Part Five 6 страница

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

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

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

Raskolnikov looked at him proudly and disdainfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He seized his cap and walked to the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again Nikolai was silent for a moment.

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

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

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

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

“Ehh! What did you kill them with? ”

“An axe. I had it ready. ”

“Eh, he's rushing! Alone? ”

Nikolai did not understand the question.

“Did you do it alone? ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's good-bye, I should think. ”

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

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

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

And Porfiry stood in front of him, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To the funeral, sir! ”

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

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

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

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

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

“How could I not? ”

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

“Yes, Gogol. ”

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

“Till we have the pleasure again. . . ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this? ” Raskolnikov cried out.

“I am guilty, ” the man said softly.

“Of what? ”

“Of wicked thoughts. ”

The two stood looking at each other.

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

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

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

“You're from that house, then? ”

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

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

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

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

“What Porfiry? ”

“The chief investigator. ”

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

“Today? ”

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

“Where? What? When? ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part Five

The morning that followed his fatal talk with Dunechka and Pulcheria Alexandrovna had its sobering effect on Pyotr Petrovich as well. To his greatest displeasure, he was forced little by little to accept as a fact, accomplished and irreversible, that which even yesterday had seemed to him an almost fantastic event, which, though real, was still somehow impossible. The black serpent of stung vanity had sucked all night at his heart. Having gotten out of bed, Pyotr Petrovich at once looked in the mirror. He feared the bile might have risen in him during the night. So far, however, all was well in that regard, and, having considered his white and noble aspect, grown slightly fat of late, Pyotr Petrovich even took comfort for a moment, feeling quite sure of finding a bride for himself somewhere in another place, and perhaps even a cut above this one; but he came to his senses at once and spat aside vigorously, thereby evoking a silent but sarcastic smile in his young friend and cohabitant, Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov. Pyotr Petrovich noticed this smile, and inwardly set it down at once against his young friend's account. Of late he had managed to set a lot against his account. He grew doubly spiteful at the sudden realization that he ought not to have informed Andrei Semyonovich yesterday about yesterday's results. That was his second mistake yesterday, made in the heat of the moment, from overexpansiveness, in irritation... Then, throughout the morning, as if by design, nuisance followed nuisance. Some trouble even awaited him in the Senate, in connection with a case he was pleading there. But he was especially irritated with the owner of the apartment he had rented with a view to his impending marriage and decorated at his own expense: the owner, some German craftsman grown rich, would in no way agree to break the just concluded contract, and demanded the full forfeit mentioned in it, notwithstanding that Pyotr Petrovich would be turning the apartment back to him almost entirely done over. In the same way, the furniture store refused to return even a single rouble of the deposit for furniture bought but not yet delivered to the apartment. “I'm not going to get married just for the sake of the furniture! ” Pyotr Petrovich snarled to himself, and at the same moment a desperate hope flashed in him once more: “But can it all be so irrevocably lost and finished? Can't I try one more time? ” Again the thought of Dunechka needled his heart seductively. He endured this moment with pain, and certainly, had it been possible right then to kill Raskolnikov merely by wishing, Pyotr Petrovich would immediately have voiced this wish.

“Moreover, it was also a mistake not to give them any money at all, ” he was thinking, as he sadly made his way back to Lebezyatnikov's closet. “Devil take it, why did I turn into such a Jew? There wasn't even any calculation in it! I thought I'd keep them on a short tether for a bit, and get them to see me as their Providence, and now look! ... Pah! ... No, if I'd handed them, say, fifteen hundred meanwhile, for the trousseau, and for presents, for all sorts of little boxes, toilet cases, trinkets, fabrics, and all that trash from Knop's, and from the English store, ^{^[106]} things would be better now... and firmer! They wouldn't have refused me so easily! They're of such mold that they'd be sure to regard it as their duty, in case of refusal, to return the gifts and the money; and to return them would be a bit difficult, and a pity! And conscience would prick them: how can you suddenly chase a man out like this, when all along he's been so generous and rather delicate?... Hm! I missed that one! ” And snarling once more, Pyotr Petrovich told himself then and there—but only himself, naturally—that he was a fool.

Having come to this conclusion, he returned home twice as angry and irritated as when he had left. The preparations for the memorial meal in Katerina Ivanovna's room partly drew his curiosity. He had already heard something about this memorial meal yesterday; he even had some memory of having been invited himself; but, busy with his own troubles, he had passed over all these other things without notice. Hastening to inquire of Mrs. Lippewechsel, who in Katerina Ivanovna's absence (she was at the cemetery) was bustling about the table that was being laid, he learned that the memorial meal was to be a grand affair, that nearly all the tenants had been invited, among them even those unknown to the deceased, that even Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov had been invited, in spite of his past quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna, and finally that he himself, Pyotr Petrovich, not only was invited but was even expected with great impatience, since he was perhaps the most important guest among all the tenants. Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with great honors, in spite of all past unpleasantnesses, and was therefore now hustling and bustling about, almost taking a delight in it; moreover, she was quite dressed up, in mourning but all of it new, silk, frills and fancies, and she was proud of it. All these facts and details gave Pyotr Petrovich a certain idea, and he went to his room—that is, to Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov's room—somewhat thoughtful. The thing was that, as he had learned, Raskolnikov was also among the invited guests.

Andrei Semyonovich, for some reason, had stayed at home that whole morning. Between this gentleman and Pyotr Petrovich a certain strange, though somewhat natural, relationship had come about: Pyotr Petrovich despised and hated him, even beyond measure, and had done so almost from the very day he came to stay with him; yet at the same time he was as if a bit wary of him. He was staying with him during his visit to Petersburg not just from miserly economy alone; though this was almost the main reason, there was also another reason here. While still in the provinces, he had heard of Andrei Semyonovich, his former ward, as one of the foremost young progressivists, who was even playing an important role in certain curious and fabled circles. Pyotr Petrovich was struck by this. These powerful, all-knowing, all-despising, and all-exposing circles had long frightened Pyotr Petrovich, with some peculiar, though perfectly undefined, fear. Of course, on his own, and living in the provinces besides, he was unable to form, even approximately, an exact notion of anything of that sort. He had heard, as everyone had, that there existed, especially in Petersburg, certain progressivists, nihilists, exposers, and so on and so forth, but, like many others, he exaggerated and distorted the meaning and significance of these names to the point of absurdity. What he had feared most of all, for several years now, was exposure, and this was the chief ground for his permanent, exaggerated uneasiness, especially when he dreamed of transferring his activities to Petersburg. In this respect he was scared, as they say, the way little children are sometimes scared. Some years ago, in the provinces, when he was just embarking on his career, he had met with two cases in which rather important personages of the province, whom he had latched on to and who until then had been his patrons, were cruelly exposed. One case ended somehow especially scandalously for the exposed personage, and the other even all but ended in real trouble. This was why Pyotr Petrovich decided, upon arriving in Petersburg, to find out at once how matters stood, and, if need be, to head things off just in case and curry favor with “our young generations. ” To this end he put his hopes in Andrei Semyonovich, and in any case, as during his visit to Raskolnikov, for example, he already knew how to round off certain phrases he had borrowed somewhere. . .

Of course, he soon managed to discern in Andrei Semyonovich an extremely trite and simple little man. But this did not in the least reassure or encourage Pyotr Petrovich. Even if he were convinced that all progressivists were the same sort of little fools, it would still not have allayed his uneasiness. Properly speaking, these teachings, ideas, systems (with which Andrei Semyonovich simply pounced upon him), were none of his affair. He had his own object. He needed only to find out at once and quickly what went on here, and how. Did these people have any power, or did they not have any power? Was there anything for him to fear personally, or was there not? Would they expose him if he undertook this or that, or would they not expose him? And if they would expose him, then what for, and what exactly was it that one got exposed for nowadays? Furthermore, could he not somehow get in good with them and at the same time hoodwink them a bit, if they were indeed so powerful? Was it the thing to do, or not? Could he not, for instance, bolster his career a bit precisely by means of them? In short, he was faced with hundreds of questions.

This Andrei Semyonovich was a thin-blooded and scrofulous little man, small of stature, who worked as an official somewhere, was strangely towheaded, and had side-whiskers shaped like mutton-chops, which were his great pride. What's more, his eyes were almost constantly ailing. His heart was rather soft, but his speech was quite self-confident and on occasion extremely presumptuous—which, compared with his little figure, almost always came out funny. Amalia Ivanovna, however, counted him among her most honored tenants, meaning that he did not drink and that he paid his rent regularly. In spite of all these qualities, Andrei Semyonovich was indeed a bit stupid.

He subscribed himself to progress and “our young generations” out of passion. He was one of that numerous and diverse legion of vulgarians, feeble miscreates, half-taught petty tyrants who make a point of instantly latching on to the most fashionable current idea, only to vulgarize it at once, to make an instant caricature of everything they themselves serve, sometimes quite sincerely.

However, though he was a very kind little man, Lebezyatnikov was also beginning to find his cohabitant and former guardian, Pyotr Petrovich, partly unbearable. It came about somehow mutually and inadvertently on both sides. Simple as Andrei Semyonovich was, he nevertheless began gradually to realize that Pyotr Petrovich was hoodwinking him and secretly despised him, and that “he was not the right sort of man at all. ” He had tried expounding Fourier's system and Darwin's theory to him, but Pyotr Petrovich, especially of late, had begun listening somehow too sarcastically, and most recently had even become abusive. The thing was that he had begun to perceive, by instinct, that Lebezyatnikov was not only a trite and silly little man, but perhaps also a bit of a liar; that he had no connections of any importance even in his own circle, but had only heard things third hand; moreover, he perhaps did not even know his own propaganda business properly, because he got too confused; and so it was not for the likes of him to be an exposer! Incidentally, let us note in passing that Pyotr Petrovich, during this week and a half, had willingly accepted (especially at the beginning) some rather peculiar praise from Andrei Semyonovich; that is, he did not object, for example, but remained silent, when Andrei Semyonovich ascribed to him a readiness to contribute to the future and imminent establishing of a new “commune” somewhere in Meshchanskaya Street, or not to hinder Dunechka, for example, if in the very first month of marriage she should decide to take a lover, or not to have his future children baptized, and so on and so forth—all in the same vein. ^{^[107]} Pyotr Petrovich, as was his custom, did not object to such qualities being ascribed to him, and allowed himself to be praised even in such a way—so pleasant did he find every sort of praise.

Pyotr Petrovich, who for some reason had cashed several five percent bank notes that morning, sat at the table and counted through the bundles of hills and series. Andrei Semyonovich, who almost never had any money, was pacing the room, pretending to himself that he looked upon all those bundles with indifference, and even with contempt. Pyotr Petrovich would in no way have believed, for example, that Andrei Semyonovich could indeed look upon so much money with indifference; and Andrei Semyonovich, in his turn, reflected bitterly that Pyotr Petrovich was indeed capable of having such thoughts about him, and, furthermore, was perhaps glad of the chance to prod and tease his young friend with the laid-out bundles of bills, reminding him of his nonentity and all the difference supposedly existing between the two of them.

He found him, this time, unprecedentedly irritable and inattentive, even though he, Andrei Semyonovich, had begun to develop for him his favorite theme about the establishment of a new, special “commune. ” The brief objections and remarks that escaped Pyotr Petrovich in the intervals between the clicking of beads on the abacus, breathed the most obvious and deliberately impolite mockery. But the “humane” Andrei Semyonovich ascribed Pyotr Petrovich's state of mind to the impression of yesterday's break with Dunechka, and was burning with the desire to take up the subject at once: he had something progressive and propagandizing to say on that account, which would comfort his honorable friend and “undoubtedly” be useful in his further development.

“What is this memorial meal that this... widow is arranging? ” Pyotr Petrovich asked suddenly, interrupting Andrei Semyonovich at the most interesting point.

“As if you didn't know; I spoke with you on the subject just yesterday, and developed my thought about all these rites... But she invited you, too, I heard it. You spoke with her yourself yesterday. . . ”

“I never expected the destitute fool would dump on this one meal all the money she got from that other fool... Raskolnikov. I was even amazed as I passed by just now; the preparations, the wines! ... A number of people have been invited—devil knows what's going on! ” Pyotr Petrovich continued, inquiring and driving at the conversation as if with some purpose. “What? You say I was invited, too? ” he suddenly added, raising his head. “When was that? I don't remember it, sir. I won't go, however. Why should I? I just talked with her yesterday, in passing, about the possibility of her receiving a year's salary in a lump sum, as the destitute widow of an official. Maybe that's why she invited me? Heh, heh! ”

“I don't intend to go either, ” said Lebezyatnikov.

“Surely not! You gave her a thrashing with your own hands. Naturally, you're ashamed, heh, heh, heh! ”

“Who gave a thrashing? To whom? ” Lebezyatnikov became all flustered, and even blushed.

“Why, you did; you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna, about a month ago, didn't you? I heard it yesterday, sir... So much for your convictions! ... And it leaves the woman question a bit lame. Heh, heh, heh! ”

And, as if feeling better, Pyotr Petrovich began clicking his abacus again.

“That is all nonsense and slander! ” Lebezyatnikov flared up, always fearful of being reminded of this story. “It wasn't like that at all! It was different... You heard it wrong; it's gossip! I merely defended myself then. She attacked me first with her claws... She plucked out one whole side of my whiskers... Every human being, I hope, is allowed to defend his own person. Besides, I will not allow anyone to use violence against me... On principle. Because it amounts to despotism. What was I to do: just stand there? I only pushed her away. ”

“Heh, heh, heh! ” Luzhin went on chuckling maliciously.

“You're picking at me because you're angry and irritated yourself... But it's nonsense, and has nothing to do with the woman question at all, not at all! You don't understand it rightly; I even thought that if it's so well accepted that woman is the equal of man in everything, even in strength (as has already been affirmed), then there ought to be equality here as well. Of course, I reasoned later that essentially there should be no such question, because there also should be no fighting, and that instances of fighting are unthinkable in the future society... and it's strange, of course, to look for equality in fighting. I'm not that stupid... although fighting, by the way, is... that is, later there won't be any, but now there's still... pah! the devil! You throw a man off! I won't go to the memorial meal, but it's not on account of that trouble; I won't go on principle, so as not to participate in the vile prejudice of such a meal, that's why! However, it would even be possible to go, just like that, to laugh... A pity there won't be any priests. Otherwise, I'd certainly go. ”

“You mean, to sit at someone else's table and immediately spit upon it, as well as upon those who invited you. Is that it? ”

“Not at all to spit, but to protest. With a useful purpose. I might contribute indirectly to development and propaganda. It's the duty of every man to develop and propagandize, and the sharper the better, perhaps. I might sow an idea, a seed... From this seed a fact will grow. How am I offending them? They'll be offended at first, but then they'll see for themselves that I've been useful. Didn't they accuse Terebyeva at first (the one who is now in a commune) because, when she walked out on her family and... gave herself, she wrote to her mother and father that she did not want to live among prejudices and was entering into a civil marriage, and it was supposedly all too rude—towards fathers, that is—and she could have spared them and written more gently? That's all nonsense, in my opinion, and it shouldn't have been any gentler; on the contrary, on the contrary, it's here that one needs to protest. Take Varents, now; she lived for seven years with her husband, abandoned her two children, snapped out at once in a letter to the husband: 'I realized that I could not be happy with you. I will never forgive you for deceiving me, by concealing from me the existence of a different social order, by means of communes. I recently learned all about it from a magnanimous man to whom I have given myself, and together we are setting up a commune. I say it directly, because I consider it dishonest to deceive you. Remain as you choose. Do not hope to bring me back, you are too late. I wish you happiness. ' That's how such letters are written! ”

“And is this the same Terebyeva you told me about, the one who is now in her third civil marriage? ”

“Only the second, if you're really counting! But even if it were the fourth, or the fifteenth, it's all nonsense! And if ever I've regretted that my father and mother are dead, it's certainly now. I've even dreamed several times of how I'd smack them with a protest, if only they were alive! I'd set it all up on purpose... A 'severed member' and all that—pah! who cares! I'd show them! They'd get a surprise! Really, it's too bad I haven't got anybody! ”

“To surprise, you mean? Heh, heh! Well, be that as you like, ” Pyotr Petrovich interrupted, “but tell me something: you do know this dead man's daughter, the frail one? Is it completely true what they say about her, eh? ”

“What if it is? In my opinion—I mean, according to my personal conviction—that is the most normal condition for a woman. And why not? I mean, distinguons. ^{^[108]} In today's society it is, of course, not quite normal, because it's forced, but in the future it will be perfectly normal, because free. But now, too, she had the right: she was suffering, and this was her reserve, her capital, so to speak, which she had every right to dispose of. Naturally, there will be no need of reserves in the future society; but her role will be designated by a different significance, it will be conditioned harmoniously and rationally. As far as Sofya Semyonovna personally is concerned, at present I look upon her actions as an energetic and embodied protest against the social order, and I deeply respect her for it. I even rejoice to look at her! ”

“Yet I was told that it was you who drove her out of this house! ”

Lebezyatnikov even became furious.

“That is more gossip! ” he shouted. “It was not like that at all, not at all! It really was not like that! That's all Katerina Ivanovna's lies, because she understood nothing! I was not making up to Sofya Semyonovna at all! I was simply developing her, quite disinterestedly, trying to arouse a protest in her... The protest was all I was after, and anyway, Sofya Semyonovna couldn't have gone on staying in the house as she was! ”

“Were you inviting her to a commune? ”

“You keep laughing, and very inappropriately, if I may say so. You don't understand anything! There are no such roles in a commune. Communes are set up precisely so that there will be no such roles. In a commune, the present essence of this role will be entirely changed, and what is stupid here will become intelligent there, what is unnatural here, under the present circumstances, will there become perfectly natural. Everything depends on what circumstances and what environment man lives in. Environment is everything, and man himself is nothing. And even now I'm on good terms with Sofya Semyonovna, which may serve you as proof that she never regarded me as her enemy and offender. Yes! I'm now enticing her into a commune, only on a totally, totally different basis! What's so funny? We want to set up our own commune, a special one, only on a much broader basis than the previous ones. We've gone further in our convictions. We negate more! If Dobrolyubov rose from the grave, I'd argue with him. As for Belinsky, I'd pack him away! ^{^[109]} And meanwhile I'm continuing to develop Sofya Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful nature! ”

“So you're finding a use for this beautiful nature, eh? Heh, heh! ”

“No, no! Oh, no! Quite the contrary! ”

“Come now, quite the contrary! Heh, heh, heh! What a phrase! ”

“No, believe me! What reasons do I have for concealing it from you, pray tell? On the contrary, I even find it strange myself: with me she's somehow especially, somehow fearfully chaste and modest! ”

“And, of course, you're developing her... heh, heh! ... by proving to her that all these modesties are nonsense? . . . ”

“Not at all! Not at all! Oh, how crudely, even stupidly—forgive me—you understand the word development! You really understand n-nothing! Oh, God, you're still so... unready! We seek woman's freedom, and you have only one thing on your mind... Setting aside entirely the question of chastity and womanly modesty as in themselves useless and even prejudicial, I fully, fully allow for her chastity with me, because—it's entirely her will, entirely her right. Naturally, if she herself said to me: 'I want to have you, ' I would regard myself as highly fortunate, because I like the girl very much; but for now, for now at least, certainly no one has ever treated her more politely and courteously than I, or with more respect for her dignity... I wait and hope—that's all! ”

“Well, you'd better give her some present. I bet you haven't thought of that. ”

“You understand n-nothing, I tell you! She's in that sort of position, of course, but the question here is different! Quite different! You simply despise her. Seeing a fact which you mistakenly consider worth despising, you deny her any humane regard as a person. You still don't know her nature! Only it's a great pity that lately she has somehow ceased reading altogether and no longer takes any books from me. And she used to. It's a pity, too, that with all her energy and determination to protest—which she has already proved once—she still seems to have too little self-sufficiency, or independence, so to speak, too little negation, to be able to break away completely from certain prejudices and. . . stupidities. In spite of that, she has an excellent understanding of certain questions. She understood splendidly the question of kissing hands, for instance—that is, that a man insults a woman with inequality if he kisses her hand. ^{^[110]} The question was debated among us, and I immediately told her. She also listened attentively about the workers' associations in France. Now I'm explaining to her the question of freedom of entry into rooms in the future society. ”

“What on earth does that mean? ”

“The question was being debated recently, whether a member of a commune has the right to enter another member's room, either a man's or a woman's, at any time... well, and it was decided that he does... ”

“Well, and what if he or she is occupied at the moment with vital necessities, heh, heh! ”

Andrei Semyonovich even became angry.

“And you just keep at it, at these cursed 'necessities'! ” he cried out with hatred. “Pah, I'm so angry and annoyed with myself for mentioning these cursed necessities prematurely, when I was explaining the system to you that time! Devil take it! It's a stumbling block for all your kind, and worst of all—they start tossing it around even before they know what it's about! And just as if they were right! Just as if they were proud of something! Pah! I've insisted several times that this whole question cannot be explained to novices except at the very end, once he's already convinced of the system, once the person has already been developed and directed. And what, pray tell, do you find so shameful and contemptible even in cesspits? I, first, I'm ready to clean out any cesspits you like! There isn't even any self-sacrifice in it! It's simply work, a noble activity, useful for society, as worthy as any other, and certainly much higher, for example, than the activity of some Raphael or Pushkin, because it's more useful! ”^{^[111]}

“And more noble, more noble, heh, heh, heh! ”

“What do you mean by 'noble'? I don't understand such expressions as ways of defining human activity. 'More noble, ' 'more magnanimous'—it's all nonsense, absurdities, old prejudicial words, which I negate! What is noble is whatever is useful for mankind! I understand only the one word: useful! Snigger all you like, but it's true! ”

Pyotr Petrovich was laughing very much. He had already finished counting his money and tucked it away. However, part of it for some reason remained on the table. This “cesspit question, ” in spite of all its triviality, had served several times before as a pretext for quarrels and disagreements between Pyotr Petrovich and his young friend. The whole stupidity lay in the fact that Andrei Semyonovich really got angry, while Luzhin was just letting off steam, and at the present moment wanted especially to anger Lebezyatnikov.

“It's because of your failure yesterday that you're so angry and carping, ” Lebezyatnikov burst out at last. Generally speaking, in spite of all his “independence” and all his “protests, ” he somehow did not dare to oppose Pyotr Petrovich and generally maintained a certain respectfulness towards him, habitual from years past.

“You'd better tell me one thing, ” Pyotr Petrovich interrupted haughtily and with vexation. “Can you, sir... or, better, are you really on sufficiently close terms with the aforementioned young lady that you could ask her right now to come here, to this room, for a minute? I think they've all returned from the cemetery by now... I hear people walking around... I would like to see her—this person, I mean, sir. ”

“But what for? ” Lebezyatnikov asked in surprise.

“I just want to, sir. I'll be moving out of here today or tomorrow, and therefore I wished to tell her... However, please stay here during our talk. That will be even better. Otherwise you might think God knows what. ”

“I'd think precisely nothing... I merely asked, and if you have some business, nothing could be easier than to call her away. I'll go now. And rest assured that I shall not interfere with you. ”

Indeed, about five minutes later Lebezyatnikov returned with Sonechka. She came in greatly surprised and, as usual, timidly. She was always timid on such occasions, and was very afraid of new faces and new acquaintances, had been afraid even before, in her childhood, and was now all the more so... Pyotr Petrovich greeted her “courteously and affectionately, ” though with a certain shade of some cheery familiarity, befitting, however, in Pyotr Petrovich's opinion, to such a respectable and solid man as himself with regard to such a young and, in a certain sense, interesting being. He hastened to “encourage” her and sat her down across the table from himself. Sonya sat down, looked around—at Lebezyatnikov, at the money lying on the table, and suddenly at Pyotr Petrovich again, and then could no longer tear her eyes away, as if they were riveted to him. Lebezyatnikov made a move towards the door. Pyotr Petrovich stood up, gestured to Sonya to remain seated, and stopped Lebezyatnikov at the door.

“This Raskolnikov—is he there? Has he come? ” he asked him in a whisper.

“Raskolnikov? Yes. But why? Yes, he's there... He just came in, I saw him... But why? ”

“Well, then I especially ask you to stay here with us, and not to leave me alone with this... girl. It's a trifling matter, but people will draw God knows what conclusions. I don't want Raskolnikov to tell them... You see what I mean? ”

“Oh, I do, I do! ” Lebezyatnikov suddenly understood. “Yes, you have the right. . . To be sure, in my personal opinion you're carrying your apprehensions too far, but... all the same, you have the right. I'll stay, if you like. I'll stand here at the window and not interfere with you... I think you have the right... ”

Pyotr Petrovich went back to his sofa, sat down facing Sonya, looked at her attentively, and suddenly assumed an extremely imposing, even somewhat stern, expression, as if to say: “Don't you think anything of the sort, miss. ” Sonya became utterly embarrassed.

“First, please make my excuses, Sofya Semyonovna, to your much respected mother... Am I right? I mean, Katerina Ivanovna is like a mother for you? ” Pyotr Petrovich began quite imposingly, albeit rather affectionately. One could see that he had the most friendly intentions.

“Exactly right, sir, right, like a mother, sir, ” Sonya replied hastily and fearfully.

“Well, so make my excuses to her, that owing to unrelated circumstances I am forced to stay away and will not be coming to your pancakes... I mean, memorial meal, in spite of your mother's charming invitation. ”

“Right, sir, I'll tell her, at once, sir, ” and Sonechka hastily jumped up from the chair.

“I haven't finished yet, ” Pyotr Petrovich stopped her, smiling at her simplicity and ignorance of propriety, “and you little know me, my good Sofya Semyonovna, if you thought that for this unimportant reason, of concern to me alone, I would trouble someone such as yourself, and ask you to come and see me personally. I have a different object, miss. ”

Sonya hastily sat down. The gray and iridescent bills which had not been removed from the table again began flashing in her eyes, but she quickly turned her face away and raised it towards Pyotr Petrovich: it suddenly seemed terribly indecent, especially for her, to stare at someone else's money. She tried to fix her eyes on Pyotr Petrovich's gold lorgnette, which he held in place with his left hand, and at the same time on the massive, heavy, extremely beautiful ring, with its yellow stone, on the middle finger of that hand—but suddenly she looked away from that as well, and, not knowing what else to do, ended by again staring straight into Pyotr Petrovich's eyes. After another pause, even more imposing than the previous one, the man went on:

“I happened yesterday, in passing, to exchange a few words with the unfortunate Katerina Ivanovna. Those few words were enough for me to see that she is—if I may put it so—in an unnatural condition. . . ”

“Yes, sir... unnatural, sir, ” Sonya kept hurriedly yessing him.

“Or, to put it more simply and clearly—she is sick. ”

“Yes, sir, more simply and clear... yes, sick, sir. ”

“So, miss. And thus, from a feeling of humaneness and... and... and commiseration, so to speak, I should like to be of some use, foreseeing her inevitably unfortunate lot. It seems that this entire, most destitute family now depends just on you alone. ”

“Allow me to ask, ” Sonya suddenly stood up, “what was it that you told her yesterday about the possibility of a pension? Because she told me yesterday that you were taking it upon yourself to obtain a pension for her. Is it true, sir? ”

“By no means, miss, and in some sense it's even an absurdity. I merely alluded to temporary assistance for the widow of an official who has died in service—provided one has connections—but it appears that your deceased parent not only did not serve out his term, but had not served at all recently. In short, though there might be hope, it is quite ephemeral, because essentially there are no rights to assistance in this case, and even quite the opposite... And she's already thinking about a pension, heh, heh, heh! A perky lady! ”

“Yes, sir, about a pension... Because she's trusting and kind, and her kindness makes her believe everything, and... and... and... that's how her mind is... Yes, sir... excuse me, sir, ” Sonya said, and again got up to leave.

“If you please, you haven't heard me out yet, miss. ”

“Right, sir, I haven't heard you out, ” Sonya muttered.

“Sit down, then, miss. ”

Sonya became terribly abashed and sat down again, for the third time.

“Seeing what situation she is in, with the unfortunate little ones, I should like—as I have already said—insofar as I can, to be of some use—I mean, insofar as I can, as they say, and no further. One could, for example, organize a benefit subscription for her, or a lottery, so to speak... or something of the sort—as is always done in such cases by relatives, or even by outsiders who wish generally to help. That is what I intended to tell you about. It can be done, miss. ”

“Yes, sir, very good, sir... For that, sir, God will. . . ” Sonya babbled, looking fixedly at Pyotr Petrovich.

