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THE HARVARD CLASSICS
SHELF OF FICTION
SELECTED BY CHARLES W ELIOT LLD

se

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

BY
FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

TRANSLATED BY CONSTANCE GARNETT

EDITED WITH NOTES AND INTRODUCTIONS
BY WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON PHD

a

P F COLLIER & SON COMPANY
NEW YORK

Published under special arrangement with
The Macmillan Company

Copyright, 1917
By P. F. Cottier & Son

MANUFACTURED IN U. SS. A,

Brea.

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CONTENTS

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

SOAP IILCAE DET) uaa in Be Ns Ga ee ig |) ae
CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS:

I. By Emite Metcuior, VicomTE DE VoGuUE . . ._ Vii

II. By Kazimierz WALISZEWSKI POETS Geo tna aie Rie x

Ill.) From: tue Lonpow “Timms”... . ee 6 es

Os et DA AURICRSMMERIN Peds oh a igi. Ue bec ety bey an eee

Peer OW COMARACTERS (lemme ue Ug yhg) scp! cine) sl Lib atime tle: eee

PART I

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PART III

CuHaptTer I i" Sa 1S ENT NU AS US Si NS ts gc ae
cee ES Oe eS SNORE oO EEN RS eae Smiles nr aa aac any Wane}
Ce GN). |. a CARR GaN gl gi Ooms tee ye le Beet he
merrivas Sem gy erm i ee as alg We A Six ek Cn | ae
Ee CU CE SDR or ORES an ed Pee er cn gue aE MRS
SN MR rg roa Sah Ge rne ined. wc with ext ayy at Bee

ry,

II

CHAPTER £

CuHaptTer II
Cuapter IIT
CuapTer IV
CHAPTER V
Cuapter VI

CuHapter I

CuHaptTer II
Cuapter III
CuaptTer IV
CHAPTER V

CuHaptTer I
Cuapter II
Cuapter III
CuHapter IV
Cuaprer V
CuapTer VI
Cuapter VIT
Cuapter VIII
EPILOGUE .

os

CONTENTS

a

PART IV

PAGE
284
298
311
320
338
357

366
383
396
4II
429

444
455
470
481
492
507
521
531
543

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

YODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY was

born at Moscow on October 30, 1821, the son of a

military surgeon. He was educated in his native city
and at the School of Military Engineering at St. Petersburg;
from which he graduated in 1843 with the grade of sub-
lieutenant. The attraction of literature led him to give up
the career that lay open to him, and he entered instead upon
a long struggle with poverty.

His first book, “Poor Folks” (1846), though obviously
influenced by Gogol, was recognized by the critics as the
work of an original genius, and he became a regular contrib-
utor to a monthly magazine, “Annals of the Country.” He
is said to have undertaken ten new novels at once, and was
certainly working at a terrific pace when a sudden halt was
called. He had joined the circle of a political agitator,
Petrachevski, and had been taking part in its rather harm-
less discussions on political economy, when the suspicions of
the police were aroused and he, with his brother and thirty
comrades, was arrested in April 1849, and thrown into
the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul in St. Petersburg,
where he wrote his story, “A Little Hero.” On December
22d, he and twenty-one others were conducted to the foot
of a scaffold in the Simonovsky Square, and told to pre-
pare for death. But before the sentence was executed, as
they stood in their shirts in the bitter December weather,
it was announced that their penalty was commuted to exile
in Siberia. On Christmas Eve he started on his journey,
and the next four years were spent among convicts in
a prison at Omsk. He has described his experiences there
in his “Memories of the House of the Dead” (1853)—
experiences which, though frightful in the extreme, seem to
have strengthened rather than injured him in body and

mind, though they may have embittered his temper. His

iii

Iv BIOGRAPHICAL NOTH |

imprisonment was followed by three years of compulsory
military service, during the last of which he became an
under-officer, and married a widow, Madame Isaiev. He
now resumed his literary career, publishing “The Injured
and the Insulted” in 1860. In 1862 he visited western
Europe, but seems to have made little use of his oppor-
tunities to study the civilization or national character of
other peoples. He was a confirmed gambler, and his con-
duct at times reduced his wife and himself to an almost
desperate situation. She died in 1863, and in the follow-
ing year he lost his brother Michael, who had shared with
him the management of a periodical. Left alone, he was
unable to conduct the business affairs connected with it,
and only the success of “Crime and Punishment” in 1866
rescued him from ruin. He had now reached the height
of his powers, and the novels written after this period
are generally regarded as showing an increasing lack of
the proportion and restraint which had never been his to
any great degree. The most important ot the later works
are “The Idiot” (1869), “The Possessed” (1873), “The
Adult” (1875), and “The Brothers Karamazov” (1881).
He married as his second wife, his stenographer, Anna
Grigorevna Svitkine, a girl who, though not highly educated,
was capable and devoted; and through her energy his last
years were passed in comfort and comparative prosperity.
He issued periodically “An Author’s Note-Book” to which
he contributed an amount of autobiographical matter, and
through this and other writings in magazines he exercised
a good deal of influence. He came finally to have a very
high position in the popular regard, and his death in
February, 1881, brought forth an expression of public
feeling such as St. Petersburg had seldom seen.

Though Dostoevsky did not regard himself as a martyr
in his Siberian exile, and, indeed, even seems to have
regarded the suffering of that time in the light of expia-
tion—though of what crime it is hard for a non-Russian
to see—he bore the marks of the experience through the
rest of his life. His face looked aged and sorrow-stricken,
and he became bitter, silent, and suspicious, He was sub-
ject to epilepsy, and had strange hallucinations. Probably

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE ¥

as a consequence of his long association with criminals,
he had an intense interest in abnormal and perverted types,
the psychology of which he analysed with an uncanny
subtlety. His books form a striking contrast to those of
Turgenev in point of art, for they are diffuse, often poorly
constructed and incoherent, and without charm of style.
But in spite of these limitations, his power of rousing
emotion, the grim intensity of his conceptions, and his
command of the sources of fear and pity make him a very
great writer.

“Crime and Punishment” is his acknowledged masterpiece,
and it displays some of his most characteristic ideas. Chief
among them is that of expiation. The crime of Raskolnikov
is not so much repented of as it is regarded as being
canceled by voluntary submission to Siberian exile. Sonia,
the pathetic girl of the streets through whom the hero
learns the lesson of purification, represents the humility and
devotion which are to Dostoevsky the saving virtues which
are one day to save Russia. The most striking feature of
the book to the Western reader, to whom the spiritual
teaching is apt to seem strange and at times even perverse,
is to be found in the analytical account of the states of
mind of the half-crazed criminal, who cannot keep away
from the very officials who were trying to get on his track,
and who cannot refrain from discussing the crime he is
trying to hide: As a study in morbid psychology, “Crime
and Punishment” is one of the most amazingly convincing
and terrifying books in all literature.

W. A. N.

CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS
I

By Emite MeEtcHior, VICOMTE DE VoGUE

Mot subject is very simple. A man conceives the idea
of committing a crime; he matures it, commits the
deed, defends himself for some time from being

arrested, and finally gives himself up to the expiation of it.

For once, this Russian artist has adopted the European

idea of unity of action; the drama, purely psychological, is

made up of the combat between the man and his own pro-
ject. The accessory characters and facts are of no conse-
quence, except in regard to this influence upon the
criminal’s plans. The first part, in which are described the
birth and growth of the criminal idea, is written with con-
summate skill and a truth and subtlety of analysis beyond
all praise. The student Raskolnikov, a nihilist in the true
sense of the word, intelligent, unprincipled, unscrupulous,
reduced to extreme poverty, dreams of a happier condition.

On returning home from going to pawn a jewel at an old

pawnbroker’s shop, this vague thought crosses his brain

without his attaching much importance to it:

“An intelligent man who had that old woman’s money
could accomplish anything he liked; it is only necessary to
get rid of the useless, hateful old hag.”

This was but one of those fleeting thoughts which cross
the brain like a nightmare, and which only assume a dis-
tinct form through the assent of the will. This idea
becomes fixed in the man’s brain, growing and increasing
on every page, until he is perfectly possessed by it. Every
hard experience of his outward life appears to him to
bear some relation to his project; and by a mysterious power
of reasoning, to work into his plan and urge him on to the
crime. The influence exercised upon this man is brought

vii

viii CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS

out into such distinct relief that it seems to us itself
like a living actor in the drama, guiding the criminal’s
hand to the murderous weapon. The horrible deed is
accomplished; and the unfortunate man wrestles with the
recollection of it as he did with the original design. The
relations of the world to the murderer are all changed,
through the irreparable fact of his having suppressed a
human life. Everything takes on a new physiognomy, and
a new meaning to him, excluding from him the possibility #
of feeling and reasoning like other people, or of finding
his own place in life. His whole soul is metamorphosed
and in constant discord with the life around him. This
is not remorse in the true sense of the word. Dostoevsky
exerts himself to distinguish and explain the difference. His
hero will feel no remorse until the day of expiation; but
it is a complex and perverse feeling which possesses him;
the vexation at having derived no satisfaction from an
act so successfully carried out; the revolting against the
unexpected moral consequences of that act; the shame of
finding himself so weak and helpless; for the foundation

/ of Raskolnikov’s character is pride. Only one single

interest in life is left to him: to deceive and elude the
police. He seeks their company, their friendship, by an
attraction analogous to that which draws us to the extreme
edge of a dizzy precipice; the murderer keeps up intermi-
nable interviews with his friends at the police office, and
even leads on the conversation to that point, when a single
word would betray him; every moment we fear he will
utter the word; but he escapes and continues the terrible
game as if it were a pleasure.

The magistrate Porphyre has guessed the student’s secret;
he plays with him like a tiger with its prey, sure of his
game. Then Raskolnikov knows he is discovered; and
through several chapters a long fantastic dialogue is kept
up between the two adversaries; a double dialogue, that of
the lips, which smile and wilfully ignore; and that of the
eyes which know and betray all. At last when the author
has tortured us sufficiently in this way, he introduces the
salutary influence which is to break down the culprit’s pride
and reconcile him to the expiation of his crime. Raskolnikov

CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS ix

loves a poor street-walker. The author’s clairvoyance
divines that even the sentiment of love was destined in
him to be modified like every other, to be changed into
a dull despair.

Sonia is a humble creature, who has sold herself to
escape starvation, and is almost unconscious of her dis-
honor, enduring it as a malady she cannot prevent. She
wears her ignominy as a cross, with pious resignation. She
is attached to the only man who has not treated her with
contempt; she sees that he is tortured by some secret, and
tries to draw it from him. After a long struggle the
avowal is made, but not in words. In a mute interview
which is tragic in the extreme, Sonia reads the terrible
truth in her friend’s eyes. The poor girl is stunned for a
moment, but recovers herself quickly. She knows the
remedy; her stricken heart cries out:

“We must suffer, and suffer together; . . . we must pray
and atone; ... let us go to prison! .. .”

Thus are we led back to Dostoevsky’s favorite idea, to
the Russian’s fundamental conception of Christianity: the
efficacy of atonement, of suffering, and its being the only
solution of all difficulties.

To express the singular relations between these two
beings, that solemn pathetic bond, so foreign to every
preconceived idea of love, we should make use of the
word compassion in the sense in which Bossuet used it:
the suffering with and through another being. When
Raskolnikov falls at the feet of the girl who supports her
parents by her shame, she, the despised of all, is terrified
at his self-abasement, and begs him to rise. He then
utters a phrase which expresses the combination of all the
books we are studying: “It is not only before thee that I
prostrate myself, but before all suffering humanity.” Let
us here observe that our author has never yet once
succeeded in representing love in any form apart from these
subtleties, or the simple natural attraction of two hearts
toward each other. He portrays only extreme cases;
either that mystic state of sympathy and self-sacrifice for
a distressed fellow-creature, of utter devotion, apart from
any selfish desire; or the mad, bestial cruelty of a perverted

ee nee

x CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS

nature. The lovers he represents are not made of flesh
and blood, but of nerves and tears. Yet this realist evokes
only harrowing thoughts, never disagreeable images. I
defy any one to quote a single line suggestive of anything
sensual, or a single instance where the woman is represented
in the light of a temptress. His love scenes are absolutely
chaste, and yet he seems to be incapable of portraying
any creation between an angel and a_ beast.—From
“Dostoevsky” in “The Russian Novelists,” translated by |
J. L. Edmands (1887). :

Il
By Kazimierz WALISZEWSKI

ASKOLNIKOV, the student who claims the right to
murder and steal by virtue of his ill-applied scientific
theories, is not a figure the invention of which can

be claimed by the Russian novelist. It is probable that
before or after reading the works of Victor Hugo,
Dostoevsky had perused those of Bulwer Lytton. Eugene
Aram, the English novelist’s hero, is a criminal of a very
different order, and of a superior species. When he commits
his crime, he not only thinks, like Raskolnikov, of a rapid
means of attaining fortune, but also, and more nobly, of a
great and solemn sacrifice to science, of which he feels
himself to be the high priest. Like Raskolnikov, he draws
no benefit from his booty. Like him, too, he hides it, and
like him, he is pursued, not by remorse, but by regret—
haunted by the painful thought that men now have the
advantage over him, and that he no longer stands above
their curiosity and their spite—tortured by his conscious-
ness of the total change in his relations with the world.
In both cases, the subject and the story, save for the
voluntary expiation at the close, appear identical in their
essential lines. This feature stands apart. Yet, properly
speaking, it does not belong to Dostoevsky. In Turgenev’s
“The Tavern” (Postoialyi Dvor), the peasant Akime,
whom his wife has driven into crime, punishes himself by
going out to beg, in all gentleness and humble submission.

CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS xi

Some students, indeed, have chosen to transform both sub-
ject and character, and have looked on Raskolnikov as a
political criminal, disguised after the same fashion as
Dostoevsky himself may have been, in his “Memories of
the House of the Dead.” But this version appears to me
to arise out of another error. A few days before the book
appeared, a crime almost identical with that related in it,
and committed under the apparent influence of Nihilist
teaching, though without any mixture of the political ele-
ment, took place at St. Petersburg. These doctrines, as
personified by Turgenev in Bazarov, are, in fact, general
in their scope. They contain the germs of every order
of criminal attempt, whether public or private; and
Dostoevsky’s great merit lies in the fact that he has dem-
onstrated the likelihood that the development of this germ
in one solitary intelligence may foster a social malady. In
the domain of social psychology and pathology, the great
novelist owes nothing to anybody; and his powers in this
direction suffice to compensate for such imperfections as
I shall have to indicate in his work.

The “first cause” in this book, psychologically speaking,
is that individualism which the Slavophil School has
chosen to erect into a principle of the national life—an
unbounded selfishness, in other words, which, when crossed
by circumstances, takes refuge in violent and monstrous
reaction. And indeed, Raskolnikov, like Bazarov, is so full
of contradictions, some of them grossly improbable, that
one is almost driven to inquire whether the author has
not intended to depict a condition of madness. We see this
selfish being spending his last coins to bury Marmeladov,
a drunkard picked up in the street, whom he had seen for
the first time in his life only a few hours previously.
From this point of view Eugene Aram has more psycho-
logical consistency, and a great deal more moral dignity.
Raskolnikov is nothing but a poor half-crazed creature, soft
in temperament, confused in intellect, who carries about
a big idea in a head that is too small to hold it: He
becomes aware of this after he has committed his crime,
when he is haunted by hallucinations and wild terrors, which
convince him that his pretension to rank as a man of power

xii CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS

was nothing but a dream. Then the ruling idea which
has lured him to murder and to theft gives place to
another—that of confessing his crime. And even here his
courage and frankness fail him; he cannot run a straight
course, and, after wandering round and round the police
station, he carries his confession to Sonia.

This figure of Sonia is a very ordinary Russian type,
and strangely chosen for the purpose of teaching Raskol-
nikov the virtue of expiation. She is a woman of the town,
chaste in mind though not in deed, and is redeemed by
one really original feature, her absolute humility. It may
be inquired whether this element of moral redemption, in
so far as it differs from those which so constantly occur
to the imagination of the author of “Manon Lescaut,’ and
to that of all Dostoevsky’s literary forerunners, is more
truthful than the rest, and whether it must not be admitted
that certain moral, like certain physical conditions, necessarily
result in an organic and quite incurable deformation of
character. Sonia is like an angel who rolls in the gutter
every night and whitens her wings each morning by
perusing the Holy Gospels. We may just as well fancy that
a coal-heaver could straighten the back bowed by the
weight of countless sacks of charcoal by practising Swedish
gymnastics !

The author’s power of evocation, and his gift for analys-
ing feeling, and the impressions which produce it, are very
great, and the effects of terror and compassion he obtains
cannot be denied. Yet, whether from the artistic or from
the scientific point of view (since some of his admirers
insist on this last), his method is open to numerous objec-
tions. It consists in reproducing, or very nearly, the con-
ditions of ordinary life whereby we gain acquaintance with
a particular character. Therefore, without taking the
trouble of telling us who Raskolnikov is, and in what his
qualities consist, the story relates a thousand little incidents
out of which the personal individuality of the hero is
gradually evolved. And as these incidents do not neces-
sarily present themselves, in real life, in any logical sequence,
beginning with the most instructive of the series, the
novelist does not attempt to follow any such course. As

CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS xiii

early as on the second page of the book, we learn that
Raskolnikov is making up his mind to murder an old
woman who lends out money, and it is only at the close
of the volume that we become aware of the additional fact
that he has published a review article, in which he has
endeavoured to set forth a theory justifying this hideous
design.—From “A History of Russian Literature” (1900).

III

f bee novels of Dostoevsky may seem to discover a

very strange world to us, in which people talk

and act like no one that we have ever met. Yet we
do not read them because we want to hear about these
strange Russian people, so unlike ourselves. Rather we
read them because they remind us of what we had for-
gotten about ourselves, as a scent may suddenly remind
us of some place or scene not remembered since childhood.
And as we have no doubt about the truth of the memories
recalled by a scent, so we have none about Dostoevsky’s
truth.

It is strange, like those memories of childhood, but
only because it has been so long sleeping in our minds.
He has no need to prove it, and he never tries to do so;
he only presents it for our recognition; and we recognize
it at once, however contrary it may be to all that we are
accustomed to believe about ourselves.

The strangeness of Dostoevsky’s novels lies in his method,
which is unlike that of other novelists because his interest
is different from theirs. The novel of pure plot is all con-
cerned with success or failure. The hero has some definite
task to perform, and we read to discover whether he suc-
ceeds in performing it. But even in novels where
character is more considered it is still the interest of failure
and success which usually makes the plot. The hero, for
instance, falls in love and the plot forms round this love
interest; or he is married, and there is a suspense about
his happiness or unhappiness. But in the greatest of
Dostoevsky’s books, such as “The Brothers Karamazov” or

xiv CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS

“The Idiot,” the interest is not even in the happiness or
unhappiness of the hero; for to Dostoevsky happiness and
unhappiness seem to be external things, and he is not con-
cerned even with this kind of failure or success. He has
such a firm belief in the existence of the soul, and with
it a faith so strong in the order of the universe, that he
applies no final tests whatever to his life. Plot with most
novelists is an effort to make life seem more conclusive
than it really is; and that is one of the reasons why we_
like a firm plot in a novel. With its tests and judgments
and results it produces an illusion of certainty agreeable to
our weakness of faith. But Dostoevsky needs no illusion
of certainty, and gives none. He had a faith independent
of happiness and even of the state of his own soul. Life
indeed had poured unhappiness upon him, so that he knew
the worst of it from his own experience; yet we can tell
from his books that he knew also a peace of thought com-
pared with which all his own miseries were unreal to him.
In that he differs from Tolstoy, who saw this peace of
thought in the distance and could not reach it. Tolstoy.
therefore conceived of life as an inevitable discord between
will and conviction, and tried to impose the impossible on
mankind as he tried to impose it upon himself, judging them
with the severity of his’ self-judgments. His books are
full of his own pursuit of certainty and his own half-
failure and half-success. He still makes happiness the
test, even though he feels that the noblest of men cannot
attain to it; for his own happiness was caused by the con-
flict in his mind between will and conviction. But in
Dostoevsky this conflict had ceased. He was not happy,
but he was not torn by the desire for happiness; nor
did he test his own soul or the souls of others by their
happiness or unhappiness. His faith in the soul was so great
that he saw it independent of circumstance, and almost inde-
pendent of its own manifestation in action. For in these
manifestations there is always the alloy of circumstance, or
the passions of the flesh, or of good or evil fortune; and he
tried to see the soul free of this. He did not judge men by
their diversities which outward things seemed to impose on
them. For him the soul itself was more real than all these

CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS xv

diversities, and they only interested him for their power
of revealing or obscuring it. Therefore his object in his
novels is to reveal the soul, not to pass any judgments upon
men, nor to tell us how they fare in this world; and this
object makes his peculiar method. He does not try to show
us souls free from their bodies or free from circumstance,
for to do that would be contrary to his own experience and
his own faith. Rather he shows them tormented and mis-
translated, even to themselves, but in such a way that we
see the reality beyond the torments and the mistranslations.
His characters drift together and fall into long wayward
conversations that have nothing to do with any events in
the book. They quarrel about nothing; they have no sense
of shame; they behave intolerably, so that we know that
we should hate them in real life. But, as we read, we do
not hate them, for we recognize ourselves—not indeed in
their words and behavior, but in what they reveal through
them. They have an extraordinary frankness which may be
in the Russian character but which is also part of
Dostoevsky’s method, for the characters of other Russian
novelists are not so frank as his. He makes them talk and
act so as to reveal themselves, and for no other purpose
whatever. And yet they always reveal themselves uncon-
sciously, and their frankness, though surprising, is not
incredible.

But we, accustomed to novels concerned with failure
and success, with plots formed upon that concern, are
bewildered by Dostoevsky’s method; and even he is a little
bewildered by it. He never quite learned how to tell his
own kind of story—a story in which all outward events
are subordinate to the changes and manifestations of the
soul. Even in “The Brothers Karamazov” there is a plot,
made out of the murder of old Karamazov, which seems
to be imposed upon the real interest of the book as the
unintelligible plot of “Little Dorrit” is imposed upon the
real interest of that masterpiece. And in “The Idiot” events
are so causeless and have so little effect that we cannot
remember them. The best plan is not to try to remember
them, for they matter very little. The book is about the
souls of men and women, and where the construction is

xvi CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS

clumsy it is only because Dostoevsky is impatient to tell
us what he has to tell.

Those who believe that the soul is only an illusion—
and there are many who believe this without knowing it
—will be surprised to find how much truth Dostoevsky has
discovered through his error. Whether his faith was right
or wrong, it certainly served him well as a novelist, and
so did his experience. No modern writer has been so well
acquainted with evil and misery as he was. Other novelists
write about them as moving exceptions in life; he wrote
about them, because in his experience they were the rule.
Other novelists have a quarrel with life or with society,
or with particular institutions; but he has no quarrel with
anything. There is neither hatred in him, nor righteous
indignation, nor despair. He had suffered from govern-
ment as much as any man in the world, yet he never saw
it as a hideous abstraction, and its crimes and errors
were for him only the crimes and errors of men like
himself.

We hate men when they seem no longer men to us, when
we see nothing in them but tendencies which we abhor;
and a novelist who expresses his hatred of tendencies in
his characters deprives them of life and makes them unin-
teresting to all except those who share his hatred. Even
Tolstoy makes some of his characters lifeless through
hatred; but Dostoevsky hates no one, for behind every
tendency he looks for the soul, and the tendency only
interests him because of the soul that is concealed or
betrayed by it. Thus his wicked people, and they abound,
are never introduced into his books either to gratify his
hatred of them or to make a plot with their wickedness.
He is as much concerned with their souls as with the
souls of his saints, Alyosha and Prince Myshkin. Iago
seems to be drawn from life, but only from external
observation. We never feel that Shakespeare has been
Iago himself, or has deduced him from possibilities in him-
self. But Dostoevsky’s worst characters are like Hamlet.
He knows things about them that he could only know about
himself, and they live through his sympathy, not merely
through his observation. He makes no division of men into

CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS xVii

sheep and goats—not even that subtle division, common
in the best novels, by which the sheep are more real than
the goats. For him all men have more likeness to each
other than unlikeness, for they all have souls; and because
he is always aware of the soul in them he has a Christian
sense of their equality. It is not merely rich and poor or
clever or stupid that are equal to him, but even good and
bad. He treats the drunkard Lebedyev with respect and,
though his books contain other characters as absurd as any
in Dickens, he does not introduce them, like Dickens, to
make fun of them, but only because he is interested in
the manner in which their absurdities mistranslate them.
Nor is the soul made different for him by sex, for that
is only a difference of the body; and so he does not insist
on femininity in his women. He knows women, but he
knows them as human beings like men; and he is interested
in sexual facts not as they affect his own passions but
as they affect the soul. He, like his hero, Myshkin, was
an epileptic, and what he tells us of Myshkin’s attitude
towards women may have been true of himself. But if
that is so, his own lack of appetite, like the deafness of
Beethoven, made his art more profound and spiritual. He
makes no appeal to the passions of his readers, as Beethoven
in his later works makes none to the mere sense of sound.

Indeed, he was an artist purified by suffering as saints
are purified by it; for through it he attained to that com-
plete disinterestedness which is as necessary to the artist
as to the saint. Whenever a man sees people and things
in relation only to his own personal wants and appetites
he cannot use them as subject matter for art. Dostoevsky
learnt to free everything and everybody from this relation
more completely, perhaps, than any writer known to us.
Not even vanity or fear, nor any theory begotten of them,
perverted his view of human life. In his art at any rate
he achieved that complete liberation which is aimed at by
the wisdom of the East; and his heroes exhibit that libera-
tion in their conduct. Myshkin would be a man of no
account in our world, but Christ might have chosen him
for one of His Apostles. Any Western novelist, drawing
such a character, would have made him unreal by insisting

xviii CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS

upon his goodness and by displaying it only in external ©
actions, as saints in most European pictures are to be
recognized only by a halo and a look of silly sanctity. We
fail with such characters because we should not recognize
them if we met them in real life, and because we do not
even want to be like them ourselves. They represent an
ideal imposed on us long ago from the East, and now only
faintly and conventionally remembered. We test every-
body by some kind of success in this life, even if it be
only the success of a just self-satisfaction. But Myshkin
has not even that. He is unconscious of his own goodness,
and even of the badness of other men. People who meet
him are impatient with him and call him “the idiot,”
because he seems to be purposeless and defenceless. But
we do not feel that the novelist has afflicted them with
incredible blindness, for we know, as we read, that we too
should call Myshkin an idiot if we met him. Indeed, his
understanding has never been trained by competition or
defence; but that is the reason why now and then it sur-
prises every one by its profundity. For he understands
men’s minds just because, like Dostoevsky himself, he does
not see them in relation to his own wants, and because his
disinterestedness makes them put off all disguise before
them.

“Dear Prince,” some one says to him, “it’s not easy to
reach Paradise on earth; but you reckon on finding it.
Paradise is a difficult matter, Prince—much more difficult
than it seems to your good heart.” But Myshkin’s heart is
not good because it cherishes illusions. He does not expect
to find Paradise on earth, and he does not like people
because he thinks them better than they are. Seeing very
clearly what they are, he likes even the worst of them in
spite of it; and to read Dostoevsky’s books throws us for
the time into Myshkin’s state of mind. When we are con-
fronted with some fearful wickedness, even when we read
about it in the newspapers, it shakes our faith in life and
makes it seem like a nightmare in which ordinary com-
fortable reality has suddenly turned into an inexplicable
horror. But in Dostoevsky’s books the horror of the night-
mare suddenly turns to a happy familiar beauty. He shows

CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS xix

us wickedness worse than any we had ever imagined,
wickedness which if we met with it in real life, would
make us believe in human monsters without souls; and
then, like a melody rising through the discord of madness,
be shows us the soul, just like our own behind that wicked-
ness. And we believe in the one as we have believed in
the other; for we feel that a man is telling us about life
who has ceased to fear it, and that his faith, tested by all
the suffering which he reveals in his books, is something
more to be trusted than our own experience.—From the
London “Times” (1913).

IV
By Maurice BAarInGc

N 1866 came “Crime and Punishment,” which brought
: Dostoevsky fame. This book, Dostoevsky’s “Macbeth,”

is so well known in the French and English transla-
tions that it hardly needs any comment. Dostoevsky never
wrote anything more tremendous than the portrayal of
the anguish that seethes in the soul of Raskolnikov, after
he has killed the old woman, “mechanically forced,” as
Professor Briickner says, “into performing the act, as if
he had gone too near machinery in motion, had been caught
by a bit of his clothing and cut to pieces.” And not only
is one held spellbound by every shifting hope, fear, and
doubt, and each new pang that Raskolnikov experiences,
but the souls of all the subsidiary characters in the book
are revealed to us just as clearly; the Marmeladov family,
the honest Razumihin, the police inspector, and the atmos-
phere of the submerged tenth in St. Petersburg—the
steaming smell of the city in the summer. There is an
episode when Raskolnikov kneels before Sonia, the prosti-
tute, and says to her: “It is not before you I am kneeling,
but before ail the suffering of mankind.” That is what
Dostoevsky does himself in this and in all his books; but
in none of them is the suffering of all mankind conjured
up before us in more living colours, and in none of them
is his act of homage in kneeling before it more impressive,
—From “An Outline of Russian Literature” (1914).

LIST OF CHARACTERS

Ropion RomaAnovitcu RASKOLNIKov, a student.
PuLCHERIA ALEXANDROVNA, his mother.
AvpotyA RoMANovna (Dovunta), his sister.
Deitri ProxoritcH Razuminin, his friend.
Praskovya Paviovna, his landlady.

Nastasya Perrovna, her maid-servant.

Atyona IvANovna, an old woman, a pawnbroker.
LizaveTa, her half-sister.

SEMYON ZAHAROVITCH MARMELADOV, a drunken clerk.

KATERINA Ivanovna, his wife.

Her three little children.

Sonta SEMyonovna, Marmeladov’s daughter.

AMALIA IvANovNna LIPPEVECHSEL, his landlady.

AnpDREY SEMYONOVITCH LEBEZIATNIKOV, an advanced young mai.
Pyotr PretrovitcH LuzuHIn, suitor for Dounia.
ARKADY IvANOVITCH SvIDRIGAILOV, a landowner.
Marra Petrovna, his wife.

Nixopim FomitTcu, superintendent of the district,

of the St.
ZAMETOV, head clerk,
' Petersburg
Inya PetrovitcHu, assistant clerk, 4
: police.
PorFiry PEtTROvITCH, detective, ]

ZOSSIMOV, a young physician.

XXI

fae

i.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

A NOVEL IN SIX PARTS AND
AN EPILOGUE

PART I

CHAPTER I

man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S.
Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, to-
wards K. bridge.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the
staircase. His garret was under the roof of a high, five-
storied house, and was more like a cupboard than a room.
The landlady, who provided him with garret, dinners, and
attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time he went
out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which
invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young
man had a sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl
and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his land-
lady, and was afraid of meeting her.

This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite
the contrary; but for some time past he had been in an over-
strained, irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He
had become so completely absorbed in himself, and isolated
from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his land-
lady, but any one at all. He was crushed by poverty, but
the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon
him. He had given up attending to matters of practical im-
portance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing that any
landlady could do had a real terror for him. But to be
stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial,

1

(): an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young

2 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats
and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to pre-
varicate, to lie—no, rather than that, he would creep down
the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.

This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he
became acutely aware of his fears.

“T want to attempt a thing like that and am frightened by
these trifles,’” he thought, with an odd smile. “Hm...
yes, all is in a man’s hands and he lets it all slip from coward-
ice, that’s an axiom. It would be interesting to know what
it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a
new word is what they fear most. ... But I am talking too
much. It’s because I chatter that I do nothing. Or per-
haps it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I’ve learned
to chatter this last month, lying for days together in my den
thinking ...of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going
there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is
not serious at all. It’s simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a
plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything.”

The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the
bustle and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about
him, and that special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all
who are unable to get out of town in summer—all worked
painfully upon the young man’s already overwrought nerves.
The insufferable stench from the pot-houses, which are par-
ticularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken
men whom he met continually, although it was a working
day, completed the revolting misery of the picture, An
expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment
in the young man’s refined face. He was, by the way, ex-
ceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim,
well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair.
Soon he sank into deep thought, or more accurately speak-
ing into a complete blankness of mind; he walked along not
observing what was about him and not caring to observe it.
From time to time, he would mutter something, from the
habit of talking to himself, to which he had just confessed,
At these moments he would become conscious that his ideas
were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for
two days he had scarcely tasted food.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 3

He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to
shabbiness would have been ashamed to be seen in the street
in such rags. In that quarter of the town, however, scarcely
any short-coming in dress would have created surprise.
Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number of
establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the
trading and working class population crowded in these streets
and alleys in the heart of Petersburg, types so various were
to be seen in the streets that no figure, however queer, would
have caused surprise. But there was such accumulated bit-
terness and contempt in the young man’s heart that, in spite
of all the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least of
all in the street. It was a different matter when he met with
acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed,
he disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken
man who, for some unknown reason, was being taken some-
where in a huge wagon dragged by a heavy dray horse, sud-
denly shouted at him as he drove past: “Hey there, German
hatter!” bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at him==»
the young man stopped suddenly and clutched tremulously at
his hat. It was a tall round hat from Zimmerman’s, but
completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespattered,
brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion.
Not shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror
had overtaken him.

“I knew it,’ he muttered in confusion, “I thought so!
That’s the worst of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the
most trivial detail might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat
is too noticeable. ...It looks absurd and that makes it
noticeable... . With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any
sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody
wears such a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be
remembered. . . . What matters is that people would remem-
ber it, and that would give them a clue. For this business
one should be as little conspicuous as possible. . . . Trifles,
trifles are what matter! Why, it’s just such trifles that
always ruin everything. .. .”

He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it
was from the gate of his lodging house: exactly seven hun-
dred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had

4, FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in
those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their
hideous but daring recklessness. Now, .a month later, he had
begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the
monologues in which he jeered at his own impotence and
indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard this “hideous”
dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he still did
not realise this himself. He was positively going now for a
“rehearsal” of his project, and at every step his excitement
grew miore and more violent.

With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to
a huge house which on one side looked on to the canal, and
on the other into the street. This house was let out in tiny
tenements and was inhabited by working people of all
kinds—tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of sorts, girls
picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, &c.
There was a continual coming and going through the two
gates and in the two courtyards of the house. Three or four
door-keepers were employed on the building. The young
man was very glad to meet none of them, and at once slipped
unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the staircase.
It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was
familiar with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all
these surroundings: in such darkness even the most inquisi-
tive eyes were not to be dreaded.

“Tf I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow
came to pass that I were really going to do it?” he could not
help asking himself as he reached the fourth storey. There
his progress was barred by-some porters who were engaged
in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that the flat
had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service,
and his family. This German was moving out then, and so
the fourth floor on this staircase would be untenanted except
by the old woman. “That's a good thing anyway,” he
thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman’s
flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as though it were made of
tin and not of copper. The little flats in such houses always
have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten the
note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind
him of something and to bring it clearly before him. ...

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 5

He started, his nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In
a little while, the door was opened a tiny crack: the old
woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust through the
crack, and nothing could be seen but her little eyes, glittering
in the darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the land-
ing, she grew bolder, and opened the door wide. The young
man stepped into the dark entry, which was partitioned off
from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in
silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminu:
tive, withered up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant
eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat
grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no
kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked
like a hen’s leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in
spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a
mangy fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed
and groaned at every instant. The young man must have
looked at her with a rather peculiar expression, for a gleam
of mistrust came into her eyes again.

“Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago,” the
young man made haste to mutter, with a half bow, remem-
bering that he ought to be more polite.

“I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your
coming here,’ the old woman said distinctly, still keeping
her inquiring eyes on his face.

“And here ... I am again on the same errand,” Raskolni-
kov continued, a little disconcerted and surprised at the old
woman’s mistrust. “Perhaps she is always like that though,
only I did not notice it the other time,” he thought with an
uneasy feeling.

The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped
on one side, and pointing to the door of the room, she said,
letting her visitor pass in front of her:

“Step in, my good sir.”

The little room into which the young man walked, with
yellow paper on the walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in
the windows, was brightly lighted up at that moment by the
setting sun.

“So the sun will shine like this then too!” flashed as it
were by chance through Raskolnikov’s mind, and with a

6 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

rapid glance he scanned everything in the room, trying as
far as possible to notice and remember its arrangement.
But there was nothing special in the room. The furniture,
all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a
huge bent wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a
dressing-table with a looking-glass fixed on it between the
windows, chairs along the walls and two or three half-penny
prints in yellow frames, representing German damsels with
birds in their hands—that was all. In the corner a light was
burning before a small ikon. Everything was very clean;
the floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything
shone.

“Lizaveta’s work,” thought the young man. There was not
a speck of dust to be seen in the whole flat.

“It’s in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds
such cleanliness,” Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a
curious glance at the cotton curtain over the door leading
into another tiny room, in which stood the old woman’s bed
and chest of drawers and into which he had never looked
before. These two rooms made up the whole flat.

“What do you want?” the old woman said severely, coming
into the room and, as before, standing in front of him so as
to look him straight in the face.

“I’ve brought something to pawn here,” and he drew out
of his pocket an old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back
of which was engraved a globe; the chain was of steel.

“But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was
up the day before yesterday.”

“I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a
little.”

“But that’s for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait
or to sell your pledge at once.”

“How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Iva-
novna ?”

“You come with such trifles, my good sir, it’s scarcely
worth anything. I gave you two roubles last time for your
ring and one could buy it quite new at a jeweller’s for a
rouble and a half.”

“Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my
father’s. I shall be getting some money soon.”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT x |

“A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!”

“A rouble and a half!” cried the young man.

“Please yourself”—and the old woman handed him back
the watch. The young man took it, and was so angry that
he was on the point of going away; but checked himself at
once, remembering that there was nowhere else he could go,
and that he had had another object also in coming,

“Hand it over,’ he said roughly.

The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and
disappeared behind the curtain into the other room. The
young man, left standing alone in the middle of the room,
listened inquisitively, thinking. He could hear her unlocking
the chest of drawers.

“It must be the top drawer,” he reflected. “So she carried
the keys in a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a
steel ring. ... And there’s one key there, three times as
big as all the others, with deep notches; that can’t be the
key of the chest of drawers ... then there must be some
other chest or strong box... that’s worth knowing.
Strong-boxes always have keys like that... but how de-
grading it all is.”

The old woman came back.

“Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so
I must take fifteen copecks from a rouble and a half for the
month in advance. But for the two roubles I lent you before
you owe me now twenty copecks on the same reckoning in
advance. That makes thirty-five copecks altogether. So I
must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the watch.
Here it is.”

“What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!”

“Just so.”

The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He
looked at the old woman, and was in no hurry to get away,
as though there was still something he wanted to say or to
do, but he did not himself quite know what.

“I may be bringing you something else in a day or two,
Alyona Ivanovna—a valuable thing—silver—a cigarette box,
as soon as I get it back from a friend . . .” he broke off in
confusion. |

“Well, we will talk about it then, sir.”

8 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Good-bye—are you always at home alone, your sister is
not here with you?” He asked her as casually as possible as
he went out into the passage.

“What business is she of yours, my good sir?”

“Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too
quick. . . . Good-day, Alyona Ivanovna.”

Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This con-
fusion became more and more intense. As he went down
the stairs, he even stopped short, two or three times, as
though suddenly struck by some thought. When he was in
the street he cried out, “Oh, God, how loathsome it all is!
and can I, can I possibly. ... No, it’s nonsense, it’s rub-
bish!”’ he added resolutely. “And how could such an atro-
cious thing come into my head? What filthy things my
heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loath-
some, loathsome !—and for a whole month I’ve been... .”
But no words, no exciamations, could express his agitation.
The feeling of intense repulsion, which had begun to oppress
and torture his heart while he was on his way to see the old
woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such
a definite form that he did not know what to do with him-
self to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the
pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the passers-by,
and jostling against them, and only came to his senses when
he was in the next street. Looking round, he noticed that he
was standing close to a tavern which was entered by steps
leading from the pavement to the basement. At that instant
two drunken men came out at the door, and abusing and
supporting one another, they mounted the steps. Without
stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once.
Till that moment he had never been into a tavern, but now he
felt giddy and was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed
for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his sudden weakness
to the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little table in a
dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly
drank off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his
thoughts became clear.

“All that’s nonsense,” he said hopefully, “and there is noth-
ing in it all to worry about! It’s simply physical derange-
ment. Just a glass of beer, a piece of dry bread—and in

I—R

ine i

a ae

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 9

one moment the brain is stronger, the mind is clearer and the
will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!’

But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now look-
ing cheerful as though he were suddenly set free from a ter-
rible burden: and he gazed round in a friendly way at the
people in the room. But even at that moment he had a dim
foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also not
normal.

There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides
the two drunken men he had met on the steps, a group con-
sisting of about five men and a girl with a concertina had
gone out at the same time. Their departure left the room
quiet and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern were
a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not ex-
tremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion,
a huge, stout man with a grey beard, in a short full-skirted
coat. He was very drunk: and had dropped asleep on the
bench; every now and then, he began as though in his sleep,
cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper
part of his body bounding about on the bench, while he
hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to recall some
such lines as these:

“His wife a year he fondly loved
His wife a—a year he—fondly loved.”

Or suddenly waking up again:

“Walking along the crowded row
He met the one he used to know.”

But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion
looked with positive hostility and mistrust at all these mani-
festations. There was another man in the room who looked
somewhat like a retired government clerk. He was sitting
apart, now and then sipping from his pot and looking round
at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some agitation,

CHAPTER II

ASKOLNIKOV was not used to crowds, and, as we
said before, he avoided society of every sort, more
especially of late. But now all at once he felt a desire

to be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking
place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for com-
pany. He was so weary after a whole month of concentrated
wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he longed to rest,
if only for a moment, in some other world, whatever it might
be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the surroundings, he was
glad now to stay in the tavern.

The master of the establishment was in another room, but
he frequently came down some steps into the main room,
his jaunty, tarred boots with red turn-over tops coming into
view each time before the rest of his person. He wore a full
coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no
cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an
iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and
there was another boy somewhat younger who handed what-
ever was wanted. On the counter lay some sliced cucumber,
some pieces of dried black bread, and some fish, chopped up
small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close, and so
heavy with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such an
atmosphere might well make a man drunk.

There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us
from the first moment, before a word is spoken. Such was
the impression made on Raskolnikov by the person sitting a
little distance from him, who looked like a retired clerk. The
young man often recalled his impression afterwards, and
even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked repeatedly at
the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring per-
sistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation.
At the other persons in the room, including the tavern-keeper,
the clerk looked as though he were used to their company,
and weary of it, showing a shade of condescending contempt

10

LEP BE GPM T OA ie ONE A, NA OE

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT il

for them as persons of station and culture inferior to his own,
with whom it would be useless for him to converse. He was
a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height, and
stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was
of a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids, out of
which keen, reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there
was something very strange in him; there was a light in his
eyes as though of intense feeling—perhaps there were even
thought and intelligence, but at the same time there was a
gleam of something like madness. He was wearing an old
and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons
missing except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently
clinging to this last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt
front, covered with spots and stains, protruded from his can-
vas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor mous-
tache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin looked
like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respect-
able and like an official about his manner too. But he was
restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to time let
his head drop into his hands dejectedly resting his ragged
elbows on the stained and sticky table. At last he looked
straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely:

“May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite con-
versation? Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not
command respect, my experience admonishes me that you are
a man of education and not accustomed to drinking. I have
always respected education when in conjunction with gen-
uine sentiments, and I am besides a titular counsellor in rank.
Marmeladov—such is my name; titular counsellor. I make
bold to inquire—have you been in the service?”

“No, I am studying,” answered the young man, somewhat
surprised at the grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at
being so directly addressed. In spite of the momentary de-
sire he had just been feeling for company of any sort, on
being actually spoken to he felt immediately his habitual irri-
table and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached
or attempted to approach him.

“A student then, or formerly a student,” cried the clerk.
“Just what I thought! I’m a man of experience, immense
experience, sir,” and he tapped his forehead with his fingers

12 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

in self-approval. “You’ve been a student or have attended
some learned institution! ... But allow me—”’ He got
up, staggered, took up his jug and his glass, and sat down
beside the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was
drunk, but spoke fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing
the thread of his sentences and drawling his words. He
pounced upon Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too
had not spoken to a soul for a month,

“Honoured sir,’ he began almost with solemnity, “povert
is not a vice, that’s a true saying. Yet I know too Hat
drunkenness is not a virtue, and that that’s even truer. But
beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a vice. In poverty you
may still retain your innate nobility of soul, but in beggary—
never—no one. For beggary a man is not chased out of hu-
man society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so
as to make it as humiliating as possible; and quite right too,
forasmuch as in beggary I am ready to be the first to hu-
miliate myself. Hence the pot house! Honoured sir, a
month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and
my wife is a very different matter from me! Do you un-
derstand? Allow me to ask you another question out of
simple curiosity: have you ever spent a night on a hay
barge, on the Neva?”

“No, I have not happened to,’ answered Raskolnikov.
“What do you mean?”

“Well I’ve just come from one and it’s the fifth night I’ve
slept so—’ He filled his glass, emptied it and paused.
Bits of hay were in fact clinging to his clothes and sticking
to his hair. It seemed quite probable that he had not un-
dressed or washed for the last five days. His hands, par-
ticularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black
nails.

His conversation seemed to excite a general though lan-
guid interest. The boys at the counter fell to sniggering.
The innkeeper came down from the upper room, apparently
on purpose to listen to the “funny fellow” and sat down at
a little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity. Evidently
Marmeladov was a familiar figure here and he had most
likely acquired his weakness for high-flown speeches from
the habit of frequently entering into conversation with

be A pe Re tetany IO

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 13

strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit develops
into a necessity in some drunkards, and especially in those
who are looked after sharply and kept in order at home.
Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify
themselves and even if possible obtain consideration.

“Funny fellow!” pronounced the innkeeper. “And why
don’t you work, why aren’t you at your duty, if you are in
the service ?”

“Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir,” Marmeladov
went on, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as
though it had been he who put that question to him. “Why
am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache to think
what a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr. Le-
beziatnikov beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay drunk,
didn’t I suffer? Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened
to you... hm... well, to petition hopelessly for a loan?”

“Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly ?”

“Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know before-
hand that you will get nothing by it. You know, for in-
stance, beforehand with positive certainty that this man, this
most reputable and exemplary citizen will on no considera-
tion give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he?
For he knows of course that I shan’t pay it back. From
compassion? But Mr. Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with
modern ideas explained the other day that compassion is
forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that’s what is
done now in England, where there is political economy.
Why, I ask you, should he give it to me? And yet though I
know beforehand that he won’t, I set off to him and—”

“Why do you go?” put in Raskolnikov.

“Weil, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go!
For every man must have somewhere to go. Since there
are times when one absolutely must go somewhere! When
my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket, then
I had to go... (for my daughter has a yellow passport,” )
he added in parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness
at the young man. “No matter, sir, no matter!” he went
on hurriedly and with apparent composure when both the
boys at the counter guffawed and even the innkeeper
smiled—“No matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of

14 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

their heads; for every one knows everything about it already,
and all that is secret is made open. And I accept it all not
with contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it!
‘Behold the man!’ Excuse me, young man, can you...
No, to put it more strongly and more distinctly; not can you
but dare you, looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?”

The young man did not answer a word.

“Well,” the orator began again stolidly and with even in-
creased dignity, after waiting for the laughter in the room
to subside. “Well, so be it, I am a pig, but she is a lady! I
have the semblance of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my
spouse is a person of education and an officer’s daughter
Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel, but she is a woman of a
noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by education. And
yet... oh, if only she felt for me! Honoured sir, honoured
sir, you know every man ought to have at least one place
where people feel for him!! But Katerina Ivanovna,
though she is magnanimous, she is unjust. ... And yet, al-
though I realise that when she pulls my hair she only does
it out of pity—for I repeat without being ashamed, she pulls
my hair, young man,” he declared with redoubled dignity,
' hearing the sniggering again—‘but, my God, if she would
but once. ... But no, no! It’s all in vain and it’s no use
talking! No use talking! For more than once, my wish did
come true and more than once she has felt for me but...
such is my fate and I am a beast by nature!”

“Rather !” assented the innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov
struck his fist resolutely on the table.

“Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you know, I have
sold her very stockings for drink? Not her shoes—that
would be more or less in the order of things, but her stock-
ings, her stockings I have sold for drink! Her mohair
shawl I sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her own
property, not mine; and we live in a cold room and she
caught cold this winter and has begun coughing and spitting
blood too. We have three little children and Katerina
Ivanovna is at work from morning till night; she is scrub-
bing and cleaning and washing the children, for she’s been
used to cleanliness from a child. But her chest is weak and
she has a tendency to consumption and I feel it! Do you

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 15

suppose I don’t feel it? And the more I drink the more I
feel it. That’s why I drink too. I try to find sympathy and
feeling in drink. . . . I drink so that I may suffer twice as
much!” And as though in despair he laid his head down
on the table.

