsquo; You&rsquo;ll admit that to hear such a confession, alone,
      from an angel of sixteen in a muslin frock, with little curls, with a
      flush of maiden shyness in her cheeks and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes
      is rather fascinating! Isn&rsquo;t it fascinating? It&rsquo;s worth paying for, isn&rsquo;t
      it? Well... listen, we&rsquo;ll go to see my betrothed, only not just now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fact is this monstrous difference in age and development excites your
      sensuality! Will you really make such a marriage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, of course. Everyone thinks of himself, and he lives most gaily who
      knows best how to deceive himself. Ha-ha! But why are you so keen about
      virtue? Have mercy on me, my good friend. I am a sinful man. Ha-ha-ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you have provided for the children of Katerina Ivanovna. Though...
      though you had your own reasons.... I understand it all now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am always fond of children, very fond of them,&rdquo; laughed Svidrigaïlov.
      &ldquo;I can tell you one curious instance of it. The first day I came here I
      visited various haunts, after seven years I simply rushed at them. You
      probably notice that I am not in a hurry to renew acquaintance with my old
      friends. I shall do without them as long as I can. Do you know, when I was
      with Marfa Petrovna in the country, I was haunted by the thought of these
      places where anyone who knows his way about can find a great deal. Yes,
      upon my soul! The peasants have vodka, the educated young people, shut out
      from activity, waste themselves in impossible dreams and visions and are
      crippled by theories; Jews have sprung up and are amassing money, and all
      the rest give themselves up to debauchery. From the first hour the town
      reeked of its familiar odours. I chanced to be in a frightful den&mdash;I
      like my dens dirty&mdash;it was a dance, so called, and there was a <i>cancan</i>
      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 <i>vis-à-vis</i>. Her mother was
      sitting on a chair by the wall. You can&rsquo;t fancy what a <i>cancan</i> that
      was! The girl was ashamed, blushed, at last felt insulted, and began to
      cry. Her partner seized her and began whirling her round and performing
      before her; everyone laughed and&mdash;I like your public, even the <i>cancan</i>
      public&mdash;they laughed and shouted, &lsquo;Serves her right&mdash;serves her
      right! Shouldn&rsquo;t bring children!&rsquo; Well, it&rsquo;s not my business whether that
      consoling reflection was logical or not. I at once fixed on my plan, sat
      down by the mother, and began by saying that I too was a stranger and that
      people here were ill-bred and that they couldn&rsquo;t distinguish decent folks
      and treat them with respect, gave her to understand that I had plenty of
      money, offered to take them home in my carriage. I took them home and got
      to know them. They were lodging in a miserable little hole and had only
      just arrived from the country. She told me that she and her daughter could
      only regard my acquaintance as an honour. I found out that they had
      nothing of their own and had come to town upon some legal business. I
      proffered my services and money. I learnt that they had gone to the
      dancing saloon by mistake, believing that it was a genuine dancing class.
      I offered to assist in the young girl&rsquo;s education in French and dancing.
      My offer was accepted with enthusiasm as an honour&mdash;and we are still
      friendly.... If you like, we&rsquo;ll go and see them, only not just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop! Enough of your vile, nasty anecdotes, depraved vile, sensual man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! <i>O la vertu va-t-elle se nicher?</i>
      But you know I shall tell you these things on purpose, for the pleasure of
      hearing your outcries!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say. I can see I am ridiculous myself,&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov
      angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov laughed heartily; finally he called Philip, paid his bill,
      and began getting up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, but I am drunk, <i>assez causé</i>,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s been a
      pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should rather think it must be a pleasure!&rdquo; cried Raskolnikov, getting
      up. &ldquo;No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn-out profligate to describe such
      adventures with a monstrous project of the same sort in his mind&mdash;especially
      under such circumstances and to such a man as me.... It&rsquo;s stimulating!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if you come to that,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov answered, scrutinising
      Raskolnikov with some surprise, &ldquo;if you come to that, you are a thorough
      cynic yourself. You&rsquo;ve plenty to make you so, anyway. You can understand a
      great deal... and you can do a great deal too. But enough. I sincerely
      regret not having had more talk with you, but I shan&rsquo;t lose sight of
      you.... Only wait a bit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov walked out after
      him. Svidrigaïlov was not however very drunk, the wine had affected him
      for a moment, but it was passing off every minute. He was preoccupied with
      something of importance and was frowning. He was apparently excited and
      uneasy in anticipation of something. His manner to Raskolnikov had changed
      during the last few minutes, and he was ruder and more sneering every
      moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He became
      very suspicious of Svidrigaïlov and resolved to follow him.
    </p>
    <p>
      They came out on to the pavement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You go to the right, and I to the left, or if you like, the other way.
      Only <i>adieu, mon plaisir</i>, may we meet again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he walked to the right towards the Hay Market.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"></a>
      CHAPTER V
    </h2>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov walked after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this?&rdquo; cried Svidrigaïlov turning round, &ldquo;I thought I said...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both stood still and gazed at one another, as though measuring their
      strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From all your half tipsy stories,&rdquo; Raskolnikov observed harshly, &ldquo;I am <i>positive</i>
      that you have not given up your designs on my sister, but are pursuing
      them more actively than ever. I have learnt that my sister received a
      letter this morning. You have hardly been able to sit still all this
      time.... You may have unearthed a wife on the way, but that means nothing.
      I should like to make certain myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and of what he
      wished to make certain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word! I&rsquo;ll call the police!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Call away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s
      face changed. Having satisfied himself that Raskolnikov was not frightened
      at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and friendly air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a fellow! I purposely refrained from referring to your affair,
      though I am devoured by curiosity. It&rsquo;s a fantastic affair. I&rsquo;ve put it
      off till another time, but you&rsquo;re enough to rouse the dead.... Well, let
      us go, only I warn you beforehand I am only going home for a moment, to
      get some money; then I shall lock up the flat, take a cab and go to spend
      the evening at the Islands. Now, now are you going to follow me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m coming to your lodgings, not to see you but Sofya Semyonovna, to say
      I&rsquo;m sorry not to have been at the funeral.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s as you like, but Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. She has taken
      the three children to an old lady of high rank, the patroness of some
      orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the old lady by
      depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the three children of
      Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution as well. I told her
      too the story of Sofya Semyonovna in full detail, suppressing nothing. It
      produced an indescribable effect on her. That&rsquo;s why Sofya Semyonovna has
      been invited to call to-day at the X. Hotel where the lady is staying for
      the time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter, I&rsquo;ll come all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you like, it&rsquo;s nothing to me, but I won&rsquo;t come with you; here we are
      at home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with suspicion just
      because I have shown such delicacy and have not so far troubled you with
      questions... you understand? It struck you as extraordinary; I don&rsquo;t mind
      betting it&rsquo;s that. Well, it teaches one to show delicacy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And to listen at doors!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s it, is it?&rdquo; laughed Svidrigaïlov. &ldquo;Yes, I should have been
      surprised if you had let that pass after all that has happened. Ha-ha!
      Though I did understand something of the pranks you had been up to and
      were telling Sofya Semyonovna about, what was the meaning of it? Perhaps I
      am quite behind the times and can&rsquo;t understand. For goodness&rsquo; sake,
      explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You couldn&rsquo;t have heard anything. You&rsquo;re making it all up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I&rsquo;m not talking about that (though I did hear something). No, I&rsquo;m
      talking of the way you keep sighing and groaning now. The Schiller in you
      is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at doors. If
      that&rsquo;s how you feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance:
      you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you are convinced that
      one mustn&rsquo;t listen at doors, but one may murder old women at one&rsquo;s
      pleasure, you&rsquo;d better be off to America and make haste. Run, young man!
      There may still be time. I&rsquo;m speaking sincerely. Haven&rsquo;t you the money?
      I&rsquo;ll give you the fare.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not thinking of that at all,&rdquo; Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand (but don&rsquo;t put yourself out, don&rsquo;t discuss it if you don&rsquo;t
      want to). I understand the questions you are worrying over&mdash;moral
      ones, aren&rsquo;t they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. They are
      nothing to you now, ha-ha! You&rsquo;ll say you are still a man and a citizen.
      If so you ought not to have got into this coil. It&rsquo;s no use taking up a
      job you are not fit for. Well, you&rsquo;d better shoot yourself, or don&rsquo;t you
      want to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem trying to enrage me, to make me leave you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a queer fellow! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You see,
      that&rsquo;s the way to Sofya Semyonovna. Look, there is no one at home. Don&rsquo;t
      you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with him. Here is
      Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is rather deaf. Has she gone
      out? Where? Did you hear? She is not in and won&rsquo;t be till late in the
      evening probably. Well, come to my room; you wanted to come and see me,
      didn&rsquo;t you? Here we are. Madame Resslich&rsquo;s not at home. She is a woman who
      is always busy, an excellent woman I assure you.... She might have been of
      use to you if you had been a little more sensible. Now, see! I take this
      five-per-cent bond out of the bureau&mdash;see what a lot I&rsquo;ve got of them
      still&mdash;this one will be turned into cash to-day. I mustn&rsquo;t waste any
      more time. The bureau is locked, the flat is locked, and here we are again
      on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I&rsquo;m going to the Islands. Would you
      like a lift? I&rsquo;ll take this carriage. Ah, you refuse? You are tired of it!
      Come for a drive! I believe it will come on to rain. Never mind, we&rsquo;ll put
      down the hood....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his
      suspicions were at least for that moment unjust. Without answering a word
      he turned and walked back towards the Hay Market. If he had only turned
      round on his way he might have seen Svidrigaïlov get out not a hundred
      paces off, dismiss the cab and walk along the pavement. But he had turned
      the corner and could see nothing. Intense disgust drew him away from
      Svidrigaïlov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that
      coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and blackguard!&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there was
      something about Svidrigaïlov which gave him a certain original, even a
      mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced
      that Svidrigaïlov would not leave her in peace. But it was too tiresome
      and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go on to the bridge,
      but stood aside on the pavement, doing all he could to avoid Raskolnikov&rsquo;s
      seeing him. He had observed Dounia for some time and had been making signs
      to her. She fancied he was signalling to beg her not to speak to her
      brother, but to come to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      That was what Dounia did. She stole by her brother and went up to
      Svidrigaïlov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us make haste away,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov whispered to her, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want
      Rodion Romanovitch to know of our meeting. I must tell you I&rsquo;ve been
      sitting with him in the restaurant close by, where he looked me up and I
      had great difficulty in getting rid of him. He has somehow heard of my
      letter to you and suspects something. It wasn&rsquo;t you who told him, of
      course, but if not you, who then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we&rsquo;ve turned the corner now,&rdquo; Dounia interrupted, &ldquo;and my brother
      won&rsquo;t see us. I have to tell you that I am going no further with you.
      Speak to me here. You can tell it all in the street.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the first place, I can&rsquo;t say it in the street; secondly, you must hear
      Sofya Semyonovna too; and, thirdly, I will show you some papers.... Oh
      well, if you won&rsquo;t agree to come with me, I shall refuse to give any
      explanation and go away at once. But I beg you not to forget that a very
      curious secret of your beloved brother&rsquo;s is entirely in my keeping.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigaïlov with searching
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you afraid of?&rdquo; he observed quietly. &ldquo;The town is not the
      country. And even in the country you did me more harm than I did you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you prepared Sofya Semyonovna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I have not said a word to her and am not quite certain whether she is
      at home now. But most likely she is. She has buried her stepmother to-day:
      she is not likely to go visiting on such a day. For the time I don&rsquo;t want
      to speak to anyone about it and I half regret having spoken to you. The
      slightest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal in a thing like this. I live
      there in that house, we are coming to it. That&rsquo;s the porter of our house&mdash;he
      knows me very well; you see, he&rsquo;s bowing; he sees I&rsquo;m coming with a lady
      and no doubt he has noticed your face already and you will be glad of that
      if you are afraid of me and suspicious. Excuse my putting things so
      coarsely. I haven&rsquo;t a flat to myself; Sofya Semyonovna&rsquo;s room is next to
      mine&mdash;she lodges in the next flat. The whole floor is let out in
      lodgings. Why are you frightened like a child? Am I really so terrible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s lips were twisted in a condescending smile; but he was in
      no smiling mood. His heart was throbbing and he could scarcely breathe. He
      spoke rather loud to cover his growing excitement. But Dounia did not
      notice this peculiar excitement, she was so irritated by his remark that
      she was frightened of him like a child and that he was so terrible to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Though I know that you are not a man... of honour, I am not in the least
      afraid of you. Lead the way,&rdquo; she said with apparent composure, but her
      face was very pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov stopped at Sonia&rsquo;s room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Allow me to inquire whether she is at home.... She is not. How
      unfortunate! But I know she may come quite soon. If she&rsquo;s gone out, it can
      only be to see a lady about the orphans. Their mother is dead.... I&rsquo;ve
      been meddling and making arrangements for them. If Sofya Semyonovna does
      not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to you, to-day if you like.