“It can be done, miss, but... that's for later, miss... I mean, we could even begin today. We'll see each other in the evening, talk it over, and, so to speak, lay the foundations. Come to see me here at, say, seven o'clock. Andrei Semyonovich, I hope, will also take part... But... there is one circumstance here which ought to be mentioned beforehand and carefully. It was for this, Sofya Semyonovna, that I troubled you to come here. Namely, miss, that in my opinion to give money into the hands of Katerina Ivanovna herself is dangerous and ought not to be done; and the proof of it is—this very memorial meal today. Not having, so to speak, even a crust of daily food for tomorrow, nor... well, nor shoes, nor anything, today she buys Jamaica rum, and, I think, even Madeira, and... and... and coffee. I saw it as I passed by. Tomorrow it will all fall on you again, to the last piece of bread; now, this is absurd, miss. And therefore the subscription, in my personal opinion, ought to be done in such a way that the unfortunate widow, so to speak, does not even know about the money, and only you, for instance, know about it. Am I right in saying so? ”

“I don't know, sir. It's only today that she's been like this... once in her life... she wanted so much to commemorate, to honor, to remember... otherwise she's very intelligent, sir. However, as you wish, sir, and I'll be very, very, very... and they'll all be... and God will... and the orphans, sir. . . ”

Sonya did not finish, and began crying.

“So, miss. Well, do keep it in mind; and now be good enough to accept, in the interests of your relative, on this first occasion, a sum feasible for me personally. I am quite, quite anxious that my name not be mentioned in this connection. Here, miss, having my own cares, so to speak, this is all I am able to. . . ”

And Pyotr Petrovich handed Sonya a ten-rouble bill, after carefully unfolding it. Sonya took it, blushed, jumped up, murmured something, and hastily began bowing her way out. Pyotr Petrovich solemnly accompanied her to the door. She sprang out of the room at last, all agitated and exhausted, and returned in great embarrassment to Katerina Ivanovna.

During the course of this whole scene, Andrei Semyonovich either stood by the window or paced the room, not wishing to interrupt the conversation; but when Sonya left, he suddenly went up to Pyotr Petrovich and solemnly offered him his hand.

“I heard everything, and saw everything, ” he said, with special emphasis on the word saw. “What a noble thing—that is, I meant to say, humane! You wished to avoid gratitude, I could see! And though I confess to you that, on principle, I cannot sympathize with private philanthropy, because it not only does not eradicate evil at the root, but even nourishes it still more, nevertheless I cannot help confessing that I looked upon your action with pleasure—yes, yes, I like it. ”

“Eh, what nonsense! ” Pyotr Petrovich muttered, a bit disturbed, and looking somehow closely at Lebezyatnikov.

“No, it's not nonsense! A man insulted and irritated as you are by yesterday's incident, and at the same time capable of thinking of the misfortune of others—such a man, sir... though by his actions he may be making a social mistake—nevertheless... is worthy of respect! I did not even expect it of you, Pyotr Petrovich, the less so since according to your ideas—oh! how your ideas still hinder you! How troubled you are, for instance, by yesterday's failure, ” the good little Andrei Semyonovich went on exclaiming, once more feeling fervently inclined towards Pyotr Petrovich, “but why, why the absolute need for this marriage, this legal marriage, my most noble and most amiable Pyotr Petrovich? Why this absolute need for legality in marriage? Well, beat me if you like, but I'm glad, glad that it fell through, that you are free, that you are not yet altogether lost to mankind, glad... You see, I've spoken my mind. ”

“Because I don't want to wear horns and breed up other men's children—that's why I need a legal marriage, ” Luzhin said, just to make a reply. He was especially pensive and preoccupied with something.

“Children? You've touched upon children? ” Andrei Semyonovich gave a start, like a war horse hearing the sound of trumpets. “Children are a social question, and the question is of the first importance, I agree; but the question of children will be resolved differently. There are even some who negate children altogether, as they do every suggestion of the family. We'll talk about children later, but now let us turn our attention to horns! I confess, this is my weak spot. This nasty, Pushkinian, hussar's expression is even unthinkable in the future lexicon. ^{^[112]}Besides, what are horns? Oh, delusion! What horns? Why horns? What nonsense! On the contrary, in civil marriage there won't be any horns! Horns are simply the natural consequence of every legal marriage, its correction, so to speak, a protest, so that in this sense they are not humiliating in the least. . . And—absurd as it is to think of it—if ever I wind up in a legal marriage, I will even be glad of your thrice-cursed horns; in that case I'll say to my wife: 'My friend, before now I have only loved you, but now I respect you, because you've been able to protest! '^{^[113]} You laugh? That's because you're not strong enough to tear yourself free of prejudices! Devil take it, don't I know precisely what makes it so unpleasant when you're deceived in the legal sort? But that is merely the base consequence of a base fact, in which both parties are humiliated. But when the horns are given openly, as in a civil marriage, then they no longer exist, they are unthinkable, and lose even the name of horns. On the contrary, your wife will merely be proving how much she respects you, by considering you incapable of opposing her happiness and developed enough not to take revenge on her for her new husband. Devil take it, I sometimes dream that if I were given in marriage—pah! —if I were to marry (civilly or legally, it makes no difference), I think I'd bring my wife a lover myself, if she was too slow in taking one. 'My friend, ' I'd say, 'I love you, but beyond that I wish you to respect me—here! ' Is it right, is it right what I'm saying? . . . ”

Pyotr Petrovich was chuckling as he listened, but with no particular enthusiasm. Indeed, he was scarcely even listening. He was actually thinking over something else, and even Lebezyatnikov finally noticed it. Pyotr Petrovich was even excited; he rubbed his hands and kept lapsing into thought. All this Andrei Semyonovich realized and recalled afterwards. . .

It would be difficult to point to exactly what caused the idea of this witless memorial meal to be born in Katerina Ivanovna's unsettled head. Indeed, nearly ten roubles had been thrown away on it, out of the more than twenty she had received from Raskolnikov for Marmeladov's actual funeral. Perhaps Katerina Ivanovna considered it her duty towards the dead man to honor his memory “properly, ” so that all the tenants would know, Amalia Ivanovna especially, that he was “not only in no way worse than they, but maybe even much better, ” and that none of them had the right to “turn up his nose” at him. Perhaps what had greatest influence here was that special poor man's pride, which brings it about that in some of the social rituals obligatory for one and all in our daily life, many poor people turn themselves inside out and spend every last kopeck of their savings, only so as to be “no worse than others” and “not to be condemned” somehow by these others. It is quite probable that Katerina Ivanovna wished, precisely on that occasion, precisely at that moment when it seemed she had been abandoned by everyone in the world, to show all these “worthless and nasty tenants” not only that she “knew how to live and how to entertain, ” but that she had even been brought up for an altogether different lot, that she had been brought up “in a noble, one might even say aristocratic, colonel's house, ” and was not at all prepared for sweeping the floor herself and washing the children's rags at night. Such paroxysms of pride and vanity sometimes visit the poorest and most downtrodden people, and at times turn into an irksome and irrepressible need in them. Katerina Ivanovna, moreover, was not the downtrodden sort at all; she could be utterly crushed by circumstances, but to make her morally downtrodden —that is, to intimidate her and break her will—was impossible. Moreover, Sonechka had quite good grounds for saying of her that her mind was becoming deranged. True, one could not say it positively and finally as yet, but indeed, recently, during the whole past year, her poor head had been too tormented not to have become at least partially damaged. An acute development of consumption, physicians say, also leads to a deranging of the mental faculties.

Wines in plural and in great variety there were not, nor was there any Madeira; all this had been exaggerated; but there was wine. There were vodka, rum, and Lisbon, all of the worst quality, but all in sufficient quantity. Of food, besides kutya, ^{^[114]} there were three or four dishes (pancakes among them), all from Amalia Ivanovna's kitchen, and in addition two samovars were being prepared for tea and punch, which were supposed to follow the meal. The purchasing had been seen to by Katerina Ivanovna herself, with the help of one tenant, a pathetic little Pole, who for God knows what reason was living at Mrs. Lippewechsel's, and who immediately attached himself to Katerina Ivanovna as an errand boy, and had spent the whole day yesterday and all that morning running around with his tongue hanging out, seeming especially anxious that this last circumstance be noticed. He came running to Katerina Ivanovna for every trifle, even ran to look for her in the Gostiny Arcade, kept calling her “pani cborunzina, ”^{^[115]} until at last she got thoroughly fed up with him, though at first she had said that without this “obliging and magnanimous” man she would utterly have perished. It was a property of Katerina Ivanovna's character hastily to dress up any first-comer in the best and brightest colors, to shower him with praises, which made some even feel ashamed, to invent various nonexistent circumstances for praising him, and to believe with perfect sincerity and candor in their reality, and then suddenly, all at once, to become disillusioned, to cut short, berate, and drive out the person whom, only a few hours earlier, she had literally worshipped. She was naturally of an easily amused, cheerful, and peaceable character, but continual misfortunes and failures had made her wish and demand so fiercely that everyone live in peace and joy, and not dare to live otherwise, that the slightest dissonance in life, the lease failure, would at once send her almost into a frenzy, and in the space of an instant, after the brightest hopes and fantasies, she would begin cursing her fate, tearing and throwing whatever she got hold of, and beating her head against the wall. Suddenly, for some reason, Amalia Ivanovna also acquired an extraordinary significance and extraordinary respect from Katerina Ivanovna, perhaps solely because this memorial meal got started and Amalia Ivanovna decided wholeheartedly to participate in all the chores: she undertook to lay the table, to provide linen, dishes, and so on, and to prepare the food in her kitchen. Katerina Ivanovna left her in charge when she went to the cemetery, and gave her full authority. Indeed, everything was done up famously: the tablecloth was even quite clean; the dishes, forks, knives, wineglasses, goblets, cups—all miscellaneous, of course, in all sorts of shapes and sizes, borrowed from various tenants—were in place at the right time; and Amalia Ivanovna, feeling that she had done a superb job, met the people coming back even with a certain pride, all decked out in a bonnet with new mourning ribbons and a black dress. This pride, though merited, for some reason displeased Katerina Ivanovna: “Really, as if they couldn't even have set the table without Amalia Ivanovna! ” The bonnet with its new ribbons also displeased her: “Is this stupid German woman proud, by any chance, of being the landlady and agreeing out of charity to help her poor tenants? Out of charity! I ask you! In the house of Katerina Ivanovna's papa, who was a colonel and all but a governor, the table was sometimes laid for forty persons, and this same Amalia Ivanovna, or, more properly, Ludwigovna, wouldn't even have been allowed into the kitchen. . . ” However, Katerina Ivanovna resolved not to air her feelings for the time being, though she decided in her heart that Amalia Ivanovna absolutely had to be brought up short that very day and reminded of her proper place, or else she would start fancying God knows what about herself, but for the time being she was simply cool to her. Yet another unpleasantness contributed to Katerina Ivanovna's irritation: almost none of the tenants who had been invited actually came to the funeral, except for the little Pole, who did manage to run over to the cemetery; yet for the memorial meal—for the food, that is—all the poorest and most insignificant of them appeared, many not even looking like themselves, just some sort of trash. And those who were a bit older and a bit more solid, as if on purpose, by conspiracy, all stayed away. Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin, for example, the most solid, one might say, of all the tenants, did not appear, and yet the evening before, Katerina Ivanovna had managed to tell the whole world—that is, Amalia Ivanovna, Polechka, Sonya, and the little Pole—that he was a most noble and magnanimous man, with the most vast connections and wealth, her first husband's old friend, received in her father's house, and that he had promised to use every means to obtain a considerable pension for her. Let us note here that when Katerina Ivanovna did boast of someone's connections and wealth, it was without any thought for herself, without any personal calculation, quite disinterestedly, so to speak, from a fullness of heart, only for the pleasure of praising, and so as to give even more worth to what she praised. Along with Luzhin, and no doubt “following his example, ” that “nasty scoundrel Lebe-zyatnikov” also failed to appear. “Who does he think he is? He was invited only out of charity, and then only because he's sharing a room with Pyotr Petrovich and is his acquaintance, so that it would have been awkward not to invite him. ” Absent as well were a certain genteel lady and her “overripe maiden” daughter, who, though they had been living in Amalia Ivanovna's rooms for only about two weeks, had already complained several times of noise and shouting from the Marmeladovs' room, especially when the deceased would return home drunk, of which Katerina Ivanovna had, of course, already been informed by Amalia Ivanovna herself when, squabbling with Katerina Ivanovna and threatening to turn out the whole family, she had shouted at the top of her voice that they were disturbing “noble tenants whose foot they were not worth. ” Katerina Ivanovna now made a point of inviting this lady and her daughter whose “foot she supposedly was not worth, ” the more so as prior to this, in chance meetings, the woman always turned haughtily away—now they would know that there were “people who had nobler thoughts and feelings, and invited guests without holding any grudges, ” and they would see that Katerina Ivanovna was accustomed to quite a different lot in life. This was to be explained to them without fail at the table, as was the governorship of her late papa, and along with that an indirect remark would be made about there being no point in turning away from meetings, as it was an extremely stupid thing to do. There was a fat lieutenant-colonel (actually a retired captain) who also did not come, but it turned out that he had been “out cold” since the previous evening. In short, the only ones who came were: the little Pole; then a miserable runt of a clerk, mute, covered with blackheads, in a greasy frock coat, and with a disgusting smell; and then a deaf and almost completely blind old man, who had once worked in some post office, and whom someone from time immemorial and for unknown reasons had been keeping at Amalia Ivanovna's. There was also a drunken retired lieutenant, actually a supply officer, who had a most indecent and loud laugh, and, “just imagine, ” was not wearing a waistcoat! One of them sat right down at the table without so much as a bow to Katerina Ivanovna, and finally one personage, for lack of clothes, appeared in his dressing gown, but this was already an impossible degree of indecency, and, through the efforts of Amalia Ivanovna and the little Pole, he was successfully removed. The little Pole, however, brought along two other little Poles, who had never even lived at Amalia Ivanovna's, and whom no one had seen in the house before. Katerina Ivanovna found all this quite unpleasantly annoying. “Whom were all these preparations made for, then? ” To gain space, the children were not even put at the table, which took up the whole room anyway, but had to eat in the back corner on a trunk, the two little ones sitting on a bench, while Polechka, being a big girl, looked after them, fed them, and wiped their little noses “as is proper for noble children. ” In short, Katerina Ivanovna had, against her will, to meet everyone with heightened dignity and even condescension. To some she gave an especially stern look, haughtily inviting them to sit down at the table. Considering Amalia Ivanovna for some reason answerable for all those who failed to come, she suddenly began treating her with great negligence, which Amalia Ivanovna noticed at once and greatly resented. Such a beginning promised no good end. Finally they all sat down.

Raskolnikov came in at almost the same moment as they returned from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was terribly glad to see him, first because he was the only “educated man” among all the guests and “as everyone knew, was preparing to occupy a professor's chair at the local university in two years' time, ” and second because he immediately and respectfully apologized to her for having been unable to attend the funeral, in spite of his wishes. She simply fell upon him, seated him at the table directly to her left (Amalia Ivanovna was sitting to her right), and in spite of her constant fussing and concern that the serving be correct and that there be enough for everyone, in spite of the tormenting cough that interrupted and choked her every moment and that seemed to have settled in her especially over the past two days, she constantly turned to Raskolnikov and hastened to pour out to him in a half whisper all her pent-up feelings and all her righteous indignation at the failed memorial meal—this indignation frequently giving way to the most gay and irrepressible laughter at the assembled guests, and predominantly at the landlady herself.

“It's all this cuckoo-bird's fault. You know who I'm talking about— her, her! ” and Katerina Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady. “Look at her eyes popping out! She feels we're talking about her, but she can't catch anything, so she's gawking at us. Pah, what an owl! Ha, ha, ha! ... Hem, hem, hem! And what is she trying to show with that bonnet of hers! Hem, hem, hem! Have you noticed, she keeps wanting everyone to think she's patronizing me and doing me a great honor by her presence! I asked her, as a decent woman, to invite the better sort of people—namely, my late husband's acquaintances—and look who she's brought! Clowns! Sluts! Look at that one with the pimply face: some sort of snot on two legs! And those little Poles... ha, ha, ha! Hem, hem, hem! Nobody, nobody has ever seen them here; I've never seen them myself; so why did they come, I ask you? Sitting side by side so decorously. Hey, panie! ”^{^[116]}she called out suddenly to one of them, “did you have any pancakes? Have some more! Drink some beer, some beer! Don't you want some vodka? Look, he jumped up, he's bowing, look, look! The poor fellows must be quite hungry! Never mind, let them eat. At least they're not making any noise, only... only, really, I'm afraid for the landlady's silver spoons! ... Amalia Ivanovna! ” she suddenly addressed her, almost aloud, “if by any chance they steal your spoons, I won't answer for them, I warn you beforehand! Ha, ha, ha! ” She simply dissolved, turning to Raskolnikov again, and again nodding towards the landlady, delighted with her little escapade. “She didn't get it, again she didn't get it! She sits there gawking, look—an owl, a real owl, a barn owl in new ribbons, ha, ha, ha! ”

Here her laughter again turned into an unbearable coughing, which lasted for about five minutes. There was blood left on her handkerchief; drops of sweat stood out on her forehead. She silently showed the blood to Raskolnikov and, having only just caught her breath, at once began whispering to him again in great animation and with flushed spots on her cheeks:

“You see, I gave her a most subtle errand, one might say—to invite that lady and her daughter, you know the ones I'm talking about? It was necessary to behave in the most delicate manner here, to act most skillfully, but she managed it so that this visiting fool, this presumptuous creature, this worthless provincial, simply because she's some sort of major's widow and has come to ask for a pension, and is wearing out her skirt-hems in all the offices, because at the age of fifty-five she blackens her eyebrows, powders her face, and wears rouge (as everyone knows)... and such a creature not only did not deem it necessary to come, but did not even send an apology for being unable to come, as common courtesy demands in such cases! But I cannot understand why Pyotr Petrovich hasn't come. And where is Sonya? Where did she go? Ah, here she is at last! Why, Sonya, where have you been? It's strange of you to be so unpunctual even at your own father's funeral. Rodion Romanych, let her sit next to you. Here's a place for you, Sonechka... take what you'd like. Have some fish in aspic, that's the best. They'll bring more pancakes soon. Did the children have any? Polechka, do you have everything there? Hem, hem, hem! All right, then. Be a good girl, Lenya; and you, Kolya, stop swinging your feet; sit like a noble child. What's that you're saying, Sonechka? ”

Sonya hastened to convey at once Pyotr Petrovich's apology to her, trying to speak loudly enough for everyone to hear, and choosing the most respectful expressions, which she even invented and embellished a bit on Pyotr Petrovich's behalf. She added that Pyotr Petrovich had asked her to say especially that as soon as he could, he would come at once to talk over certain matters privately, and to discuss what could be done and undertaken in the future, and so on and so forth.

Sonya knew that this would calm and appease Katerina Ivanovna, that it would flatter her, and, above all—would satisfy her pride. She sat down next to Raskolnikov, having hastily bowed to him and looked curiously at him in passing. For the rest of the time, however, she somehow avoided looking at him or speaking to him. She even seemed absentminded, though she kept peering into Katerina Ivanovna's face in order to please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna was wearing mourning, for lack of dresses. Sonya had on something brown, of a darkish shade; Katerina Ivanovna was wearing her only dress, a dark cotton one with stripes. The news about Pyotr Petrovich went over swimmingly. Having listened to Sonya with an air of importance, Katerina Ivanovna, with the same importance, inquired after Pyotr Petrovich's health. Then, immediately and almost aloud, she whispered to Raskolnikov that it would indeed be strange for such a respected and solid man as Pyotr Petrovich to find himself in such “extraordinary company, ” in spite of all his devotion to her family and his old friendship with her papa.

“That is why I am so especially grateful to you, Rodion Romanych, for not scorning my bread and salt, even in such circumstances, ” she added, almost aloud. ^{^[117]} “However, I'm sure that only your special friendship with my poor late husband prompted you to keep your word. ”

Then once again, with pride and dignity, she surveyed her guests, and suddenly, with special solicitude, inquired loudly of the old man across the table: “Wouldn't he care for some more stew, and had he tried the Lisbon wine? ” The old man did not reply and for a long time could not understand what he was being asked, though his neighbors even began nudging him for the fun of it. He only looked around open-mouthed, which fueled the general merriment even more.

“What a dolt! Look, look! Why did they bring him? As for Pyotr Petrovich, I've always been confident of him, ” Katerina Ivanovna continued to Raskolnikov, “and he certainly bears no resemblance... ” (she addressed Amalia Ivanovna sharply and loudly, and with an extremely stern look, under which even Amalia Ivanovna quailed) “no resemblance to those frippery skirt-swishers of yours, whom my papa wouldn't even have taken as cooks into his kitchen, and as for my late husband, he, of course, would have been doing them an honor by receiving them, and then only out of his inexhaustible kindness. ”

“Yes, ma'am, he liked his drink; he liked it, that he did, ma'am! ” the retired supply officer suddenly exclaimed, emptying his twelfth glass of vodka.

“My late husband indeed had that weakness, and everyone knows it, ” Katerina Ivanovna simply fastened on him all at once, “but he was a kind and noble man, who loved and respected his family; the only bad thing was that in his kindness he trusted too much in all sorts of depraved people, and God alone knows who he didn't drink with, even people who weren't worth his shoe sole! Imagine, Rodion Romanovich, they found a gingerbread rooster in his pocket: he was walking around dead drunk, yet he remembered the children. ”

“A roo-ooster? Did you say a roo-ooster? ” cried the supply gentleman.

Katerina Ivanovna did not deign to answer him. She lapsed into thought about something and sighed.

“You no doubt think, as everyone else does, that I was too strict with him, ” she went on, addressing Raskolnikov. “But it wasn't so! He respected me, he respected me very, very much! He was a man of good soul! And I oftentimes felt so sorry for him! He used to sit and look at me from the corner, and I'd feel such pity for him, I'd have liked to be nice to him, but then I'd think to myself: 'I'll be nice to him, and he'll just get drunk again. ' It was only by strictness that it was possible to restrain him at all. ”

“Yes, ma'am, it did go on, the hair-pulling, that it did, more than once, ma'am, ” the supply man bellowed again, and poured another glass of vodka into himself.

“Not just hair-pulling but even the broom would be a useful treatment for some fools. I'm not talking about my late husband now, ” Katerina Ivanovna snapped at the supply man.

The flushed spots on her cheeks glowed brighter and brighter; her chest was heaving. Another minute and she would be ready to start a scene. Many were chuckling; evidently many found it enjoyable. They began nudging the supply man and whispering something to him. Obviously they wanted to set them at each other.

“And ma-a-ay I ask on what account, ma'am, ” the supply man began, “that is, on whose noble account... you have just been so good as to... but, no! Nonsense! A widow! A widow-woman! I forgive... I pass! ” and he knocked back some more vodka.

Raskolnikov sat and listened silently and with loathing. And he ate only out of politeness, barely touching the food that Katerina Ivanovna was constantly putting on his plate, and then only to avoid offending her. He kept a close eye on Sonya. But Sonya was becoming more and more anxious and preoccupied; she, too, anticipated that the memorial meal was not going to end peaceably, and watched with fear Katerina Ivanovna's mounting irritation. She knew, incidentally, that she herself, Sonya, was the main reason that the two visiting ladies had treated Katerina Ivanovna's invitation so contemptuously. She had heard from Amalia Ivanovna herself that the mother was even offended at the invitation and had posed the question: “How could she possibly place her daughter next to that girl? ” Sonya had a feeling that this had somehow already become known to Katerina Ivanovna; and an offense to her, Sonya, meant more to Katerina Ivanovna than an offense to herself personally, or to her children, or to her papa; in short, it was a mortal offense, and Sonya knew that now Katerina Ivanovna would not rest “until she had proved to those skirt-swishers that they were both... ” and so on and so forth. As if on purpose, someone sent Sonya a plate from the other end of the table with two hearts on it pierced by an arrow, molded in black bread. Katerina Ivanovna flared up and at once loudly remarked across the table that whoever had sent it was, of course, “a drunken ass. ” Amalia Ivanovna, who also anticipated something bad, and furthermore was insulted to the bottom of her soul by Katerina Ivanovna's haughtiness, in order to divert the unpleasant mood of the company, and at the same time raise herself in the general esteem, suddenly, out of the blue, began telling of how an acquaintance of hers, “Karl from the pharmacy, ” had taken a cab one night, and the driver “vanted to kill him, and Karl he pegged him fery, fery much not to kill him, and he vept and clasped his hands, and he vas sheared, and from fear vas pierced his heart. ” Katerina Ivanovna, though she smiled, immediately observed that Amalia Ivanovna ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian. The woman became even more offended, and replied that her “fater aus Berlin vas a fery, fery important mann and vent mit his hands into the pockets. ” The easily amused Katerina Ivanovna could not help herself and burst into a terrible fit of laughter, so that Amalia Ivanovna began to lose all patience and could barely contain herself.

“What a barn owl! ” Katerina Ivanovna whispered again to Raskolnikov, almost cheerfully. “She meant to say he kept his hands in his pockets, but it came out that he picked people's pockets, hem, hem!