“Young man,” he went on, raising his head again, “in
your face I seem to read some trouble of mind. When you
came in I read it, and that was why I addressed you at once.
For in unfolding to you the story of my life, I do not wish
to make myself a laughing-stock before these idle listeners,
who indeed know all about it already, but I am looking for
a man of feeling and education. Know then that my wife
was educated in a high-class school for the daughters of
noblemen, and on leaving, she danced the shawl dance before
the governor and other personages for which she was pre-
sented with a gold medal and a certificate of merit. The
medal , .. well, the medal of course was sold—long ago,
hm ... but the certificate of merit is in her trunk still and
not long ago she showed it to our landlady. And although she
is most continually on bad terms with the landlady, yet she
wanted to tell some one or other of her past honours and
of the happy days that are gone. I don’t condemn her for
it. I don’t blame her, for the one thing left her is recollec-
tion of the past, and all the rest is dust and ashes. Yes, yes,
she is a lady of spirit, proud and determined. She scrubs
the floors herself and has nothing but black bread to eat, but
won't allow herself to be treated with disrespect. That’s why
she would not overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov’s rudeness to her,
and so when he gave her a beating for it, she took to her
bed more from the hurt to her feelings than from the
blows. She was a widow when I married her, with three
children, one smaller than the other. She married her first
husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran away with him
from her father’s house. She was exceedingly fond of her
husband; but he gave way to cards, got into trouble and
with that he died. He used to beat her at the end: and al-
though she paid him back, of which I have authentic docu-
mentary evidence, to this day she speaks of him with tears
and she throws him up at me; and I am glad, I am glad that,
though only in imagination, she should think of herself as

16 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

having once been happy.... And she was left at his
death with three children in a wild and remote district where
I happened to be at the time; and she was left in such hope-
less poverty that, although I have seen many ups and downs
of all sorts, I don’t feel equal to describing it even. Her
relations had all thrown her off. And she was proud, too,
excessively proud... . And then, honoured sir, and then, I,
being at the time a widower, with a daughter of fourteen left
me by my first wife, offered her my hand, for I could not
bear the sight of such suffering. You can judge the extrem-
ity of her calamities, that she, a woman of education and
culture and distinguished family, should have consented to
be my wife. But she did! Weeping and sobbing and wring-
ing her hands, she married me! For she had nowhere to
turn! Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it
means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn? No, that
you don’t understand yet... . And for a whole year, I per-
formed my duties conscientiously and faithfully, and did not
touch this” (he tapped the jug with his finger), “for I have
feelings. But even so, I could not please her; and then I
lost my place too, and that through no fault of mine but
throngh changes in the office; and then I did touch it! ...
It will be a year and a half ago soon since we found our-
selves at last after many wanderings and numerous calamities
in this magnificent capital, adorned with innumerable monu-
ments. Here too I obtained a situation. ... I obtained it
and I lost it again. Do you understand? This time it was
through my own fault I lost it: for my weakness had come
out. ... We have now part of a room at Amalia Ivanovna
Lippevechsel’s; and what we live upon and what we pay our
rent with, I could not say. There are a lot of people living
there beside ourselves. Dirt and disorder, a perfect Bedlam
...hm... yes.... And meanwhile my daughter by my
first wife has grown up; and what my daughter has had to
put up with from her step-mother whilst she was growing up,
I won’t speak of. For, though Katerina Ivanovna is full of
generous feelings, she is a spirited lady, irritable and short-
tempered... . Yes. But it’s no use going over that! Sonia,
as you may well fancy, has had no education. I did make an
effort four years ago to give her a course of geography and

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 1

universal history, but as I was not very well up in those sub-
jects myself and we had no suitable books, and what books
we had... hm, any way we have not even those now, so all
our instruction came to an end. We stopped at Cyrus of
Persia. Since she has attained years of maturity, she has
read other books of romantic tendency and of late she has
read with great interest a book she got through Mr. Lebe-
ziatnikov, Lewes’ Physiology—do you know it?—and even
recounted extracts from it to us: and that’s the whole of her
education. And now may I venture to address you, honoured
sir, on my own account with a private question. Do you
suppose that a respectable poor girl can earn much by honest
work? Not fifteen farthings a day can she earn, if she is
respectable and has no special talent and that without putting
her work down for an instant! And what’s more, Ivan
Ivanitch Klopstock the civil counsellor—have you heard of
him ?—has not to this day paid her for the half-dozen linen
shirts she made him and drove her roughly away, stamping
and reviling her, on the pretext that the shirt collars were
not made like the pattern and were put in askew. And there
are the little ones hungry....And Katerina Ivanovna
walking up and down and wringing her hands, her cheeks
flushed red, as they always are in that disease: ‘Here you
live with us,’ says she, ‘you eat and drink and are kept warm
and you do nothing to help.’ And much she gets to eat and
drink when there is not a crust for the little ones for three
days! I was lying at the time ... well, what of it! I was
lying drunk and I heard my Sonia speaking (she is a gentle
creature with a soft little voice ... fair hair and such a
pale, thin little face). She said: ‘Katerina Ivanovna, am I
really to do a thing like that?’ And Darya Frantsovna, a
woman of evil character and very well known to the police,
had two or three times tried to get at her through the land-
lady. ‘And why not? said Katerina Ivanovna with a jeer,
‘you are something mighty precious to be so careful of!’
But don’t blame her, don’t blame her, honoured sir, don’t
blame her! She was not herself when she spoke, but driven
to distraction by her illness and the crying of the hungry
children; and it was said more to wound her than anything
else. ... For that’s Katerina Ivanovna’s character, and

18 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

when children cry, even from hunger, she falls to beating
them at once. At six o’clock I saw Sonia get up, put on her
kerchief and her cape, and go out of the room and about nine
o'clock she came back. She walked straight up to Katerina
Ivanoyna and she laid thirty roubles on the table before her
in silence. She did not utter a word, she did not even look
at her, she simply picked up our big green drap de dames
shawl (we have a shawl, made of drap de dames), put it over
her head and face and lay down on the bed with her face.to
the wall; only her little shoulders and her body kept shudder-
ing. ... And I went on lying there, just as before....
And then I saw, young man, I saw Katerina Ivanovna, in
the same silence go up to Sonia’s little bed; she was on her
knees all the evening kissing Sonia’s feet, and would not get
up, and then they both fell asleep in each other’s arms...
together, together ... yes...andI... Jay drunk.”
Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice had failed
him. Then he hurriedly filled his glass, drank, and cleared
his throat. .
“Since then, sir,” he went on after a brief pause—“Since
then, owing to an unfortunate occurrence and through in-
- formation given by evil-intentioned persons—in all which
Darya Frantsovna took a leading part on the pretext that
she had been treated with want of respect—since then my
daughter Sofya Semyonovna has been forced to take a yel-
low ticket, and owing to that she is unable to go on living
with us. For our landlady, Amalia Ivanovna would not
hear of it (though she had backed up Darya Frantsovna be-.
fore) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too...hm.... All the
trouble between him and Katerina Ivanovna was on Sonia’s
account. At first he was for making up to Sonia himself
and then all of a sudden he stood on his dignity: ‘how,’ said
he, ‘can a highly educated man like me live in the same
rooms with a girl like that?’ And Katerina Ivanovna would
not let it pass, she stood up for her... and so that’s how
it happened. And Sonia comes to us now, mostly after
dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and gives her all she
can. ... She has a room at the Kapernaumovs, the tailors,
she lodges with them: Kapernaumov is a lame man with a
cleft palate and all of his numerous family have cleft palates

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 19

too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate. They all live in
one room, but Sonia has her own, partitioned off.... Hm
«+. yes... very poor people and all with cleft palates...
yes. Then I got up in the morning, put on my rags, lifted up
my hands to heaven and set off to his excellency Ivan Afa-
nasyevitch. His excellency Ivan Afanasyevitch, do you know
him? No? Well, then, it’s a man of God you don’t know.
He is wax ... wax before the face of the Lord; even as
wax melteth!... His eyes were dim when he heard my
story. ‘Marmeladov, once already you have deceived my
expectations ... Ill take you once more on my own re-
sponsibility—that’s what he said, ‘remember,’ he said, ‘and
now you can go.’ I kissed the dust at his feet—in thought
only, for in reality he would not have allowed me to do it,
being a statesman and a man of modern political and en-
lightened ideas. I returned home, and when I announced
that I’d been taken back into the service and should receive a
salary, heavens, what a to-do there was.. .!”

Marmeladov stopped again in violent excitement. At that
moment a whole party of revellers already drunk came in
from the street, and the sounds of a hired concertina and the
cracked piping voice of a child of seven singing “The
Hamlet” were heard in the entry. The room was filled with
noise. The tavern-keeper and the boys were busy with the
new-comers. Marmeladov paying no attention to the new
arrivals continued his story. He appeared by now to be
extremely weak, but as he became more and more drunk, he
became more and more talkative. The recollection of his
recent success in getting the situation seemed to revive him,
and was positively reflected in a sort of radiance on his face.
Raskolnikov listened attentively.

“That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes....As soon as
Katerina Ivanovna and Sonia heard of it, mercy on us, it was
as though I stepped into the kingdom of Heaven. It used to
be: you can lie like a beast, nothing but abuse. Now they
were walking on tiptoe, hushing the children. ‘Semyon
Zaharovitch is tired with his work at the office, he is resting,
shh!’ They made me coffee before I went to work and boiled
cream for me! They began to get real cream for me, do
you hear that? And how they managed to get together the

20 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

money for a decent outfit—-eleven roubles, fifty copecks, I
can’t guess. Boots, cotton shirtfronts—most magnificent, a
uniform, they got up all in splendid style, for eleven roubles
and a half. The first morning I came back from the office
I found Katerina Ivanovna had cooked two courses for din-
ner—soup and salt meat with horse radish—which we had
never dreamed of till then. She has not any dresses...
none at all, but she got herself up as though she were going
on a visit; and not that she’d anything to do it with, she
smartened herself up with nothing at all, she’d done her hair
nicely, put on a clean collar of some sort, cuffs, and there
she was, quite a different person, she was younger and better
looking. Sonia, my little darling, had only helped with
money ‘for the time,’ she said, ‘it won’t do for me to come
and see you too often. After dark maybe when no one can
see.’ Do you hear, do you hear? I lay down for a nap
after dinner and what do you think: though Katerina Iva-
novna had quarrelled to the last degree with our landlady
Amalia Ivanovna only a week before, she could not resist
then asking her in to coffee. For two hours they were
_ Sitting, whispering together. ‘Semyon Zaharovitch is in the
service again, now, and receiving a salary,’ says she, ‘and he
went himself to his excellency and his excellency himself
came out to him, made all the others wait and led Semyon
Zaharovitch by the hand before everybody into his study.’
Do you hear, do your hear? ‘To be sure,’ says he, ‘Semyon
Zaharovitch, remembering your past services,’ says he, ‘and
in spite of your propensity to that foolish weakness, since
you promise now and since moreover we've got on badly
without you,’ (do you hear, do you hear?) ‘and so,’ says he,
‘I rely now on your word as a gentleman.’ And all that, let
me tell you, she has simply made up for herself, and not
simply out of wantonness, for the sake of bragging; no she
believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her own
fancies, upon my word she does! And I don’t blame her for
it, no, I don’t blame her! . . . Six days ago, when I brought
her my first earnings in full—twenty-three roubles forty
copecks altogether—she called me her poppet: ‘poppet,’ said
she, ‘my little poppet.’ And when we were by ourselves,
you understand? You would not think me a beauty,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT Q1

you would not think much of me as a husband, would
you? ... Well, she pinched my cheek ‘my little poppet,’
said she.”

Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin
began to twitch. He controlled himself however. The
tavern, the degraded appearance of the man, the five nights
in the hay barge, and the pot of spirits, and yet this poignant
love for his wife and children bewildered his listener. Ras-
kolnikov listened intently but with a sick sensation. He felt
vexed that he had come here.

“Honoured sir, honoured sir,” cried Marmeladov recover-
ing himself—“Oh, sir, perhaps all this seems a laughing
matter to you, as it does to others, and perhaps I am only
worrying you with the stupidity of all the trivial details of
my home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me. For I
can feel it all. . . . And the whole of that heavenly day of
my life and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting
dreams of how I would arrange it all, and how I would dress
all the children, and how I should give her rest, and how I
should rescue my own daughter from dishonour and restore
her to the bosom of her family. . . . Anda great deal more.
. . . Quite excusable, sir. Well, then, sir (Marmeladov
suddenly gave a sort of start, raised his head and gazed in-
tently at his listener) well, on the very next day after all
those dreams, that is to say, exactly five days ago, in the
evening, by a cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I stole
from Katerina Ivanovna the key of her box, took out what
was left of my earnings, how much it was I have forgotten,
and now look at me, all of you! It’s the fifth day since I left
home, and they are looking for me there and it’s the end of
my employment, and my uniform is lying in a tavern on the
Egyptian bridge. I exchanged it for the garments I have
on. . . and it’s the end of everything!”

Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his
teeth, closed his eyes and leaned heavily with his elbow on the
table. But a minute later his face suddenly changed and
with a certain assumed slyness and affectation of bravado,
he glanced at Raskolnikov, laughed and said:

“This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for
a pick-me up! He-he-he!”

22 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“You don’t say she gave it to you?” cried one of the new-
comers; he shouted the words and went off into a guffaw.

“This very quart was bought with her money,” Marmela-
dov declared, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov.
“Thirty copecks she gave me with her own hands, her last,
all she had, asI saw. . . . She said nothing, she only looked
at me without a word. . . . Not on earth, but up yonder

. they grieve over men, they weep, but they don’t blame
them, they don’t blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts
more when they don’t blame! Thirty copecks yes! Afid
maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you think, my
dear sir? For now she’s got to keep up her appearance. It
costs money, that smartness, that special smartness, you
know? Do you understand? And there’s pomatum too, you
see, she must have things; petticoats, starched ones, shoes
too, real jaunty ones to show off her foot when she has to
step over a puddle. Do you understand, sir, do you under-
stand what all that smartness means? And here I, her own
father, here I took thirty copecks of that money for a drink!
And I am drinking it! And I have already drunk it! Come,
who will have pity ona man like me, eh? Are you sorry for
. me, sir, or not? Tell me, sir, are you sorry or not? He-he-he!”

He would have filled his glass, but there was no drink left.
The pot was empty.

“What are you to be pitied for?” shouted the tavern-
keeper, who was again near them.

Shouts of laughter and even oaths followed. The laughter
and the oaths came from those who were listening and also
from those who had heard nothing, but were simply looking
at the figure of the discharged government clerk.

“To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?” Marmeladov
suddenly declaimed, standing up with his arm outstretched,
as though he had been only waiting for that question.

“Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! There’s nothing
to pity me for! I ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross,
not pitied! Crucify me, oh judge, crucify me, but pity me!
And then I will go of myself to be crucified, for it’s not
merry-making I seek, but tears and tribulation! . . . Do
you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of yours has been
sweet to me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 2%)

it, tears and tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted
it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who
has understood all men and all things, He is the One, He
too is the judge. He will come in that day and He will ask:
‘Where is the daughter who gave herself for her cross, con-
sumptive step-mother and for the little children of another?
Where is the daughter who had pity upon the filthy drunk-
ard, her earthly father, undismayed by his beastliness?? And
He will say, ‘Come to me! I have already forgiven thee
once... . I have forgiven thee once... . Thy sins
which are many are forgiven thee for thou hast loved
much. . . .’ And he will forgive my Sonia, He will for-
give, I know it . . . I felt it in my heart when I was with
her just now! And He will judge and will forgive all, the
good and the evil, the wise and the meek. . . . And when
He has done with all of them, then He will summon us.
‘You too come forth, He will say,‘Come forth, ye drunkards,
come forth, ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!’
And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand
before him. And He will say unto us, ‘Ye are swine, made
in the Image of the Beast and with his mark; but come ye
also!’ And the wise ones and those of understanding will
say, ‘Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?’ And He
will say, ‘This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is why
I receive them, oh ye of understanding, that not one of them
believed himself to be worthy of this, And He will hold
out His hands to us and we shall fall down before Him. . .
and we shall weep . . . and we shall understand all things!
Then we shail understand all! . . . and all will under-
stand, Katerina Ivanovna even . . . she will understand.
t Lord, Thy kingdom come!” And he sank down on
the bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no one, appar-
ently oblivious of his surroundings and plunged in deep
thought. His words had created a certain impression; there
was a moment of silence; but soon laughter and oaths were
heard again.

“That’s his notion!”

“Talked himself silly !”

“A fine clerk he is!”

And so on, and so on,

24 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Let us go, sir,” said Marmeladov all at once, raising his
head and addressing Raskolnikov—“come along with me ...
Kozel’s house, looking into the yard. I’m going to Katerina
Ivanovna—time I did.”

Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting to go and he
had meant to help him. Marmeladov was much unsteadier
on his legs than in his speech and leaned heavily on the
young man. They hac two or three hundred paces to go.
The drunken man was more and more overcome by dismay
and confusion as they drew nearer the house.

“It’s not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now,” he mut-
tered in agitation—“and that she will begin pulling my hair.
What does my hair matter! Bother my hair! That’s what I
say! Indeed it will be better if she does begin pulling it,
that’s not what Iam afraid of . . . it’s her eyes I am afraid
of . . . yes, her eyes . ... the red on her cheeks, too,
frightens me . . . and her breathing too. . . . Have you
noticed how people in that disease breathe . . . when they
are excited? I am frightened of the children’s crying,
too. . . . For if Sonia has not taken them food. . . I
don’t know what’s happened! I don’t know! But blows I
‘am not afraid of. . . . Know, sir, that such blows are not
a pain to me, but even an enjoyment. In fact I can’t get on
without it. . . . It’s better so. Let her strike me, it re-
lieves her heart . . . it’s better so... There is the house.
The house of Kozel, the cabinet maker . . . a German,
well-to-do. Lead the way!” |

They went in from the yard and up.to the fourth storey.
The staircase got darker and darker as they went up. It
was nearly eleven o’clock and although in summer in Peters-
burg there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at the top
of the stairs. .

A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar.
A very poor-looking room about ten paces long was lighted
up by a candle-end; the whole of it was visible from the
entrance. It was all in disorder, littered up with rags of all
sorts, especially children’s garments. Across the furthest
corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Behind it probably
was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two
chairs and a sofa covered with American leather, full of

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 25

holes, before which stood an old deal kitchen-table, unpainted
and uncovered. At the edge of the table stood a smouldering
tallow-candle in an iron candlestick. It appeared that the
family had a room to themselves, not part of a room, but
their room was practically a passage. The door leading to
the other rooms, or rather cupboards, into which Amalia
Lippevechsel’s flat was divided stood half open, and there
was shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed
to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words of the
most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.
Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She
was a rather tall, slim and graceful woman, terribly ema-
ciated, with magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic
flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little
room, pressing her hands against her‘ chest; her lips were
parched and her breathing came in nerveus broken gasps.
Her eyes glittered as in fever and looked avout with a harsh
immovable stare. And that consumptive and excited face
with the last flickering light of the candle-end playing upon
it made a sickening impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov
about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for
Marmeladov. . . . She had not heard them and did not
notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost in thought,
hearing and seeing nothing. The room was close, but she
had not opened the window; a stench rose from the stair-
case, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the
inner room clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept
coughing, but did not close the door. The youngest child,
a girl of six, was asleep, sitting curled up on the floor with
her head on the sofa. A boy a year older stood crying and
shaking in the corner, probably he had just had a beating.
Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wear-
ing a thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere
pelisse flung over her bare shoulders, long outgrown and
barely reaching her knees. Her arm, as thin as a stick, was
round her brother’s neck. She was trying to comfort him,
whispering something to him, and doing all she could to keep
him from whimpering again. At the same time her large
dark eyes, which looked larger still from the thinness of her
frightened face, were watching her mother with alarm.

26 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Marmeladov did not enter the door, but dropped on his knees
in the very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov in front of him.
The woman seeing a stranger stopped indifferently facing
him, coming to herself for a moment and apparently won-
dering what he had come for. But evidently she decided
that he was going into the next room, as he had to pass
through hers to get there. Taking no further notice of him,
she walked towards the outer door to close it and uttered a
sudden scream on seeing her husband on his knees in the,
doorway.

“Ah!” she cried out in a frenzy, “he has come back! The
criminal! the monster!...And whereisthe money? What’s
in your pocket, show me! And your clothes are all different!
Where are your clothes? Where is the money? speak!”

And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively
and obediently held up both arms to facilitate the search.
Not a farthing was there.

“Where is the money?” she cried—‘‘Mercy on us, can he
have drunk it all? There were twelve silver roubles left in
the chest!’ and in a fury she seized him by the hair and
dragged him into the room. Marmeladov seconded her efforts
by meekly crawling along on his knees.

“And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me,
but is a positive con-so-la-tion, ho-nou-red sir,” he called out,
shaken to and fro by his hair and even once striking the -
ground with his forehead. The child asleep on the floor
woke up, and began to cry. The boy in the corner losing
all control began trembling and screaming and rushed to his
sister in violent terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was
shaking like a leaf.

“He’s drunk it! he’s drunk it all,” the poor woman
screamed in despair—‘“and his clothes are gone! And they
are hungry, hungry !”—and wringing her hands she pointed
to the children. ‘Oh, accursed life! And you, are you not
ashamed”’—she pounced all at once upon Raskolnikov—“from
the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have
been drinking with him, too! Go away!”

The young man was hastening away without uttering a
word. The inner door was thrown wide open and inquisitive
faces were peering in at it. Coarse laughing faces with pipes

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT QF

and cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust themselves in
at the doorway. Further in could be seen figures in dressing
gowns flung open, in costumes of unseemly scantiness, some
of them with cards in their hands. They were particularly
diverted, when Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair,
shouted that it was a consolation to him. They even began
to come into the room; at last a sinister shrill outcry was
heard: this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself pushing
her way amongst them and trying to restore order after her
own fashion and for the hundredth time to frighten the poor
woman by ordering her with coarse abuse to clear out of the
room next day. As he went out, Raskolnikov had time to put
his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the coppers he had
received in exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to lay
them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on the stairs, he
changed his mind and would have gone back.

“What a stupid thing I’ve done,” he thought to himself,
“they have Sonia and I want it myself.” But reflecting that
it would be impossible to take it back now and that in any
case he would not have taken it, he dismissed it with a wave
of his hand and went back to his lodging. “Sonia wants
pomatum, too,’ he said as he walked along the street, and
he laughed malignantly—‘“such smartness costs money. ...
Hm! And maybe Sonia herself will be bankrupt to-day, for
there is always a risk, hunting big game... digging for
gold ... then they would all be without a crust to-morrow
except for my money. Hurrah for Sonia! What a mine
they’ve dug there! And they’re making the most of it!
Yes, they are making the most of it! They’ve wept over
it and grown used to it. Man grows used to everything,
the scoundrel!”

He sank into thought.

“And what if 1 am wrong,” he cried suddenly after a mo-
ment’s thought. “What if man is not really a scoundrel, man
in general, I mean, the whole race of mankind—then all the
rest is prejudice, simply artificial terrors and there are no
barriers and it’s all as it should be.”

CHAPTER III

| E waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But
his sleep had not refreshed him; he waked up bilious,

irritable, ill-tempered, and looked with hatred at his .
room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces in
length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty
yellow paper peeling off the walls, and it was so low-pitched
that a man of more than average height was ill at ease in it
and felt every moment that he would knock his head against
the ceiling. The furniture was in keeping with the room:
there were three old chairs, rather rickety; a painted table
in the corner on which lay a few manuscripts and books; the
dust that lay thick upon them showed that they had been long
untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole
of one wall and a half the floor space of the room; it was
once covered with chintz, but was now in rags and served
Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he
was, without undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his
old student’s overcoat, with his head on one little pillow,
under which he heaped up all the linen he had, clean and
dirty, by way of a bolster. A little table stood in front of
the sofa.

It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of dis-
order, but to Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this
was positively agreeable. He had got completely away from
every one, like a tortoise in its shell, and even the sight of
the servant girl who had to wait upon him and looked some-
times into his room made him writhe with nervous irrita-
tion. He was in the condition that overtakes some mono-
maniacs entirely concentrated upon one thing. His landlady
had for the last fortnight given up sending him in meals, and
he had not yet thought of expostulating with her, though
he went without his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only
servant, was rather pleased at the lodger’s mood and had
entirely given up sweeping and doing his room, only once a

28

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 29

week or so she would stray into his room with a broom. She
waked him up that day.

“Get up, why are you asleep!” she called to him: “It’s
past nine, I have brought you some tea; will you have a cup?
I should think you’re fairly starving?”

Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognized Nas-

tasya.

“From the landlady, eh?” he asked, slowly and with a sickly
face sitting up on the sofa.

“From the landlady, indeed!”

She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak
and stale tea and laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side
of it.

“Here, Nastasya, take it please,” he said, fumbling in his
pocket (for he had slept in his clothes) and taking out a
handful of coppers—“run and buy me a loaf. And get mea
little sausage, the cheapest, at the pork-butcher’s.”

“The loaf I’ll fetch you this very minute, but wouldn’t you
rather have some cabbage soup instead of sausage? It’s
capital soup, yesterday’s. I saved it for you yesterday, but
you came in late. It’s fine soup.”

When the soup had been brought, and he had begun upon
it, Nastasya sat down beside him on the sofa and began
chatting. She was a country peasant-woman, and a very
talkative one.

“Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police
about you,” she said.

He scowled.

“To the police? What does she want?”

“You don’t pay her money and you won’t turn out of the
room. That’s what she wants, to be sure.”

“The devil, that’s the last straw,” he muttered, grinding his
teeth, “no, that would not suit me ... just now. She is a
fool,” he added aloud. “T’ll go and talk to her to-day.”

“Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if
you are so clever, do you lie here like a sack and have nothing
to show for it? One time you used to go out, you say, to
teach children. But why is it you do nothing now?”

“I am doing...” Raskolnikov began sullenly and re-
luctantly.

30 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“What are you doing?”

“Wonk oc”

“What sort of work?”

“I am thinking,” he answered seriously after a pause.

Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter. She was
given to laughter and when anything amused her, she laughed
inaudibly, quivering and shaking all over till she felt ill.

“And have you made much money by your thinking?”
she managed to articulate at last. -.

“One can’t go out to give lessons without boots. And
I’m sick of it.”

“Don’t quarrel with your bread and butter.”

“They pay so little for lessons. What’s the use of a few
coppers?” he answered, reluctantly, as though replying to
his own thought.

“And you want to get a fortune all at once?”

He looked at her strangely.

“Yes, I want a fortune,” he answered firmly, after a brief
pause.

“Don’t be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall.
I get you the loaf or not?”

— “As you please.”

“Ah, I forgot! <A letter came for you yesterday when you
were out.”

“A letter? for me! from whom?”

“T can’t say. I gave three copecks of my own to the post-
man for it. Will you pay me back?”

“Then bring it to me, for God’s sake, bring it,’ cried
Raskolnikov greatly excited—“good God!”

A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it:
from his mother, from the province of R——. He turned
pale when he took it. It was a long while since he had re-
ceived a letter, but another feeling also suddenly stabbed his
heart. 2

“Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness’ sake; here are
your three copecks, but for goodness’ sake, make haste and
go 1”?

The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to
open it in her presence; he wanted to be left alone with this
letter. When Nastasya had gone out, he lifted it quickly to

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 31

his lips and kissed it; then he gazed intently at the address,
the small, sloping handwriting, so dear and familiar, of the
mother who had once taught him to read and write. He
delayed; he seemed almost afraid of something. At last he
opened it: it was a thick heavy letter, weighing over two
ounces, two large sheets of note paper were covered with
very small handwriting.

“My dear Rodya,”’ wrote his mother—“It’s two months since I
last had a talk with you by letter which has distressed me and even
kept me awake at night, thinking. But I am sure you will not blame
me for my inevitable silence. You know how I love you; you are
all we have to look to, Dounia and I, you are our all, our one hope,
our one stay. What a grief it was to me when I heard that you had
given up the university some months ago, for want of means to keep
yourself and that you had lost your lessons and your other work!
How could I help you out of my hundred and twenty roubles a year
pension? The fifteen roubles I sent you four months ago I borrowed,
as you know, on security of my pension, from Vassily Ivanovitch
Vahrushin a merchant of this town. He is a kind-hearted man and
was a friend of your father’s too. But having given him the right
to receive the pension, I had to wait till the debt was paid off and
that is only just done, so that I’ve been unable to send you anything
all this time. But now, thank God, I believe I shall be able to send
you something more and in fact we may congratulate ourselves on
our good fortune now, of which I hasten to inform you. In the
first place, would you have guessed, dear Rodya, that your sister has
been living with me for the last six weeks and we shall not be
separated in the future. Thank God, her sufferings are over, but I
will tell you everything in order, so that you may know just how
everything has happened and all that we have hitherto concealed
from you. When you wrote to me two months ago that you had
heard that Dounia had a great deal to put up with in the Svidri-
gallov’s house, when you wrote that and asked me to tell you all about
it—what could I write in answer to you? If I had written the whole
truth to you, I dare say you would have thrown up everything and
have come to us, even if you had to walk all the way, for I know
your character and your feelings, and you would not let your sister
be insulted. I was in despair myself, but what could I do? And,
besides, I did not know the whole truth myself then. What made it
all so difficult was that Dounia received a hundred roubles in ad-
vance when she took the place as governess in their family, on con-
dition of part of her salary being deducted every month, and so it
was impossible to throw up the situation without repaying the
debt. This sum (now I can explain it all to you, my precious Rodya)
she took chiefly in order to send you sixty roubles, which you needed
so terribly then and which you received from us last year. We
deceived you then, writing that this money came from Dounia’s

32 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

savings, but that was not so, and now I tell you all about it, because,
thank God, things have suddenly changed for the better, and that you
may know how Dounia loves you and what a heart she has. At
first indeed Mr. Svidrigailov treated her very rudely and used to
make her disrespectful and jeering remarks at table. . . . But
I don’t want to go into all those painful details, so as not to worry
you for nothing when it is now all over. In short, in spite of the
kind and generous behaviour of Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigailov’s
wife, and all the rest of the household, Dounia had a very hard
time, especially when Mr. Svidrigailov, relapsing into his old regi-
mental habits, was under the influence of Bacchus. And how do.
you think it was all explained later on? Would you believe that the
crazy fellow had conceived a passion for Dounia from the beginning,
but had concealed it under a show of rudeness and contempt. Pos-
sibly he was ashamed and horrified himself at his own flighty hopes,
considering his years and his being the father of a family; and that
made him angry with Dounia. And possibly, too, he hoped by his
rude and sneering behaviour to hide the truth from others. But
at last he lost all control and had the face to make Dounia an open
and shameful proposal, promising her all sorts of inducements and
offering, besides, to throw up everything and take her to another
estate of his, or even abroad. You can imagine all she went through!
To leave her situation at once was impossible not only on account
of the money debt, but also to spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna,
whose suspicions would have been aroused: and then Dounia would
have been the cause of a rupture in the family. And it would have
meant a terrible scandal for Dounia too; that would have been
inevitable. There were various other reasons owing to which Dounia
could not hope to escape from that awful house for another six
weeks. You know Dounia, of course; you know how clever she is
and what a strong will she has. Dounia can endure a great deal and
even in the most difficult cases she has the fortitude to maintain her
firmness. She did not even write to me about everything for fear
of upsetting me, although we were constantly in communication. It
all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accidentally overheard
her husband imploring Dounia in the garden, and, putting quite a
wrong interpretation on the position, threw the blame upon her,
believing her to be the cause of it all. An awful scene took place
between them on the spot in the garden; Marfa Petrovna went so
far as to strike Dounia, refused to hear anything and was shouting
at her for a whole hour and then gave orders that Dounia should
be packed off at once to me in a plain peasant’s cart, into which they
flung all her things, her linen and her clothes, all pell-mell, without
folding it up and packing it. And a heavy shower of rain came on,
too, and Dounia, insulted and put to shame, had to drive with a
peasant in an open cart all the seventeen versts into town. Only
think now what answer could I have sent to the letter I received
from you two months ago and what could I have written? I was in
despair; I dared not write to you the truth because you would have
been very unhappy, mortified and indignant, and yet what could you

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 33

do? You could only perhaps ruin yourself, and, besides, Dounia
would not allow it; and fill up my letter with trifles when my heart
was so full of sorrow, I could not. For a whole month the town
was full of sorrow about this scandal, and it came to such a pass that
Dounia and I dared not even go to church on account of the con-
temptuous looks, whispers, and even remarks made aloud about us.
All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody even bowed to us in the
street, and I learnt that some shopmen and clerks were intending to
insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates of our house with
pitch, so that the landlord began to tell us we must leave. All this
was set going by Marfa Petrovna, who managed to slander Dounia
and throw dirt at her in every family. She knows every one in the
neighbourhood, and that month she was continually coming into
the town, and as she is rather talkative and fond of gossiping about
her family affairs and particularly of complaining to all and each
of her husband—which is not at all right—so in a short time she
had spread her story not only in the town, but over the whole sur-
rounding district. It made me ill, but Dounia bore it better than I
did, and if only you could have seen how she endured it all and tried
to comfort me and cheer me up! She is an angel! But by God’s
mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr. Svidrigailov returned to
his senses and repented and, probably feeling sorry for Dounia, he
laid before Marfa Petrovna a complete and unmistakable proof of
Dounia’s innocence, in the form of a letter Dounia had been forced
to write and give to him, before Marfa Petrovna came upon them in
the garden. This letter, which remained in Mr. Svidrigailov’s hands
after her departure, she had written to refuse personal explanations
and secret interviews, for which he was entreating her. In that letter
she reproached him with great heat and indignation for the baseness
of his behaviour in regard to Marfa Petrovna, reminding him that
he was the father and head of a family and telling him how infamous
it was of him to torment and make unhappy a defenceless girl, un-
happy enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter was so nobly
and touchingly written that I sobbed when I read it and to this day
I cannot read it without tears. Moreover, the evidence of the ser-
vants, too, cleared Dounia’s reputation; they had seen and known
a great deal more than Mr. Svidrigailov had himself supposed—as
indeed is always the case with servants. Marfa Petrovna was com-
pletely taken aback, and ‘again crushed’ as she said herself to us,
but she was completely convinced of Dounia’s innocence. The very
next day, being Sunday, she went straight to the Cathedral, knelt
down and prayed with tears to Our Lady to give her strength to
bear this new trial and to do her duty. Then she came straight from
the Cathedral to us, told us the whole story, wept bitterly and, fully
penitent, she embraced Dounia and besought her to forgive her. The
same morning, without any delay, she went round to all the houses
in the town and everywhere, shedding tears, she asserted in the most
flattering terms Dounia’s innocence and the nobility of her feelings
and her behaviour. What was more, she showed and read to every
one the letter in Dounia’s own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigailov and

34 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

even allowed them to take copies of it—which I must say I think
was superfluous. In this way she was busy for several days in driving
about the whole town, because some people had taken offence through
precedence having been given to others. And therefore they had to
take turns, so that in every house she was expected before she arrived,
and every one knew that on such and such a day Marfa Petrovna
would be reading the letter in such and such a place and people
assembled for every reading of it, even many who had heard it
several times already both in their own houses and in other people’s.
In my opinion a great deal, a very great deal of all this was unneces-
sary; but that’s Marfa Petrovna’s character. Anyway she succeeded ,
in completely re-establishing Dounia’s reputation and the whole”
ignominy of this affair rested as an indelible disgrace upon her hus-
band, as the only person to blame, so that I really began to feel sorry
for him; it was really treating the crazy fellow too harshly. Dounia
was at once asked to give lessons in several families, but she refused.
All of a sudden every one began to treat her with marked respect and
all this did much to bring about the event by which, one may say, our
whole fortunes are now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya,
that Dounia has a suitor and that she has already consented to marry
him, I hasten to tell you all about the matter, and though it has been
arranged without asking your counsel, I think you will not he ag-
grieved with me or with your sister on that account, for you will see
that we could not wait and put off our decision till we heard from
you. And you could not have judged all the facts without being on
the spot. This was how it happened. He is already of the rank of a
counsellor, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, and is distantly related to Marfa
Petrovna, who has been very active in bringing the match about. It
began with his expressing through her his desire to make our acquaint-
ance. He was properly received, drank coffee with us and the very
next day he sent us a letter in which he very courteously made an
offer and begged for a speedy and decided answer. He is a very busy
man and is in a great hurry to get to Petersburg, so that every
moment is precious to him. At first, of course, we were greatly sur-
prised, as it had all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. We
thought and talked it over the whole day. He is a well-to-do man,
to be depended upon, he has two posts in the government and has
already made his fortune. It is true that he is forty-five years old,
but he is of a fairly prepossessing appearance, and might still be
thought attractive by women, and he is altogether a very respectable
and presentable man, only he seems a little morose and somewhat
conceited. But possibly that may only be the impression he makes
at first sight. And beware, dear Rodya, when he comes fo Petersburg,
as he shortly will do, beware of judging him too hastily and severely,
as your way is, if there is anything you do not like in him at first
sight. I give you this warning, although I feel sure that he will make
a favourable impression upon you. Moreover, in order to understand
any man one must be deliberate and careful to avoid forming preju-
dices and mistaken ideas, which are very difficult to correct and get
over afterwards. And Pyotr Petrovitch, judging by many indications,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 35

is a thoroughly estimable man. At his first visit, indeed, he told us
that he was a practical man, but still he shares, as he expressed it,
many of the convictions ‘of our most rising generation’ and he is an
opponent of all prejudices. He said a good deal more, for he seems
a little conceited and likes to be listened to, but this is scarcely a vice.
I, of course, understood very little of it, but Dounia explained to me
that, though he is not a man of great education, he is clever and
seems to be good-natured. You know your sister’s character, Rodya.
She is a resolute, sensible, patient and generous girl, but she has
a passionate heart, as I know very well. Of course, there is no great
love either on his side, or on hers, but Dounia is a clever girl and
has the heart of an angel, and will make it her duty to make her
husband happy who on his side will make her happiness his care.
Of that we have no good reason for doubt, though it must be admitted
the matter has been arranged in great haste. Besides he is a man of
great prudence and he will see, to be sure, of himself, that his own
happiness will be the more secure, the happier Dounia is with him.
And as for some defects of character, for some habits and even
certain differences of opinions—which indeed are inevitable even in
the happiest marriages—Dounia has said that, as regards all that, she
relies on herself, that there is nothing to be uneasy about, and that
she is ready to put up with a great deal, if only their future relation-
ship can be an honourable and straightforward one. He struck me,
for instance, at first, as rather abrupt, but that may well come from
his being an outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it is. For
instance, at his second visit, after he had received Dounia’s consent,
in the course of conversation, he declared that before making Dounia’s
acquaintance, he had made up his mind to marry a girl of good repu-
tation, without dowry and, above all, one who had experienced pov-
erty, because, as he explained, a man ought not to be indebted to
his wife, but that it is better for a wife to look upon her husband as
her benefactor. I must add that he expressed it more nicely and
politely than I have done, for I have forgotten his actual phrases and
only remember the meaning. And, besides, it was obviously not said
of design, but slipped out in the heat of conversation, so that he tried
afterwards to correct himself and smooth it over, but all the same
it did strike me as somewhat rude, and I said so afterwards to
Dounia. But Dounia was vexed, and answered that ‘words are not
deeds,’ and that, of course, is perfectly true. Dounia did not sleep
all night before she made up her mind, and, thinking that I was
asleep, she got out of bed and was walking up and down the room all
night; at last she knelt down before the ikon and prayed long and
fervently and in the morning she told me that she had decided.

I have mentioned already that Pyotr Petrovitch is just setting off
for Petersburg, where he has a great deal of business, and he wants
to cpen a legal bureau. He has been occupied for many years in
conducting civil and commercial litigation, and only the other day
he won an important case. He has to be in Petersburg because he
has an important case before the Senate. So, Rodya dear, he may
be of the greatest use to you, in every way indeed, and Dounia and

36 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

I have agreed that from this very day you could definitely enter upon
your career and might consider that your future is marked out and
assured for you. Oh, if only this comes to pass! This would be
such a benefit that we could only look upon it as a providential bless-
ing. Dounia is dreaming of nothing else. We have even ventured
already to drop a few words on the subject to Pyotr Petrovitch.
He was cautious in his answer, and said that, of course, as he could
not get on without a secretary, it would be better to be paying a
salary to a relation than to a stranger, if only the former were fitted
for the duties (as though there could be doubt of your being fitted !)
but then he expressed doubts whether your studies at the university
would leave you time for work at his office. The matter dropped for
the time, but Dounia is thinking of nothing else now. She has been
in a sort of fever for the last few days, and has already made a
regular plan for your becoming in the end an associate and even a
partner in Pyotr Petrovitch’s legal business, which might well be,
seeing that you are a student of law. I am in complete agreement
with her, Rodya, and share all her plans and hopes, and think there
is every probability of realising them. And in spite of Pyotr Petro-
vitch’s evasiveness, very natural at present, (since he does not know
you) Dounia is firmly persuaded that she will gain everything by her
good influence over her future husband; this she is reckoning upon.
Of course we are careful not to talk of any of these more remote
plans to Pyotr Petrovitch, especially of your becoming his partner.
He is a practical man and might take this very coldly, it might all
seem to him simply a day-dream. Nor has either Dounia or I
‘breathed a word to him of the great hopes we have of his helping us
to pay for your university studies; we have not spoken of it in the
first place, because it will come to pass of itself, later on, and he will
no doubt without wasting words offer to do it of himself, (as though
he could refuse Dounia that) the more readily since you may by your
own efforts become his right hand in the office and receive this as-
sistance not as a charity, but as a salary earned by your own work.
Dounia wants to arrange it all like this and I quite agree with her.
And we have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that is, .
because I particularly wanted you to feel on an equal footing when
you first meet him. When Dounia spoke to him with entuusiasm
about you, he answered that one could never judge of a man without
seeing him close, for oneself, and that he looked forward to forming
his own opinion when he makes your acquaintance. Do you know,
my precious Rodya, I think that perhaps for some reasons (nothing
to do with Pyotr Petrovitch though, simply for my own personal,
perhaps old-womanish, fancies) I should do better to go on living by
myself, apart, than with them, after the wedding. I am- convinced
that he will be generous and delicate enough to invite me and to
urge me to remain with my daughter for the future, and if he has
said nothing about it hitherto, it is simply because it has been taken
for granted; but I shall refuse. I have noticed more than once in
my life that husbands don’t quite get on with their mothers-in-law,
and I don’t want to be the least bit in any one’s way, and for my

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 37

own sake, too, would rather be quite independent, so long as I have
a crust of bread of my own, and such children as you and Dounia.
If possible, I would settle somewhere near you, for the most joyful
piece of news, dear Rodya, I have kept for the end of my letter:
know then, my dear boy, that we may perhaps be all together in a
very short time and may embrace one another again after a separation
of almost three years! It is settled for certain that Dounia and I
are to set off for Petersburg, exactly when I don’t know, but very,
very soon, possibly in a week. It all depends on Pyotr Petrovitch
who will let us know when he has had time to look round him in
Petersburg. To suit his own arrangements he is anxious to have the
ceremony as soon as possible, even before the fast of Our Lady, if
it could be managed, or if that is too soon to be ready, immediately
after. Oh, with what happiness I shall press you to my heart! Dounia
is all excitement at the joyful thought of seeing you, she said one
day in joke that she would be ready to marry Pyortr Petrovitch for
that alone. She is an angel! She is not writing anything to you now,
and has only told me to write that she has so much, so much to tell
you that she is not going to take up her pen now, for a few lines
would tell you nothing, and it would only mean upsetting herself;
she bids me send you her love and innumerable kisses. But although
we shall be meeting so soon, perhaps I shall send you as much money
as I can in a day or two. Now that every one has heard that Dounia
is to marry Pyotr Petrovitch, my credit has suddenly improved and
I know that Afanasy Ivanovitch will trust me now even to seventy-
five roubles on the security of my pension, so that perhaps I shall
be able to send you twenty-five or even thirty roubles. I would send
you more, but I am uneasy about our travelling expenses; for though
Pyotr Petrovitch has been so kind as to undertake part of the ex-
penses of the journey, that is to say, he has taken upon himself the
conveyance of our bags and big trunk (which will be conveyed through
some acquaintances of his), we must reckon upon some expense on
our arrival in Petersburg, where we can’t be left without a halfpenny,
at least for the first few days. But we have calculated it all, Dounia
and I, to the last penny, and we see that the journey will not cost
very much. It is only ninety versts from us to the railway and we
have come to an agreement with a driver we know, so as to be in
readiness; and from there Dounia and I can travel quite comfortably
third class. So that I may very likely be able to send to you not
twenty-five, but thirty roubles. But enough; I have covered two
sheets already and there is no space left for more; our whole history,
but so many events have happened! And now, my precious Rodya,
I embrace you and send you a mother’s blessing till we meet. Love
Dounia your sister, Rodya; love her as she loves you and understand
that she loves you beyond everything, more than herself. She is
an angel and you, Rodya, you are everything to us—our one hope,
our one consolation. If only you are happy, we shall be happy. Do
you still say your prayers, Rodya, and believe in the mercy of our
Creator and our Redeemer? I am afraid in my heart that you may
have been visited by the new spirit of infidelity that is abroad to-day!

38 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

If it is so, I pray for you. Remember, dear boy, how in your child-
hood, when your father was living, you used to lisp your prayers at
my knee, and how happy we all were in those days. Good-bye, till
we meet then—I embrace you warmly, warmly, with many kisses.
“Yours till death
“PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV.”

Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolni-
kov’s face was wet with tears; but when he finished it, his
face was pale and distorted and a bitter, wrathful and malig- _
nant smile was on his lips. He laid his head down on his”
threadbare dirty pillow and pondered, pondered a long time.
His heart was beating violently, and his brain was in a tur-
moil, At last he felt cramped and stifled in the little yellow
room that was like a cupboard or a box. His eyes and his
mind craved for space. He took up his hat and went out, this
time without dread of meeting any one; he had forgotten
his dread. He turned in the direction of the Vassilyevsky
Ostrov, walking along Vassilyevsky Prospect, as though has-
tening on some business, but he walked, as his habit was,
without noticing his way, muttering and even speaking aloud
to himself, to the astonishment of the passers-by. Many of
them took him to be drunk.

CHAPTER IV

IS mother’s letter had been a torture to him, but as
H regards the chief fact in it, he had felt not one

moment’s hesitation, even whilst he was reading the
letter. The essential question was settled, and irrevocably
settled, in his mind: “Never such a marriage while I am
alive and Mr. Luzhin be damned!” “The thing is perfectly
clear,” he muttered to himself, with a malignant smile an-
ticipating the triumph of his decision. “No, mother, no,
Dounia, you won’t deceive me! and then they apologise for
not asking my advice and for taking the decision without
me! I dare say! They imagine it is arranged now and
can’t be broken off; but we will see whether it can or not!
A magnificent excuse: ‘Pyotr Petrovitch is such a busy
man that even his wedding has to be in post-haste, almost
by express.’ No, Dounia, I see it all and I know what you
want to say to me; and I know too what you were thinking
about, when you walked up and down all night, and what
your prayers were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan
who stands in mother’s bedroom. Bitter is the ascent to
Golgotha.... Hm... so it is finally settled; you have
determined to marry a sensible business man, Avdotya
Romanovna, one who has a fortune (has already made
his fortune, that is so much more solid and impressive) a
man who holds two government posts and who shares the
ideas of our most rising generation, as mother writes, and
who seems to be kind, as Dounia herself observes. That
seems beats everything! And that very Dounia for that
‘very ‘seems’ is marrying him! Splendid! splendid!

“..» But I should like to know why mother has written
to me about ‘our most rising generation’? Simply as a
descriptive touch, or with the idea of prepossessing me in
favour of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, the cunning of them! I should
like to know one thing more: how far they were open with
one another that day and night and all this time since? Was

39

40 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

it all put into words, or did both understand that they had
the same thing at heart and in their minds, so that there
was no need to speak of it aloud, and better not to speak
of it. Most likely it was partly like that, from mother’s
letter it’s evident: he struck her as rude a little, and mother
in her simplicity took her observations to Dounia. And she
was sure to be vexed and ‘answered her angrily.’ I should
think so! Who would not be angered when it was quite
clear without any naive questions and when it was under-
stood that it was useless to discuss it. And why does she
write to me, ‘love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you more
than herself’? Has she a secret conscience-prick at sacri-
ficing her daughter to her son? ‘You are our one comfort,
you are everything to us.’ Oh, mother!”

His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he
had happened to meet Mr. Luzhin at the moment, he might
have murdered him.