      This is my flat. These are my two rooms. Madame Resslich, my landlady, has
      the next room. Now, look this way. I will show you my chief piece of
      evidence: this door from my bedroom leads into two perfectly empty rooms,
      which are to let. Here they are... You must look into them with some
      attention.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms. Dounia was looking
      about her mistrustfully, but saw nothing special in the furniture or
      position of the rooms. Yet there was something to observe, for instance,
      that Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s flat was exactly between two sets of almost
      uninhabited apartments. His rooms were not entered directly from the
      passage, but through the landlady&rsquo;s two almost empty rooms. Unlocking a
      door leading out of his bedroom, Svidrigaïlov showed Dounia the two empty
      rooms that were to let. Dounia stopped in the doorway, not knowing what
      she was called to look upon, but Svidrigaïlov hastened to explain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, at this second large room. Notice that door, it&rsquo;s locked. By
      the door stands a chair, the only one in the two rooms. I brought it from
      my rooms so as to listen more conveniently. Just the other side of the
      door is Sofya Semyonovna&rsquo;s table; she sat there talking to Rodion
      Romanovitch. And I sat here listening on two successive evenings, for two
      hours each time&mdash;and of course I was able to learn something, what do
      you think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You listened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I did. Now come back to my room; we can&rsquo;t sit down here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sitting-room and offered her a
      chair. He sat down at the opposite side of the table, at least seven feet
      from her, but probably there was the same glow in his eyes which had once
      frightened Dounia so much. She shuddered and once more looked about her
      distrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture; she evidently did not wish
      to betray her uneasiness. But the secluded position of Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s
      lodging had suddenly struck her. She wanted to ask whether his landlady at
      least were at home, but pride kept her from asking. Moreover, she had
      another trouble in her heart incomparably greater than fear for herself.
      She was in great distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is your letter,&rdquo; she said, laying it on the table. &ldquo;Can it be true
      what you write? You hint at a crime committed, you say, by my brother. You
      hint at it too clearly; you daren&rsquo;t deny it now. I must tell you that I&rsquo;d
      heard of this stupid story before you wrote and don&rsquo;t believe a word of
      it. It&rsquo;s a disgusting and ridiculous suspicion. I know the story and why
      and how it was invented. You can have no proofs. You promised to prove it.
      Speak! But let me warn you that I don&rsquo;t believe you! I don&rsquo;t believe you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the colour rushed
      to her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you didn&rsquo;t believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my rooms?
      Why have you come? Simply from curiosity?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t torment me. Speak, speak!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no denying that you are a brave girl. Upon my word, I thought you
      would have asked Mr. Razumihin to escort you here. But he was not with you
      nor anywhere near. I was on the look-out. It&rsquo;s spirited of you, it proves
      you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovitch. But everything is divine in
      you.... About your brother, what am I to say to you? You&rsquo;ve just seen him
      yourself. What did you think of him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely that&rsquo;s not the only thing you are building on?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not on that, but on his own words. He came here on two successive
      evenings to see Sofya Semyonovna. I&rsquo;ve shown you where they sat. He made a
      full confession to her. He is a murderer. He killed an old woman, a
      pawnbroker, with whom he had pawned things himself. He killed her sister
      too, a pedlar woman called Lizaveta, who happened to come in while he was
      murdering her sister. He killed them with an axe he brought with him. He
      murdered them to rob them and he did rob them. He took money and various
      things.... He told all this, word for word, to Sofya Semyonovna, the only
      person who knows his secret. But she has had no share by word or deed in
      the murder; she was as horrified at it as you are now. Don&rsquo;t be anxious,
      she won&rsquo;t betray him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It cannot be,&rdquo; muttered Dounia, with white lips. She gasped for breath.
      &ldquo;It cannot be. There was not the slightest cause, no sort of ground....
      It&rsquo;s a lie, a lie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He robbed her, that was the cause, he took money and things. It&rsquo;s true
      that by his own admission he made no use of the money or things, but hid
      them under a stone, where they are now. But that was because he dared not
      make use of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it?&rdquo; cried Dounia, and
      she jumped up from the chair. &ldquo;Why, you know him, and you&rsquo;ve seen him, can
      he be a thief?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She seemed to be imploring Svidrigaïlov; she had entirely forgotten her
      fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are thousands and millions of combinations and possibilities,
      Avdotya Romanovna. A thief steals and knows he is a scoundrel, but I&rsquo;ve
      heard of a gentleman who broke open the mail. Who knows, very likely he
      thought he was doing a gentlemanly thing! Of course I should not have
      believed it myself if I&rsquo;d been told of it as you have, but I believe my
      own ears. He explained all the causes of it to Sofya Semyonovna too, but
      she did not believe her ears at first, yet she believed her own eyes at
      last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What... were the causes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. Here&rsquo;s... how shall I tell you?&mdash;A
      theory of a sort, the same one by which I for instance consider that a
      single misdeed is permissible if the principal aim is right, a solitary
      wrongdoing and hundreds of good deeds! It&rsquo;s galling too, of course, for a
      young man of gifts and overweening pride to know that if he had, for
      instance, a paltry three thousand, his whole career, his whole future
      would be differently shaped and yet not to have that three thousand. Add
      to that, nervous irritability from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from
      rags, from a vivid sense of the charm of his social position and his
      sister&rsquo;s and mother&rsquo;s position too. Above all, vanity, pride and vanity,
      though goodness knows he may have good qualities too.... I am not blaming
      him, please don&rsquo;t think it; besides, it&rsquo;s not my business. A special
      little theory came in too&mdash;a theory of a sort&mdash;dividing mankind,
      you see, into material and superior persons, that is persons to whom the
      law does not apply owing to their superiority, who make laws for the rest
      of mankind, the material, that is. It&rsquo;s all right as a theory, <i>une
      théorie comme une autre</i>. Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is,
      what affected him was that a great many men of genius have not hesitated
      at wrongdoing, but have overstepped the law without thinking about it. He
      seems to have fancied that he was a genius too&mdash;that is, he was
      convinced of it for a time. He has suffered a great deal and is still
      suffering from the idea that he could make a theory, but was incapable of
      boldly overstepping the law, and so he is not a man of genius. And that&rsquo;s
      humiliating for a young man of any pride, in our day especially....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But remorse? You deny him any moral feeling then? Is he like that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, everything is in a muddle now; not that it was
      ever in very good order. Russians in general are broad in their ideas,
      Avdotya Romanovna, broad like their land and exceedingly disposed to the
      fantastic, the chaotic. But it&rsquo;s a misfortune to be broad without a
      special genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk we had together on this
      subject, sitting in the evenings on the terrace after supper? Why, you
      used to reproach me with breadth! Who knows, perhaps we were talking at
      the very time when he was lying here thinking over his plan. There are no
      sacred traditions amongst us, especially in the educated class, Avdotya
      Romanovna. At the best someone will make them up somehow for himself out
      of books or from some old chronicle. But those are for the most part the
      learned and all old fogeys, so that it would be almost ill-bred in a man
      of society. You know my opinions in general, though. I never blame anyone.
      I do nothing at all, I persevere in that. But we&rsquo;ve talked of this more
      than once before. I was so happy indeed as to interest you in my
      opinions.... You are very pale, Avdotya Romanovna.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know his theory. I read that article of his about men to whom all is
      permitted. Razumihin brought it to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Razumihin? Your brother&rsquo;s article? In a magazine? Is there such an
      article? I didn&rsquo;t know. It must be interesting. But where are you going,
      Avdotya Romanovna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to see Sofya Semyonovna,&rdquo; Dounia articulated faintly. &ldquo;How do I go
      to her? She has come in, perhaps. I must see her at once. Perhaps she...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Avdotya Romanovna could not finish. Her breath literally failed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sofya Semyonovna will not be back till night, at least I believe not. She
      was to have been back at once, but if not, then she will not be in till
      quite late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, then you are lying! I see... you were lying... lying all the time....
      I don&rsquo;t believe you! I don&rsquo;t believe you!&rdquo; cried Dounia, completely losing
      her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair which Svidrigaïlov made haste to
      give her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Avdotya Romanovna, what is it? Control yourself! Here is some water.
      Drink a little....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sprinkled some water over her. Dounia shuddered and came to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has acted violently,&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov muttered to himself, frowning.
      &ldquo;Avdotya Romanovna, calm yourself! Believe me, he has friends. We will
      save him. Would you like me to take him abroad? I have money, I can get a
      ticket in three days. And as for the murder, he will do all sorts of good
      deeds yet, to atone for it. Calm yourself. He may become a great man yet.
      Well, how are you? How do you feel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cruel man! To be able to jeer at it! Let me go...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in at
      that door and now it is locked. When did you manage to lock it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We couldn&rsquo;t be shouting all over the flat on such a subject. I am far
      from jeering; it&rsquo;s simply that I&rsquo;m sick of talking like this. But how can
      you go in such a state? Do you want to betray him? You will drive him to
      fury, and he will give himself up. Let me tell you, he is already being
      watched; they are already on his track. You will simply be giving him
      away. Wait a little: I saw him and was talking to him just now. He can
      still be saved. Wait a bit, sit down; let us think it over together. I
      asked you to come in order to discuss it alone with you and to consider it
      thoroughly. But do sit down!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you save him? Can he really be saved?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia sat down. Svidrigaïlov sat down beside her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It all depends on you, on you, on you alone,&rdquo; he began with glowing eyes,
      almost in a whisper and hardly able to utter the words for emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dounia drew back from him in alarm. He too was trembling all over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You... one word from you, and he is saved. I... I&rsquo;ll save him. I have
      money and friends. I&rsquo;ll send him away at once. I&rsquo;ll get a passport, two
      passports, one for him and one for me. I have friends... capable
      people.... If you like, I&rsquo;ll take a passport for you... for your
      mother.... What do you want with Razumihin? I love you too.... I love you
      beyond everything.... Let me kiss the hem of your dress, let me, let
      me.... The very rustle of it is too much for me. Tell me, &lsquo;do that,&rsquo; and
      I&rsquo;ll do it. I&rsquo;ll do everything. I will do the impossible. What you
      believe, I will believe. I&rsquo;ll do anything&mdash;anything! Don&rsquo;t, don&rsquo;t
      look at me like that. Do you know that you are killing me?...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was almost beginning to rave.... Something seemed suddenly to go to his
      head. Dounia jumped up and rushed to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Open it! Open it!&rdquo; she called, shaking the door. &ldquo;Open it! Is there no
      one there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov got up and came to himself. His still trembling lips slowly
      broke into an angry mocking smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no one at home,&rdquo; he said quietly and emphatically. &ldquo;The landlady
      has gone out, and it&rsquo;s waste of time to shout like that. You are only
      exciting yourself uselessly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, base man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have lost the key and cannot find it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is an outrage,&rdquo; cried Dounia, turning pale as death. She rushed to
      the furthest corner, where she made haste to barricade herself with a
      little table.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on her tormentor and watched
      every movement he made.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna. In that case you may be
      sure I&rsquo;ve taken measures. Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. The
      Kapernaumovs are far away&mdash;there are five locked rooms between. I am
      at least twice as strong as you are and I have nothing to fear, besides.
      For you could not complain afterwards. You surely would not be willing
      actually to betray your brother? Besides, no one would believe you. How
      should a girl have come alone to visit a solitary man in his lodgings? So
      that even if you do sacrifice your brother, you could prove nothing. It is
      very difficult to prove an assault, Avdotya Romanovna.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Scoundrel!&rdquo; whispered Dounia indignantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a general
      proposition. It&rsquo;s my personal conviction that you are perfectly right&mdash;violence
      is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have no remorse even
      if... you were willing to save your brother of your own accord, as I
      suggest to you. You would be simply submitting to circumstances, to
      violence, in fact, if we must use that word. Think about it. Your
      brother&rsquo;s and your mother&rsquo;s fate are in your hands. I will be your
      slave... all my life... I will wait here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! So that&rsquo;s it, is it?&rdquo; he cried, surprised but smiling maliciously.