And have you noticed, Rodion Romanovich, once and for all, that all these Petersburg foreigners—that is, Germans mainly, wherever they come from—are all stupider than we are! You must agree, one simply cannot talk about how 'Karl from the pharmacy from fear vas pierced his heart, ' and how he (the young snot! ) 'clasped his hands, and vept, and pegged fery much' instead of just tying the driver up! Ah, the dunderhead! And yet she thinks it's very touching and doesn't suspect how stupid she is! In my opinion, this drunken supply man is a good deal smarter; at least one can see he's a boozer and has drunk up the last of his wits; but these people are all so well-behaved, so serious... Look at her sitting there with her eyes popping out. She's angry! She's angry! Ha, ha, ha! Hem, hem, hem! ”

Having cheered up, Katerina Ivanovna immediately got carried away with various details, and suddenly began to talk of how, with the aid of the obtained pension, she would certainly start an institute for noble girls in her native town of T------. This was something Katerina Ivanovna herself had not yet spoken of with Raskolnikov, and she was immediately carried away with the most tempting details. All at once, no one knew how, she was holding in her hands that same “certificate of merit” which Raskolnikov had heard about from the late Marmeladov, when he was explaining to him in the tavern that Katerina Ivanovna, his spouse, on her graduation from the institute, had danced with a shawl “before the governor and other personages. ” This certificate of merit was now obviously meant to serve as evidence of Katerina Ivanovna's right to start an institute of her own; but above all it had been kept ready with the purpose of finally confounding “those two frippery skirt-swishers” in case they should come to the memorial meal, and proving clearly to them that Katerina Ivanovna was from a most noble, “one might even say aristocratic, house, a colonel's daughter, and certainly better than the sort of adventuresses who have been multiplying in such quantity lately. ” The certificate of merit was immediately handed around among the drunken guests, which Katerina Ivanovna did not prevent, because it did indeed mention en toutes lettres^{^[118]} that she was the daughter of a court councillor and chevalier of an order, and therefore indeed almost a colonel's daughter. Burning with excitement, Katerina Ivanovna immediately expanded on all the details of this wonderful and peaceful future life in T------, the school-masters she would invite to give lessons in her institute, the venerable old Frenchman, Mangot, who had taught French to Katerina Ivanovna herself at the institute, and was now living out his old age in T------, and who would certainly come to her on quite suitable terms. Finally, it came to Sonya as well, “who would go to T------together with Katerina Ivanovna and help her there in everything. ” Here someone suddenly snorted at the other end of the table. Though Katerina Ivanovna at once made a pretense of scornfully ignoring the laughter that arose at the end of the table, she deliberately raised her voice at once and began talking animatedly about Sofya Semyonovna's undoubted abilities to serve as her assistant, about “her meekness, patience, self-denial, nobility, and education, ” and she patted Sonya on the cheek and, rising a little, warmly kissed her twice. Sonya flushed, and Katerina Ivanovna suddenly burst into tears, immediately observing of herself that “she was a nervous fool, and much too upset, and that it was time to end, and since the meal was over, why not serve tea. ” At the same moment, Amalia Ivanovna, now utterly offended because she had not taken the least part in the entire conversation and no one would even listen to her, suddenly risked a last attempt and, with concealed anguish, ventured to offer Katerina Ivanovna an extremely sensible and profound observation about the necessity, in the future institute, of paying special attention to the girls' clean linen (die W& #224; sche) and “of making sure dere iss vun such good lady” (die Dame) “who should look vell after the linen, ” and second, “that all the young girls mussn't sneak any novel by night to read. ” Katerina Ivanovna, who was really upset and very tired, and was already thoroughly sick of the memorial meal, immediately “snapped” at Amalia Ivanovna that she was “pouring out drivel” and understood nothing; that it was for the head matron to worry about die W& #224; sche, not the directress of a noble institute; and as far as reading novels was concerned, that was all simply indecencies and she begged her to keep quiet. Amalia Ivanovna flushed and, getting angry, remarked that she was only “vishing vell” and that she “fery much vished vell, ” but that “for a long time she vasn't the geld paid for the apartment. ” Katerina Ivanovna “put her down” at once, declaring that she was lying when she said she “vished her vell, ” because just yesterday, while the dead man was still laid out on the table, ^{^[119]} she had been tormenting her about the apartment. To this Amalia Ivanovna responded, quite consistently, that she had “infited those ladies, but the ladies didn't come, because those been noble ladies, and to a not noble lady they cannot come. ” Katerina Ivanovna immediately “underscored” for her that since she was a slut, she was no judge of true nobility. This was too much for Amalia Ivanovna, and she declared at once that her “fater aus Berlin vas fery, fery important mann and vent mitt both hands into the pockets and alvays made like that: poof! poof! ” and for a more lifelike portrayal of her fater, Amalia Ivanovna jumped up from her chair, thrust both hands into her pockets, puffed out her cheeks, and began producing some sounds vaguely resembling “poof, poof with her mouth, to the accompaniment of loud guffaws from all the tenants, who, anticipating a skirmish, deliberately encouraged Amalia Ivanovna with their approval. Now this Katerina Ivanovna could not tolerate, and she immediately “rapped out” for all to hear that Amalia Ivanovna perhaps never even had a fater; that Amalia Ivanovna was simply a drunken Petersburg Finn and must have lived somewhere formerly as a kitchen maid, if not something worse. Amalia Ivanovna turned red as a lobster and started shrieking that it was maybe Katerina Ivanovna who “hat no fater at all, but that she hat a fater aus Berlin, and he vore a frock coat this long and made poof, poof, poof all the time! ” Katerina Ivanovna observed contemptuously that her origins were known to all, and that it was stated in print on that same certificate of merit that her father was a colonel, and that Amalia Ivanovna's father (if she had any father) must have been some Petersburg Finn who sold milk; but most likely there was no father at all, because to this day it was unknown whether Amalia Ivanovna's patronymic was Ivanovna or Ludwigovna. At this, Amalia Ivanovna became utterly enraged and, banging her fist on the table, began shrieking that she was Amal-Ivan, not Ludwigovna, that her fater's name “vas Johann, and he vas Burgomeister, ” and that Katerina Ivanovna's fater “vas never vonce Burgomeister. ” Katerina Ivanovna rose from her chair and sternly, in an ostensibly calm voice (though she was all pale and her chest was heaving deeply), remarked to her that if she ever dared “to place her wretched little fater on the same level with her dear papa, she, Katerina Ivanovna, would tear her bonnet off and trample it under her feet. ” Having heard this, Amalia Ivanovna started running around the room, shouting with all her might that she was the landlady and that Katerina Ivanovna must “in vun minute facate the apartment”; then for some reason she rushed to gather up the silver spoons from the table. A row and an uproar ensued; the children started to cry. Sonya rushed and tried to hold Katerina Ivanovna back; but when Amalia Ivanovna suddenly shouted something about a yellow pass, Katerina Ivanovna pushed Sonya away and made for Amalia Ivanovna in order to carry out at once her threat concerning the bonnet. At that moment the door opened, and Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin appeared on the threshold of the room. He stood and with stern, attentive eyes surveyed the whole company. Katerina Ivanovna rushed to him.

III

“Pyotr petrovich! ” she exclaimed, “you protect us at least! Bring home to this stupid creature that she dare not treat a noble lady in misfortune this way, that there are courts for such things... I'll go to the governor-general himself... She'll answer... Remember my father's bread and salt; protect the orphans. ”

“Excuse me, madam... Excuse me, excuse me, madam, ” Pyotr Petrovich brushed her aside. “As you are aware, I did not have the honor of knowing your father... excuse me, madam! ” (Someone guffawed loudly. ) “And I have no intention of participating in your ceaseless strife with Amalia Ivanovna... I have come for my own purposes... and wish to speak at once with your stepdaughter, Sofya... Ivanovna... I believe? Allow me to pass, ma'am. ”

And edging past Katerina Ivanovna, Pyotr Petrovich made his way to the opposite corner, where Sonya was.

Katerina Ivanovna simply stood there as if thunderstruck. She could not understand how Pyotr Petrovich could disavow her dear papa's bread and salt. Having once invented this bread and salt, she now believed in it religiously. She was also struck by Pyotr Petrovich's tone—businesslike, dry, even full of some contemptuous threat. And everyone else somehow gradually became hushed at his appearance. Besides the fact that this “businesslike and serious” man was so sharply out of harmony with the whole company, besides that, one could see that he had come for something important, that probably only some extraordinary reason could have drawn him into such company, and that, therefore, something was about to happen, there was going to be something. Raskolnikov, who was standing next to Sonya, stepped aside to let him pass; Pyotr Petrovich seemed to take no notice of him. A minute later, Lebezyatnikov also appeared on the threshold; he did not come into the room, but stood there with some special curiosity, almost astonishment; he listened carefully, but it seemed that for a long time there was something he could not understand.

“Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but the matter is rather important, ” Pyotr Petrovich remarked somehow generally, not addressing anyone in particular. “I'm even glad to have the public here. Amalia Ivanovna, I humbly ask you, in your quality as landlady, to pay attention to my forthcoming conversation with Sofya Ivanovna. Sofya Ivanovna, ” he continued, turning directly to Sonya, who was extremely surprised and already frightened beforehand, “a state bank note belonging to me, in the amount of one hundred roubles, disappeared from my table in the room of my friend, Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov, immediately following your visit. If, in one way or another, you know and can point out to us its present whereabouts, I assure you on my word of honor, and I call all of you as witnesses, that the matter will end right here. Otherwise, I shall be forced to take quite serious measures, in which case... you will have only yourself to blame, miss! ”

Complete silence fell over the room. Even the crying children became quiet. Sonya stood deathly pale, looking at Luzhin, unable to make any reply. It was as if she still did not understand. Several seconds passed.

“Well, miss, what is it to be? ” Luzhin asked, looking at her fixedly.

“I don't know... I don't know anything. . . ” Sonya finally said in a weak voice.

“No? You don't know? ” Luzhin asked again, and paused for another few seconds. “Think, mademoiselle, ” he began sternly, but still as if admonishing her, “consider well; I am willing to give you more time for reflection. Kindly realize, mademoiselle, that if I were not so sure, then naturally, with my experience, I would not risk accusing you so directly; for I myself, in a certain sense, am answerable for such a direct and public accusation, if it is false, or even merely mistaken. I am aware of that. This morning, for my own purposes, I cashed several five percent notes for the nominal value of three thousand roubles. I have a record of the transaction in my wallet. On returning home—Andrei Semyonovich is my witness here—I began counting the money and, having counted out two thousand three hundred roubles, I put them away in my wallet, and put the wallet into the side pocket of my frock coat. There were about five hundred left on the table, in bank notes, among them three notes for a hundred roubles each. At that moment you arrived (summoned by me)—and all the while you were with me, you were extremely embarrassed, so that you even got up and for some reason hastened to leave three times in the middle of the conversation, though our conversation was not yet finished. Andrei Semyonovich can witness to all that. Probably, mademoiselle, you yourself will not refuse to state and corroborate that I summoned you, through Andrei Semyonovich, for the sole purpose of discussing with you the orphaned and helpless situation of your relative, Katerina Ivanovna (whom I have been unable to join for the memorial meal), and how useful it would be to organize something like a subscription, a lottery, or what have you, for her benefit. You thanked me and even shed a few tears (I am telling everything as it happened, first, to remind you of it, and second, to show you that not the slightest detail has erased itself from my memory). Then I took from the table a ten-rouble bank note and handed it to you, in my own name, for the sake of your relative's interests and in view of a first contribution. Andrei Semyonovich saw all this. Then I accompanied you to the door—still with the same embarrassment on your part—after which, remaining alone with Andrei Semyonovich and talking with him for about ten minutes, Andrei Semyonovich left, and I turned again to the table with the money lying on it, intending to count it and set it aside, as I had meant to do earlier. To my surprise, from among the other hundred-rouble bills, one was missing. Now, kindly consider: I really can in no way suspect Andrei Semyonovich, miss; I'm even ashamed of the suggestion. That I made a mistake in counting is also not possible, because I had finished all my accounts a moment before you came, and found the result correct. You can only agree that, recalling your embarrassment, your haste to leave, and the fact that you kept your hands on the table for some time; considering, finally, your social position and its attendant habits, I was forced, with horror, so to speak, and even against my will, to arrive at a suspicion—a cruel one, of course, but—a justified one, miss! I will also add and repeat that, in spite of all my obvious certainty, I am aware that there is still some risk present for me in this accusation of mine. But, as you see, I did not take it idly; I rose up, and let me tell you why: solely, miss, solely on account of your blackest ingratitude! What? I invite you in the interests of your most destitute relative, I offer you a feasible donation of ten roubles, and right then and there you repay all that with such an act! No, miss, that is not nice! You must be taught a lesson, miss. Consider, then; moreover, I beg you as a true friend (for you could have no better friend at this moment) to come to your senses! Otherwise, I shall be implacable! Well then, miss? ”

“I took nothing from you, ” Sonya whispered in terror. “You gave me ten roubles—here, take it. ” Sonya pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, found the knot, untied it, took out the ten-rouble bill, and held her hand out to Luzhin.

“And the other hundred roubles you simply do not admit? ” he said reproachfully and insistently, without taking the bill.

Sonya looked around. They were all staring at her with such terrible, stern, mocking, hateful faces. She glanced at Raskolnikov... he was standing by the wall, arms folded, looking at her with fiery eyes.

“Oh, Lord! ” escaped from Sonya.

“Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to inform the police, and therefore I humbly ask you to send meanwhile for the caretaker, ” Luzhin said softly and even tenderly.

“Gott der Barmberzige! ^{^[120]}I just known she vas shtealing! ” Amalia Ivanovna clasped her hands.

“You just knew? ” Luzhin picked up. “Then you had at least some grounds for such conclusions before this. I beg you, most respected Amalia Ivanovna, to remember your words, which in any case have been spoken in front of witnesses. ”

Loud talk suddenly arose on all sides. Everyone stirred.

“Wha-a-at! ” Katerina Ivanovna suddenly cried, having come to her senses, and, as if tearing herself loose, she rushed at Luzhin. “What! You accuse her of stealing? Sonya? Ah, scoundrels, scoundrels! ” And rushing to Sonya, she embraced her with her withered arms, as in a vise.

“Sonya! How dared you take ten roubles from him! Oh, foolish girl! Give it to me! Give me the ten roubles at once—there! ”

And snatching the bill from Sonya, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it in her hand, drew back, and hurled it violently straight into Luzhin's face. The ball of paper hit him in the eye and bounced onto the floor. Amalia Ivanovna rushed to pick up the money. Pyotr Petrovich became angry.

“Restrain this madwoman! ” he shouted.

At that moment several more faces appeared in the doorway beside Lebezyatnikov; the two visiting ladies were among those peeking in.

“What! Mad? Mad, am I? Fool! ” shrieked Katerina Ivanovna. “You, you're a fool, a pettifogger, a base man! Sonya, Sonya take his money? Sonya a thief? Why, she'd sooner give you money, fool! ” And Katerina Ivanovna laughed hysterically. “Have you ever seen such a fool? ” she was rushing in all directions, pointing out Luzhin to them all. “What! And you, too? ” she noticed the landlady. “You're in it, too, you sausage-maker! You, too, claim that she 'vas shtealing, ' you vile Prussian chicken-leg in a crinoline! Ah, you! ... you! But she hasn't even left the room; as soon as she came from seeing you, you scoundrel, she sat down at once just beside Rodion Romanovich! ... Search her! Since she hasn't gone anywhere, it means the money must still be on her! Search, then, go ahead and search! Only if you don't find anything, then, excuse me, my dear, but you'll answer for it! To the sovereign, the sovereign, I'll run to the merciful tsar himself, I'll throw myself at his feet, now, today! I'm an orphan! They'll let me in! You think they won't let me in? Lies! I'll get there! I will! Was it her meekness you were counting on? Were you hoping for that? But I'm perky enough myself, brother! You won't pull it off! Search, then! Search, search, go ahead and search! ”

And Katerina Ivanovna, in a frenzy, tugged at Luzhin, pulling him towards Sonya.

“I'm prepared to, and I'll answer for it... but calm yourself, madam, calm yourself! I see only too well how perky you are! ... But it... it... you see, ma'am, ” Luzhin muttered, “the police ought to be present. . . though, anyway, there are more than enough witnesses as it is... I'm prepared to... But in any case it's embarrassing for a man... by reason of his sex... If Amalia Ivanovna were to help... though, anyway, it's not how things are done... You see, ma'am? ”

“Anyone you like! Let anyone you like search her! ” cried Katerina Ivanovna. “Sonya, turn your pockets out for them! There, there! Look, monster, this one's empty, the handkerchief was in it, the pocket's empty, see? Here, here's the other one! See, see? ”

And Katerina Ivanovna did not so much turn as yank the pockets inside out, one after the other. But from the second, the right-hand pocket, a piece of paper suddenly flew out and, describing a parabola in the air, fell at Luzhin's feet. Everyone saw it; many cried out. Pyotr Petrovich bent down, picked up the paper from the floor with two fingers, held it aloft for everyone to see, and unfolded it. It was a hundred-rouble bill, folded in eight. Pyotr Petrovich made a circle with his hand, showing the bill all around.

“Thief! Out from the apartment! Politz! Politz! ” screamed Amalia Ivanovna. “They should to Tsiberia be chased! Out! ”

Exclamations came flying from all sides. Raskolnikov was silent, not taking his eyes off Sonya, but from time to time shifting them quickly to Luzhin. Sonya stood where she was, as if unconscious; she was almost not even surprised. Color suddenly rushed to her cheeks; she uttered a short cry and covered her face with her hands.

“No, it wasn't me! I didn't take it! I don't know anything! ” she cried in a heart-rending wail, and rushed to Katerina Ivanovna, who seized her and pressed her hard to herself, as if wishing to shield her from everyone with her own breast.

“Sonya! Sonya! I don't believe them! You see I don't believe them! ” Katerina Ivanovna cried (in spite of all the obviousness), rocking her in her arms like a child, giving her countless kisses, catching her hands and simply devouring them with kisses. “As if you could take anything! What stupid people they all are! Oh, Lord! You're stupid, stupid, ” she cried, addressing them all, “you still don't know what a heart she has, what a girl she is! As if she would take anything! Why, she'd strip off her last dress and sell it, and go barefoot, and give everything to you if you needed it—that's how she is! She got a yellow pass because my children were perishing from hunger, she sold herself for us! ... Ah, husband, husband! Ah, my poor, dead husband! Do you see? Do you see? Here's your memorial meal! Lord! But defend her! Why are you all standing there! Rodion Romanovich! Why don't you take her part? Do you believe it, too? None of you is worth her little finger, none of you, none, none, none! Lord, defend us finally! ”

The cries of the poor, consumptive, bereaved Katerina Ivanovna seemed to produce a strong effect on the public. There was so much pathos, so much suffering in her withered, consumptive face, contorted by pain, in her withered lips flecked with blood, in her hoarsely crying voice, in her sobbing, so much like a child's, in her trusting, childlike, and at the same time desperate plea for defense, that they all seemed moved to pity the unfortunate woman. Pyotr Petrovich, at least, was immediately moved to pity.

“Madam! Madam! ” he exclaimed in an imposing voice. “This fact does not concern you! No one would dare accuse you of any intent or complicity, the less so since you discovered it yourself by turning her pockets out: consequently you suspected nothing. I'm quite, quite prepared to show pity if poverty, so to speak, was also what drove Sofya Semyonovna to it, but why is it, mademoiselle, that you did not want to confess? Fear of disgrace? The first step? Or perhaps you felt at a loss? It's understandable; it's quite understandable... But, in any case, how could you get yourself into such qualities! Gentlemen! ” he addressed everyone present, “gentlemen! Pitying and, so to speak, commiserating, I am perhaps ready to forgive, even now, in spite of the personal insults I have received. May this present shame serve you, mademoiselle, as a lesson for the future, ” he turned to Sonya, “the rest I shall let pass, and so be it, I have done. Enough! ”

Pyotr Petrovich gave Raskolnikov a sidelong look. Their glances met. Raskolnikov's burning eyes were ready to reduce him to ashes. Katerina Ivanovna, meanwhile, seemed not even to be listening anymore; she was madly embracing and kissing Sonya. The children also took hold of Sonya from all sides with their little arms, and Polechka— though without quite understanding what was the matter—seemed all drowned in tears, choking back her sobs and hiding her pretty little face, swollen with weeping, on Sonya's shoulder.

“How vile! ” a loud voice suddenly came from the doorway.

Pyotr Petrovich quickly turned around.

“What vileness! ” Lebezyatnikov repeated, staring him straight in the eye.

Pyotr Petrovich even seemed to give a start. Everyone noticed it. (They remembered it afterwards. ) Lebezyatnikov took a step into the room.

“And you dare hold me up as a witness? ” he said, approaching Pyotr Petrovich.

“What do you mean, Andrei Semyonovich? What are you talking about? ” Luzhin muttered.

“I mean that you are... a slanderer, that is what my words mean! ” Lebezyatnikov said hotly, giving him a stern look with his weak-sighted eyes. He was terribly angry. Raskolnikov simply fastened his eyes on him, as though catching and weighing every word. Again there was another silence. Pyotr Petrovich was even almost at a loss, especially for the first moment.

“If it's me you are... ” he began, stammering, “but what's the matter with you? Have you lost your mind? ”

“I haven't lost my mind, and you are... a swindler! Ah, how vile of you! I kept listening, I kept listening on purpose, so as to understand it all, because, I must admit, even now it doesn't seem quite logical... But what you did it for, I cannot understand. ”

“But what have I done? Will you stop talking in these nonsensical riddles? Or maybe you've been drinking? ”

“Maybe you drink, you vile man, but not me! I never even touch vodka, because it's against my convictions! Imagine, he, he himself, with his own hands, gave that hundred-rouble bill to Sofya Semyo-novna—I saw it, I am a witness, I'll swear an oath to it! He, he did it! ” Lebezyatnikov repeated, addressing one and all.

“Are you cracked or what, you milksop! ” Luzhin shrieked. “She herself, in person, right in front of you—she herself, here and now, in front of everyone, confirmed that she received nothing but ten roubles from me. How, in that case, could I have given it to her? ”

“I saw it, I saw it! ” Lebezyatnikov exclaimed and insisted. “And though it's against my convictions, I'm ready to go this very minute and swear whatever oath you like in court, because I saw you slip it to her on the sly! Only, like a fool, I thought you were slipping it to her out of philanthropy! At the door, as you were saying good-bye to her, when she turned away and you were shaking her hand, with your other hand, your left hand, you put a piece of paper into her pocket on the sly. I saw it! I did! ”

Luzhin went pale.

“What lies! ” he exclaimed boldly. “And besides, how could you make out a piece of paper, when you were standing by the window? You imagined it... with your weak-sighted eyes. You're raving! ”

“No, I didn't imagine it! I saw everything, everything, even though I was standing far away; and though it is indeed difficult to make out a piece of paper from the window—you're right about that—in this particular case I knew for certain that it was precisely a hundred-rouble note, because when you went to give Sofya Semyonovna the ten-rouble bill—I saw this myself—you took a hundred-rouble note from the table at the same time (I saw it because I was standing up close then, and since a certain idea immediately occurred to me, I didn't forget that you had the note in your hand). You folded it and kept it clutched in your hand all the time. Then I forgot about it for a while, but when you were getting up, you passed it from your right hand to your left and nearly dropped it; then I remembered again, because then the same idea came to me—namely, that you wanted to be philanthropic to her in secret from me. You can imagine how I began watching—and so I saw how you managed to slip it into her pocket. I saw it, I did, I'll swear an oath to it! ”

Lebezyatnikov was almost breathless. Various exclamations began coming from all sides, mostly indicating surprise, but some of the exclamations also took on a menacing tone. Everyone pressed towards Pyotr Petrovich. Katerina Ivanovna rushed to Lebezyatnikov.

“Andrei Semyonovich! I was mistaken about you! Defend her! You alone are on her side! She's an orphan; God has sent you! Andrei Semyonovich, you dear, sweet man! ”

And Katerina Ivanovna, almost unconscious of what she was doing, threw herself on her knees before him.

“Hogwash! ” screamed Luzhin, enraged to the point of fury. “You're pouring out hogwash, sir! 'I forgot, I remembered, I forgot'— what is all that! You mean I slipped it to her on purpose? Why? With what aim? What do I have in common with this. . . ”

“Why? That I myself don't understand, but it's certain that I'm telling a true fact! I'm so far from being mistaken—you loathsome, criminal man—that I remember precisely how a question occurred to me at once in this connection, precisely as I was thanking you and shaking your hand. Precisely why did you put it into her pocket on the sly? That is, precisely why on the sly? Could it be simply because you wanted to conceal it from me, knowing that I hold opposite convictions and negate private philanthropy, which cures nothing radically? And so I decided that you were indeed ashamed to give away such a chunk in front of me, and besides, I thought, maybe he wants to give her a surprise, to astonish her when she finds a full hundred roubles in her pocket. (Because some philanthropists like very much to smear their philanthropies around like that, I know. ) Then I also thought you might want to test her—that is, to see if she'd come and thank you when she found it. Then, that you wanted to avoid her gratitude, and that—how does it go? —that the right hand, or whatever, shouldn't know... something like that, in short^{^[121]}... Well, and so many other thoughts came to my mind then that I decided to think it all over later, but still considered it indelicate to reveal to you that I knew the secret. Again, however, still another question immediately came to my mind: that Sofya Semyonovna, for all I knew, might lose the money before she noticed it, which is why I decided to come here, to call her aside, and inform her that a hundred roubles had been put in her pocket. But on the way I stopped first to see the Kobylyatnikov ladies and give them The General Conclusion of the Positive Method, and especially to recommend an article by Piederit (and, incidentally, one by Wagner as well); ^{^[122]} then I came here and found a whole scene going on! How, then, how could I have all these thoughts and arguments if I hadn't actually seen you put the hundred roubles in her pocket? ” When Andrei Semyonovich finished his verbose argument, with such a logical conclusion at the close of the speech, he was terribly tired and sweat was even running down his face. Alas, he did not know how to explain himself properly even in Russian (though he knew no other language), so that he somehow immediately became all exhausted, and even seemed to have grown thinner after his forensic exploit. Nevertheless, his speech produced an extraordinary effect. He had spoken with such ardor, with such conviction, that everyone seemed to believe him. Pyotr Perrovich felt things were going badly.

“What do I care if some foolish questions came into your head? ” he cried out. “That is no proof, sir! You may have raved it all up in a dream, that's all! And I tell you that you are lying, sir! Lying and slandering because of some grudge against me, and, namely, because you're angry at my disagreeing with your freethinking and godless social proposals, that's what, sir! ”

But this dodge proved useless to Pyotr Petrovich. On the contrary, murmuring was heard on all sides.

“Ah, so you're off on that track now! ” cried Lebezyatnikov. “Lies! Call the police, and I'll swear an oath to it! The one thing I can't understand is why he risked such a base act! Oh, you vile, pathetic man! ”

“I can explain why he risked such an act, and if need be I'll swear an oath to it myself! ” Raskolnikov spoke finally in a firm voice, stepping forward.

He appeared firm and calm. It somehow became clear to everyone at a glance that he really knew what it was all about and that the denouement had arrived.

“It's all perfectly clear to me now, ” Raskolnikov went on, addressing Lebezyatnikov directly. “From the very beginning of this scene, I suspected there was some nasty hoax in it; I began suspecting it on account of certain particular circumstances, known only to myself, which I will presently explain to everyone: they are the crux of the matter! And you, Andrei Semyonovich, with your invaluable evidence, have finally made it all clear to me. I ask all of you, all of you, to listen carefully: this gentleman” (he pointed to Luzhin) “recently became engaged to a certain girl—namely, to my sister, Avdotya Romanovna Raskolnikov. But, having come to Petersburg, at our first meeting, the day before yesterday, he quarreled with me, and I threw him out of my place, for which there are witnesses. The man is very angry... I was not aware the day before yesterday that he was staying in your room, Andrei Semyonovich, and that consequently, on the same day that we quarreled—the day before yesterday, that is—he was a witness to my giving some money, as a friend of the late Mr. Marmeladov, to his wife, Katerina Ivanovna, for the funeral. He immediately wrote a note to my mother and informed her that I had given all my money not to Katerina Ivanovna, but to Sofya Semyonovna, and along with that made references in the meanest terms about... about Sofya Semyonovna's character—that is, he hinted at the character of my relations with Sofya Semyonovna. All this, you understand, with the aim of making me quarrel with my mother and sister, by suggesting to them that I was squandering their last money, which they had sent to help me, for ignoble purposes. Yesterday evening, before my mother and sister, and in his presence, I re-established the truth, proving that I had given the money to Katerina Ivanovna for the funeral, and not to Sofya Semyonovna, and that the day before yesterday I was not yet even acquainted with Sofya Semyonovna and had never set eyes on her. I also added that he, Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin, for all his virtues, was not worth the little finger of Sofya Semyonovna, of whom he spoke so badly. And to his question, whether I would sit Sofya Semyonovna next to my sister, I answered that I had already done so that same day. Angry that my mother and sister did not want to quarrel with me over his calumny, he became more unpardonably rude to them with every word. A final break ensued, and he was thrown out of the house. All this took place yesterday evening. Here I ask you to pay particular attention: suppose he now managed to prove that Sofya Semyonovna was a thief; then, first of all, he would prove to my sister and mother that he was almost right in his suspicions; that he was justly angry with me for putting my sister and Sofya Semyonovna on the same level; that in attacking me he was thereby also defending and protecting the honor of my sister, and his bride. In short, by means of all this he might even make me quarrel with my family again, and could certainly hope to win back their favor. I say nothing of his revenge on me personally, since he has reasons to suppose that Sofya Semyonovna's honor and happiness are very dear to me. That was the whole of his calculation! That is how I understand this business! That is the reason for it, and there can be no other! ”

Thus, or almost thus, Raskolnikov ended his speech, interrupted frequently by exclamations from the public, who listened, however, very attentively. But in spite of all the interruptions, he spoke sharply, calmly, precisely, clearly, firmly. His sharp voice, his convinced tone and stern face produced an extraordinary effect on everyone.

“Right, right, that's right! ” Lebezyatnikov confirmed delightedly.