“Hm... yes, that’s true,” he continued, pursuing the
whirling ideas that chased each other in his brain, “it is
true that ‘it needs time and care to get to know a man,’ but
there is no mistake about Mr. Luzhin. The chief thing is
he is ‘a man of business and seems kind, that was some-
thing, wasn’t it, to send the bags and big box for them! A
kind man, no doubt after that! But his bride and her
mother are to drive in a peasant’s cart covered with sack-
ing (I know, I have been driven in it). No matter! It is
only ninety versts and then they can ‘travel very comfort-
ably, third class,’ for a thousand versts! Quite right, too.
One must cut one’s coat according to one’s cloth, but what
about you, Mr. Luzhin? She is your bride. ... And you
must be aware that her mother has to raise money on her
pension for the journey. To be sure it’s a matter of busi-
ness, a partnership for mutual benefit, with equal shares
and expenses :—food and drink provided, but pay for your
tobacco. The business man has got the better of them, too.
The luggage will cost less than their fares and very likely
go for nothing. How is it that they don’t both see all that,
or is it that they don’t want to see? And they are pleased,
pleased! And to think that this is only the first blossoming,
and that the real fruits are to come! But what really

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 41

matters is not the stinginess, is not the meanness, but the
tone of the whole thing. For that will be the tone after
‘marriage, it’s a foretaste of it. And mother too, why should
she be so lavish? What will she have by the time she
gets to Petersburg? Three silver roubles or two ‘paper
ones’ as she says.... that old woman...hm. What
does she expect to live upon in Petersburg afterwards?
She has her reasons already for guessing that she could not
live with Dounia after the marriage, even for the first few
months, The good man has no doubt let slip something on
that subject also, though mother would deny it: ‘I shall
refuse,’ says she. On whom is she reckoning then? Is she
counting on what is left of her hundred and twenty roubles
of pension when Afanasy Ivanovitch’s debt is paid? She
knits woollen shawls and embroiders cuffs, ruining her old
eyes. And all her shawls don’t add more than twenty
roubles a year to her hundred and twenty, I know that.
So she is building all her hopes all the time on Mr. Luzhin’s
generosity; ‘he will offer it of himself, he will press it on
me. You may wait a long time for that! That’s how it
always is with these Schilleresque noble hearts; till the last
moment every goose is a swan with them, till the last
moment, they hope for the best and will see nothing wrong,
and although they have an inkling of the other side of the
picture, yet they won’t face the truth till they are forced to;
the very thought of it makes them shiver; they thrust the
truth away with both hands, until the man they deck out
in false colours puts a fool’s cap on them with his own
hands. I should like to know whether Mr. Luzhin has any
orders of merit; I bet he has the Anna in his buttonhole
and that he puts it on when he goes to dine with contractors
or merchants. He will be sure to have it for his wedding,
too! Enough of him, confound him!

“Well, .. . mother I don’t wonder at, it’s like her, God
bless her, but how could Dounia? Dounia, darling, as
though I did not know you! You were nearly twenty when
I saw you last: I understand you then. Mother writes
that ‘Dounia can put up with a great deal.’ I know that
very well. I knew that two years and a half ago, and for
the last two and a half years I have been thinking about it,

3—R

42 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

thinking of just that, that ‘Dounia can put up with a great
deal.’ If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigailov and all the
rest of it, she certainly can put up with a great deal. And
now mother and she have taken it into their heads that she
can put up with Mr. Luzhin, who propounds the theory of
the superiority of wives raised from destitution and owing
everything to their husband’s bounty—who propounds it,
too, almost at the first interview. Granted that he ‘let it
slip,’ though he is a sensible man, (yet maybe it was not a
slip at all, but he meant to make himself clear as soon
as possible) but Dounia, Dounia? She understands the
man, of course, but she will have to live with the man,
Why! she’d live on black bread and water, she would not
sell her soul, she would not barter her moral freedom for
comfort; she would not barter it for all Schleswig-Holstein,
much less Mr. Luzhin’s money. No, Dounia was not that
sort when I knew her and... she is still the same, of
course! Yes, there’s no denying, the Svidrigailovs are a
bitter pill! It’s bitter thing to spend one’s life a gover-
ness in the provinces for two hundred roubles, but I know
she would rather be a nigger on a plantation or a Lett with
a German master, than degrade her soul, and her moral
dignity, by binding herself for ever to a man whom she
does not respect and with whom she has nothing in com-
mon—for her own advantage. And if Mr. Luzhin had
been of unalloyed gold, or one huge diamond, she would
never have consented to become his legal concubine. Why
is she consenting then? What’s the point of it? What’s
the answer? It’s clear enough: for herself, for her com-
fort, to save her life she would not sell herself, but for
some one else she is doing it! For one she loves, for one
she adores, she will sell herself! That’s what it all amounts
to; for her brother, for her mother, she will sell herself!
She will sell everything! In such cases, we ‘overcome our
moral feeling if necessary,’ freedom, peace, conscience even,
all, all are brought into the market. Let my life go, if only
my dear ones may be happy! More than that, we become
casuists, we learn to be Jesuitical and for a time maybe
we can soothe ourselves, we can persuade ourselves that it
is one’s duty for a good object. That’s just like us, it’s as

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 43

clear as daylight. It’s clear that Rodion Romanovitch Ras-
kolnikov is the central figure in the business, and no one
else. Oh yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in
the university, make him a partner in the office, make his
whole future secure; perhaps he may even be a rich
man later on, prosperous, respected, and may even end his
life a famous man! But my mother? It’s all Rodya, pre-
cious Rodya, her firstborn! For such a son who would not
sacrifice such a daughter! Oh, loving, over-partial hearts!
Why, for his sake we would not shrink even from Sonia’s
fate. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the eternal victim so long
as the world lasts. Have you taken the measure of your
sacrifice, both of you? Is it right? Can you bear it?
Is it any use? Is there sense in it? And let me tell you,
Dounia, Sonia’s life is no worse than life with Mr. Luzhin.
‘There can be no question of love’ mother writes. And
what if there can be no respect either, if on the contrary
there is aversion, contempt, repulsion, what then? So
you will have to ‘keep up your appearance,’ too. Is not that
so? Do you understand what that smartness means? Do
you understand that the Luzhin smartness is just the same
thing as Sonia’s and may be worse, viler, baser, because in
your case, Dounia, it’s a bargain for luxuries, after all, but
with Sonia it’s simply a question of starvation. It has to be
paid for, it has to be paid for, Dounia, this smartness. And
what if it’s more than you can bear afterwards, if you re-
gret it? The bitterness, the misery, the curses, the tears
hidden from all the world, for you are not a Marfa Pe-
trovna. And how will your mother feel then? Even now
she is uneasy, she is worried, but then, when she sees it all
clearly? And I? Yes, indeed, what have you taken me
for? I won’t have your sacrifice, Dounia, I won’t have it,
mother! It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it shail not,
it shall not! I won’t accept it!”

He suddenly paused in his reflections and stood still.

“It shall not be? But what are you going to do to pre-
vent it? You'll forbid it? And what right have you?
What can you promise them on your side to give you such
a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you will de-
vote to them when you have finished your studies and ob-

a4 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

tained a post? Yes, we have heard all that before, and
that’s all words, but now? Now something must be done,
now do you understand that? And what are you doing now?
You are living upon them. They borrow on their hundred
roubles pension. They borrow from the Svidrigailovs. How
are you going to save them from Svidrigailovs, from Afanasy
Ivanovitch Vahrushin, oh, future millionaire Zeus who
would arrange their lives for them? In another ten years?
In another ten years, mother will be blind with knitting
shawls, maybe with weeping too. She will be worn t6 a
shadow with fasting; and my sister? Imagine for a
moment what may have become of your sister in ten years?
What may happen to her during those ten years? Can
you fancy?” .

So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such ques-
tions, and finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all
these questions were not new ones suddenly confronting him,
they were old familiar aches. It was long since they had
first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long, long ago his
present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and
gathered strength, it had matured and concentrated, until
it had taken the form of a fearful, frenzied and fantastic
question, which tortured his heart and his mind, clamouring
insistently for an answer. Now his mother’s letter had
burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear that he must
not now suffer passively, worrying himself over unsolved
questions, but that he must do something, do it at once,
and do it quickly. Anyway he must decide on something,
or ¢ise:')/'.".

“Or throw up life altogether!” he cried suddenly, in a
frenzy— “accept one’s lot humbly as it is, once for all and
stifle everything in oneself, giving up all claim to activity,
life and love!”

“Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it
means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn?” Mar-
meladov’s question came suddenly into his mind “for every
man must have somewhere to turn... .”

He gave a sudden start: another thought, that he had had
yesterday, slipped back into his mind. But he did not start
at the thought recurring to him, for he knew, he had felt

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 45

beforehand, that it must come back, he was expecting it;
besides it was not only yesterday’s thought. The differ-
ence was that a month ago, yesterday even, the thought was
a mere dream: but now ... now it appeared not a dream
at all, it had taken a new menacing and quite unfamiliar
shape, and he suddenly became aware of this himself... .
He felt a hammering in his head, and there was a dark-
ness before his eyes.

He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for some-
thing. He wanted to sit down and was looking for a seat;
he was walking along the K Boulevard. There was
a seat about a hundred paces in front of him. He walked
towards it as fast as he could; but on the way he met with
a little adventure which absorbed all his attention. Look-
ing for the seat, he had noticed a woman walking some
twenty paces in front of him, but at first he took no more
notice of her than of other objects that crossed his path. It
had happened to him many times going home not to notice
the road by which he was going, and he was accustomed
to walk like that. But there was at first sight something
so strange about the woman in front of him, that gradually
his attention was riveted upon her, at first reluctantly and,
as it were, resentfully, and then more and more intently.
He felt a sudden desire to find out what it was that was so
strange about the woman. In the first place, she appeared
to be a girl quite young, and she was walking in the great
heat bareheaded and with no parasol or gloves, waving her
arms about in an absurd way. She had on a dress of some
light silky material, but put on strangely awry, not properly
hooked up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, close to the
waist: a great piece was rent and hanging loose. A little
kerchief was flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting on
one side. The girl was walking unsteadily, too, stumbling
and staggering from side to side. She drew Raskolnikov’s
whole attention at last. He overtook the girl at the seat,
but, on reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the corner;
she let her head sink on the back of the seat and closed her
eyes, apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her
closely, he saw at once that she was completely drunk. It
was a strange and shocking sight. He could hardly believe

46 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

that he was not mistaken. He saw before him the face of a
quite young, fairhaired girl—sixteen, perhaps not more than
fifteen, years old, a pretty little face, but flushed and heavy
looking and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to
know what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the
other, lifting it indecorously, and showed every sign of
being unconscious that she was in the street.

Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to
leave her, and stood facing her in perplexity. This boule-
vard was never much frequented; and now, at two o’clock,
in the stifling heat, it was quite deserted. And yet on the
further side of the boulevard, about fifteen paces away, a
gentleman was standing on the edge of the pavement, he,
too, would apparently have liked to approach the girl with
some object of his own. He, too, had probably seen her in
the distance and had followed her, but found Raskolnikov
in his way. He looked angrily at him, though he tried to
escape his notice, and stood impatiently biding his time,
till the unwelcome man in rags should have moved away.
His intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a
plump, thickly-set man, about thirty, fashionably dressed,
with a high colour, red lips and moustaches. Raskolnikov
felt furious; he had a sudden longing to insult this fat dandy
in some way. He left the girl for a moment and walked
towards the gentleman.

“Hey! You Svidrigailov! What do you want here?”
he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing, spluttering with
rage.

“What do you mean?” the gentleman asked sternly, scowl-
ing in haughty astonishment.

“Get away, that’s what I mean.”

“How dare you, you low fellow!”

He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his
fists, without reflecting that the stout gentleman was a
match for two men like himself. But at that instant some
one seized him from behind, and a police constable stood
between them.

“That’s enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public
place. What do you want? Who are you?” he asked Ras-
kolnikov sternly, noticing his rags.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 47

_ Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight-
forward, sensible, soldierly face, with grey moustaches and
whiskers.

“You are just the man I want,” Raskolnikov cried, catch-
ing at his arm. “I am a student, Raskolnikov.... You
may as well know that too,” he added, addressing the gen-
tleman, “come along, I have something to show you.”

And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him
towards the seat.

“Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down
the boulevard. There is no telling who and what she is,
she does not look like a professional. It’s more likely she
has been given drink and deceived somewhere ... for the
first time . . . you understand? and they’ve put her out into
the street like that. Look at the way her dress is torn, and
the way it has been put on: she has been dressed by some-
body, she has not dressed herself, and dressed by un-
practised hands, by a man’s hands; that’s evident. And now
look there: I don’t know that dandy with whom I was
going to fight, I see him for the first time, but, he, too
has seen her on the road, just now, drunk, not knowing what
she is doing, and now he is very eager to get hold of her,
to get her away somewhere while she is in this state...
that’s certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw him my-
self watching her and following her, but I prevented him,
and he is just waiting for me to go away. Now he has
walked away a little, and is standing still, pretending to
make a cigarette.... Think how can we keep her out
of his hands, and how are we to get her home?”

The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout gentleman
was easy to understand, he turned ‘to consider the girl.
The policeman bent over to examine her more closely, and
his face worked with genuine compassion.

“Ah, what a pity!’ he said, shaking his head—“why, she
is quite a child! She has been deceived, you can see that
at once. Listen, lady,” he began addressing her, “where
do you live?” The girl opened her weary and sleepy-looking
eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and waved her hand.

“Here,” said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and find-
ing twenty copecks, “here, call a cab and tell him to drive

48 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

her to her address. The only thing is to find out her
address !”

“Missy, missy!” the policeman began again, taking the
money. “I'll fetch you a cab and take you home myself.
Where shall I take you, eh? Where do you live?”

“Go away! They won’t let me alone,” the girl muttered,
and once more waved her hand.

“Ach, ach, how shocking! It’s shameful, missy, it’s a
shame!” He shook his head again, shocked, sympathetic
and indignant.

“It’s a difficult job,” the policeman said to Raskolnikov,
and as he did so, he looked him up and down in a rapid
glance. He, too, must have seemed a strange figure to him:
dressed in rags and handing him money!

“Did you meet her far from here?” he asked him.

“T tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering,
just here, in the boulevard. She only just reached the
seat and sank down on it.”

“Ah, the shameful things that are done in the world
nowadays, God have mercy on us! An innocent creature
like that, drunk already! She has been deceived, that’s
a sure thing. See how her dress has been torn too....
Ah, the vice one sees nowadays! And as likely as not she
belongs to gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe.... There
are many like that nowadays. She looks refined, too, as
though she were a lady,” and he bent over her once more.

Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, “looking
like ladies and refined” with pretensions to gentility and
smartness...

“The chief thing is,” Raskolnikov persisted, “to keep her
out of this scoundrel’s hands! Why should he outrage her!
It’s as clear as day what he is after; ah, the brute, he is
not moving off!”

Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him. The gentle-
man heard him, and seemed about to fly into a rage again,
but thought better of it, and confined himself to a con-
temptuous look. He then walked slowly another ten paces
away and again halted.

“Keep her out of his hands we can,” said the constable
thoughtfully, “if only she’d tell us where to take her, but

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 49

!”? he bent over her once

as it is.... Missy, hey, missy
more.

She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him
intently, as though realising something, got up from the
seat and walked away in the direction from which she had
come. “Oh shameful wretches, they won’t let me alone!”
she said, waving her hand again. She walked quickly,
though staggering as before. The dandy followed her,
but along another avenue, keeping his eye on her.

“Don’t be anxious, I won’t let him have her,” the police-
man said resolutely, and he set off after them.

“Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!” he repeated aloud,
sighing.

At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov;
in an instant a complete revulsion of feeling came over him.

“Hey, here!’ he shouted after the policeman.

The latter turned round.

“Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her go!
Let him amuse himself.” He pointed at the dandy, “What
is it to do with you?”

The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him open-
eyed. Raskolnikov laughed.

“Well!” ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture of con-
tempt, and he walked after the dandy and the girl, probably
taking Raskolnikov for a madman or something even worse.

“He has carried off my twenty copecks,” Raskolnikov
murmured angrily when he was left alone. “Well, let him
take as much from the other fellow to allow him to have
the girl and so let it end. And why did I want to interfere?
Is it for me to help? Have I any right to help? Let them
devour each other alive—what is it to me? How did I
dare to give him twenty copecks? Were they mine?”

In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched.
He sat down on the deserted seat. His thoughts strayed
aimlessly. ... He found it hard to fix his mind on any-
thing at that moment. He longed to forget himself
altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and
begin life anew. ...

“Poor girl!” he said, looking at the empty corner where
she had sat—*“She will come to herself and weep, and then

50 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

her mother will find out.... She will give her a beating,
a horrible, shameful beating and then maybe, turn her out
of doors.... And even if she does not, the Darya
Frantsovnas will get wind of it, and the girl will soon be
slipping out on the sly here and there. Then there will be
the hospital directly (that’s always the luck of those girls
with respectable mothers, who go wrong on the sly)
and then ...again the hospital... drink... the
taverns ... and more hospital, in two or three years-—a
wreck, and her life over at eighteen or nineteen. ... Have
not I seen cases like that? And how have they been brought
to it? Why, they’ve all come to it like that. Ugh! But
what does it matter? That’s as it should be, they tell us.
A certain percentage, they tell us, must every year go...
that way ... to the devil, I suppose, so that the rest may
remain chaste, and not be interfered with. A percentage!
What splendid words they have; they are so scientific, so
consolatory.... Once you’ve said ‘percentage,’ there’s
nothing more to worry about. If we had any other
word ... maybe we might feel more uneasy.... But
what if Dounia were one of the percentage! Of another
one if not that one?

“But where am I going?” he thought suddenly. “Strange.
I came out for something. As soon as J had read the letter
I came out....I was going to Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to
Razumihin. That’s what it was ...now I remember.
What for, though? And what put the idea of going to
Razumihin into my head just now? That’s curious.”

He wondered at himself. Razumihin was one of his old
comrades at the university. It was remarkable that
Raskolnikov had hardly any friends at the university; he
kept aloof from every one, went to see no one, and did
not welcome any one who came to see him, and indeed
every one soon gave him up. . He took no part in the
students’ gatherings, amusements or conversations. He
worked with great intensity without sparing himself, and
he was respected for this, but no one liked him. He was
very poor, and there was a sort of haughty pride and
reserve about him, as though he were keeping something
to himself. He seemed to some of his comrades to look

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 51

down upon them all as children, as though he were superior
in development, knowledge and convictions, as though their
beliefs and interests were beneath him.

With Razumihin he had got on, or, at least, he was more
unreserved and communicative with him. Indeed it was
impossible to be on any other terms with Razumihin. He
was an exceptionally good-humoured and candid youth,
good-natured to the point of simplicity, though both depth
and dignity ley concealed under that simplicity. The better
of his comrades understood this, and all were fond of him. |
He was extremely intelligent, though he was certainly
rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking appearance
—tall, thin, black-haired and always badly shaved. He was
sometimes uproarious and was reputed to be of great
physical strength. One night, when out in a festive com-
pany, he had with one blow laid a gigantic policeman on
his back. There was no limit to his drinking powers, but
he could abstain from drink altogether; he sometimes went
too far in his pranks; but he could do without pranks
altogether. Another thing striking about Razumihin, no
failure distressed him, and it seemed as though no
unfavourable circumstances could crush him. He could
lodge anywhere, and bear the extremes of cold and hunger,
He was very poor, and kept himself entirely on what he
could earn by work of one sort or another. He knew of
no end of resources by which to earn money. He spent
one whole winter without lighting his stove, and used to
declare that he liked it better, because one slept more
soundly in the cold. For the present he, too, had been
obliged to give up the university, but it was only for a time,
and he was working with all his might to save enough to
return to his studies again. Raskolnikov had not been to
see him for the last four months, and Razumihin did not
even know his address. About two months before, they
had met in the street, but Raskolnikov had turned away
and even crossed to the other side that he might not be
observed. And though Razumihin noticed him, he passed
him by, as he did not want to annoy him.

CHAPTER V

* F course, I’ve been meaning lately to go to
Razumihin’s to ask for work, to ask him to get me
lessons or something...’ Raskolnikov thought,

“but what help can he be to me now? Suppose he gets me

lessons, suppose he shares his last farthing with me, if

he has any farthings, so that I could get some boots and
make myself tidy enough to give lessons...hm...

Well and what then? What shall I do with the few coppers

I earn? That’s not what I want now. It’s really absurd

for me to go to Razumihin. .. .”

The question why he was now going to Razumihin
agitated him even more than he was himself aware; he kept
uneasily seeking for some sinister significance in this
apparently ordinary action.

“Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find
a way out by means of Razumihin alone?” he asked himself
in perplexity.

He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say,
after long musing, suddenly, as it were spontaneously and
by chance, a fantastic thought came into his head.

“Hm... to Razumihin’s,’ he said all at once, calmly,
as though he had reached a final determination. “I shall
go to Razumihin’s of course, but... not now. I shall
go to him ...on the next day after It, when It will be
over and everything will begin afresh... .”

And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.

“After It,’ he shouted, jumping up from the seat, “but
is It really going to happen? Is it possible it really will
happen?” He left the seat, and went off almost at a run;
he meant to turn back, homewards, but the thought of
going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing; in
that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all this had
for a month past been growing up in him; and he walked

on at random.
52

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 53

His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made
him feel shivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With
a kind of effort he began almost unconsciously, from some
inner craving, to stare at all the objects before him, as
though looking for something to distract his attention; but
he did not succeed, and kept dropping every moment into
brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and
looked round, he forgot at once what he had just been
thinking about and even where he was going. In this
way he walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came out
on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge and turned
towards the islands. The greenness and freshness were at
first restful to his weary eyes after the dust of the town
and the huge houses that hemmed him in and weighed
upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling close-
ness, no stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations
passed into morbid irritability. Sometimes he stood still
before a brightly painted summer villa standing among
green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw in the
distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and
balconies, and children running in the gardens. The flowers
especially caught his attention; he gazed at them longer
than at anything. He was met, too, by luxurious carriages
and by men and women on horseback; he watched them
with curious eyes and forgot about them before they had
vanished from his sight. Once he stood still and counted
his money; he found he had thirty copecks. “Twenty to
the policeman, three to Nastasya for the letter, so I must
have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs
yesterday,” he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown
reason, but he soon forgot with what object he had taken
the money out of his pocket. He recalled it on passing
an eating-house or tavern, and felt that he was
hungry. ... Going into the tavern he drank a glass of
vodka and ate a pie of some sort. He finished eating it
as he walked away. It was a !ong while since he had
taken vodka and it had an effect upon him at once, though
he only drank a wine-glassful. His legs felt suddenly
heavy and a great drowsiness came upon him. He turned
homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped com-

4 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

pletely exhausted, turned off the road into the bushes, sank
down upon the grass and instantly fell asleep.

In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a
singular actuality, vividness and extraordinary semblance
of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the
setting and the whole picture are so truthlike and filled
with details so delicate, so unexpected, but so artistically
consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin
or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the
waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the
memory and make a powerful impression on the over-
wrought and deranged nervous system.

Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was
back in his childhood in the little town of his birth. He
was a child about seven years old, walking into the country
with his father on the evening of a holiday. It was a
grey and heavy day, the country was exactly as he
remembered it; indeed he recalled it far more vividly in
his dream than he had done in memory. The little town
stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, not even a willow
near it; only in the far distance, a copse lay, a dark blur
on the very edge of the horizon. A few paces beyond the
last market garden stood a tavern, a big tavern, which had
always aroused in him a feeling of aversion, even of fear,
when he walked by it with his father. There was always
a crowd there, always shouting, laughter and abuse, hide-
ous hoarse singing and often fighting. Drunken and
horrible-looking figures were hanging about the tavern.
He used to cling close to his father, trembling all over when
he met them. Near the tavern the road became a dusty
track, the dust of which was always black. It was a
winding road, and about a hundred paces further on, it
turned to the right to the graveyard. In the middle of the
graveyard stood a stone church with a green cupola where
he used to go to mass two or three times a year with his
father and mother, when a service was held in memory
of his grandmother, who had long been dead, and whom
he had never seen. _On these occasions they used to take
on a white dish tied up in a table napkin a special sort
of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in the shape of

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 55

a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned, un-
adorned ikons and the old priest with the shaking head.
Near his grandmother’s grave, which was marked by a
stone, was the little grave of his younger brother who had
died at six months old. He did not remember him at all,
but he had been told about his little brother, and whenever
he visited the graveyard he used religiously and reverently
to cross himself and to bow down and kiss the little grave.
And now he dreamt that he was walking with his father
past the tavern on the way to the graveyard; he was
holding his father’s hand and looking with dread at the
tavern. A peculiar circumstance attracted his attention:
there seemed to be some kind of festivity going on, there
were crowds of gaily dressed townspeople, peasant women,
their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts, all singing and all
more or less drunk. Near the entrance of the tavern stood
a cart, but a strange cart. It was one of those big carts
usually drawn by heavy cart-horses and laden with casks
of wine or other heavy goods. He always liked looking at
those great cart-horses, with their long manes, thick legs,
and slow even pace, drawing along a perfect mountain
with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier
going with a load than without it. But now, strange to say,
in the shafts of such a cart he saw a thin little sorrel beast,
one of those peasants’ nags which he had often seen strain-
ing their utmost under a heavy load of wood or hay,
especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or in
a rut. And the peasants would beat them so cruelly, some-
times even about the nose and eyes and he felt so sorry, so
sorry for them that he almost cried, and his mother always
used to take him away from the window. All of a sudden
there was a great uproar of shouting, singing and the
balalaika, and from the tavern a number of big and very
drunken peasants came out, wearing red and blue shirts
and coats thrown over their shoulders.

“Get in, get in!” shouted one of them, a young thick-
necked peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot. “I'll

take you all, get in!” ’
But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and
exclamations in the crowd.

56 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Take us all with a beast like that!”

“Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in
such a cart?”

“And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!”

“Get in, I'll take you all,” Mikolka shouted again, leap-
ing first into the cart, seizing the reins and standing straight
up in front. ‘The bay has gone with Matvey,”’ he shouted
from the cart—‘‘and this brute, mates, is just breaking my
heart, I feel as if I could kill her. She’s just eating her
head off. Get in, I tell you! Ill make her gallop! She'll
gallop!” and he picked up the whip, preparing himself
with relish to flog the little mare.

“Get in! Come along!” The crowd laughed. “D’you
hear, she'll gallop!”

“Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the
last ten years!”

“She'll jog along!”

“Don’t you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you,
get ready!”

“All right! Give it to her!”

They all clambered into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and
' making jokes. Six men got in and there was still room
for more. They hauled in a fat, rosy-cheeked woman.
She was dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded head-
dress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and
laughing. The crowd round them was laughing too and
indeed, how could they help laughing? That wretched
nag was to drag all the cartload of them at a gallop! Two
young fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready
to help Mikolka. With the cry of “now,” the mare tugged
with all her might, but far from galloping, could scarcely
move forward; she struggled with her legs, gasping and
shrinking from the blows of the three whips which were
showered upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and
‘in the crowd was redoubled, but Mikolka flew into a rage
and furiously thrashed the mare, as though he supposed
she really could gallop.

“Let me get in, too, mates,” shouted a young man in the
crowd whose appetite was aroused.

“Get in, all get in,” cried Mikolka, “she will draw you

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 57

all—I’ll beat her to death!” And he thrashed and thrashed
at the mare, beside himself with fury.

“Father, father,” he cried, “father, what are they doing?
Father, they are beating the poor horse!”

“Come along, come along!” said his father. “They are
drunken and foolish, they are in fun; come away, don’t
look!’ and he tried to draw him away, but he tore himself
away from his hand, and, beside himself with horror, ran to
the horse. The poor beast was in a bad way. She was gasp-
ing, standing still, then tugging again and almost falling.

“Beat her to death,” cried Mikolka, “it’s come to that.
Tl do for her!”

“What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?”
shouted an old man in the crowd.

“Did any one ever see the like? A wretched nag like that
pulling such a cartload,” said another.

“You'll kill her,” shouted the third. i
“Don’t meddle! It’s my property, I’ll do what I choose.
Get in, more of you! Get in, all of you! I will have her

goatagallop!...”

All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered every-
thing: the mare, roused by the shower of blows, began feebly
kicking. Even the old man could not help smiling. To
think of a wretched little beast like that trying to kick!

Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the
mare to beat her about the ribs. One ran each side.

“Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes,” cried
Mikolka. .

“Give us a song, mates,” shouted some one in the cart and
every one in the cart joined in a riotous song, jingling a
tambourine and whistling. The woman went on cracking
nuts and laughing.

. - - He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her
being whipped across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was
crying, he felt choking, his tears were streaming. One of
the men gave him a cut with the whip across the face, he
did not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he
rushed up to the grey-headed old man with the grey beard,
who was shaking his head in disapproval. One woman seized
him by the hand and would have taken him away, but he

58 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

tore himself from her and ran back to the mare. She was
almost at the last gasp, but began kicking once more.

“T’ll teach you to kick,’ Mikolka shouted ferociously. He
threw down the whip, bent forward and picked up from the
bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, he took hold of one
end with both hands and with an effort brandished it over
the mare.

“He'll crush her,’ was shouted round him. “He'll kill
her !” ya

“It’s my property,” shouted Mikolka and brought the shaf
down with a swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy
thud.

“Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?”
shouted voices in the crowd.

And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a
second time on the spine of the luckless mare. She sank
back on her haunches, but lurched forward and tugged for-
ward with all her force, tugged first on one side and then
on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six whips
were attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raised
again and fell upon her a third time, then a tourth, with
heavy measured blows. Mikolka was in a fury that he could
not kill her at one blow.

“She’s a tough one,” was shouted in the crowd.

“She'll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end
of her,” said an admiring spectator in the crowd.

“Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off,” shouted a third.
“Tl show you! Stand off,” Mikolka screamed frantically;
he threw down the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked
up an iron crowbar. “Look out,” he shouted, and with all
his might he dealt a stunning blow at the poor mare. The
blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull, but
the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her back and

she fell on the ground like a log.

“Finish her off,” shouted Mikolka and he leapt, beside him-
self, out of the car. Several young men, also flushed with
drink, seized anything they could come across—whips, sticks,
poles, and ran to the dying mare. Mikolka stood on one side
and began dealing random blows with the crowbar. The
mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 59

“Vou butchered her,’ some one shouted in the crowd.

“Why wouldn’t she gallop then?”

“My property!” shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes,
brandishing the bar in his hands. He stood as though re-
gretting that he had nothing more to beat.

“No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,’ many
voices were shouting in the crowd.

But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way screaming,
through the crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round
her bleeding dead head and kissed it, kissed the eyes and
kissed the lips. . . . Then he jumped up and flew in a frenzy
with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instant his father
who had been running after him, snatched him up and car-
ried him out of the crowd.

“Come along, come! Let us go home,” he said to him.

“Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!”
he sobbed, but his voice broke and the words came in shrieks
from his panting chest.

“They are drunk. ... They are brutal... it’s not our
business!” said his father. He put his arms round his
father, but he felt choked, choked. He tried to draw a
breath, to cry out—and woke up.

He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with
perspiration, and stood up in terror.

“Thank God, that was only a dream,” he said, sitting down
under a tree and drawing deep breaths. “But what is it?
Is it some fever coming on? Such a hideous dream!”

He felt utterly broken; darkness and confusion were in
his soul. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his
head on his hands.

- “Good God!” he cried, “can it be, can it be, that I shall
really take an axe, that I shall strike her on the head, split
her skull open ... that I shall tread in the sticky warm
blood, break the lock, steal and tremble; hide, all spattered
in the blood . . . with the axe. . . . Good God, can it be?”

He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.

“But why am I going on like this?” he continued, sitting
up again, as it were in profound amazement. “I knew that
I could never bring myself to it, so what have I been tor-
turing myself for till now? Yesterday, yesterday, when I

60 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

went to make that . . . experiment, yesterday I realised com-
pletely that I could never bear to do it... Why am I going
over it again, then? Why am I still hesitating? As I came
down the stairs yesterday, I said myself that it was base,
loathsome, vile, vile... the very thought of it made me
feel sick and filled me with horror.”

“No, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Granted, granted
that there is no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have
concluded this last month is clear as day, true as arith
metic. ... My God! Anyway I couldn’t bring myself to
it! I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Why, why then am
BL ones

He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though sur-
prised at finding himself in this place, and went towards the
bridge. He was pale, his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in
every limb, but he seemed suddenly to breathe more easily.
He felt he had cast off that fearful burden that had so long
been weighing upon him, and all at once there was a sense
of relief and peace in his soul. “Lord,” he prayed, “show
me my path—I renounce that accursed . . . dream of mine.”

Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the
Neva, at the glowing red sun setting in the glowing sky. In
spite of his weakness he -was not conscious of fatigue. It
was as though an abscess that had been forming for a month
past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom, freedom!
He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession!

Later on, when he recalled that time and all that hap-
pened to him during those days, minute by minute, point by
point, he was superstitiously impressed by one circumstance,
which though in itself not very exceptional, always seemed
to him afterwards the predestined turning-point of his fate.
He could never understand and explain to himself why, when
he was tired and worn out, when it would have been more
convenient for him to go home by the shortest and most
direct way, he had returned by the Hay Market where he
had no need to go. It was obviously and quite unnecessarily
out of his way, though not much so. It is true that it hap-
pened to him dozens of times to return home without notic-
ing what streets he passed through. But why, he was always
asking himself, why had such an important, such a decisive

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 63

and at the same time such an absolutely chance meeting
happened in the Hay Market (where he had moreover no
reason to go) at the very hour, the very minute of his life
when he was just in the very mood and in the very circum-
stances in which that meeting was able to exert the gravest
and most decisive influence on his whole destiny? As
though it had been lying in wait for him on purpose!

It was about nine o’clock when he crossed the Hay Mar-
ket. At the tables and the barrows, at the booths and the
shops, all the market people were closing their establish-
ments or clearing away and packing up their wares and, like
their customers, were going home. Rag pickers and coster-
mongers of all kinds were crowding round the taverns in
the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Hay Market. Ras-
kolnikov particularly liked this place and the neighbouring
alleys, when he wandered aimlessly in the streets. Here his
rags did not attract contemptuous attention, and one could
walk about in any attire without scandalising people. At
the corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had two
tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, &c.
They, too, had got up to go home, but were lingering in
conversation with a friend, who had just come up to them.
This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as every one called
her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of the old pawnbroker,
Alyona Ivanovna, whom Raskolnikov had visited the previous
day to pawn his watch and make his experiment.... He
already knew all about Lizaveta and she knew him a little
too. She was a single woman of about thirty-five, tall,
clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was a com-
plete slave and went in fear and trembling of her sister, who
made her work day and night, and even beat her. She was
standing with a bundle before the huckster and his wife,
listening earnestly and doubtfully. They were talking of
something with special warmth. The moment Raskolnikov
caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strange sensa-
tion as it were of intense astonishment, though there was
nothing astonishing about this meeting.

“You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta
Ivanovna,” the huckster was saying aloud. “Come round
to-morrow about seven. They will be here too.”

62 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“To-morrow?” said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as
though unable to make up her mind.

“Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivan-
ovna,”’ gabbied the huckster’s wife, a lively little woman. “I
look at you, you are like some little babe. And she is not
your own sister either—nothing but a stepsister and what a
hand she keeps over you!”

“But this time don’t say a word to Alyona Ivanovna,” her
husband interrupted; “that’s my advice, but come round to
us without asking. It will be worth your while. Later on
your sister herself may have a notion.”

“Am I to come?”

“About seven o’clock to-morrow. And they will be here.
You will be able to decide for yourself.”

“And we'll have a cup of tea,” added his wife.

“All right, I’ll come,” said Lizaveta, still pondering, and
she began slowly moving away.

Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He
passed softly, unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His
first amazement was followed by a thrill of horror, like a
shiver running down his spine. He had learnt, he had sud-
denly quite unexpectedly learnt, that the next day at seven
o'clock Lizaveta, the old woman’s sister and only companion,
would be away from home and that therefore at seven o’clock
precisely the old woman would be left alone.

He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in
like a man condemned to death. He thought of nothing and
was incapable of thinking; but he felt suddenly in his whole
being that he had no more freedom of thought, no will, and
that everything was suddenly and irrevocably decided.

Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable op-
portunity, he could not reckon on a more certain step towards
the success of the plan than that which had just presented
itself. In any case, it would have been difficult to find out
beforehand and with certainty, with greater exactness and
less risk, and without dangerous inquiries and investigations,
that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whose life
an attempt was contemplated, would be at home and entirely
alone.

CHAPTER VI

F ATER on, Raskolnikov happened to find out why the
huckster and his wife had invited Lizaveta. It was a
very ordinary matter and there was nothing excep-

tional about it. A family who had come to the town and

been reduced to poverty were selling their household goods
and clothes, all women’s things. As the things would have
fetched little in the market, they were looking for a dealer.

This was Lizaveta’s business. She undertook such jobs and

was frequently employed, as she was very honest and always

fixed a fair price and stuck toit. She spoke asa rule little and,
as we have said already, she was very submissive and timid.

But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The
traces of superstition remained in him long after, and were
almost ineradicable. And in all this he was always after-
wards disposed to see something strange and mysterious, as
it were the presence of some peculiar influences and coin-
cidences. In the previous winter a student he knew called

Pokorev, who had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversa-

tion to give him the address of Alyona Ivanovna, the old

pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn anything. For

a long while he did not go to her, for he had lessons and

managed to get along somehow. Six weeks ago he had re-

membered the address; he had two articles that could be
pawned: his father’s old silver watch and a little gold ring
with three red stones, a present from his sister at parting.

He decided to take the ring. When he found the old woman

he had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first

glance, though he knew nothing special about her. He got
two roubles from her and went into a miserable little tavern
on his way home. He asked for tea, sat down and sank into
deep thought. A strange idea was pecking at his brain like

a chicken in the egg, and very, very much absorbed him.
Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a

student, whom he did not pW and had never seen, and

64 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

with him a young officer. They had played a game of bil-
liards and began drinking tea. All at once he heard the
student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona Ivan-
ovna and give him her address. This of itself seemed strange
to Raskolnikov; he had just come from her and here at once
heard her name. Of course it was a chance, but he could
not shake off a very extraordinary impression, and here some
one seemed to be speaking expressly for him; the student be-
gan telling his friend various details about Alyona Ivanovnat

“She is first rate,” he said. “You can always get money
from her. She is as rich as a Jew, she can give you five
thousand roubles at a time and she is not above taking a
pledge for a rouble. Lots of our fellows have had dealings
with her. But she is an awful old harpy. .. .”

And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she
was, how if you were only a day late with your interest the
pledge was lost; how she gave a quarter of the value of an
article and took five and even seven per cent. a month on
it and so on. The student chattered on, saying that she had
a sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little creature was con-
‘tinually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small
child, though Lizaveta was at least six feet high.

“There’s a phenomenon for you,” cried the student and
he laughed.

They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke
about her with a peculiar relish and was continually laughing
and the officer listened with great interest and asked him to
send Lizaveta to do some mending for him. Raskolnikov did
not miss a word and learned everything about her. Lizaveta
was younger than the old woman and was her hali-sister,
being the child of a different mother. She was thirty-five.
She worked day and night for her sister, and besides doing
the cooking and the washing, she did sewing and worked as a
charwoman and gave her sister all she earned. She did not
dare to accept an order or job of any kind without her sister’s
permission. The old woman had already made her will, and
Lizaveta knew of it, and by this will she would not get a
farthing; nothing but the movables, chairs and so on; all
the money was left to a monastery in the province of N. ;
that prayers might be said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta

CRIMH AND PUNISHMENT 65

was of lower rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully
uncouth in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that
looked as if they were bent outwards. She always wore bat-
tered goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What
the student expressed most surprise and amusement about
was the fact that Lizaveta was continually with child.

“But you say she is hideous?” observed the officer.

“Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed
up, but you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a
good-natured face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it
is that lotsof people are attracted by her. She is such a soft,
gentle creature, ready to put up with anything, always willing,
willing to do anything. And her smile is really very sweet.”

“You seem to find her attractive yourself,’ laughed the
officer.

“From her queerness. No, I'll tell you what. I could kill
that damned old woman and make off with her money, I as-
sure you, without the faintest conscience-prick,”’ the student
added with warmth. The officer laughed again while Ras-
kolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!

“Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,” the stu-
dent said hotly. “I was joking of course, but look here; on
one side we have a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful, ail-
ing, horrid old woman, not simply useless but doing actual
mischief, who has not an idea what she is living for herself,
and who will die in a day or two in any case. You under-
stand? You understand ?”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” answered the officer, watching
his excited companion attentively.

“Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives
thrown away for want of help and by thousands, on every
side! A hundred thousand good deeds could be done and
helped, on that old woman’s money which will be buried in a
monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on
the right path; dozens of families saved from destitution,
from ruin, from vice, from the Lock hospitals—and all with
her money. Kill her, take her money and with the help of
it devote oneself to the service of humanity and the good
of all. What do you think, would not one tiny crime be
wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thou-

66 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

sands would be saved from corruption and decay. One
death, and a hundred lives in exchange—it’s simple arith-
metic? Besides, what value has the life of that sickly,
stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence?
No more than the life of a louse, of a black beetle, less in
fact because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing
_ out the lives of others; the other day she bit Lizaveta’s
finger out of spite; it almost had to be amputated.”

“Of course she does not deserve to live,” remarked the
officer, “but there it is, it’s nature.”

“Oh well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature,
and, but for that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice.
But for that, there would never have been a single great man.
They talk of duty, conscience—I don’t want to say anything
against duty and conscience ;—but the point is what do we
mean by them. Stay, I have another question to ask you.
Listen !”

“No, you stay, I'll ask you a question. Listen!”

“Well!”

“You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would
-you kill the old woman yourself?”

“Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it... .
It’s nothing to do with me... ”

“But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there’s no
justice about it... . Let us have another game.”

Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all
ordinary youthful talk aud thought, such as he had often
heard before in different forms and on different themes. But
why had he happened to hear such a discussion and such
ideas at the very moment when his own brain was just
conceiving ... the very same ideas? And why, just at the
moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea
from the old woman, had he dropped at once upon a con-
versation about her? This coincidence always seemed strange ©
to him. This trivial talk in a tavern had an immense influ-
ence on him in his later action; as though there had really
been in it something preordained, some guiding hint. ...

On’returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on
the sofa and sat for a whole hour without stirring. Mean-

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 67

while it got dark; he had no candle and, indeed, it did not
occur to him to light up. He could never recollect whether
he had been thinking about anything at that time. At last
he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and
he realised with relief that he could lie down on the sofa.
Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over him, as it were crushing
him.

He slept an extraordinary long time and without dreaming.
Nastasya, coming into his room at ten o’clock the next morn-
ing, had difficulty in rousing him. She brought him in tea
and bread. The tea was again the second brew and again
in her own teapot.

“My goodness, how he sleeps
“And he is always asleep.”

He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up,
took a turn in his garret and sank back on the sofa again.

“Going to sleep again,” cried Nastasya. “Are you ill, eh?”
He made no reply.

“Do you want some tea?”

“Afterwards,” he said with an effort, closing his eyes again
and turning to the wall.

Nastasya stood over him.

“Perhaps he really is ill,” she said, turned and went out.
She came in again at two o’clock with soup. He was lying as
before. The tea stood untouched. Nastasya felt positively
offended and began wrathfully rousing him.

“Why are you lying like a log?” she shouted, looking at
him with repulsion.

He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and
stared at the floor.

“Are you ill or not?” asked Nastasya and again received
no answer. “You'd better go out and get a breath of air,”
she said after a pause. “Will you eat it or not?”

“Afterwards,” he said weakly. “You can go.”

And he motioned her out.

She remained a little longer, looked at him with com-
passion and went out.

A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked
for a long while at the tea and the soup. Then he took the
bread, took up a spoon and began to eat.

??

she cried indignantly.

58 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite,
as it were mechanically. His head ached less. After his
meal he stretched himself on the sofa again, but now he
could not sleep; he lay without stirring, with his face in the
pillow. He was haunted by daydreams and such strange
daydreams; in one, that kept recurring, he fancied that he
was in Africa, in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan
was resting, the camels were peacefully lying down; the
palms stood all round in a complete circle; all the party
were at dinner. But he was drinking water from a spring
which flowed gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was
wonderful, wonderful, blue, cold water running among the
parti-coloured stones and over the clean sand which glistened
here and there like gold... . Suddenly he heard a clock
strike. He started, roused himself, raised his head, looked
out of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly
jumped up wide awake as though some one had pulled him
off the sofa. He crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened
it and began listening on the staircase. His heart beat
terribly. But all was quiet on the stairs as if every one was
asleep... . It seemed to him strange and monstrous that he
could have slept in such forgetfulness from the previous
day and had done nothing, had prepared nothing yet. ...
And meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his drowsi-
ness and stupefaction were followed by an extraordinary,
feverish, as it were, distracted, haste. But the preparations
to be made were few. He concentrated all his energies on
thinking of everything and forgetting nothing: and his heart
kept beating and thumping so that he could hardly breathe.
First he had to make a noose and sew it into his overcoat—
a work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow and
picked out amongst the linen stuffed away under it, a worn
out, old unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long strip,
a couple of inches wide and about sixteen inches long. He
folded this strip in two, took off his wide, strong summer
overcoat of some stout cotton material (his only outer gar-
ment) and began sewing the two ends of the rag on the
inside, under the left armhole. His hands shook as he
sewed, but he did it successfully so that nothing showed out-
side when he put the coat on again. The needle and thread

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 69

he had got ready long before and they lay on his table in a
piece of paper. As for the noose, it was a very ingenious
device of his own; the noose was intended for the axe. It
was impossible for him to carry the axe through the street
in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he would still
have had to support it with his hand, which would have been
noticeable. Now he had only to put the head of the axe in
the noose, and it would hang quietly under his arm on the
inside. Putting his hand in his coat pocket, he could hold
the end of the handle.all the way, so that it did not swing;
and as the coat was very full, a regular sack in fact, it could
not be seen from outside that he was holding something with
the hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had
designed a fortnight before.

When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a
little opening between his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the
left corner and drew out the pledge, which he had got ready
long before and hidden there. This pledge was, however,
only a smoothly planed piece of wood the size and thickness
of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of wood
in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there was
some sort of a workshop. Afterwards he had added to the
wood a thin smooth piece of iron, which he had also picked
up at the same time in the street. Putting the iron which
was a little the smaller on the piece of wood, he fastened
them very firmly, crossing and recrossing the thread round
them; then wrapped them carefully and daintily in clean,
white paper and tied up the parcel so that it would be very
difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert the attention
of the old woman for a time, while she was trying to undo
the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip was
added to give weight, so that the woman might not guess the
first minute that the “thing” was made of wood. All this
had been stored by him beforehand under the sofa. He had
only just got the pledge out when he heard some one sud-
denly shout in the yard.

“Tt struck six long ago.”

“Long ago! My God!’

He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and
began to descend his thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly,

70 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

like a cat. He had still the most important thing to do—to
steal the axe from the kitchen. That the deed must be done
with an axe he had decided long ago. He had also a pocket
pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still
less on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe.
We may note in passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the
final resolutions taken by him in the matter; they had one
strange characteristic; the more final they were, the more
hideous and the more absurd they at once became in his eyes.
In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never fora
single instant all that time could believe in the carrying out
of his plans.

And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the
least point could have been considered and finally settled, and
no uncertainty of any kind had remained, he would, it seems,
have renounced it all as something absurd, monstrous and
impossible. But a whole mass of unsettled points and uncer-
tainties remained. As for getting the axe, that trifling busi-
ness cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier. Nas-
tasya was continually out of the house, especially in the
evenings; she would run in to the neighbours or to a shop,
_and always left the door ajar. It was the one thing the land-
lady was always scolding her about. And so when the time
came, he would only have to go quietly into the kitchen
and to take the axe, and an hour later (when everything
was over) go in and put it back again. But these were
doubtful points. Supposing he returned an hour later to put
it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot.
He would of course have to go by and wait till she went out
again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss the
axe, look for it, make an outcry—that would mean suspicion
or at least grounds for suspicion.

But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to
consider, and indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the
chief point, and put off trifling details, until he could believe
in it all. But that seemed utterly unattainable. So it seemed
to himself at least. He could not imagine, for instance, that
he would sometime leave off thinking, get up and simply go
there... . Even his late experiment (7.e. his visit with the
object of a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 71

at an experiment, far from being the real thing, as though
one should say “come, let us go and try it—why dream about
it!”’—and at once he had broken down and had run away
cursing, in a frenzy with himself. Meanwhile it would
seem, as regards the moral question, that his analysis was
complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he
could not find rational objections in himself. But in the last
resort. he simply ceased to believe in himself, and doggedly,
slavishly sought arguments in all directions, fumbling for
them, as though some one were forcing and drawing him
to it.

At first—long before indeed—he had been much occupied
with one question; why almost all crimes are so badly con-
cealed and so easily detected, and why almost all criminals
leave such obvious traces? He had come gradually to many
different and curious conclusions, and in his opinion the
chief reason lay not so much in the material impossibility
of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost
every criminal is subject to a failure of will and reasoning
power by a childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very
instant when prudence and caution are most essential. It
was his conviction that this eclipse of reason and failure of
will power attacked a man like a disease, developed grad-
ually and reached its highest point just before the perpetra-
tion of the crime, continued with equal violence at the
moment of the crime and for longer or shorter time after,
according to the individual case, and then passed off like
any other disease. The question whether the disease gives
rise to the crime, or whether the crime from its own peculiar
nature is always accompanied by something of the nature of
disease he did not yet feel able to decide.