      &ldquo;Well, that completely alters the aspect of affairs. You&rsquo;ve made things
      wonderfully easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna. But where did you get the
      revolver? Was it Mr. Razumihin? Why, it&rsquo;s my revolver, an old friend! And
      how I&rsquo;ve hunted for it! The shooting lessons I&rsquo;ve given you in the country
      have not been thrown away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not your revolver, it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, whom you killed,
      wretch! There was nothing of yours in her house. I took it when I began to
      suspect what you were capable of. If you dare to advance one step, I swear
      I&rsquo;ll kill you.&rdquo; She was frantic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But your brother? I ask from curiosity,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov, still
      standing where he was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Inform, if you want to! Don&rsquo;t stir! Don&rsquo;t come nearer! I&rsquo;ll shoot! You
      poisoned your wife, I know; you are a murderer yourself!&rdquo; She held the
      revolver ready.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did! You hinted it yourself; you talked to me of poison.... I know
      you went to get it... you had it in readiness.... It was your doing.... It
      must have been your doing.... Scoundrel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake... you would
      have been the cause.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are lying! I hated you always, always....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened to me
      in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you remember that
      moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a lie,&rdquo; there was a flash of fury in Dounia&rsquo;s eyes, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s a lie
      and a libel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A lie? Well, if you like, it&rsquo;s a lie. I made it up. Women ought not to be
      reminded of such things,&rdquo; he smiled. &ldquo;I know you will shoot, you pretty
      wild creature. Well, shoot away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him, measuring the
      distance and awaiting the first movement on his part. Her lower lip was
      white and quivering and her big black eyes flashed like fire. He had never
      seen her so handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment she
      raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and there was a pang of anguish
      in his heart. He took a step forward and a shot rang out. The bullet
      grazed his hair and flew into the wall behind. He stood still and laughed
      softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head. What&rsquo;s this?
      Blood?&rdquo; he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood, which flowed in
      a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed to have just grazed
      the skin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigaïlov not so much in
      terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what
      she was doing and what was going on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you missed! Fire again, I&rsquo;ll wait,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov softly, still
      smiling, but gloomily. &ldquo;If you go on like that, I shall have time to seize
      you before you cock again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me be,&rdquo; she cried in despair. &ldquo;I swear I&rsquo;ll shoot again. I... I&rsquo;ll
      kill you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well... at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don&rsquo;t... then.&rdquo;
       His eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dounia shot again: it
      missed fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge
      there. Get it ready, I&rsquo;ll wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild
      determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set eyes. Dounia saw
      that he would sooner die than let her go. &ldquo;And... now, of course she would
      kill him, at two paces!&rdquo; Suddenly she flung away the revolver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s dropped it!&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov with surprise, and he drew a deep
      breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart&mdash;perhaps not
      only the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it at that
      moment. It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more
      bitter, which he could not himself have defined.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not
      resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with suppliant eyes. He
      tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to utter a
      sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me go,&rdquo; Dounia implored. Svidrigaïlov shuddered. Her voice now was
      quite different.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you don&rsquo;t love me?&rdquo; he asked softly. Dounia shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And... and you can&rsquo;t? Never?&rdquo; he whispered in despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s the key.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take it! Make haste!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dounia went up to the table to
      take the key.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make haste! Make haste!&rdquo; repeated Svidrigaïlov, still without turning or
      moving. But there seemed a terrible significance in the tone of that &ldquo;make
      haste.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dounia understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the door, unlocked it
      quickly and rushed out of the room. A minute later, beside herself, she
      ran out on to the canal bank in the direction of X. Bridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov remained three minutes standing at the window. At last he
      slowly turned, looked about him and passed his hand over his forehead. A
      strange smile contorted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of
      despair. The blood, which was already getting dry, smeared his hand. He
      looked angrily at it, then wetted a towel and washed his temple. The
      revolver which Dounia had flung away lay near the door and suddenly caught
      his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a little pocket
      three-barrel revolver of old-fashioned construction. There were still two
      charges and one capsule left in it. It could be fired again. He thought a
      little, put the revolver in his pocket, took his hat and went out.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"></a>
      CHAPTER VI
    </h2>
    <p>
      He spent that evening till ten o&rsquo;clock going from one low haunt to
      another. Katia too turned up and sang another gutter song, how a certain
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;villain and tyrant,&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;began kissing Katia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers and the
      waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to these clerks
      by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to the left and the
      other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure garden, where he
      paid for their entrance. There was one lanky three-year-old pine-tree and
      three bushes in the garden, besides a &ldquo;Vauxhall,&rdquo; which was in reality a
      drinking-bar where tea too was served, and there were a few green tables
      and chairs standing round it. A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken
      but exceedingly depressed German clown from Munich with a red nose
      entertained the public. The clerks quarrelled with some other clerks and a
      fight seemed imminent. Svidrigaïlov was chosen to decide the dispute. He
      listened to them for a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that
      there was no possibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed
      certain was that one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded
      in selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with his
      companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon
      belonging to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the affair began to seem
      troublesome. Svidrigaïlov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of
      the garden. It was about six o&rsquo;clock. He had not drunk a drop of wine all
      this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than
      anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-clouds came over the
      sky about ten o&rsquo;clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain came down
      like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in
      streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and each flash
      lasted while one could count five.
    </p>
    <p>
      Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the bureau,
      took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then, putting the
      money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but, looking out
      of the window and listening to the thunder and the rain, he gave up the
      idea, took up his hat and went out of the room without locking the door.
      He went straight to Sonia. She was at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. She was
      giving them tea. She received Svidrigaïlov in respectful silence, looking
      wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at once in
      indescribable terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him. She
      timidly prepared to listen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna,&rdquo; said Svidrigaïlov, &ldquo;and as
      I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some
      arrangements. Well, did you see the lady to-day? I know what she said to
      you, you need not tell me.&rdquo; (Sonia made a movement and blushed.) &ldquo;Those
      people have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and your
      brother, they are really provided for and the money assigned to them I&rsquo;ve
      put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgments. You had better
      take charge of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here, take them!
      Well now, that&rsquo;s settled. Here are three 5-per-cent bonds to the value of
      three thousand roubles. Take those for yourself, entirely for yourself,
      and let that be strictly between ourselves, so that no one knows of it,
      whatever you hear. You will need the money, for to go on living in the old
      way, Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and besides there is no need for it now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and my stepmother,&rdquo;
       said Sonia hurriedly, &ldquo;and if I&rsquo;ve said so little... please don&rsquo;t
      consider...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s enough! that&rsquo;s enough!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am very grateful to you, but I
      don&rsquo;t need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don&rsquo;t think me
      ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please don&rsquo;t waste words
      over it. I haven&rsquo;t time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovitch has
      two alternatives: a bullet in the brain or Siberia.&rdquo; (Sonia looked wildly
      at him, and started.) &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be uneasy, I know all about it from himself
      and I am not a gossip; I won&rsquo;t tell anyone. It was good advice when you
      told him to give himself up and confess. It would be much better for him.
      Well, if it turns out to be Siberia, he will go and you will follow him.
      That&rsquo;s so, isn&rsquo;t it? And if so, you&rsquo;ll need money. You&rsquo;ll need it for him,
      do you understand? Giving it to you is the same as my giving it to him.
      Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay what&rsquo;s owing. I heard you.
      How can you undertake such obligations so heedlessly, Sofya Semyonovna? It
      was Katerina Ivanovna&rsquo;s debt and not yours, so you ought not to have taken
      any notice of the German woman. You can&rsquo;t get through the world like that.
      If you are ever questioned about me&mdash;to-morrow or the day after you
      will be asked&mdash;don&rsquo;t say anything about my coming to see you now and
      don&rsquo;t show the money to anyone or say a word about it. Well, now
      good-bye.&rdquo; (He got up.) &ldquo;My greetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way,
      you&rsquo;d better put the money for the present in Mr. Razumihin&rsquo;s keeping. You
      know Mr. Razumihin? Of course you do. He&rsquo;s not a bad fellow. Take it to
      him to-morrow or... when the time comes. And till then, hide it
      carefully.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at Svidrigaïlov.
      She longed to speak, to ask a question, but for the first moments she did
      not dare and did not know how to begin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you... how can you be going now, in such rain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain! Ha, ha! Good-bye,
      Sofya Semyonovna, my dear! Live and live long, you will be of use to
      others. By the way... tell Mr. Razumihin I send my greetings to him. Tell
      him Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov sends his greetings. Be sure to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety and vague
      apprehension.
    </p>
    <p>
      It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven, he
      made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still
      persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flat where the
      parents of his betrothed lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky Island. He
      knocked some time before he was admitted, and his visit at first caused
      great perturbation; but Svidrigaïlov could be very fascinating when he
      liked, so that the first, and indeed very intelligent surmise of the
      sensible parents that Svidrigaïlov had probably had so much to drink that
      he did not know what he was doing vanished immediately. The decrepit
      father was wheeled in to see Svidrigaïlov by the tender and sensible
      mother, who as usual began the conversation with various irrelevant
      questions. She never asked a direct question, but began by smiling and
      rubbing her hands and then, if she were obliged to ascertain something&mdash;for
      instance, when Svidrigaïlov would like to have the wedding&mdash;she would
      begin by interested and almost eager questions about Paris and the court
      life there, and only by degrees brought the conversation round to Third
      Street. On other occasions this had of course been very impressive, but
      this time Arkady Ivanovitch seemed particularly impatient, and insisted on
      seeing his betrothed at once, though he had been informed, to begin with,
      that she had already gone to bed. The girl of course appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov informed her at once that he was obliged by very important
      affairs to leave Petersburg for a time, and therefore brought her fifteen
      thousand roubles and begged her accept them as a present from him, as he
      had long been intending to make her this trifling present before their
      wedding. The logical connection of the present with his immediate
      departure and the absolute necessity of visiting them for that purpose in
      pouring rain at midnight was not made clear. But it all went off very
      well; even the inevitable ejaculations of wonder and regret, the
      inevitable questions were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other
      hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and was reinforced by tears
      from the most sensible of mothers. Svidrigaïlov got up, laughed, kissed
      his betrothed, patted her cheek, declared he would soon come back, and
      noticing in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, a sort of earnest
      dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, though he felt sincere anger
      inwardly at the thought that his present would be immediately locked up in
      the keeping of the most sensible of mothers. He went away, leaving them
      all in a state of extraordinary excitement, but the tender mamma, speaking
      quietly in a half whisper, settled some of the most important of their
      doubts, concluding that Svidrigaïlov was a great man, a man of great
      affairs and connections and of great wealth&mdash;there was no knowing
      what he had in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away
      money just as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing surprising
      about it. Of course it was strange that he was wet through, but
      Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric, and all these people of
      high society didn&rsquo;t think of what was said of them and didn&rsquo;t stand on
      ceremony. Possibly, indeed, he came like that on purpose to show that he
      was not afraid of anyone. Above all, not a word should be said about it,
      for God knows what might come of it, and the money must be locked up, and
      it was most fortunate that Fedosya, the cook, had not left the kitchen.
      And above all not a word must be said to that old cat, Madame Resslich,
      and so on and so on. They sat up whispering till two o&rsquo;clock, but the girl
      went to bed much earlier, amazed and rather sorrowful.
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed the bridge on the way
      back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a roaring wind. He
      began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the black waters of the
      Little Neva with a look of special interest, even inquiry. But he soon
      felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and went towards Y.