“It must be right, because he precisely asked me, as soon as Sofya Semyonovna came to our room, whether you were here, whether I had seen you among Katerina Ivanovna's guests. He called me over to the window for that, and asked me quietly. That means he wanted to be sure you were here! It's right, it's all right! ”

Luzhin was silent and only smiled contemptuously. He was very pale, however. He seemed to be pondering how he might wriggle out of it. He would perhaps have been glad to drop it all and leave, but at the present moment that was almost impossible; it would have amounted to a direct admission that the accusations being hurled at him were true and that he had indeed slandered Sofya Semyonovna. Besides, the public, who were a bit drunk to begin with, were much too excited. The supply man, though he had not understood it all, shouted more than anyone, and suggested certain measures quite unpleasant for Luzhin. But there were some who were not drunk; people came and gathered from all the rooms. The three little Poles were all terribly angry, and ceaselessly shouted “Panie lajdak! ” ^{^[123]}at him, muttering some other Polish threats in addition. Sonya had listened with strained attention, but also as if not understanding it all, as if coming out of a swoon. She simply would not take her eyes from Raskolnikov, feeling that he was her whole defense. Katerina Ivanovna was breathing hoarsely and with difficulty, and seemed terribly exhausted. Amalia Ivanovna stood there most stupidly of all, her mouth hanging open, grasping nothing whatsoever. She saw only that Pyotr Petrovich had somehow been caught. Raskolnikov asked to speak again, but this time he was not given a chance to finish: everyone was shouting and crowding around Luzhin with threats and curses. Yet Pyotr Petrovich did not turn coward. Seeing that the case of Sonya's accusation was utterly lost, he resorted to outright insolence.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, excuse me; don't crowd, let me pass! ” he said, making his way through the throng. “And kindly stop your threatening; I assure you nothing will come of it, you won't do anything, I'm not to be intimidated, quite the opposite, gentlemen, it is you who will have to answer for using force to cover up a criminal case. The thief has been more than exposed, and I shall pursue it, sirs. The courts are not so blind... or drunk; they will not believe two notorious atheists, agitators, and freethinkers, accusing me out of personal vengeance, which they, in their foolishness, admit themselves... So, sirs, excuse me! ”

“Be so good as to move out, and don't leave a trace of yourself behind in my room! It's all over between us! When I think how I turned myself inside out explaining things to him... for two whole weeks! . . . ”

“But I told you myself that I was vacating today, Andrei Semyonovich, and it was you who were trying to keep me here; now I shall only add that you are a fool, sir. I hope you may find a cure for your wits, and your weak-sighted eyes. Excuse me, gentlemen! ”

He pushed his way through; but the supply man did not want to let him off so easily, just with abuse: he snatched a glass from the table, hauled off, and hurled it at Pyotr Petrovich; but the glass flew straight at Amalia Ivanovna. She shrieked, and the supply man, who had lost his balance as he swung, went crashing to the floor under the table. Pyotr Petrovich returned to his room, and half an hour later was no longer in the house. Sonya, timid by nature, had known even before that it was easier to ruin her than anyone else, and that whoever wanted to could offend her almost with impunity. But even so, until that very moment she had always thought it somehow possible to avoid disaster—by prudence, meekness, submissiveness to one and all. The disillusionment was too much for her. She was capable, of course, of enduring everything, even this, with patience and almost without a murmur. But for the first moment it was too much for her. In spite of her triumph and vindication—when the initial fear and the initial stupor had passed, when she had grasped and understood everything clearly—the feeling of helplessness and offense painfully wrung her heart. She became hysterical. Finally, unable to bear it, she rushed out of the room and ran home. This was almost immediately after Luzhin left. Amalia Ivanovna, when she was hit by the glass, amid the loud laughter of all those present, also could no longer bear this hangover from someone else's spree. With a shriek, she flung herself wildly at Katerina Ivanovna, whom she blamed for everything.

“Facate the apartment! At vonce! March! ” And with these words she began seizing anything of Katerina Ivanovna's she could lay her hands on and throwing it to the floor. Nearly dead to begin with, all but in a faint, breathless, pale, Katerina Ivanovna jumped up from the bed (on which she had fallen in exhaustion) and rushed at Amalia Ivanovna. But the struggle was too unequal; she was pushed away like a feather.

“What! As if that godless slander weren't enough—this creature is at me, too! What! I'm driven from my apartment on the day of my husband's funeral, after my bread and salt, thrown out into the street, with the orphans! But where can I go? ” the poor woman screamed, sobbing and gasping. “Lord! ” she suddenly cried, her eyes flashing, “is there really no justice? Who else are you going to protect if not us orphans? Ah, no, we shall see! There is justice and truth in the world, there is, I'll find it! Just wait, you godless creature! Polechka, stay with the children; I'll be right back! Wait for me, even in the street! We'll see whether there's truth in the world! ”

And throwing over her head the same green flannel shawl that the late Marmeladov had mentioned in his story, Katerina Ivanovna pushed her way through the disorderly and drunken crowd of tenants who still crowded the room, and ran shouting and weeping out into the street—with the vague purpose of finding justice somewhere, at once, immediately, and whatever the cost. Terrified, Polechka hid with the children in the corner, on the trunk, where, embracing the two little ones and trembling all over, she began waiting for her mother's return. Amalia Ivanovna rushed about the room, shrieked, wailed, flung everything she came upon to the floor, in a great rage. The tenants were all bawling without rhyme or reason—some finished saying whatever they could about the just-occurred incident; others quarreled and swore; still others began singing songs. . .

“And now it's also time for me to go! ” thought Raskolnikov. “Well, Sofya Semyonovna, we'll see what you have to say now! ”

And he set out for Sonya's place.

Raskolnikov had been an energetic and spirited advocate of Sonya against Luzhin, even though he was burdened with so much horror and suffering in his own soul. But having suffered so much that morning, he was as if glad of the chance to change his impressions, which were becoming unbearable—to say nothing of all that was personal and heartfelt in his desire to defend Sonya. Besides, the meeting he now faced with Sonya had been on his mind, and troubled him terribly, especially at moments: he had to tell her who killed Lizaveta, and foresaw a terrible torment for himself, which he tried, as it were, to wave away. And therefore, when he exclaimed, as he was leaving Katerina Ivanovna's: “Well, what are you going to say now, Sofya Semyonovna? ” he was evidently still in some externally aroused state of high spirits and defiance from his recent triumph over Luzhin. But a strange thing happened to him. When he reached Kapernaumov's apartment, he felt suddenly powerless and afraid. Thoughtful, he stood outside the door with a strange question: “Need I tell her who killed Lizaveta? ” The question was strange because he suddenly felt at the same time that it was impossible not only not to tell her, but even to put the moment off, however briefly. He did not yet know why it was impossible; he only felt it, and the tormenting awareness of his powerlessness before necessity almost crushed him. In order not to reason and suffer any longer, he quickly opened the door and looked at Sonya from the threshold. She was sitting with her elbows resting on the table, her face buried in her hands, but when she saw Raskolnikov, she hurriedly rose and went to meet him, as if she had been waiting for him.

“What would have happened to me without you! ” she said quickly, coming up to him in the middle of the room. Obviously it was just this that she was in a hurry to say to him. This was why she had been waiting for him.

Raskolnikov walked over to the table and sat down on the chair from which she had just risen. She stood in front of him, two steps away, exactly as the day before.

“Well, Sonya? ” he said, and suddenly felt that his voice was trembling. “So the whole matter indeed rested on your 'social position and its accompanying habits. ' Did you understand that just now? ”

Suffering showed on her face.

“Only don't talk to me like you did yesterday, ” she interrupted him. “Please, don't start. There's enough pain as it is. . . ”

She smiled hurriedly, for fear he might not like her reproach.

“It was stupid of me to leave. What's going on there now? I was about to go back, but kept thinking... you might come. ”

He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was throwing them out of the apartment, and that Katerina Ivanovna had run off somewhere “in search of truth. ”

“Ah, my God! ” Sonya heaved herself up. “Let's go quickly. . . ”

And she seized her cape.

“It's the same thing eternally! ” Raskolnikov cried out in vexation. “All you ever think about is them! Stay with me a little. ”

“But... Katerina Ivanovna? ”

“Katerina Ivanovna certainly won't do without you; she'll come here herself, since she ran away from the house, ” he added peevishly. “If she doesn't find you here, you'll be blamed for it. . . ”

In painful indecision, Sonya sat down on a chair. Raskolnikov was silent, looking at the ground and thinking something over.

“Suppose Luzhin didn't want to do it this time, ” he began, without glancing at Sonya. “Well, but if he had wanted to, or if it had somehow entered into his calculations, he'd have locked you up in prison, if Lebezyatnikov and I hadn't happened to be there. Eh? ”

“Yes, ” she said in a weak voice. “Yes! ” she repeated, distracted and alarmed.

“And I really might have happened not to be there! And as for Lebezyatnikov, he turned up quite accidentally. ”

Sonya was silent.

“Well, and what if it had been prison? What then? Remember what I said yesterday? ”

Again she did not reply. He waited.

“And I thought you'd cry out again: 'Ah, stop, don't say it! ' “ Raskolnikov laughed, but somehow with a strain. “What now, still silent? ” he asked after a moment. “We've got to talk about something! I, namely, would be interested in finding out how you would now resolve a certain 'question, ' as Lebezyatnikov says. ” (It seemed he was beginning to get confused. ) “No, really, I'm serious. Imagine to yourself, Sonya, that you knew all of Luzhin's intentions beforehand, knew (I mean, for certain) that as a result of them Katerina Ivanovna would perish altogether, and the children as well, and with you thrown in (just so, thrown in, since you consider yourself nothing). Polechka, too... because she'll go the same way. Well, so, if all this was suddenly given to you to decide: is it for him or for them to go on living; that is, should Luzhin live and commit abominations, or should Katerina Ivanovna die? How would you decide which of them was to die? That's what I'm asking. ”

Sonya looked at him worriedly: she could detect something peculiar in this uncertain speech, approaching its object from afar.

“I had a feeling you were going to ask something like that, ” she said, looking at him searchingly.

“Well, so you did; all the same, how is one to decide? ”

“Why do you ask about what cannot be? ” Sonya said with loathing.

“So it's better for Luzhin to live and commit abominations! You don't dare to decide even in this? ”

“But I cannot know divine Providence... And why do you ask what cannot be asked? Why such empty questions? How could it come about that it should depend on my decision? And who put me here to judge who is to live and who is not to live? ”

“Once divine Providence gets mixed up in it, there's nothing to be done, ” Raskolnikov growled sullenly.

“You'd better say straight out what you want! ” Sonya cried with suffering. “You're leading up to something again... Can it be that you came only to torment me? ”

She could not help herself and suddenly began weeping bitterly. He looked at her in gloomy anguish. About five minutes passed.

“Yes, you're right, Sonya, ” he said at last, softly. He had changed suddenly; his affectedly insolent and powerlessly challenging tone had disappeared. Even his voice became suddenly weaker. “I told you yesterday that I would not come to ask forgiveness, and now I've begun by almost asking forgiveness... I was speaking about Luzhin and Providence for my own sake... I was seeking forgiveness, Sonya. . . ”

He tried to smile, but this pale smile told of something powerless and incomplete. He bent his head and covered his face with his hands.

And suddenly a strange, unexpected feeling of corrosive hatred for Sonya came over his heart. As if surprised and frightened by this feeling, he suddenly raised his head and looked at her intently, but he met her anxious and painfully caring eyes fixed upon him; here was love; his hatred vanished like a phantom. That was not it; he had mistaken one feeling for another. All it meant was that the moment had come.

Again he covered his face with his hands and bent his head. Suddenly he turned pale, got up from the chair, looked at Sonya, and, without saying anything, went mechanically and sat on her bed.

This moment, as it felt to him, was terribly like the one when he had stood behind the old woman, having already freed the axe from its loop, and realized that “there was not another moment to lose. ”

“What's the matter? ” Sonya asked, becoming terribly timid.

He could not utter a word. This was not the way, this was not at all the way he had intended to announce it, and he himself did not understand what was happening with him now. She quietly went over, sat down on the bed beside him, and waited, without taking her eyes from him. Her heart was pounding and sinking. It became unbearable: he turned his deathly pale face to her; he twisted his lips powerlessly in an effort to utter something. Horror swept over Sonya's heart.

“What's the matter with you? ” she repeated, moving slightly away from him.

“Nothing, Sonya. Don't be afraid... Nonsense! Really, if you stop and think, it's—nonsense, ” he muttered, with the look of a man lost in delirium. “Only why did I come to torment you? ” he suddenly added, looking at her. “Really, why? That's what I keep asking myself, Sonya... ”

Perhaps he had asked himself this question a quarter of an hour before, but now he spoke quite powerlessly, hardly aware of himself, and feeling a ceaseless trembling all over.

“Oh, how tormented you are! ” she said with suffering, peering at him.

“It's all nonsense! ... Listen, Sonya” (suddenly, for some reason, he gave a pale and powerless smile, which lasted about two seconds), “do you remember what I wanted to tell you yesterday? ”

Sonya waited uneasily.

“I said, as I was leaving, that I was perhaps saying good-bye to you forever, but that if I came today, I'd tell you... who killed Lizaveta. ”

She suddenly began trembling all over.

“So, you see, I've come to tell you. ”

“Then, yesterday, you really. . . ” she whispered with difficulty. “But how do you know? ” she added quickly, as if suddenly coming to her senses.

Sonya began breathing with difficulty. Her face was becoming paler and paler.

“I know. ”

She was silent for a minute or so.

“What, has he been found? ” she asked timidly.

“No, he hasn't. ”

“Then how do you know about it? ” she asked again, barely audibly, and again after almost a minute's silence.

He turned to her and looked at her very, very intently.

“Guess, ” he said, with his former twisted and powerless smile.

It was as if a shudder ran through her whole body.

“But you... I... why do you... frighten me so? ” she said, smiling like a child.

“I must be a great friend of his... since I know, ” Raskolnikov went on, still looking relentlessly in her face, as if he were no longer able to take his eyes away. “This Lizaveta... he didn't want to kill her... He killed her... accidentally... He wanted to kill the old woman... when she was alone... and he went there... And then Lizaveta came in... Then he... killed her, too. ”

Another terrible minute passed. They both went on looking at each other.

“So you can't guess? ” he suddenly asked, feeling as if he were throwing himself from a bell-tower.

“N-no, ” Sonya whispered, barely audibly.

“Take a good look. ”

Again, as soon as he said this, a former, familiar sensation suddenly turned his soul to ice: he looked at her, and suddenly in her face he seemed to see the face of Lizaveta. He vividly recalled the expression of Lizaveta's face as he was approaching her with the axe and she was backing away from him towards the wall, her hand held out, with a completely childlike fright on her face, exactly as when little children suddenly begin to be frightened of something, stare fixedly and uneasily at what frightens them, back away, and, holding out a little hand, are preparing to cry. Almost the same thing now happened with Sonya as well: just as powerlessly, with the same fright, she looked at him for a time; then suddenly, holding out her left hand, she rested her fingers barely, lightly, on his chest, and slowly began to get up from the bed, backing farther and farther away from him, while looking at him more and more fixedly. Her terror suddenly communicated itself to him: exactly the same fright showed on his face as well; he began looking at her in exactly the same way, and even with almost the same childlike smile.

“You've guessed? ” he whispered at last.

“Lord! ” a terrible cry tore itself from her breast. Powerlessly she fell onto the bed, face down on the pillows. But after a moment she quickly got up again, quickly moved closer to him, seized both his hands, and, squeezing them tightly with her thin fingers, as in a vise, again began looking fixedly in his face, as though her eyes were glued to him. With this last, desperate look she wanted to seek out and catch hold of at least some last hope for herself. But there was no hope; no doubt remained; it was all so! Even later, afterwards, when she remembered this moment, she found it both strange and wondrous: precisely why had she seen at once that there was no longer any doubt? She could not really say, for instance, that she had anticipated anything of the sort. And yet now, as soon as he told her, it suddenly seemed to her that she really had anticipated this very thing.

“Come, Sonya, enough! Don't torment me! ” he begged with suffering.

This was not the way, this was not at all the way he had intended to reveal it to her, but thus it came out.

As if forgetting herself, she jumped up and, wringing her hands, walked halfway across the room; but she came back quickly and sat down again beside him, almost touching him, shoulder to shoulder. All at once, as if pierced, she gave a start, cried out, and, not knowing why, threw herself on her knees before him.

“What, what have you done to yourself! ” she said desperately, and, jumping up from her knees, threw herself on his neck, embraced him, and pressed him very, very tightly in her arms.

Raskolnikov recoiled and looked at her with a sad smile.

“You're so strange, Sonya—you embrace me and kiss me, when I've just told you about that. You're forgetting yourself. ”

“No one, no one in the whole world, is unhappier than you are now! ” she exclaimed, as if in a frenzy, not hearing his remark, and suddenly burst into sobs, as if in hysterics.

A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his soul and softened it all at once. He did not resist: two tears rolled from his eyes and hung on his lashes.

“So you won't leave me, Sonya? ” he said, looking at her almost with hope.

“No, no, never, not anywhere! ” Sonya cried out. “I'll follow you, I'll go wherever you go! Oh, Lord! ... Ah, wretched me! ... Why, why didn't I know you before! Why didn't you come before? Oh, Lord! ”

“Well, so I've come. ”

“Now you've come! Oh, what's to be done now! ... Together, together! ” she kept repeating, as if oblivious, and again she embraced him. “I'll go to hard labor with you! ” He suddenly seemed to flinch; the former hateful and almost arrogant smile forced itself to his lips.

“But maybe I don't want to go to hard labor, Sonya, ” he said.

Sonya glanced at him quickly.

After her first passionate and tormenting sympathy for the unhappy man, the horrible idea of the murder struck her again. In the changed tone of his words she suddenly could hear the murderer. She looked at him in amazement. As yet she knew nothing of why, or how, or for what it had been. Now all these questions flared up at once in her consciousness. And again she did not believe it: “He, he a murderer? Is it really possible? ”

“What is this! Where am I! ” she said, deeply perplexed, as if she had still not come to her senses. “But you, you, you're so... how could you make yourself do it?... What is this! ”

“To rob her, of course. Stop it, Sonya! ” he replied somehow wearily, and as if with vexation.

Sonya stood as if stunned, but suddenly exclaimed:

“You were hungry! You... it was to help your mother? Yes? ”

“No, Sonya, no, ” he murmured, turning away and hanging his head. “I wasn't so hungry... I did want to help my mother, but... that's not quite right either... don't torment me, Sonya! ”

Sonya clasped her hands.

“But can it be, can it be that it's all actually true? Lord, what sort of truth is this! Who can believe it?... And how is it, how is it that you could give away your last penny, and yet kill in order to rob! Ahh! . . . ” she suddenly cried out, “that money you gave to Katerina Ivanovna... that money... Lord, was that the same money. . . ”

“No, Sonya, ” he interrupted hastily, “don't worry, it wasn't the same money! That was money my mother sent to me, through a merchant; it came when I was sick, and I gave it away the same day... Razumikhin saw... it was he who received it for me... it was my money, my own, really mine. ”

Sonya listened to him in perplexity and tried as hard as she could to understand something.

“And that money... though I don't even know if there was any money, ” he added softly and as if pensively. “I took a purse from around her neck then, a suede purse... a fat one, stuffed full... but I didn't look inside, I must not have had time... And the things—there were just some cuff-links and little chains—I buried all the things along with the purse under a stone in some unknown courtyard on V------y Prospect, the very next morning... It's all still there. . . ”

Sonya was listening as hard as she could.

“Well, then why... how can you say it was for the sake of robbery, if you didn't take anything? ” she said quickly, grasping at a straw.

“I don't know... I haven't decided yet—whether to take the money or not, ” he spoke pensively, and all at once, as if recollecting himself, he grinned quickly and briefly. “Ah, what a stupid thing to come out with, eh? ”

The thought flashed through Sonya: “Can he be mad? ” But she abandoned it at once: no, there was something else here. She understood nothing here, nothing at all.

“You know, Sonya, ” he said suddenly, with a sort of inspiration, “you know, I can tell you this much: if I'd killed them only because I was hungry, ” he went on, stressing each word, and looking at her mysteriously but sincerely, “I would now be... happy! You should know that!

“And what is it to you, what is it to you, ” he cried out after a moment, even with some sort of despair, “what is it to you if I've now confessed that I did a bad thing? This stupid triumph over me—what is it to you? Ah, Sonya, was it for this that I came to you today! ”

Sonya again wanted to say something, but kept silent.

“That is why I called you to go with me yesterday, because you are the only one I have left. ”

“Called me where? ” Sonya asked timidly.

“Not to steal, not to kill, don't worry, not for that, ” he grinned caustically. “We're different. .. And you know, Sonya, it's only now, only now that I understand where I was calling you yesterday. And yesterday, when I was calling you, I didn't know where myself. I called you for one thing, I came to you for one thing: that you not leave me. You won't leave me, Sonya? ”

She pressed his hand.

“And why, why did I tell her, why did I reveal it to her! ” he exclaimed in despair after a moment, looking at her with infinite pain. “Now you're waiting for explanations from me, Sonya, you're sitting and waiting, I can see that; and what am I going to tell you? Because you won't understand any of it; you'll only wear yourself out with suffering. .. because of me! So, now you're crying and embracing me again—so, why are you embracing me? Because I couldn't endure it myself, and have come to shift the burden onto another: 'You suffer, too; it will be so much the easier for me! ' Can you really love such a scoundrel? ”

“But aren't you suffering as well? ” cried Sonya.

The same feeling flooded his soul again, and softened it again for a moment.

“I have a wicked heart, Sonya; take note of that, it can explain a lot. That's why I came, because I'm wicked. There are those who wouldn't have come. But I am a coward and... a scoundrel! Well... and what if I am! All this is not it... I have to speak now, and I don't even know how to begin. . . ”

He stopped and fell to thinking.

“Ahh, we're so different! ” he cried out again. “We're not a match. And why, why did I come! I'll never forgive myself for it! ”

“No, no, it's good that you came! ” Sonya exclaimed. “It's better that I know! Much better! ”

He looked at her with pain.

“Why not, after all! ” he said, as if reconsidering, “since that is how it was! You see, I wanted to become a Napoleon, that's why I killed... Well, is it clear now? ”

“N-no, ” Sonya whispered, naively and timidly, “but go on, just go on! I'll understand, I'll understand everything within myself! ” she kept entreating him.

“You will? All right, we'll see! ”

He fell silent, and thought it over for a long time.

“The thing is that I once asked myself this question: how would it have been if Napoleon, for example, had happened to be in my place, and didn't have Toulon, or Egypt, or the crossing of Mont Blanc to start his career, but, instead of all these beautiful and monumental things, had quite simply some ridiculous old crone, a leginstrar's widow, whom on top of that he had to kill in order to filch money from her trunk (for his career, you understand)—well, so, could he have made himself do it if there was no other way out? Wouldn't he have shrunk from it because it was so unmonumental and... and sinful? Well, I tell you, I suffered a terribly long time over this 'question, ' so that I was terribly ashamed when I finally realized (somehow all at once) not only that he would not shrink, but that it wouldn't even occur to him that it was unmonumental... and he wouldn't understand at all what there was to shrink from. And if there was indeed no other path for him, he'd up and throttle her before she could make a peep, without a moment's thoughtfulness! ... So I, too... came out of my thoughtfulness... I throttled her... following the example of my authority... And that's exactly how it was! You think it's funny? Yes, Sonya, the funniest thing is that maybe that's precisely how it was. . . ”

Sonya did not think it was funny at all.

“You'd better tell me straight out. . . without examples, ” she asked, still more timidly, and barely audibly.

He turned to her, looked at her sadly, and took her hands.

“You're right again, Sonya. It's all nonsense, almost sheer babble!

You see, my mother, as you know, has almost nothing. My sister received an education only by chance, and is doomed to drag herself about as a governess. All their hopes were in me alone. I was studying, but I couldn't support myself at the university and had to take a leave for a while. Even if things had managed to go on that way, then in about ten or twelve years (if circumstances turned out well) I could still only hope to become some sort of teacher or official with a thousand-rouble salary. . . ” (He was speaking as if by rote. ) “And by then my mother would have withered away with cares and grief, and I still wouldn't be able to set her at ease, and my sister... well, something even worse might have happened with my sister! ... And who wants to spend his whole life passing everything by, turning away from everything; to forget his mother, and politely endure, for example, his sister's offense? Why? So that, having buried them, he can acquire new ones—a wife and children—and then leave them, too, without a kopeck or a crust of bread? Well. . . well, so I decided to take possession of the old woman's money and use it for my first years, without tormenting my mother, to support myself at the university, and for the first steps after the university, and to do it all sweepingly, radically, so as to set up a whole new career entirely and start out on a new, independent path... Well... well, that's all... Well, that I killed the old woman—of course, it was a bad thing to do... well, but enough of that! ”

In some sort of powerlessness he dragged himself to the end of his story and hung his head.

“Oh, that's not it, not it, ” Sonya exclaimed in anguish, “how can it be so... no, that's not it, not it! ”

“You can see for yourself that's not it! ... yet it's the truth, I told it sincerely! ”

“What kind of truth is it! Oh, Lord! ”

“I only killed a louse, Sonya, a useless, nasty, pernicious louse. ”

“A human being—a louse! ”

“Not a louse, I know it myself, ” he replied, looking at her strangely. “Anyway, I'm lying, Sonya, ” he added, “I've been lying for a long time... All that is not it; you're right in saying so. There are quite different reasons here, quite, quite different! ... I haven't talked with anyone for a long time, Sonya... I have a bad headache now. ”

His eyes were burning with a feverish fire. He was almost beginning to rave; a troubled smile wandered over his lips. A terrible powerlessness showed through his agitated state of mind. Sonya realized how he was suffering. Her head, too, was beginning to spin. And he spoke so strangely: one seemed to understand something, but... ”but what is it! What is it! Oh, Lord! ” And she wrung her hands in despair.

“No, Sonya, that's not it! ” he began again, suddenly raising his head, as if an unexpected turn of thought had struck him and aroused him anew. “That's not it! Better... suppose (yes! it's really better this way), suppose that I'm vain, jealous, spiteful, loathsome, vengeful, well... and perhaps also inclined to madness. (Let's have it all at once! There's been talk of madness already, I've noticed! ) I just told you I couldn't support myself at the university. But, you know, maybe I could have. Mother would have sent me whatever was needed for the fees; and I could have earned enough for boots, clothes, and bread myself; that's certain! There were lessons; I was being offered fifty kopecks. Razumikhin works! But I turned spiteful and didn't want to. Precisely, I turned spiteful (it's a good phrase! ). Then I hid in my corner like a spider. You were in my kennel, you saw it. . . And do you know, Sonya, low ceilings and cramped rooms cramp the soul and mind! Oh, how I hated that kennel! And yet I didn't want to leave it. I purposely didn't want to! For days on end I wouldn't go out, and didn't want to work, and didn't even want to eat, and went on lying there. If Nastasya brought something, I'd eat; if not, the day would go by; I purposely didn't ask, out of spite. At night there was no light; I used to lie in the dark, rather than earn money for candles. I was supposed to be studying, but I sold my books; and on my table, on my papers and notebooks, there's a finger-thick layer of dust even now. I liked to lie and think. And I kept on thinking... And I kept on having such dreams, all sorts of strange dreams, there's no point in telling what they were about! Only at the same time I also began imagining... No, that's not right! Again I'm not telling it right! You see, I kept asking myself then: am I so stupid that, if others are stupid and I know for certain they're stupid, I myself don't want to be smarter? Then I learned, Sonya, that if one waits for everyone to become smarter, it will take too long... And then I also learned that it will never happen, that people will never change, and no one can remake them, and it's not worth the effort! Yes, it's true! It's their law... A law, Sonya! It's true! ... And I know now, Sonya, that he who is firm and strong in mind and spirit will rule over them! He who dares much will be right in their eyes. He who can spit on what is greatest will be their lawgiver, and he who dares the most will be the rightest of all! Thus it has been until now, and thus it will always be. Only a blind man can fail to see it! ”

Though Raskolnikov was looking at Sonya as he said this, he was no longer concerned with whether she understood or not. The fever had him wholly in its grip. He was in some sort of gloomy ecstasy. (Indeed, he had not talked with anyone for a very long time! ) Sonya understood that this gloomy catechism had become his faith and law.

“Then I realized, Sonya, ” he went on ecstatically, “that power is given only to the one who dares to reach down and take it. Here there is one thing, one thing only: one has only to dare! And then a thought took shape in me, for the first time in my life, one that nobody had ever thought before me! Nobody! It suddenly came to me as bright as the sun: how is it that no man before now has dared or dares yet, while passing by all this absurdity, quite simply to take the whole thing by the tail and whisk it off to the devil! I... I wanted to dare, and I killed... I just wanted to dare, Sonya, that's the whole reason! ”

“Oh, be still, be still! ” cried Sonya, clasping her hands. “You deserted God, and God has stricken you, and given you over to the devil! . . . ”

“By the way, Sonya, when I was lying in the dark and imagining it all, was it the devil confounding me, eh? ”

“Be still! Don't laugh, blasphemer, you understand nothing, simply nothing! Oh, Lord! Nothing, he understands nothing! ”

“Be still, Sonya, I'm not laughing at all, I know myself that a devil was dragging me. Be still, Sonya, be still! ” he repeated gloomily and insistently. “I know everything. I thought it all out and whispered it all out when I was lying there in the dark... I argued it all out with myself, to the last little trace, and I know everything, everything! And I was so sick, so sick of all this babble then! I wanted to forget everything and start anew, Sonya, and to stop babbling. Do you really think I went into it headlong, like a fool? No, I went into it like a bright boy, and that's what ruined me! And do you really think I didn't at least know, for example, that since I'd begun questioning and querying myself: do I have the right to have power? —it meant that I do not have the right to have power? Or that if I pose the question: is man a louse? —it means that for me man is not a louse, but that he is a louse for the one to whom it never occurs, who goes straight ahead without any questions... Because, if I tormented myself for so many days: would Napoleon have gone ahead or not? —it means I must already have felt clearly that I was not Napoleon... I endured all, all the torment of all this babble, Sonya, and I longed to shake it all off my back: I wanted to kill without casuistry, Sonya, to kill for myself, for myself alone! I didn't want to lie about it even to myself! It was not to help my mother that I killed—nonsense! I did not kill so that, having obtained means and power, I could become a benefactor of mankind. Nonsense! I simply killed—killed for myself, for myself alone—and whether I would later become anyone's benefactor, or would spend my life like a spider, catching everyone in my web and sucking the life-sap out of everyone, should at that moment have made no difference to me! ... And it was not money above all that I wanted when I killed, Sonya; not money so much as something else... I know all this now... Understand me: perhaps, continuing on that same path, I would never again repeat the murder. There was something else I wanted to know; something else was nudging my arm. I wanted to find out then, and find out quickly, whether I was a louse like all the rest, or a man? Would I be able to step over, or not! Would I dare to reach down and take, or not? Am I a trembling creature, or do I have the right... ”

“To kill? The right to kill? ” Sonya clasped her hands.