When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his
own case there could not be such a morbid reaction, that his
reason and will would remain unimpaired at the time of
carrying out his design, for the single reason that his design
was “not a crime... .” We will omit all the process by
means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have
run too far ahead-already.. . We may add only that the
practical, purely material difficulties of the affair occupied
a secondary position in his mind. “One has but to keep all

72 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

one’s will power and reason to deal with them, and they will
all be overcome at the time when once one has familiarised
oneself with the minutest details of the business. . . .”
But this preparation had never been begun. His final
decisions were what he came to trust least, and when the
hour struck, it all came to pass quite differently, as it were
accidentally and unexpectedly.

One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he
had even left the staircase. When he reached the landlady’s
kitchen, the door, of which was open as usual, he glanced
cautiously in to see whether, in Nastasya’s absence, the land-
lady herself was there, or if not, whether the door to her
own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when
he went in for the axe. But what was his amazement when
he suddenly saw that Nastasya was not only at home in the
kitchen, but was occupied there, taking linen out of a basket
and hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she left off hanging
the clothes, turned to him and stared at him all the time he
was passing. He turned away his eyes, and walked past as
though he noticed nothing. But it was the end of every-
thing; he had not the axe! He was overwhelmed.

“What made me think,” he reflected, as he went under the
gateway. “What made me think that she would be sure not
to be at home at that moment! Why, why, why did I
assume this so certainly?”

He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have
laughed at himself in his anger. ...A dull animal rage
boiled within him.

He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street,
to go a walk for appearance’ sake was revolting; to go back
to his room, even more revolting. “And what a chance I have
lost for ever!” he muttered, standing aimlessly in the gate-
way, just opposite the porter’s little dark room, which was
also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter’s room, two
paces away from him, something shining under the bench to
the right caught his eye. . .. He looked about him—nobody.
He approached the room on tiptoe, went down two steps into
it and in a faint voice called the porter. “Yes, not at home!
Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the door is wide
open.” He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled it

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 13

out from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks
of wood; at once before going out, he made it fast in the
noose, he thrust both hands into his pockets and went out of
the room; no one had noticed him! ‘‘When reason fails, the
devil helps!” he thought with a strange grin. This chance
raised his spirits extraordinarily.

He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to
avoid awakening suspicion. He scarcely looked at the
passers-by, tried to escape looking at their faces at all, and
to be as little noticeable as possible. Suddenly he thought of
his hat. “Good heavens! I had the money the day before
yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!” A curse
rose from the bottom of his soul.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw
by a clock on the wall that it was ten minutes past seven.
He had to make haste and at the’ same time to go some way
round, so as to approach the house from the other side. ...

When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he
had sometimes thought that he would be very much afraid.
But he was not very much afraid now, was not afraid at all,
indeed. His mind was even occupied by irrelevant matters,
but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov garden,
he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great
fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere
in all the squares. By degrees he passed to the conviction
that if the summer garden were extended to the field of Mars,
and perhaps joined to the garden of the Mihailovsky Palace,
it would be a splendid thing and a great benefit to the town.
Then he was interested by the question why in all great towns
men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some peculiar
way inclined to live in those parts of the town where there
are no gardens nor fountains; where there is most dirt and
smell and all sorts of nastiness. Then his own walks through
the Hay Market came back to his mind, and for a moment he
waked up to reality. “What nonsense!” he thought, “better
think of nothing at all!”

“So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every
object that meets them on the way,” flashed through his mind,
but simply flashed, like lightning; he made haste to dismiss
this thought... . And by now he was near; here was the

4—R

14 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock somewhere struck
once. “What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it must
be fast!”

Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates.
At that very moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a
huge waggon of hay had just driven in at the gate, completely
screening him as he passed under the gateway, and the wag-
gon had scarcely had time to drive through into the yard,
before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other
side of the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrellihg;
but no one noticed him and no one met him. Many windows
looking into that huge quadrangular yard were open at that
moment, but he did not raise his head—he had not the
strength to. The staircase leading to the old woman’s room
was close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was
already on the stairs....°

Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing
heart, and once more feeling for the axe and setting it
straight, he began softly and cautiously ascending the stairs,
listening every minute. But the stairs, too, were quite
deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no one. One
flat indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were
at work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still,
thought a minute and went on. “Of course it would be
better if they had not been here, but... it’s two storeys
above them.

And here was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was
the flat opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old
woman’s was apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed
on the door had been torn off—they had gone away!... He
was out of breath. For one instant the thought floated
through his mind “Shall I go back?” But he made no answer
and began listening at the old woman’s door, a dead silence.
Then he listened again on the staircase, listened long and
intently . . . then looked about him for the last time, pulled
himself together, drew himself up, and once more tried the
axe in the noose. “Am I very pale?” he wondered. “Am I
not evidently agitated? She is mistrustful. . . . Had I better
wait a little longer ... till my heart leaves off thumping?”

But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 75

to spite him, it throbbed more and more violently. He could
stand it no longer, he slowly put out his hand to the bell and
rang. Half a minute later he rang again, more loudly.

No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of
place. The old woman was, of course, at home, but she was
suspicious and alone. He had some knowledge of her habits
: ee and once more he put his ear to the door. Either his
senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to suppose),
or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he suddenly
heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the
lock and the rustle of a skirt at the very door. Some one
was standing stealthily close to the lock and just as he was
doing on the outside was secretly listening within, and seemed
to have her ear to the door... . He moved a little on pur-
pose and muttered something aloud that he might not have
the appearance of hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly,
soberly and without impatience. Recalling it afterwards,
that moment stood out in his mind vividly, distinctly, for
ever; he could not make out how he had had such cunning,
for his mind was as it were clouded at moments and he was
almost unconscious of his body.... An instant later he
heard the latch unfastened.

CHAPTER VII

two sharp and suspicious eyes stared at him out of the
darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost his head and nearly
made a great mistake.

Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being
alone, and not hoping that the sight of him would disarm her
suspicions, he took hold of the door and drew it towards him
to prevent the old woman from attempting to shut it again.
Seeing this she did not pull the door back, but she did not let
go the handle so that he almost dragged her out with it on to
the stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the doorway not
allowing him to pass, he advanced straight upon her. She
stepped back in alarm, tried to say something, but seemed
unable to speak and stared with open eyes at him.

“Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna,” he began, trying to
speak easily, but his voice would not obey him, it broke and
shook. “I have come ...I have brought something...
but we’d better come in... to the light... .”

And leaving her, he passed straight into the room unin-
vited. The old woman ran after him; her tongue was
unloosed.

“Good heavens! What is it? Who is it? What do you
want?”

“Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov
>. here, I brought you the pledge I promised the other
day. ... and he held out the pledge.

The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at
once stared in the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked
intently, maliciously and mistrustfully. A minute passed; he
even fancied something like a sneer in her eyes, as though she
had already guessed everything. He felt that he was losing
his head, that he was almost frightened, so frightened that if
she were to look like that and not say a word for another

half minute, he thought he would have run away from her.
76

ke door was as before opened a tiny crack, and again

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 77

“Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?”
he said suddenly, also with malice. “Take it if you like, if
not I’ll go elsewhere, I am in a hurry.”

He had not even thought of saying this, but it was sud-
denly said of itself. The old woman recovered herself, and
her visitor’s resolute tone evidently restored her confidence.

“But why, my good sir, all of a minute. . . . What is it?”
she asked, looking at the pledge.

“The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you
know.”

She held out her hand.

“But how pale you are, to be sure ..; and your hands
are trembling too? Have you been bathing, or what?”

_ “Fever,” he answered abruptly. “You can’t help getting
pale . . . if you’ve nothing to eat,” he added, with difficulty
articulating the words.

His strength was failing him again. But his answer
sounded like the truth; the old woman took the pledge.

“What is it?” she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov
intently and weighing the pledge in her hand.

“A thing ... cigarette case. ... Silver. . . . Look at it.”

“Tt does not seem somehow like silver. .. . How he has
wrapped it up!”

Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to
the light (all her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling
heat), she left him altogether for some seconds and stood
with her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed the
axe from the noose, but did not yet take it out altogether,
simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His hands
were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing
more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let
the axe slip and fall... . A sudden giddiness came over him.

“But what has he tied it up like this for?” the old woman
cried with vexation and moved towards him.

He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe
quite out, swung it with both arms, scarcely conscious of
himself, and almost without effort, almost mechanically,
brought the blunt side down on her head. He seemed not
to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he had once
brought the axe down, his strength returned to him.

78 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light
hair, streaked with grey, thickly smeared with grease, was
plaited in a rat’s tail and fastened by a broken horn comb
which stood out on the nape of her neck. As she was so
short, the blow fell on the very top of her skull. She cried
out, but very faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on the
floor, raising her hands to her head. In one hand she still
held “the pledge.” Then he dealt her another and another
blow with the blunt side and on the same spot. The blood
gushed forth as from an overturned glass, the body fell back.
He stepped back, let it fall, and at once bent over her face;
she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their
sockets, the brow and the whole face were drawn and con-
torted convulsively.

He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt
at once in her pocket (trying to avoid the streaming blood)
—the same right hand pocket from which she had taken the
key on his last visit. He was in full possession of his facul-
ties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his hands were
still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been
particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to
get smeared with blood. ... He pulled out the keys at once,
they were all, as before, in one bunch on a steel ring. He
ran at once into the bedroom with them. It was a very small
room with a whole shrine of holy images. Against the other
wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with a silk
patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of
drawers. Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the keys
into the chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a convulsive
shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to
give it all up and goaway. But that was only for an instant;
it was too late to go back. He positively smiled at himself,
when suddenly another terrifying idea occurred to his mind.
He suddenly fancied that the old woman might be still alive
and might recover her senses. Leaving the keys in the chest,
he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and lifted it
once more over the old woman, but did not bring it down.
There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and
examining her again more closely, he saw clearly that the
skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He was

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 79

about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and
indeed it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a
perfect pool of blood. All at once he noticed a string on her
neck; he tugged at it, but the string was strong and did not
snap and besides, it was soaked with blood. He tried to pull
it out from the front of the dress, but something held it and
prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised the axe
again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not
dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in
the blood, after two minutes’ hurried effort, he cut the string
and took it off without touching the body with the axe; he
was not mistaken—it was a purse. On the string were two
crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of copper, and an image
in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy chamois
leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was
stuffed very full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without
looking at it, flung the crosses on the old woman’s body and
rushed back into the bedroom, this time taking the axe with
him.

He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began
trying them again. But he was unsuccessful. They would
not fit in the locks. It was not so much that his hands were
shaking, but that he kept making mistakes; though he saw
for instance that a key was not the right one and would not
fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered and
realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was
hanging there with the small keys could not possibly belong
to the chest of drawers, (on his last visit this had struck
him) but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps
was hidden in that box. He left the chest of drawers, and
at once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old women
usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there
was a good-sized box under the bed, at least a yard in length,
with an arched lid covered with red leather and studded with
steel nails. The notched key fitted at once and unlocked it.
At the top, under a white sheet, was a coat of red brocade
lined with hareskin; nnder it was a silk dress, then a shawl
and it seemed as though there was nothing below but clothes.
The first thing he did was to wipe his blood-stained hands on
the red brocade. “It’s red, and on red blood will be less

80 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

noticeable,” the thought passed through his mind; then he
suddenly came to himself. “Good God, am I going out of
my senses?” he thought with terror.

But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch
slipped from under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them
all over. There turned out to be various articles made of
gold among the clothes—probably all pledges, unredeemed or
waiting to be redeemed—bracelets, chains, ear-rings, pins and
such things. Some were in cases, others simply wrapped im
newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with
tape. Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of
his trousers and overcoat without examining or undoing the
parcels and cases; but he had not time to take many. ...

He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman
lay. He stopped short and was still as death. But all was
quiet, so it must have been his fancy. All at once he heard
distinctly a faint cry, as though some one had uttered a low
broken moan. Then again dead silence for a minute or two.
He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited holding
his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran
out of the bedroom.

In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle
in her arms. She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered
sister, white as a sheet and seeming not to have the strength
to cry out. Seeing him run out of the bedroom, she began
faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a shudder ran down her
face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but still did not
scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the
corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but still uttered
no sound, as though she could not get breath to scream. He
rushed at her with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as
one sees babies’ mouths, when they begin to be frightened,
stare intently at what frightens them and are on the point of
screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so simple and had
been so thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not even
raise a hand to guard her face, though that was the most
necessary and natural action at the moment, for the axe was
raised over her face. She only put up her empty left hand, but
not to her face, slowly holding it out before her as though
motioning him away. The axe fell with the sharp edge just

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 81

on the skull and split at one blow all the top of her head. She
fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head,
snatched up her bundle, dropped it again and ran into the
entry.

Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially
after this second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to
run away from the place as fast as possible. And if at that
moment he had been capable of seeing and reasoning more
correctly, if he had been able to realise all the difficulties of
his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the absurd-
ity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and,
perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get
out of that place and to make his way home, it is very possible
that he would have flung up everything, and would have gone
to give himself up, and not from fear, but from simple hor-
ror and loathing of what he had done. The feeling of loath-
ing especially surged up within him and grew stronger every
minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even
into the room for anything in the world.

But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess had begun by
degrees to take possession of him; at moments he forgot
himself, or rather forgot what was of importance and caught
at trifles. Glancing, however, into the kitchen and seeing a
bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought him of
washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with
blood. He dropped the axe with the blade in the water,
snatched a piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the
window, and began washing his hands in the bucket. When
they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and
spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood
where there were spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then
he wiped it all with some linen that was hanging to dry on a
line in the kitchen and then he was a long while attentively
examining the axe at the window. There was no trace left
on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the
axe in the noose under his coat. Then as far as was possible,
in the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat,
his trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed
to be nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and
rubbed the boots. But he knew he was not looking thor-

82 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

oughly, that there might be something quite noticeable that
he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the room,
lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind—the
idea that he was mad and that at that moment he was incapa-
ble of reasoning, of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps
to be doing something utterly different from what he was
now doing. “Good God!” he muttered “I must fly, fly,” and
he rushed into the entry. But here a shock of terror awaited
him such as he had never known before.

He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the
door, the outer door from the stairs, at which he had not
long before waited and rung, was standing unfastened and
at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all the time, all
that time! The old woman had not shut it after him per-
haps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen
Lizaveta afterwards! And how could he, how could he
have failed to reflect that she must have come in somehow!
She could not have come through the wall!

He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.

“But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get
away wei?

He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listen-
ing on the staircase.

He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be
in the gateway, two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting,
quarrelling and scolding. “What are they about?” He
waited patiently. At last all was still, as though suddenly
cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out, but
suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and
some one began going downstairs humming a tune. “How
is it they all make such a noise!” flashed through his mind.
Once more he closed the door and waited. At last all was
still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a step towards
the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps.

The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the
stairs, but he remembered quite clearly and distinctly that
from the first sound he began for some reason to suspect that
this was some one coming there, to the fourth floor, to the
old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar, sig-
nificant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now

van
ce

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 83

he had passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher,
it was growing more and more distinct! He could hear his
heavy breathing. And now the third storey had been reached,
Coming here! And it seemed to him all at once that he was
turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is
being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is rooted
to the spot and cannot even move one’s arms.

At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth
floor, he suddenly started, and succeeded in slipping neatly
and quickly back into the flat and closing the door behind
him. Then he took the hook and softly, noiselessly, fixed
it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had done this,
he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown
visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing
opposite one another, as he had just before been standing
with the old woman, when the door divided them and he
was listening.

The visitor panted several times. ‘He must be a big, fat
man,” thought Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand,
It seemed like a dream indeed. The visitor took hold of the
bell and rang loudly.

As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be
aware of something moving in the room. For some seconds
he listened quite seriously. The unknown rang again, waited
and suddenly tugged violently and impatiently at the handle
of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror at the hook shak-
ing in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every min-
ute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did
seem possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted
to hold the fastening, but he might be aware of it. A gid-
diness came over him again. “I shall fall down!” flashed
through his mind, but the unknown began to speak and he
recovered himself at once.

“What’s up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn
them !” he bawled in a thick voice. “Hey, Alyona Ivanovna,
old witch! Lizaveta Ivanoyna, hey, my beauty! open the
door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?”

And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen
times at the bell. He must certainly be a man of authority
and an intimate acquaintance.

84 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far
off, on the stairs. Some one else was approaching. Raskol-
nikov had not heard them at first.

“You don’t say there’s no one at home,” the new-comer
cried in a cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first visitor
who still went on pulling the bell. “Good evening, Koch.”

“From his voice he must be quite young,’ thought Ras-
kolnikov.

“Who the devil can tell? I’ve almost broken the locky”’
answered Koch. “But how do you come to know me?”

“Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times
running at billiards at Gambrinus’.”

“Oh hed

“So they are not at home? That’s queer? It’s awfully
stupid though. Where could the old woman have gone?
I’ve come on business.”

“Yes; and I have business with her, too.”

“Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose. Aie—aie!
And I was hoping to get some money !” cried the young man.

“We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this
_ time for? The old witch fixed the time for me to come her-
self. It’s out of my way. And where the devil she can have
got to, I can’t make out. She sits here from year’s end to
year’s end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet here all of
a sudden she is out for a walk!”

“Hadn’t we better ask the porter?”

“What?”

“Where she’s gone and when she’ll be back.”

“Hm ... Damn it all! ... We might ask... But you
know she never does go anywhere.”

And he once more tugged at the door-handle.

“Damn it all. There’s nothing to be done, we must go!”

“Stay!” cried the young man suddenly. “Do you see how
the door shakes if you pull it?’

“Well ?”

“That shows it’s not locked, but fastened with the hook!
Do you hear how the hook clanks?”

“Well?”

“Why, don’t you see? That proves that one of them is at
home. If they were all out, they would have locked the

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 85

door from outside with the key and not with the hook from
inside. There, do you hear how the hook is clanking? To
fasten the hook on the inside they must be at home, don’t
you see. So there they are sitting inside and don’t open the
door !”

“Well! And so they must be!” cried Koch, astonished.
“What are they about in there!’ And he began furiously
shaking the door.

“Stay!” cried the young man again. “Don’t pull at it!
There must be something wrong... Here, you've been
ringing and pulling at the door and still they don’t open! So
either they’ve both fainted or...”

“What ?”

“T tell you what. Let’s go and fetch the porter, let him
wake them up.”

“All right.”

Both were going down.

“Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter.”

“What for?”

“Well, you'd better.”

“All right.”

“T’m studying the law you see! It’s evident, e-vi-dent
there’s something wrong here!” the young man cried hotly, .
and he ran downstairs.

Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell
which gave one tinkle, then gently, as though reflecting and
looking about him, began touching the door handle, pulling
it and letting it go to make sure once more that it was
only fastened by the hook. Then puffing and panting
he bent down and began looking at the keyhole: but the
key was in the lock on the inside and so nothing could be
seen.

Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was
in a sort of delirium. He was even making ready to fight
when they should come in. While they were knocking and
talking together, the idea several times occurred to him to
end it all at once and shout to them through the door. Now
and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them,
while they could not open the door! “Only make haste!”
was the thought that flashed through his mind.

86 FYODOR DOSTONVSKY

“But what the devil is he about? ... ” Time was passing,
one minute, and another—no one came. Koch began to be
restless,

“What the devil?” he cried suddenly and in impatience
deserting his sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and
thumping with his heavy boots on the stairs. The steps died
away.

“Good heavens! What am I to do?”

Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door—there
was no sound. Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went
out, closing the door as thoroughly as he could, and went
downstairs.

He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a
loud noise below—where could he go! There was nowhere
to hide. He was just going back to the flat.

“Hey there! Catch the brute!”

Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather
fell than ran down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.

“Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka!~ Mitka! Blast him!”

The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the
_ yard; all was still. But at the same instant several men
talking loud and fast began noisily mounting the stairs.
There were three or four of them. He distinguished the
ringing voice of the young man. “They!”

Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling
“come what must!” If they stopped him—all was lost; if
they let him pass—all was lost too; they would remember
him, They were approaching; they were only a flight from
him—and suddenly deliverance! A few steps from him on
the right, there was an empty flat with the door wide open,
the flat on the second floor where the painters had been at
work, and which, as though for his benefit, they had just left.
It was they, no doubt, who had just run down, shouting. The
floor had only just been painted, in the middle of the room
stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In
one instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden
behind the wall and only in the nick of time; they had already
reached the landing. Then they turned and went on up to
the fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, went out on tip-
toe and ran down the stairs.

Rees

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 87

No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed
quickly through the gateway and turned to the left in the
street.

He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they
were at the flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding
it unlocked, as the door had just been fastened, that by now
they were looking at the bodies, that before another minute
had passed they would guess and completely realise that the
murderer had just been there, and had succeeded in hiding
somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would
guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat, while
they were going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not
quicken his pace much, though the next turning was still
nearly a hundred yards away. “Should he slip through some
gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No,
hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a
cab? Hopeless, hopeless!”

At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more
dead than alive. Here he was half way to safety, and he
understood it; it was less risky because there was a great
crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a grain of sand.
But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could
scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck
was all wet. “My word, he has been going it!” some one
shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank.

He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the
farther he went the worse it was. He remembered, how-
ever, that on coming out on to the canal bank, he was alarmed
at finding few people there and so being more conspicuous,
and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost
falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get
home from quite a different direction.

He was not fully conscious when he passed through the
gateway of his house; he was already on the staircase before
he recollected the axe. And yet he had a very grave problem
before him, to put it back and to escape observation as far
as possible in doing so. He was of course incapable of
reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to restore
the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody’s yard.
But it all happened fortunately, the door of the porter’s room

88 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

was closed but not locked, so that it seemed most likely that
the porter was at home. But he had so completely lost all
power of reflection that he walked straight to the door and
opened it. If the porter had asked him “What do you want?”
he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But
again the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in putting
the axe back under the bench and even covering it with the
chunk of wood as before. He met no one, not a soul, after-
wards on the way to his room; the landlady’s door was shut.
When he was in his room, he flung himself on the sofa just
as he was—he did not sleep, but sank into blank forgetfulness.
If any one had come into his room then, he would have
jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and shreds of
thoughts were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not
catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his
efforts » o e

PART II

CHAPTER I

to wake up, and at such moments he noticed that it was

far into the night, but it did not occur to him to get up.
At last he noticed that it was beginning to get light. He was
lying on his back, still dazed from:his recent oblivion. Fear-
ful, despairing cries rose shrilly from the street, sounds which
he heard every night, indeed, under his window after two
o’clock. They woke him up now.

“Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns,” he
thought, “it’s past two o’clock,” and at once he leaped up, as
though some one had pulled him from the sofa.

“What! Past two o'clock!”

He sat down on the sofa—and instantly recollected every-
thing! All at once, in one flash, he recollected everything.

For the first moment he thought he was going mad. A
dreadful chill came over him; but the chill was from the fever
that had begun long before in his sleep. Now he was sud-
denly taken with violent shivering, so that his teeth chattered
and all his limbs were shaking. He opened the door and be-
gan listening, everything in the house was asleep. With
amazement he gazed at himself and everything in the room
around him, wondering how he could have come in the
night before without fastening the door, and have flung him-
self on the sofa without undressing, without even taking his
hat off. It had fallen off and was lying on the floor near
his pillow.

“If any one had come in, what would he have thought?
That I’m drunk but .. .”

He rushed to the window. There was light enough, and
he began hurriedly looking himself all over from head to

89

Ss" he lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed

90 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

foot, all his clothes; were there no traces? But there was
no doing it like that; shivering with cold, he began taking
off everything and looking over again. He turned every-
thing over to the last threads and rags, and mistrusting him-
self, went through his search three times.

But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one
place, where some thick drops of congealed blood were cling-
ing to the frayed edge of his trousers. He picked up a big
claspknife and cut off the frayed threads. There seemed to
be nothing more. |

Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he
had taken out of the old woman’s box were still in his
pockets! He had not thought till then of taking them out
and hiding them! He had not even thought of them while
he was examining his clothes! What next? Instantly he
rushed to take them out and fling them on the table. When
he had pulled out everything, and turned the pocket inside
out to be sure there was nothing left, he carried the whole
heap to the corner. The paper had come off the bottom
of the wall and hung there in tatters. He began stuffing all
_ the things into the hole under the paper: “They’re in! All
out of sight, and the purse too!” he thought gleefully, get-
ting up and gazing blankly at the hole which bulged out
more than ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with hor-
ror; “My God!” he whispered in despair; ‘““what’s the matter
with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to hide things?”

He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had
only thought of money, and so had not prepared a hiding-
place.

“But now, now, what am I glad of?” he thought. “Is that
hiding things? My reason’s deserting me—simply !”

He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once
shaken by another unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically
he drew from a chair beside him his old student’s winter
coat, which was still warm though almost in rags, covered
himself up with it and once more sank into drowsiness and
delirium. He lost consciousness.

Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped
tip a second time, and at once pounced in a frenzy on his
clothes again.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 91

“How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes,
yes; I have not taken the loop off the armhole! I forgot it,
forgot a thing like that! Such a piece of evidence!”

He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw
the bits among his linen under the pillow.

“Pieces of torn linen couldn’t rouse suspicion, whatever
happened; I think not, I think not, any way!’ he repeated,
standing in the middle of the room, and with painful concen-
tration he fell to gazing about him again, at the floor and
everywhere, trying to make sure he had not forgotten any-
thing.

The conviction, that all his faculties, even memory, and
the simplest power of reflection were failing him, began to
be an insufferable torture.

“Surely it isn’t beginning already! Surely it isn’t my
punishment coming upon me? It is!”

The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually
lying on the floor in the middle of the room, where any one
coming in would see them!

“What is the matter with me!” he cried again, like one
distraught.

Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his
clothes were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were
a great many stains, but that he did not see them, did not
notice them because his perceptions were failing, were going
to pieces ... his reason was clouded. . . . Suddenly he re-
membered that there had been blood on the purse too. “Ah!
Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put the
wet purse in my pocket!”

In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes !—
there were traces, stains on the lining of the pocket!

“So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have
some sense and memory, since I guessed it of myself,’ he
thought triumphantly, with a deep sigh of relief: “It’s
simply the weakness of fever, a moment’s delirium,’ and
he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his trousers.
At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the sock
which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces!
He flung off his boots; “traces indeed! The tip of the sock
was soaked with blood;”’ he must have unwarily stepped

92 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

into that pool.... “But what am I to do with this now?
Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket ?”

He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the
middle of the room.

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

But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the un-
bearable icy shivering came over him; again he drew his
coat over him.

And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by
the impulse to “go off somewhere at once, this moment, and
fling it all away, so that it may be out of sight and done
with, at once, at once!” Several times he tried to rise from
the sofa but could not.

He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking
at his door.

“Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping
here!” shouted Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door.
“For whole days together he’s snoring here like a dog! A
dog he is too. Open, I tell you. It’s past ten.”

“Maybe he’s not at home,” said a man’s voice.

“Ha! that’s the porter’s voice. . . . What does he want?”

He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his
heart was a positive pain.

“Then who can have latched the door?” retorted Nastasya.
“He’s taken to bolting himself in! As if he were worth
stealing! Open, you stupid, wake up!”

“What do they want? Why the porter? All’s discov-
ered. Resist or open? Come what may!.. .”

He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.

His room was so small that he could undo the latch with-
out leaving the bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were
standing here.

Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced
with a defiant and desperate air at the porter, who without a
word held out a grey folded paper sealed with bottle-wax.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 93

“A notice from the office,” he announced, as he gave him
the paper.

“From what office?”

“A summons to the police office, of course. You know
which office.”

“To the police? ... What for? .. .”

“How can I tell? You’re sent for, so you go.”

The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room
and turned to go away.

“He’s downright ill!” observed Nastasya, not taking her
eyes off him. The porter turned his head for a moment.
“He’s been in a fever since yesterday,” she added.

Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his
hands, without opening it.

“Don’t you get up then,’ Nastasya went on compassion-
ately, seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa.
“You're ill, and so don’t go; there’s no such hurry. What
have you got there?”

He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut
from his trousers, the sock,’ and the rags of the pocket.
So he had been asleep with them in his hand. Afterwards
reflecting upon it, he remembered that half waking up in
his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand and so
fallen asleep again.

“Look at the rags he’s collected and sleeps with them, as
though he has got hold of a treasure . . .”

And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.

Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed
his eyes intently upon her. Far as he was from being
capable of rational reflection at that moment, he felt that
no one would behave like that with a person who was going
to be arrested. “But... the police?”

“You'd better have some tea! Yes? I'll bring it, there’s
some left.”

“No... Im going; I'll go at once,” he muttered, getting
on his feet. |

“Why, you'll never get downstairs!”

“Ves, Ill go.”

“As you please.”

She followed the porter out.

94 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the
rags.

“There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with
dirt, and rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had
no suspicion could distinguish anything. Nastasya from a
distance could not have noticed, thank God!” Then with a
tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began reading;
he was a long while reading, before he understood. It was
an ordinary summons from the district police-station to ap-
pear that day at half past nine at the office of the district
superintendent.

“But when has such a thing happened? I never have any-
thing to do with the police! And why just to-day?” he
thought in agonising bewilderment. “Good God, only get it
over soon!”

He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but
broke into laughter—not at the idea of prayer, but at
himself.

He began, hurriedly dressing, “if I’m lost, I am lost, I
don’t care! Shall I put the sock on?” he suddenly wondered,
“it will get dustier still and the traces will be gone,”

But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again
in loathing and horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that
he had no other socks, he picked it up and put it on again—
and again he laughed,

“That’s all conventional, that’s all relative, merely a way
of looking at it,’ he thought in a flash, but only on the top
surface of his mind, while he was shuddering all over, “‘there,
I’ve got it on! I have finished by getting it on!”

But his laughter was quickly followed by despair.

“No, it’s too much for me...” he thought. His legs
shook. “From fear,” he muttered. His head swam and
ached with fever. “It’s a trick! They want to decoy me
there and confound me over everything,’ he mused, as he
went out on to the stairs—‘“the worst of it is I’m almost
light-headed. . . . I may blurt out something stupid .. .”

On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the
things just as they were in the hole in the wall, “and very
likely, it’s on purpose to search when I’m out,” he thought,
and stopped short. But he was possessed by such despair,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 95

such cynicism of misery, if one may so call it, that with a
wave of his hand he went on. “Only to get it over!”

In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop
of rain had fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and
mortar, again the stench from the shops and pot-houses,
again the drunken men, the Finnish pedlars and half-broken-
down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes, so that it
hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head going
round—as a man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out
into the street on a bright sunny day.

When he reached the turning into the street, in an agony
of trepidation he looked down it... at the house... and
at once averted his eyes.

“If they question me, perhaps Vl simply tell,” he thought,
as he drew near the police-station.

The police-station was about a quarter of a mile off. It
had lately been moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a
new house. He had been once for a moment in the old
office, but long ago. Turning in at the gateway, he saw on
the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mount-
ing with a book in his hand. “A house-porter, no doubt;
so then, the office is here,” and he began ascending the
Stairs on the chance. He did not want to ask questions of
any one.

“T’ll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything ...
he thought, as he reached the fourth floor.

The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty
water. The kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and
stood open almost the whole day. So there was a fearful
smell and heat. The staircase was crowded with porters
going up and down with their books under their arms, police-
men, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The door of
the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting
within. There, too, the heat was stifling and there was a
sickening smell of fresh paint and stale oil from the newly
decorated rooms.

After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the
next room. All the rooms were small and low-pitched. A
fearful impatience drew him on and on. No one paid atten-
tion to him. In the second room some clerks sat writing,

”

96 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a queer-looking
set. He went up to one of them.

“What is it?”

He showed the notice he had received.

“You are a student?” the man asked, glancing at the notice.

“Yes, formerly a student.”

The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest.
He was a particularly unkempt person with the look of a>
fixed idea in his eye.

“There would be no getting anything out of him, becarae
he has no interest in anything,” thought Raskolnikov.

“Go in there to the head clerk,” said the clerk, pointing
towards the furthest room.

He went into that room—the fourth in order; it was a
small room and packed full of people, rather better dressed
than in the outer rooms. Among them were two ladies.
One, poorly dressed in mourning, sat at the table opposite the
chief clerk, writing something at his dictation. The other, a
very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face,
excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as
_ big as a saucer, was standing on one side, apparently waiting
for something. Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head
clerk. The latter glanced at it, said: “Wait a minute,” and
went on attending to the lady in mourning.

He breathed more freely. “It can’t be that!”

By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging
himself to have courage and be calm.

“Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may
betray myself! Hm!... it’s a pity there’s no air here,” he
added, “it’s stifling ... It makes one’s head dizzier than
ever... and one’s mind to...”

He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was
afraid of losing his self-control; he tried to catch at some-
thing and fix his mind on it, something quite irrelevant, but
he could not succeed in this at all. Yet the head clerk greatly
interested him, he kept hoping to see through him and guess
something from his face.

He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a
dark mobile face that looked older than his years. He was
fashionably dressed and foppish, with his hair parted in the

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 97

middle, well combed and pomaded, and wore a number of
rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain on
his waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to
a foreigner who was in the room, and said them fairly
correctly.

“Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down,” he said casually to
the gaily-dressed, purple-faced lady, who was still standing
as though not venturing to sit down, though there was a chair
beside her.

“Ich danke,” said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk
she sank into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with
white lace floated about the table like an air-balloon and
filled almost half the room. She smelt of scent. But she
was obviously embarrassed at filling half the room and
smelling so strongly of scent; and though her smile was
impudent as well as cringing, it betrayed evident uneasiness.

The lady in mourning had done at last, and got up. All
at once, with some noise, an officer walked in very jauntily,
with a peculiar swing of his shoulders at each step. He
tossed his cockaded cap on the table and sat down in an
easy-chair. The smart lady positively skipped from her seat
on seeing him, and fell to curtsying in a sort of ecstasy; but
the officer took not the smallest notice of her, and she did
not venture to sit down again in his presence. He was the
assistant superintendent. He had a reddish moustache that
stood out horizontally on each side of his face, and extremely
small features, expressive of nothing much except a certain
insolence. He looked askance and rather indignantly at
Raskolnikov; he was so very badly dressed, and in spite of
his humiliating position, his bearing was by no means in
keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily fixed a
very long and direct look on him, so that he felt positively
affronted.

“What do you want?” he shouted, apparently astonished
that such a ragged fellow was not annihilated by the majesty
of his glance.

“I was summoned... by a notice...” Raskolnikov
faltered.

“For the recovery of money due, from the student,’ the
head clerk interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his

98 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

papers. “Here!” and he flung Raskolnikov a document and
pointed out the place. “Read that!”

“Money? What money?” thought Raskolnikov, “but...
then . . . it’s certainly not that.”

And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense inde-
scribable relief. A load was lifted from his back.

“And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?”
shouted the assistant superintendent, seeming for some un-
known reason more and more aggrieved. “You are told,to
come at nine, and now it’s twelve!”

“The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour
ago,’ Raskolnikov answered loudly over his shoulder. To
his own surprise he, too, grew suddenly angry and found a
certain pleasure in it. “And it’s enough that I have come
here ill with fever.”

“Kindly refrain from shouting !”

“T’m not shouting, I’m speaking very quietly, it’s you who
are shouting at me. I’m a student, and allow no one to shout
at me.”

The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the
first minute he could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped
up from his seat.

“Be silent! You are in a government office. Don’t be
impudent, sir!” ;

“You're in a government office, too,” cried Raskolnikov,
“and you’re smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you
are showing disrespect to all of us.”

He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.

The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry
assistant superintendent was obviously disconcerted.

“That’s not your business!” he shouted at last with un-
natural loudness. “Kindly make the declaration demanded
of you. Show him, Alexander Grigorievitch. There is a com-
plaint against you! You don’t pay your debts! You're a fine
bird.”

But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly
clutched at the paper, in haste to find an explanation.
He read it once, and a second time, and still did not under-
stand.

“What is this?” he asked the head clerk.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 99

“It is for the recovery of money on an I. 0. U., a writ. You
must either pay it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give
a written declaration when you can pay it, and at the same
time an undertaking not to leave the capital without payment,
and not to sell or conceal your property. The creditor is at
liberty to sell your property, and proceed against you accord-
ing to the law.”

“But I... am not in debt to any one!”

“That’s not our business. Here, an 1. 0. uv. for a hundred
and fifteen roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has
been brought us for recovery, given by you to the widow
of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine months ago, and,\paid over by
the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov. We therefore
summon you, hereupon.”

“But she is my landlady !”

“And what if she is your landlady?”

The head clerk looked at him with a condescending smile
of compassion, and at the same time with a certain triumph,
as at a novice under fire for the first time—as though he
would say: “Well, how do you feel now?” But what did he
care now for an 1. 0. U., for a writ of recovery! Was that
worth worrying about now, was it worth attention even!
He stood, he read, he listened, he answered, he even asked
questions himself, but all mechanically.. The triumphant
sense of security, of deliverance from overwhelming danger,
that was what filled his whole soul that moment without
thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions
or surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was
an instant of full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But at that
very moment something like a thunderstorm took place in the
office. The assistant superintendent, still shaken by Ras-
kolnikov’s disrespect, still fuming and obviously anxious to
keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the unfortunate
smart lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came
in with an exceedingly silly smile.

“You shameful hussy!” he shouted suddenly at the top of
his voice. (The lady in mourning had left the office.) “What
was going on at your house last night? Eh? A disgrace
again, you’re a scandal to the whole street. Fighting and
drinking again. Do you want the house of correction? Why,

100 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

I have warned you ten times over that I would not let you
off the eleventh! And here you are again, again, you...
FORM aes

The paper fell out of Raskolnikov’s hands, and he looked
wildly at the smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated.
But he soon saw what it meant, and at once began to find
positive amusement in the scandal. He listened with pleasure,
so that he longed to laugh and laugh . . . all his nerves were
on edge.

“Ilya Petrovitch!” the head clerk was beginning anxiou$ly,
but stopped short, for he knew from experience that the en-
raged assistant could not be stopped except by force.

As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled be-
fore the storm. But strange to say, the more numerous and
violent the terms of abuse became, the more amiable she
looked, and the more seductive the smiles she lavished on the
terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and curtsied inces-
santly, waiting impatiently for a chance of putting in her
word; and at last she found it.

“There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr.
Captain,” she pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speak-
ing Russian confidently, though with a strong German accent,
“and no sort of scandal, and his honour came drunk, and it’s
the whole truth I ‘am telling, Mr. Captain, and I am not to
blame. . . . Mine is an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and
honourable behaviour, Mr. Captain, and I always, always dis-
like any scandal myself. But he came quite tipsy, and asked
for three bottles again, and then he lifted up one leg, and
began playing the pianoforte with one foot, and that is not
at all right in an honourable house, and he ganz broke the
piano, and it was very bad manners indeed and I said so.
And he took up a bottle and began hitting every one with it.
And then I called the porter, and Karl came, and he took
Karl and hit him in the eye; and he hit Henriette in the eye,
too, and gave me five slaps on the cheek. And it was so
ungentlemanly in an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and
I screamed. And he opened the window over the canal, and
stood in the window, squealing like a little pig; it was a
disgrace. The idea of squealing like a little pig at the win-
dow into the street! Fie upon him! And Karl pulled him

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 101

away from the window by his coat, and it is true, Mr. Cap-
tain, he tore sein rock. And then he shouted that man muss
pay him fifteen roubles damages. And I did pay him, Mr.
Captain, five roubles for sein rock. And he is an ungentle-~
manly visitor and caused all the scandal. ‘I will show
you up,’ he said, ‘for I can write to all the papers about
you.’ ?

“Then he was an author?”

“Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in
an honourable house... ”

“Now then! Enough! I have told you already...

“Ilya Petrovitch!” the head clerk repeated significantly.

The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head clerk slightly
shook his head.

“,.. So I tell you this, most respectable Luise Ivanovna,
and I tell it you for the last time,” the assistant went on.
“If there is a scandal in your honourable house once again, I
will put you yourself in the lock-up, as it is called in polite
society. Do you hear? So a literary man, an author took
five roubles for his coat-tail in an ‘honourable house’? A
nice set, these authors!”

And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. “There
was a scandal the other day in a restaurant, too. An author
had eaten his dinner and would not pay; ‘I’ll write a satire on
you,’ says he. And there was another of them on a steamer.
last week used the most disgraceful language to the respec-
table family of a civil councilor, his wife and daughter. And
there was one of them turned out of a confectioner’s shop
the other day. They are like that, authors, literary men,
students, town-criers ... Pfoo! You get along! I shall
look in upon you myself one day. Then you had better be
careful! Do you hear?”

With hurried deference, Luise Ivanovna fell to curtsying
in all directions, and so curtsied herself to the door. But at
the door, she stumbled backwards against a good-looking
officer with a fresh, open face and splendid thick fair
whiskers. This was the superintendent of the district himself,
Nikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna made haste to curtsy
almost to the ground, and with mincing little steps, she
fluttered out of the office.

?

102 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Again thunder and lightning—a hurricane!” said Nikodim
Fomitch to Ilya Petrovitch in a civil and friendly tone. “You
are aroused again, you are fuming again! I heard it on the
stairs !”

“Well, what then!” Ilya Petrovitch drawled, with gentle-
manly nonchalance; and he walked with some papers to
another table, with a jaunty swing of his shoulders at each
step. “Here, if you will kindly look: an author, or a student,
has been one at least, does not pay his debts, has given an
I. 0. U. won’t clear out of his room, and complaints are con-
stantly being lodged against him, and here he has been
pleased to make a protest against my smoking in his presence!
He behaves like a cad himself, and just look at him, please.
Here’s the gentleman, and very attractive he is!”

“Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go
off like powder, you can’t bear a slight. I daresay you took
offence at something and went too far yourself,” continued
Nikodim Fomitch, turning affably to Raskolnikov. “But
you are wrong there; he is a capital fellow, I assure you,
but explosive, explosive! He gets hot, fires up, boils over,
_ and no stopping him! And then it’s all over! And at the

bottom he’s a heart of gold! His nickname in the regiment
was the Explosive Lieutenant... ”

“And what a regiment it was, too;” cried Ilya Petrovitch,
much gratified at this agreeable banter, though still sulky.

Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say something excep-
tionally pleasant to them all. “Excuse me, Captain,” he
began easily, suddenly addressing Nikodim Fomitch, “will
you enter into my position. ... I am ready to ask pardon,
if I have been ill-mannered. I am a poor student, sick
and shattered (shattered was the word he used) by poverty.
I am not studying, because I cannot keep myself now,
but I shall get money. ...I have a mother and sister
in the province of X. They will send it me, and I will
pay. My landlady is a good-hearted woman, but she is so
exasperated at my having lost my lessons, and not paying
her for the last four months, that she does not even send
up my dinner . . . and I don’t understand this 1. o. v. at all.
She is asking me to pay her on this 1. 0. u. How am I to
pay her? Judge for yourselves! ...”

CRIME AND PONISHMENT 103

_ “But that is not our business, you know,” the head clerk
was observing.

“Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to
explain...” Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing
Nikodim Femitch, but trying his best to address Ilya
Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently appeared to
be rummaging among his papers and to be contemptuously
oblivious of him. “Allow me to explain that I have been
living with her for nearly three years and at first... at
first ... for why should I not confess it at the very begin-
ning I promised to marry her daughter, it was a verbal
promise, freely given ...she was a girl... indeed, 1
liked her, though I was not in love with her ... a youth-
ful affair in fact... that is, I mean to say, that my land-
lady gave me credit freely in those days, and I led a life
of ...I was very heedless....

“Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we’ve no
time to waste.” Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and
with a note of triumph; but Raskolnikov stopped him
hotly, though he suddenly found it exceedingly difficult to
speak,

“But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain...
how it all happened ...In my turn... though I agree
with you... it is unnecessary. But a year ago, the girl
died of typhus. I remained lodging there as before, and
when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said
to me... and in a friendly way... that she had com-
plete trust in me, but still, would I not give her an 1. o. u.
for one hundred and fifteen roubles, all the debt I owed her
She said if only I gave her that, she would trust me again,
as much as I liked, and that she would never, never— those
were her own words—make use of that 1. 0. vu. till I could
pay of myself ... and now, when I have lost my lessons
and have nothing to eat, she takes action against me.
What am I to say to that?”

“All these affecting details are no business of ours,”
Ilya Petrovitch interrupted rudely. “You must give a
written undertaking, but as for your love affairs and all
these tragic events, we have nothing to do with that.”

“Come now... you are harsh,” muttered Nikodim

104 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Fomitch, sitting down at the table and also beginning to
write. He looked a little ashamed.

“Write!” said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.

“Write what?” the latter asked gruffly.

“T will dictate to you.”

Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more
casually and contemptuously after his speech, but strange
to say he suddenly felt completely indifferent to any one’s
opinion, and this revulsion took place in a flash, in one
instant. If he had cared to think a little, he would have
been amazed indeed that he could have talked to them like
that a minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And
where had those feelings come from? Now if the whole
room had been filled, not with police officers, but with
those nearest and dearest to him, he would not have found
one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A
gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and
remoteness, took conscious form in his soul. It was not
the meanness of his sentimental effusions before Ilya Petro-
vitch, nor the meanness of the latter’s triumph over him
that had caused this sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh,
~ what had he to do now with his own baseness, with all
these petty vanities, officers, German women, debts, police-
offices? If he had been sentenced to be burnt at that
moment, he would not have stirred, would hardly have
heard the sentence to the end. Something was happen-
ing to him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was
not that he understood, but he felt clearly with all the
intensity of sensation that he could never more appeal to
these people in the police-office with sentimental effusions
like his recent outburst, or with anything whatever; and
that if they had been his own brothers and sisters and not
police-officers, it would have been utterly out of the ques-
tion to appeal to them in any circumstance of life. He
had never experienced such a strange and awful sensation.
And what was most agonising—it was more a sensation than
a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising
of all the sensations he had known in his life.

The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of
declaration, that he could not pay, that he undertook to do

Ay fige ot cee SANE Baw 8)
PS eieoao :

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 105

so at a future date, that he would not leave the town,
nor sell his property, and so on.

“But you can’t write, you can hardly hold the pen,”
observed the head clerk, looking with curiosity at
Raskolnikov. “Are you ill?”

“Yes, I am giddy. Go on!”

“That’s all. Sign it.”

The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to
others.

Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up
and going away, he put his elbows on the table and pressed
his head in his hands. He felt as if a nail were being
driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly occurred to
him, to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim Fomitch, and
tell him everything that had happened yesterday, and then
to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the things
in the hole in the corner. The impulse was so strong that
he got up from his seat to carry it out. “Hadn't I better
think a minute?” flashed through his mind. “No, better
cast off the burden without thinking.” But all at once he
stood still, rooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talk-
ing eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words reached
him :

“Tt’s impossible, they’ll both be released. To begin with,
the whole story contradicts itself. Why should they have
called the porter, if it had been their doing? To inform
against themselves? Or as a blind? No, that would be
too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen
at the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went
in. He was walking with three friends, who left him only
at the gate, and he asked the porters to direct him, in the
presence of the friends. Now, would he have asked his
way if he had been going with such an object? As for
Koch, he spent half an hour at the silversmith’s. below,
before he went up to the old woman and he left him at
exactly a quarter to eight. Now just consider .. .”

“But excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction?
They state themselves that they knocked and the door was
locked; yet three minutes later when they went up with the
porter, it turned out the door was unfastened.”

5s—R

106 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“That’s just it; the murderer must have been there and
bolted himself in; and they’d have caught him for a certainty
if Koch had not been an ass and gone to look for the
porter too. He must have seized the interval to get down-
stairs and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps crossing
himself and saying: ‘If I had been there, he would have
jumped out and killed me with his axe.’ He is going to
have a thanksgiving service—ha, ha!”

“And no one saw the murderer ?”

“They might well not see him; the house is a regular
Noah’s Ark,” said the head clerk, who was listening,

“Tt’s clear, quite clear,” Nikodim Fomitch. repeated
warmly. 7

“No, it is anything but clear,” Ilya Petrovitch maintained.

Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the
door, but he did not reach it. ..,.

When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting
in a chair, supported by some one on the right side, while
some one else was standing on the left, holding a yellowish
glass filled with yellow water, and Nikodim Fomitch stand-
ing before him, looking intently at him. He got up from
the chair,

“What’s this? Are you ill?” Nikodim Fomitch asked,
rather sharply.

“He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing,” said
the head clerk, settling back in his place, and taking up his
work again.

“Have you been ill long?” cried Ilya Petrovitch from his
place, where he, too, was looking through papers. He had,
of course, come to look at the sick man when he fainted,
but retired at once when he recovered,

“Since yesterday,” muttered Raskolnikov in reply.

“Did you go out yesterday ?”

“Ves.” H

“Though you were ill?”

"Y es.”

“At what time?”

“About seven.”

“And where did you go, may I ask?”

“Along the street.”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 107

“Short and clear.”

Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered
sharply, jerkily, without dropping his black feverish eyes
before Ilya Petrovitch’s stare.

“He can scarcely stand upright. And you. . .”—-Nikodim
Fomitch was beginning.

“No matter.” Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather pecu-
liarly.

Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further protest,
but glancing at the head clerk who was looking very hard
at him, he did not speak. There was a sudden silence. It
was strange.

“Very well, then,” concluded Ilya Petrovitch, “we will not
detain you.”

Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager con-
versation on his departure, and above the rest rose the ques-
tioning voice of Nikodim Fomitch. In the street, his faint-
ness passed off completely.

“A search—there will be a search at once,” he repeated to
himself, hurrying home. “The brutes! they suspect.”

His former terror mastered him completely again.

CHAPTER II
i Y what if there has been a search already? What

if I find them in the room?”

But here was his room. Nothing and no one in
it. No one had peeped in. Even Nastasya had not touched
it. But heavens! how could he have left all those things in
the hole?

He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper,
pulled the things out and filled his pockets with them. There
were eight articles in all: two little boxes with ear-rings or
something of the sort, he hardly looked to see; then four
small leather cases. There was a chain, too, merely wrapped
in newspaper and something else in newspaper, that looked
like a decoration. ... He put them all in the different
pockets of his overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his
trousers, trying to conceal them as much as possible. He
took the purse, too. Then he went out of his room, leaving
the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, and though
he felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He was
afraid of pursuit, he was afraid that in another half-hour,
another quarter of an hour perhaps, instructions would be
issued for his pursuit, and so at all costs, he must hide all
traces before then. He must clear everything up while he
still had some strength, some reasoning power left him. ...
Where was he to go? |

That had long been settled: “Fling them into the canal,
and all traces hidden in the water, the thing would be at an
end.” So he had decided in the night of his delirium when
several times he had had the impulse to get up and go away,
to make haste, and get rid of it all. But to get rid of it,
turned out to be a very difficult task. He wandered along
the bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or
more and looked several times at the steps running down
to the water, but he could not think of carrying out his plan;
either rafts stood at the steps’ edge, and women were wash-

108

\

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 109

ing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and people
were swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and
noticed from the banks on all sides; it would look suspicious
for a man to go down on purpose, stop, and throw something
into the water. And what if the boxes were to float instead
of sinking? And of course they would. Even as it was,
every one he met seemed to stare and look round, as if they
had nothing to do but to watch him. “Why is it, or can it
be my fancy?” he thought.

At last the thought struck him that it might be better to
go to the Neva. There were not so many people there, he
would be less observed, and it would be more convenient in
every way, above all it was further off. He wondered how
he could have been wandering for a good half-hour, worried
and anxious in this dangerous part without thinking of it
before. And that half-hour he had lost over an irrational
plan, simply because he had thought of it in delirium! He
had become extremely absent and forgetful and he was
aware of it. He certainly must make haste.

He walked towards the Neva along V Prospect, but on
the way another idea struck him. “Why to the Neva?
Would it not be better to go somewhere far off, to the Islands
again, and there hide the things in some solitary place, in a
wood or under a bush, and mark the spot perhaps?” And
though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the idea seemed
to him a sound one. But he was not destined to go there.
For coming out of V- Prospect towards the square, he
saw on the left a passage leading between two blank walls to
a courtyard. On the right hand, the blank unwhitewashed
wall of a four-storied house stretched far into the court; on
the left, a wooden hoarding ran parallel with it for twenty
paces into the court, and then turned sharply to the left.
Here was a deserted fenced-off place where rubbish of differ-
ent sorts was lying. At the end of the court, the corner. of
a low, smutty, stone shed, apparently part of some workshop
peeped from behind the hoarding. It was probably a car-
riage builder’s or carpenter’s shed; the whole place from the
entrance was black with coal dust. Here would be the place
to throw it, he thought. Not seeing any one in the yard, he
slipped in, and at once saw near the gate a sink, such as is

110 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

often put in yards where there are many workmen or cab-
drivers; and on the hoarding above had been scribbled in
chalk the time-honoured witticism, “Standing here strictly
forbidden.” This was all the better, for there would be
nothing suspicious about his going in. “Here I could throw
it all in a heap and get away!”

Looking round once more, with his hand already in his
pocket, he noticed against the outer wall, between the en-
trance and the sink, a big unhewn stone, weighing perhaps
sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a street. “He
could hear passers-by, always numerous in that part, but he
could not be seen from the entrance, unless some one came
in from the street, which might well happen indeed, so there
was need of haste.

He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in
both hands, and using all his strength turned it over. Under
the stone was a small hollow in the ground, and he immedi-
ately emptied his pocket into it. The purse lay at the top,
and yet the hollow was not filled up. Then he seized the
stone again and with one twist turned it back, so that it was
in the same position again, though it stood a very little
higher. But he scraped the earth about it and pressed it at
the edges with his foot. Nothing could be noticed.

Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an
intense, almost unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an
instant, as it had in the police office. “I have buried my
tracks! And who, who can think of looking under that
stone? It has been lying there most likely ever since the
house was built, and will lie as many years more. And if it
were found, who would think of me? It is all over! No
clue!” And he laughed. Yes, he remembered that he began
laughing a thin, nervous noiseless laugh, and went on laugh.
ing all the time he was crossing the square. But when he
reached the K Boulevard where two days before he had
come upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other
ideas crept into his mind. He felt all at once that it would
be loathsome to pass that seat on which after the girl was
gone, he had sat and pondered, and that it would be hateful,
too, to meet that whiskered policeman to whom he had given
the twenty copecks: “Damn him!”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 11],

He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly.
All his ideas now seemed to be circling round some single
point; and he felt that there really was such a point, and
that now, now, he was left facing that point—and for the
first time, indeed, during the last two months.

“Damn it all!” he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovern-
able fury. “If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the
new life! Good Lord, how stupid it is! . .. And what lies
I told to-day! How despicably I fawned upon that wretched
Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I care for
them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all!
It is not that at all!”

Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceed-
ingly simple question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.

“If it all has really been done deliberately and not idi-
otically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how is
it I did not even glance into the purse and don’t know what
I had there, for which I have undergone these agonies, and
have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy, degrading busi-
ness? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water
the purse together with all the things which I had not seen
either . . . how’s that?”

Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all
before, and it was not a new question for him, even when it
was decided in the night without hesitation and considera-
tion, as though so it must be, as though it could not possibly
be otherwise. ... Yes, he had known it all, and understood
it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the
moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the
jewel-cases out of it. ... Yes, so it was.

“It is because I am very ill,” he decided grimly at last, “I
have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know
what I am doing. .. . Yesterday and the day before yester-
day and all this time I have been worrying myself... . I
shall get well and I shall not worry. . . . But what if I don’t
get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!”

He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing
for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what
to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining
more and more mastery over him every moment; this was an

112 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything sur-
rounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All
who met him were loathsome to him—he loathed their faces,
their movements, their gestures. If any one had addressed
him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten
Di Ga. si

He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the
Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. “Why,
he lives here, in that house,” he thought, “why, I have not
come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it’s the same
thing over again.... Very interesting to know, though;
have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by
chance? Never mind, I said the day before yesterday that
I would go and see him the day afier; well, and so I wiil!
Besides I really cannot go further now.”

He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor.

The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the
moment, and he opened the door himself. It was four
months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was sit-
ting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare
feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed
surprise.

“Is it you?” he cried. He looked his comrade up and
down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. “As hard up
as all that! Why, brother, you’ve cut me out!” he added,
looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. “Come sit down, you are
tired, I’ll be bound.”

And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa,
which was in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin
saw at once that his visitor was ill.

“Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?” He began
feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.

“Never mind,” he said, “I have come for this: I have no
lessons. ...I1 wanted... but I don’t really want les-
Sons. bicT

“But I say! You are delirious, you know!” Razumihin
observed, watching him carefully.

“No, I am not.” |

Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the
stairs to Razumihin’s, he had not realised that he would be

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 113

meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew,
that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment
was to be face to face with any one in the wide world. His
spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at him-
self as soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold.

“Good-bye,” he said abruptly, and walked to the door.

“Stop, stop! You queer fish.”

“T don’t want to,” said the other, again pulling away his
hand.

“Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or
what? Why, this is... almost insulting! I won’t let you
go like that.”

“Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you
who could help ...to begin... because you are kinder
than any one—cleverer, I mean, and can judge . .. and now
I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all
.-.ho one’s services ...no one’s sympathy. I am by
myself ... alone. Come, that’s enough. Leave me alone.”

“Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman.
As you like for all I care. I have no lessons, do you see,
and I don’t care about that, but there’s a bookseller, Heru-
vimov—and he takes the place of a lesson. I would not
exchange him for five lessons. He’s doing publishing of a
kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circula-
tion they have! The very titles are worth the money! You
always maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy,
there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for
being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything, but,
of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the
German text—in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it
discusses the question. ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, of
course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going
to bring out this work as a contribution to the woman ques-
tion; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a
half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title
half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do!
He pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about
fifteen toubles for the job, and I’ve had six already in ad-
vance. When we have finished this, we are going to begin a
translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scan-

114 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

dals out of the second part of Les Confessions we have
marked for translation; somebody has told Hertuvimovy, that
Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I
don’t contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like to do
the second signature of ‘Js woman a human being?’ If you
would, take the German and pens and paper—all those are
provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six
roubles in advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to
you for your share. And when you have finished the signa-
ture there will be another three roubles for you. And please
don’t think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as
soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin
with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes
utterly adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along
for the most part. The only comfort is, that it’s bound to be
a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it’s
sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?”

Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the
three roubles and without a word went out. Razumihin
gazed after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov
was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs
to Razumihin’s again and laying on the table the German
article and the three roubles, went out again, still without
uttering a word.

“Are you raving, or what?” Razumihin shouted, roused
to fury at last. “What farce is this? You'll drive me
crazy too... what did you come to see me for, damn
you?”

“IT don’t want... translation,” muttered Raskolnikov
from the stairs.

“Then what the devil do you want?’ shouted Razumihin
from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the stair-
case in silence.

“Hey, there! Where are you living?”

No answer.

“Well, confound you then

But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street.
On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full conscious-
ness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after
shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent

7

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 115

lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen
under his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that
he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason
he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in
the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He
heard laughter, of course.

“Serve him right!’

“A pickpocket I dare say.”

“Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the
wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him.”

“It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.”

But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and
bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his
back, he suddenly felt some one thrust money into his hand.
He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and
goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter wearing
a hat, and carrying a green parasol.

“Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.”

He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty
copecks. From his dress and appearance they might well
have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets,
and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the
blow, which made them feel sorry for him.

He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for
ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards
the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water
was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The
cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the
bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in
the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it
could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash
went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and
not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He
stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance;
this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was
attending the university, he had hundreds of times—generally
on his way home—stood still on this spot, gazed at this
truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled
at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It
left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him

116 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre
and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off
finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old
doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was
no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him
as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at
the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he
could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same
theories and pictures that had interested him... so short
a time ago. He felt it almost. amusing, and yet it wrung
his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all
that seemed to him now—all his old past, his old thoughts,
his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that
picture and himself and all, all. ... He felt as though he
were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from
his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand,
he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his
fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a
sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned
and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off
from every one and from everything at that moment.

Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that
he must have been walking about six hours. How and
where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and
quivering like an over-driven horse, he lay down on the
sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into
oblivion. ....

It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream.
Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such
howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had
never heard.

He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy.
In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony.
But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and
louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the
voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and
wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could
not make out what she was talking about; she was beseech-
ing, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly
beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 117

horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak;
but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and
indistinctly, hurrying and _ spluttering. All at once
Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice—it was the
voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating
the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against
the steps—that’s clear, that can be told from the sounds,
from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy-
turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all
the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclama-
tions, knocking, doors banging. “But why, why, and how
could it be?” he repeated, thinking seriously that he had
gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And they
would come to him then next, “for no doubt... it’s all
about that... about yesterday....Good God!” He
would have. fastened his door with the latch, but he could
not lift his hand . .. besides, it would be useless. Terror
gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed
him. . . . But at last all this uproar, after continuing about
ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was
moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering
threats and curses. ... But at last he, too, seemed to be
silent, and now he could not be heard. “Can he have gone
away? Good Lord!” Yes, and now the landlady is going
too, still weeping and moaning ... and then her door
slammed. .. . Now the crowd was going from the stairs
to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another,
raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper.
There must have been numbers of them—almost all the
inmates of the block. “But, good God, how could it be!
And why, why had he come here!”

Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not
close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish,
such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had
never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed
into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a
plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining
that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and
began to lay out what she had brought—bread, salt, a plate,
a spoon.

118 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant.
You've been trudging about all day, and you’re shaking
with fever.”

“Nastasya ... what were they beating the landlady
for?”

She looked intently at him.

“Who beat the landlady ?”

“Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the
assistant-superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he
ill-treating her like that, and . . . why was he here?”

Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her
scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened
at her searching eyes.

“Nastasya, why don’t you speak?” he said timidly at last
in a weak voice.

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

“Blood? What blood?” he muttered, growing white and
turning towards the wall.

Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.

“Nobody has been beating the landlady,” she declared at
last in a firm, resolute voice.

He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.

“T heard it myself....t1 was not asleep...I was
sitting up,’ he said still more timidly. “I listened a long
while. The assistant-superintendent came. ... Every one
ran out on to the stairs from all the flats.”

“No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your
ears. When there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you
begin fancying things... Will you eat something?”

He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him,
watching him.

“Give me something to drink . .. Nastasya.”

She went downstairs and returned with a white earthen-
ware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing one
sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then
followed forgetfulness.

CHAPTER III

| E was not completely unconscious, however, all the

time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, some-
times delirious, sometimes half conscious. He re-
membered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed
as though there were a number of people round him; they
wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal
of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would
be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of
him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to
look at him; they threatened him, plotted something to-
gether, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered
Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished another
person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he
could not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even
made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying
there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same
day. But of that—of that he had no recollection, and yet
every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he
ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself try-
ing to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into
awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up,
would have run away, but some one always prevented him
by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness.
At last he returned to complete consciousness.
it happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days
the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak
of light on the right wall and the_corner near the door.
Nastasya was standing beside him with another person, a
complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively.
He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short-
waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady
was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.
“Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the young

man.
119

120 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

!??

“T say, he’s himself again!” she said.

“He is himself,” echoed the man.

Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the land-
lady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy
and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a woman
of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black
eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and laziness,
and absurdly bashful.

“Who... are you?” he went on, addressing the man.
But at that moment the door was flung open, and, stooping
a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin came in.

“What a cabin it is!” he cried. “I am always knocking
my head. You call this a lodging! So you are conscious,
brother? I’ve just heard the news from Pashenka.”

“He has just come to,’ said Nastasya.

“Just come to,” echoed the man again, with a smile.

“And who are your?” Razumihin asked, suddenly ad-
dressing him. “My name is Vrazumihin, at your service;
not Razumihin, as I am always called, but Vrazumihin, a
student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are
you ?”’

“T am the messenger from our office, from the merchant
Shelopev, and I’ve come on business.”

“Please sit down.” Razumihin seated himself on the other
side of the table. “It’s a good thing you’ve come to, brother,”
he went on to Raskolnikov. “For the last four days you
have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give
you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice.
You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and
said at once it was nothing serious—something seemed to
have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result
of bad feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and
radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you will be all
right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite
a name. Come, I won’t keep you,” he said, addressing the
man again. “Will you explain what you want? You must
know, Rodya, this is the second time they have sent from
the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to
him. Who was it came before?”

“That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 121

you please, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is
in our office, too.”

“He was more intelligent than you, don’t you think so?”

“Ves, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.”

“Quite so; go on.”

“At your mamma’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch
Vahrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than
once, a remittance is sent to you from our office,” the man
began, addressing Raskolnikov. “If you are in an intelli-
gible condition, I’ve thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as
Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivano-
vitch at your mamma’s request instructions to that effect,
as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?”

“Yes, I remember .... Vahrushin,’ Raskolnikov said
dreamily.

“You hear, he knows Vahrushin,” cried Razumihin. “He
is in ‘an intelligible condition’! And I see you are an in-
telligent man too. Well, it’s always pleasant to hear words
of wisdom.”

“That’s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch,
And at the request of your mamma, who has sent you a
remittance once before in the same manner through him,
he did not refuse this time also, and sent instructions to
Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you thirty-
five roubles in the hope of better to come.”

“That ‘hoping for better to come’ is the best thing you’ve
said, though “your mamma’ is not bad either. Come then,
what do you say? Is he fully conscious, eh?”

“That’s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.”

“He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?’

“Yes, here’s the book.”

“Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take
the pen and scribble ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. For just now,
brother, money is sweeter to us than treacle.”

“I don’t want it,” said Raskolnikov, pushing away the
pen.

“Not want it?”

“T won’t sign it.”

“How the devil can you do without signing it?”

“T don’t want... the money.”

122 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Don’t want the money! Come, brother, that’s nonsense,
I bear witness. Don’t trouble, please, it’s only that he is on
his travels again. But that’s pretty common with him at all
times though.... You are a man of judgment and we
will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and
he will sign it. Here.”

“But I can come another time.”

“No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of
judgment. ... Now, Rodya, don’t keep your visitor, you
see he is waiting,” and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov’s
hand in earnest.

“Stop, P’ll do it alone,” said the latter, taking the pen and
signing his name.

The messenger took out the money and went away.

“Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?”

“Ves,” answered Raskolnikov.

“Ts there any soup?”

“Some of yesterday’s,’ answered Nastasya, who was still
standing there.

“With potatoes and rice in it?”

“Yes.”

“T know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.’

“Very well.”

Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonish-
ment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind
to keep quiet and see what would happen. “I believe I am
not wandering. I believe it’s reality,” he thought.

In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup,
and announced that the tea would be ready directly. With
the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper,
mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set as it
had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.

“Tt would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna
were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could
empty them.”

“Well, you are a cool hand,’ muttered Nastasya, and she
departed to carry out his orders.

Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention.
Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as
clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov’s head,

)

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 198

although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave
him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it might not burn
him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swal-
lowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third.
But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumi-
hin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov
whether he ought to have more.

Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.

“And will you have tea?”

“Ves,”

“Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may
venture on without the faculty. But here is the beer!” He
moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of
him, and began eating as though he had not touched food for
three days.

“I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day
now,” he mumbled with his mouth full of beef, “and it’s all
Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she
loves to do anything for me. I don’t ask for it, but, of course,
I don’t object. And here’s Nastasya with the tea. She is
a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won’t you have some
beer ?”

“Get along with your nonsense!”

“A cup of tea, then?”

“A cup of tea, maybe.”

“Pour it out. Stay, Pl pour it out myself. Sit down.”

He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the
sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick
man’s head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls,
again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though
this process was the principal and most effective means
towards his friend’s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and
made no resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to
sit upon the sofa without support and could not merely have
held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have walked
about. But from some queer, almost animal, cunning he con-
ceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a
time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession
of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was
going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repug-

124 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

nance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly
released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and
sank back on the pillow. There were actually real pillows
under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed
that, too, and took note of it.

“Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to
make him some raspberry tea,” said Razumihin, going back
to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again.

“And where is she to get raspberries for you?” asked
Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers
and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.

“She'll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all
sorts of things have been happening while you have been
laid up. When you decamped in that rascally way without
leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find
you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How
I ran about making inquiries for you! This lodging of yours
I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, be-
cause I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I
could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov’s
house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov’s house, and
afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov’s, but
Buch’s. How one muddles up sounds sometimes! So I lost
my temper, and I went on the chance to the address bureau
next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked you up!
Your name is down there.”

“My name!”

“T should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could
not find while I was there. Well, it’s a long story. But as
soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to know all your
affairs—all, all, brother, I know everything; Nastasya here
will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch
and Ilya Petrovich and the house-porter and Mr. Zametov,
Alexander Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office,
and, last but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here
knows. ...” :

“He’s got round her,” Nastasya murmured, smiling shyly.

“Why don’t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya
Nikiforovna?”’

“You are a oner!” Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 125

a giggle. “I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,” she added
suddenly, recovering from her mirth.

“T’ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story
short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot
all malignant influences in the locality, but Pashenka won
the day. I had not expected, brother, to find her so...
prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?”

Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed
upon him, full of alarm.

“And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,”
Razumihin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.

“Ah, the sly dog!” Nastasya shrieked again. This con-
versation afforded her unspeakable delight.

“It’s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the
right way at first. You ought to have approached her differ-
ently. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable character.
But we will talk about her character later. .. . How could
you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending
you your dinner? And that 1.0. u.P You must have been ,
mad to sign an 1.0. u. And that promise of marriage when
her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was alive? ...I1 know
all about it! But I see that’s a delicate matter and I am an
ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know
Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would
think at first sight?”

“No,” mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that
it was better to keep up the conversation.

“She isn’t, is she?” cried Razumihin, delighted to get an
answer out of him. “But she is not very clever either, eh?
She is essentially, essentially an unaccountable character! I
am sometimes quite at a loss, I assure you. . . . She must be
forty; she says she is thirty-six, and of course she has every
right to say so. But I swear I judge her intellectually, simply
from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of sym-
bolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what not!
I don’t understand it! Well, that’s all nonsense. Only, see-
ing that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons
and your clothes, and that through the young lady’s death she
has no need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took
fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your old

126 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she’s
been cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to
lose the 1. 0. u., for you assured her yourself that your
mother would pay.”

“It was base of me to say that. . . . My mother herself is
almost a beggar .. . and I told a lie to keep my lodging ...
and be fed,” Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.

“Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that
at that point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man.
Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her
own account, she is too retiring; but the business man is
by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question,
‘Is there any hope of realising the 1. 0. u.?? Answer: there
is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with
her hundred and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to
starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into bondage
for his sake. That’s what he was building upon. ... Why
do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs
now, my dear boy—it’s not for nothing that you were so
open with Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in-
_ law, and I say all this as a friend... . But I tell you what
it is: an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business
man ‘listens and goes on eating’ you up. Well, then she
gave the 1. 0. u. by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and
without hesitation he made a formal demand for payment.
When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to
clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned
between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the
whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went security
for you, brother, Do you understand? We called Tchebarov,
flung him ten roubles and got the 1. 0. u. back from him,
and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She
trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have
torn it.”

Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked
at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word.
Even Razumihin felt a twinge.

“T see, brother,” he said a moment later, “that I have been
playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with
my chatter, and I believe I have only made you cross.”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 127

“Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?”
Raskolnikov asked, after a moment’s pause without turning
his head.

“Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I
brought Zametov one day.”

“Zametov? The head clerk? What for?” Raskolnikov
turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.

“What's the matter with you? ... What are you upset
about? He wanted to make your acquaintance because I
talked to him a lot about you. . . . How could I have found
out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow,
brother, first-rate . . . in his own way, of course. Now we
are friends—see each other almost every day. I have moved
into this part, you know. I have only just moved. I’ve been
with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice. Do you remem-
ber Luise, Luise Ivanovna?”

“Did I say anything in delirium ?”

“T should think so! You were beside yourself.”

“What did I rave about?”

“What next? What did you rave about? What people
do rave about. ... Well, brother, now I must not lose
time. To work.” He got up from the table and took up his
cap.

“What did I rave about?”

“How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some
secret? Don’t worry yourself; you said nothing about a
countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about ear-
rings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some
porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assist-
ant superintendent. And another thing that was of special
interest to you was your own sock. You whined, ‘Give me
my sock.’ Zametov hunted all about your room for your
socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he
gave you the rag. And only then were you comforted, and
for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing
in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely
somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you
asked so piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried
to find out what sort of fringe, but we could not make it out.
Now to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I take ten

128 _ FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

of them, and shall give you an account of them in an hour
or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though
he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve.
And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to
see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will
tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!”

“He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!” said
Nastasya as he went out; then she opened the door and stood
listening, but could not resist running downstairs after
him.

She was very eager to hear what he would say to the land-
lady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.

No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung
off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With
burning, twitching impatience he had waited for them to be
gone so that he might set to work. But to what work?
Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him. ,

“Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet
or not? What if they know it and are only pretending,
mocking me while I-am laid up, and then they will come in
_and tell me that it’s been discovered long ago and that they
have only ... What amItodonow? That’s what I’ve for-
gotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I re-
membered a minute ago.”

He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable
bewilderment about him; he walked to the door, opened it,
listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as
though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where
there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his
hand into the hole, fumbled—but that was not it. He went
to the stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes;
the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his
pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No
one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about
which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it
lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with
dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything
on it.

“Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent
for to the police office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am

{

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 129

mixing it up: that was then. I looked at my sock then, too,
but now... now I have been ill. But what did Zametov
come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?” he muttered,
helplessly sitting on the sofa again. “What does it mean?
Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real....
Ah, I remember ; I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes,
I must, I must escape! Yes... but where? And where
are my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away!
They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat—
they passed that over! And here is money on the table,
thank God! And here’s the 1.0. vu. ... I'll take the money
and go and take another lodging. They won’t find me!...
Yes, but the address bureau? They'll find me, Razumihin
will find me. Better escape altogether ... far away...
to America, and let them do their worst! And take the
I. 0. U.... it would be of use there. . . . What else shall I
take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can
walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know
all about it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if
they have set a watch there—policemen! What’s this, tea?
Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!”

He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful
of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching
a flame in his breast. But in another minute the beer had
gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shiver ran
down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him.
His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more dis-
connected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon
him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the
pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt
which had replaced the old, ragged great-coat, sighed softly
and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.

He woke up, hearing some one come in. He opened his
eyes and saw Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain
whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on
the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall some-
thing.

“Ah, you are not asleep! Here Iam! Nastasya, bring in
the parcel!’ Razumihin shouted down the stairs. “You shall
have the account directly.”

130 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, aga round
uneasily.

“Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening, it
will be six o’clock directly. You have slept more than six
hours.”

“Good heavens! Have I?”

“And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry?
A tryst, is it? We've all time before us. I’ve been waiting
for the last three hours for you; I’ve been up twice and.
found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov twice: not at
home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. ‘And
I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been
moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle liv-
ing with me now. But that’s no matter, to business. Give
me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And
how do you feel now, brother ?”

“T am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been
here long?”

“I tell you I’ve been waiting for the last three hours.”

“No, before.”

“How do you mean?”

“How long have you been coming here?”

“Why, I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you
remember ?”

Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream
to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly
at Razumihin.

“Hm!” said the latter, “he has forgotten. I fancied then
that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for
your sleep. ... You really look much better. ‘First rate!
Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy.”

He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested
him.

“Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my
heart. For we must make a man of you. Let’s begin from
the top. Do you see this cap?” he said, taking out of the
bundle a fairly good, though cheap, and ordinary cap. “Let
me try it on.”

“Presently, afterwards,” said Raskolnikov, waving it off
pettishly.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 131

“Come, Rodya, my boy, don’t oppose it, afterwards will be
too late; and I shan’t sleep all night, for 1 bought it by guess,
without measure. Just right!” he cried triumphantly, fitting
it on, “just your size! A proper head-covering is the first
thing in dress and a recommendation in its own way. Tol-
styakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his
pudding basin when he goes into any public place where
other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does
it from slavish politeness, but it’s simply because he is
ashamed of his bird’s nest; he is such a bashful fellow!
Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens of headgear: this
Palmerston”—he took from the corner Raskolnikov’s old,
battered hat, which for some unknown reason he called a
Palmerston—‘“‘or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what
do you suppose I paid for it, Nastasya!” he said, turning to
her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.

“Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,” answered Nastasya.

“Twenty copecks, silly!’ he cried, offended. “Why, now-
adays you would cost more than that—eighty copecks! And
that only because it has been worn. And it’s bought on con-
dition that when it’s worn out, they will give you another
next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to the
United States of America, as they called them at school. I
assure you I am proud of these breeches,” and he exhibited
to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey
woollen material. “No holes, no spots, and quite respectable,
although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in the
fashion. And it’s being worn really is an improvement, it’s
softer, smoother. .. . You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the
great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to
the seasons; if you don’t insist on having asparagus in
January, you keep your money in your purse; and it’s the
same with this purchase. It’s summer now, so I’ve been
buying summer things—warmer materials will be wanted
for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any
case ... especially as they will be done for by then from
their own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of
luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles
twenty-five copecks! And remember the condition: if you
wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They

132 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

only do business on that system at Fedyaev’s; if you’ve
bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for you will
never go there again of your own free will. Now for the
boots. What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn,
but they’ll last a couple of months, for it’s foreign work and
foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold
them last week—he had only worn them six days, but he
was very short of cash. Price—a rouble and a half. A
bargain ?”

“But perhaps they won’t fit,” observed Nastasya. r

“Not fit? Just look!” and he pulled out of his pocket
Raskolnikov’s old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud.
“TI did not go empty-handed—they took the size from this
monster. We all did our best. And as to your linen, your
landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with are three
shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front. ... Well now
then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks
the suit—together three roubles five copecks—a rouble and a
half for the boots—for, you see, they are very good—and
that makes four roubles fifty-five copecks; five roubles for
the underclothes—they were bought in the lot—which makes
exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks
change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you
are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat
will serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from
getting one’s clothes from Sharmer’s! As for your socks
and other things I leave them to you; we've twenty-five
roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your
lodging, don’t you worry. I tell you she'll trust you for
anything. And now, brother, let me change your linen,
for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your
shirt.” |

“Let me be! I don’t want to!” Raskolnikov waved him
off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin’s efforts to
be playful about his purchases.

“Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging around
for nothing,” Razumihin insisted. ‘“Nastasya, don’t be bashful,
but help me—that’s it,” and in spite of Raskolnikov’s re-
sistance he changed his linen. The latter sank back on the
pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 133

“It will be long before I get rid of them,” he thought.
“What money was all that bought with?” he asked at last,
gazing at the wall.

“Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought
from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotter
that, too?”

“I remember now,” said Raskolnikov after a long, suller
silence. Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.

The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance
seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in.

“Zossimov! At last!” cried Razumihin, delighted.

CHAPTER IV
fleas was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless,

clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore
: spectacles, and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He '
was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable loose
coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose,
fashionable and spick and span; his linen was irreproach-
able, his watch-chain was massive. In manner he was slow
and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time studiously
free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance,
but it was apparent at every instant. All his acquaintances
found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.

“T’ve been to you twice to-day, brother, you see, he’s come
to himself,” cried Razumihin.

“T see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?” said Zossimov
to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at
the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he
could.

“He is still depressed,” Razumihin went on. “We’ve just
changed his linen and he almost cried.”

“That’s very natural; you might have put it off if he did
not wish it. ... His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still
aching, eh?”

“T am well, I am perfectly well!” Raskolnikov declared
positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and
looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back on to the
pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov watched
him intently.

“Very good. . . . Going on all right,” he said lazily. “Has
he eaten anything ?”

They told him, and asked what he might have.

“He may have anything ... soup, tea... mushrooms
and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he’d better
not have meat either, and . . . but no need to tell you that!”
Razumihin and he looked at each other. “No more medicine

134

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT ; 135

or anything. I’ll look at him again to-morrow. Perhaps,
to-day even... but never mind...”

“To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk,” said
Razumihin. “We are going to the Yusupov garden and then
to the Palais de Crystal.”

“T would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don’t
know ... a little, maybe ... but we'll see.”

“Ach, what a nuisance! I’ve got a house-warming party
to-night; it’s only a step from here. Couldn’t he come? He
could lie on the sofa. You are coming?” Razumihin said to
Zossimov. “Don’t forget, you promised.”

“All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?”
“Oh, nothing—tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie
. «+ just our friends.”

“And who?”

“All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old
uncle, and he is new too—he only arrived in Petersburg yes-
terday to see to some business of his. We meet once in five
years.”

“What is he?”

“He’s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster;
gets a little pension. He is sixty-five—not worth talking
about. ... But I am fond of him, Porfiry Petrovitch, the
head of the Investigation Department here... But you
know him,”

“Is he a relation of yours, too?”

“A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because
you quarrelled once, won’t you come then?”

“T don’t care a damn for him!”

“So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a
teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and -
Zametov.”

“Do tell me, please, what you or he’—Zossimov nodded at
Raskolnikov—-“can have in common with this Zametov?”

“Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are
worked by principles, as it were by springs: you won’t ven-
ture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice
fellow, that’s the only principle I go upon. Zametov is a
delightful person.”

“Though he does take bribes.”

136 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Well, he does! and what of it? I don’t care if he does
take bribes,’ Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. “I
don’t praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice
man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all ways—
are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn’t
be worth a baked onion myself... perhaps with you
thrown in.”

“That’s too little; I’d give two for you.”

“And I wouldn’t give more than one for you. No more of
your jokes. Zametov-is no more than a boy, I can pull his
hair and one must draw him and not repel him. You'll never
improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has
to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dul-
lards! You don’t understand. You harm yourselves running
another man down. .. . But if you want to know, we really
have something in common.”

“I should like to know what.”

“Why, it’s all about a house-painter. . . . We are getting
him out of a mess! Though indeed there’s nothing to fear
now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on
steam.”

“A painter?”

“Why, haven’t I told you about it? I only told you the
beginning then about the murder of the old pawnbroker-
woman, Well, the painter is mixed up in it.. .”

“Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather
interested in it... partly ... for one reason...I read
about it in the papers, too... .”

“Lizaveta was murdered, too,’ Nastasya blurted out, sud-
denly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all
the time, standing by the door listening.

“Lizaveta,’ murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.

“Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn’t you know her?
She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you,
too.”

Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow
paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown
lines on it and began examining how many petals there were
in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on
them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 137

had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared
obstinately at the flower.

“But what about the painter?’ Zossimov interrupted
Nastasya’s chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and
was silent.

“Why, he was accused of the murder,” Razumihin went on
hotly.

“Was there evidence against him then?”

“Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and
that’s what we had to prove. It was just as they pitched on
those fellows, Koch and Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how
stupidly it’s all done, it makes one sick, though it’s not
one’s business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night... .
By the way, Rodya, you’ve heard about the business al-
ready; it happened before you were ill, the day before
you fainted at the police office while they were talking
about it.”

Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not
stir.

“But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busy-
body you are!’ Zossimov observed.

“Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,” shouted
Razumihin, bringing his fist down on the table. ‘What’s
the most offensive is not their lying—one can always forgive
lying—lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to truth—what
is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying. ...
I respect Porfiry, but ... What threw them out at first?
The door was locked, and when they came back with the
porter it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestryakov
were the murderers—that was their logic!”

“But don’t excite yourself; they simply detained them, they
could not help that. . . . And, by the way, I’ve met that man
Koch. “He used to buy unredeemed pledges from the old
woman? Eh?”

“Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He
makes a profession of it. But enough of him! Do you know
what makes me angry? It’s their sickening, rotten, petrified
routine. .. . And this case might be the means of introduc-
ing a new method. One can show from the psychological
data alone how to get on the track of the real man. ‘We

6—R

138 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

have facts,’ they say. But facts are not everythine—at least
half the business lies in how you interpret them!”

“Can you interpret them, then?”

“Anyway, one can’t hold one’s tongue when one has a
feeling, a tangible feeling, that one might be a help if only
».. Eh! Do you know the details of the case?”

“T am waiting to hear about the painter.”

“Oh yes! Well, here’s the story. Early on the third day
after the murder, when they were still dandling Koch and
Pestryakov—though they accounted for every step they took
and it was as plain as a pikestaff—an unexpected fact turned
up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram-shop facing
the house, brought to the police office a jeweller’s case con-
taining some gold ear-rings, and told a long tigmarole. ‘The
day before yesterday, just after eight o’clock’—mark the
day and the hour!—‘a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay,
who had been in to see me already that day, brought me this
box of gold ear-rings and stones, and asked me to give him
two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got
them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did
not ask him anything more.’ I am telling you Dushkin’s story.
‘I gave him a note’—a rouble that is—‘for I thought if he
did not pawn it with me he would with another. It would all
come to the same thiné—he’d spend it on drink, so the thing
had better be with me, The further you hide it the quicker you
will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumours,
I’ll take it to the police.’ Of course, that’s all taradiddle; he
lies like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawn-
broker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat
Nikolay out of a thirty-rouble trinket in order to give it to
the police. He was simply afraid. But no matter, to return
to Dushkin’s story. ‘I’ve known this peasant, Nikolay De-
mentyev, from a child; he comes from the same province
and district of Zaraisk, we are both Ryazan men. And
though Nikolay is not a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he
had a job in that house, painting, working with Dmitri, who
comes from the same village, too. As soon as he got the
rouble, he changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change
and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And
the next day I heard that some one had murdered Alyona

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 139

Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I
knew them, and I felt suspicious about the ear-rings at once,
for I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I
went to the house, and began to make careful inquiries with-
out saying a word to any one. First of all I asked, “Is Niko-
lay here?’ Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off on the
spree; he had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the
house about ten minutes, and went out again. Dmitri didn’t
see him again in finishing the job alone. And their job is on
the same staircase as the murder, on the second floor, When
I heard all that I did not say a word to any one’—that’s
Dushkin’s tale—‘but I found out what I could about the
murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at
eight o’clock this morning’—that was the third day, you
understand—‘I saw Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not
to say very drunk—he could understand what was said to
him. He sat down on the bench and did not speak. There
was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep
on a bench and our two boys. ‘Have you seen Dmitri?’ said
I. ‘No, I haven't,’ said he. ‘And you’ve not been here either ?”
‘Not since the day: before yesterday,’ said he. ‘And where
did you sleep last night?’ ‘In Peski, with the Kolomensky
men.’ ‘And where did you get those ear-rings?’ I asked. ‘T
found them in the street,’ and the way he said it was a bit
queer; he did not look at me. “Did you hear what happened
that very evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase ?”
said I. ‘No,’ said he, ‘I had not heard,’ and all the while
he was listening, his eyes were starting out of his head and
he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he
took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him.
“Wait a bit, Nikolay,’ said I, ‘won’t you have a drink?” And
I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from
behind the bar; but he darted out and down the street to
the turning at a run. I have not seen him since. Then my
doubts were at an end—it was his doing, as clear as could
Dee ker

“T should think so,” said Zossimov.

“Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and
low for Nikolay; they detained Dushkin and searched his
house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kolomensky men alse

140 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday they
arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He had
gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for
a dram for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes after-
wards the woman went to the cowshed, and through a crack
in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a
noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood,
and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman
screeched her hardest; people ran in. ‘So that’s what you
are up to!’ ‘Take me,’ he says, ‘to such-and-such a pélice
office; I’ll confess everything.’ Well, they took him to that
police station—that is here—with a suitable escort. So
they asked him this and that, how old he is, ‘twenty-two,’
and so on. At the question, ‘When you were working with
Dmitri, didn’t you see any one on the staircase at such-and-
such a time?’—answer: “To be sure folks may have gone
up and down, but I did not notice them.’ ‘And didn’t you
hear anything, any noise, and so on?’ ‘We heard nothing
special.’ ‘And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same day
Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?”
‘I never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was
from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before yesterday.’ ‘And
where did you find the ear-rings?’ ‘I found them on the
pavement.’ “Why didn’t you go to work with Dmitri the
other day?’ ‘Because I was drinking. ‘And where were
you drinking?’ ‘Oh, in such and such a place.’ ‘Why did
you run away from Dushkin’s?’ ‘Because I was awfully
frightened.’ ‘What were you frightened of?’ ‘That I should
be accused.’ ‘How could you be frightened, if you felt free
from guilt?’ Now, Zossimov, you may not believe me, that
question was put literally in those words. I know it for a
fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to
that P”

“Well, anyway, there’s the evidence.”

“T am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about
that question, of their own idea of themselves. Well, so
they squeezed and squeezed him and he confessed: ‘I did
not find it in the street, but in the flat where I was painting
with Dmitri” ‘And how was that?? ‘Why, Dmitri and I
were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 141

to go, and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he
ran off and I after him. I ran after him, shouting my hard-
est, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right against the
porter and some gentlemen—and how many gentlemen were
there I don’t remember. And the porter swore at me, and
the other porter swore, too, and the porter’s wife came out,
and swore at us, too; and a gentleman came into the entry
with a lady, and he swore at us, too, for Dmitri and I lay
right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri’s hair and
knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too,
caught me by the hair and began beating me. But we did it
all not for temper, but in a friendly way, for sport. And
then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street, and I ran after
him; but I did not catch him, and went back to the flat alone;
I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together,
expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the
corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying
there wrapped up in paper. I took off the paper, and saw
some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were the
€ar-rings. ...’”’

“Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the
door?’ Raskolnikov cried suddenly, staring with a blank
look of terror at Razumihin, and slowly sat up on the sofa,
leaning on his hand.

“Yes ... why? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
Razumihin, too, got up from his seat.

“Nothing,” Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the
wall. All were silent for a while.

“He must have waked from a dream,” Razumihin said at
last, looking inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly
shook his head.

“Well, go on,” said Zossimov. “What next?”

“What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting
Dmitri and everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin
and, as we know, got a rouble from him. He told a lie say-
ing he found them in the street, and went off drinking. He
keeps repeating his old story about the murder: ‘I knew
nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yester-
day.’ ‘And why didn’t you come to the police till now?’ ‘I
was frightened. ‘And why did you try to hang yourself?’

bf

142 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

‘From anxiety.’ ‘What anxiety?’ “That I should be accused
of it’ Well, that’s the whole story. And now what do you
suppose they deduced from that?”

“Why, there’s no supposing. There’s a clue, such as it is,
a fact. You wouldn’t have your painter set free?”

“Now they’ve simply taken him for the murderer. They
haven’t a shadow of doubt.”

“That’s nonsense. You are excited. But what about the
ear-rings? You must admit that, if on the very same day
and hour ear-rings from the old woman’s box have come into
Nikolay’s hands, they must have come there somehow. That’s
a good deal in such a case.”

“How did they get there? How did they get there?” cried
Razumihin. “How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to
study man and who has more opportunity than any one else
for studying human nature—how can you fail to see the
character of the man in the whole story? Don’t you see at
once that the answers he has given in the examination are
the holy truth? They came into his hands precisely as he
has told us—he stepped on the box and picked it up.”

“The holy truth! But didn’t he own himself that he told
a lie at first ?”

“Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and
Pestryakov and the other porter and the wife of the first
porter and the woman who was sitting in the porter’s lodge
and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab at that
minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm, that
is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on
the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri
hung on to his hair, beating him, too. They lay right across
the way, blocking the thoroughfare. They were sworn at
on all sides while they ‘like children’ (the very words of the
witnesses), were falling over one another, squealing, fight-
ing and laughing with the funniest faces and, chasing one
another like children, they ran into the street. Now take
careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you under-
stand, warm when they had found them! If they, or Nikolay
alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or
simply taken part in the robbery, allow me to ask you one
question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 143

and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed,
fiendish cunning, robbery? They'd just killed them, not
five or ten minutes before, for the bodies were still warm,
and at once, leaving the flat open, knowing that people would
go there at once, flinging away their booty they rolled about
like children, laughing and attracting general attention. And
there are a dozen witnesses to swear to that!”

“Of coursé it is strange! It’s impossible, indeed, but...

“No, brother, no buts. And if the ear-rings’ being found
in Nikolay’s hands at the very day and hour of the murder
constitutes an important piece of circumstantial evidence
against him—although the explanation given by him accounts
for it, and therefore it does not tell seriously against him—
one must take into consideration the facts which prove him
innocent, especially as they are facts that cannot be denied.
And do you suppose, from the character of our legal system,
that they will accept, or that they are in a position to accept,
this fact—resting simply on a psychological impossibility—as
irrefutable and conclusively breaking down the circumstan-
tial evidence for the prosecution? No, they won’t accept it,
they certainly won’t, because they found the jewel-case and
the man tried to hang himself, ‘which he could not have done
if he hadn’t felt guilty.’ That’s the point, that’s what excites
me, you must understand !”

“Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask
you; what proof is there that the box came from the old
woman ?”

“That’s been proved,” said Razumihin with apparent re-
luctance, frowning. “Koch recognised the jewel-case and
gave the name of the owner, who proved conclusively that
it was his.”

“That’s bad. Now another point. Did any one see
Nikolay at the time that Koch and Pestryakov were
going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence about
that?”

“Nobody did see him,” Razumihin answered with vexation.
“That’s the worst of it. Even Koch and Pestryakov did not
notice them on their way upstairs, though, indeed, their
evidence could not have been worth much. They said they
saw the flat was open, and that there must be work going

{

144 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

on in it, but they took no special notice and could not re-
member whether there actually were men at work in it.”

“Hm! ... So the only evidence for the defence is that
they were beating one another and laughing. That con-
stitutes a strong presumption, but . . . How do you explain
the facts yourself?”

“How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It’s
clear. At any rate, the direction in which explanation is to
be sought is clear, and the jewel-case points to it. The real
murderer dropped these ear-rings. The murderer was up-
stairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestryakov knocked at the
door. Koch, like an ass, did not stay at the door; so the
murderer popped out and ran down, too, for he had no
other way of escape. He hid from Koch, Pestryakov and
the porter in the flat when Nikolay and Dmitri had just run
out of it. He stopped there while the porter and others
were going upstairs, waited till they were out of hearing,
and then went calmly downstairs at the very minute when
Dmitri and Nikolay ran out into the street and there was
no one in the entry; possibly he was seen, but not noticed.
There are lots of people going in and out. He must have
- dropped the ear-rings out of his pocket when he stood be-
hind the door, and did not notice he dropped them, because
he had other things to think of. The jewel-case is a con-
clusive proof that he did stand there. ... That’s how I
explain it.”

“Too clever! No, my boy, you’re too clever. That beats
everything !”

“But, why, why?”

“Why, because everything fits too well... it’s too melo-
dramatic.”

“A-ach!” Razumihin was exclaiming, but at that moment
the door opened and a personage came in who was 2
stranger to all present.

ae fe. ee

CHAPTER V

HIS was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and

portly appearance, and a cautious and sour counte-

nance. He began by stopping short in the doorway,
staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonish-
ment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had
come to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being
alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov’s low
and narrow “cabin.” With the same amazement he stared
at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed,
on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then
with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, un-
kempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked
him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from
his seat.- A constrained silence lasted for a couple of
minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting:
took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmis-
takable signs, that he would get nothing in this “cabin” by
attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened some-
what, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising
every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov:

“Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly
a student?”

Zossimov madeja slight movement, and would have ane
swered, had not Razumihin anticipated him.

“Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?”

This familiar “what do you want” seemed to cut the
ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was
turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in time and
turned to Zossimov again.

“This is Raskolnikov,’ mumbled Zossimov, nodding to-
wards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening his
mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into
his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a
round hunter’s case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and
lazily proceeded to put it back.

145

146 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Raskolnikov himself lay, without speaking, on his back,
gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the
stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the
strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore
a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an
agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But
the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attention, then
his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov
said ‘this is Raskolnikov” he jumped up quickly, sat on the
sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking,
voice articulated:

“Yes, Iam Raskolnikov! What do you want?”

The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively:

“Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, I believe I have reason to hope
that my name is not wholly unknown to you?”

But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite dif-
ferent, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply,
as though he heard the name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the
first time.

“Ts it possible that you can up to the present have received
no information?” asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat dis-
concerted,

In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow,
put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A
look of dismay came into Luzhin’s face. Zossimov and
Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and
at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment,

“T had presumed and calculated,” he faltered, “that a letter
posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago... .”

“I say, why are you standing in the doorway?” Razumihin
interrupted suddenly. “If you’ve something to say, sit down.
Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room,
Here’s a chair, thread your way in!”

He moved his chair back from the table, made a little
space between the table and his knees, and waited in a
rather cramped position for the visitor to “thread his way
in.’ The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to
refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying
and stumbling, Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking
suspiciously at Razumihin.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 14%

“No need to be nervous,” the latter blurted out. “Rodya
has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three, but
now he is recovering and has got an appetite. This is his
doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a comrade of
Rodya’s, like him, formerly a student, and now I am nurs-
ing him; so don’t you take any notice of us, but go on with
your business.”

“Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my
presence and conversation?’ Pyotr Petrovitch asked of
Zossimov.

“N-no,” mumbled Zossimov; “you may amuse him.” He
yawned again.

“He has been conscious a long time, since the morning,”
went on Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so much like
unaffected good-nature that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be
more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby and im-
pudent person had introduced himself as a student.

“Your mamma,” began Luzhin.

“Hm!” Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin
looked at him inquiringly.

“That’s all right, go on.”

Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.

“Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was
sojourning in her neighbourhood. On my arrival here I
purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see
you, in order that I might be fully assured that you were in
full possession of the tidings; but now, to my astonish-
ment . « ig

“T know, I know!” Raskolnikov cried suddenly with im-
patient vexation. “So you are the fiancé? I know, and
that’s enough!”

There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch’s being of-
fended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent
effort to understand what it all meant. There was a mo-
ment’s silence.

Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards
him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again
with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good
look at him yet, or as though something new had struck
him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him,

17?