      Prospect. He walked along that endless street for a long time, almost half
      an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but
      continually looking for something on the right side of the street. He had
      noticed passing through this street lately that there was a hotel
      somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly large, and its name
      he remembered was something like Adrianople. He was not mistaken: the
      hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken place that he could not fail
      to see it even in the dark. It was a long, blackened wooden building, and
      in spite of the late hour there were lights in the windows and signs of
      life within. He went in and asked a ragged fellow who met him in the
      corridor for a room. The latter, scanning Svidrigaïlov, pulled himself
      together and led him at once to a close and tiny room in the distance, at
      the end of the corridor, under the stairs. There was no other, all were
      occupied. The ragged fellow looked inquiringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there tea?&rdquo; asked Svidrigaïlov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else is there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Veal, vodka, savouries.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bring me tea and veal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you want nothing else?&rdquo; he asked with apparent surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be a nice place,&rdquo; thought Svidrigaïlov. &ldquo;How was it I didn&rsquo;t know
      it? I expect I look as if I came from a café chantant and have had some
      adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stayed here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a room
      so low-pitched that Svidrigaïlov could only just stand up in it; it had
      one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain-stained chair and
      table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they were made of
      planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty that the pattern was
      indistinguishable, though the general colour&mdash;yellow&mdash;could
      still be made out. One of the walls was cut short by the sloping ceiling,
      though the room was not an attic but just under the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank into
      thought. But a strange persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shout
      in the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had not ceased from
      the moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding and
      almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he saw
      light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The
      room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One of them,
      a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing in the pose
      of an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart to preserve his
      balance, and smiting himself on the breast. He reproached the other with
      being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. He declared that he had
      taken the other out of the gutter and he could turn him out when he liked,
      and that only the finger of Providence sees it all. The object of his
      reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the air of a man who wants
      dreadfully to sneeze, but can&rsquo;t. He sometimes turned sheepish and befogged
      eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not the slightest idea what he was
      talking about and scarcely heard it. A candle was burning down on the
      table; there were wine-glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, bread and
      cucumber, and glasses with the dregs of stale tea. After gazing
      attentively at this, Svidrigaïlov turned away indifferently and sat down
      on the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking him
      again whether he didn&rsquo;t want anything more, and again receiving a negative
      reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigaïlov made haste to drink a glass of tea
      to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish. He
      took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the
      bed. He was annoyed. &ldquo;It would have been better to be well for the
      occasion,&rdquo; he thought with a smile. The room was close, the candle burnt
      dimly, the wind was roaring outside, he heard a mouse scratching in the
      corner and the room smelt of mice and of leather. He lay in a sort of
      reverie: one thought followed another. He felt a longing to fix his
      imagination on something. &ldquo;It must be a garden under the window,&rdquo; he
      thought. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a sound of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees on a
      stormy night, in the dark! They give one a horrid feeling.&rdquo; He remembered
      how he had disliked it when he passed Petrovsky Park just now. This
      reminded him of the bridge over the Little Neva and he felt cold again as
      he had when standing there. &ldquo;I never have liked water,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;even
      in a landscape,&rdquo; and he suddenly smiled again at a strange idea: &ldquo;Surely
      now all these questions of taste and comfort ought not to matter, but I&rsquo;ve
      become more particular, like an animal that picks out a special place...
      for such an occasion. I ought to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I
      suppose it seemed dark, cold, ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant
      sensations!... By the way, why haven&rsquo;t I put out the candle?&rdquo; he blew it
      out. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve gone to bed next door,&rdquo; he thought, not seeing the light at
      the crack. &ldquo;Well, now, Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up;
      it&rsquo;s dark, and the very time and place for you. But now you won&rsquo;t come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on
      Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin&rsquo;s
      keeping. &ldquo;I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to tease
      myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He&rsquo;s gone through a good
      deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he&rsquo;s got over his
      nonsense. But now he&rsquo;s <i>too</i> eager for life. These young men are
      contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him please himself,
      it&rsquo;s nothing to do with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia&rsquo;s image rose before him, and
      a shudder ran over him. &ldquo;No, I must give up all that now,&rdquo; he thought,
      rousing himself. &ldquo;I must think of something else. It&rsquo;s queer and funny. I
      never had a great hatred for anyone, I never particularly desired to
      avenge myself even, and that&rsquo;s a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad sign. I never
      liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper&mdash;that&rsquo;s a bad sign
      too. And the promises I made her just now, too&mdash;Damnation! But&mdash;who
      knows?&mdash;perhaps she would have made a new man of me somehow....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia&rsquo;s image rose
      before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time, she had
      lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that he might
      have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand to defend
      herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that instant he
      felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his heart...
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aïe! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly something
      seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He started. &ldquo;Ugh!
      hang it! I believe it&rsquo;s a mouse,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s the veal I left on
      the table.&rdquo; He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the blanket, get up,
      get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over his leg again. He
      pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking with feverish chill
      he bent down to examine the bed: there was nothing. He shook the blanket
      and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet. He tried to catch it, but
      the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without leaving the bed, slipped
      between his fingers, ran over his hand and suddenly darted under the
      pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one instant felt something leap
      on his chest and dart over his body and down his back under his shirt. He
      trembled nervously and woke up.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket
      as before. The wind was howling under the window. &ldquo;How disgusting,&rdquo; he
      thought with annoyance.
    </p>
    <p>
      He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window.
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s better not to sleep at all,&rdquo; he decided. There was a cold damp
      draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the blanket
      over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and
      did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps
      of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into
      drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind
      that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of
      persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images of
      flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot
      day, a holiday&mdash;Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the
      English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going
      round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds
      of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated
      with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows
      nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their
      bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them,
      but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and
      again everywhere&mdash;at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on
      the balcony itself&mdash;were flowers. The floors were strewn with
      freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air
      came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the
      middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a
      coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick
      white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the
      flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and
      pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair
      hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and
      already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble
      too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish
      misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no
      holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the
      girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken.
      And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and
      amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited
      disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally
      disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled....
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the window.
      He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously into the
      little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with his shirt,
      as though with frost. Under the window there must have been something like
      a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too, probably there
      were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of rain flew in at
      the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as in a cellar, so that
      he could only just make out some dark blurs of objects. Svidrigaïlov,
      bending down with elbows on the window-sill, gazed for five minutes into
      the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed by a second one, resounded in
      the darkness of the night. &ldquo;Ah, the signal! The river is overflowing,&rdquo; he
      thought. &ldquo;By morning it will be swirling down the street in the lower
      parts, flooding the basements and cellars. The cellar rats will swim out,
      and men will curse in the rain and wind as they drag their rubbish to
      their upper storeys. What time is it now?&rdquo; And he had hardly thought it
      when, somewhere near, a clock on the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck
      three.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I&rsquo;ll go out at once straight
      to the park. I&rsquo;ll choose a great bush there drenched with rain, so that as
      soon as one&rsquo;s shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on one&rsquo;s head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his
      waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle,
      into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep
      somewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay him
      for the room and leave the hotel. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the best minute; I couldn&rsquo;t choose
      a better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without finding
      anyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner
      between an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange object
      which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little
      girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her clothes
      as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid of
      Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her big black
      eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have been crying a
      long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child&rsquo;s face was pale
      and tired, she was numb with cold. &ldquo;How can she have come here? She must
      have hidden here and not slept all night.&rdquo; He began questioning her. The
      child suddenly becoming animated, chattered away in her baby language,
      something about &ldquo;mammy&rdquo; and that &ldquo;mammy would beat her,&rdquo; and about some
      cup that she had &ldquo;bwoken.&rdquo; The child chattered on without stopping. He
      could only guess from what she said that she was a neglected child, whose
      mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped and
      frightened her; that the child had broken a cup of her mother&rsquo;s and was so
      frightened that she had run away the evening before, had hidden for a long
      while somewhere outside in the rain, at last had made her way in here,
      hidden behind the cupboard and spent the night there, crying and trembling
      from the damp, the darkness and the fear that she would be badly beaten
      for it. He took her in his arms, went back to his room, sat her on the
      bed, and began undressing her. The torn shoes which she had on her
      stockingless feet were as wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all
      night. When he had undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up
      and wrapped her in the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at
      once. Then he sank into dreary musing again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What folly to trouble myself,&rdquo; he decided suddenly with an oppressive
      feeling of annoyance. &ldquo;What idiocy!&rdquo; In vexation he took up the candle to
      go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away.
      &ldquo;Damn the child!&rdquo; he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again to
      see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully. The
      child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket, and her
      pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed brighter
      and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a flush of fever,&rdquo;
       thought Svidrigaïlov. It was like the flush from drinking, as though she
      had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were hot and
      glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long black
      eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a sly crafty
      eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little girl were
      not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile.
      The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to control
      them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin, a broad
      grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quite unchildish
      face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the shameless face of
      a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they turned a glowing,
      shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited him.... There was
      something infinitely hideous and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in
      such nastiness in the face of a child. &ldquo;What, at five years old?&rdquo;
       Svidrigaïlov muttered in genuine horror. &ldquo;What does it mean?&rdquo; And now she
      turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding out her arms....
      &ldquo;Accursed child!&rdquo; Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand to strike her, but
      at that moment he woke up.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve had nightmare all night!&rdquo; He got up angrily, feeling utterly
      shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could
      see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up, put
      on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket,
      he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket and
      in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few lines in large
      letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his elbows on the
      table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some flies woke up
      and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared
      at them and at last with his free right hand began trying to catch one. He
      tried till he was tired, but could not catch it. At last, realising that
      he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he started, got up and walked
      resolutely out of the room. A minute later he was in the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along the
      slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing
      the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the
      wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the
      bush.... He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think of
      something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street. The
      bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with their
      closed shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and he began
      to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and read each
      carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and came to a
      big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail
      between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead drunk,
      across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower stood up
      on the left. &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; he shouted, &ldquo;here is a place. Why should it be
      Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness anyway....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where
      there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of the
      house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped
      in a grey soldier&rsquo;s coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He
      cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His face wore that
      perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly printed on all
      faces of Jewish race without exception. They both, Svidrigaïlov and
      Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. At last
      it struck Achilles as irregular for a man not drunk to be standing three
      steps from him, staring and not saying a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want here?&rdquo; he said, without moving or changing his position.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, brother, good morning,&rdquo; answered Svidrigaïlov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This isn&rsquo;t the place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to foreign parts, brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To foreign parts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To America.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;America.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his
      eyebrows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, this is not the place for such jokes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t it be the place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because it isn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, brother, I don&rsquo;t mind that. It&rsquo;s a good place. When you are asked,
      you just say he was going, he said, to America.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put the revolver to his right temple.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t do it here, it&rsquo;s not the place,&rdquo; cried Achilles, rousing
      himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"></a>
      CHAPTER VII
    </h2>
    <p>
      The same day, about seven o&rsquo;clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his
      way to his mother&rsquo;s and sister&rsquo;s lodging&mdash;the lodging in Bakaleyev&rsquo;s
      house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from the
      street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still hesitating
      whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back: his decision
      was taken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides, it doesn&rsquo;t matter, they still know nothing,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;and
      they are used to thinking of me as eccentric.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a
      night&rsquo;s rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the
      inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all
      the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a
      decision.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here you are!&rdquo; she began, faltering with joy. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be angry with me,
      Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing not
      crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I&rsquo;ve got into
      such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I&rsquo;ve been like that ever since your
      father&rsquo;s death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be tired;
      I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was in the rain yesterday, mother....&rdquo; Raskolnikov began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, &ldquo;you thought I was
      going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to; don&rsquo;t be
      anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now I&rsquo;ve learned the ways here
      and truly I see for myself that they are better. I&rsquo;ve made up my mind once
      for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to give an
      account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have, or what
      ideas you are hatching; so it&rsquo;s not for me to keep nudging your elbow,
      asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why am I running
      to and fro as though I were crazy...? I am reading your article in the
      magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch brought it to me.
      Directly I saw it I cried out to myself: &lsquo;There, foolish one,&rsquo; I thought,
      &lsquo;that&rsquo;s what he is busy about; that&rsquo;s the solution of the mystery! Learned
      people are always like that. He may have some new ideas in his head just
      now; he is thinking them over and I worry him and upset him.&rsquo; I read it,
      my dear, and of course there was a great deal I did not understand; but
      that&rsquo;s only natural&mdash;how should I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Show me, mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. Incongruous as
      it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and
      bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he
      sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a
      moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed with
      anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding months. He
      flung the article on the table with disgust and anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you will
      very soon be one of the leading&mdash;if not the leading man&mdash;in the
      world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You don&rsquo;t
      know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how
      could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but believing it&mdash;what
      do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazines&mdash;the first
      time poems (I&rsquo;ve got the manuscript and will show you) and the second time
      a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it out) and how we prayed that
      they should be taken&mdash;they weren&rsquo;t! I was breaking my heart, Rodya,
      six or seven days ago over your food and your clothes and the way you are
      living. But now I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any
      position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you don&rsquo;t care
      about that for the present and you are occupied with much more important
      matters....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dounia&rsquo;s not at home, mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Rodya. I often don&rsquo;t see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri Prokofitch
      comes to see me, it&rsquo;s so good of him, and he always talks about you. He
      loves you and respects you, my dear. I don&rsquo;t say that Dounia is very
      wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has her ways and I
      have mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and I never have any
      secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia has far too much
      sense, and besides she loves you and me... but I don&rsquo;t know what it will
      all lead to. You&rsquo;ve made me so happy by coming now, Rodya, but she has
      missed you by going out; when she comes in I&rsquo;ll tell her: &lsquo;Your brother
      came in while you were out. Where have you been all this time?&rsquo; You
      mustn&rsquo;t spoil me, Rodya, you know; come when you can, but if you can&rsquo;t, it
      doesn&rsquo;t matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway, that you are fond of me,
      that will be enough for me. I shall read what you write, I shall hear
      about you from everyone, and sometimes you&rsquo;ll come yourself to see me.