“Ahh, Sonya! ” he cried irritably, and was about to make some objection to her, but remained scornfully silent. “Don't interrupt me, Sonya! I wanted to prove only one thing to you: that the devil did drag me there then, but afterwards he explained to me that I had no right to go there, because I'm exactly the same louse as all the rest! He made a mockery of me, and so I've come to you now! Welcome your guest! If I weren't a louse, would I have come to you? Listen: when I went to the old woman that time, I went only to try... You should know that! ”

“And you killed! Killed! ”

“But how did I kill, really? Is that any way to kill? Is that how one goes about killing, the way I went about it then? Some day I'll tell you how I went about it. . . Was it the old crone I killed? I killed myself, not the old crone! Whopped myself right then and there, forever! ... And it was the devil killed the old crone, not me... Enough, enough, Sonya, enough! Let me be, ” he suddenly cried out in convulsive anguish, “let me be! ”

He leaned his elbows on his knees and pressed his head with his palms as with a pincers.

“Such suffering! ” burst in a painful wail from Sonya.

“Well, what to do now, tell me! ” he said, suddenly raising his head and looking at her, his face hideously distorted by despair.

“What to do! ” she exclaimed, suddenly jumping up from her place, and her eyes, still full of tears, suddenly flashed. “Stand up! ” (She seized him by the shoulder; he rose, looking at her almost in amazement. ) “Go now, this minute, stand in the crossroads, bow down, and first kiss the earth you've defiled, then bow to the whole world, on all four sides, and say aloud to everyone: 'I have killed! ' Then God will send you life again. Will you go? Will you go? ” she kept asking him, all trembling as if in a fit, seizing both his hands, squeezing them tightly in her own, and looking at him with fiery eyes.

He was amazed and even struck by her sudden ecstasy.

“So it's hard labor, is it, Sonya? I must go and denounce myself? ” he asked gloomily.

“Accept suffering and redeem yourself by it, that's what you must do. ”

“No! I won't go to them, Sonya. ”

“And live, how will you live? What will you live with? ” Sonya exclaimed. “Is it possible now? How will you talk to your mother? (Oh, and them, what will become of them now! ) But what am I saying! You've already abandoned your mother and sister. You have, you've already abandoned them. Oh, Lord! ” she cried, “he already knows it all himself! But how, how can one live with no human being! What will become of you now! ”

“Don't be a child, Sonya, ” he said softly. “How am I guilty before them? Why should I go? What should I tell them? It's all just a phantom... They expend people by the million themselves, and what's more they consider it a virtue. They're cheats and scoundrels, Sonya! ... I won't go. And what should I say: that I killed but didn't dare take the money, that I hid it under a stone? ” he added, with a caustic grin. “They'll just laugh at me; they'll say I was a fool not to take it. A coward and a fool! They won't understand a thing, Sonya, not a thing—and they're not worthy to understand. Why should I go? I won't go. Don't be a child, Sonya. . . ”

“You'll suffer too much, too much, ” she repeated, stretching out her hands to him in desperate supplication.

“Still, maybe I've slapped myself with it, ” he remarked gloomily, as if deep in thought, “maybe I'm still a man and not a louse, and was being too quick to condemn myself... I'll still fight. ”

A haughty smile was forcing itself to his lips.

“To bear such suffering! And for your whole life, your whole life! . . . ”

“I'll get used to it. . . ” he said, grimly and pensively. “Listen, ” he began after a moment, “enough tears; it's time for business: I came to tell you that they're after me now, trying to catch me. . . ”

“Ah! ” Sonya cried fearfully.

“So you cry out! You yourself want me to go to hard labor, and now you're afraid? Only here's what: I'm not going to let them get me. I'll still fight them; they won't be able to do anything. They don't have any real evidence. I was in great danger yesterday, I thought I was already ruined, but things got better today. All their evidence is double-ended; I mean, I can turn their accusations in my own favor, understand? And I will, because now I know how it's done... But they'll certainly put me in jail. If it weren't for one incident, they might have put me in today; certainly, they may still even do it today... Only it's nothing, Sonya: I'll sit there, and then they'll let me go... because they don't have one real proof, and they never will, I promise you. And they can't keep anyone behind bars with what they have. Well, enough... I just wanted you to know... I'll try to manage things with my mother and sister somehow so as to reassure them and not frighten them... My sister now seems provided for... so my mother is, too... Well, that's all. Be careful, though. Will you come and visit me when I'm in jail? ”

“Oh, I will! I will! ”

The two were sitting side by side, sad and crushed, as if they had been washed up alone on a deserted shore after a storm. He looked at Sonya and felt how much of her love was on him, and, strangely, he suddenly felt it heavy and painful to be loved like that. Yes, it was a strange and terrible feeling! On his way to see Sonya, he had felt she was his only hope and his only way out; he had thought he would be able to unload at least part of his torment; but now, suddenly, when her whole heart turned to him, he suddenly felt and realized that he was incomparably more unhappy than he had been before.

“Sonya, ” he said, “you'd better not visit me when I'm in jail. ”

Sonya did not reply; she was weeping. Several minutes passed.

“Do you have a cross on you? ” she suddenly asked unexpectedly, as if suddenly remembering.

At first he did not understand the question.

“You don't, do you? Here, take this cypress one. I have another, a brass one, Lizaveta's. Lizaveta and I exchanged crosses; she gave me her cross, and I gave her my little icon. I'll wear Lizaveta's now, and you can have this one. Take it... it's mine! It's mine! ” she insisted. “We'll go to suffer together, and we'll bear the cross together! . . . ”

“Give it to me! ” said Raskolnikov. He did not want to upset her. But he immediately drew back the hand he had held out to take the cross.

“Not now, Sonya. Better later, ” he added, to reassure her.

“Yes, yes, that will be better, better, ” she picked up enthusiastically. “When you go to your suffering, then you'll put it on. You'll come to me, I'll put it on you, we'll pray and go. ”

At that moment someone knocked three times at the door.

“Sofya Semyonovna, may I come in? ” someone's very familiar and polite voice was heard.

Sonya rushed to the door in fear. The blond physiognomy of Mr. Lebezyatnikov peeked into the room.

Lebezyatnikov looked alarmed. “I must see you, Sofya Semyonovna. Excuse me... I thought I'd find you here, ” he turned suddenly to Raskolnikov, “that is, I thought nothing... of the sort... but I precisely thought... Katerina Ivanovna has gone out of her mind there at our place, ” he suddenly said abruptly to Sonya, abandoning Raskolnikov.

Sonya gave a cry.

“That is, it seems so anyway. However... We don't know what to do, that's the thing! She came back... it seems she was thrown out of somewhere, maybe beaten as well... it seems so at least... She ran to see Semyon Zakharych's superior but didn't find him at home; he was out having dinner at some other general's... Imagine, she flew over to where this dinner was... to this other general's, and imagine—she really insisted, she called Semyon Zakharych's superior out and, it seems, away from the table at that. You can imagine what came of it. Naturally, she was chased away; and, according to her, she swore and threw something at him. Which is quite likely... How it happened that she wasn't arrested is beyond me! Now she's telling everyone about it, including Amalia Ivanovna, only it's hard to understand her, she's shouting and thrashing about... Ah, yes: she's saying and shouting that since everyone has abandoned her now, she'll take the children and go into the street with a barrel-organ, and the children will sing and dance, and so will she, and collect money, and stand every day under the general's window... 'Let them see, ' she says, 'how the noble children of a civil servant are going about begging in the streets! ' She beats all the children, and they cry. She's teaching Lenya to sing 'The Little Farm, ' and the boy to dance, and Polina Mikhailovna as well; she's tearing up all the clothes, making them some sort of little hats like actors; and she herself is going to carry a basin and bang on it for music... She won't listen to anything... Imagine, you see? It's simply impossible. ”

Lebezyatnikov would have gone on longer, but Sonya, who had been listening to him almost without breathing, suddenly snatched her cape and hat and ran out of the room, putting them on as she ran. Raskolnikov went out after her, and Lebezyatnikov after him.

“She's certainly gone mad! ” he said to Raskolnikov, as they came out to the street. “I just didn't want to frighten Sofya Semyonovna, so I said 'it seems, ' but there isn't any doubt. It's those little knobs they say come out on the brain in consumption; too bad I don't know any medicine. By the way, I tried to convince her, but she won't listen to anything. ”

“You told her about the little knobs? ”

“I mean, not exactly about the little knobs. Besides, she wouldn't have understood anything. But what I say is this: if one convinces a person logically that he essentially has nothing to cry about, he'll stop crying. That's clear. Or are you convinced that he won't? ”

“Life would be too easy that way, ” Raskolnikov replied.

“I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, of course it's quite hard for Katerina Ivanovna to understand, but do you know that in Paris serious experiments have already been performed with regard to the possibility of curing mad people by working through logical conviction alone? A professor there, who died recently, a serious scientist, fancied that such treatment should be possible. His basic idea is that there's no specific disorder in a mad person's organism, but that madness is, so to speak, a logical error, an error of judgment, a mistaken view of things. He would gradually prove his patient wrong, and imagine, they say he achieved results! But since he used showers at the same time, the results of the treatment are, of course, subject to doubt... Or so it seems. ”

Raskolnikov had long since stopped listening. Having reached his house, he nodded to Lebezyatnikov and turned in at the gateway. Lebezyatnikov came to his senses, looked around, and ran on.

Raskolnikov walked into his closet and stood in the middle of it. Why had he come back here? He looked around at the shabby, yellowish wallpaper, the dust, his sofa... Some sharp, incessant rapping was coming from the courtyard, as if something, some nail, was being hammered in somewhere... He went to the window, stood on tiptoe, and for a long time, with an extremely attentive look, peered down into the courtyard. But the courtyard was empty; whoever was doing the rapping could not be seen. In the wing to the left, open windows could be seen here and there; pots with scrawny geraniums. Laundry was hanging outside the windows... He knew it all by heart. He turned away and sat down on the sofa.

Never, never before had he felt himself so terribly lonely!

Yes, he felt once again that he might indeed come to hate Sonya, and precisely now, when he had made her more miserable. Why had he gone to her to beg for her tears? Why was it so necessary for him to eat up her life? Oh, meanness!

“I'll stay alone! ” he suddenly said resolutely. “And she won't come to the jail! ”

After about five minutes, he raised his head and smiled strangely. The thought was a strange one: “Perhaps hard labor would indeed be better, ” it had suddenly occurred to him.

He did not remember how long he had been sitting in his room with vague thoughts crowding in his head. Suddenly the door opened and Avdotya Romanovna came in. She stopped first and looked at him from the threshold, as he had done earlier at Sonya's; then she went and sat down on a chair facing him, in the same place as yesterday. He looked at her silently and somehow unthinkingly.

“Don't be angry, brother, I've come only for a moment, ” said Dunya. The expression of her face was thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were clear and gentle. He could see that this one, too, had come to him with love.

“Brother, I know everything now, everything. Dmitri Prokofych has explained and told me everything. You are being persecuted and tormented because of a stupid and odious suspicion... Dmitri Prokofych told me that there isn't any danger and that you needn't take it with such horror. I disagree. I fully understand all the resentment you must feel, and that this indignation may leave its mark forever. That is what I am afraid of. I do not judge and have no right to judge you for abandoning us, and forgive me if I reproached you before. I feel in myself that if I had such a great grief, I, too, would leave everyone. I won't tell mother about this, but I'll talk about you constantly, and I'll tell her, on your behalf, that you will come very soon. Don't suffer over her; I will set her at ease; but don't make her suffer either—come at least once; remember she's your mother! I've come now only to say” (Dunya began to get up) “that in case you should need me for something, or should need... my whole life, or... call me, and I'll come. Good-bye! ”

She turned sharply and walked to the door.

“Dunya! ” Raskolnikov stopped her, got up, and went to her. “This Razumikhin, Dmitri Prokofych, is a very good man. ”

Dunya blushed a little.

“Well? ” she asked, after waiting a moment.

“He is a practical man, hard-working, honest, and capable of deep love... Good-bye, Dunya. ”

Dunya flushed all over, and then suddenly became alarmed.

“What is it, brother, are we really parting forever, since you're making me... such bequests? ”

“Never mind... good-bye. . . ”

He turned and walked away from her to the window. She stood, looked at him uneasily, and left in alarm.

No, he was not cold towards her. There had been a moment (the very last) when he had wanted terribly to embrace her tightly, to make it a real farewell, and even to tell her, but he had not even dared to give her his hand.

“She might shudder later when she remembered that I embraced her now; she might say I stole her kiss!

“And will this one endure, or will she not? ” he added to himself, after a few minutes. “No, she will not; her kind cannot endure! Her kind can never endure... ”

And he thought of Sonya.

There came a breath of fresh air from the window. The light outside was no longer shining so brightly. He suddenly took his cap and went out.

Of course, he could not and did not want to concern himself with his ill condition. But all this ceaseless anxiety and all this horror of the soul could not go without consequences. And if he was not yet lying in real delirium, it was perhaps precisely because this ceaseless inner anxiety still kept him on his feet and conscious, but somehow artificially, for a time.

He wandered aimlessly. The sun was going down. Some particular anguish had begun telling in him lately. There was nothing particularly acute or burning in it; but there came from it a breath of something permanent, eternal, a presentiment of unending years of this cold, deadening anguish, a presentiment of some eternity on “a square foot of space. ” This feeling usually began to torment him even more strongly in the evening hours.

“Try keeping yourself from doing something stupid, with these stupid, purely physical ailments that depend only on some sunset! One could wind up going not just to Sonya, but to Dunya! ” he muttered hatefully.

Someone called out to him. He turned around. Lebezyatnikov rushed up to him.

“Imagine, I was just at your place, I've been looking for you. Imagine, she carried out her intention and took the children away! Sofya Semyonovna and I had a hard time finding them. She's banging on a frying pan, making the children sing and dance. The children are crying. They stand at intersections and outside of shops. Foolish people are running after them. Come on! ”

“And Sonya?... ” Raskolnikov asked in alarm, hurrying after Lebezyatnikov.

“Simply in a frenzy. That is, Sofya Semyonovna's not in a frenzy, but Katerina Ivanovna is; however, Sofya Semyonovna's in a frenzy, too. And Katerina Ivanovna is in a complete frenzy. She's gone finally crazy, I tell you. They'll be taken to the police. You can imagine what effect that will have... They're at the canal now, near the------sky Bridge, not far from Sofya Semyonovna's. Nearby. ”

At the canal, not very far from the bridge, two houses away from where Sonya lived, a small crowd of people had gathered. Boys and girls especially came running. The hoarse, strained voice of Katerina Ivanovna could already be heard from the bridge. And indeed it was a strange spectacle, capable of attracting the interest of the street public. Katerina Ivanovna, in her old dress, the flannel shawl, and a battered straw hat shoved to one side in an ugly lump, was indeed in a real frenzy. She was tired and short of breath. Her worn-out, consumptive face showed more suffering than ever (besides, a consumptive always looks more sick and disfigured outside, in the sun, than at home), but her agitated state would not leave her, and she was becoming more irritated every moment. She kept rushing to the children, yelling at them, coaxing them, teaching them right there, in front of people, how to dance and what to sing; she would start explaining to them why it was necessary, despair over their slow-wittedness, beat them... Then, before she had finished, she would rush to the public; if she noticed an even slightly well-dressed person stopping to look, she would immediately start explaining to him that this was what the children “of a noble, one might even say aristocratic, house” had been driven to. If she heard laughter or some taunting little remark from the crowd, she would immediately fall upon the impudent ones and start squabbling with them. Some, indeed, were laughing; others were shaking their heads; in general, everyone was curious to see the crazy woman with her frightened children. The frying pan Lebezyatnikov had spoken of was not there; at least Raskolnikov did not see it; but instead of banging on a frying pan, Katerina Ivanovna would begin clapping out the rhythm with her dry palms, making Polechka sing and Lenya and Kolya dance, even beginning to sing along herself, but breaking off each time at the second note with a racking cough, at which she would again fall into despair, curse her cough, and even weep. Most of all it was the frightened tears of Kolya and Lenya that drove her to distraction. There had indeed been an attempt to dress the children up in street-singers' costumes. The boy was wearing a turban of some red and white material, to represent a Turk. No costume could be found for Lenya; all she had was a red knitted worsted hat (or rather nightcap) from the late Semyon Zakharych, with a broken ostrich feather stuck in it that once belonged to Katerina Ivanovna's grandmother and had been kept until now in the trunk as a family curio. Polechka was wearing her usual little dress. Timid and lost, she watched her mother, would not leave her side, hiding her tears, guessing at her mother's madness, and looking around uneasily. The street and the crowd frightened her terribly. Sonya doggedly followed Katerina Ivanovna, weeping and begging her all the while to go back home. But Katerina Ivanovna was implacable.

“Stop, Sonya, stop! ” she shouted in a hurried patter, choking and coughing. “You don't know what you're asking, you're like a child! I've already told you I won't go back to that drunken German woman. Let them all, let all of Petersburg see how a gentleman's children go begging, though their father served faithfully and honestly all his life and, one might say, died in service. ” (Katerina Ivanovna had already managed to create this fantasy and believe in it blindly. ) “Let him see, let that worthless runt of a general see. And how stupid you are, Sonya: what are we going to eat now, tell me? We've preyed upon you enough, I don't want any more of it! Ah, Rodion Romanych, it's you! ” she exclaimed, noticing Raskolnikov and rushing to him. “Please explain to this little fool that this is the smartest thing we could do! Even organ-grinders make a living, and we'll be picked out at once, people will see that we're a poor, noble family of orphans, driven into abject poverty, and that runt of a general—he'll lose his position, you'll see! We'll stand under his windows every day, and when the sovereign drives by I'll kneel, push them all forward, and point to them: 'Protect us, father! ' He's the father of all orphans, he's merciful, he'll protect us, you'll see, and that runt of a general, he'll... Lenya! Tenez-vous droite! ^{^[124]}You, Kolya, are going to dance again now. Why are you whimpering? He's whimpering again! What, what are you afraid of now, you little fool! Lord! What am I to do with them, Rodion Romanych! If you knew how muddleheaded they are! What can one do with the likes of them! ... ”

And, almost weeping herself (which did not hinder her constant, incessant pattering), she pointed to the whimpering children. Raskolnikov tried to persuade her to go back, and even said, hoping to touch her vanity, that it was not proper for her to walk the streets as organ-grinders do, since she was preparing to be the directress of an institute for noble girls. . .

“An institute, ha, ha, ha! Castles in Spain! ” cried Katerina Ivanovna, her laughter followed immediately by a fit of coughing. “No, Rodion Romanych, the dream is over! Everyone's abandoned us! And that runt of a general. . . You know, Rodion Romanych, I flung an inkpot at him—it just happened to be standing there, in the anteroom, on the table next to the visitors' book, so I signed my name, flung it at him, and ran away. Oh, vile, vile men! But spit on them; I'll feed mine myself now, I won't bow to anybody! We've tormented her enough. ” (She pointed to Sonya. ) “Polechka, how much have we collected, show me! What? Just two kopecks? Oh, the villains! They don't give anything, they just run after us with their tongues hanging out! Now, what's that blockhead laughing at? ” (She pointed to a man in the crowd. ) “It's all because Kolka here is so slow-witted; he's a nuisance! What do you want, Polechka? Speak French to me, parlez-moi fran& #231; ais. I've been teaching you, you know several phrases! ... Otherwise how can they tell you're educated children, from a noble family, and not at all like the rest of the organ-grinders; we're not putting on some 'Petrushka' in the street, ^{^[125]} we'll sing them a proper romance... Ah, yes! What are we going to sing? You keep interrupting me, and we... you see, Rodion Romanych, we stopped here to choose what to sing—something Kolya can also dance to... because, can you imagine, we haven't prepared anything; we must decide and rehearse it all perfectly, then we'll go to the Nevsky Prospect, where there are many more people of high society, and we'll be noticed at once: Lenya knows 'The Little Farm'... Only it's always 'The Little Farm, ' the same 'Little Farm, ' everybody sings it! We ought to sing something much more noble... Well, what have you come up with, Polya, you could at least help your mother! Memory, my memory's gone, or I'd have remembered something! We can't sing 'A Hussar Leaning on His Sabre, ' really! Ah, let's sing 'Cinq sous' in French. I taught it to you, I know I did. And the main thing is that it's in French, so people will see at once that you're a nobleman's children, and it will be much more moving... Or why not even 'Malborough s'en va-t-en guerre, '^{^[126]} because it's a perfect children's song and they use it as a lullaby in aristocratic houses. 'Malborougb s'en va-t-en guerre, Ne sait quand reviendra... '“ She began singing... “But no, better 'Cinq sous'! Now, Kolya, put your hands on your hips, quickly, and you, Lenya, turn around, too, the opposite way, and Polechka and I will sing and clap along! 'Cinq sous, cinq sous, Pour monter notre m& #233; nage... '^{^[127]} Hem, hem, hem! ” (And she went off into a fit of coughing. ) “Straighten your dress, Polechka, the shoulders are slipping down, ” she remarked through her coughing, gasping for breath. “You must behave especially properly and on a fine footing now, so that everyone can see you're noble children. I said then that the bodice ought to be cut longer and made from two lengths. It's all you and your advice, Sonya: 'Shorter, shorter'—and as a result the child's completely disfigured... Ah, what's all this crying, stupid children! Well, Kolya, start, quickly, quickly, quickly—oh, what an unbearable child! . . . 'Cinq sous, cinq sous. . . ' Another soldier! Well, what do you want? ”

Indeed, a policeman was forcing his way through the crowd. But at the same time a gentleman in a uniform and greatcoat, an imposing official of about fifty with an order around his neck (this last fact rather pleased Katerina Ivanovna, and was not without effect on the policeman), approached and silently gave Katerina Ivanovna a green three-rouble bill. His face expressed genuine compassion. Katerina Ivanovna accepted and bowed to him politely, even ceremoniously.

“I thank you, my dear sir, ” she began haughtily. “The reasons that have prompted us... take the money, Polechka. You see, there do exist noble and magnanimous people, who are ready at once to help a poor gentlewoman in misfortune. You see before you, my dear sir, the orphans of a noble family, with, one might even say, the most aristocratic connections... And that runt of a general was sitting there eating grouse... he stamped his foot at me for bothering him... 'Your Excellency, ' I said, 'protect the orphans, seeing that you knew the late Semyon Zakharych so well, ' I said, 'and his own daughter was slandered on the day of his death by the worst of all scoundrels. . . ' That soldier again! Protect me! ” she cried to the official. “Why won't that soldier leave me alone! We already ran away from one on Meshchanskaya... what business is it of yours, fool! ”

“Because it's prohibited in the streets. Kindly stop this outrage. ”

“You're the outrageous one! It's the same as going around with a barrel-organ. What business is it of yours? ”

“Concerning a barrel-organ, a permit is required for that; and with yourself and your behavior, you're stirring people up, madam. Kindly tell me where you live. ”

“What! A permit! ” Katerina Ivanovna yelled. “I buried my husband today, what's this about a permit! ”

“Madam, madam, calm yourself, ” the official tried to begin, “come, I'll take you... It's improper here, in the crowd, you are not well. . . ”

“My dear sir, my dear sir, you know nothing! ” Katerina Ivanovna shouted. “We'll go to the Nevsky Prospect—Sonya, Sonya! Where is she? She's crying, too! What's the matter with you all! ... Kolya, Lenya, where are you going? ” she suddenly cried out in fear. “Oh, stupid children! Kolya, Lenya, but where are they going! . . . ”

It so happened that Kolya and Lenya, utterly frightened by the street crowd and the antics of their mad mother, and seeing, finally, a policeman who wanted to take them and lead them off somewhere, suddenly, as if by agreement, seized each other by the hand and broke into a run. Shouting and weeping, poor Katerina Ivanovna rushed after them. It was grotesque and pitiful to see her running, weeping, choking. Sonya and Polechka rushed after her.

“Bring them back, bring them back, Sonya! Oh, stupid, ungrateful children! ... Polya! Catch them... It's for your sake that I. . . ”

She stumbled in mid-run and fell.

“She's hurt! She's bleeding! Oh, Lord! ” Sonya cried out, bending over her.

Everyone came running, everyone crowded around. Raskolnikov and Lebezyatnikov were among the first to reach her; the official also came quickly, and after him came the policeman as well, having groaned, “Oh, no! ” and waved his hand, anticipating that the matter was going to take a troublesome turn.

“Move on! Move on! ” he drove away the people who were crowding around.

“She's dying! ” someone cried.

“She's lost her mind! ” said another.

“God forbid! ” one woman said, crossing herself. “Did they catch the lad and the girl? Here they are, the older girl caught them... Little loonies! ”

But when they looked closely at Katerina Ivanovna, they saw that she had not injured herself against the stone at all, as Sonya thought, but that the blood staining the pavement was flowing through her mouth from her chest.

“This I know, I've seen it before, ” the official murmured to Raskolnikov and Lebezyatnikov. “It's consumption, sir; the blood flows out like that and chokes them. I witnessed it just recently with a relation of mine; about a glass and a half... all at once, sir... Anyway, what can we do; she's dying. ”

“Here, here, to my place! ” Sonya begged. “I live right here! ... This house, the second one down... To my place, quickly, quickly! . . . ” She was rushing from one person to another. “Send for a doctor... Oh, Lord! ”

Through the efforts of the official the matter was settled; the policeman even helped to transport Katerina Ivanovna. She was brought to Sonya's room in an almost dead faint and laid on the bed. The bleeding continued, but she seemed to begin to come to her senses. Along with Sonya, Raskolnikov, and Lebezyatnikov, the official and the policeman also entered the room, the latter after dispersing the crowd, some of whom had accompanied them right to the door. Polechka brought Kolya and Lenya in, holding them by their hands; they were trembling and crying. The Kapernaumovs also came from their room: the man himself, lame and one-eyed, of odd appearance, his bristling hair and side-whiskers standing on end; his wife, who somehow looked forever frightened; and several children, with faces frozen in permanent surprise and open mouths. Amidst all this public, Svidrigailov also suddenly appeared. Raskolnikov looked at him in surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not remembering having seen him in the crowd.

There was talk of a doctor and a priest. The official, though he whispered to Raskolnikov that a doctor now seemed superfluous, still ordered one to be sent for. Kapernaumov ran himself.

Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna recovered her breath, and the bleeding stopped for a while. She looked with pained but intent and penetrating eyes at the pale and trembling Sonya, who was wiping the drops of sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief; finally, she asked to sit up. With help, she sat up on the bed, supported on both sides.

“Where are the children? ” she asked, in a weak voice. “Did you bring them, Polya? Oh, you stupid ones! ... Why did you run away... ahh! ”

Her withered lips were still all bloody. She moved her eyes, looking around.

“So this is how you live, Sonya! I've never even been here... now is my chance... ”

She looked at her with suffering.

“We've sucked you dry, Sonya... Polya, Lenya, Kolya, come here... Well, Sonya, here they all are, take them... I'm handing them over to you... I've had enough! ... The ball is over! Gh-a! ... Lay me back; at least let me die in peace. . . ”

They laid her back again on the pillow.

“What? A priest?... No need... Where's your spare rouble?... There are no sins on me! ... God should forgive me anyway... He knows how I've suffered! ... And if He doesn't, He doesn't! . . . ”

A restless delirium was taking hold of her more and more. From time to time she gave a start, moved her eyes around, recognized everyone for a moment, but her consciousness would immediately give way to delirium again. Her breathing was hoarse and labored, and it was as if something were gurgling in her throat.