148 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch’s
whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the
title of “fiancé” so unceremoniously applied to him. In the
first place, it was evident, far too much so indeed, that
Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few days in the
capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation
of his betrothed—a perfectly innocent and permissible pro-
ceeding, indeed. Even his own, perhaps too complacent,
consciousness of the agreeable improvement in his appear-
ance might have been forgiven in such circumstances, seeifig
that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the rdle of fiancé. All
_his clothes were fresh from the tailor’s and were all right,
except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate.
Even the stylish new round hat had the same significance.
Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too respectfully and held it too
carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender
gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale, if only from the
fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand
for show. Light and youthful colours predominated in
Pyotr Petrovitch’s attire. He wore a charming summer
jacket of a fawn shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the
- same, new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambric
with pink stripes on it, and the best of it was, this all suited
Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face
looked younger than his forty-five years at all times. His
dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting on
both sides, growing thickly about his shining, clean-shaven
chin. Even his hair, touched here and there with grey,
though it had been combed and curled at a hairdresser’s, did
not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does,
by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day. If
there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his
rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due
to quite other causes. After scanning Mr, Luzhin uncere-
moniously, Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the
pillow and stared at the ceiling as before.

But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to de-
termine to take no notice of their oddities.

“T feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation,”
he began, again breaking the silence with an effort. “If I

ee ee ee ee ay

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 149

had been aware of your illness I should have come earlier.
But you know what business is. I have, too, a very impor-
tant legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other pre-
occupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting
your mamma and sister any minute.”

Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak;
his face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused,
waited, but as nothing followed, he went on:

“ ... Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on
their arrival.”

“Where?” asked Raskolnikov weakly.

“Very near here, in Bakaleyev’s house.”

“That’s in Voskresensky,” put in Razumihin. “There are
two storeys of rooms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I’ve
been there.”

“Yes, rooms...

“A disgusting place—filthy, stinking and, what’s more, of
doubtful character. Things have happened there, and there
are all sorts of queer people living there. And I went there
about a scandalous business. It’s cheap, though .. .”

“T could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am
a stranger in Petersburg myself,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied
huffily. “However, the two rooms are exceedingly clean,
and as it is for so short a time... I have already taken a
permanent, that is, our future flat,” he said, addressing
Raskolnikov, “and I am having it done up. And meanwhile
I am myself cramped for room in a lodging with my friend
Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame
Lippevechsel; it was he who told me of Bakaleyev’s house,
02 Pe

“Lebeziatnikov ?” said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling
something.

“Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the
Ministry. Do you know him?”

“Yes... no,” Raskolnikov answered.

“Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once
his guardian. .. A very nice young man and advanced. I
like to meet young people: one learns new things from them.”
Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all.

“How do you mean?” asked Razumihin.

39

150 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“In the most serious and essential matters,” Pyotr Petro-
vitch replied, as though delighted at the question. “You see,
it’s ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the novelties,
reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces, but to see
it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And it’s my
notion that you observe and learn most by watching the
younger generation. And I confess I am delighted... .”

“At what?”

“Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I
fancy I find clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more
practicality ...”

“That’s true,” Zossimov let drop.

“Nonsense! There’s no practicality.” Razumihin flew at
him. “Practicality is a difficult thing to find; it does not
drop down from heaven. And for the last two hundred
years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas,
if you like, are fermenting,” he said to Pyotr Petrovitch,
“and desire for good exists, though it’s in a childish form,
and honesty you may find, although there are crowds of
brigands. Anyway, there’s no practicality. Practicality goes
well shod,”

“T don’t agree with you,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with
evident enjoyment. “Of course, people do get carried away
and make mistakes, but one must have indulgence; those
mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause
and of abnormal external environment. If little has been
done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak,
It’s my personal view, if you care to know, that something
has been accomplished already. New valuable ideas, new
valuable works are circulating in the place of our old
dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a
maturer form, many injurious prejudices have been rooted
up and turned into ridicule. ...In a word, we have cut
ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my
thinking, is a great thing...”

“He’s learnt it by heart to show off!” Raskolnikov pro<
nounced suddenly.

“What?” asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words;
but he received no reply.

“That’s all true,” Zossimov hastened to interpose.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 151

“TIsn’t it so?’ Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably
at Zossimov. “You must admit,’ he went on, addressing
Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousness—
he almost added “young man’’-—“that there is an advance,
or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and
economic truth .. .”

Oe: dididwalane.?

“No, not a commonplace! Fithdrto, for instance, if I were
told ‘love thy neighbour,’ what came of it?” Pyotr Petrovitch
went on, perhaps with excessive haste. “It came to my tear-
ing my coat in half to share with my neighbour and we both
were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has it, ‘catch
several hares and you won’t catch one.’ Science now tells us,
love yourself before all men, for everything in the world
rests on self-interest. You love yourself and manage your
own affairs properly and your coat remains whole. Eco-
nomic truth adds that the better private affairs are organised
in society—the more whole coats, so to say—the firmer are
its foundations and the better is the common welfare or-
ganised too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and
exclusively for myself, I am acquiring so to speak, for all,
and helping to bring to pass my neighbour’s getting a little
more than a torn coat; and that not from private, personal
liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance. The
idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reach-
ing us, being hindered by idealism and sentimentality.
And yet it would seem to want very little wit to perceive
Gd ok?

“Excuse me, I’ve very little wit myself,” Razumihin cut in
sharply, “and so let us drop it. I began this discussion with
an object, but I’ve grown so sick during the last three years
of this chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow of
commonplaces, always the same, that, by Jove, I blush even
when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no
doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and I don’t blame you,
that’s quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort
of man you are, for so many unscrupulous people have got
hold of the progressive cause of late and have so distorted
in their own interests.everything they touched, that the whole
cause has been dragged in the mire. That’s enough!”

152 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Excuse me, sir,” said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking
with excessive dignity. “Do you mean to suggest so un-
ceremoniously that I too .. .”

“Oh, my dear sir .. . how could I? . .. Come, that’s
enough,” Razumihin concluded, and he turned abruptly to
Zossimov to continue their previous conversation.

Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the dis-
avowal. He made up his mind to take leave in another
minute or two,

“T trust our acquaintance,” he said, addressing Raskol-
nikov, “may, upon your recovery and in view of the cir-
cumstances of which you are aware, become closer... .,
Above all, I hope for your return to health .. .” f

Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch
began getting up from his chair.

“One of her customers must have killed her,’ Zossimov
declared positively.

“Not a doubt of it,” replied Razumihin. “Porfiry doesn’t
give his opinion, but is examining all who have left pledges
with her there.”

“Examining them?” Raskolnikov asked aloud.

“Yes. What then?”

“Nothing.”

“How does he get hold of them?” asked Zossimov.

“Koch has given the names of some of them, other names
are on the wrappers of the pledges and some have come
forward of themselves.”

“Tt must have been a cunning and practised ruffan! The
boldness of it! The coolness!”

“That’s just what it wasn’t!” ‘interposed Razumihin.
“That’s what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain
that he is not cunning, not practised, and probably this was
his first crime! The supposition that it was a calculated
crime and a cunning criminal doesn’t work. Suppose him to
have been inexperienced, and it’s clear that it was only a
chance that saved him—and chance may do anything. Why,
he did not foresee obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set
to work! He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles, stuff-
ing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman’s trunk,
her rags—and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides

\ CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 153

notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not
know how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first
crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his hand. And
he got off more by luck than good counsel!”

“You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I
believe?” Pyotr Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He
was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before departing
he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases.
He was evidently anxious to make a favourable impression
and his vanity overcame his prudence.

“Yes. You've heard of it?”

“Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood.”

“Do you know the details?”

“T can’t say that; but another circumstance interests me
in the case—the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of
the fact that crime has been greatly on the increase among
the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of
the cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what strikes me
as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too, crime
is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a
student’s robbing the mail on the high road; in another place
people of good social position forge false banknotes; in
Moscow of late a whole gang has been captured who used to
forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was a
lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was
murdered from some obscure motive of gain. ... And if
this old woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered by some
one of a higher class in society—for peasants don’t pawn
gold trinkets—how are we to explain this demoralisation of
the civilised part of our society?”

“There are many economic changes,” put in Zossimov.

“How are we to explain it?” Razumihin caught him
up. “It might be explained by our inveterate impracti-
cality.”

“How do you mean?”

“What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the
question why he was forging notes? ‘Everybody is getting
rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich
too.’ I don’t remember the exact words, but the upshot was
that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or work-

154 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

ing! We’ve grown used to having everything ready-made,
to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us.
Then the great hour struck,’ and every man showed himself
in his true colours.”

“But morality? And so to speak, principles .. .”

“But why do you worry about it?” Raskolnikov inter-
posed suddenly. “It’s in accordance with your theory!”

“In accordance with my theory?”

“Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating
just now, and it follows that people may be killed .. .”

“Upon my word!” cried Luzhin.

“No, that’s not so,” put in Zossimov. ,

Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip,
breathing painfully.

“There’s a measure in all things,” Luzhin went on super-
ciliously. “Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder,
and one has but to suppose .. .”

“And is it true,” Raskolnikov interposed once more sud-
denly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in
insulting him, “is it true that you told your fiancée...
within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you
most ... was that she was a beggar... because it was
better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have
complete control over her, and reproach her with your being
her benefactor ?”

“Upon my word,” Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably,
crimson with confusion, “to distort my words in this way!
Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has
reached you, or rather let me say, has been conveyed to you,
has no foundation in truth, and I ... suspect who... ina
word ... this arrow ... ina word, your mamma... She
seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities,
of a somewhat highflown and romantic way of thinking ...
But I was a thousand miles from supposing that she would
misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a way.
»s. And indeed . .\. indeed .. .”

“T tell you what,” cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his
pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, “I
tell you what.”

% The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.—TRANSLAToR’s NOTE.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 155

“What?” Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and
offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds.

“Why, if ever again... you dare to mention a single
word ...about my mother ...I shall send you flying
downstairs!’

“What's the matter with you?” cried Razumihin.

“So that’s how it is?” Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip.
“Let me tell you, sir,” he began deliberately, doing his utmost
to restrain himself but breathing hard, “at the first moment
I saw you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on
purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal ina
sick man and a connection, but you ...mever after
thie) 53

“T am not ill,” cried Raskolnikov.

“So much the worse .. .”

“Go to hell!”

But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his
speech, squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumihin
got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing at any
one, and not even nodding to Zossimoy, who had for some
time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he
went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulder to avoid
crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even
the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult
he had received.

“How could you—how could you!” Razumihin said, shak-

ing his head in perplexity.

“Let me alone—let me alone all of you!” Raskolnikov
cried in a frenzy. “Will you ever leave off tormenting me?
I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of any one, any
one now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone,
alone!”

“Come along,” said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.

“But we can’t leave him like this!”

“Come along,” Zossimov repeated insistently, and he
went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to over-
take him.

“It might be worse not to obey him,” said Zossimov on the
stairs. “He mustn’t be irritated.”

“What's the matter with him?”

156 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Tf only he could get some favourable shock, that’s what
would do it! At first he was better. . . . You know he has
got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on
him. ... 1 am very much afraid so; he must have!”

“Perhaps it’s that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his
conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and
that he had received a letter about it just before his
illness... .”

“Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case alto-
gether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in any-
thing, he does not respond to anything except one point on
which he seems excited—that’s the murder?” 5

“Yes, yes,” Razumihin agreed, “I noticed that, too. He is
interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he
was ill in the police office; he fainted.”

“Tell me more about that this evening and I'll tell you
something afterwards. He interests me very much! In half
an hour I’ll go and see him again. ... There'll be no in-
flammation though.”

“Thanks! And I'll wait with Pashenka meantime and will
keep watch on him through Nastasya... .”

Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery
at Nastasya, but she still lingered.

“Won't you have some tea now?” she asked.

“Later! I am sleepy! Leave me.”

He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out.

CHAPTER VI

UT as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the
B door, undid the parcel which Razumihin had brought

in that evening and had tied up again, and began
dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have
become perfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium
nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. It was
the first moment of a strange sudden calm. His movements
were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident in
them. “To-day, to-day,” he muttered to himself. He under-
stood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual con-
centration gave him strength and self-confidence. He
hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down ‘in the street.
When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at
the money lying on the table, and after a moment’s thought
put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took
also all the copper change from the ten roubles spent by
Razumihin on the clothes. Then he softly unlatched the
door, went out, slipped downstairs and glanced in at the
open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back to
him, blowing up the landlady’s samovar. She heard noth-
ing. Who would have dreamed of his going out, indeed?
A minute later he was in the street.

It is nearly eight o’clock, the sun was setting. It was
as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking,
dusty town air. His head felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage
energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and his
wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not
think where he was going, he had one thought only “that
all this must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately;
that he would not return home without it, because he would
not go on living like that.’ How, with what to make an
end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want to
think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him.
All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed

157

158 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“one way or another,” he repeated with desperate and im-
movable self-confidence and determination. ~

From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of
the Hay Market. A dark-haired young man with a barrel
organ was standing in the-road in front of a little general
shop and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was
accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement
in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle
and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very
old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice,
cracked and coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope
of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two
or three listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in
the girl’s hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental
high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder “(Come on,”
and both moved on to the next shop.

“Do you like street music?” said Raskolnikov, addressing
a middle-aged man standing idly by him. The man looked
at him, startled and wondering.

“T love to hear singing to a street organ,” said Raskolnikov,
and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the
subject—“I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings—
they must be damp—when all the passers-by have pale green,
sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight
‘down, when there’s no wind—you know what I mean? and
the street lamps shine through it... .”

“T don’t know. ... Excuse me...” muttered the stran-
ger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov’s strange
manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the
street.

Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the
corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife
had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now.
Recognizing the place, he stopped, looked round and ad-
dressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping
before a corn chandler’s shop.

“Isn’t there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this
corner ?”

“All sorts of people keep booths here,’ answered the
young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 159

“What’s his name?”

“What he was christened.”

“Aren’t you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?”

The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.

“It’s not a province, your excellency, but a district.
Graciously forgive me, your excellency !”

“Ts that a tavern at the top there?”

“Yes, it’s an eating-house and there’s a billiard-room and
you'll find princesses there too,.,. La-la!”

Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was
a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the
thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unace
countable inclination to enter into conversation with people,
But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all shout-
ing in groups together. He stood and thought a little and
took a turning to the right in the direction of V.

He had often crossed that little street which turns at an
angle, leading from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of
late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district,
when he felt depressed, that he might feel more so.

Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point
there is a great block of buildings, entirely let out in dram
shops and eating-houses; women were continually running in
and out, bare-headed and in their indoor clothes. Here and
there they gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially
about the entrances to various festive establishments in the
lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of sing-
ing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated
into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round
the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on the pave-
ment, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier,
smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road,
swearing ; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere,
but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with
another, and a man dead drunk was lying right across the
road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were
talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore
cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of
forty and some.not more than seventeen; almost all had
blackened eyes.

160 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise
and uproar in the saloon below. ... Some one could be
heard within dancing frantically, marking time with his
heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice
singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and
dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping in-
quisitively in from the pavement.

“Oh, my handsome soldier
Don’t beat me for nothing,”

trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great
desire to make out what he was singing, as though every-,
thing depended on that.

“Shall I go in?” he thought. ‘They are laughing. From
drink. Shall I get drunk?”

“Won’t you come in?” one of the women asked him. Her
voice was still musical and less thick than the others, she was
young and not repulsive—the only one of the group.

“Why, she’s pretty,” he said, drawing himself up and
looking at her.

She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.

“You're very nice looking yourself,” she said.

“Tsn’t he thin though!’ observed another woman in a deep
bass. “Have you just come out of a hospital?”

“They’re all generals’ daughters it seems, but they have all
snub noses,” interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on
his face, wearing a loose coat. “See how jolly they are.”

“Go along with you!”

“T’ll go, sweetie!”

And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov
moved on.

“T say, sir,’ the girl shouted after him.

“What is it?”

She hesitated.

“I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind
gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six CODER for a
drink, there’s a nice young man!”

Raskolnikov gave her what came first—fifteen copecks.

“Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!”

“‘What’s your name?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 161

“Ask for Duclida.”

“Well, that’s too much,” one of the women observed, shak-
ing her head at Duclida. “I don’t know how you can ask
like that. I believe I should drop with shame... .”

Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a
pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her
upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and ear-
nestly. “Where is it,” thought Raskolnikov. ‘Where is it
I’ve read that some one condemned to death says or thinks,
an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high
rock, on such a narrow ledge that he’d only room to stand,
and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude,
everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain stand-
ing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years,
eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only
to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!... How
true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a, vile creature!
. .. And vile is he who calls him vile for that,” he added a
moment later.

He went into another street. “Bah, the Palais de Crystal!
Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Crystal. But
what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers. ...
Zossimov said he’d read it in the papers. Have you the
papers?” he asked, going into a very spacious and positively
clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were
however rather empty. Two or three people were drinking
tea, and in a room further away were sitting four men drink-
ing champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one
of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. “What
if it is!” he thought.

“Will you have vodka?” asked the waiter.

“Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones
for the last five days and I'll give you something.”

“Yes, sir, here’s to-day’s. No vodka?”

The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov
sat down and began to look through them. 23

“Oh, damn... these are the items of intelligence. An
accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shop-
keeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski . . . a fire in the Peters-
burg quarter ... another fire in the Petersburg quarter

162 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

. +. and another fire in the Petersburg quarter. ... Ah,
here it is!” He found at last what he was seeking and
began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he
read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the
following nutnbers. His hands shook with nervous im-
patience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly some one sat
down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head
clerk Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his
fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly, black hair,
parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby
coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least
he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His dark
face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk.

“What, you here?” he began in stirprise, speaking as
though he’d known him all his life. “Why, Razumihin told
me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange!
And do you know I’ve been to see you?”

Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid
aside the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile
on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was
apparent in that smile.

“I know you have,” he answered. “I’ve heard it. You
looked for my sock. ... And you know Razumihin has lost
-his heart to you? He says you’ve been with him to Luise
Ivanovna’s, you know the woman you tried to befriend, for
whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he would
not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to
understand—it was quite clear, wasn’t it?”

“What a hot head he is!”

“The explosive one?”

“No, your friend Razumihin.”

“You mtst have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free
to the most agreeable places. Who’s been pouring cham-
pagne into you just now?”

“We've just been... having a drink together... . You
talk about pouring it into me!”

“By way of a fee! You profit by everything!” Raskol-
nikov laughed, “it’s all right, my dear boy,” he added, slap-
ping Zametov on the shoulder. “I am not speaking from
temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT ‘ 163

yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of
the old woman... .”

“How do you know about it?”

“Perhaps I know more about it than you do.”

“How strange you are.... Iam sure you are still very
unwell. You oughtn’t to have come out.”

“Oh, do I seem strange to you?”

“Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?”

“Ves,”

“There’s a lot about the fires.”

“No, I am not reading about the fires.” Here he looked
mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a
mocking smile. ‘No, I am not reading about the fires,” he
went on, winking at Zametov. “But confess now, my dear
fellow, you’re awfully anxious to know what I am reading
about ?”

“T am not in the least. Mayn’t I ask a question? Why
do you keep on.. .?”

“Listen, you are a man of culture and education?”

“T was in the sixth class at the gymnasium,’ said Zametov
with some dignity.

“Sixth class! Ah, my cocksparrow! With your parting
and your rings—you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo, what
a charming boy!’ Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous
laugh right in Zametov’s face. The latter drew back, more
amazed than offended.

“Foo, how strange you are!’ Zametov repeated very seri-
ously. “I can’t help thinking you are still delirious.”

“T am delirious? You are fibbing, my cocksparrow! Se
I am strange? You find me curious, do you?”

“Yes, curious.”

“Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was
looking for? See what a lot of papers I’ve made them bring
me. Suspicious, eh?”

“Well, what is it?”

“You prick up your ears?”

“How do you mean—prick up my ears?”

“Tl explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare
to you... no, better ‘I confess’. . . No, that’s not right
either ; ‘I make a deposition and you take it.’ I depose that

164 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

I was reading, that I was looking and searching...” he
screwed up his eyes and paused. “I was searching—and
came here on purpose to do it—for news of the murder of the
old pawnbroker woman,” he articulated at last, almost in a
whisper, bringing his face exceedingly close to the face of
Zametov. Zametov looked at him steadily, without moving
or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov afterwards
as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for
exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all
the while.

“What if you have been reading about it?” he cried at
last, perplexed and impatient. ‘““That’s no business of mine!
What of it?”

“The same old woman,” Raskolnikov went on in the same
whisper, not heeding Zametov’s explanation, “about whom
you were talking in the police-office, you remember, when I
fainted. . Well, do you understand now?”

“What do you mean? Understand ... what?” Zametov
brought out, almost alarmed.

Raskolnikov’s set and earnest face was suddenly trans-
formed, and he suddenly went off into the same nervous
laugh as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself.
And in one flash he recalled with extraordinary vividness of
_ sensation a moment in the recent past, that moment when he
stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch trembled
and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden
desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his
tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and
laugh !

“You are either mad, or...” began Zametov, and he
broke off, as though stunned by ‘the idea that had suddenly
flashed into his mind.

“Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!”

“Nothing,” said Zametov, getting angry, “it’s all non-
sense !”

Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Ras-
kolnikov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He
put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand.
He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The
silence lasted for some time.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 165

“Why don’t you drink your tea? It’s getting cold,” said
Zametov.

“What! Tea? Oh, yes....” Raskolnikov sipped the
glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth and, suddenly look-
ing at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and pulled
himself together. At the same moment his face resumed its
original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea.

“There have been a great many of these crimes lately,”
said Zametov. “Only the other day I read in the Moscow
News that a whole gang of false coiners had been caught in
Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to forge
tickets !”

“Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month
ago,” Raskolnikov answered calmly. “So you consider them
criminals?” he added smiling.

“Of course they are criminals.”

“They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals!
Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an object—
what an idea! Three would be too many, and then they
want to have more faith in one other than in themselves!
One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses. Simple-
tons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the
notes—what a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let
us suppose that these simpletons succeed and each makes a
million, and what follows for the rest of their lives? Each
is dependent on the others for the rest of his life! Better
hang oneself at once! And they did not know how to
change the notes either; the man who changed the notes
took five thousand roubles, and his hands trembled. He
counted the first four thousand, but did not count the fifth
thousand—he was in such a hurry to get the money into ©
his pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion.
And the whole thing came to a crash through one fool! Is
it possible?”

“That his hands trembled?” observed Zametov, “yes,
that’s quite possible. That I feel quite sure is possible.
Sometimes one can’t stand things.”

“Can’t stand that?”

“Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn’t. For the
sake, of a hundred roubles to face such a terrible experience!

166 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

To go with false notes into a bank where it’s their business
to spot that sort of thing! No, I should not have the face to
do it. Would you?”

Raskolnikov had an intense desire again “to put his tongue
out.” Shivers kept running down his spine.

“I should do it quite differently,’ Raskolnikov began
“This is how I would change the notes: I’d count the first
thousand three or four times backwards and forwards, look-
ing at every note and then I’d set to the second thousand;
I’d count that half way through and then hold some fifty
rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light
again—to see whether it was a good one? ‘I am afraid,’ I
would say, ‘a relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the
other day through a false note,’ and then Id tell them the
whole story. And after I began counting the third, ‘no,
excuse me, I would say, ‘I fancy I made a mistake in the
seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.’
And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to
the second and so on to the end. And when I had finished,
I’d pick out one from the fifth and one from the second
thousand and take them again to the light and ask again
‘change them, please,’ and put the clerk into such a stew
that he would not know how to get rid of me. When
I’d finished and had gone out, I’d come back, ‘no,
“excuse me,’ and ask for some explanation. That’s how I’d
do it.”

“Foo, what terrible things you say!’ said Zametov, laugh-
ing. “But all that is only talk. I dare say when it came to
deeds you’d make a slip. I believe that even a practised,
desperate man cannot always reckon on himself, much less
you and I. To take an example near home—that old woman
murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been
a desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight,
was saved by a miracle—but his hands shook, too. He did
not succeed in robbing the place, he couldn’t stand it. That
was clear from the...”

Raskolnikov seemed offended.

“Clear? Why don’t you catch him then?” he cried,
maliciously gibing at Zametov.

“Well, they will catch him.”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 167

“Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him?
You’ve a tough job! A great point for you is whether a
man is spending money or not. If he had no money and
suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any
child can mislead you.”

“The fact is they always do that, though,” answered Zame-
tov. “A man will commit a clever murder at the risk of his
life and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They
are caught spending money, they are not all as cunning as
you are. You wouldn’t go to a tavern, of course!”

Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov.

“You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know
how I should behave in that case, too?” he asked with dis-
pleasure.

“I should like to,” Zametov answered firmly and seriously.
Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear in his
words and looks.

“Very much?”

“Very much!”

“All right then. This is how I should behave,” Ras-
kolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Zametov’s,
again staring at him and speaking in a whisper, so that the
latter positively shuddered. “This is what I should have
done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should
have walked out of there and have gone straight to some
deserted place with fences round it and scarcely any one to
be seen, some kitchen garden or place of that sort. I should
have looked out beforehand some stone weighing a hun-
dredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from
the time the house was built. I would lift that stone—there
would sure to be a hollow under it, and I would put the
jewels and money in that hole. Then I’d roll the stone back
so that it would look as before, would press it down with my
foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe,
I would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There’d
be no trace.”

“You are a madman,” said Zametov, and for some reason
he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Ras-
kolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had turned fear-
fully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering.

168 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips
began to move without uttering a word. This lasted for
half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could not
restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips,
like the latch on that door; in another moment it will
break out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak
out,

“And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and
Lizaveta?” he said suddenly and—realised what he had done.

Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the
tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile. :

“But is it possible?” he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov
looked wrathfully at him. /

“Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?”

“Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now,” Zametov
cried hastily.

“I’ve caught my cocksparrow! So you did believe it
before, if now you believe it less than ever?”

“Not at all,” cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. “Have
you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?”

“You don’t believe it then? What were you talking about
behind my back when I went out of the police-office? And
why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted?
Hey, there,” he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking
- his cap “how much?”

“Thirty copecks,” the latter replied, running up.

“And here is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of
money !” he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes
in it. “Red notes and blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did
I get them? And where did my new clothes come from?
You know I had not a copeck. You’ve cross-examined my
landlady, T’ll be bound. ... Well, that’s enough! Assez
causé! ‘Till we meet again!”

He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hys-
terical sensation, in which there was an element of insuf-
ferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His
face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue increased
rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and
revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as
quickly when the stimulus was removed.

mee a he i ee A a ee at

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 169

Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place,
plunged in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a
revolution in his brain on a certain point and had made up
his mind for him conclusively.

“Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead,” he decided.

Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant
when he stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They
did not see each other till they almost knocked against each
other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and
down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then anger, real
anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes.

“So here you are!” he shouted at the top of his voice—
“you ran away from your bed! And here I’ve been looking
for you under the sofa! We went up to the garret. I
almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is after
all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole
truth! Confess! Do you hear?”

“Tt means that I’m sick to death of you all and I want to
be alone,” Raskolnikov answered calmly.

“Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face
is as white as a sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot!
. ... What have you been doing in the Palais de Crystal?
Own up at once!”

“Let me go!” said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him.
This was too much for Razumihin; he gripped him firmly
by the shoulder.

“Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you
know what I'll do with you directly? I'll pick you up, tie
you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock
you up!”

“Listen, Razumihin,” Raskolnikov began quietly, appar-
ently calm—‘“can’t you see that I don’t want your benevo-
lence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a
man who... curses them, who feels them a burden in fact!
Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness?
Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn’t I tell you plainly
enough to-day that you were torturing me, that I was...
sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure
you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery, because
it’s continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away

7—R

170 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for
goodness’ sake! What right have you, indeed, to keep me by
force? Don’t you see that I am in possession of all my
faculties now? How, how can I persuade you not to perse-
cute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may
be mean, only let me be, for God’s sake, let me be! Let
me be, let me be!”

He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous
phrases he was about to utter, but finished, panting for
breath, in a frenzy, as he kad been with Luzhin. 7

Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop,

“Well, go to hell then,” he said gently and thoughtfully.
“Stay,” he roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. “Listen
to me. Let me tell you, that you are all a set of babbling,
posing idiots! If you’ve any little trouble you brood over
it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists even in
that! There isn’t a sign of independent life in you! You
are made of spermaceti ointment and you’ve lymph in your
veins instead of blood. I don’t believe in any one of you!
In any circumstances the first thing for all of you is to be
unlike a human being! Stop!” he cried with redoubled fury,
noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement—
“hear me out! You know I’m having a house-warming this
evening, I dare say they’ve arrived by now, but I left my
uncle there—I just ran in—to receive the guests. And if you
weren't a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were
an original instead of a translation ... you see, Rodya, I
recognise you’re a clever fellow, but you’re a fool!—and if
you weren’t a fool you’d come round to me this evening
instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you
have gone out, there’s no help for it! I’d give you a snug
easy chair, my landlady has one...a cup of tea, com-
pany. ... Or you could lie on the sofa—any way you would
be with us. ... Zossimov will be there too. Will you
come?”

tN”?

“R-rubbish!” Razumihin shouted, out of patience. “How
do you knew? You can’t answer for yourself! You
don’t know anything about it... . Thousands of times I’ve
fought tooth and nail with people and ran back to them

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT / 171

afterwards. ... One feels ashamed and goes back to a
man! So remember, Potchinkov’s house on the third
5 Ce Oe

“Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you’d let anybody beat
you from sheer benevolence.”

“Beat? Whom? Me? I’d twist his nose off at the mere
idea! Potchinkov’s house, 47, Babushkin’s flat... .”

“TI shall not come, Razumihin.” Raskolnikov turned and
walked away.

“I bet you will,’ Razumihin shouted after him. “I re-
fuse to know you if you don’t! Stay, hey, is Zametov in
there?”

“Ves,”

“Did you see him?”

&V es.””

“Talked to him?”

“Ves.”

“What about? Confound you, don’t tell me then. Potch-
inkov’s house, 47, Babushkin’s flat, remember !”

Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy
Street. Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with
a wave of his hand he went into the house but stopped short
on the stairs.

“Confound it,’ he went on almost aloud. “He talked
sensibly but yet ...Iama fool! As if madmen didn’t talk
sensibly! And this was just what Zossimov seemed afraid
of.” He struck his finger on his forehead. What if...
how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself.
.. - Ach, what a blunder! I can’t.” And he ran back to
overtake Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. With
a curse he returned with rapid steps to the Palais de Crystal
to question Zametov.

Raskolnikov walked straight to X——— Bridge, stood in the
middle, and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the
distance. On parting with Razumihin, he felt so much
weaker that he could scarcely reach this place. He longed
to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending over
the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of
the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gather-
ing twilight, at one distant attic window on the left bank,

172 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the setting sun,
at the darkening water of the canal, and the water seemed
to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before his
eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal
banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly
he started, saved again perhaps from swooning by an un-
canny and hideous sight. He became aware of some one
standing on the right side of him; he looked and saw a tall
woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow,
wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight
at him, but obviously she saw nothing and recognised no one.
Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her
right leg over the railing, then her left and threw herself into
the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its
victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning
woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the cur-
rent, her head and legs in the water, her skirt inflated like a
balloon over back.

“A woman drowning! A woman drowning!’ shouted
dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged
with spectators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskol-
nikov, pressing up behind him.

“Mercy on us! it’s our Afrosinya!” a woman cried tear-
fully close by. “Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!”

“A boat, a boat!” was shouted in the crowd. But there
was no need of a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the
canal, threw off his great coat and his boots and rushed into
the water. It was easy to reach her: she floated within a
couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her clothes
with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a
comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled ©
out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the
embankment. She soon recovered consciousness, raised her
head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly wip-
ing her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.

“She’s drunk herself out of her senses,” the same woman’s
voice wailed at her side. “Out of her senses. The other day »
she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the
shop just now, left my little girl to look after her—and here
she’s in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour,

”
!

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 173

we live close by, the second house from the end, see
wonder. 29."

The crowd broke up, the police still remained round the
woman, some one mentioned the police station. . . . Raskol-
nikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and
apathy. He felt disgusted. “No, that’s loathsome . . . water

. it’s not good enough,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing
will come of it,” he added, “no use to wait. What about the
police office ... ? And why isn’t Zametov at the police
office? The police office is open till ten o’clock....” He
turned his back to the railing and looked about him.

“Very well then!” he said resolutely; he moved from the
bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His
heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think.
Even his depression had passed, there was not a trace now
of the energy with which he had set out “to make an end of
it all.’ Complete apathy succeeded to it.

“Well, it’s a way out of it,’ he thought, walking slowly
and listlessly along the canal bank. “Anyway I’ll make an
end, for I want to.... But is it a way out? What does
it matter! There’ll be the square yard of space—ha! But
what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not?
Ah ...damn! How tired I am! If I could find some-
where to sit or lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of
is its being so stupid. But I don’t care about that either!
What idiotic ideas come into one’s head.”

To reach the police-office he had to go straight forward
and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few
paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a
minute’s thought, turned into a side street and went two
streets out of his way, possibly without any object, or pos-
sibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking
at the ground; suddenly some one seemed to whisper in his
ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the
very gate of the house. He had not passed it, he had not
been near it since that evening. An overwhelming, unac-
countable prompting drew him on. He went into the house,
passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on
the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the
fourth storey. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark.

174 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

He stopped at each landing and looked round him with
curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window
had been taken out. ‘That wasn’t so then,” he thought.
Here was the flat on the second storey where Nikolay and
Dmitri had been working. “It’s shut up and the door newly
painted. So it’s to let.’ Then the third storey and the
fourth. “Here!” He was perplexed to find the door of the
flat wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices;
/he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted
the last stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done
up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him;
he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he
left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on
the floor. And now, bare wails, no furniture; it seemed
strange.

He walked to the window and sat down on the window sill.
There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much
younger the other. They were papering the walls with a new
white paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old,
dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly
annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike,
as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The
workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now
- they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready
to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov’s coming
in; they were talking. . Raskolnikov folded his arms and
listened. }

“She comes to me in the morning,” said the elder to the
younger, “very early, all dressed up. ‘Why are you preen-
ing and prinking?’ says I. ‘I am ready to do anything to
please you, Tit Vassilitch!’ That’s a way of going on! And
she dressed up a regular fashion book!’

“And what is a fashion book?” the younger one asked.
He obviously regarded the other as an authority.

“A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they
come to the tailors here every Sunday, by post from abroad,
to show folks how to dress, the male sex as well as the
female. They’re pictures. The gentlemen are generally
wearing fur coats and as for the ladies’ fluffles, they’re
beyond anything you can fancy.”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 175

“There’s nothing you can’t find in Petersburg,” the
younger cried enthusiastically, “except father and mother,
there’s everything !”

“Except them, there’s everything to be found, my boy,”
the elder declared sententiously.

Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where
the strong box, the bed, and the chest of drawers had been;
the room seemed to him very tiny without furniture in it.
The paper was the same; the paper in the corner showed
where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at it and went
to the window. The elder workman looked at him askance.

“What do you want?” he asked suddenly.

Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage
and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note
He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and re-
membered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation
he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly.
He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more
satisfaction.

“Well, what do you want? Who are you?” the workman
shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again.
“T want to take a flat,” he said. “I am looking round.”

“It’s not the time to look at rooms at night; and you ought
to come up with the porter.”

“The floors have been washed, will they be painted?”
Raskolnikov went on. “Is there no blood?”

“What blood ?”

“Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here,
There was a perfect pool there.”

“But who are you?” the workman cried, uneasy.

“Who am I?”

“Veg.”

“You want to know? Come to the police station, I’ll tel:

ou.”
The workmen looked at him in amazement.

“It’s time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka.
We must lock up,” said the elder workman.

“Very well, come along,” said Raskolnikov indifferently,
and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. “Hey,
porter,” he cried in the gateway.

176 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

At the entrance several people were standing, staring at
the passers-by; the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in
a long coat and a few others. Raskolnikov went straight up
to them.

“What do you want?” asked one of the porters.

“Have you been to the police-office?”

“I’ve just been there. What do you want?”

“Is it open?”

“Of course.” |

“Is the assistant there?”

“He was there for a time. What do you want?”

Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in
thought. ‘

“He’s been to look at the flat,” said the elder workman,
coming forward.

“Which flat?”

“Where we are at work. ‘Why have you washed away
the blood?’ says he. ‘There has been a murder here,’ says
he and ‘I’ve come to take it.’ And he began ringing at the
bell, all but broke it. ‘Come to the police station,’ says he,
‘T’ll tell you everything there.’ He wouldn’t leave us.”

The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.

“Who are you?” he shouted as impressively as he could.
“Tf am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a stu-

dent, I live in Shil’s house, not far from here, flat Number
14, ask the porter, he knows me.” Raskolnikov said all this
in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking in-
tently into the darkening street.

“Why have you been to the flat?”

“To look at it.”

“What is there to look at?”

“Take him straight to the police station,” the man in the
long coat jerked in abruptly.

Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and
said in the same slow, lazy tone:

“Come along.”

“Yes, take him,” the man went on more confidently. “Why
was he going into that, what’s in his mind, eh?”

“He’s not drunk, but God knows what’s the matter with
him,” muttered the workman.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 177

“But what do you want?” the porter shouted again, be-
ginning to get angry in earnest—“Why are you hanging
about ?”

“You funk the police station then?” said Raskolnikov
jeeringly.

“How funk it? Why are you hanging about?”

“He’s a rogue!” shouted the peasant woman.

“Why waste time talking to him?” cried the other porter,
a huge peasant in a full open coat and with keys on his belt.
“Get along! He is a rogue and no mistake. Get along!”

And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into
the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his footing,
looked at the spectators in silence and walked away.

“Strange man!” observed the workman.

“There are strange folks about nowadays,” said the woman.

“You should have taken him to the police station all the
same,” said the man in the long coat.

“Better have nothing to do with him,” decided the big
porter. “A regular rogue! Just what he wants, you may
be sure, but once take him up, you won’t get rid of him... .
We know the sort!”

“Shall I go there or not?” thought Raskolnikov, standing
in the middle of the thoroughfare at the cross roads, and
he looked about him, as though expecting from some one a
decisive word. But no sound came, all was dead and silent
like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to him
alone. . .. All at once at the end of the street, two hundred
yards away, in the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and
heard talk and shouts. In the middle of the crowd stood
a carriage. ... A light gleamed in the middle of the street.
“What is it?” Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up
to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled
coldly when he recognised it, for he had fully made up his
mind to go to the police station and knew that it would
all soon be over.

CHAPTER VII

N elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with

a pair of spirited grey horses; there was no one in it,

and the coachman had got off his box and stood by;

the horses were being held by the bridle. . . . A mass of peo-

ple had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of

them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on some-

thing lying close to the wheels. Every one was talking,

shouting, exclaiming; the coachman seemed at a loss and
kept repeating:

“What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!”

Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and
succeeded at last in seeing the object of the commotion and
interest. On the ground a man who had been run over lay
apparently unconscious, and covered with blood; he was very
badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing
from his head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated and
disfigured. He was evidently badly injured.

“Merciful heaven!” wailed the coachman, “what more
could I do? If I’d been driving fast or had not shouted to
him, but I was going quietly, not in a hurry. Every one
could see I was going along just like everybody else. A
drunken man can’t walk straight, we all know. ...I saw
him crossing the street, staggering and almost falling. I
shouted again and a second and a third time, then I held the
horses in, but he fell straight under their feet! Either he
did it on purpose or he was very tipsy. . . . The horses are
young and ready to take fright... they started, he
screamed ... that made them worse. That’s how it hap-
pened !”

“That’s just how it was,” a voice in the crowd con-
firmed.

“He shouted, that’s true, he shouted three times,” another
voice declared.

“Three times it was, we all heard it,” shouted a third.
178

Oe

Se ee ee ee ae ee

te i

ae

a Se ne

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 179

But the coachman was not very much distressed and
frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a
rich and important person who was awaiting it somewhere;
the police, of course, were in no little anxiety to avoid upset-
ting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the
injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one
knew his name.

Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer
over him. The lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate
man’s face. He recognised him.

“I know him! I know him!” he shouted, pushing to the
front. “It’s a government clerk retired from the service,
Marmeladov. He lives close by in Kozel’s house. . . . Make
haste for a doctor! I will pay, see.’ He pulled money out
of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in
violent agitation.

The police were glad that they had found out who the man
was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and, as
earnestly as if it had been his father, he besought the police
to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his lodging at once.

“Just here, three houses away,” he said eagerly, “the house
belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no
doubt drunk. I know him, he is a drunkard. He has a family
there, a wife, children, he has one daughter. . . . It will take
time to take him to the hospital, and there is sure to be a
doctor in the house. I’ll pay, I’ll pay! At least he will be
looked after at home... they will help him at once. But
he'll die before you get him to the hospital.” He managed to
slip something unseen into the policeman’s hand. But the
thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in any case
help was closer here. They raised the injured man; people
volunteered to help.

Kozel’s house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked
behind, carefully holding Marmeladov’s head and showing
the way.

“This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head
foremost. Turn round! Ill pay, I’ll make it worth your
while,” he muttered.

Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at
every free moment, walking to and fro in her little room

180 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

from window to stove and back again, with her arms folded
across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late
she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl,
Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did
not understand, understood very well that her mother needed
her, and so always watched her with her big clever eyes and
strove her utmost to appear to understand. This time
Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been
unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting
for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at
night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair,
with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight
before him—heels together and toes turned out. f

He was listening to what his mother was saying to his
sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open
eyes, just as all good little boys have to sit when they are
undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed
literally in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her turn.
The door on to the stairs was open to relieve them a little
from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the
other rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing
in the poor, consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed
to have grown even thinner during that week and the heavy
flush on her face was brighter than ever.

“You wouldn’t believe, you can’t imagine, Polenka,” she
said, walking about the room, “what a happy luxurious life
we had in my papa’s house and how this drunkard has
brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin! Papa was a
civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; so that
every one who came to see him said ‘We look upon you,
Ivan Mihailovitch, as our governor!’ When I... when
...” she coughed violently, “Oh, cursed life,” she cried,
clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her breast,
“when I... when at the last ball... at the marshal’s
» - » Princess Bezzemelny saw me—who gave me the bless-
ing when your father and I were married, Polenka—she
asked at once ‘Isn’t that the pretty girl who danced the shawl
dance at the breaking up.’ (You must mend that tear, you
must take your needle and darn it as I showed you, or tomor-
row—cough, cough, cough—he will make the hole bigger,”

peSarias eet a
—-

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 181

she articulated with effort.) “Prince Schegolskoy, a kam-
merjunker, had just come from Petersburg then... he
danced the mazurka with me and wanted to make me an offer
next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions and
told him that my heart had long been another’s. That other
was your father, Polya; papa was fearfully angry....
Is the water ready? Give me the shirt, and the stockings!
Lida,” said she to the youngest one, “you must manage with-
out your chemise to-night ... and lay your stockings out
with it... Tl wash them together. ... How is it that
drunken vagabond doesn’t come in? He has worn his shirt
till it looks like a dishclout, he has torn it to rags! I’d do
it all together, so as not to have to work two nights running!
Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What’s
this?” she cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the
men who were pushing into her room, carrying a burden.
“What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us!”

“Where are we to put him?” asked the policeman, looking
round when Marmeladov, unconscious and covered with
blood, had been carried in.

“On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his
head this way,” Raskolnikov showed him.

“Run over in the road! Drunk!” some one shouted in the
passage.

Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for
breath. The children were terrified. Little Lida screamed,
rushed to Polenka and clutched at her, trembling all over.

Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew to

Katerina Ivanovna.

“For God’s sake be calm, don’t be frightened!” he said,
speaking quickly, “he was crossing the road and was run
over by a carriage, don’t be frightened, he will come to, I
told them to bring him here .... I’ve been here already,
you remember? He will come to; I’ll pay!”

“He’s done it this time!” Katerina Ivanovna cried despair-
ingly and she rushed to her husband,

Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those
women who swoon easily. She instantly placed under the
luckless man’s head a pillow, which no one had thought of
and began undressing and examining him. She kept her

182 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling
the screams which were ready to break from her.

Raskolnikov meanwhile induced some one to run for a
doctor There was a doctor, it appeared, next door but one.

“T’ve sent for a doctor,” he kept assuring Katerina
Ivanovna “don’t be uneasy, [ll pay. Haven’t you water?
... and give me a napkin or a towel, anything, as quick as
you can. ... He is injured, but not killed, believe me. ...
We shall see what the doctor says!” |

Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken
chair in the corner, a large earthenware basin full of water
had been stood, in readiness for washing her children’s and
husband’s linen that night. This washing was done by
Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a week, if not
oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they
were practically without change of linen, and Katerina
Ivanovna could not endure uncleanliness and, rather than see
dirt in the house, she preferred to wear herself out at night,
working beyond her strength when the rest were asleep, so
as to get the wet linen hung on a line and dry by the morning.
She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov’s request, but
almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already
succeeded in finding a towel, wetted it and begun washing
the blood off Marmeladov’s face.

Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully and
pressing her hands to her breast. She was in need of atten-
tion herself. Raskolnikov began to realise that he might
have made a mistake in having the injured man brought here.
The policeman, too, stood in hesitation.

“Polenka,” cried Katerina Ivanovna, “run to Sonia, make
haste. If you don’t find her at home, leave word that her
father has been run over and that she is to come here at
once ... when she comes in. Run, Polenka! there, put on
the shawl.”

“Run your fastest!” cried the little boy on the chair sud-
denly, after which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity,
with round eyes, his heels thrust forward and his toes spread
out.

Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you
couldn’t have dropped a pin. The policemen left, all except

9) .

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 183

one, who remained for a time, trying to drive out the people
who came in from the stairs. Almost all Madame Lippevech-
sel’s lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of the
flat; at first they were squeezed together in the doorway,
but afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina
Ivanovna flew into a fury. .

“You might let him die in peace, at least,” she shouted at
the crowd, “is it a spectacle for you to gape at? With
cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!) You might as well
keep your hats on.... And there is one in his hat!...
Get away! You should respect the dead, at least!”

Her cough choked her—but her reproaches were not with-
out result. They evidently stood in some awe of Katerina
Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after another, squeezed back
into the doorway with that strange inner feeling of satisfac-
tion which may be observed in the presence of a sudden acci-
dent, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from
which no living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest
sympathy and compassion.

Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the
hospital and saying that they’d no business to make a dis-
turbance here.

“No business to die!” cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she
was rushing to the door to vent her wrath upon them, but
in the doorway came face to face with Madame Lippevech-
sel who had only just heard of the accident and ran in to
restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irre-
sponsible German.

“Ah, my God!” she cried, clasping her hands, “your hus-
band drunken horses have trampled! To the hospital with
him! I am the landlady !”

“Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are
saying,” Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she always
took a haughty tone with the landlady that she might “re-
member her place” and even now could not deny herself this
satisfaction). “Amalia Ludwigovna .. .”

“I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia
Ludwigovna may not dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna.”

“You are not Amalia Ivanoyna, but Amalia Ludwigovna,
and as I am not one of your despicable flatterers like Mr.

om

184 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Lebeziatnikov, who’s laughing behind the door at this moment
(a laugh and a cry of ‘they are at it again’ was in fact
audible at the door) so I shall always call you Amalia
Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike
that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to
Semyon Zaharovitch; he is dying. I beg you to close that
door at once and to admit no one. Let him at least die in
peace. Or I warn you the Governor-General, himself, shall
be informed of your conduct to-morrow. The prince knew
me as a girl; he remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well and
has often been a benefactor to him. Every one knows that
Semyon Zaharovitch had many friends and _ protectors,
whom he abandoned himself from an honourable pridey
knowing his unhappy weakness, but now (she pointed to
Raskolnikov) a generous young man has come to our assist-
ance, who has wealth and connections and whom Semyon
Zaharovitch has known from a child. You may rest as-
sured, Amalia Ludwigovna.. .”

All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker
and quicker, but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivan-
ovna’s eloquence. At that instant the dying man recovered
consciousness and uttered a groan; she ran to him. The in-
jured man opened his eyes and without recognition or under-
standing gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him.
He drew deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the cor-
ners of his mouth and drops of perspiration came out on his
forehead. Not recognising Raskolnikov, he began looking
round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a
sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes.

“My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleed-
ing,” she said in despair. “We must take off his clothes.
Turn a little, Semyon Zaharovitch, if you can,” she cried to
him.

Marmeladov recognised her.

“A priest,” he articulated huskily.

Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head
against the window frame and exclaimed in despair:

“Oh, cursed life!”

“A priest,” the dying man said again after a moment’s
silence.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 185

“They've gone for him,” Katerina Ivanovna shouted to
him; he obeyed her shout and was silent. With sad and
timid eyes he looked for her; she returned and stood by his
pillow. He seemed a little easier, but not for long.

Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favourite, who was
shaking in the corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring
at him with her wondering childish eyes.

“A—ah,” he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to
say something.

“What now?” cried Katerina Ivanovna.

“Barefoot, barefoot !” he muttered, indicating with frenzied
eyes the child’s bare feet.

“Be silent,” Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, “you know
why she is barefooted.”

“Thank God, the doctor,” exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved.
The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, look-
ing about him mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man,
took his pulse, carefully felt his head and with the help of
Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the blood-stained shirt,
and bared the injured man’s chest. It was gashed, crushed
and fractured, several ribs on the right side were broken.
On the left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-
looking yellowish-black bruise—a cruel kick from the horse’s
hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he
was caught in the wheel and turned round with it for thirty
yards on the road.