      What could be better? Here you&rsquo;ve come now to comfort your mother, I see
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here I am again! Don&rsquo;t mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I sitting
      here?&rdquo; she cried, jumping up. &ldquo;There is coffee and I don&rsquo;t offer you any.
      Ah, that&rsquo;s the selfishness of old age. I&rsquo;ll get it at once!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, don&rsquo;t trouble, I am going at once. I haven&rsquo;t come for that.
      Please listen to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are
      told about me, will you always love me as you do now?&rdquo; he asked suddenly
      from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and
      not weighing them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question?
      Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn&rsquo;t believe
      anyone, I should refuse to listen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to assure you that I&rsquo;ve always loved you and I am glad that we
      are alone, even glad Dounia is out,&rdquo; he went on with the same impulse. &ldquo;I
      have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you must believe
      that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all you thought
      about me, that I was cruel and didn&rsquo;t care about you, was all a mistake. I
      shall never cease to love you.... Well, that&rsquo;s enough: I thought I must do
      this and begin with this....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her bosom
      and weeping gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what is wrong with you, Rodya,&rdquo; she said at last. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been
      thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now I see that
      there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that&rsquo;s why you are
      miserable. I&rsquo;ve foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking
      about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister
      lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I
      caught something, but I couldn&rsquo;t make it out. I felt all the morning as
      though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting
      something, and now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You are
      going away somewhere?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need me. And
      Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly&mdash;and Sofya
      Semyonovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon
      her as a daughter even... Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together.
      But... where... are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, to-day?&rdquo; she cried, as though losing him for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t stay, I must go now....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And can&rsquo;t I come with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer perhaps will reach
      Him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That&rsquo;s right, that&rsquo;s right.
      Oh, God, what are we doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one there, that he
      was alone with his mother. For the first time after all those awful months
      his heart was softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet and
      both wept, embracing. And she was not surprised and did not question him
      this time. For some days she had realised that something awful was
      happening to her son and that now some terrible minute had come for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodya, my darling, my first born,&rdquo; she said sobbing, &ldquo;now you are just as
      when you were little. You would run like this to me and hug me and kiss
      me. When your father was living and we were poor, you comforted us simply
      by being with us and when I buried your father, how often we wept together
      at his grave and embraced, as now. And if I&rsquo;ve been crying lately, it&rsquo;s
      that my mother&rsquo;s heart had a foreboding of trouble. The first time I saw
      you, that evening, you remember, as soon as we arrived here, I guessed
      simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and to-day when I opened the
      door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had come. Rodya, Rodya,
      you are not going away to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll come again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... I&rsquo;ll come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodya, don&rsquo;t be angry, I don&rsquo;t dare to question you. I know I mustn&rsquo;t.
      Only say two words to me&mdash;is it far where you are going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very far.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What God sends... only pray for me.&rdquo; Raskolnikov went to the door, but
      she clutched him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face worked
      with terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough, mother,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not for ever, it&rsquo;s not yet for ever? You&rsquo;ll come, you&rsquo;ll come to-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, I will, good-bye.&rdquo; He tore himself away at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in the morning.
      Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he made haste. He wanted to finish all
      before sunset. He did not want to meet anyone till then. Going up the
      stairs he noticed that Nastasya rushed from the samovar to watch him
      intently. &ldquo;Can anyone have come to see me?&rdquo; he wondered. He had a
      disgusted vision of Porfiry. But opening his door he saw Dounia. She was
      sitting alone, plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had been
      waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway. She rose from the
      sofa in dismay and stood up facing him. Her eyes, fixed upon him, betrayed
      horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at once that
      she knew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I to come in or go away?&rdquo; he asked uncertainly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were both waiting for you. We
      thought that you would be sure to come there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have liked at this
      moment to be able to control myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He glanced at her mistrustfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where were you all night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind
      once for all, and several times I walked by the Neva, I remember that I
      wanted to end it all there, but... I couldn&rsquo;t make up my mind,&rdquo; he
      whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofya Semyonovna and I.
      Then you still have faith in life? Thank God, thank God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov smiled bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t faith, but I have just been weeping in mother&rsquo;s arms; I haven&rsquo;t
      faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me. I don&rsquo;t know how it is,
      Dounia, I don&rsquo;t understand it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you been at mother&rsquo;s? Have you told her?&rdquo; cried Dounia,
      horror-stricken. &ldquo;Surely you haven&rsquo;t done that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I didn&rsquo;t tell her... in words; but she understood a great deal. She
      heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it
      already. Perhaps I did wrong in going to see her. I don&rsquo;t know why I did
      go. I am a contemptible person, Dounia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering! You are, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought of
      drowning myself, Dounia, but as I looked into the water, I thought that if
      I had considered myself strong till now I&rsquo;d better not be afraid of
      disgrace,&rdquo; he said, hurrying on. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s pride, Dounia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pride, Rodya.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes; he seemed to be glad to
      think that he was still proud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water?&rdquo; he
      asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Rodya, hush!&rdquo; cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted for two minutes.
      He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor; Dounia stood at the other end of
      the table and looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he got up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s late, it&rsquo;s time to go! I am going at once to give myself up. But I
      don&rsquo;t know why I am going to give myself up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Big tears fell down her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You doubted it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She threw her arms round him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you half expiating your crime by facing the suffering?&rdquo; she cried,
      holding him close and kissing him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Crime? What crime?&rdquo; he cried in sudden fury. &ldquo;That I killed a vile
      noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman, of use to no one!... Killing her
      was atonement for forty sins. She was sucking the life out of poor people.
      Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not thinking of
      expiating it, and why are you all rubbing it in on all sides? &lsquo;A crime! a
      crime!&rsquo; Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my cowardice, now that I
      have decided to face this superfluous disgrace. It&rsquo;s simply because I am
      contemptible and have nothing in me that I have decided to, perhaps too
      for my advantage, as that... Porfiry... suggested!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, you have shed blood?&rdquo; cried
      Dounia in despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which all men shed,&rdquo; he put in almost frantically, &ldquo;which flows and has
      always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, and for which men
      are crowned in the Capitol and are called afterwards benefactors of
      mankind. Look into it more carefully and understand it! I too wanted to do
      good to men and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds to make
      up for that one piece of stupidity, not stupidity even, simply clumsiness,
      for the idea was by no means so stupid as it seems now that it has
      failed.... (Everything seems stupid when it fails.) By that stupidity I
      only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take the first
      step, to obtain means, and then everything would have been smoothed over
      by benefits immeasurable in comparison.... But I... I couldn&rsquo;t carry out
      even the first step, because I am contemptible, that&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s the matter!
      And yet I won&rsquo;t look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I should have
      been crowned with glory, but now I&rsquo;m trapped.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s not so, not so! Brother, what are you saying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, it&rsquo;s not picturesque, not æsthetically attractive! I fail to
      understand why bombarding people by regular siege is more honourable. The
      fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotence. I&rsquo;ve never, never
      recognised this more clearly than now, and I am further than ever from
      seeing that what I did was a crime. I&rsquo;ve never, never been stronger and
      more convinced than now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as he uttered his
      last explanation, he happened to meet Dounia&rsquo;s eyes and he saw such
      anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt that he had,
      anyway, made these two poor women miserable, that he was, anyway, the
      cause...
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I cannot be forgiven if
      I am guilty). Good-bye! We won&rsquo;t dispute. It&rsquo;s time, high time to go.
      Don&rsquo;t follow me, I beseech you, I have somewhere else to go.... But you go
      at once and sit with mother. I entreat you to! It&rsquo;s my last request of
      you. Don&rsquo;t leave her at all; I left her in a state of anxiety, that she is
      not fit to bear; she will die or go out of her mind. Be with her!
      Razumihin will be with you. I&rsquo;ve been talking to him.... Don&rsquo;t cry about
      me: I&rsquo;ll try to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a murderer.
      Perhaps I shall some day make a name. I won&rsquo;t disgrace you, you will see;
      I&rsquo;ll still show.... Now good-bye for the present,&rdquo; he concluded hurriedly,
      noticing again a strange expression in Dounia&rsquo;s eyes at his last words and
      promises. &ldquo;Why are you crying? Don&rsquo;t cry, don&rsquo;t cry: we are not parting
      for ever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I&rsquo;d forgotten!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it and took from
      between the pages a little water-colour portrait on ivory. It was the
      portrait of his landlady&rsquo;s daughter, who had died of fever, that strange
      girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate
      expressive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait and gave it to
      Dounia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her,&rdquo; he said
      thoughtfully. &ldquo;To her heart I confided much of what has since been so
      hideously realised. Don&rsquo;t be uneasy,&rdquo; he returned to Dounia, &ldquo;she was as
      much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great point
      is that everything now is going to be different, is going to be broken in
      two,&rdquo; he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. &ldquo;Everything,
      everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself? They say it is
      necessary for me to suffer! What&rsquo;s the object of these senseless
      sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when I am crushed
      by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty years&rsquo; penal
      servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I consenting to
      that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood looking at the
      Neva at daybreak to-day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but she loved him. She
      walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look at him
      again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned and for the last
      time their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him, he motioned
      her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the corner
      abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am wicked, I see that,&rdquo; he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment
      later of his angry gesture to Dounia. &ldquo;But why are they so fond of me if I
      don&rsquo;t deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved me and I too
      had never loved anyone! <i>Nothing of all this would have happened.</i>
      But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek that I
      shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word that I am a
      criminal? Yes, that&rsquo;s it, that&rsquo;s it, that&rsquo;s what they are sending me there
      for, that&rsquo;s what they want. Look at them running to and fro about the
      streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart and, worse
      still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they&rsquo;d be wild with righteous
      indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could be
      humbled before all of them, indiscriminately&mdash;humbled by conviction.
      And yet why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual
      bondage crush him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should he
      live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be so? It
      was the hundredth time perhaps that he had asked himself that question
      since the previous evening, but still he went.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"></a>
      CHAPTER VIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      When he went into Sonia&rsquo;s room, it was already getting dark. All day Sonia
      had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety. Dounia had been waiting with
      her. She had come to her that morning, remembering Svidrigaïlov&rsquo;s words
      that Sonia knew. We will not describe the conversation and tears of the
      two girls, and how friendly they became. Dounia gained one comfort at
      least from that interview, that her brother would not be alone. He had
      gone to her, Sonia, first with his confession; he had gone to her for
      human fellowship when he needed it; she would go with him wherever fate
      might send him. Dounia did not ask, but she knew it was so. She looked at
      Sonia almost with reverence and at first almost embarrassed her by it.
      Sonia was almost on the point of tears. She felt herself, on the contrary,
      hardly worthy to look at Dounia. Dounia&rsquo;s gracious image when she had
      bowed to her so attentively and respectfully at their first meeting in
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s room had remained in her mind as one of the fairest visions
      of her life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to her brother&rsquo;s
      room to await him there; she kept thinking that he would come there first.
      When she had gone, Sonia began to be tortured by the dread of his
      committing suicide, and Dounia too feared it. But they had spent the day
      trying to persuade each other that that could not be, and both were less
      anxious while they were together. As soon as they parted, each thought of
      nothing else. Sonia remembered how Svidrigaïlov had said to her the day
      before that Raskolnikov had two alternatives&mdash;Siberia or... Besides
      she knew his vanity, his pride and his lack of faith.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear of death to
      make him live?&rdquo; she thought at last in despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, looking
      intently out of the window, but from it she could see nothing but the
      unwhitewashed blank wall of the next house. At last when she began to feel
      sure of his death&mdash;he walked into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face she turned
      pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Raskolnikov, smiling. &ldquo;I have come for your cross, Sonia. It
      was you told me to go to the cross-roads; why is it you are frightened now
      it&rsquo;s come to that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange to her; a cold
      shiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and the
      words were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoid
      meeting her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, Sonia, I&rsquo;ve decided that it will be better so. There is one
      fact.... But it&rsquo;s a long story and there&rsquo;s no need to discuss it. But do
      you know what angers me? It annoys me that all those stupid brutish faces
      will be gaping at me directly, pestering me with their stupid questions,
      which I shall have to answer&mdash;they&rsquo;ll point their fingers at me....
      Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of him. I&rsquo;d rather go
      to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how I shall surprise him, what a
      sensation I shall make! But I must be cooler; I&rsquo;ve become too irritable of
      late. You know I was nearly shaking my fist at my sister just now, because
      she turned to take a last look at me. It&rsquo;s a brutal state to be in! Ah!
      what am I coming to! Well, where are the crosses?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still or
      concentrate his attention on anything; his ideas seemed to gallop after
      one another, he talked incoherently, his hands trembled slightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the symbol of my taking up the cross,&rdquo; he laughed. &ldquo;As though I had
      not suffered much till now! The wooden cross, that is the peasant one; the
      copper one, that is Lizaveta&rsquo;s&mdash;you will wear yourself, show me! So
      she had it on... at that moment? I remember two things like these too, a
      silver one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the old woman&rsquo;s neck.
      Those would be appropriate now, really, those are what I ought to put on
      now.... But I am talking nonsense and forgetting what matters; I&rsquo;m somehow
      forgetful.... You see I have come to warn you, Sonia, so that you might
      know... that&rsquo;s all&mdash;that&rsquo;s all I came for. But I thought I had more
      to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I am going to prison and
      you&rsquo;ll have your wish. Well, what are you crying for? You too? Don&rsquo;t.
      Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked at her. &ldquo;Why is
      she grieving too?&rdquo; he thought to himself. &ldquo;What am I to her? Why does she
      weep? Why is she looking after me, like my mother or Dounia? She&rsquo;ll be my
      nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cross yourself, say at least one prayer,&rdquo; Sonia begged in a timid broken
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia, sincerely....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he wanted to say something quite different.
    </p>
    <p>
      He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her shawl and put it over
      her head. It was the green <i>drap de dames</i> shawl of which Marmeladov
      had spoken, &ldquo;the family shawl.&rdquo; Raskolnikov thought of that looking at it,
      but he did not ask. He began to feel himself that he was certainly
      forgetting things and was disgustingly agitated. He was frightened at
      this. He was suddenly struck too by the thought that Sonia meant to go
      with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I&rsquo;ll go alone,&rdquo;
       he cried in cowardly vexation, and almost resentful, he moved towards the
      door. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the use of going in procession?&rdquo; he muttered going out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said
      good-bye to her; he had forgotten her. A poignant and rebellious doubt
      surged in his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it right, was it right, all this?&rdquo; he thought again as he went down
      the stairs. &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t he stop and retract it all... and not go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he mustn&rsquo;t ask
      himself questions. As he turned into the street he remembered that he had
      not said good-bye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle of the room
      in her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shouted at her, and he
      stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, another thought dawned
      upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike him then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told her&mdash;on
      business; on what business? I had no sort of business! To tell her I was
      <i>going</i>; but where was the need? Do I love her? No, no, I drove her
      away just now like a dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I&rsquo;ve sunk!
      No, I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heart
      ached! I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me, some
      friendly face to see! And I dared to believe in myself, to dream of what I
      would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretch, contemptible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. But on
      reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along it went to
      the Hay Market.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object and
      could not fix his attention on anything; everything slipped away. &ldquo;In
      another week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this
      bridge, how shall I look at the canal then? I should like to remember
      this!&rdquo; slipped into his mind. &ldquo;Look at this sign! How shall I read those
      letters then? It&rsquo;s written here &lsquo;Campany,&rsquo; that&rsquo;s a thing to remember,
      that letter <i>a</i>, and to look at it again in a month&mdash;how shall I
      look at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then?... How trivial
      it all must be, what I am fretting about now! Of course it must all be
      interesting... in its way... (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) I am
      becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I ashamed? Foo! how
      people shove! that fat man&mdash;a German he must be&mdash;who pushed
      against me, does he know whom he pushed? There&rsquo;s a peasant woman with a
      baby, begging. It&rsquo;s curious that she thinks me happier than she is. I
      might give her something, for the incongruity of it. Here&rsquo;s a five copeck
      piece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here... take it, my
      good woman!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless you,&rdquo; the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very distasteful to be in
      a crowd, but he walked just where he saw most people. He would have given
      anything in the world to be alone; but he knew himself that he would not
      have remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and disorderly in
      the crowd; he kept trying to dance and falling down. There was a ring
      round him. Raskolnikov squeezed his way through the crowd, stared for some
      minutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a short jerky laugh. A minute
      later he had forgotten him and did not see him, though he still stared. He
      moved away at last, not remembering where he was; but when he got into the
      middle of the square an emotion suddenly came over him, overwhelming him
      body and mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      He suddenly recalled Sonia&rsquo;s words, &ldquo;Go to the cross-roads, bow down to
      the people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned against it too, and say
      aloud to the whole world, &lsquo;I am a murderer.&rsquo;&rdquo; He trembled, remembering
      that. And the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especially of
      the last hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that he positively
      clutched at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensation. It came
      over him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and
      spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and the
      tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot....
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s boozed,&rdquo; a youth near him observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a roar of laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good-bye to his children
      and his country. He&rsquo;s bowing down to all the world and kissing the great
      city of St. Petersburg and its pavement,&rdquo; added a workman who was a little
      drunk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite a young man, too!&rdquo; observed a third.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And a gentleman,&rdquo; someone observed soberly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no knowing who&rsquo;s a gentleman and who isn&rsquo;t nowadays.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, &ldquo;I am a
      murderer,&rdquo; which were perhaps on the point of dropping from his lips, died
      away. He bore these remarks quietly, however, and, without looking round,
      he turned down a street leading to the police office. He had a glimpse of
      something on the way which did not surprise him; he had felt that it must
      be so. The second time he bowed down in the Hay Market he saw, standing
      fifty paces from him on the left, Sonia. She was hiding from him behind
      one of the wooden shanties in the market-place. She had followed him then
      on his painful way! Raskolnikov at that moment felt and knew once for all
      that Sonia was with him for ever and would follow him to the ends of the
      earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung his heart... but he was just
      reaching the fatal place.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to mount to the third
      storey. &ldquo;I shall be some time going up,&rdquo; he thought. He felt as though the
      fateful moment was still far off, as though he had plenty of time left for
      consideration.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on the spiral
      stairs, again the open doors of the flats, again the same kitchens and the
      same fumes and stench coming from them. Raskolnikov had not been here
      since that day. His legs were numb and gave way under him, but still they
      moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take breath, to collect himself,
      so as to enter <i>like a man</i>. &ldquo;But why? what for?&rdquo; he wondered,
      reflecting. &ldquo;If I must drink the cup what difference does it make? The
      more revolting the better.&rdquo; He imagined for an instant the figure of the
      &ldquo;explosive lieutenant,&rdquo; Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actually going to him?
      Couldn&rsquo;t he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch? Couldn&rsquo;t he turn back
      and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch&rsquo;s lodgings? At least then it would be
      done privately.... No, no! To the &ldquo;explosive lieutenant&rdquo;! If he must drink
      it, drink it off at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office. There
      were very few people in it this time&mdash;only a house porter and a
      peasant. The doorkeeper did not even peep out from behind his screen.
      Raskolnikov walked into the next room. &ldquo;Perhaps I still need not speak,&rdquo;
       passed through his mind. Some sort of clerk not wearing a uniform was
      settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner another clerk was
      seating himself. Zametov was not there, nor, of course, Nikodim Fomitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one in?&rdquo; Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whom do you want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I scent the
      Russian... how does it go on in the fairy tale... I&rsquo;ve forgotten! &lsquo;At your
      service!&rsquo;&rdquo; a familiar voice cried suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. He had
      just come in from the third room. &ldquo;It is the hand of fate,&rdquo; thought
      Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Why is he here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve come to see us? What about?&rdquo; cried Ilya Petrovitch. He was
      obviously in an exceedingly good humour and perhaps a trifle exhilarated.
      &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s on business you are rather early.[*] It&rsquo;s only a chance that I am
      here... however I&rsquo;ll do what I can. I must admit, I... what is it, what is
      it? Excuse me....&rdquo;
     </p>
<p class="footnote">
     [*] Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that it is after
     sunset, and that the last time Raskolnikov visited the
     police office at two in the afternoon he was reproached for
     coming too late.&mdash;TRANSLATOR.
</p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Raskolnikov.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn&rsquo;t imagine I&rsquo;d forgotten? Don&rsquo;t think I
      am like that... Rodion Ro&mdash;Ro&mdash;Rodionovitch, that&rsquo;s it, isn&rsquo;t
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rodion Romanovitch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovitch! I was just getting at it. I made
      many inquiries about you. I assure you I&rsquo;ve been genuinely grieved since
      that... since I behaved like that... it was explained to me afterwards
      that you were a literary man... and a learned one too... and so to say the
      first steps... Mercy on us! What literary or scientific man does not begin
      by some originality of conduct! My wife and I have the greatest respect
      for literature, in my wife it&rsquo;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&mdash;well, what does a hat
      matter? I can buy a hat as easily as I can a bun; but what&rsquo;s under the
      hat, what the hat covers, I can&rsquo;t buy that! I was even meaning to come and
      apologise to you, but thought maybe you&rsquo;d... But I am forgetting to ask
      you, is there anything you want really? I hear your family have come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my mother and sister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve even had the honour and happiness of meeting your sister&mdash;a
      highly cultivated and charming person. I confess I was sorry I got so hot
      with you. There it is! But as for my looking suspiciously at your fainting
      fit&mdash;that affair has been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and
      fanaticism! I understand your indignation. Perhaps you are changing your
      lodging on account of your family&rsquo;s arriving?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I only looked in... I came to ask... I thought that I should find
      Zametov here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes! Of course, you&rsquo;ve made friends, I heard. Well, no, Zametov is
      not here. Yes, we&rsquo;ve lost Zametov. He&rsquo;s not been here since yesterday...
      he quarrelled with everyone on leaving... in the rudest way. He is a
      feather-headed youngster, that&rsquo;s all; one might have expected something
      from him, but there, you know what they are, our brilliant young men. He
      wanted to go in for some examination, but it&rsquo;s only to talk and boast
      about it, it will go no further than that. Of course it&rsquo;s a very different
      matter with you or Mr. Razumihin there, your friend. Your career is an
      intellectual one and you won&rsquo;t be deterred by failure. For you, one may
      say, all the attractions of life <i>nihil est</i>&mdash;you are an
      ascetic, a monk, a hermit!... A book, a pen behind your ear, a learned
      research&mdash;that&rsquo;s where your spirit soars! I am the same way
      myself.... Have you read Livingstone&rsquo;s Travels?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I have. There are a great many Nihilists about nowadays, you know,
      and indeed it is not to be wondered at. What sort of days are they? I ask
      you. But we thought... you are not a Nihilist of course? Answer me openly,
      openly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Believe me, you can speak openly to me as you would to yourself! Official
      duty is one thing but... you are thinking I meant to say <i>friendship</i>
      is quite another? No, you&rsquo;re wrong! It&rsquo;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&rsquo;s all your Zametov is good for! While I&rsquo;m perhaps, so to
      speak, burning with devotion and lofty feelings, and besides I have rank,
      consequence, a post! I am married and have children, I fulfil the duties
      of a man and a citizen, but who is he, may I ask? I appeal to you as a man
      ennobled by education... Then these midwives, too, have become
      extraordinarily numerous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean those crop-headed wenches,&rdquo; the talkative Ilya Petrovitch
      continued. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; Ilya
      Petrovitch laughed, quite pleased with his own wit. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s an immoderate
      zeal for education, but once you&rsquo;re educated, that&rsquo;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&rsquo;t fancy! People spend their last halfpenny and kill themselves,
      boys and girls and old people. Only this morning we heard about a
      gentleman who had just come to town. Nil Pavlitch, I say, what was the
      name of that gentleman who shot himself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Svidrigaïlov,&rdquo; someone answered from the other room with drowsy
      listlessness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov started.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Svidrigaïlov! Svidrigaïlov has shot himself!&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, do you know Svidrigaïlov?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes... I knew him.... He hadn&rsquo;t been here long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I... was acquainted... my sister was governess in his family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah-bah-bah! Then no doubt you can tell us something about him. You had
      no suspicion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw him yesterday... he... was drinking wine; I knew nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him and was stifling
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve turned pale again. It&rsquo;s so stuffy here...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I must go,&rdquo; muttered Raskolnikov. &ldquo;Excuse my troubling you....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It&rsquo;s a pleasure to see you and I am
      glad to say so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only wanted... I came to see Zametov.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand, I understand, and it&rsquo;s a pleasure to see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I... am very glad... good-bye,&rdquo; Raskolnikov smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness and did not know
      what he was doing. He began going down the stairs, supporting himself with
      his right hand against the wall. He fancied that a porter pushed past him
      on his way upstairs to the police office, that a dog in the lower storey
      kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung a rolling-pin at it and
      shouted. He went down and out into the yard. There, not far from the
      entrance, stood Sonia, pale and horror-stricken. She looked wildly at him.