“I said to him, 'Your Excellency! . . . ' “ she exclaimed, drawing a breath after each word, “ 'this Amalia Ludwigovna'... ah! Lenya, Kolya! Hands on your hips, quickly, quickly, glissez, glissez, pas de Basque! ^{^[128]}Tap your feet... Be a graceful child.

'Du hast Diamanten und Perlen '. . .

How does it go? I wish we could sing. . .

'Du hast die schonsten Augen, Madchen, was willst du mehr? '^{^[129]}

Well, really, I must say! Was willst du mehr —what's he thinking of, the blockhead! ... Ah, yes, here's another:

'In the noonday heat, in a vale of Daghestan'. . . ^{^[130]}

Ah, how I loved... I loved that song to the point of adoration, Polechka! ... You know, your father... used to sing it when he was still my fianc& #233;... Oh, those days! ... If only, if only we could sing it! How, how does it go now... I've forgotten... remind me how it goes! ” She was extremely agitated and was making an effort to raise herself. Finally, in a terrible, hoarse, straining voice, she began to sing, crying out and choking at every word, with a look of some mounting fear:

“‘In the noonday heat! ... in a vale! ... of Daghestan! ... With a bullet in my breast! '. . .

Your Excellency! ” she suddenly screamed in a rending scream, dissolving in tears. “Protect the orphans! Having known the bread and salt of the late Semyon Zakharych! ... One might even say, aristocratic! ... Gh-a! ” She gave a sudden start, came to herself, and looked around in some sort of horror, but immediately recognized Sonya. “Sonya, Sonya! ” she said meekly and tenderly, as if surprised to see her there in front of her. “Sonya, dear, you're here, too? ”

They raised her up again.

“Enough! ... It's time! ... Farewell, hapless girl! ... The nag's been overdriven! ... Too much stra-a-ain! ” she cried desperately and hatefully, and her head fell back on the pillow.

She became oblivious again, but this last oblivion did not continue long. Her pale yellow, withered face turned up, her mouth opened, her legs straightened convulsively. She drew a very deep breath and died.

Sonya fell on her corpse, put her arms around her, and lay motionless, her head resting on the deceased woman's withered breast. Polechka fell down at her mother's feet and kissed them, sobbing. Kolya and Lenya, not yet understanding what had happened, but sensing something very awful, seized each other's shoulders and, staring into each other's eyes, suddenly, together, at the same time, opened their mouths and began howling. They were both still in their costumes: he in the turban, she in the nightcap with an ostrich feather.

And how had that “certificate of merit” suddenly turned up on the bed, near Katerina Ivanovna? It was lying right there by the pillow; Raskolnikov saw it.

He walked over to the window. Lebezyatnikov ran up to him.

“She's dead! ” Lebezyatnikov said.

“Rodion Romanovich, I have a couple of necessary words for you, ” Svidrigailov approached. Lebezyatnikov yielded his place at once and delicately effaced himself. Svidrigailov drew the surprised Raskolnikov still further into the corner.

“All this bother—that is, the funeral and the rest of it—I will take upon myself. It's a matter of money, you know, and, as I told you, I have some to spare. I'll place these two younglings and Polechka in some orphanage, of the better sort, and settle fifteen hundred roubles on each of them, for their coming of age, so that Sofya Semyonovna can be completely at ease. And I'll get her out of the quagmire, because she's a nice girl, isn't she? So, sir, you can tell Avdotya Romanovna that that is how I used her ten thousand. ”

“What's the purpose of all this philanthropizing? ” asked Raskolnikov.

“Ehh! Such a mistrustful man! ” laughed Svidrigailov. “I did tell you I had this money to spare. Well, and simply, humanly speaking, can you not allow it? She wasn't some sort of 'louse, ' was she” (he jabbed his finger towards the corner where the deceased woman lay), “like some little old money-lender? Well, you'll agree, well, 'is it, indeed, for Luzhin to live and commit abominations, or for her to die? ' And if it weren't for my help, then 'Polechka, for example, will go there, too, the same way. . . ’”

He said this with the look of some winking, merry slyness, not taking his eyes off Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov turned pale and cold, hearing the very phrases he had spoken to Sonya. He quickly recoiled and looked wildly at Svidrigailov.

“How d-do you... know? ” he whispered, scarcely breathing.

“But I'm staying here, just the other side of the wall, at Madame Resslich's. Kapernaumov is here, and there—Madame Resslich, an ancient and most faithful friend. I'm a neighbor, sir. ”

“You? ”

“Me, ” Svidrigailov went on, heaving with laughter. “And I assure you on my honor, dearest Rodion Romanovich, that you have got me extremely interested. I told you we'd become close, I predicted it— well, and so we have. You'll see what a congenial man I am. You'll see that one can get along with me after all. . . ”

Part Six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long ago did you see them? ”

“Just now. And you haven't seen them since then? Where have you been hanging around, may I ask; I've come by here three times already. Your mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She wanted to come here; Avdotya Romanovna tried to hold her back, but she wouldn't listen to anything: 'If he's sick, ' she said, 'if he's going mad, who will help him if not his mother? ' We all came here, because we couldn't let her come alone. We kept telling her to calm down all the way to your very door. We came in; you weren't home; here's where she sat. She sat for ten minutes, silently, with us standing over her. She got up and said: 'If he can go out, and is therefore well and has simply forgotten his mother, then it's indecent and shameful for a mother to stand on his doorstep and beg for affection as for a handout. ' She went home and came down sick; now she has a fever: 'I see, ' she says, 'he has time enough for that one of his. ' She thinks that one is Sofya Semyonovna, your fianc& #233; e or your mistress, I really don't know. I went to Sofya Semyonovna's at once, because I wanted to find out everything, brother—I came and saw a coffin standing there, children crying. Sofya Semyonovna was trying their mourning clothes on them. You weren't there. I looked in, apologized, and left, and reported to Avdotya Romanovna. So it's all nonsense, and there isn't any that one involved; so it must be madness. But here you sit gobbling boiled beef as if you hadn't eaten for three days. Granted madmen also eat, but you, though you haven't said a word to me... are not mad! I'll swear to it. Whatever else you are, you're not mad. And so, devil take you all, because there's some mystery here, some secret, and I have no intention of breaking my head over your secrets. I've just come to swear at you, ” he concluded, getting up, “to vent my feelings, and now I know what to do! ”

“What are you going to do now? ”

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

“Look out, you'll go on a binge! ”

“How... how did you know? ”

“What else? ”

Razumikhin paused for a minute.

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

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

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

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

“She did! ”

“Yes, she did. ”

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

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

“Knows it herself? ”

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

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

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

Razumikhin stood pensive and agitated, figuring something out.

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

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

“What letter? ”

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

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

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

They were both silent for a short time.

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

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

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

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

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

“From Porfiry? ”

“From Porfiry. ”

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

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

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

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

He walked out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Raskolnikov thought for about a minute.

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

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

“What little trace? ”

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

Raskolnikov grinned spitefully.

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

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

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

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

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

Raskolnikov gave him a sad and imposing look.

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

“A lot of what ahead of me? ”

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

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

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

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

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

Raskolnikov even gave a start.

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

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

“And when do you plan to arrest me? ”

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

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

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

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

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

He also reached for his cap.

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

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

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

III

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how sick he was of it all!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Raskolnikov went up to the tavern.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because it may only be chance. ”

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

“And nothing else? ”

“But surely that's enough. ”

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

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

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

“I forgot, ” Raskolnikov answered in surprise.

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

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

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

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

“All right, let's leave you alone. ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What could you come by? ”

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

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

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

“You're a gambler, I believe? ”

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

“And you were a sharper? ”

“Yes, I was a sharper. ”

“Did you ever get thrashed? ”

“It happened. What of it? ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And could you shoot yourself? ”

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

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

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

“What is it, a woman? ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me, then, but I hope you. . . ”

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

“You perhaps know (and, incidentally, I told you myself), ” Svidrigailov began, “that I was being held in debtors' prison here, for an enormous sum, and without the least prospect of paying it. There's no point in detailing how Marfa Petrovna bought me off then; do you know to what degree of stupefaction love can sometimes lead a woman? She was an honest woman, very far from stupid (though completely uneducated). Imagine, then, that this same jealous and honest woman made up her mind, after many terrible frenzies and reproaches, to stoop to a certain sort of contract with me, which she indeed fulfilled throughout our marriage. The thing was that she was considerably older than I and, besides, constantly kept some sort of clove in her mouth. I had enough swinishness in my soul, and honesty of a sort, to announce to her straight off that I could not be completely faithful to her. This admission drove her into a frenzy, but I think she in some way liked my crude frankness: 'If he announces it beforehand like this, it means he doesn't want to deceive me'—well, and for a jealous woman that is the primary thing. After many tears, an oral contract was concluded between us along the following lines: first, I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always remain her husband; second, I would never go away anywhere without her permission; third, I would never keep a permanent mistress; fourth, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna would allow me to cast an eye occasionally on the serving girls, but not otherwise than with her secret knowledge; fifth, God forbid I should love a woman of our own rank; sixth, if, God forbid, I should perchance be visited by some great and serious passion, I would have to confide it to Marfa Petrovna. With regard to this last point, however, Marfa Petrovna felt rather at ease all the while; she was an intelligent woman and consequently could not look upon me as anything other than a profligate and a skirt-chaser who was incapable of serious love. But an intelligent woman and a jealous woman are two different things, and that's just the trouble. To make an impartial judgment of some people, one has a priori to renounce certain preconceived opinions and one's habitual attitude to the people and things that ordinarily surround one. I have the right to trust your judgment more than anyone else's. Perhaps you've already heard a great deal that was ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. Indeed, some of her habits were quite ridiculous; but I'll tell you straight out that I sincerely regret the countless griefs of which I was the cause. Well, and that's enough, I think, to make a fairly decent oraison fun& #232; bre ^{^[138]} for the most tender wife of a most tender husband. On the occasions when we quarreled, I was silent for the most part and did not become irritated, and this gentlemanliness almost always achieved its purpose; it affected her, and even pleased her; there were occasions when she was even proud of me. But all the same your dear sister was too much for her. And how did it ever happen that she risked taking such a beauty into her house as a governess! I explain it by Marfa Petrovna's being herself a fiery and susceptible woman, and quite simply falling in love herself—literally falling in love—with your dear sister. And Avdotya Romanovna is a good one, too! I understood very well, at first glance, that things were bad here, and—what do you think? —I decided not even to raise my eyes to her. But Avdotya Romanovna herself took the first step—will you believe that? And will you believe that Marfa Petrovna at first even went so far as to be angry with me for my constant silence about your sister, for being so indifferent to her ceaseless and enamored reports about Avdotya Romanovna? I don't understand what she wanted! Well, and of course Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya Romanovna all her innermost secrets about me. She had the unfortunate trait of telling decidedly everyone all our family secrets, and of constantly complaining to everyone about me; how could she pass over such a new and wonderful friend? I suppose they even talked about nothing else but me, and no doubt all those dark, mysterious tales that are ascribed to me became known to Avdotya Romanovna... I'll bet you've already heard something of the sort as well? ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The very same. I see that you, too, find all this extremely interesting, and will regard it as my duty, when the first occasion offers, to satisfy your curiosity on all points. Devil take it! I see I may actually strike people as a romantic figure. Judge, then, how grateful I must be to the late Marfa Petrovna for having told so many curious and mysterious things about me to your dear sister. I dare not judge the impression, but in any case it was to my advantage. With all the natural loathing Avdotya Romanovna felt for me, and in spite of my ever gloomy and repellent look—in the end she felt pity for me, pity for the lost man. And when a girl's heart is moved to pity, that is, of course, most dangerous for her. She's sure to want to 'save' him then, to bring him to reason, to resurrect him, to call him to nobler aims, to regenerate him into a new life and new activity—well, everyone knows what can be dreamt up in that vein. I saw at once that the bird was flying into my net on its own, and prepared myself in my turn. You seem to be frowning, Rodion Romanych? Never mind, sir, it all came down to trifles. (Devil take it, I'm drinking too much wine! ) You know, from the very beginning I've always felt sorry that fate did not grant your sister to be born in the second or third century of our era, as the daughter of some princeling or some other sort of ruler, or a proconsul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly have been among those who suffered martyrdom, and would have smiled, of course, while her breast was burned with red-hot iron tongs. She would have chosen it on purpose, and in the fourth or fifth century she would have gone to the Egyptian desert and lived there for thirty years, feeding on roots, ecstasies, and visions. ^{^[139]} She's thirsting for just that, and demands to endure some torment for someone without delay, and if she doesn't get this torment, she may perhaps jump out the window. I've heard something about a certain Mr. Razumikhin. He's said to be a reasonable man (and his name also shows it; he must be a seminarian)^{^[140]}—well, then let him take care of your sister. In short, I think I understood her, and count it to my credit. But at the time—that is, at the beginning of our acquaintance—you know yourself that one is always somehow more light-minded and foolish, one's view is mistaken, one sees the wrong things. Devil take it, why is she so good-looking? It's not my fault! In short, it began with the most irrepressible sensual impulse in me. Avdotya Romanovna is terribly chaste, to an unseen, unheard-of degree. (Note that; I'm telling it to you as a fact about your sister. She is chaste, possibly, to the point of illness, in spite of all her broad intelligence, and it will do her harm. ) There happened to be a certain girl there named Parasha, dark-eyed Parasha, who had just been brought from another village, a serving-girl, whom I had never seen before—very pretty, but incredibly stupid: burst into tears, raised the rooftops with her howling, and the result was a scandal. Once, after dinner, Avdotya Romanovna came specially looking for me alone on a path in the garden, and with flashing eyes demanded that I leave poor Parasha alone. It was almost our first conversation t& #234; te-& #224; -t& #234; te. I naturally considered it an honor to satisfy her wish, tried to pretend I was struck, embarrassed—well, in short, played my role none too badly. Communications began, secret conversations, sermons, lectures, entreaties, supplications, even tears—would you believe it, even tears!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You told me that before. ”

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

“No, I wouldn't leave now. ”

“Wouldn't leave at all? We'll see. I'll take you there, truly, to show you the bride, only not now; now it will soon be time for you to go. You to the right, and I to the left. Do you know this Resslich? This same Resslich who rents me the room—eh? You hear? No, what are you thinking, the same one they say, about the girl, in the water, in winter—well, do you hear? Do you? Well, so she's the one who cooked it all up for me; you're bored like this, she said, amuse yourself a little. And I really am a gloomy, boring man. You think I'm cheerful? No, I'm gloomy: I don't do any harm, I just sit in the corner; sometimes no one can get a word out of me for three days. And Resslich, that rogue, I'll tell you, here's what she has in mind: I'll get bored, abandon my wife, and leave; then she'll get the wife and put her into circulation—among our own set, that is, or a little higher up. There's this paralyzed father, she says, a retired official, sits in a chair and hasn't moved his legs for three years. There's also a mother, she says, a reasonable lady, the mother is. The son serves somewhere in the provinces, doesn't help them. One daughter is married and doesn't visit; there are two little nephews on their hands (as if their own weren't enough), and their last daughter's a schoolgirl, they took her out of school without letting her finish, in a month she'll be just sixteen, which means in a month she can be married. To me, that is. We went there; it was very funny. I introduced myself: a landowner, a widower, from a notable family, with such-and-such connections, with money— so what if I'm fifty and she's not sixteen yet? Who's looking at that? But isn't it tempting, eh? It's tempting, ha, ha! You should have seen me talking with the papa and mama! People would have paid just to see me then. She comes out, curtsies—can you imagine, she's still in a short dress; an unopened bud—she blushes, turns pink as the dawn (they had told her, of course). I don't know how you feel about women's faces, but to my mind those sixteen years, those still childish eyes, that timidity, those bashful little tears—to my mind they're better than beauty, and on top of that she's just like a picture. Fair hair fluffed up in little curls like a lamb's, plump little crimson lips, little feet— lovely! ... So we got acquainted, I announced that I was in a hurry owing to family circumstances, and the very next day—that is, two days ago—they gave us their blessing. Since then, the moment I come in I take her on my knees and don't let her get down... Well, she blushes like the dawn, and I kiss her all the time; and the mama naturally impresses upon her that this, you see, is your husband, and it ought to be this way—in short, clever! And this present position, as a fianc& #233;, may in fact be better than that of a husband. It's what's called la nature et la v& #233; rit& #233;! ^{^[141]} Ha, ha! I've talked with her a couple of times— the girl is far from stupid; once in a while she gives me a glance on the sly—it burns right through. And you know, she has the face of a Raphael Madonna. Because the Sistine Madonna has a fantastic face, the face of a mournful holy fool, has that ever struck you? Well, hers is the same sort. As soon as they blessed us, the next day, I came with fifteen hundred roubles' worth: a set of diamonds, another of pearls, and a lady's silver toilet case—this big—with all kinds of things in it, so that even her Madonna's face began to glow. I took her on my knees yesterday, but I must have done it too unceremoniously—she became all flushed, tears started, but though she didn't want to show it, she was all aflame herself. Everyone left for a moment, there were just the two of us, she suddenly threw herself on my neck (the first time on her own), embraced me with her little arms, kissed me, and vowed that she would be an obedient, faithful, and good wife to me, that she would make me happy, that she would spend her whole life on it, every minute of her life, would sacrifice everything, everything, and in return for all that she wished to have only my respect, and she said, 'I need nothing else, nothing, nothing, no presents! ' You must agree that to hear such a confession, in private, from such a dear sixteen-year-old angel, in a lace dress, with fluffed-up little curls, with a blush of maidenly modesty and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes, you must agree it's rather tempting. It is tempting, isn't it? It's worth something, eh? Well, isn't it? Well... so, listen... let's go and see my fianc& #233; e... only not now! ”

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

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

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

“I like children generally; like them very much, ” Svidrigailov guffawed. “In this connection I can even tell you about a most curious episode, which is still going on. On the very day of my arrival, I went to look at all these various cesspools—well, after seven years I really leaped at them! You've probably noticed that I've been in no rush to get together with my bunch, I mean my former friends and acquaintances. And I'll do without them for as long as possible. You know, on Marfa Petrovna's estate I was tormented to death by the memory of all these mysterious places, these little corners where, if you know, you can find quite a lot. Devil take it! The people are drinking, the educated youth are burning themselves up in idleness, in unrealizable dreams and fancies, crippling themselves with theories; Yids come flocking from somewhere, hiding the money away, and the rest of it falls into depravity. This city breathed its familiar breath on me from the first hours. I wound up at a so-called dance hall—a terrible cesspool (but I like my cesspools precisely with a bit of filth)—well, there was a cancan, the like of which is not and never was in my time. Yes, sir, there's progress there. Suddenly I see a girl of about thirteen, in a lovely dress, dancing with a virtuoso, and with another one vis-& #224; -vis. And her mother is sitting on a chair by the wall. Well, you can imagine what the cancan is! The girl gets embarrassed, blushes, finally feels offended and begins to cry. The virtuoso picks her up and begins twirling her around and performing in front of her; everyone is roaring with laughter and—I love our public, even a cancan public, at such moments—they laugh and shout: 'That's the way, serves them right! Shouldn't bring children here! ' Well, I spit on it, it's none of my business whether they console themselves logically or not! I immediately picked out my place, sat down next to the mother, and started telling her that I, too, was a visitor, and, oh, what boors they all were here, that they couldn't recognize true virtue or feel any rightly deserved respect; made it known to her that I had a lot of money; offered to take them home in my carriage; brought them home, became acquainted (they'd just arrived, were subletting some closet from tenants). It was announced to me that she and her daughter could not regard my acquaintance as anything but an honor; I discovered that they had neither stick nor stone, and had come to petition for something in some office; I offered help, money; I discovered that they had gone to the dance hall by mistake, thinking it was a place where they actually taught dancing; I, for my part, offered to contribute to the young lady's education—French language and dancing lessons. They accepted with delight, considered it an honor, and I've kept up the acquaintance... If you like, we can go there—only not now. ”

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

“Look at our Schiller, what a Schiller, just look at him! V& #249; va-t-elle la vertu se nicher? ^{^[142]}And you know, I'll go on telling you such things on purpose, just to hear your little outcries. Delightful! ”

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

Svidrigailov was roaring with laughter; finally he called for Filipp, paid, and began getting up. “Oh, am I drunk! Assez caus& #233; ! ”^{^[143]}he said. “Delightful! ”

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

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

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

They went down to the sidewalk.

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

And he turned right, towards the Haymarket.

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

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

“Wha-a-at? ”

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

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

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

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

“Go ahead! ”

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

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

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

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

“No matter, I'll still come. ”

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

“And eavesdropping at doors! ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Has Sofya Semyonovna been warned? ”

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

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

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

Svidrigailov stopped at Sonya's apartment.

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

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

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

“You were eavesdropping? ”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don't torment me—speak, speak! ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what are... the reasons! ”

“That's a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. What we have here is—how shall I express it for you—a theory of sorts; it's the same as if I should find, for example, that an isolated evildoing is permissible if the main purpose is good. A single evil and a hundred good deeds! Of course, it's also offensive for a young man of merit and measureless vanity to know that if he had, for example, a mere three thousand or so, his whole career, the whole future in terms of his life's purpose, would shape itself differently—and yet the three thousand aren't there. Add to that the vexations of hunger, cramped quarters, rags, and a lively sense of the beauty of his social position, as well as that of his sister and mother. But above all vanity, pride and vanity—though, God knows, perhaps even with good inclinations... I'm not blaming him, please don't think that; it's none of my business. There was also a certain little theory of his—a so-so theory—according to which people are divided, you see, into raw material and special people, meaning people for whom, owing to their high position, the law does not exist, people, on the contrary, who themselves devise laws for the rest, for the raw material—that is, for the trash. Not bad, a so-so little theory; une th& #233; orie comme une autre. ^{^[145]}He got terribly carried away with Napoleon—that is, essentially what carried him away was that a great many men of genius disregarded isolated evil and stepped over it without hesitation. He seems to have imagined that he, too, was a man of genius—that is, he was sure of it for a time. He suffered greatly, and suffers still, from the thought that though he knew how to devise the theory, he was unable to step over without hesitation and therefore is not a man of genius. Now that, for a vain young man, is truly humiliating, especially in our age... ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going? Where? ”

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

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

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

Dunya sat down. Svidrigailov sat beside her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I've lost the key; I can't find it. ”

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

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

“Scoundrel! ” Dunya whispered indignantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dunechka pulled the trigger—a misfire!

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

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

Suddenly she threw the revolver aside.

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

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

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

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

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

Dunya moved her head negatively.

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

“Never! ” whispered Dunya.

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

Another moment passed.

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

He went on staring out the window.

Dunya approached the table to take the key.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eh, enough, enough. ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It later turned out that on that same evening, after eleven o'clock, he paid yet another quite eccentric and unexpected visit. It had still not stopped raining. Soaking wet, at twenty minutes past eleven, he walked into the small apartment of his fiancee's parents on Vasilievsky Island, at the corner of the Third Line and Maly Prospect. He had difficulty getting them to open, and at first produced a great commotion; but Arkady Ivanovich, when he chose, could be a man of quite beguiling manners, so that the original (and, incidentally, quite shrewd) surmise of the fiancee's sensible parents—that Arkady Ivanovich was most likely so cockeyed drunk that he no longer knew what he was doing—immediately collapsed of itself. The paralyzed parent was rolled out in his chair to meet Arkady Ivanovich by the fiancee's tenderhearted and sensible mother, who, as was her custom, began at once with certain roundabout questions. (This woman never asked direct questions, but always resorted first to smiles and the rubbing of hands, and then, if she wanted to find out something certainly and accurately, such as when Arkady Ivanovich would be pleased to have the wedding take place, she would begin with the most curious and even greedy questions about Paris and court life there, and only later come around in due course to the Third Line on Vasilievsky Island. ) At some other time all this would, of course, have inspired great respect, but on this occasion Arkady Ivanovich turned out to be somehow especially impatient and flatly demanded to see his fianc& #233; e, though he had been informed at the very beginning that the fianc& #233; e had already gone to bed. Naturally, the fianc& #233; e appeared. Arkady Ivanovich told her directly that because of a certain rather important circumstance he was obliged to leave Petersburg for some time, and therefore he had brought her various bank notes worth fifteen thousand roubles in silver, which he asked her to accept from him as a gift, since he had been intending for a long time to give her this trifle before the wedding. Of course, these explanations by no means revealed any logical connection between the gift and his urgent departure, or the unavoidable necessity of coming for that purpose at midnight, in the rain, but the thing nevertheless came off quite neatly. Even the requisite ohs and ahs, questions and exclamations, suddenly became somehow remarkably moderate and restrained; to make up for which, the most ardent gratitude was shown, and was even reinforced by tears from the most sensible mother. Arkady Ivanovich stood up, laughed, kissed the fiancee, patted her on the cheek, repeated that he would be coming back soon, and, noticing in her eyes not only a child's curiosity but also some mute and very serious question, he thought for a moment, kissed her a second time, and sincerely regretted in his soul that the gift would immediately be taken and locked up by the most sensible of mothers. He walked out, leaving everyone in an extremely excited state. But the tenderhearted mama at once, in a half-whispered patter, resolved some of the more important perplexities, saying that Arkady Ivanovich was a big man, a man with affairs and connections, and a very rich one—God knew what was in his head, he chose to go away and so he went, he chose to give money and so he gave it, and therefore there was nothing to marvel at. Of course, it was strange that he was all wet, but Englishmen, for example, are even more eccentric, and such high-toned people never pay attention to what is said about them, and never stand on ceremony. Maybe he went around like that on purpose to show that he was not afraid of anybody. And the main thing was not to say a word about it to anyone, because God knew what might still come of it, and the money should be locked up quickly, and most certainly the best thing in all this was that Fedosya had stayed in the kitchen the whole time, and the main thing was that they should by no means, by no means, by no means ever say anything to that cunning old fox Resslich, and so on and so forth. They sat and whispered until two o'clock. The fianc& #233; e, however, went to bed much earlier, surprised and a little sad.

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

“Is there tea? ” Svidrigailov asked.

“It's possible, sir. ”

“What else is there? ”

“Veal, sir, vodka, hors d'oeuvres. ”

“Bring some veal and tea. ”

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

“Nothing, nothing. ”

The ragamuffin withdrew, thoroughly disappointed.

“Must be a nice place, ” Svidrigailov thought, “why didn't I know about it? I, too, probably look like someone coming back from a caf& #233; -chantant, and who already got into something on the way. Curious, however; who would stay and spend the night here? ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's de wrong place. ”

“I'm off to foreign lands, brother. ”

“To foreign lands? ”

“To America. ”

“America? ”

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

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

“But why is it the wrong place? ”

“Because it's de wrong place! ”

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

He put the revolver to his right temple.

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

Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.

VII

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

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

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

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

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

“Show it to me, mother! ”

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

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

“Dunya's not home, mother? ”

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

Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly started to cry.

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

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

Pulcheria Alexandrovna timidly went up to him.

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm going away. ”

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

“Good-bye, mama. ”

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

“I can't, I have to go, I must. . . ”

“And I can't go with you? ”

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

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

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

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

“No. ”

“You'll come again? ”

“Yes... I'll come. ”

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

“Very far. ”

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

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

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

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

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

“I'll come, I'll come, good-bye. ”

He finally tore himself away.

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

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

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

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

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

He quickly raised his mistrustful eyes to her.

“But where were you all night? ”

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

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

Raskolnikov grinned bitterly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it's pride, Rodya. ”

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

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

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

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

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

Big tears were rolling down her cheeks.

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

“Did you doubt it? ”

She embraced him tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He went to the table, took a thick, dusty book, opened it, and took from between the pages a small watercolor portrait on ivory. It was a portrait of his landlady's daughter, his former fianc& #233; e, who had died of a fever, the same strange girl who had wanted to go into a convent. He gazed at that expressive and sickly little face for a moment, kissed the portrait, and handed it to Dunechka.

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

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

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

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

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

VIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted, however, to say something else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who do you want? ”

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

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

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

“Raskolnikov. ”

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

“Rodion Romanych. ”

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

“Yes, my mother and sister. ”

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

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

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

“No. ”

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

“N-no. ”

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

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

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

Ilya Petrovich guffawed, thoroughly pleased with his witticisms.

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

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

Raskolnikov gave a start.

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

“What, you know Svidrigailov? ”

“Yes... I do... he came recently. . . ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ilya Petrovich even offered him his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Drink some water. ”

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

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

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

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

Epilogue

Siberia. On the bank of a wide, desolate river stands a town, one of the administrative centers of Russia; in the town there is a fortress; in the fortress, a prison. ^{^[161]} In the prison, already confined for nine months, is exiled convict of the second class Rodion Raskolnikov. Almost a year and a half has passed since the day of his crime.

The court proceedings in his case went without great difficulties. The criminal firmly, precisely, and clearly supported his statement, without confusing the circumstances, without softening them in his favor, without distorting the facts, without forgetting the slightest detail. He recounted the whole process of the murder to the last trace: explained the mystery of the pledge (the piece of wood with the metal strip), which had been found in the murdered woman's hand; told in detail how he had taken the keys from the old woman, described the keys, described the trunk and what it was filled with, even enumerated some of the particular objects that were in it; explained the riddle of Lizaveta's murder; told how Koch had come and knocked, and the student after him, and repeated everything they had said between themselves; told how he, the criminal, had then run down the stairs and heard the shrieks of Mikolka and Mitka; how he had hidden in the empty apartment, then gone home; and in conclusion he pointed them to the stone in the courtyard on Voznesensky Prospect, near the gateway, under which the articles and purse were found. In short, it turned out to be a clear case. The investigators and judges were very surprised, incidentally, that he had hidden the purse and articles under the stone without making any use of them, and most of all that he not only did not remember in detail all the things he had actually carried off, but was even mistaken as to their number. Indeed, the circumstance that he had not once opened the purse and did not even know exactly how much money was in it appeared incredible (there turned out to be three hundred and seventeen silver roubles and three twenty-kopeck pieces in the purse; from lying so long under the stone, some of the topmost bills, the largest, had become quite damaged). For a long time they strove to discover why the accused would lie precisely about this one circumstance, when he had confessed voluntarily and truthfully to everything else. Finally, some of them (especially from among the psychologists) even admitted the possibility that he had indeed not looked into the purse and therefore did not know what was in it, and thus, without knowing, had gone and put it under the stone, but from this they concluded at once that the crime itself could not have occurred otherwise than in some sort of temporary insanity, including, so to speak, a morbid monomania of murder and robbery, with no further aim or calculation of profit. This fell in opportunely with the latest fashionable theory of temporary insanity, which in our time they so often try to apply to certain criminals. Furthermore, Raskolnikov's long-standing hypochondriac state of mind was attested to with precision by many witnesses, by Dr. Zossimov, former friends, the landlady, the maid. All this contributed greatly to the conclusion that Raskolnikov was not quite like the ordinary murderer, outlaw, and robber, but that something else was involved. To the great annoyance of those who defended this opinion, the criminal did almost nothing to defend himself; to the ultimate questions of precisely what had inclined him to homicide and what had prompted him to commit robbery, he answered quite clearly, with the crudest exactitude, that the cause of it all lay in his bad situation, his poverty and helplessness, his wish to fortify the first steps of his life's career with the help of the three thousand roubles, at least, that he counted on finding at the murdered woman's. He had resolved on the murder as a result of his frivolous and fainthearted nature, further exasperated by hardship and failure. And to the question of what precisely had prompted him to come and confess his guilt, he answered directly that it was sincere repentance. There was something almost crude about it all. . .

The sentence nevertheless turned out to be more merciful than might have been expected, given the crime committed, perhaps precisely because the criminal not only did not try to justify himself, but even seemed to show a desire to inculpate himself still more. All the strange and particular circumstances of the case were taken into consideration. The criminal's illness and distress prior to committing the crime were not subject to the least doubt. That he had not made use of what he had stolen was attributed partly to the influence of awakened repentance, partly to the not quite sound state of his mental capacities at the time the murder was committed. The circumstance of the accidental killing of Lizaveta even served as an example in support of the latter suggestion: the man commits two murders, and at the same time forgets that the door is standing open! Finally, the confession of his guilt, at the very time when the case had become extraordinarily tangled as a result of the false self-accusation of a dispirited fanatic (Nikolai), and when, moreover, there was not only no clear evidence against the real criminal, but hardly even any suspicion (Porfiry Petrovich had fully kept his word)—all this contributed in the end to mitigating the accused man's sentence.

Besides which, other circumstances quite unexpectedly came out that greatly favored the accused. The former student Razumikhin dug up information somewhere and presented proofs that the criminal Raskolnikov, while at the university, had used his last resources to help a poor and consumptive fellow student, and had practically supported him for half a year. And when the student died, he had looked after his surviving old and paralytic father (whom his dead friend had fed and supported by his own efforts almost since the age of thirteen), finally placed the old man in a hospital, and when he died as well, buried him. All this information had a certain favorable influence on the deciding of Raskolnikov's fate. His former landlady, the mother of Raskolnikov's late fianc& #233; e, the widow Zarnitsyn, also testified that while they were still living in the other house, at Five Corners, Raskolnikov, during a fire one night, had carried two small children out of an apartment already in flames and had been burned in the process. This fact was carefully investigated and quite well attested to by many witnesses. In short, the outcome was that the criminal was sentenced to penal servitude of the second class for a term of only eight years, in consideration of his having come to confess his guilt and other mitigating circumstances.

At the very beginning of the proceedings, Raskolnikov's mother became ill. Dunya and Razumikhin found it possible to take her away from Petersburg for the whole time of the trial. Razumikhin chose a town on a railway line, and only a short distance from Petersburg, so that he could follow regularly all the circumstances of the proceedings and at the same time see Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria Alexandrovna's illness was of some strange, nervous sort, and was accompanied by something like madness, at least partial, if not complete. Dunya, on coming home from her last meeting with her brother, had found her mother already quite ill, in fever and delirium. That same evening she arranged with Razumikhin how precisely to answer her mother's questions about her brother, and they even invented a whole story for her mother about Raskolnikov going somewhere far away, to the Russian border, on some private mission that would finally bring him both money and fame. But they were struck that Pulcheria Alexandrovna never asked them anything about any of it, either then or later. On the contrary, she turned out to have a whole story of her own about her son's sudden departure; she would tell with tears of how he had come to say good-bye to her; she would let it be known by hints that she alone was informed of many quite important and mysterious circumstances, and that Rodya had many quite powerful enemies, so that he had even been forced to go into hiding. As for his future career, to her it also seemed unquestionable and brilliant, once certain hostile circumstances passed; she assured Razumikhin that in time her son would even be a statesman, as was proved by his article and by his brilliant literary talent. She read this article incessantly, sometimes even aloud; she all but slept with it; yet she hardly ever asked precisely where Rodya was at present, in spite of the fact that people obviously avoided talking to her about it—which in itself might have aroused her suspicions. Finally, they began to be frightened by Pulcheria Alexandrovna's strange silence on certain issues. She did not even complain, for instance, that there were no letters from him, whereas before, when she was living in her little town, she had lived only in the hope and expectation of soon receiving a letter from her beloved Rodya. This last circumstance was all too inexplicable, and greatly troubled Dunya; the thought kept occurring to her that her mother had perhaps sensed something terrible in her son's fate and was afraid to ask questions lest she find out something still more terrible. In any event, Dunya saw clearly that Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not in her right mind.

A couple of times, however, it happened that she herself led the conversation in such a way that it was impossible in answering her not to mention precisely where Rodya was then; and when, willy-nilly, the answers came out unsatisfactory and suspicious, she would all at once turn extremely sad, gloomy, and silent, and would remain so for quite a long time. Dunya saw at last that it was hard to go on lying and inventing, and came to a final conclusion that it was better to be completely silent on certain issues; but it was becoming more and more clear, to the point of obviousness, that the poor mother suspected something terrible. Dunya incidentally remembered her brother saying that their mother had listened to her raving on the eve of that last, fatal day, after her scene with Svidrigailov: had she managed to hear something then? Often, sometimes after several days or even weeks of gloomy, sullen silence and wordless tears, the sick woman would become somehow hysterically animated and begin suddenly to talk aloud, almost without stop, about her son, about her hopes, about the future... Her fantasies were sometimes very strange. They humored her, yessed her (she herself perhaps saw clearly that they yessed her only to humor her), but she still went on talking. . .

The sentence came five months after the criminal went and confessed. Razumikhin saw him in prison whenever he possibly could. So did Sonya. Finally it came time to part. Dunya swore to her brother that the parting was not forever; so did Razumikhin. A project had firmly shaped itself in Razumikhin's young and ardent head, to lay, as far as possible, over the next three or four years, at least the foundations of a future fortune, to save at least some money, and move to Siberia, where the soil was rich in all respects, and workers, people, and capital were scarce; to settle there in the same town where Rodya was, and... begin a new life together. On saying farewell, they all wept. Raskolnikov had been very pensive during those last days, inquired often about his mother, was constantly worried about her. He even suffered too much over her, which alarmed Dunya. Having learned in detail of his mother's ailing spirits, he became very gloomy. With Sonya he was for some reason especially taciturn the whole time. Sonya had long since made her preparations, with the help of the money left her by Svidrigailov, and was ready to follow the party of convicts with which he would be sent. No word had been spoken of it between her and Raskolnikov, but they both knew it would be so. During the last farewell, he kept smiling strangely at the fervent assurances of his sister and Razumikhin about their happy future when he would be done with hard labor, and foretold that his mother's ailing condition would soon end in grief. He and Sonya finally set off.

Two months later Dunechka married Razumikhin. The wedding was sad and quiet. Among those invited, by the way, were Porfiry Petrovich and Zossimov. All the time recently, Razumikhin had had the look of a man who has firmly made up his mind. Dunya believed blindly that he would carry out all his intentions, and could not but believe it: an iron will could be seen in the man. Incidentally, he began attending university lectures again, to complete his studies. They were both constantly making plans for the future; both firmly counted on moving to Siberia without fail in five years' time. Until then they relied on Sonya being there. . .

Pulcheria Alexandrovna gladly blessed her daughter's marriage to Razumikhin; but after the marriage she seemed to become still more sad and preoccupied. To give her a moment's pleasure, Razumikhin incidentally told her the fact about the student and his decrepit father, and how Rodya had been burned and was even laid up after saving two little children from death the year before. This news sent Pulcheria Alexandrovna, whose mind was unsettled to begin with, almost into a state of ecstasy. She talked of it incessantly, even got into conversations in the street (though Dunya always accompanied her). In public carriages, in shops, having caught hold of at least some listener, she would bring the conversation around to her son, his article, how he had helped the student, had been burned in the fire, and so on. Dunechka simply did not know how to restrain her. Besides the danger of such an ecstatic, morbid state of mind, there could also have been trouble if someone had remembered Raskolnikov's name in connection with the recent trial and happened to mention it. Pulcheria Alexandrovna even found out the address of the mother of the two children saved from the fire and was absolutely set on going to see her. In the end her anxiety grew beyond limits. She sometimes suddenly started to cry, often fell ill and raved feverishly. One morning she announced outright that by her calculations Rodya was soon to arrive, that she remembered how he himself had mentioned, as he was saying goodbye to her, that they should expect him in exactly nine months. She began tidying up everything in the apartment and preparing to meet him, began decorating the room where he was to live (her own), cleaned the furniture, washed and hung up new curtains, and so on. Dunya was worried but said nothing, and even helped her arrange the room for her brother's reception. After a troubled day spent in ceaseless fantasies, in joyful dreams and tears, she fell ill during the night, and by morning was in a fever and raving. She became delirious. Two weeks later she died. In her raving certain words escaped her from which it could be concluded that she had a far greater suspicion of her son's terrible fate than had even been supposed.

Raskolnikov did not learn of his mother's death for a long time, though a correspondence with Petersburg had been established from the very beginning of his installation in Siberia. It was arranged through Sonya, who wrote regularly every month to the name of Razumikhin in Petersburg, and from Petersburg regularly received an answer every month. To Dunya and Razumikhin, Sonya's letters at first seemed somehow dry and unsatisfactory; but in the end they both found that they even could not have been written better, because as a result these letters gave a most complete and precise idea of their unfortunate brother's lot. Sonya's letters were filled with the most ordinary actuality, the most simple and clear description of all the circumstances of Raskolnikov's life at hard labor. They contained no account of her own hopes, no guessing about the future, no descriptions of her own feelings. In place of attempts to explain the state of his soul, or the whole of his inner life generally, there stood only facts—that is, his own words, detailed reports of the condition of his health, of what he had wanted at their meeting on such-and-such a day, what he had asked her, what he had told her to do, and so on. All this news was given in great detail. In the end the image of their unfortunate brother stood forth of itself, clearly and precisely drawn; no mistake was possible here, because these were all true facts.

But Dunya and her husband could derive little joy from this news, especially at the beginning. Sonya ceaselessly reported that he was constantly sullen, taciturn, and even almost uninterested in the news she brought him each time from the letters she received; that he sometimes asked about his mother; and that when, seeing he had begun to guess the truth, she finally told him of her death, to her surprise even the news of his mother's death seemed not to affect him too greatly, or so at least it appeared to her from the outside. She told them, among other things, that although he seemed so immersed in himself, as if he had closed himself off from everyone, his attitude towards his new life was very direct and simple; that he understood his position clearly, expected nothing better in the near future, had no frivolous hopes (so natural in his position), and was surprised at almost nothing amid his new surroundings, so little resembling anything previous. She reported that his health was satisfactory. He went to work, neither volunteering nor trying to avoid it. Was almost indifferent to food, but the food was so bad, except on Sundays and feast days, that in the end he had eagerly accepted a little money from her, Sonya, so that he could have tea every day; as for all the rest, he asked her not to worry, insisting that all this concern for him only annoyed him. Sonya wrote further that he had been placed together with all the others in prison; that she had not seen the inside of the barracks, but assumed it was crowded, ugly, and unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a piece of felt under him and did not want to make any other arrangements for himself. But that he lived so poorly and crudely not at all from some preconceived plan or purpose, but simply from inattention and outward indifference to his lot. Sonya wrote directly that, especially at the beginning, he not only was not interested in her visits, but was even almost vexed with her, spoke reluctantly, and was even rude to her, but that in the end their meetings became a habit for him and even almost a necessity, so that he even grieved very much when she was sick for a few days and unable to visit him. And that she saw him on feast days by the prison gates or in the guardroom, where he would be summoned to see her for a few minutes; and on weekdays at work, where she came to see him either in the workshops, at the brick factory, or in the sheds on the banks of the Irtysh. About herself Sonya reported that she had managed to acquire some acquaintances and patrons in town; that she did sewing, and since there were almost no dressmakers in town, she had even become indispensable in many homes; only she did not mention that through her Raskolnikov had also come under the patronage of the authorities, that his work had been lightened, and so on. Finally came the news (Dunya had even noticed some special anxiety and alarm in her latest letters) that he shunned everyone, that the convicts in the prison did not like him; that he kept silent for whole days at a time and was becoming very pale. Suddenly, in her latest letter, Sonya wrote that he was quite seriously ill, and was in the hospital, in the convict ward. . .

He had been sick for some time; but it was not the horrors of convict life, or the work, or the food, or the shaved head, or the patchwork clothes that broke him: oh, what did he care about all these pains and torments! On the contrary, he was even glad of the work: by wearing himself out physically at work, he at least earned himself several hours of peaceful sleep. And what did the food—that watery cabbage soup with cockroaches—matter to him? In his former life as a student, he often had not had even that. His clothes were warm and adapted to his way of life. He did not even feel the chains on him. Was he to be ashamed of his shaved head and two-colored jacket? But before whom? Sonya? Sonya was afraid of him, and should he be ashamed before her?

But what, then? He was indeed ashamed even before Sonya, whom he tormented because of it with his contemptuous and rude treatment. But he was ashamed not of a shaved head and chains: his pride was badly wounded; and it was from wounded pride that he fell ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have condemned himself! He could have endured everything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his hardened conscience did not find any especially terrible guilt in his past, except perhaps a simple blunder that could have happened to anyone. He was ashamed precisely because he, Raskolnikov, had perished so blindly, hopelessly, vainly, and stupidly, by some sort of decree of blind fate, and had to reconcile himself and submit to the “meaninglessness” of such a decree if he wanted to find at least some peace for himself.

Pointless and purposeless anxiety in the present, and in the future one endless sacrifice by which nothing would be gained—that was what he had to look forward to in this world. And what matter that in eight years he would be only thirty-two and could still begin to live again! Why should he live? With what in mind? Striving for what? To live in order to exist? But even before, he had been ready to give his existence a thousand times over for an idea, a hope, even a fantasy. Existence alone had never been enough for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was only from the force of his desires that he had regarded himself as a man to whom more was permitted than to others.

If only fate had sent him repentance—burning repentance, that breaks the heart, that drives sleep away, such repentance as torments one into dreaming of the noose or the watery deeps! Oh, he would have been glad of it! Torments and tears—that, too, was life. But he did not repent of his crime.

He might at least have raged at his own stupidity, as he had once raged at the hideous and utterly stupid actions that had brought him to prison. But now that he was in prison, and at liberty, he reconsidered and reflected upon all his former actions and did not find them at all as stupid and hideous as they had seemed to him once, at that fatal time.

“How, ” he pondered, “how was my thought any stupider than all the other thoughts and theories that have been swarming and colliding in the world, ever since the world began? It's enough simply to take a broad, completely independent view of the matter, free of all common influences, and then my thought will surely not seem so... strange. Oh, nay-sayers and penny philosophers, why do you stop halfway!

“Now, what do they find so hideous in my action? ” he kept saying to himself. “That it was an evildoing? What does the word 'evildoing' mean? My conscience is clear. Of course, a criminal act was committed; of course, the letter of the law was broken and blood was shed; well, then, have my head for the letter of the law... and enough! Of course, in that case even many benefactors of mankind, who did not inherit power but seized it for themselves, ought to have been executed at their very first steps. But those men endured their steps, and therefore they were right, while I did not endure, and so I had no right to permit myself that step. ”

This alone he recognized as his crime: that he had not endured it, but had gone and confessed.

And he suffered from another thought: why had he not killed himself then? Why, when he was standing over the river then, had he preferred to go and confess? Was there really such force in this desire to live, and was it so difficult to overcome it? Had not Svidrigailov, who was afraid of death, overcome it?

In torment he asked himself this question, and could not understand that even then, when he was standing over the river, he may have sensed a profound lie in himself and in his convictions. He did not understand that this sense might herald a future break in his life, his future resurrection, his future new vision of life.

Instead he allowed only for the dull burden of instinct here, which it was not for him to break through, and which (again owing to weakness and worthlessness) he had been unable to step over. He looked at his fellow convicts and was amazed: how they, too, all loved life, how they valued it! It precisely seemed to him that in prison they loved and valued it even more, cherished it even more than in freedom. What terrible pains and torments had some of them not endured—the tramps, for instance! Could some one ray of sunlight mean so much to them, a deep forest, a cool spring somewhere in the untrodden wilderness, noticed two years before, to meet which the tramp dreams as he dreams of meeting his mistress, sees it in his sleep, green grass growing around it, a bird singing in a bush? Looking further, he found examples still more inexplicable.

In prison, in his surroundings, he did not notice much, of course, and really did not want to notice. He lived somehow with lowered eyes: it was repulsive and unbearable to look. But in the end many things began to surprise him, and he somehow involuntarily began to notice what he had not even suspected before. But, generally, he came to be surprised most of all by the terrible and impassable abyss that lay between him and all these people. It was as if he and they belonged to different nations. He and they looked at each other with mistrust and hostility. He knew and understood the general reasons for such disunion; but he had never before assumed that these reasons were in fact so deep and strong. There were also exiled Poles there, political prisoners. They simply regarded all these people as ignorant slaves and haughtily disdained them; but Raskolnikov could not take such a view: he saw clearly that these ignorant men were in many respects much smarter than the Poles themselves. There were also Russians who all too readily despised these people—a former officer and two seminarians; Raskolnikov clearly saw their mistake as well.

As for him, he was disliked and avoided by everyone. In the end they even began to hate him—why, he did not know. Men far more criminal than he despised him, laughed at him, laughed at his crime.

“You're a gentleman! ” they said to him. “What did you take up an axe for; it's no business for a gentleman. ”

During the second week of the Great Lent, it was his turn to fast and go to services together with his barracks. ^{^[162]} He went to church and prayed together with the others. For some reason unknown to him, a quarrel broke out one day; they all fell on him at once with ferocity.

“You're godless! You don't believe in God! ” they shouted. “You ought to be killed! ”

He had never talked with them about God or belief, but they wanted to kill him for being godless; he kept silent and did not argue with them. One convict flew at him in a perfect frenzy; Raskolnikov waited for him calmly and silently: his eyebrows did not move, not a feature of his face trembled. A guard managed to step between him and the murderer just in time—otherwise blood would have been shed.

Still another question remained insoluble for him: why had they all come to love Sonya so much? She had not tried to win them over; they met her only rarely, at work now and then, when she would come for a moment to see him. And yet they all knew her, knew also that she had followed after him, knew how she lived and where she lived. She had never given them money or done them any special favors. Only once, at Christmas, she brought alms for the whole prison: pies and kalatchi. ^{^[163]} But, little by little, certain closer relations sprang up between them and Sonya. She wrote letters for them to their families, and posted them. When their male or female relations came to town, they would instruct them to leave things and even money for them in Sonya's hands. Their wives and mistresses knew her and visited her. And when she came to see Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of convicts on the way to work, they would all take their hats off, they would all bow to her: “Little mother, Sofya Semyonovna, our tender, fond little mother! ”—so the coarse, branded convicts would say to this small and frail being. She would smile and bow in return, and they all liked it when she smiled to them. They even liked the way she walked; they would turn and follow her with their eyes to see how she walked, and praise her; they even praised her for being so small; they were even at a loss what not to praise her for. They even came to her with their ailments.

He lay in the hospital all through the end of Lent and Holy Week. As he began to recover, he remembered his dreams from when he was still lying in feverish delirium. In his illness he had dreamed that the whole world was doomed to fall victim to some terrible, as yet unknown and unseen pestilence spreading to Europe from the depths of Asia. Everyone was to perish, except for certain, very few, chosen ones. Some new trichinae had appeared, microscopic creatures that lodged themselves in men's bodies. But these creatures were spirits, endowed with reason and will. Those who received them into themselves immediately became possessed and mad. But never, never had people considered themselves so intelligent and unshakeable in the truth as did these infected ones. Never had they thought their judgments, their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions and beliefs more unshakeable. Entire settlements, entire cities and nations would be infected and go mad. Everyone became anxious, and no one understood anyone else; each thought the truth was contained in himself alone, and suffered looking at others, beat his breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They did not know whom or how to judge, could not agree on what to regard as evil, what as good. They did not know whom to accuse, whom to vindicate. People killed each other in some sort of meaningless spite. They gathered into whole armies against each other, but, already on the march, the armies would suddenly begin destroying themselves, the ranks would break up, the soldiers would fall upon one another, stabbing and cutting, biting and eating one another. In the cities the bells rang all day long: everyone was being summoned, but no one knew who was summoning them or why, and everyone felt anxious. The most ordinary trades ceased, because everyone offered his own ideas, his own corrections, and no one could agree. Agriculture ceased. Here and there people would band together, agree among themselves to do something, swear never to part—but immediately begin something completely different from what they themselves had just suggested, begin accusing one another, fighting, stabbing. Fires broke out; famine broke out. Everyone and everything was perishing. The pestilence grew and spread further and further. Only a few people in the whole world could be saved; they were pure and chosen, destined to begin a new generation of people and a new life, to renew and purify the earth; but no one had seen these people anywhere, no one had heard their words or voices.

It pained Raskolnikov that this senseless delirium echoed so sadly and tormentingly in his memory, that the impression of these feverish dreams refused to go away for so long. It was already the second week after Holy Week; warm, clear spring days had set in; the windows in the convict ward were opened (barred windows, with a sentry pacing beneath them). Sonya had been able to visit him in the ward only twice during the whole period of his illness; each time she had to ask for permission, and that was difficult. But she had often come to the hospital courtyard, under the windows, especially towards evening, or sometimes just to stand in the yard for a short while and look at least from afar at the windows of the ward. Once, towards evening, Raskolnikov, then almost fully recovered, fell asleep; waking again, he chanced to go to the window and suddenly saw Sonya far away, by the hospital gate. She stood as if she were waiting for something. At that moment, something seemed to pierce his heart; he started and quickly stepped away from the window. The next day Sonya did not come, nor the day after; he noticed that he was waiting worriedly for her. At last he was discharged. When he came to the prison, he learned from the convicts that Sofya Semyonovna was sick in bed at home and not going out anywhere.

He was very worried and sent to inquire after her. Soon he learned that her illness was not dangerous. Having learned in her turn that he missed her and was so concerned about her, Sonya sent him a penciled note informing him that she was feeling much better, that she had a slight, insignificant cold, and that soon, very soon, she would come to see him at work. His heart was beating heavily and painfully as he read this note.

Again it was a clear, warm day. Early in the morning, at about six o'clock, he went to work in a shed on the riverbank, where gypsum was baked in a kiln and afterwards ground. Only three workers went there. One of them took a guard and went back to the fortress to get some tool; the second began splitting firewood and putting it into the kiln. Raskolnikov walked out of the shed and right to the bank, sat down on some logs piled near the shed, and began looking at the wide, desolate river. From the high bank a wide view of the surrounding countryside opened out. A barely audible song came from the far bank opposite. There, on the boundless, sun-bathed steppe, nomadic yurts could be seen, like barely visible black specks. There was freedom, there a different people lived, quite unlike those here, there time itself seemed to stop, as if the centuries of Abraham and his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat and stared fixedly, not tearing his eyes away; his thought turned to reverie, to contemplation; he was not thinking of anything, but some anguish troubled and tormented him.

Suddenly Sonya was beside him. She came up almost inaudibly and sat down next to him. It was still very early; the morning chill had not softened yet. She was wearing her poor old wrap and the green shawl. Her face still bore signs of illness; it had become thinner, paler, more pinched. She smiled to him amiably and joyfully, but gave him her hand as timidly as ever.

She always gave him her hand timidly; sometimes she even did not give it at all, as if fearing he might push it away. He always took her hand as if with loathing, always met her as if with vexation, was sometimes obstinately silent during the whole time of her visit. There were occasions when she trembled before him and went away in deep grief. But this time their hands did not separate; he glanced at her quickly and fleetingly, said nothing, and lowered his eyes to the ground. They were alone; no one saw them. The guard had his back turned at the moment.

How it happened he himself did not know, but suddenly it was as if something lifted him and flung him down at her feet. He wept and embraced her knees. For the first moment she was terribly frightened, and her whole face went numb. She jumped up and looked at him, trembling. But all at once, in that same moment, she understood everything. Infinite happiness lit up in her eyes; she understood, and for her there was no longer any doubt that he loved her, loved her infinitely, and that at last the moment had come. . .

They wanted to speak but could not. Tears stood in their eyes. They were both pale and thin, but in those pale, sick faces there already shone the dawn of a renewed future, of a complete resurrection into a new life. They were resurrected by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other.

They resolved to wait and endure. They still had seven years more, and until then so much unbearable suffering and so much infinite happiness! But he was risen and he knew it, he felt it fully with the whole of his renewed being, and she—she lived just by his life alone!

In the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her. It had even seemed to him that day as if all the convicts, his former enemies, already looked at him differently. He had even addressed them himself and been answered amiably. He recalled it all now, but that was how it had to be: did not everything have to change now?

He was thinking of her. He remembered how he had constantly tormented her and torn her heart; remembered her poor, thin little face; but he was almost not even tormented by these memories: he knew by what infinite love he would now redeem all her sufferings.

And what were they, all, all those torments of the past! Everything, even his crime, even his sentence and exile, seemed to him now, in the first impulse, to be some strange, external fact, as if it had not even happened to him. However, that evening he could not think long or continuously of anything, could not concentrate his mind on anything; besides, he would have been unable to resolve anything consciously just then; he could only feel. Instead of dialectics, there was life, and something completely different had to work itself out in his consciousness.

Under his pillow lay the Gospels. He took the book out mechanically. It belonged to her, it was the same one from which she had read to him about the raising of Lazarus. At the beginning of his hard labor he had thought she would hound him with religion, would be forever talking about the Gospels and forcing books on him. But to his greatest amazement, she never once spoke of it, never once even offered him the Gospels. He had asked her for it himself not long before his illness, and she had silently brought him the book. He had not even opened it yet.