      He stood still before her. There was a look of poignant agony, of despair,
      in her face. She clasped her hands. His lips worked in an ugly,
      meaningless smile. He stood still a minute, grinned and went back to the
      police office.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ilya Petrovitch had sat down and was rummaging among some papers. Before
      him stood the same peasant who had pushed by on the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hulloa! Back again! have you left something behind? What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are feeling ill, a chair! Here, sit down! Some water!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was I...&rdquo; began Raskolnikov.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drink some water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov refused the water with his hand, and softly and brokenly, but
      distinctly said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>It was I killed the old pawnbroker woman and her sister Lizaveta with
      an axe and robbed them.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ilya Petrovitch opened his mouth. People ran up on all sides.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov repeated his statement.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"></a>
      EPILOGUE
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      Siberia. On the banks of a broad solitary river stands a town, one of the
      administrative centres of Russia; in the town there is a fortress, in the
      fortress there is a prison. In the prison the second-class convict Rodion
      Raskolnikov has been confined for nine months. Almost a year and a half
      has passed since his crime.
    </p>
    <p>
      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
      <i>the pledge</i> (the piece of wood with a strip of metal) which was
      found in the murdered woman&rsquo;s hand. He described minutely how he had taken
      her keys, what they were like, as well as the chest and its contents; he
      explained the mystery of Lizaveta&rsquo;s murder; described how Koch and, after
      him, the student knocked, and repeated all they had said to one another;
      how he afterwards had run downstairs and heard Nikolay and Dmitri
      shouting; how he had hidden in the empty flat and afterwards gone home. He
      ended by indicating the stone in the yard off the Voznesensky Prospect
      under which the purse and the trinkets were found. The whole thing, in
      fact, was perfectly clear. The lawyers and the judges were very much
      struck, among other things, by the fact that he had hidden the trinkets
      and the purse under a stone, without making use of them, and that, what
      was more, he did not now remember what the trinkets were like, or even how
      many there were. The fact that he had never opened the purse and did not
      even know how much was in it seemed incredible. There turned out to be in
      the purse three hundred and seventeen roubles and sixty copecks. From
      being so long under the stone, some of the most valuable notes lying
      uppermost had suffered from the damp. They were a long while trying to
      discover why the accused man should tell a lie about this, when about
      everything else he had made a truthful and straightforward confession.
      Finally some of the lawyers more versed in psychology admitted that it was
      possible he had really not looked into the purse, and so didn&rsquo;t know what
      was in it when he hid it under the stone. But they immediately drew the
      deduction that the crime could only have been committed through temporary
      mental derangement, through homicidal mania, without object or the pursuit
      of gain. This fell in with the most recent fashionable theory of temporary
      insanity, so often applied in our days in criminal cases. Moreover
      Raskolnikov&rsquo;s hypochondriacal condition was proved by many witnesses, by
      Dr. Zossimov, his former fellow students, his landlady and her servant.
      All this pointed strongly to the conclusion that Raskolnikov was not quite
      like an ordinary murderer and robber, but that there was another element
      in the case.
    </p>
    <p>
      To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this opinion, the
      criminal scarcely attempted to defend himself. To the decisive question as
      to what motive impelled him to the murder and the robbery, he answered
      very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miserable
      position, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to provide for his
      first steps in life by the help of the three thousand roubles he had
      reckoned on finding. He had been led to the murder through his shallow and
      cowardly nature, exasperated moreover by privation and failure. To the
      question what led him to confess, he answered that it was his heartfelt
      repentance. All this was almost coarse....
    </p>
    <p>
      The sentence however was more merciful than could have been expected,
      perhaps partly because the criminal had not tried to justify himself, but
      had rather shown a desire to exaggerate his guilt. All the strange and
      peculiar circumstances of the crime were taken into consideration. There
      could be no doubt of the abnormal and poverty-stricken condition of the
      criminal at the time. The fact that he had made no use of what he had
      stolen was put down partly to the effect of remorse, partly to his
      abnormal mental condition at the time of the crime. Incidentally the
      murder of Lizaveta served indeed to confirm the last hypothesis: a man
      commits two murders and forgets that the door is open! Finally, the
      confession, at the very moment when the case was hopelessly muddled by the
      false evidence given by Nikolay through melancholy and fanaticism, and
      when, moreover, there were no proofs against the real criminal, no
      suspicions even (Porfiry Petrovitch fully kept his word)&mdash;all this
      did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances, too, in the
      prisoner&rsquo;s favour came out quite unexpectedly. Razumihin somehow
      discovered and proved that while Raskolnikov was at the university he had
      helped a poor consumptive fellow student and had spent his last penny on
      supporting him for six months, and when this student died, leaving a
      decrepit old father whom he had maintained almost from his thirteenth
      year, Raskolnikov had got the old man into a hospital and paid for his
      funeral when he died. Raskolnikov&rsquo;s landlady bore witness, too, that when
      they had lived in another house at Five Corners, Raskolnikov had rescued
      two little children from a house on fire and was burnt in doing so. This
      was investigated and fairly well confirmed by many witnesses. These facts
      made an impression in his favour.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov&rsquo;s mother fell ill. Dounia
      and Razumihin found it possible to get her out of Petersburg during the
      trial. Razumihin chose a town on the railway not far from Petersburg, so
      as to be able to follow every step of the trial and at the same time to
      see Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria Alexandrovna&rsquo;s
      illness was a strange nervous one and was accompanied by a partial
      derangement of her intellect.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Dounia returned from her last interview with her brother, she had
      found her mother already ill, in feverish delirium. That evening Razumihin
      and she agreed what answers they must make to her mother&rsquo;s questions about
      Raskolnikov and made up a complete story for her mother&rsquo;s benefit of his
      having to go away to a distant part of Russia on a business commission,
      which would bring him in the end money and reputation.
    </p>
    <p>
      But they were struck by the fact that Pulcheria Alexandrovna never asked
      them anything on the subject, neither then nor thereafter. On the
      contrary, she had her own version of her son&rsquo;s sudden departure; she told
      them with tears how he had come to say good-bye to her, hinting that she
      alone knew many mysterious and important facts, and that Rodya had many
      very powerful enemies, so that it was necessary for him to be in hiding.
      As for his future career, she had no doubt that it would be brilliant when
      certain sinister influences could be removed. She assured Razumihin that
      her son would be one day a great statesman, that his article and brilliant
      literary talent proved it. This article she was continually reading, she
      even read it aloud, almost took it to bed with her, but scarcely asked
      where Rodya was, though the subject was obviously avoided by the others,
      which might have been enough to awaken her suspicions.
    </p>
    <p>
      They began to be frightened at last at Pulcheria Alexandrovna&rsquo;s strange
      silence on certain subjects. She did not, for instance, complain of
      getting no letters from him, though in previous years she had only lived
      on the hope of letters from her beloved Rodya. This was the cause of great
      uneasiness to Dounia; the idea occurred to her that her mother suspected
      that there was something terrible in her son&rsquo;s fate and was afraid to ask,
      for fear of hearing something still more awful. In any case, Dounia saw
      clearly that her mother was not in full possession of her faculties.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened once or twice, however, that Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave such
      a turn to the conversation that it was impossible to answer her without
      mentioning where Rodya was, and on receiving unsatisfactory and suspicious
      answers she became at once gloomy and silent, and this mood lasted for a
      long time. Dounia saw at last that it was hard to deceive her and came to
      the conclusion that it was better to be absolutely silent on certain
      points; but it became more and more evident that the poor mother suspected
      something terrible. Dounia remembered her brother&rsquo;s telling her that her
      mother had overheard her talking in her sleep on the night after her
      interview with Svidrigaïlov and before the fatal day of the confession:
      had not she made out something from that? Sometimes days and even weeks of
      gloomy silence and tears would be succeeded by a period of hysterical
      animation, and the invalid would begin to talk almost incessantly of her
      son, of her hopes of his future.... Her fancies were sometimes very
      strange. They humoured her, pretended to agree with her (she saw perhaps
      that they were pretending), but she still went on talking.
    </p>
    <p>
      Five months after Raskolnikov&rsquo;s confession, he was sentenced. Razumihin
      and Sonia saw him in prison as often as it was possible. At last the
      moment of separation came. Dounia swore to her brother that the separation
      should not be for ever, Razumihin did the same. Razumihin, in his youthful
      ardour, had firmly resolved to lay the foundations at least of a secure
      livelihood during the next three or four years, and saving up a certain
      sum, to emigrate to Siberia, a country rich in every natural resource and
      in need of workers, active men and capital. There they would settle in the
      town where Rodya was and all together would begin a new life. They all
      wept at parting.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov had been very dreamy for a few days before. He asked a great
      deal about his mother and was constantly anxious about her. He worried so
      much about her that it alarmed Dounia. When he heard about his mother&rsquo;s
      illness he became very gloomy. With Sonia he was particularly reserved all
      the time. With the help of the money left to her by Svidrigaïlov, Sonia
      had long ago made her preparations to follow the party of convicts in
      which he was despatched to Siberia. Not a word passed between Raskolnikov
      and her on the subject, but both knew it would be so. At the final
      leave-taking he smiled strangely at his sister&rsquo;s and Razumihin&rsquo;s fervent
      anticipations of their happy future together when he should come out of
      prison. He predicted that their mother&rsquo;s illness would soon have a fatal
      ending. Sonia and he at last set off.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two months later Dounia was married to Razumihin. It was a quiet and
      sorrowful wedding; Porfiry Petrovitch and Zossimov were invited however.
      During all this period Razumihin wore an air of resolute determination.
      Dounia put implicit faith in his carrying out his plans and indeed she
      could not but believe in him. He displayed a rare strength of will. Among
      other things he began attending university lectures again in order to take
      his degree. They were continually making plans for the future; both
      counted on settling in Siberia within five years at least. Till then they
      rested their hopes on Sonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pulcheria Alexandrovna was delighted to give her blessing to Dounia&rsquo;s
      marriage with Razumihin; but after the marriage she became even more
      melancholy and anxious. To give her pleasure Razumihin told her how
      Raskolnikov had looked after the poor student and his decrepit father and
      how a year ago he had been burnt and injured in rescuing two little
      children from a fire. These two pieces of news excited Pulcheria
      Alexandrovna&rsquo;s disordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She was
      continually talking about them, even entering into conversation with
      strangers in the street, though Dounia always accompanied her. In public
      conveyances and shops, wherever she could capture a listener, she would
      begin the discourse about her son, his article, how he had helped the
      student, how he had been burnt at the fire, and so on! Dounia did not know
      how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her morbid excitement, there
      was the risk of someone&rsquo;s recalling Raskolnikov&rsquo;s name and speaking of the
      recent trial. Pulcheria Alexandrovna found out the address of the mother
      of the two children her son had saved and insisted on going to see her.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She would sometimes
      begin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One
      morning she declared that by her reckoning Rodya ought soon to be home,
      that she remembered when he said good-bye to her he said that they must
      expect him back in nine months. She began to prepare for his coming, began
      to do up her room for him, to clean the furniture, to wash and put up new
      hangings and so on. Dounia was anxious, but said nothing and helped her to
      arrange the room. After a fatiguing day spent in continual fancies, in
      joyful day-dreams and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken ill in the
      night and by morning she was feverish and delirious. It was brain fever.