Nor did he open it now, but a thought flashed in him: “Can her convictions not be my convictions now? Her feelings, her aspirations, at least. . . ”

She, too, had been greatly excited all that day, and during the night even fell ill again. But she was so happy that she almost became frightened of her happiness. Seven years, only seven years! At the beginning of their happiness there were moments when they were both ready to look at those seven years as if they were seven days. He did not even know that a new life would not be given him for nothing, that it still had to be dearly bought, to be paid for with a great future deed. . .

But here begins a new account, the account of a man's gradual renewal, the account of his gradual regeneration, his gradual transition from one world to another, his acquaintance with a new, hitherto completely unknown reality. It might make the subject of a new story—but our present story is ended.

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[1] Zimmerman was a famous hatter with a shop on Nevsky Prospect in Petersburg. Dostoevsky owned a Zimmerman hat.

[2] There were nine grades of councillors in the Russian civil service; titular councillor was the ninth, or lowest.

[3] It was customary for Russians to identify themselves formally by giving their social " rank" as well as their name. " Student" —and thus " former student" —was such a rank. The reader will find mention of ranks throughout C& P. The lowest was " simple person" or peasant; " tradesman" was a bit higher; and so on.

[4] The hay barges on the Neva were well known in Petersburg during the 1860s as a place where beggars and bums spent the night.

[5] The " yellow pass" was an official certificate issued to prostitutes.

[6] See Matthew 10: 26: " there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known. "

[7] Pontius Pilate's words about Christ; see John 19: 5.

[8] Dancing with a shawl was an honor granted to the most successful students of girls' boarding schools at graduation.

[9] It was possible to " live in a corner, " that is, to rent only part of a room, though Marmeladov turns out to be renting a whole room from Mrs. Lippewechsel.

[10] Cyrus the Great (600? -529 b. c. ), king of Persia from 550-529, founder of the Persian empire.

[11] A Russian translation of The Physiology of Everyday Life, by the English philosopher and critic George Henry Lewes (1817-78), was published in Moscow in 1861. Dostoevsky owned a copy of the second edition. The book, influenced by the thought of the French positivist Auguste Comte (1798-1857), suited the practical-minded tastes of the time and was especially popular among progressive young women.

[12] State councillor was the fifth grade of councillors in the civil service; a fairly high position.

[13] See Psalm 68: 2: " as wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of God. "

[14] " The Little Farm" was a popular Russian song of the mid-nineteenth century, with words by A. V. Koltsov (1809-42), a poet of humble origin.

[15] See Luke 7: 47.

[16] See Revelation 13: 15-16.

[17] The second petition of the Lord's Prayer; see Matthew 6: 10, Luke 11: 2.

[18] Petersburg, owing to its northern latitude (6o°N), has " white nights" during the summer. In July the sun sets at around 8: 30 p. m., with twilight lasting almost until midnight; sunrise is at approximately 4: 00 a. m., preceded by a long, pale dawn.

[19] Like civil servants, students in Russia wore uniforms, including a visored cap and a greatcoat.

[20] The first half of a saying; the second half (obviously) is: " because you may have to drink from it. "

[21] It was a custom of local people in small towns or villages to smear with tar the gates of someone against whom they wanted to express their moral indignation.

[22] Court councillor was the seventh grade of councillors in the civil service.

[23] The Russian Senate in Petersburg functioned as the highest court of law as well as a managerial and administrative body; it remained answerable to the tsar.

[24] The feast of the Dormition of the Mother of God (the Assumption, in Roman Catholicism), celebrated on August 15. According to the canons of the Orthodox Church, weddings may not be celebrated during periods of fasting. The fast preceding the feast of the Dormition is from August 1 to August 14.

[25] The Kazan Mother of God (generally showing just the head and shoulders of the Virgin, with a frontal half-figure of the infant Christ giving a blessing) is perhaps the most widespread icon of the Mother of God in Russia. Its prototype was discovered in Kazan in 1579.

[26] Golgotha (" the place of a skull" in Aramaic; latinized as " Calvary" ) is the name of the place just outside Jerusalem where Christ was crucified. See Matthew 27: 33, Mark 15: 22, John 19: 17.

[27] A broad reference to the works and ideas of the German poet and playwright Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805), who stood, in Dostoevsky's keyboard of references, for notions of the ideal, the " great and beautiful, " and a simplified struggle for freedom, all with a Romantic glow. Having loved Schiller's poetry as a young man, Dostoevsky indulged in a good deal of indirect mockery of him in his later works. Further references to Schiller in C& P are all in the same tone.

[28] The Order of St. Anne (the mother of the Virgin; " Anna" in Russian) was a military and civil distinction, awarded by the tsar. It had two degrees, the higher being worn on the breast, the lower around the neck.

[29] Schleswig-Holstein, in the north of Germany, bordering on Jutland, was fought over by Denmark and Prussia in the mid-1860s, before being annexed by Prussia in 1866. The struggle was much discussed in the Russian press of the time, by Dostoevsky among others.

[30] The situation of Latvians under Russian rule was so bad that even poor Germans of the region considered them as slaves—another issue taken up by the Russian press in the 1860s.

[31] The Jesuits (members of the Society of Jesus, a religious order founded by St. Ignatius Loyola in 1534) were popularly considered masters of casuistry.

[32] Though Raskolnikov has just heard about Svidrigailov in his mother's letter, for Dostoevsky and his contemporaries the name was not unknown. In several issues of the newspaper Iskra, in 1861, the doings of a wealthy provincial landowner and his minion Svidrigailov had been discussed. The name came to suggest a type of shady dealer and intriguer, and might have been used as Raskolnikov uses it here.

[33] Following the publication, in 1865, of a Russian translation of Man and the Development of His Abilities: An Experiment in Social Physics, by the Belgian mathematician and statistician Adolphe Qu& #233; telet (1796-1874), there was discussion in the press about the percentages of victims destined by nature to crime and prostitution. Qu& #233; te-let's followers tried to establish the statistical regularity of human actions in society. Qu& #233; telet and his German disciple Adolf Wagner (1835-1917) were hailed as pillars of the science of moral statistics.

[34] A series of islands (Petrovsky, Krestovsky, Yelagin) in the delta of the Neva west of Petersburg where wealthier people had summer houses.

[35] Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837), the greatest of Russian poets; Ivan Turgenev (1818-83), novelist, Dostoevsky's contemporary and acquaintance. Dostoevsky had the highest admiration for Pushkin, whose short story " The Queen of Spades" may be considered one of the " sources" of C& P. His relations with Turgenev were often strained, and artistically the two were opposites.

[36] The dream that follows contains autobiographical elements; in his notes for the novel, Dostoevsky mentions a broken-winded horse he had seen as a child.

[37] Kutya (kootyah) is a special dish offered to people at the end of a memorial service and, in some places, on Christmas Eve, made from rice (or barley, or wheat) and raisins, sweetened with honey.

[38] A kichka (foechka) is a headdress with two peaks or " horns" on the sides, worn only by married women.

[39] In his poem " Before Evening" from the cycle About the Weather (1859), Nikolai Nekrasov (1821-77) describes a scene of a horse being beaten " on its meek eyes. " Dostoevsky seems to have been deeply moved by the poem; it is referred to at some length in The Brothers Karamazov.

[40] Collegiate registrar was the fourteenth, or lowest, grade in the Russian civil service.

[41] " Thank you" (German). Louisa Ivanovna's speech further on, like Mrs. Lip-pewechsel's later in the novel, is full of German words and Germanisms; these will not be glossed in our notes.

[42] The Russian word tsugunder, used in the phrase " to send [someone] to tsu-gunder, " is a borrowing from German of much-disputed etymology. The phrase means generally " to arrest" or " to deal with. " Ilya Petrovich obviously uses it for its Germanic ring, and we have altered the spelling accordingly.

[43] A molieben (vaolyehhen) is an Orthodox prayer service for a special occasion, commemoration, or thanksgiving. Koch is evidently of German origin, therefore most likely not Orthodox, which is why Nikodim Fomich is so struck.

[44] In her memoirs, Dostoevsky's wife, Anna Grigorievna, mentions that in the first weeks of their married life Dostoevsky took her to a certain yard during a walk and showed her the stone under which his Raskolnikov hid the stolen objects. When she asked what he himself had been doing in that deserted yard, Dostoevsky replied, " The same thing as other passers-by. "

[45] The Confessions of Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-78) was translated into Russian in the 1860s. His younger Russian contemporary, Alexander Radishchev (1749-1802), author of A Journey from Petersburg to Moscow, was exiled to Siberia by the empress Catherine the Great because of his outspoken attacks on social abuses.

[46] This title is an ironic reference to the controversy surrounding the " woman question" that began in the 1860s.

[47] The streets on Vasilievsky Island, called " Lines, " were laid out in a grid like the streets of Manhattan, and have numbers in place of names.

[48] The Winter Palace, residence of the tsars.

[49] The cathedral is St. Isaac's. Designed in a mixed style suggesting a neoclassical interpretation of St. Peter's in Rome, it is heavily ornamented with sculptures, including (as Soviet guides say) " four life-size angels. " There was a small chapel of St. Nicholas built on to the Nikolaevsky Bridge; both were made of wood and burned down in 1916.

[50] Apparently his real name is Vrazumikhin, derived from the Russian verb meaning " to bring to reason, " but is habitually simplified to Razumikhin, from the verb " to reason. " Or else he is simply joking.

[51] A low-class or poor people's way of sipping tea through a lump of sugar held in the teeth. The aim was to save sugar, it being considered a luxury to dissolve sugar in one's tea.

[52] Five Corners, still so called, is an intersection in Petersburg where five streets meet.

[53] I. G. Charmeur was a well-known Petersburg tailor; Dostoevsky had his own suits made by Charmeur.

[54] The Palais de Cristal (later referred to in C& 'P as the Crystal Palace) was a hotel/restaurant, opened in Petersburg in 1862, but not in the area where Dostoevsky locates the establishment described here. His deliberate use of the name was most likely intended to remind his readers of earlier mentions of " the Crystal Palace" in Notes from Underground (1864) and elsewhere, referring to the great glass hall built in London for the International Exposition of 1851. In polemics with his ideological opponent the radical writer N. G. Chernyshevsky (1828-89), who saw this Crystal Palace as an image of the ideal living space for the future communal society (in his 1862 novel What Is to Be Done? ), Dostoevsky's man from underground likens it to a chicken coop.

[55] Peski (" the Sands" ) and Kolomna were neighborhoods on the outskirts of Petersburg.

[56] Xavier Jouvain, of Grenoble, brought about a revolution in glove-making with his invention, in 1834, of a special mold for shaping gloves.

[57] The actual proverb is much terser in Russian; Luzhin bungles it, as if he were making a " literal" translation, something like, " If you throw one stone at two birds, you may not kill either of them. "

[58] Luzhin's words here echo ideas of the English economist and philosopher Jeremy Bentham (1748—1832), which were the subject of great polemics in Russia at the time. They also contain suggestions of Chernyshevsky's theory of " rational egoism. "

[59] A " band" of forgers, including a university lecturer, was indeed uncovered in Moscow in 1865. At his trial, the lecturer gave explanations similar to those quoted by Razumikhin further on. The murder of the embassy secretary is also an allusion to an actual trial, mentioned in Dostoevsky's notebooks, involving a retired army lieutenant who made an attempt on the life of a Russian embassy secretary in Paris.

[60] Raskolnikov read about this " narrow ledge" in Book 11, chapter 2, of Victor Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris (1831), first published in Russian translation in Dostoevsky's short-lived magazine Time in 1862.

[61] Ivan Ivanovich Izler was the owner of a man-made suburban spa in Petersburg called " Mineral Waters, " very popular in the 1860s. The Petersburg newspapers of 1865 were full of news about the arrival in the city of a young midget couple, Massimo and Bartola, said to be descendants of the ancient Aztecs. The unusual number of fires in Petersburg and then\throughout Russia in 1862 were sometimes blamed on revolutionary students. Dostoevsky tried to oppose these rumors in his magazine, Time, but the articles were not passed by the censors.

[62] This account of the nervous accomplice comes from an actual event reported in a Moscow newspaper in 1865.

[63] " Enough talk! " (French). According to his wife's memoirs, this was one of Dostoevsky's own favorite phrases. He borrowed it from Vautrin, a character in the novels of Honor& #233; de Balzac (1700-1850). Dostoevsky was a great admirer of Balzac, whose Rastignac is a fictional precursor of Raskolnikov.

[64] The civil equivalent of the military rank of colonel.

[65] A provincial marshal of nobility was, prior to the reforms of the 1860s, the highest elected officer in a province.

[66] The names in Katerina Ivanovna's account are allegorical but plausible: Be/. /. e-melny means " landless, " and Shchegolskoy means " foppish. " This lends an air of fantasy to her memories. " Kammerjunker, " borrowed by Russian from the German, was an honorary court title.

[67] Consecrated bread and wine of the Eucharist, reserved by the priest for. such occasions.

[68] Dostoevsky himself underwent such a sentencing and pardon in 1849, after being arrested for subversive activities. He often uses the experience metaphorically.

[69] Anton Rubinstein (1829-94), Russian composer and world-famous pianist. He founded the Petersburg Conservatory in 1859.

[70] The upper chamber of the Prussian legislature of the time.

[71] Marie Antoinette de Lorraine (1755-93), archduchess of Austria, married to Louis XVI of France, was imprisoned during the French Revolution and then guillotined. Dostoevsky mentions her name in his notes for C& P.

[72] " Drop dead, dogs, if you don't like it! " (French).

[73] The Mitrofanievsky Cemetery, established in 1831 during a cholera epidemic, was considered a cemetery for the poor. A meal, called a " memorial meal" (pominki in Russian), is traditionally served following a funeral.

[74] Refers to the beggar Lazarus in the Gospel parable (see Luke 16: 19-31), who eats crumbs from the rich man's table. Metaphorically, the common Russian saying " to sing Lazarus" means to complain of one's fate. A song about the poor man Lazarus was often sung by blind beggars asking for alms.

[75] The term " phalanstery" was coined by the French Utopian socialist thinker Charles Fourier (1772-1837) to designate the physical and productive arrangements for living in the future communal society. Dostoevsky's interest in " Fourierism" as a young man led to his arrest by the tsar's agents in 1849.

[76] " Ivan the Great" is a bell-tower in the Moscow Kremlin.

[77] Lycurgus, semilegendary lawgiver of ancient Sparta, is said to have lived in the ninth century b. c. Solon (630? -560? b. c. ), lawgiver and reformer of the Athenian state, was one of the " seven sages of Greece. " Muhammad and Napoleon, among other things, also codified the laws of their nations.

[78] The French phrase means " long live the eternal war. " The New Jerusalem appears at the end of Revelation (21: 1-3) in St. John's vision of " the holy city... coming down from God out of heaven. " However, the Saint-Simonians, followers of the Utopian socialist Claude-Henri de Saint-Simon (1760-1825), interpreted this vision as foretelling a future paradise on earth and a new golden age. Saint-Simon's thought, a sort of neo-Christianity, was popular in Russia during the 1840s.

[79] See John 11: 1-45. This is not the beggar Lazarus, but Lazarus the brother of Martha and Mary, whom Jesus raises from the dead. The theme of the raising of Lazarus, central to the novel, is here introduced from an unexpected quarter, and meets an unexpected response.

[80] A temperature of 30° on the Reaumur scale is the equivalent of 1oo°F or 80°C.

[81] Raskolnikov mentally lists the steps in Napoleon's career. Napoleon (1760-1821) first distinguished himself as an artillery captain in the battle of Toulon in the south of France (1793). In 1795 he used his artillery to suppress a royalist uprising in Paris. After an unfortunate campaign in the Middle Fast, in August 1799 he abandoned his army in Egypt and hastily returned alone to Paris to seize power (the remnants of the army were finally repatriated only two years later). In his disastrous Russian campaign of 1812, he lost all but a few thousand of his 500, 000-man army, and most of his artillery. The " pun in Vilno" refers to Napoleon's remark after leaving Russia: " Du sublime au ridicule, il n'y a qu'un pas" (" From the sublime to the ridiculous is only one step" ), quoted by Victor Hugo in the preface to his historical drama Cromwell (1827).

[82] The phrase, almost a quotation, appears in the writings of Victor Consid& #233; rant (1808-93), a French Utopian socialist thinker, follower of Fourier.

[83] The expression " trembling creature, " from the Koran, also appears in Pushkin's cycle of poems Imitations of the Koran (1824), where Dostoevsky may have found it.

[84] A misquotation of a famous line from the Roman playwright Terence (190-159 B. C. ): homo sum, bumani nihil a me alienum puto (" I am a man, nothing human is alien to me" ). Svidrigailov's error is a common one (repeated by the devil in The Brothers Karamazov).

[85] " It's honest warfare" (French).

[86] " Freedom of expression" in Svidrigailov's ironic phrase is glasnost in the original. The whipping of the German woman, an event that took place in 1860, was widely commented on in the newspapers. The " Outrageous Act of The Age" refers to the title of a polemical article published in the St. Petersburg Gazette (3 March 1861) protesting against an attack on the movement for women's emancipation in the weekly magazine The Age. The article in The Age had denounced an event at which a woman gave a public reading from Pushkin's Egyptian Nights: the reading of Cleopatra's challenge to⁷ men (to spend a night with her in exchange for their lives) was considered an immoral act revealing the true aims of the proponents of women's emancipation. " Those dark eyes" refers to the description of the lady as she was reading.

[87] After the emancipation of the serfs in 1861, peasants were allotted arable land, which was taken from the landowners; forests and water meadows were not included in such allotments.

[88] Dussot owned a famous restaurant in Petersburg frequented by high society. Pointes (French for points or spits of land) here refers to a pleasure garden on Yelagin Island.

[89] " Wine doesn't agree with me" (French).

[90] Berg was the owner of amusement attractions in Petersburg. Known as " the famous Petersburg aeronaut, " he was often mentioned in newspapers during the mid-1860s.

[91] " So as to please you" (French).

[92] " (Jive rest with thy saints, C) Christ, to the soul of thy servant. . . " is the first phrase of a hymn (kontakion) from the Orthodox funeral service. " The food" refers to the traditional manorial meal following a funeral.

[93] Prince Svirbey and Madame Prilukov are not known. Vyazemsky's house was a Petersburg flophouse where the dregs of society spent their nights.

[94] Razumikhin has earlier played on the sound of his name (see Part Two, note 10). Here Luzhin is misled by its meaning. " Rassudkin" comes from rassudok: reason, intellect, common sense.

[95] A " holy fool" (yurodivyi in Russian) can be a saintly person or ascetic whose saintliness is expressed as " folly. " Holy fools of this sort were known early in Christian tradition, but in later common usage " holy fool" also came to mean a crazy person or simpleton.

[96] The language of the Russian Orthodox Church is Old Slavonic, not Russian. The Bible was first translated into Russian in the early nineteenth century.

[97] See Matthew 5: 8: " Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. "

[98] Here and further on Sonya reads from John 11: 1-45.

[99] An imprecise quotation of Matthew 19: 14.

[100] " Simply" or " without adornments" (French).

[101] " It's obligatory" (French).

[102] The judicial reforms of 1864 introduced, among many more important changes, a new nomenclature for police and court personnel.

[103] During the Crimean War (1853-56), after defeating the Russian army at the Alma River (September 8, 1854), the allied forces (England, France, Turkey, the Piedmont) laid siege to Sebastopol, finally taking the city eleven months later.

[104] The Hofkriegsrat was the supreme military council of Austria. Field Marshal Karl Mack (1752-1828) was surrounded by the French army at Ulm in 1805 and surrendered his 30, 000 men to Napoleon without a fight. Mack's arrival at Russian headquarters after this defeat is described in Tolstoy's War and Peace, in a chapter published in The Russian Herald (1866, No. 2), between the publication in the same magazine of the first and the remaining parts of C& P.

[105] Nikolai Gogol (1800-52), prose writer and dramatist, was the greatest of Dostoevsky's predecessors. Dostoevsky was deeply indebted to him as an artist, particularly in his notion of " fantastic realism"; his works are full of references, hidden parodies, and polemical responses to the writings of the great satirist.

[106] Knop was the owner of a toiletry shop on Nevsky Prospect in Petersburg. The English Shop also sold imported toiletries, among other things.

[107] This passage humorously summarizes some of the issues of concern to radicals of the early 1860s. Communes had begun to appear in Petersburg under the influence of Fourier and of Chernyshevsky's novel What Is to Be Done? (there was in fact a commune on Meshchanskaya Street).

[108] " Let's distinguish" (French).

[109] Nikolai A. Dobrolyubov (1836-61) was a radical literary critic and associate of Chernyshevsky. His career was cut short by consumption. Vissarion Belinsky (1811-1848), a liberal critic of the previous and more idealistic generation, achieved great prominence in his time. He was among the earliest to recognize Gogol's genius, and championed Dostoevsky's first novel, Poor Folk (1846).

[110] Lebezyatnikov is alluding to Vera Pavlovna's argument in Chernyshevsky's What Is to Be Done? The question of " freedom of entry into rooms" is also discussed in the same novel.

[111] An allusion to arguments about art and usefulness propounded by certain radical critics of the day, particularly D. I. Pisarev (1840-68), a great disparager of Pushkin, who is said to have wept when he read C& P, before hastening to write a critical review of the novel.

[112] Pushkin mentions " horns" in at least three poems, " horns" and " hussars" in one of them (" Couplets, " 1816).

[113] A parody of ideas about love and jealousy in Chernyshevsky's novel What Is to Be Done?

[114] See Part One, note 37.

[115] " Lady cornet's wife" (Polish); an absurd compliment.

[116] Panie (pab nyeh) is the respectful term of direct address for a gentleman in Polish, as pani is for a lady.

[117] Bread and salt, literal or metaphorical, is a symbol of hospitality in Russia.

[118] " In black and white" (French).

[119] It was customary in Russia for a corpse to be laid out on a table until it was put in the coffin.

[120] " Oh, merciful God! " (German).

[121] See Matthew 6: 3: " But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth. . . "

[122] The General Conclusion of the Positive Method was a collection of articles on various scientific subjects, mainly physiology and psychology, translated from German into Russian and published in 1866. Piederit was a German medical writer; Adolf Wagner, a follower of Qu& #233; telet, was a proponent of " moral statistics" (see Part One, note 33).

[123] " Sir, you are a scoundrel! " (Polish).

[124] " Stand up straight! " (French).

[125] Petrushka is a Russian clown; shows involving his antics were put on at fairs and in the streets.

[126] " A Hussar Leaning on His Sabre" is a well-known song, with words by the poet Konstantin Batyushkov (1787-1855). " Cinq sous" (" Five pennies" ) is a French popular song. " Malborough s'en va-t-en guerre" (" Malborough's going to war" ) is a widely known French song about John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough (1650-1722), who led the English forces in the War of the Spanish Succession in the Low Countries. The Duke's name is variously misspelled in French transcriptions as " Malbrough, " " Malbrouk, " or " Malborough, " as Dostoevsky has it here.

[127] " Malborough's going to war / Doesn't know when he'll come back. . . " " Five pennies, live pennies / To set up our household. . . "

[128] French dance terms: " slide, slide, the Basque step. "

[129] Lines from the poem " Back in My Native Land" from the Book of Songs, by the German poet Heinrich Heine (1707-1856), set to music by Franz Schubert: " You have diamonds and pearls... / You have the most beautiful eyes, / Maiden, what more do you want? "

[130] A setting of the poem " The Dream" by Mikhail Lermontov (1814-41).

[131] A reader reads the responses and assists the priest in the memorial service (pani-khida in Russian).

[132] Part of a prayer for the dead: " Give rest, = Lord, to the soul of thy departed servant. "

[133] An inexact quotation from " Diary of a Madman" by Nikolai Gogol.

[134] " In vain! " (German).

[135] The word " schismatic" (raskolnik in Russian) rings oddly in the original because of its closeness to the protagonist's name. It refers to the Old Believers, who split off from the Russian Orthodox Church in disagreement over the reforms of the patriarch Nikon in the mid-seventeenth century. " Runners" refers to a sect of the Old Believers that emerged in the eighteenth century; believing that the Orthodox Church and all civil authorities were under the sway of the Antichrist, they fled from every form of obedience to social institutions and " sojourned" in forests and desert places; hence they were first called " sojourners" and later " runners. " The institution of elders is a venerable one in Orthodox tradition (there is a short treatise on elders in Book One of The Brothers Karamazov). An elder, generally speaking, is a spiritual director, to whom the one seeking direction owes the strictest obedience.

[136] Dostoevsky describes this convict in Notes from the Dead House (1860), a semific-tional account of his own prison experiences.

[137] Midshipman Dyrka (dyrka means " hole" in Russian) is mentioned in Gogol's comedy The Wedding, but Porfiry Petrovich has apparently confused him with another character in the play, the easily amused Midshipman Petukhov (petukh means " rooster" ).

[138] " Funeral oration" (French).

[139] Svidrigailov has in mind the early persecutions of Christians, and then the life of St. Mary of Egypt, a fifth-century saint greatly venerated in the Orthodox Church, a former prostitute who converted to Christianity and withdrew to the Egyptian desert where she spent more than forty years in solitude.

[140] Not necessarily a theological student, but generally a poor scholar, probably from a clerical family. Such families often had names (like Razumikhin) derived from words designating Christian virtues.

[141] " Nature and truth" (French). Dostoevsky uses this phrase (compare Thomme de la nature et de la v& #233; rit& #233;, in Notes from Underground) in ironic reference to the thought of Jean-Jacques Rousseau (see Part Two, note 5).

[142] " Where is virtue going to build her nest? " (French). The playwright Moli& #232; re (1622-73) is said to have asked this of a beggar who thought he had made a mistake in giving him a gold piece.

[143] " Enough talk! " (French). See Part Two, note 23.

[144] " Good-bye, my pleasure" (French).

[145] " As good a theory as any" (French).

[146] Here Dunya suddenly addresses Svidrigailov in the familiar second person singular, which Russians generally use only with family and intimate friends. The shift has a strong effect for the Russian reader, suggesting more to their relationship than has appeared so far.

[147] Here again Dunya uses the second person singular.

[148] Dunya speaks in the second person singular through " You're lying, slanderer! " Svidrigailov twice responds in kind.

[149] The revolver is of the old cap-and-ball variety, midway between a firelock and the later cartridge pistol. The chambers were hand-loaded and fired by a separate percussion cap. In the " misfire" the cap apparently went off but did not fire the charge.

[150] Here they both begin to speak in the second person singular, through " ever? "

[151] The original Vauxhall was a seventeenth-century pleasure garden in London. Here the term refers to an outdoor space for concerts and entertainment, with a tea-house, tables, and so on. Russian borrowed the word from English; evidently vauxhalls were a new thing in the 1860s.

[152] In the Orthodox Church, the Sunday of Pentecost, fifty days after Easter.

[153] The Church does not grant suicides Christian burial or offer prayers for them.

[154] Cannon shots fired from the Petropavlovsky Fortress in Petersburg served as a flood warning; they also signaled such events as the spring thaw, military victories, fires, or the birth of a son to the imperial household.

[155] The brass helmets worn by Russian (and not only Russian) firemen in the nineteenth century were descendants of the crested helmets supposed to have been worn by such Greek heroes as Achilles.

[156] Julius Caesar was crowned high priest and military tribune in the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill in Rome, at the start of his rise to power.

[157] Nihil est: " it is nothing" or " nothing is" (Latin).

[158] David Livingstone (1813-73), famous Scottish explorer of central and southern Africa, published a book on his travels along the Zambezi River in 1865; it was soon translated into Russian.

[159] " Nihilism" was a new movement among the radical Russian youth, emerging just around the time that Dostoevsky was writing C& P, the mentality and consequences of which he partly explores in the novel. The aims of the nihilists, as the name suggests, were essentially negative—the destruction of the existing social order, without stipulating what should replace it. In this they " stepped beyond" the earlier Utopian socialists; they " negated more, " as Lebezyatnikov puts it. Their ideology was anti-idealist, concerned with immediate action and practical results.

[160] Ilya Petrovich's words reflect common attacks on women who sought higher education. In the 1860s women were allowed education only as teachers or midwives. The Academy he refers to is the medical school.

[161] The setting and conditions of Raskolnikov's hard labor are drawn from Dostoevsky's own experiences as a convict. The four years he spent in prison at Omsk, on the Irtysh River, are described in Notes from the Dead House.

[162] Special services are held on weekdays during the Great Lent (in the Orthodox Church, the forty-day fast preceding Holy Week, which in turn precedes Easter Sunday). The prisoners probably took turns attending these services because the church was too small to accommodate all of them at once.

[163] Kalatchi: plural of kalatch, a very fine white bread shaped like a purse with a looped handle.

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