      She died within a fortnight. In her delirium she dropped words which
      showed that she knew a great deal more about her son&rsquo;s terrible fate than
      they had supposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a long time Raskolnikov did not know of his mother&rsquo;s death, though a
      regular correspondence had been maintained from the time he reached
      Siberia. It was carried on by means of Sonia, who wrote every month to the
      Razumihins and received an answer with unfailing regularity. At first they
      found Sonia&rsquo;s letters dry and unsatisfactory, but later on they came to
      the conclusion that the letters could not be better, for from these
      letters they received a complete picture of their unfortunate brother&rsquo;s
      life. Sonia&rsquo;s letters were full of the most matter-of-fact detail, the
      simplest and clearest description of all Raskolnikov&rsquo;s surroundings as a
      convict. There was no word of her own hopes, no conjecture as to the
      future, no description of her feelings. Instead of any attempt to
      interpret his state of mind and inner life, she gave the simple facts&mdash;that
      is, his own words, an exact account of his health, what he asked for at
      their interviews, what commission he gave her and so on. All these facts
      she gave with extraordinary minuteness. The picture of their unhappy
      brother stood out at last with great clearness and precision. There could
      be no mistake, because nothing was given but facts.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Dounia and her husband could get little comfort out of the news,
      especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was constantly sullen and not
      ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave him
      from their letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother and that
      when, seeing that he had guessed the truth, she told him at last of her
      death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly affected by
      it, not externally at any rate. She told them that, although he seemed so
      wrapped up in himself and, as it were, shut himself off from everyone&mdash;he
      took a very direct and simple view of his new life; that he understood his
      position, expected nothing better for the time, had no ill-founded hopes
      (as is so common in his position) and scarcely seemed surprised at
      anything in his surroundings, so unlike anything he had known before. She
      wrote that his health was satisfactory; he did his work without shirking
      or seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent about food, but except on
      Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that at last he had been glad to
      accept some money from her, Sonia, to have his own tea every day. He
      begged her not to trouble about anything else, declaring that all this
      fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote further that in prison he
      shared the same room with the rest, that she had not seen the inside of
      their barracks, but concluded that they were crowded, miserable and
      unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a rug under him and was
      unwilling to make any other arrangement. But that he lived so poorly and
      roughly, not from any plan or design, but simply from inattention and
      indifference.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her visits,
      had almost been vexed with her indeed for coming, unwilling to talk and
      rude to her. But that in the end these visits had become a habit and
      almost a necessity for him, so that he was positively distressed when she
      was ill for some days and could not visit him. She used to see him on
      holidays at the prison gates or in the guard-room, to which he was brought
      for a few minutes to see her. On working days she would go to see him at
      work either at the workshops or at the brick kilns, or at the sheds on the
      banks of the Irtish.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last the news came (Dounia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and
      uneasiness in the preceding letters) that he held aloof from everyone,
      that his fellow prisoners did not like him, that he kept silent for days
      at a time and was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia wrote that
      he had been taken very seriously ill and was in the convict ward of the
      hospital.
    </p>
    <h3>
      II
    </h3>
    <p>
      He was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not the
      hard labour, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patched clothes that
      crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships! he was
      even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at least reckon
      on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to him&mdash;the thin
      cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a student he had
      often not had even that. His clothes were warm and suited to his manner of
      life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed of his shaven head
      and parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia? Sonia was afraid of
      him, how could he be ashamed before her? And yet he was ashamed even
      before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with his contemptuous rough
      manner. But it was not his shaven head and his fetters he was ashamed of:
      his pride had been stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him
      ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He
      could have borne anything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged
      himself severely, and his exasperated conscience found no particularly
      terrible fault in his past, except a simple <i>blunder</i> which might
      happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so
      hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate, and
      must humble himself and submit to &ldquo;the idiocy&rdquo; of a sentence, if he were
      anyhow to be at peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a continual
      sacrifice leading to nothing&mdash;that was all that lay before him. And
      what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be
      thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had
      he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist?
      Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for
      the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had
      always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was
      just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a
      man to whom more was permissible than to others.
    </p>
    <p>
      And if only fate would have sent him repentance&mdash;burning repentance
      that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance,
      the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he
      would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been
      life. But he did not repent of his crime.
    </p>
    <p>
      At least he might have found relief in raging at his stupidity, as he had
      raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought him to prison. But now in
      prison, <i>in freedom</i>, he thought over and criticised all his actions
      again and by no means found them so blundering and so grotesque as they
      had seemed at the fatal time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In what way,&rdquo; he asked himself, &ldquo;was my theory stupider than others that
      have swarmed and clashed from the beginning of the world? One has only to
      look at the thing quite independently, broadly, and uninfluenced by
      commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem so... strange. Oh,
      sceptics and halfpenny philosophers, why do you halt half-way!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why does my action strike them as so horrible?&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;Is
      it because it was a crime? What is meant by crime? My conscience is at
      rest. Of course, it was a legal crime, of course, the letter of the law
      was broken and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the
      law... and that&rsquo;s enough. Of course, in that case many of the benefactors
      of mankind who snatched power for themselves instead of inheriting it
      ought to have been punished at their first steps. But those men succeeded
      and so <i>they were right</i>, and I didn&rsquo;t, and so I had no right to have
      taken that step.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was only in that that he recognised his criminality, only in the fact
      that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      In misery he asked himself this question, and could not understand that,
      at the very time he had been standing looking into the river, he had
      perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself and his
      convictions. He didn&rsquo;t understand that that consciousness might be the
      promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of his future
      resurrection.
    </p>
    <p>
      He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he could
      not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at his
      fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and prized
      it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than
      in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of them, the tramps
      for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine,
      for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot,
      which the tramp had marked three years before, and longed to see again, as
      he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green grass round it and
      the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he saw still more inexplicable
      examples.
    </p>
    <p>
      In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not
      want to see; he lived as it were with downcast eyes. It was loathsome and
      unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was much that surprised
      him and he began, as it were involuntarily, to notice much that he had not
      suspected before. What surprised him most of all was the terrible
      impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest. They seemed to be a
      different species, and he looked at them and they at him with distrust and
      hostility. He felt and knew the reasons of his isolation, but he would
      never have admitted till then that those reasons were so deep and strong.
      There were some Polish exiles, political prisoners, among them. They
      simply looked down upon all the rest as ignorant churls; but Raskolnikov
      could not look upon them like that. He saw that these ignorant men were in
      many respects far wiser than the Poles. There were some Russians who were
      just as contemptuous, a former officer and two seminarists. Raskolnikov
      saw their mistake as clearly. He was disliked and avoided by everyone;
      they even began to hate him at last&mdash;why, he could not tell. Men who
      had been far more guilty despised and laughed at his crime.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a gentleman,&rdquo; they used to say. &ldquo;You shouldn&rsquo;t hack about with an
      axe; that&rsquo;s not a gentleman&rsquo;s work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacrament with his
      gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke out
      one day, he did not know how. All fell on him at once in a fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re an infidel! You don&rsquo;t believe in God,&rdquo; they shouted. &ldquo;You ought to
      be killed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had never talked to them about God nor his belief, but they wanted to
      kill him as an infidel. He said nothing. One of the prisoners rushed at
      him in a perfect frenzy. Raskolnikov awaited him calmly and silently; his
      eyebrows did not quiver, his face did not flinch. The guard succeeded in
      intervening between him and his assailant, or there would have been
      bloodshed.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was another question he could not decide: why were they all so fond
      of Sonia? She did not try to win their favour; she rarely met them,
      sometimes only she came to see him at work for a moment. And yet everybody
      knew her, they knew that she had come out to follow <i>him</i>, knew how
      and where she lived. She never gave them money, did them no particular
      services. Only once at Christmas she sent them all presents of pies and
      rolls. But by degrees closer relations sprang up between them and Sonia.
      She would write and post letters for them to their relations. Relations of
      the prisoners who visited the town, at their instructions, left with Sonia
      presents and money for them. Their wives and sweethearts knew her and used
      to visit her. And when she visited Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of
      the prisoners on the road, they all took off their hats to her. &ldquo;Little
      mother Sofya Semyonovna, you are our dear, good little mother,&rdquo; coarse
      branded criminals said to that frail little creature. She would smile and
      bow to them and everyone was delighted when she smiled. They even admired
      her gait and turned round to watch her walking; they admired her too for
      being so little, and, in fact, did not know what to admire her most for.
      They even came to her for help in their illnesses.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When he
      was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish and
      delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a terrible new
      strange plague that had come to Europe from the depths of Asia. All were
      to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some new sorts of microbes were
      attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were endowed with
      intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became at once mad and
      furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual and so
      completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never had they
      considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their moral
      convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples went
      mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand one
      another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched looking
      at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They
      did not know how to judge and could not agree what to consider evil and
      what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed
      each other in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies
      against one another, but even on the march the armies would begin
      attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and the soldiers would
      fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each other.
      The alarm bell was ringing all day long in the towns; men rushed together,
      but why they were summoned and who was summoning them no one knew. The
      most ordinary trades were abandoned, because everyone proposed his own
      ideas, his own improvements, and they could not agree. The land too was
      abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed on something, swore to keep together,
      but at once began on something quite different from what they had
      proposed. They accused one another, fought and killed each other. There
      were conflagrations and famine. All men and all things were involved in
      destruction. The plague spread and moved further and further. Only a few
      men could be saved in the whole world. They were a pure chosen people,
      destined to found a new race and a new life, to renew and purify the
      earth, but no one had seen these men, no one had heard their words and
      their voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory so
      miserably, the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so long. The
      second week after Easter had come. There were warm bright spring days; in
      the prison ward the grating windows under which the sentinel paced were
      opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during his illness;
      each time she had to obtain permission, and it was difficult. But she
      often used to come to the hospital yard, especially in the evening,
      sometimes only to stand a minute and look up at the windows of the ward.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. On
      waking up he chanced to go to the window, and at once saw Sonia in the
      distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone.
      Something stabbed him to the heart at that minute. He shuddered and moved
      away from the window. Next day Sonia did not come, nor the day after; he
      noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last he was discharged. On
      reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that Sofya Semyonovna was
      lying ill at home and was unable to go out.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that her
      illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her, Sonia
      sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better, that she
      had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and see him at
      his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o&rsquo;clock, he
      went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster and
      where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only three of
      them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to
      fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and laying it in the
      kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river bank, sat down on a
      heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the wide deserted river. From
      the high bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of singing
      floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in
      sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads&rsquo; tents. There
      there was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here;
      there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and
      his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed
      into day-dreams, into contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague
      restlessness excited and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him;
      she had come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite
      early; the morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old burnous and
      the green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, it was thinner
      and paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand
      with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand to
      him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would repel
      it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always seemed vexed
      to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout her visit.
      Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply grieved. But now
      their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance at her and dropped his
      eyes on the ground without speaking. They were alone, no one had seen
      them. The guard had turned away for the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to seize
      him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms round her knees.
      For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she turned pale. She
      jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same moment she
      understood, and a light of infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew
      and had no doubt that he loved her beyond everything and that at last the
      moment had come....
    </p>
    <p>
      They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They were
      both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of
      a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by
      love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to
      wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before them!
      But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his being, while
      she&mdash;she only lived in his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov
      lay on his plank bed and thought of her. He had even fancied that day that
      all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him differently; he
      had even entered into talk with them and they answered him in a friendly
      way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound to be so. Wasn&rsquo;t
      everything now bound to be changed?
    </p>
    <p>
      He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her and
      wounded her heart. He remembered her pale and thin little face. But these
      recollections scarcely troubled him now; he knew with what infinite love
      he would now repay all her sufferings. And what were all, <i>all</i> the
      agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentence and
      imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an external,
      strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not think for long
      together of anything that evening, and he could not have analysed anything
      consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the place of
      theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The
      book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the raising
      of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him about
      religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to
      his great surprise she had not once approached the subject and had not
      even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it himself not long
      before his illness and she brought him the book without a word. Till now
      he had not opened it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: &ldquo;Can her
      convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations at least....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill
      again. But she was so happy&mdash;and so unexpectedly happy&mdash;that she
      was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, <i>only</i> seven
      years! At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both
      ready to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did
      not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he
      would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving,
      great suffering.
    </p>
    <p>
      But that is the beginning of a new story&mdash;the story of the gradual
      renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing
      from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life.
      That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

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