“Tt’s wonderful that he has recovered consciousness,” the
doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov.

“What do you think of him?” he asked.

“He will die immediately.”

“Ts there really no hope?”

“Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp . . . His head is
badly injured, too... Hm...I could bleed him if you
like, but . . . it would be useless. He is bound to die within
the next five or ten minutes.”

“Better bleed him then.”

“Tf you like. ... But I warn you it will be perfectly
useless.”

At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the
passage parted, and the priest, a little, grey old man, appeared

186 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY /
}
in the doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had
gone for him at the time of the accident. The doctor
changed places with him, exchanging glances with him.
Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He
shrugged his shoulders and remained.

All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The
dying man probably understood little; he could only utter
indistinct broken sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida,
lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in the corner by the
stove and made the children kneel in front of her. The little
girl was still trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his little
bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself
with precision and bowed down, touching the door with his.
forehead, which seemed to afford him especial satisfaction.
Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back her tears; she
prayed, too, now and then pulling straight the boy’s shirt,
and managed to cover the girl’s bare shoulders with a ker-
chief, which she took from the chest without rising from her
knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile the door from the inner
rooms was opened inquisitively again. In the passage the
crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircase grew
denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the
threshold. A single candle-end lighted up the scene.

At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd
at the door. She came in panting from running so fast, took
off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her and
said, “She’s coming, I met her in the street.” Her mother
made her kneel beside her.

Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through
the crowd, and strange was her appearance in that room, in
the midst of want, rags, death and despair. She, too, was
in rags, her attire was all of the cheapest, but decked out
in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmistakably betraying its
shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and
looked about her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She
forgot her fourth-hand, gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here
with its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline that
filled up the whole doorway, and her light-coloured shoes, and
the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at
night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-

ee ee ee ee

eo ee ee

he a

ee eee ee

ae

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 187

coloured feather. Under this rakishly-tilted hat was a pale,
frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in
terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of eighteen with fair hair,
rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently
at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath with
running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably,
reached her. She looked down and took a step forward into
the room, still keeping close to the door.

The service was over. Katerina [vanovna went up to her
husband again. The priest stepped back and turned to say a
few words of admonition and consolation to Katerina Ivan-
ovna on leaving.

“What am I to do with these?” she interrupted sharply and
irritably, pointing to the little ones.

“God is merciful; look to the Most High for succor,” the
priest began.

“Ach! He is merciful, but not to us.”

“That’s a sin, a sin, madam,” observed the priest, shaking
his head.

“And isn’t that a sin?” cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing
to the dying man.

“Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident
will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of his
earnings.”

“You don’t understand!” cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily
waving her hand. “And why should they compensate me?
Why, he was drunk and threw himself under the horses!
What earnings? He brought us in nothing but misery. He
drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get
drink, he wasted their lives and mine for drink! And thank
God he’s dying! One less to keep!”

“You must forgive in the hour of death, that’s a sin,
madam, such feelings are a great sin.”

Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was
giving him water, wiping the blood and sweat from his head,
setting his pillow straight, and had only turned now and then
for a moment to address the priest. Now she flew at him
almost in a frenzy.

“Ah, father! That’s words and only words! Forgive! If
he’d not been run over, he’d have come home to-day drunk

188 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

and his only shirt dirty and in rags and he’d have fallen
asleep like a log, and I should have been sousing and rinsing
till daybreak, washing his rags and the children’s and then
drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight
I should have been darning them. That’s how I spend my
nights! . .. What’s the use of talking of forgiveness! I
have forgiven as it is!”

A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put
her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the priest,
pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handker-
chief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and
said nothing.

Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not take his”
eyes off the face of Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending
over him again. He kept trying to say something to her; he
began moving his tongue with difficulty and articulating
indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that
he wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to
him:

“Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say
And the sick man was silent, but at the same instant his
wandering eyes strayed to the doorway and he saw Sonia.

Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the

shadow in a corner.
- “Who’s that? Who’s that?’ he said suddenly in a thick
gasping voice, in agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards
the door where his daughter was standing, and trying to
sit up.

“Lie down! Lie do-own!” cried Katerina Ivanovna.

With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping
himself on his elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly for some
time on his daughter, as though not recognising her. He
had never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he rec-
ognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and
gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to
her dying father. His face showed intense suffering.

“Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!” he cried, and he tried to
hold out his hand to her, but, losing his balance, he fell off
the sofa, face downwards on the floor. They rushed to pick
him up, they put him on the sofa; but he was dying. Sonia

1”?

i

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 189

with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so
without moving. He died in her arms.

“He’s got what he wanted,” Katerina Ivanovna cried, see-
ing her husband’s dead body. “Well, what’s to be done now?
How am I to bury him! What can I give them to-morrow
to eat?”

Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna.

“Katerina Ivanovna,” he began, “last week your husband
told me all his life and circumstances. . . . Believe me, he
spoke of you with passionate reverence. From that evening,
when I learnt how devoted he was to you all and how he
loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in
spite of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we be-
came friends.... Allow me now... todosomething...
to repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are twenty roubles
I think—and if that can be of any assistance to you, then
...1... in short, I will come again, I will be sure to come
again ...4I shall, perhaps, come again to-morrow... .
Good-bye !”

And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way
through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he sud-
denly jostled against Nikodim Fomitch, who had heard of
the accident and had come to give instructions in person.
They had not met since the scene at the police station, but
Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.

“Ah, is that you?” he asked him.

“He’s dead,’ answered Raskolnikov. “The doctor and
the priest have been, all as it should have been. Don’t worry
the poor woman too much, she is in consumption as it is.
Try and cheer her up, if possible . . . you are a kind-hearted
man, I know...” he added with a smile, looking straight
in his face.

“But you are spattered with blood,’ observed Nikodim
Fomitch, noticing in the lamplight some fresh stains on Ras-
kolnikov’s waistcoat.

“Yes ... Tm covered with blood,” Raskolnikov said with
a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.

He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not
conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming
sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within

190 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

him. This sensation might be compared to that of a man
condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Half-
way down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on
his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent
greeting with him. He was just descending the last steps
when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Some one over-
took him; it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling
“Wait! wait!”

He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase
and stopped short a step above him. A dim light came in
from the yard. Raskolnikov could distinguish the child’s
thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright child-
ish smile. She had run after him with a message which she
was evidently glad to give.

“Tell me, what is your name? ... and where do you live?”
she said hurriedly in a breathless voice.

He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with
a sort of rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her,
he could not have said why.

“Who sent you?”

“Sister Sonia sent me,” answered the girl, smiling still more
brightly.

“T knew it was sister Sonia sent you.”

“Mamma sent me, too .. . when sister Sonia was sending
me, mamma came up, too, and said ‘Run fast, Polenka.’ ”

“Do you love sister Sonia?”

“T love her more than any one,” Polenka answered with a
peculiar earnestness, and her smile became graver.

“And will you love me?”

By way of answer he saw the little girl’s face approaching
him, her full lips naively held out to kiss him. Suddenly her
arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on
his shoulder and the little girl wept softly, pressing her face
against him.

“T am sorry for father,” she said a moment later, cniaing
her tear-stained face and brushing away the tears with her
hands. “It’s nothing but misfortunes now,” she added sud-
denly with that peculiarly sedate air which children try hard
to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people.”

“Did your father love you?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 191

“He loved Lida most,” she went on very seriously without
a smile, exactly like grown-up people, “he loved her because
She is little and because she is ill, too. And he always used
to bring her presents. But he taught us to read and me
grammar and scripture, too,” she added with dignity. “And
mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she
liked it and father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach
me French, for it’s time my education began.”

“And do you know your prayers?”

“Of course, we do! We knew them long ago. I say my
prayers to myself as I am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida
say them aloud with mother. First they repeat the ‘Ave
Maria’ and then another prayer: ‘Lord, forgive and bless
sister Sonia,’ and then another, ‘Lord, forgive and bless our
second father.’ For our elder father is dead and this is
another one, but we do pray for the other as well.”

“Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me, too.
‘And Thy servant Rodion,’ nothing more.”

“Tll pray for you all the rest of my life,” the little girl
declared hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him
and hugged him warmly once more.

Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised
to be sure to come next day. The child went away quite en-
chanted with him. It was past ten when he came out into
the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge at
the spot where the woman had jumped in.

“Enough,” he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly.
“T’ve done with fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms!
Life is real! haven’t I lived just now? My life has not yet
died with that old woman! The Kingdom of Heaven to her
—and now enough, madam, leave me in peace! Now for
the reign of reason and light . . . and of will, and of strength
. » - and now we will see! We will try our strength!” he
added defiantly, as though challenging some power of dark-
ness. “And I was ready to consent to live in a square of
space !

“I am very weak at this moment, but ...I believe my
illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out.
By the way, Potchinkov’s house is only a few steps away.
I certainly must go to Razumihin even if it were not close

192 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

by ... let him win his bet! Let us give him some satisfac-
tion, too—no matter! Strength, strength is what one wants,
you can get nothing without it, and strength must be won
by strength—that’s what they don’t know,” he added proudly
and self-confidently and he walked with flagging footsteps
from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew continually
stronger in him; he was becoming a different man every
moment. What was it had happened to work this revolution
in him? He did not know himself; like a man catching at
a straw, he suddenly felt that he, too, ‘could live, that there
was still life for him, that his life had not died with the old
woman.’ Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his con-
clusions, but he did not think of that. fi

“But I did ask her to remember “Thy servant Rodion’ in her
prayers,” the idea struck him. “Well, that was ... in case
of emergency,” he added and laughed himself at his boyish
sally. He was in the best of spirits.

He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already
known at Potchinkov’s and the porter at once showed him the
way. Half-way upstairs he could hear the noise and ani-
mated conversation of a big gathering of people. The door
was wide open on the stairs; he could hear exclamations and
discussion. Raziumihin’s room was fairly large; the com-
pany consisted of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the
entry, where two of the landlady’s servants were busy behind
a screen with two samovars, bottles, plates and dishes of pie
and savouries, brought up from the landlady’s kitchen.
Raskolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran out delighted.
At the first glance it was apparent that he had had a great
deal to drink and, though no amount of liquor made Razu-
mihin quite drunk, this time he was perceptibly affected by it.

“Listen,” Raskolnikov hastened to say, “I’ve only just
come to tell you you’ve won your bet and that no one really
knows what may not happen to him. I can’t come in; I am
so weak that I shall fall down directly. And so good eve-
ning and good-bye! Come and see me to-morrow.”

“Do you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you’re
weak yourself, you must... ”

“And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has
just peeped out?”

ees.
<3

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 193

“He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle’s I
expect, or perhaps he has come without being invited...
I’ll leave uncle with them, he is an invaluable person, pity I
can’t introduce you to him now. But confound them all
now! They won’t notice me, and I need a little fresh air,
for you’ve come just in the nick of time—another two minutes
and I should have come to blows! They are talking such a
lot of wild stuff ... you simply can’t imagine what men
will say! Though why shouldn’t you imagine? Don’t we
talk nonsense ourselves? And let them... that’s the way
to learn not to! ... Wait a minute, I’ll fetch Zossimov.”

Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily;
he showed a special interest in him; soon his face bright-
ened.

“You must go to bed at once,” he pronounced, examining
the patient as far as he could, “and take something for the
night. Will you take it? I got it ready some time ago
“vs powder,”

“Two if you like,’ answered Raskolnikov. The powder
was taken at once.

“It’s a good thing you are taking him home,” observed
Zossimov to Razumihin—‘“we shall see how he is to-morrow,
to-day he’s not at all amiss: a considerable change since the
afternoon. Live and learn... ”

“Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we
were coming out?” Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they
were in the street. “I won't tell you everything, brother,
because they are such fools. Zossimov told me to talk freely
to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and
afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he’s got a notion in
his head that you are ... mad or close on it. Only fancy!
In the first place, yon’ve three times the brains he has; in the
second, if you are not mad, you needn’t care a hang that he
nas got such a wild idea; and thirdly, that piece of beef whose
specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases, and
what’s brought him to this conclusion about you was your
conversation to-day with Zametov.”

“Zametov told you all about it?”

“Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means
and so does Zametov. ... Well, the fact is, Rodya...

194 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

the point is...I am a little drunk now.... But that’s
> «- nomatter ..,. the point is that this idea . . . you under-
stand? was just being hatched in their brains . . . you under-
stand? That is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the
idea is too absurd and especially since the arrest of that
painter, that bubble’s burst and gone for ever. But why are
they such fools? I gave Zametov a bit of a thrashing at the
time—that’s between ourselves, brother; please don’t let out
a hint that you know of it; I’ve noticed he is a ticklish
subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna’s. But to-day, to-day it’s
all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it!
He took advantage of your fainting at the police station, but,
‘he is ashamed of it himself now; I know that... ”

Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk
enough to talk too freely.

“I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of
paint,” said Raskolnikov.

“No need to explain that! And it wasn’t the paint only:
the fever had been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies
to that! But how crushed that boy is now, you wouldn't
believe! ‘I am not worth his little finger,’ he says. Yours,
he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the
lesson, the lesson you gave him to-day in the Palais de
Crystal, that was too good for anything! You frightened
him at first, you know, he nearly went into convulsions! You
almost convinced him again of the truth of all that hideous
nonsense, and then you suddenly—put out your tongue at
him: ‘There now, what do you make of it?’ It was perfect!
He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove,
it’s what they deserve! Ah, that I wasn’t there! He was
hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, too, wants to make your
acquaintance...”

“Ah! ... he too... but why did they put me down as
mad?”

“Oh, not mad. I must have said too much brother...
What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed
to interest you; now it’s clear why it did interest you; know-
ing all the circumstances ... and how that irritated you
and worked in with your illness ...I am a little drunk,
brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own

Pere
==

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 195

»- + 1 tell you, he’s mad on mental diseases. But don’t you
mind him...” )

For half a minute both were silent.

“Listen, Razumihin,” began Raskolnikov, “I want to tell
you plainly: I’ve just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died
--.I1 gave them all my money ... and besides I’ve just
been kissed by some one who, if I had killed any one, would
just the same ...in fact I saw some one else there...
with a flame-coloured feather . . . but Iam talking nonsense;
I am very weak, support me ... we shall be at the stairs
divecty: . eor

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter with you?” Razu-
mihin asked anxiously.

“I am a little giddy, but that’s not the point, I am so sad, so
sad ... like a woman. Look, what’s that? Look, look!”

“What is it?”

“Don’t you see? A light in my room, you see? Through
the crack...”

They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at
the level of the landlady’s door, and they could, as a fact,
see from below that there was a light in Raskolnikov’s garret.

“Queer! Nastasya, perhaps,” observed Razumihin.

“She is never in my room at this time and she must be in
bed long ago, but ...I don’t care! Good-bye!”

“What do you mean? Iam coming with you, we'll come in
together !”

“I know we are going in together, but I want to shake
hands here and say good-bye to you here. So give me your
hand, good-bye!”

“What's the matter with you, Rodya?”

“Nothing ... come along ... you shall be witness.”

They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razu-
mihin that perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. “Ah,
I’ve upset him with my chatter!” he muttered to himself.

When they reached the door they heard voices in the room.

“What is it?” cried Razumihin.

Raskolnikov was the first to open the door; he flung it
wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered.

His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had
been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never

196 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

expected, never thought of them, though the news that they
had started, were on their way and would arrive immediately,
had been repeated to him only that day? They had spent that
hour and a half plying Nastasya with questions. She was still
standing before them and had told them everything by now.
They were beside themselves with alarm when they heard of
his “running away” to-day, ill and, as they understood from
her story, delirious! “Good Heavens, what had become of
him?’ Both had been weeping, both had been in anguish
for that hour and a half.

A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov’s entrance.
Both rushed to him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden
intolerable sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did
not lift his arms to embrace them, he could not. His mother
and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and
cried. He took ‘a step, tottered and fell to the ground,
fainting.

Anxiety, cries of horror, moans . .. Razumihin who was
standing in the doorway flew into the room, seized the sick
man in his strong arms and in a moment had him on the
sofa.

“Tt’s nothing, nothing!” he cried to the mother and sister—
“Tt’s only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor
-said he was much better, that he is perfectly well! Water!
See, he is coming to himself, he is all right again!”

And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated
it, he made her bend down to see that “he is all right again.”
The mother and sister looked on him with emotion and
gratitude, as their Providence. They had heard already from
Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya during his
_ illness, by this ‘very competent young man,” as Pulcheria
Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in con-
versation with Dounia.

19?

PART III

CHAPTER I

ASKOLNIKOV got up, and sat down on the sofa. He
R waved his hand weakly to Razumihin to cut short the
flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was ad-
dressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand
and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without
speaking. His mother was alarmed by his expression. It
revealed an emotion agonisingly poignant, and at the same
time something immovable, almost insane. Pulcheria Alex-
androvna began to cry.

Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her
brother’s.

“Go home ... with him,” he said in a broken voice, point-
ing to Razumihin, “good-bye till to-morrow; to-morrow
everything. . . . Is it long since you arrived?”

“This evening, Rodya,’’ answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna,
“the train was awfully late. But, Rodya, nothing would
induce me to leave you now! I will spend the night here,
near you...”

“Don’t torture me!” he said with a gesture of irritation.

“T will stay with him,” cried Razumihin, “I won’t leave him
for a moment. Bother all my visitors! Let them rage to
their hearts’ content! My uncle is presiding there.”

“How, how can I thank you!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna
was beginning, once more pressing Razumihin’s hands, but
Raskolnikov interrupted her again.

“I can’t have it! I can’t have it!” he repeated irritably,
“don’t worry me! Enough, go away. ... I can’t stand it!”

“Come, mamma, come out of the room at least a minute,”
Dounia whispered in dismay; “we are distressing him, that’s

evident.”
197

198 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Mayn’t I look at him after three years?” wept Pulcheria
Alexandrovna.

“Stay,” he stopped them again, “you keep interrupting me,
and my ideas get muddled. .. . Have you seen Luzhin?”

“No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We
heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit
you to-day,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added somewhat tim-
idly.

“Yes ... he was so kind. . . Dounia, I promised Luzhin
I'd throw him downstairs and told him to go to hell... .”

“Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don’t mean to
tell us....” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but,
she stopped, looking at Dounia. .

Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her
brother, waiting for what would come next. Both of them
had heard of the quarrel from Nastasya, so far as she had
succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in
painful perplexity and suspense.

“Dounia,” Raskolnikov continued with an effort, “I don’t
want that marriage, so at the first opportunity to-morrow you
must refuse Luzhin, so that we may never hear his name
again,”

“Good Heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Brother, think what you are saying!” Avdotya Roma-
novna began impetuously, but immediately checked herself.
“You are not fit to talk now, perhaps; you are tired,” she
added gently.

“You think I am delirious? No.... You are marrying
Luzhin for my sake. But I won’t accept the sacrifice. And
60 write a letter before to-morrow, to refuse him. ... Let
me read it in the morning and that will be the end of it!”

“That I can’t do!” the girl cried, offended, “what right
have you... .”

“Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to-morrow....
Don’t you see,” . . . the mother interposed in dismay. “Bet-
ter come away!”

“He is raving,” Razumihin cried tipsily, “or how would
he dare! To-morrow all this nonsense will be over... .
To-day he certainly did drive him away. That was so.
And Luzhin got angry, too....He made speeches here,

ee
dia :

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 199

wanted to show off his learning and he went out crest-
fallen, Ga’
_ “Then it’s true?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Good-bye till to-morrow, brother,” said Dounia compas.
sionately—‘“let us go, mother. . . . Good-bye, Rodya.”

“Do you hear, sister,’ he repeated after them, making a
last effort, “I am not delirious; this marriage is—an infamy.
Let me act like a scoundrel, but you mustn’t ... one is
enough ... and though I am a scoundrel, I wouldn’t own
such a sister. It’s me or Luzhin! Go now... .”

“But you’re out of your mind! Despot!’’ roared Razumi-
hin; but Raskolnikov did not and perhaps could not answer.
He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall utterly
exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with interest at
Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively
started at her glance.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed.

“Nothing would induce me to go,” she whispered in despair
to Razumihin. “I will stay somewhere here... escort
Dounia home.”

“You'll spoil everything,” Razumihin answered in the same
whisper, losing patience—“come out on to the stairs, any-
way. Nastasya, show a light! I assure you,” he went on in
a half whisper on the stairs—‘“that he was almost beating the
doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand? The
doctor himself! Even he gave way and left him, so as not
to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he
dressed at once and slipped off. And he will slip off again
if you irritate him, at this time of night, and will do him-
self some mischief. . . .”

“What are you saying?’

“And Avdotya Romanovna can’t possibly be left in those
lodgings without you. Just think where you are staying!
That blackguard Pyotr Petrovitch couldn’t find you better
lodgings. . . . But you know I’ve had a little to drink, and
that’s what makes me ... swear; don’t mind it... . .”

“But Pll go to the landlady here,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna
insisted, “I’ll beseech her to find some corner for Dounia and
me for the night. I can’t leave him like that, I cannot!”

This conversation took place on the landing just before the

200 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

landlady’s door. Nastasya lighted them from a step below.
Razumihin was in extraordinary excitement. Half an hour
earlier, while he was bringing Raskolnikov home, he had
indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it himself, and
his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities he had
imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and
all that he had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled
effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by their
hands, persuading them, and giving them reasons with aston-
ishing plainness of speech, and at almost every word he
uttered, probably to emphasise his arguments, he squeezed
their hands painfully as in a vice. He stared at Avdotya
Romanovna without the least regard for good manners.
They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge bony
paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew
them all the closer to him. If they’d told him to jump head
foremost from the staircase, he would have done it without
thought or hesitation in their service. Though Pulcheria
Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too eccen-
tric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her
Rodya she looked on his presence as providential, and was
unwilling to notice all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya
Romanovna shared her anxiety, and was not of timorous dis-
. position, she could not see the glowing light in his eyes with-
out wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded
confidence inspired by Nastasya’s account of her brother’s
queer friend, which prevented her from trying to run away
from him, and to persuade her mother to do the same. She
realised, too, that even running away was perhaps impossible
now. Ten minutes later however, she was considerably reas-
sured; it was characteristic of Razumihin that he showed
his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so
that people quickly saw the sort of man they had to deal
with.

“You can’t go to the landlady, that’s perfect nonsense!”
he cried. “If you stay, though you are his mother, you'll
drive him to a frenzy, and then goodness knows what will
happen! Listen, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: Nastasya will
stay with him now, and J’ll conduct you both home, you can’t
be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that

nS ee ee

IP = pee

Se ee |

ees

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 201

way. ... But no matter! Then I'll run straight back here
and a quarter of an hour later, on my word of honour, I'l]
bring you news how he is, whether he is asleep, and all that.
Then, listen! Then I’ll run home in a twinkling—lI’ve a lot
of friends there, all drunk—I’ll fetch Zossimov—that’s the
doctor who is looking after him, he is there, too, but he is
not drunk; he is not drunk, he is never drunk! I'll drag
him to Rodya, and then to you, so that you'll get two reports
in the hour—from the doctor, you understand, from the
doctor himself, that’s a very different thing from my account
of him! If there’s anything wrong, I swear I'll bring you
here myself, but, if it’s all right, you go to bed. And I'll
spend the night here, in the passage, he won’t hear me, and
T’ll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady’s, to be at hand.
Which is better for him: you or the doctor? So come home
then! But the landlady is out of the question; it’s all right
for me, but it’s out of the question for you: she wouldn’t
take you, for she’s . . . for she’s a fool. .. . She’d be jeal-
ous on my account of Avdotya Romanovna and of you, too,
if you want to know .. . of Avdotya Romanovna certainly.
She is an absolutely, absolutely unaccountable character !
But I am a fool, too! ...No matter! Come along! Do
you trust me? Come, do you trust me or not?”

“Let us go, mother,” said Avdotya Romanovna, “he will
certainly do what he has promised. He has saved Rodya
already, and if the doctor really will consent to spend the
night here, what could be better ?”

“You see, you... you... understand me, because you
are an angel!” Razumihin cried in an ecstasy, “let us go!
Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit with him with a light; I'll
come in a quarter of an hour.”

Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly con-
vineed, she made no further resistance. Razumihin gave
an arm to each and drew them down the stairs. He still
made her uneasy, as though he was competent and good-
natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He
seemed in such a condition. ...

“Ah, I see you think I am in such a condition!” Razumihin
broke in upon her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled
along the pavement with huge steps, so that the two ladies

8—R

202 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

could hardly keep up with him, a fact he did not observe,
however. “Nonsense! That is... Iam drunk like a fool,
but that’s not it; I am not drunk from wine. It’s seeing you
has turned my head. ... But don’t mind me! Don’t take
any notice: I am talking nonsense, I am not worthy of
you. ...IJ am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I’ve
taken you home, I’ll pour a couple of pailfuls of water over
my head in the gutter here, and then I shall be all right....
If only you knew how I love you both! Don’t laugh, and
don’t be angry! You may be angry with any one, but not
with me! I am his friend, and therefore I am your friend,
too. I want to be....I had a presentiment ... last year
there was a moment... though it wasn’t a presentiment
really, for you seem to have fallen from heaven. And I
expect I shan’t sleep all night. ... Zossimov was afraid a
little time ago that he would go mad...4hat’s why he
mustn’t be irritated.”

“What do you say?” cried the mother.

“Did the doctor really say that?” asked Avdotya Roma-
novna, alarmed.

“Yes, but it’s not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some
medicine, a powder, I saw it, and then your coming here. ...
Ah! It would have been better if you had come to-morrow.
It’s a good thing we went away. And in an hour Zossimov
himself will report to you about everything. He is not drunk!
And I shan’t be drunk. . . . And what made me get so tight?
Because they got me into an argument, damn them! I’ve
sworn never to argue! They talk such trash! I almost
came to blows! I’ve left my uncle to preside. Would you
believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism and
that’s just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as
unlike themselves as they can. That’s what they regard as
the highest point of progress. If only their nonsense were
their own, but as it is... .”

“Listen!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but
it only added fuel to the flames.

“What do you think?” shouted Razumihin, louder than
ever, “you think I am attacking them for talking nonsense?
Not a bit! I like them to talk nonsense. That’s man’s one
privilege over all creation. Through error you come to the

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 208

truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any
truth without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a
hundred and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way;
but we can’t even make mistakes on our own account! Talk
nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and ll kiss you for it,
To go wrong in one’s own way is better than to go right in
some one else’s. In the first case you are a man, in the
second you’re no better than a bird. Truth won’t escape
you, but life can be cramped. There have been examples.
And what are we doing now? In science, development,
thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, expe-
rience and everything, everything, everything, we are still
in the preparatory class at school. We prefer to live on
other people’s ideas, it’s what we are used to! Am I right,
am I right?” cried Razumihin, pressing and shaking the two
ladies’ hands.

“Oh, mercy, I do not know,” cried poor Pulcheria Alex-
androvna.

“Ves, yes... though I don’t agree with you in every-
thing,” added Avdotya Romanovna earnestly and at once
uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand so painfully.

“Yes, you say yes... well after that you... you...
he cried in a transport, “you are a fount of goodness, purity,
sense ...and perfection. Give me your hand... you
give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands here at once,
on my knees ... ” and he fell on his knees on the pavement,
fortunately at that time deserted.

“Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?” Pulcheria
Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed.

“Get up, get up!” said Dounia laughing, though she, too,
was upset.

“Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That’s
it! Enough! I get up and we'll go on! I am a luckless
fool, I am unworthy of you and drunk ...and I am
ashamed. . . . Iam not worthy to love you, but to do homage
to you is the duty of every man who is not perfect beast!
And I’ve done homage. . . . Here are your lodgings, and for
that alone Rodya was right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch
away. . . . How dare he! how dare he put you in such lodg-
ings! It’s a scandal! Do you know the sort of people they

99

204 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his be-
trothed? Yes? Well, then, I tell you, your fiancé is a
scoundrel.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting...’
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning.

“Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed
of it,’ Razumihin made haste to apologise. “But... but
you can’t be angry with me for speaking so! For I speak
sincerely and not because ... hm, hm! That would be dis-
graceful; in fact not because I’m in...hm! Well, any-
way I won’t say why, I daren’t. .. . But all we saw to-day
when he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not
because he had his hair curled at the barber’s, not because he
was in such a hurry to show his wit, but because he is a
spy, a speculator, because he is a skinflint and a buffoon.
That’s evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a fool,
a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do
you see, ladies?” he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs
to their rooms, “though all my friends there are drunk, yet
they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash,
and I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last,
for we are on the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch ... is
not on the right path. Though I’ve been calling them all
sorts of names just now, I do respect them all . . . though I
don’t respect Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and that
bullock Zossimoy, because he is an honest man and knows
his work. But enough, it’s all said and forgiven. Is it for-
given? Well, then, let’s go on. I know this corridor, Pve
been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3....
Where are you here? Which number? eight? Well, lock
yourselves in for the night, then. Don’t let anybody in.
In a quarter of an hour I’ll come back with news, and half
an hour later I’ll bring Zossimov, you'll see! Good-bye; I'll
run.”

“Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?” said
Pulcheria Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with
anxiety and dismay.

“Don’t worry yourself, mother,” said Dounia, taking off
her hat and cape. “God has sent this gentleman to our aid,
though he has come from a drinking party. We can depend

3

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 205

on him, I assure you. And all that he has done for
Rodya. 35337

“Ah, Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How
could I bring myself to leave Rodya? ... And how differ-
ent, how different I had fancied our meeting! How sullen
he was, as though not pleased to see us. . . .”

Tears came into her eyes.

“No, it’s not that, mother. You didn’t see, you were
crying all the time. He is quite unhinged by serious illness—
that’s the reason.”

“Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen?
And how he talked to you, Dounia!” said the mother, look-
ing timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts
and, already half consoled by Dounia’s standing up for her
brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him.
“IT am sure he will think better of it to-morrow,” she added,
probing her further.

“And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow...
about that,’ Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of
course, there was no going beyond that, for this was a
point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss.
Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly
embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait
anxiously for Razumihin’s return, timidly watching her
daughter who walked up and down the room with her arms
folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when
she was thinking was a habit of Avdotya Romanovna’s and
the mother was always afraid to break in on her daughter’s
mood at such moments.

Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden
drunken infatuation for Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart
from his eccentric condition, many people would have
thought it justified, if they had seen Avdotya Romanovna,
especially at that moment when she was walking to and
fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya
Romanovna was remarkably good looking; she was tall,
strikingly well-proportioned, strong and_ self-reliant—the
latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did
not in the least detract from the grace and softness of
her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she

206 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark
brown, a little lighter than her brother’s; there was a
proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a
look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was
a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and
vigour. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower
lip projected a little as did her chin; it was the only
irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly
individual and almost haughty expression, Her face was
always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well
Smiles, how well youthful, light-heatted, irresponsible,
laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a
Warm, open, simple-hearted, honest giant like Razumihirt,
who had never seen any one like her and was not quite
sober at the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides,
as chance would have it, he saw Dounia for the first time
transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at
meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with
indignation at her brother’s insolent, cruel and ungrateful
words—and his fate was sealed.

He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out
in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna,
Raskolnikov’s eccentric landlady, would be jealous of
Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotya Romanovna
on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was
forty-three, her face still retained traces of her former
beauty; she looked much younger than het age, indeed,
which is almost always the case with women who retain
serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of
heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis that to
preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to
old age. Her hair had begun to grow grey and thin, there
had long been little crow’s foot wrinkles round her eyes,
her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief,
and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia over
again, twenty years older, but without the projecting under-
lip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not senti-
mental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She
could give way and accept a great deal even of what was
contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 207

fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which
nothing would induce her to cross.

Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin’s departure,
there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door:
he had come back.

“I won’t come in, I haven’t time,” he hastened to say
when the door was opened. “He sleeps like a top, soundly,
quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasya’s
with him; I told her not to leave till I came. Now I am
fetching Zossimov, he will report to you and then you’d
better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do
anything. .. .”

And he ran off down the corridor.

“What a very competent and... devoted young man!”
cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted.

“He seems a splendid person!” Avdotya Romanovna
replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down
the room.

It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps
in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both
women waited this time completely relying on Razumihin’s
promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov.
Zossimoy had agreed at once to desert the drinking party
to go to Raskolnikov’s, but he came reluctantly and with
the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting
Razumihin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity
was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were
really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten
minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and
comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with
marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme
seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation.
He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not
display the slightest desire to enter into more personal
relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first
entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he
endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and
addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All
this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He
declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going

208 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

on very satisfactorily. According to his observations the
patient’s illness was due partly to his unfortunate material
surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly
also a moral origin, “was so to speak the product of several
material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions,
troubles, certain ideas ...and so on.” Noticing stealthily
that Avdotya Romanovna was following his words with
close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this
theme. On Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s anxiously and timidly
inquiring as to “some suspicion of insanity,” he replied with
a composed and candid smile that his words had been
exaggerated; that certainly the patient had some fixed idea,
something approaching a monomania—he, Zossimov, was
now particularly studying this interesting branch of
medicine—but that it must be recollected that until to-day
the patient had been in delirium and... and that no doubt
the presence of his family would have a favourable effect
on his recovery and distract his mind, “if only all fresh
shocks can be avoided,” he added significantly. Then he
got up, took leave with an impressive and affable bow,
while blessings, warm gratitude, and entreaties were
showered upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously
offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased
with his visit and still more so with himself.

“We'll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!” Razumihin
said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. “T’ll be with
you to-morrow morning as early as possible with my
report.”

“That’s a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna,”
remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both
came out into the street.

“Fetching? You said fetching?” roared Razumihin and
he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. “If you
ever dare. ... Do you understand? Do you understand?”
he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him
against the wall. “Do you hear?”

“Let me go, you drunken devil,” said Zossimov, struggling,
and when he had let him go, he stared at him and went off
into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood facing him in
gloomy and earnest reflection.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 209

“Of course, I am an ass,” he observed, sombre as a storm
cloud, “but still . . . you are another.”

“No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming
of any folly.” .

They walked along in silence and only when they were
close to Raskolnikov’s lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence
in considerable anxiety.

“Listen,” he said, “you’re a first-rate fellow, but among
your other failings, you’re a loose fish, that I know, and
a dirty one, too. You are a feeble, nervous wretch, and a
mass of whims, you’re getting fat and lazy and can’t deny
yourself anything—and I call that dirty because it leads
one straight into the dirt. You've let yourself get so slack
that I don’t know how it is you are still a good, even a
devoted doctor. You—a doctor—sleep on a feather bed and
get up at night to your patients! In another three or four
years you won’t get up for your patients. ... But hang it
all, that’s not the point! ... You are going to spend to-
night in the landlady’s flat here. (Hard work I’ve had to
persuade her!) And I'll be in the kitchen. So here’s a
chance for you to get to know her better. . .. It’s not as
you think! There’s not a trace of anything of the sort,
Brathery<(j3t"

“But I don’t think!”

“Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a
savage virtue ...and yet she’s sighing and melting like
wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that’s
unholy! She’s most prepossessing. ... Ill repay you, Ill
do anything... .”

Zossimov laughed more violently than ever.

“Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?”

“It won’t be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot
you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You’re
a doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you
won't regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a
little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: ‘I shed
hot tears.’ She likes the genuine article—and well, it all
began with that song; Now you're a regular performer,
a maitre, a Rubinstein....I1 assure you, you won't re-
gret it!”

210 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“But have you made her some promise? Something
‘signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?”

“Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind!
Besides she is not that sort at all. ... Tchebarov tried
thats Hie |

“Well then, drop her!”

“But I can’t drop her like that!”

“Why can’t you?”

“Well, I can’t, that’s all about it! There’s an element
of attraction here, brother.”

“Then why have you fascinated her?”

“T haven’t- fascinated her; perhaps, I was fascinated ,
myself in my folly. But she won’t care a straw whether it’s
you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing. . ..
I can’t explain the position, brother . . . look here, you are
good at mathematics, and working at it now... begin
teaching her the integral calculus; upon my soul, I’m not
joking, I’m in earnest, it’ll be just the same to her. She
will gaze at you and sigh for a whole year together. I
talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prussian
House of Lords (for one must talk of something)—she
just sighed and perspired! And you mustn’t talk of love—
she’s bashful to hysterics—but just let her see you can’t
tear yourself away—that’s enough. It’s fearfully com-
fortable; you’re quite at home, you can read, sit, lie about,
write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you’re careful.”

“But what do I want with her?”

“Ach, I can’t make you understand! You see, you are
made for each other! I have often been reminded of
you! ... You'll come to it in the end! So does it matter
whether it’s sooner or later? There’s the feather-bed ele-
ment here, brother,—ach! and not only that! There’s an
attraction here—here you have the end of the world, an
anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three
fishes that are the foundation of the world, the essence of
pancakes, of savoury fish-pies, of the evening samovar, of
soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on—as
snug as though you were dead, and yet you’re alive—the
advantages of both at once! Well, hang it, brother, what
stuff I’m talking, it’s bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 211

up at night; so I’ll go in and look at him. But there’s no
need, it’s all right. Don’t you worry yourself, yet if you.
like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice
anything, delirium or fever—wake me at once. But there
cant besa. .”

CHAPTER II

troubled and serious. He found himself confronted

with many new and unlooked-for perplexities. He
had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling
like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day»
and he knew that a perfectly novel experience had befallen
him, that he had received an impression unlike anything he
had known before. At the same time he recognised clearly
that the dream which had fired his imagination was hope-
lessly unattainable—so unattainable that he felt positively
ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more
practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that
“thrice accursed yesterday.”

The most awful recollection of the previous day was the
way he had shown himself “base and mean,” not only
because he had been drunk, but because he had taken
advantage of the young girl’s position to abuse her fiancé
in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual
relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man
himself. And what right had he to criticise him in that
hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for his
opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Avdotya
Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for
money? So there must be something in him. The lodgings?
But after all how could he know the character of the
lodgings? He was furnishing a flat...Foo, how
despicable it all was! And what justification was it that
he was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even more
degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come
out, “that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious
heart!” And would such a dream ever be permissible to
him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl—he, the
drunken noisy braggart of last night? “Was it possible to

212

R ttestiea’en waked up next morning at eight o’clock,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 213

imagine so absurd and cynical a juxtaposition?” Razumihin
blushed desperately at the very idea and suddenly the
recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had
said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be
jealous of Avdotya Romanovna... that was simply
intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen
stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the bricks flying.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself a minute later with
a feeling of self-abasement, “of course, all these infamies
can never be wiped out or smoothed over ... and so it’s
useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in silence
and...do my duty ...in silence, too,...and not
ask forgiveness, and say nothing... for all is lost
now !”

And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more care-
fully than usual. He hadn’t another suit—if he had had,
perhaps he wouldn’t have put it on, “I would have made
a point of not putting it on.’ But in any case he could
not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no right to
offend the feelings of others, especially when they were in
need of his assistance and asking him to see them. He
brushed his clothes carefully. His linen was always decent;
in that respect he was especially clean.

He washed that morning scrupulously—he got some soap
from Nastasya—he washed his hair, his neck and especially
his hands. When it came to the question whether to shave
his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya Pavlovna had capital
razors that had been left by her late husband), the question
was angrily answered in the negative. “Let it stay as it is!
What if they think that I shaved on purpose to...? They
certainly would think so. Not on any account!”

“And ... the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, °
he had the manners of a pothouse; and . . . even admitting
that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman

. what was there in that to be proud of? Every one
ought to be a gentleman and more than that ... and all the
same (he remembered) he, too, had done little things...
not exactly dishonest, and yet... . And what thoughts he
sometimes had; hm... and to set all that beside Avdotya
Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he’d make a

214 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners
and he wouldn’t care! He’d be worse!”

He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who
had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna’s parlour, came in.

He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the
invalid first. Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was
sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders that they
shouldn’t wake him and promised to see him again about
eleven.

“Tf he is still at home,” he added. “Damn it all! If one
can’t control one’s patients, how is one to cure them! Do
you know whether he will go to them, or whether they are,
coming here?”

“They are coming, I think,” said Razumihin, understanding
the object of the question, “and they will discuss their family
affairs, no doubt. I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more
right to be here than I.”

“But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go
away; I’ve plenty to do besides looking after them.”

“One thing worries me,” interposed Razumihin, frowning.
“On the way home I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to
him ... all sorts of things . . . and amongst them that you
were afraid that he ... might become insane.”

“You told the ladies so, too.” ;

~“T know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like!
Did you think so seriously?”

“That’s nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously!
You, yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you
fetched me to him ... and we added fuel to the fire yes-
terday, you did, that is, with your story about the painter;
it was a nice conversation when he was, perhaps, mad on that
very point! If only Id known what happened then at the
police station and that some wretch ... had insulted him
with this suspicion! Hm. .. I would not have allowed that
conversation yesterday, These monomaniacs will make a
mountain out of a molehill . . . and see their fancies as solid
realities. .. . As far as I remember, it was Zametov’s story
that cleared up half the mystery to my mind. Why, I know
one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the
throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn’t endure the

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 215

jokes he made every day at table! And in this case his rags,
the insolent police-officer, the fever and this suspicion! All
that working upon a man half frantic with hypochondria,
and with his morbid exceptional vanity! That may well have
been the starting-point of illness. Well, bother it all! ...
And, by the way, that Zametov certainly is a nice fellow,
but hm... he shouldn’t have told all that last night. He
is an awful chatterbox!”

“But whom did he tell it to? You and me?”

“And Porfiry.” !

“What does that matter?”

“And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his
mother and sister? ‘Tell them to be more careful with him
to-day... .”

“They'll get on all right!” Razumihin answered reluctantly.

“Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with
money and she doesn’t seem to dislike him... and they
haven’t a farthing I suppose? eh?”

“But what business is it of yours?” Razumihin cried with
annoyance. “How can I tell whether they’ve a farthing?
Ask them yourself and perhaps you'll find out... .”

“Foo, what an ass you are sometimes! Last night’s wine
has not gone off yet... . Good-bye; thank your Praskovya
Pavlovna from me for my night’s lodging. She locked her-
self in, made no reply to my bonjour through the door; she
was up at seven o’clock, the samovar was taken into her
from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal inter-
VIEW, 6's

At nine o’clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings
at Bakaleyev’s house. Both ladies were waiting for him with
nervous impatience. They had risen at seven o'clock or
eatlier. He entered looking as black as night, bowed awk-
wardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had
reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna fairly
rushed at him, seized him by both hands and was almost kiss-
ing them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but
her proud countenance wore at that moment an expression
of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and un-
looked-for respect (in place of the sneering looks andi ill-
disguised contempt he had expected), that it threw him into

216 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

greater confusion than if he had been met with abuse.
Fortunately there was a subject for conversation, and he
made haste to snatch at it.

Hearing that everything was going well and that olive
had not yet waked, Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that
she was glad to hear it, because “she had something which
it was very, very necessary to talk over beforehand.” Then
followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have
it with them; they had waited to have it with him. Avdotya
Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty —
waiter, and they asked him to bring tea which was served
at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way, that the_
ladies were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously attacked thé
lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in embarrass-
ment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s
questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him.

He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly
interrupted by their questions, and succeeded in describing
to them all the most important facts he knew of the last year
of Raskolnikov’s life, concluding with a circumstantial
account of his illness. He omitted, however, many things,
which were better omitted, including the scene at the police
station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to
his story, and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied
his listeners, he found that they considered he had hardly
begun.

“Tell me, tell me! What do you think ...? Excuse me,
I still don’t know your name!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna put
in hastily.

“Dmitri Prokofitch.”

“I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch
- « - how he looks... on things in general now, that is,
how can I explain, what are his likes and dislikes? Is he
always so irritable? Tell me, if you can, what are his hopes
and so to say his dreams? Under what influences is he now?
In a word, I should like .. .”

“Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?”
observed Dounia.

“Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least
like this, Dmitri Prokofitch !”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 217

“Naturally,” answered Razumihin. “TI have no mother, but
my uncle comes every year and almost every time he can
scarcely recognise me, even in appearance, though he is a
clever man; and your three years’ separation means a great
deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion for a
year and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and haughty,
and of late—and perhaps for a long time before—he has been
suspicious and fanciful. He has a noble nature and a kind
heart. He does not like showing his feelings and would
rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely. Some-
times, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and
inhumanly callous; it’s as though he were alternating be-
tween two characters. Sometimes he is fearfully reserved!
He says he is so busy that everything is a hindrance, and
yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn’t jeer at things,
not because he hasn’t the wit, but as though he hadn’t time
to waste on such trifles. He never listens to what is said to
him. He is never interested in what interests other people
at any given moment. He thinks very highly of himself
and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I think your
arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon him.”

“God grant it may,” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, dis-
tressed by Razumihin’s account of her Rodya.

And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya
Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while he was
talking, but only for a moment and looked away again at
once. Avdotya Romanoyna sat at the table, listening atten-
tively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with
her arms folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting
in a question, without stopping her walk. She had the same
habit of not listening to what was said. She was wearing
a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white transparent
scarf round her neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of
extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotya Roma-
novna been dressed like a queen, he felt that he would not
be afraid of her, but perhaps just because she was poorly
dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her surround-
ings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be
afraid of every word he uttered, every gesture he made,
which was very trying for a man who already felt diffident.

218 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“You've told us a great deal that is interesting about my
brother’s character ... and have told it impartially. I am
glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to
him,” observed Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. “I think
you are right that he needs a woman’s care,” she added
thoughtfully.

“I didn’t say so; but I daresay you are right, only .. .”

“What?”

“He loves no one and perhaps he never will,” Razumihin
declared decisively.

“You mean he is not capable of love?”

“Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully like
your brother, in everything, indeed!” he blurted out suddenly
to his own surprise, but remembering at once what he had
just before said of her brother, he turned as red as a crab and
was overcome with confusion. Avdotya Romanovna couldn’t
help laughing when she looked at him.

“You may both be mistaken about Rodya,”’ Pulcheria
Alexandrovna remarked, slightly piqued. “I am not talking
of our present difficulty, Dounia. What Pyotr Petrovitch
writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may
be mistaken, but you can’t imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch, how
moody and, so to say, capricious he is. I never could depend
on what he would do when he was only fifteen. And I am
-sure that he might do something now that nobody else would
think of doing. . .. Well, for instance, do you know how a
year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock
that nearly killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that
girl—what was her name—his landlady’s daughter ?”

“Did you hear about that affair?’ asked Avdotya
Romanovna.

“Do you sttppose—”’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued
warmly. “Do you suppose that my tears, my entreaties, my
illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty would have
made him pause? No, he would calmly have disregarded all
obstacles. And yet it isn’t that he doesn’t love us!”

“He has never spoken a word of that affair to me,”
Razumihin answered cautiously. “But I did hear something
from Praskovya Pavlovna herself, though she is by no means
a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather strange.”

CRIMH AND PUNISHMENT 219

“And what did you hear?” both the ladies asked at once.

“Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the mar-
riage, which only failed to take place through the girl’s death,
was not at all to Praskovya Pavlovna’s liking. They say,
too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact I am told positively -
ugly . .. and such an invalid ... and queer. But she seems
to have had some good qualities. She must have had some
good qualities or it’s quite inexplicable. ... She had no
money either and he wouldn’t have considered her money.
, « « But it’s always difficult to judge in such matters.”

“I am sure she was a good girl,” Avdotya Romanovna
observed briefly.

“God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though
I don’t know which of them would have caused most misery
to the other—he to her or she to him,” Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna concluded. Then she began tentatively questioning
him about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin, hesi-
tating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to the
latter’s annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evi-
dently caused her uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin
described it in detail again, but this time he added his own
conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally
insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not seeking to excuse him on the
score of his illness.

“He had planned it before his illness,” he added.

“T think so, too,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a
dejected air. But she was very much surprised at hearing
Razumihin express himself so carefully and even with a cer-
tain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch. Avdotya Romanovna,
too, was struck by it.

“So this is your opinion. of Pyotr Petrovitch?” Pulcheria
Alexandrovna could not resist asking.

“I can have no other opinion of your daughter’s future
husband,” Razumihin answered firmly, and with warmth,
“and I don’t say it simply from vulgar politness, but be-
cause ... simply because Avdotya Romanovna has of her
own free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so
rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly
drunk and .. . mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head
completely . . . and this morning I am ashamed of it.”

220 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna
flushed, but did not break the silence. She had not uttered
a word from the moment they began to speak of Luzhin.

Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did
not know what to do. At last, faltering and continually
glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was exceed-
ingly worried by one circumstance.

“You see, Dmitri Prokofitch,” she began. “T’ll be perfectly
open with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?”

“Of course, mother,” said Avdotya Romanovna emphati-
cally.

“This is what it is,’ she began in haste, as though the»
permission to speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her
mind. “Very early this morning we got a note from Pyotr
Petrovitch in reply to our letter announcing our arrival. He
promised to meet us at the station, you know; instead of that
he sent a servant to bring us the address of these lodgings
and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would
be here himself this morning. But this morning this note
came from him. You'd better read it yourself; there is one
point in it which worries me very much ... you will soon
see what that is, and . . . tell me your candid opinion, Dmitri
Prokofitch! You know Rodya’s character better than any
one and no one can advise us better than you can. Dounia,
I must tell you, made her decision at once, but I still don’t
feel sure how to act and I... I’ve been waiting for your
opinion.”

Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous
evening and read as follows :—

“Dear Mapam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to in-
form you that owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered unable to
meet you at the railway station; I sent a very competent person with
the same object in view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honour
of an interview with you to-morrow morning by business in the
Senate that does not admit of delay, and also that I may not intrude
on your family circle while you are meeting your son, and Avdotya
Romanovna her brother. I shall have the honour of visiting you and
paying you my respects at your lodgings not later than to-morrow
evening at eight o’clock precisely, and herewith I venture to present
my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that Rodion Romano-
vitch may not be present at our interview—as he offered me a gross

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 291

and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my visit to him in his
illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally
an indispensable and circumstantial explanation upon a certain point,
in regard to which I wish to learn your own interpretation. I have
the honour to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my
request, I meet Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be compelled to with-
draw immediately and then you have only yourself to blame. I write
on the assumption that Rodion Romanovitch who appeared so ill at
my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later and so, being able to
leave the house, may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief
by the testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of a drunken man
who was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a young
woman of notorious behaviour, he gave twenty-five roubles on the
pretext of the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what
pains you were at to raise that sum. MHerewith expressing my
special respect to your estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I
beg you to accept the respectful homage of
“Your humble servant,
“P, LuzHIn.”

“What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?” began Pul-
cheria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. “How can I ask
Rodya not to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly on
our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch and now we are ordered not
to receive Rodya! He will come on purpose if he knows,
and... what will happen then?”

“Act on Avdotya Romanovna’s decision,” Razumihin
answered calmly at once.

“Oh, dear me! She says... goodness knows what she
says, she doesn’t explain her object! She says that it would
be best, at least, not that it would be best, but that it’s abso-
lutely necessary that Rodya should make a point of being
here at eight o’clock and that they must meet... . I didn’t
want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him from
coming by some stratagem with your help ... because he
is so irritable. ... Besides I don’t understand about that
drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he could have
given the daughter all the money ... which.. .”

“Which cost you such sacrifice, mother,” put in Avdotya
Romanovna.

“He was not himself yesterday,” Razumihin said thought-
fully, “if you only knew what he was up to in a restaurant
yesterday, though there was sense in it too.... Hm! He
did say something, as we were going home yesterday evening,

222 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

about a dead man and a girl, but I didn’t understand a
word. ... But last night I myself...”

“The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him our-
selves and there I assure you we shall see at once what’s to
he done. Besides, it’s getting late—good heavens, it’s past
ten,” she cried looking at a splendid gold enamelled watch
which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain, and
looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress. “A
present from her fiancé,” thought Razumihin.

We must start, Dounia, we must start,” her mother
cried in a flutter, “He will be thinking we are still angry
after yesterday, from our coming so late. Merciful heav;
ens |”

While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat
and mantle; Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as
Razumihin noticed, were not merely shabby but had holes in
them, and yet this evident poverty gave the two ladies an air
of special dignity, which is always found in people who know
how to wear poor clothes. Razumihin looked reverently at
Dounia and felt proud of escorting her. “The queen who
mended her stockings in prison,” he thought, “must have
looked then every inch a queen and even more a queen than
at sumptuous banquets and levées.”

“My God,” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “little did
I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling,
darling Rodya! JI am afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch,” she added,
glancing at him timidly,

“Don’t be afraid, mother,” said Dounia, kissing her, “better
have faith in him,”

“Oh dear, I have faith in him, but I haven’t slept all night,”
exclaimed the poor woman.

They came out into the street.

“Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning
I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna ,.. she was all in white...
she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me,
but so sternly as though she were blaming me. ,, , Is that
a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don’t know Dmitri Pro-
kofitch that Marfa Petrovna’s dead !”

“No, I didn’t know; who is Marfa Petrovna?”

“She died suddenly; and only fancy ., .”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 223

“Afterwards, mamma,” put in Dounia. “He doesn’t know
who Marfa Petrovna is.”

“Ah, you don’t know? And I was thinking that you knew
all about us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch. I don’t know
what I am thinking about these last few days. I look upon
you really as a providence for us, and so I took it for granted
that you knew all about us. I look on you as a relation. .
Don’t be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what’s the
matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?”

“Yes, I bruised it,’ muttered Razumihin overjoyed.

“I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that
Dounia finds fault with me. ... But, dear me, what a cup-
board he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does
this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you
say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall
annoy him with my ... weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri
Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted,
you know.”

“Don’t question him too much about anything if you see
him frown; don’t ask him too much about his health; he
doesn’t like that.”

“Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother!
But here are the stairs ... What an awful staircase!”

“Mother, you are quite pale, don’t distress yourself, darl-
ing,” said Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes she
added: “He ought to be happy at seeing you, and you are
tormenting yourself so.”

“Wait, I’ll peep in and see whether he has waked up.”

The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before,
and when they reached the landlady’s door on the fourth
storey, they noticed that her door was a tiny crack open and
that two keen black eyes were watching them from the dark-
ness within. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly
shut with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost
cried out.

CHAPTER ITI

e E is well quite well!” Zossimov cried cheerfully
as they entered.

He had come in ten minutes earlier and was
sitting in the same place as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov
was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully
washed and combed, as he had not been for some time paste
The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed
to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen.

Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his
condition the day before, but he was still pale, listless, and
sombre. He looked like a wounded man or one who has
undergone some terrible physical suffering. His brows were
knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke
little and reluctantly, as though performing a duty, and there
was a restlessness in his movements.

He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his
finger to complete the impression of a man with a painful
abscess or a broken arm. The pale, sombre face lighted up
for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this
only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its
listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of
suffering remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying his
patient with all the zest of a young doctor beginning to
practise, noticed in him no joy at the arrival of his mother
and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden determination to bear
another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw later that
almost every word of the following conversation seemed to
touch on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same
time he marvelled at the power of controlling himself and
hiding his feelings in a patient who the previous day had, like
a monomaniac, fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word.

“Yes, Isee myself now that I am almost well,” said Raskol-
nikov, giving his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which
made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at once. “And I don’t

224,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 225

say this as I did yesterday,” he said, addressing Razumihin,
with a friendly pressure of his hand.

“Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day,” began
Zossimov, much delighted at the ladies’ entrance, for he had
not succeeded in keeping up a conversation with his patient
for ten minutes. “In another three or four days, if he goes
on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he was a
month ago, or two... or perhaps even three. This has
been coming on for a long while ...eh? Confess, now,
that it has been perhaps your own fault?” he added, with a
tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him.

“Tt is very possible,” answered Raskolnikov coldly.

“I should say, too,” continued Zossimov with zest, “that
your complete recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that
one can talk to you, I should like to impress upon you that it
is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak, fugdamental
causes tending to produce your morbid condition: in that
case you will be cured, if not, it will go from bad to worse.
These fundamental causes I don’t know, but they must be
known to you. You are an intelligent man, and must have
observed yourself, of course. I fancy the first stage of your
derangement coincides with your leaving the university. You
must not be left without occupation, and so, work and a
definite aim set before you might, I fancy, be very beneficial.”

“Yes, yes; you are perfectly right. .. . I will make haste
and return to the university: and then everything will go
smoothly. .. .”

Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make
an effect before the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified,
when, glancing at his patient, he observed unmistakable
mockery on his face. This lasted an instant, however. Pul-
cheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov,
especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night.

“What! he saw you last night?” Raskolnikov asked, as
though startled. “Then you have not slept either after your
journey.”

“Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o’clock. Dounia and
I never go to bed before two at home.”

“T don’t know how to thank him either,” Raskolnikov went
on, suddenly frowning and looking down. “Setting aside the

226 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

question of payment—forgive me for referring to it (he
turned to Zossimov )—I really don’t know what I have done
to deserve such special attention from you! I simply don’t
understand it...and...and... it weighs upon me,
indeed, because I don’t understand it. I tell you so can-
didly.”

“Don’t be irritated,” Zossimov forced himself to laugh.
“Assume that you are my first patient—well—we fellows
just beginning to practise love our first patients as if they
were our children, and some almost fall in love with them.
And, of course, I am not rich in patients.”

“I say nothing about him,” added Raskolnikov, pointing to
Razumihin, “though he has had nothing from me either but
insult and trouble.”

“What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a senti-
mental mood to-day, are you?” shouted Razumihin.

If he had had more penetration he would have seen that
there was no trace of sentimentality in him, but something
indeed quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna noticed
it. She was intently and uneasily watching her brother.

“As for you, mother, I don’t dare to speak,” he went on,
as though repeating a lesson learned by heart. “It is only
to-day that I have been able to realise a little how distressed
you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come
back,”

When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to-
his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile there
was a flash of real unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at
once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and thankful.
It was the first time he had addressed her since their dispute
the previous day. The mother’s face lighted up with ecstatic
happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconcilia-
tion. “Yes, that is what I love him for,” Razumihin, exag-
gerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in
his chair. “He has these movements”

“And how well he does it all,” the mother was thinking
to herself. “What generous impulses he has, and how simply.
how delicately he put an end to all the misunderstanding
with his sister—simply by holding out his hand at the right
minute and looking at her like that.. . . And what fine eyes

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 227

he has, and how fine his whole face is! . . . He is even better
looking than Dounia. ... But, good heavens, what a suit
how terribly he’s dressed! . . . Vasya, the messenger boy in
Afanasy Ivanitch’s shop, is better dressed! I could rush at
him and hug him. . . weep over him—but I am afraid...
Oh, dear, he’s so strange! He’s talking kindly, but I’m
afraid! Why, what am J afraid of? ...”

“Oh, Rodya, you wouldn’t believe,” she began suddenly, in
haste to answer his words to her, “how unhappy Dounia and
I were yesterday! Now that it’s all over and done with and
we are quite happy again—I can tell you. Fancy, we ran
here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that
woman—ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya! ... She
told us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had
just run away from the doctor in delirium, and they were
looking for you in the streets. You can’t imagine how we
felt! I couldn’t help thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant
Potanchikov, a friend of your father’s—you can’t remember
him, Rodya——who ran out in the same way in a high fever
and fell into the well in the courtyard and they couldn’t pull
him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We
were of the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask
him to help. .. . Because we were alone, utterly alone,” she
said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it
was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch,
although “we are quite happy again.”

“Yes, yes... . Of course it’s very annoying. . . .” Raskol-
nikov muttered in reply, but with such a preoccupied and in-
attentive air that Dounia gazed at him in perplexity.

“What else was it I wanted to say,” he went on trying to
recollect. “Oh, yes; mother, and you too, Dounia, please
don’t think that I didn’t mean to come and see you to-day
and was waiting for you to come first.”

“What are you saying, Rodya?” cried Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna. She, too, was surprised.

“Is he answering us as a duty?” Dounia wondered. “Is he
being reconciled and asking forgiveness as though he were
performing a rite or repeating a lesson?”

“[’ve only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but
was delayed owing tomy clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask

228 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

her ... Nastasya ... to wash out the blood... I’ve only
just got dressed.”

“Blood! What blood?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in
alarm.

“Oh! nothing—don’t be uneasy. It was when I was wander-
ing about yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced upon a man
who had been run over ...aclerk. f

“Delirious? But you remember everything!” Razumihin
interrupted.

“That’s true,” Raskolnikov answered with special careful-
ness. “I remember everything even to the slightest detail,
and yet—why I did that and went there and said that, I can i
clearly explain now.’

“A familiar phenomenon,” interposed Zéssimov, “actions
are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning
way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and
dependent on various morbid impressions—it’s like a dream.”

“Perhaps it’s a good thing really that he should think me
almost a madman,” thought Raskolnikov.

“Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too,”
observed Dounia, looking uneasily at Zossimov.

“There is some truth in your observation,” the latter
replied. “In that sense we are certainly all not infrequently
like madmen, but with the slight difference that the deranged
_ are somewhat madder, for we must draw a line. A normal
man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens—perhaps hun-
dreds of thousands—hardly one is to be met with.”

At the word “madman,” carelessly dropped by Zossimov
in his chatter on his favourite subject, every one frowned.

Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in
thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still
meditating on something.

“Well, what about the man who was run over? I inter-
rupted you!” Razumihin cried hastily.

“What?” Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. “Oh...I
got spattered with blood helping to carry him to his lodging.
By the way, mamma, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday.
I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money
you sent me ... to his wife for the funeral. She’s a widow
now, in consumption, a poor creature ... three little chil-

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 229

dren, starving . . . nothing in the house .. . there’s a daugh-
ter, too... perhaps you’d have given it yourself if you'd
seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit, especially
as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help
others one must have the right to do it, or else Crevez, chiens,
si vous n’étes pas contents.’ He laughed. “That’s right, isn’t
it Dounia?”

“No, it’s not,” answered Dounia firmly.

“Bah! you, too, have ideals,” he muttered, looking at her
almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically. “I ought to
have considered that. . . . Well, that’s praiseworthy, and it’s
better for you... and if you reach a line you won't over-
step, you will be unhappy ... and if you overstep it, may
be you will be still unhappier. . . . But all that’s nonsense,”
he added irritably, vexed at being carried away. “I only
meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother,” he con-
cluded, shortly and abruptly.

“That’s enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you
do is very good,” said his mother, delighted.

“Don’t be too sure,” he answered, twisting his mouth into a
smile,

A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all
this conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation,
and in the forgiveness, and all were feeling it.

“It is as though they were afraid of me,” Raskolnikov was
thinking to himself, looking askance at his mother and sister.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the
longer she kept silent.

“Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much,”
flashed through his mind.

“Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead,” Pulcheria
Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out.

“What Marfa Petrovna?”

“Oh, mercy on us—Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailov. I wrote
you so much about her.”

“A-a-h! Yes. I remember. ... So she’s dead! Oh,
really ?” he roused himself suddenly, as if waking up. ‘What
did she die of ?”

“Only imagine, quite suddenly,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna
answered hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. “On the

230 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

very day I was sending you that letter! Would you believe
it, that awful man seems to have been the cause of her death.
They say he beat her dreadfully.”

“Why, were they on such bad terms?” he asked, addressing
his sister,

“Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was
always very patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven
years of their married life he gave way to her, too much so
indeed, in many cases. All of a sudden he seems to have lost
patience.”

“Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled
himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him,
Dounia ?” ,

“No, no, he’s an awful man! I can imagine nothing more
awful!” Dounia answered, almost with a shudder, knitting
her brows, and sinking into thought.

“That had happened in the morning,’ Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna went on hurriedly. “And directly afterwards she
ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the town
immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to the
town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am
olen eg ®

“After the beating?”

“That was always her... habit; and immediately after
-dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the
bath-house. ... You see, she was undergoing some treat-
ment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and
she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no
sooner had she got into the water when she suddenly had
a stroke!”

“T should think so,” said Zossimov.

“And did he beat her badly ?”

“What does that matter!” put in Dounia.

“H’m! But I don’t know why you want to tell us such
gossip, mother,” said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite
of himself.

“Ah, my dear, I don’t know what to talk about,” broke from
Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“Why, are you all afraid of me?” he asked, with a con-
strained smile.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 23%

“That’s certainly true,” said Dounia, looking directly and
sternly at her brother. “Mother was crossing herself with
terror as she came up the stairs.”

His face worked, as though in convulsion.

“Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don’t be angry,
please, Rodya. . . . Why did you say that, Dounia?” Pulcheria
Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed—‘“You see, coming here,
I was dreaming ali the way, in the train, how we should meet,
how we should talk over everything together. ... And I was
so happy, I did not notice the journey! But what am I say-
ing? I am happy now. ... You should not, Dounia.... I
am happy now—simply in seeing you, Rodya....”

“Hush, mother,” he muttered in confusion, not looking at
her, but pressing her hand. ‘We shall have time to speak
freely of everything!”

As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with con-
fusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he had
known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again
it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him that he had
just told a fearful lie—that he would never now be able to
speak freely of everything—that he would never again be
able to speak of anything to any one. The anguish of this
thought was such that for a moment he almost forgot him-
self. He got up from his seat, and not looking at any one
walked towards the door.

“What are you about?” cried Razumihin, clutching him by
the arm.

He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence.
They were all looking at him in perplexity.

“But what are you all so dull for?” he shouted, suddenly
and quite unexpectedly. “Do say something! What’s the use
of sitting like this? Come, do speak. Let us talk. ... We
meet together and sit in silence. . . . Come, anything!”

“Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was
beginning again,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing her-
self.

“What is the matter, Rodya?” asked Avdotya Romanovna,
distrustfully.

“Oh, nothing! I remembered something,” he answered,
and suddenly laughed.

232 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Well, if you remembered something; that’s all right! .. . I
was beginning to think .. . ” muttered Zossimov, getting up
from the sofa. “It is time for me to be off. I will look in
again perhaps ...if I can...” He made his bows, and
went out.

“What an excellent man!” observed Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna.

“Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent,’ Raskol-
nikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and
a liveliness he had not shown till then. “I can’t remember
where I met him before my illness. . . . I believe I have met
him somewhere ... And this is a good man, too,” he
nodded at Razumihin. “Do you like him, Dounia?” he asked
her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed.

“Very much,” answered Dounia.

“Foo—what a pig you are,’ Razumihin protested, blushing
in terrible confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria
Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud.

“Where are you off to?”

“T must go.”

“You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you
must. Don’t go. What’s the time? Is it twelve o'clock?
What a pretty watch you have got Dounia. But why are you

all silent again. I do all the talking.”

“Tt was a present from Marfa Petrovna,” answered Dounia.

“And a very expensive one!” added Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna.

“A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady’s.”

“T like that sort,” said Dounia.

“So it is not a present from her fiancé,” thought Razu-
mihin, and was unreasonably delighted.

“T thought it was Luzhin’s present,” observed Raskolnikov.

“No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet.”

“A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and
wanted to get married?” he said suddenly, looking at his
mother, who was disconcerted by the sudden change of sub-
_ ject and the way he spoke of it.

“Oh, yes, my dear.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia
and Razumihin.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 233

“F’m, yes. What shall I tell you? I don’t remember much
indeed. She was such a sickly girl,’ he went on, growing
dreamy and looking down again. “Quite an invalid. She
was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was always dream-
ing of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she
began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I
remember very well. She was an ugly little thing. I really
don’t know what drew me to her then—I think it was because
she was always ill. If she had been lame or hunchback, I
believe I should have liked her better still,’ he smiled
dreamily. “Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium.”

“No, it was not only spring delirium,’ said Dounia, with
warm feeling.

He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not
hear or did not understand her words. Then, completely lost
in thought, he got up, went up to his mother, kissed her, went
back to his place and sat down.

“You love her even now?” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna,
touched.

“Her? Now? Oh, yes.... You ask about her? No
... that’s all now as it were, in another world ... and so
long ago. And indeed everything happening here seems
somehow far away.” He looked attentively at them. “You
now ... 1 seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles
away ... but, goodness knows why we are talking of that!
And what’s the use of asking about it,” he added with annoy-
ance, and biting his nails, he fell into dreamy silence again.

“What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It’s like a
tomb,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the
oppressive silence. “I am sure it’s quite half through your
lodging you have become so melancholy.”

“My lodging,” he answered, listlessly. “Yes, the lodging
had a great deal to do with it... . I thought that, too. ...
If only you knew, though, what a strange thing you said just
now, mother,” he said, laughing strangely.

A little more, and their companionship, this mother and
this sister, with him after three years’ absence, this intimate
tone of conversation, in face of the utter impossibility of
really speaking about anything, would have been beyond his
power of endurance. But there was one urgent matter which

g—R

234 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

must be settled one way or the other that day—so he had
decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it,
as a means of escape,

“Listen, Dounia,”’ he began, gravely and drily, “of course
I beg your pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty
to tell you again that I do not withdraw from my chief point.
It is me or Luzhin. If I am a scoundrel, you must not be.
One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease at once to
look on you as a sister.”

“Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again,”
Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. “And why do
you call yourself a scoundrel? I can’t bear it. You ae
the same yesterday.”

“Brother,” Dounia answered firmly and with the pre
dryness. “In all this there is a mistake on your part. I
thought it over at night, and found out the mistake. It
is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself
to some one and for some one. That is not the case at all.
I am simply marrying for my own sake, because things
are hard for me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I
succeed in being useful to my family. But that is not the
chief motive for my decision. ... ”

“She is lying,” he thought to himself, biting his nails
vindictively. “Proud creature! She won’t admit she wants
- to do it out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters!
They even love as though they hate....Oh, howl...
hate them all!”

“Tn fact,” continued Dounia, “I am marrying Pyotr Petro-
vitch because of two evils I choose the less. I intend to
do honestly all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving him.
. » - Why did you smile just now?” She, too, flushed, and
there was a gleam of anger in her eyes.

“All?” he asked with a malignant grin.

“Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of
Pyotr Petrovitch’s courtship showed me at once what he
wanted. He may, of course, think too well of himself, but
I haope he esteems me, too.... Why are you laughing
again?”

“And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister.
You are intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy,

é

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 235

simply to hold your own against me. . . . You cannot respect
Luzhin. I have seen him and talked with him. So you
are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you are
acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush
for it.”

“It is not true. I am not lying,” cried Dounia, losing
her composure. “I would not marry him if I were not con-
vinced that he esteems me and thinks highly of me. I would
not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I can
respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it
this very day ... and such a marriage is not a vileness,
as you say! And even if you were right, if I reaily had
determined on a vile action, is it not merciless on your part
to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a
heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is despotism;
it is tyranny. If I ruin any one, it is only myself....TI
am not committing a murder. Why do you look at me like
that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what’s the
matter ?”

“Good heavens! You have made him faint,” cried Pul-
cheria Alexandrovna.

“No, no, nonsense! It’s nothing. A little giddiness
—not fainting. You have fainting on the brain. H’m,
yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you
get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him,
and that he ... esteems you, as you said. I think you said
to-day ?”

“Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch’s letter,” said
Dounia.

With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him
the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before
opening it, he suddenly looked with a sort of wonder at
Dounia.

“It is strange,” he said, slowly, as though struck by a new
idea, “What am I making such a fuss for? What is it
all about? Marry whom you like!”

He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and
looked for some time at his sister, as though puzzled. He
opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange
wonder on his face. Then, slowly and attentively, he began

236 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna
showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected something
particular.

“What surprises me,” he began, after a short pause, hand-
ing the letter to his mother, but not addressing any one in
particular, “is that he is a business man, a lawyer, and his
conversation is pretentious indeed, and yet he writes such
an uneducated letter.”

They all started. They had expected something quite
different.

“But they all write like that, you know,’ Razumihin
observed, abruptly.
“Have you read it?” /

*Ves,”

“We showed him, Rodya. We... consulted him just
now,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.

“That’s just the jargon of the courts,” Razumihin put in.
“Legal documents are written like that to this day.”

“Legal? Yes, it’s just legal—business language—not so
very uneducated, and not quite educated—business lan-
guage!”

“Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he
had a cheap education, he is proud indeed of having made
his own way,’ Avdotya Romanovna observed, somewhat
- offended by her brother’s tone.

“Well, if he’s proud of it, he has reason, I don’t deny
it. You seem to be offended, sister, at my making only such
a frivolous criticism on the letter, and to think that I speak
of such trifling matters on purpose to annoy you. It is
quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style
occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things
stand. There is one expression, ‘blame yourselves’ put in
very significantly and plainly, and there is besides a threat
that he will go away at once if I am present. That threat
to go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon you both
if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after sum-
moning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can
one resent such an expression from Luzhin, as we should
if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had written it, or Zossimov,
or one e of us?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 937

- “N-no,” answered Dounia, with more animation. “I saw
clearly that it was too naively expressed, and that perhaps
he simply has no skill in writing . . . that is a true criticism,
brother. I did not expect, indeed... ”

“It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than
perhaps he intended. But I must disillusion you a little.
There is one expression in the letter, one slander about me,
and rather a contemptible one. I gave the money last night
to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed with trouble,
and not ‘on the pretext of the funeral,’ but simply to pay
for the funeral, and not to the daughter—a young woman,
as he writes, of notorious behaviour (whom I saw last
night for the first time in my life)—but to’the widow. In
all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to raise
dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon,
that is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and
with a very naive eagerness. He is a man of intelligence,
but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all shows
the man and . . . I don’t think he has a great esteem for you.
I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely wish
for your good...”

Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken.
She was only awaiting the evening.

“Then what is your decision, Rodya?” asked Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, who was more uneasy than ever at the
sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk.

“What decision?”

“You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be
with us this evening, and that he will go away if you come
So will you . . . come?”

“That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you
first, if you are not offended by such a request; and secondly,
by Dounia, if she, too, is not offended. I will do what you
think best,” he added, drily.

“Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her,”
Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare.

“I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to
be with us at this interview,’ said Dounia. “Will you
come ?”

“Ves,”

238 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“T will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o’clock,” she
said, addressing Razumihin. “Mother, I am inviting him,
too.”

“Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided,”
added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “so be it. I shall feel easier
myself. I do not like concealment and deception. Better
let us have the whole truth. ... Pyotr Petrovitch may be
angry or_not, now!”

CHAPTER IV

girl walked into the room, looking timidly about her

Every one turned towards her with surprise and
curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognise her.
It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her
yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such
surroundings and in such a dress, that his memory retained
a very different image of her. Now she was a modestly
and poorly-dressed young girl, very young, indeed almost
like a child, with a modest and refined manner, with a can-
did but somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wear-
ing a very plain indoor dress, and had on a shabby old-
fashioned hat, but she still carried a parasol. Unexpectedly
finding the room full of people, she was not so much
embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like
a little child. She was even about to retreat. “Oh... it’s
you”! said Raskolnikov, extremely astonished, and he, too,
was confused. He at once recollected that his mother and
sister knew through Luzhin’s letter of “some young woman of
notorious behaviour.” He had only just been protesting
against Luzhin’s calumny and declaring that he had seen
the girl last night for the first time, and suddenly she had
walked in. He remembered, too, that he had not pro-
tested against the expression “of notorious behaviour.” All
this passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brain, but
looking at her more intently, he saw that the humiliated
creature was so humiliated that he felt suddenly sorry for
her. When she made a movement to retreat in terror, it
sent a pang to his heart,

“T did not expect you,” he said, hurriedly, with a look that
made her stop. “Please sit down. You come, no doubt from
Katerina Ivanovna. Allow me—not there. Sit here....”

At Sonia’s entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on
one of Raskolnikoy’s three chairs, close to the door, got up

239

T that moment the door was softly opened, and a young

240 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

to allow her to enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown’ her
the place on the sofa where Zossimov had been sitting,
but feeling that the sofa, which served him as a bed, was
too familiar a place, he hurriedly motioned her to Razu-
mihin’s chair.

“You sit here,” he said to Razumihin, putting him on the
sofa,

Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked
timidly at the two ladies. It was evidently almost incon-
ceivable to herself that she could sit down beside them.
At the thought of it, she was so frightened that she hur-
riedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed Ras-
kolnikov. d

“I...I1... have come for one minute. Forgive me for
disturbing you,” she began falteringly. “I come from
Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to send. Katerina
Ivanovna told me to beg you... to be at the service...
in the morning... at the Mitrofanievsky ... and then
».-to us... to her... to do her the honour .... she
told me to beg you...” Sonia stammered and ceased
speaking.

“T will try, certainly, most certainly,” answered Raskol-
nikov. He, too, stood up, and he, too, faltered and could
not finish his sentence. “Please sit down,” he said, suddenly.

“I want to talk to you. You are perhaps in a hurry, but
please, be so kind, spare me two minutes,” and he drew up a
chair for her.

Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried,
frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes.
Raskolnikov’s pale face flushed, a shudder passed over him,
his eyes glowed. .

“Mother,” he said, firmly and insistently, “this is Sofya
Semyonovna Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate
Mr. Marmeladov, who was run over yesterday before my
eyes, and of whom I was just telling you.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly
screwed up her eyes. In spite of her embarrassment before
Rodya’s urgent and challenging look, she could not deny
herself that satisfaction. Dounia gazed gravely and intently
into the poor girl’s face, and scrutinised her with perplexity.

1) Sea!
NT ee

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 941

Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes
again, but was more embarrassed than ever.

“T wanted to ask you,’ said Raskolnikov, hastily, “how
things were arranged yesterday. You were not worried by
the police, for instance?”

“No, that was all right . . . it was too evident, the cause
of death ... they did not worry us... only the lodgers
are angry.”

“Why ?”

“At the body’s remaining so long. You see it is hot now.
So that, to-day, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the
chapel, until to-morrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was un-
willing, but now she sees herself that it’s necessary .. .”

“To-day, then?”

“She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church
to-morrow for the service, and then to be present at the
funeral lunch.”

“She is giving a funeral lunch?”

“Yes... just a little, ... She told me to thank you very
much for helping us yesterday. But for you, we should have
had nothing for the funeral.”

All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with
an effort, she controlled herself, looking down again.

During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her care-
fully. She had a thin, very thin, pale little face, rather
irregular and angular, with a sharp little nose and chin. She
could not have been called pretty, but her blue eyes were
so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such a kindli-
ness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help
being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had
another peculiar characteristic. In spite of her eighteen
years, she looked almost a little girl—almost a child. And in
some of her gestures, this childishness seemed almost absurd.

“But has Katernia Ivanovna been able to manage with
such small means? Does she even mean to have a funeral
lunch?” . Raskolnikov asked, persistently keeping up the
conversation.

“The coffin will be plain, of course... and everything
will be plain, so it won’t cost much. Katerina Ivanovna
and I have reckoned it all out, so that there will be enough

242 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

left ... and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious it should
be so. You know one can’t ... it’s a comfort to her.. ;
she is like that, you know... .”

“I understand, I understand ... of course... why do
you look at my room like that? My mother has just said it
is like a tomb.”

“You gave us everything yesterday,” Sonia said suddenly,
in reply, in a loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down
in confusion. Her lips and chin were trembling once more.
She had been struck at once by Raskolnikov’s poor surround-
ings, and now these words broke out spontaneously. A
silence followed. There was a light in Dounia’s eyes, and
even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia.

“Rodya,” she said, getting up, “we shall have dinner
together of course. Come, Dounia.... And you, Rodya,
had better go for a little walk, and then rest and lie down
before you come to see us....I1 am afraid we have ex-
hausted you... .”

“Yes, yes, I'll come,” he answered, getting up fussily.
“But I have something to see to.”

“But surely you will have dinner together?” cried Razu-
mihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. “What do you
mean?”

“Ves, yes, I am coming ... of course, of course! And
you stay a minute. You do not want him just now, do you,
mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from you?”

“Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the
favor of dining with us?”

“Please do,” added Dounia.

Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment,
they were all strangely embarrassed.

“Good-bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like
saying good-bye. Good-bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said
good-bye again.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it
Somehow failed to come off, and she went in a flutter out
of the room.

But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and
following her mother out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous,
bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a hurried, frightened curtsy.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT | 43

There was a look of poignant discomfort in her face, as
though Avdotya Romanovna’s courtesy and attention were
oppressive and painful to her.

“Dounia, good-bye,” called Raskolnikov, in the passage.
“Give me your hand.”

“Why, I did give it you. Have you forgotten?” said
Dounia, turning warmly and awkwardly to him.

“Never mind, give it to me again.” And he squeezed her
fingers warmly.

Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went
off quite happy.

“Come, that’s capital,” he said to Sonia, going back and
looking brightly at her. “God give peace to the dead, the
living have still to live. That is right, isn’t it?”

Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his
face. He looked at her for some moments in silence. The
whole history of the dead father floated before his memory
in those moments .. ©

“Heavens, Dounia,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as
soon as they were in the street, “I really feel relieved my-
self at coming away—more at ease. How little did I think
yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad of that.”

“T tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don’t you
see it? Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be
patient, and much, much can be forgiven.”

“Well, you were not very patient!” Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna caught her up, hotly and jealously. “Do you know,
Dounia, I was looking at you two. You are the very por-
trait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You are
both melancholy, both morose and hot tempered, both haughty
and both generous.... Surely he can’t be an egoist,
Dounia. Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this
evening, my heart sinks!”

“Don’t be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be.”

“Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if
Pyotr Petrovitch breaks it off?’ poor Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna blurted out, incautiously.

“He won’t be worth much if he does,” answered Dounia,
sharply and contemptuously.

244 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“We did well to come away,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna
hurriedly broke in. “He was in a hurry about some busi-
ness or other. If he gets out and has a breath of air...
it is fearfully close in his room. ... But where is one to
get a breath of air here. The very streets here feel like
shut-up rooms. Good heavens! what a town! ... stay...
this side... they will crush you—carry something. Why
it is a piano they have got, I declare .. . how they push...
I am very much afraid of that young woman, too.”

“What young woman, mother?”

“Why that Sofya Semyonova, who was there just now.”

“Why ?”?

“T have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it
or not, but as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt
that she was the chief cause of the trouble. .. .”

“Nothing of the sort!” cried Dounia, in vexation. “What
nonsense, with your presentiments, mother! He only made
her acquaintance the evening before, and he did not know
her when she came in.”

“Well, you will see.... She worries me; but you will
see, you will see! I was so frightened. She was gazing at
me with those eyes. I could scarcely sit still in my chair
when he began introducing her, do you remember? It seems
so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like that about her,
and he introduces her to us—to you! So he must think a
great deal of her.”

“People will write anything. We were talked about and
written about, too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she
is a good girl, and that it is all nonsense.”

“God grant it may be!”

“And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer,”
Dounia snapped out, suddenly.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation
was not resumed.

“I will tell you what I want with you,”
drawing Razumihin to the window.

“Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming,”
Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart.

“One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets,

said Raskolnikov,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 245

You are not in our way. I want to have another word or
two with you. Listen!” he turned suddenly to Razumihin
again, “You know that... what’s his name... Porfiry
Petrovitch ?”

“I should think so! Heisa relation. Why?’ added the
latter, with interest.

“Ts not he managing that case... you know about that
murder? ... You were speaking about it yesterday.”

“Yes... well?” Razumihin’s eyes opened wide.

“He was inquiring for people who had pawned things,
and I have some pledges there, too—trifles—a ring my sister
gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my father’s
silver watch—they are only worth five or six roubles alto-
gether ... but I value them. So what am I to do now? I
do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was
quaking just now, for fear mother would ask to look at it,
when we spoke of Dounia’s watch., It is the only thing of
father’s left us. She would be ill if it were lost. You know
what women are. So tell me what to do. I know I ought
to have given notice at the police station, but would it not
be better to go straight to Porfiry? Eh? What do you think?
The matter might be settled more quickly. You see mother
may ask for it before dinner.”

“Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry.”
Razumihin shouted in extraordinary excitement. ‘Well, how
glad Iam. Let us go at once. It is a couple of steps. We
shall be sure to find him.”

“Very well, let us go.”

“And he will be very, very glad to make your acquain-
tance. I have often talked to him of you at different times.
I was speaking of you yesterday. Let us go. So you knew
the old woman? So that’s it! It is all turning out splendidly.
. « « Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna .. .”

“Sofya Semyonovna,” corrected Raskolnikov. “Sofya
Semyonovyna, this is my friend Razumihin, and he is a good
man.”

“If you have to go now,” Sonia was beginning, not looking
at Razumihin at all, and still more embarrassed.

“Let us go,” decided Raskolnikov. “I will come to you
to-day, Sofya Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live.”

246 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and
avoided her eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed as
she did so. They all went out together.

“Don’t you lock up?” asked Razumihin, following him on
to the stairs.

“Never,” answered Raskolnikov. “I have been meaning
to buy a lock for these two years. People are happy who
have no need of locks,” he said, laughing, to Sonia. They
stood still in the gateway.

“Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did
you find me, by the way?” he added, as though he wanted to
say something quite different. He wanted to look at her
soft clear eyes, but this was not easy. :

“Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday.”

“Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She
is your sister? Did I give her the address?”

“Why, had you forgotten?”

“No, I remember.”

“I had heard my father speak of you... only I did not
know your name, and he did not know it. And now I came:
.. and as I had learnt your name, I asked to-day, ‘Where
does Mr. Raskolnikov live?’ I did not know you had
only a room too... . Good-bye, I will tell Katerina Iva-
novna.”

She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away
looking down, hurrying to get out of sight as soon as pos-
sible, to walk the twenty steps to the turning on the right
and to be at last alone, and then moving rapidly along, look-
ing at no one, noticing nothing, to think, to remember, to
meditate on every word, every detail. Never, never had
she felt anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a
whole new world was opening before her. She remembered
suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to come to her that day,
perhaps that morning, perhaps at once!

“Only not to-day, please, not to-day!” she kept muttering
with a sinking heart, as though entreating some one, like a
frightened child. “Mercy! to me... to that room... he
will see .. . oh, dear!”

She was not capable at that instant of noticing an unknown
gentleman who was watching her and following at her heels.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 247

He had accompanied her from the gateway. At the moment
when Razumihin, Raskolnikov, and she stood still at parting
on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing,
started on hearing Sonia’s words: “and I asked where Mr.
Raskolnikov lived?” He turned a rapid but attentive look
upon all three, especially upon Raskolnikov, to whom Sonia
was speaking; then looked back and noted the house. All
this was done in an instant as he passed, and trying not to
betray his interest, he walked on more slowly as though wait-
ing for something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that
they were parting, and that Sonia was going home.

“Home? Where? I’ve seen that face somewhere,’ he
thought. “I must find out.”

At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw
Sonia coming the same way, noticing nothing. She turned
the corner. He followed her on the other side. After about
fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her and kept
two or three yards behind her.

He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with
broad high shoulders which made him look as though he
stooped a little. He wore good and fashionable clothes,
and looked like a gentleman of position. He carried a
handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement at each
step; his gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather
pleasant face with high cheek-bones and a fresh colour, not
often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen hair was still abun-
dant, and only touched here and there with grey, and his
thick square beard was even lighter than his hair. His
eyes were blue and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips
were crimson. He was a remarkably well-preserved man
and looked much younger than his years,

When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the
only two persons on the pavement. He observed her dreami-
ness and preoccupation. On reaching the house where she
lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed her, seeming
rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right
corner. “Bah!” muttered the unknown gentleman, and
mounted the stairs behind her. Only then Sonia noticed him.
She reached the third storey, turned down the passage, and
rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed in chalk, “Kaper.

248 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

naumov, Tailor.” “Bah!” the stranger repeated again,
wondering at the strange coincidence, and he rang next door,
at No. 8. The doors were two or three yards apart.

“You lodge at Kapernaumov’s,” he said, looking at Sonia
and laughing. “He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday.
I am staying close here at Madame Resslich’s. How odd!”
Sonia looked at him attentively.

“We are neighbours,” he went on gaily. “I only came
to town the day before yesterday. Good-bye for the present.”

Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in,
She felt for some reason ashamed and uneasy.

On the way to Porfiry’s, Razumihin was obviously ex-
cited.

“That’s capital, brother,” he repeated several times, “and
I am glad! I am glad!”

“What are you glad about?” Raskolnikov thought to
himself.

“T didn’t know that you pledged things at that old woman’s,
too. And... and was it long ago? I mean, was it long
since you were there?”

“What a simple-hearted fool he is!”

“When was it?” Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect.
“Two or three days before her death it must have been. But
I am not going to redeem the things now,” he put in with a
sort of hurried and conspicuous solicitude about the things.
“T’ve not more than a silver rouble left . . . after last night’s
accursed delirium!’

He laid special emphasis on the delirium.

“Yes, yes,’ Razumihin hastened to agree—with what was
not clear. “Then that’s why you... were struck...
partly . . . you know in your delirium you were continually
mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes... that’s clear,
it’s all clear now.”

“Hullo! How that idea must have got about among
them. Here this man will go to the stake for me, and I find
him delighted at having it cleared up why I spoke of rings
in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have on all of
them !”

“Shall we find him?” he asked suddenly.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 249

“Oh, yes,” Razumihin answered quickly. “He is a nice
fellow, you will see, brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say,
he is a man of polished manners, but I mean clumsy in a
different sense. He is an intelligent fellow, very much so
indeed, but he has his own range of ideas. . . . He is incred-
ulous, sceptical, cynical . . . he likes to impose on people, or
rather to make fun of them. His is the old, circumstantial
method.... But he understands his work... thor-
oughly. ... Last year he cleared up a case of murder in
which the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very anxious
to make your acquaintance !”

“On what grounds is he so anxious?”

“Oh, it’s not exactly ... you see, since you’ve been ill
I happen to have mentioned you several times. . . . So, when
he heard about you... about your being a law student and
not able to finish your studies, he said, ‘What a pity!’ And
so I concluded . . . from everything together, not only that;
yesterday Zametov ...you know, Rodya, I talked some
nonsense on the way home to you yesterday, when I was
drunk ...I am afraid, brother, of your exaggerating it,
you see.”

-“What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they
are right,” he said with a constrained smile.

“Yes, yes. ... That is, pooh; no! ... But all that I said
(and there was something else too) it was all nonsense,
drunken nonsense.”

“But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!”
Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritability. It was
partly assumed, however.

“IT know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I under-
stand. One’s ashamed to speak of it.”

“If you are ashamed, then don’t speak of it.”

Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and
Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed,
too, by what Razumihin had just, said about Porfiry.

“T shall have to pull a long face with him too,” he thought,
with a beating heart, and he turned white, “and do it nat-
urally, too. But the most natural thing would be to do noth-
ing at all. Carefully do nothing at all! No, carefully would
not be natural again. . . . Oh, well, we shall see how it turns

250 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

out. ... We shall see... directly. Is it a good thing to
go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is
beating, that’s what’s bad!”

“In this grey house,” said Razumihin.

“The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was
at the old hag’s flat yesterday ...and asked about the
blood? I must find that out instantly, as soon as I go in,
find out from his face; otherwise .. . I'll find out, if it’s my
ruin.”

“I say, brother,” he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin,
with a sly smile, “I have been noticing all day that you seem
to be curiously excited. Isn’t it so?”

“Excited? Not a bit of it,’ said Razumihin, stung to
the quick.

“Yes, brother, I assure you it’s noticeable. Why, you sat
on your chair in a way you never, do sit, on the edge some-
how, and you seemed to be writhing all the time. You kept
jumping up for nothing. One moment you were angry, and
the next your face looked like a sweetmeat. You even
blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you
blushed awfully.”

“Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?”

“But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy?
By Jove, there he’s blushing again.”

- “What a pig you are!’

“But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay,
I’ll tell of you to-day. Ha-ha-ha! Tll make mother laugh,
and some one else, too .. .”

“Listen, listen, listen, this is serious... . What next, you
fiend!” Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold
with horror. “What will you tell them? Come, brother...
foo, what a pig you are!”

“You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew
how it suits you; a Romeo over six foot high! And how
you’ve washed to-day—you cleaned your nails, I declare,
Eh? That’s something unheard of! Why, I do believe
you’ve got pomatum on your hair! Bend down.”

“Pig Wy

Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain him-
self. So laughing, they entered Porfiry Petrovitch’s flat.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 251

This is what Raskolnikov wanted: from within they could
be heard laughing as they came in, still guffawing in the
passage.

“Not a word here or I'll... brain you!” Razumihin
whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

CHAPTER V

ASKOLNIKOV was already entering the room. He
came in looking as though he had the utmost difficulty
not to burst out laughing again. Behind him Razumi-

hin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as
a peony, with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression.
His face and whole figure really were ridiculous at that,
moment and amply justified Raskolnikov’s laughter. Raskolni-
kov, not waiting for an introduction, bowed to Porfiry Petro-
vitch, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquir-
ingly at them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still
appatrently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and
utter a few words to introduce himself. But he had no
sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and muttering
something when he suddenly glanced again as though acci-
dentally at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself:
his stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more
he tried to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with
which Razumihin received this “spontaneous” mirth gave the
whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and natural-
ness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on
purpose.

“Fool! You fiend,’ he roared, waving his arm which at
once struck a little round table with an empty tea-glass on
it. Everything was sent flying and crashing.

“But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it’s a loss
to the Crown,” Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily.

Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry
Petrovitch’s, but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right
moment to put a natural end to it. Razumihin, completely
put to confusion by upsetting the table and smashing the
glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned
sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his
back to the company with a fiercely scowling countenance,
seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovitch laughed and was ready

252

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 253

to go on laughing, but obviously looked for explanations.
Zametov had been sitting in the corner, but he rose at the
visitors’ entrance, and was standing in expectation with a
smile on his lips, though he looked with surprise and even
it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at Raskolnikov
with a certain embarrassment. Zametov’s unexpected pres-
ence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.

“I’ve got to think of that,’ he thought. “Excuse me,
please,” he began, affecting extreme embarrassment. “Ras-
kolnikov.”

“Not at all, very pleasant to see you ... and how pleas-
antly you’ve come in. ... Why, won't he even say good-
morning?” Porfiry Petrovitch nodded at Razumihin.

“Upon my honour I don’t know why he is in such a rage
with me. I only told him as we came along that he was
like Romeo ... and proved it. And that was all, I think!”

“Pig!” ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round.

“There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he
is so furious at the word,” Porfiry laughed.

“Oh, you sharp lawyer! ... Damn you all!’ snapped
Razumihin, and suddenly bursting out laughing himself, he
went up to Porfiry with a more cheerful face as though noth-
ing had happened. “That'll do! We are all fools. To come
to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Ras-
kolnikov; in the first place he has heard of you and wants
to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little mat-
ter of business with you. Bah! Zametov, what brought you
here? Have you met before? Have you known each other
long ?””

“What does this mean?” thought Raskolnikov uneasily.

Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so.

“Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday,” he said
easily.

“Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he
was begging me to introduce him to you. Porfiry and you
have sniffed each other out without me. Where is your
tobacco?”

Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very
clean linen, and trodden-down slippers. He was a man of
about five and thirty, short, stout even to corpulence, and

O54 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had a large
round head, particularly prominent at the back. His soft,
round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish
colour, but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It
would have been good-natured, except for a look in the eyes,
which shone with a watery, mawkish light under almost white
blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was
strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure,
and gave it something far more serious than could be
guessed at first sight.

As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a
little matter of business with him, he begged him.to sit down
on the sofa and sat down himself on the other end, waiting
for him to explain his business, with that careful and over-
serious attention which is at once oppressive and embarrass-
ing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are
discussing is in your own opinion of far too little importance
for such exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent
phrases Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and
exactly, and was so well satisfied with himself that he even
succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry. Porfiry Petro-
vitch did not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin, sitting
opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently,
looking from one to the other every moment with rather
excessive interest.

“Fool,” Raskolnikov swore to himself.

“You have to give information to the police,” Porfiry
replied, with a most businesslike air, “that having learnt
of this incident, that is of the murder, you beg to inform
the lawyer in charge of the case that such and such
things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem
them ...or... but they will write to you.”

“That’s just the point, that at the present moment,”
Raskolnikov tried his utmost to feign embarrassment, “I
am not quite in funds... and even this trifling sum is
beyond me...I only wanted, you see, for the present to
declare that the things are mine, and that when I have
ftioney.'4° 5.”

“That’s no matter,” answered Porfiry Petrovitch, receiv-
ing his explanation of his pecuniary position coldly, “but

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 255

you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say, that
having been informed of the matter, and claiming such and
such as your property, you beg...”

“On an ordinaty sheet of paper?” Raskolnikov inter-
rupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of the
question. ;

“Oh, the most ordinary,” and suddenly Porfiry Petrovitch
looked with obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and
as it were winking at him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov’s
fancy, for it all lasted but a moment. There was certainly
something of the sort, Raskolnikov could have sworn he
winked at him, goodness knows why.

“He knows,” flashed through his mind like lightning.

“Forgive my troubling you about such trifles,” he went
on, a little disconcerted, “the things are only worth five
roubles, but I prize them particularly for the sake of those
from whom they came to me, and I must confess that I
was alarmed when I heard...”

“That’s why you were so much struck when I mentioned
to Zossimov that Porfiry was inquiring for every one who
had pledges!” Razumihin put in with obvious intention.

This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help
glancing at him with a flash of vindictive anger in his black
eyes, but immediately recollected himself.

“You seem to be jeering at me, brother?” he said to him,
with a well-feigned irritability. “I dare say I do seem to
you absurdly anxious about such trash; but you mustn’t —
think me selfish or grasping for that, and these two things
may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just now
that the silver watch, though it’s not worth a cent, is the
only thing left us of my father’s. You may laugh at me,
but my mother is here,” he turned suddenly to Porfiry, “and
if she knew,” he turned again hurriedly to Razumihin, care-
fully making his voice tremble, “that the watch was lost,
she would be in despair! You know what women are!”

“Not a bit of it! I didn’t mean that at all! Quite the
contrary!” shouted Razumihin distressed.

“Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?”
Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. “Why did I say
that about women?”

256 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Oh, your mother is with you?” Porfiry Petrovitch
inquired.

“Ves **

“When did she come?”

“Last night.”

Parfiry paused as though reflecting.

“Your things would not in any case be lost,’ he went on
calmly and coldly. “I have been expecting you here for
some time.”

And as though that was a matter of no importance, he
carefully offered the ash-tray to Razumihin, who was ruth-
lessly scattering cigarette ash over the carpet. Raskolniko
shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be looking at him,
and was still concerned with Razumihin’s cigarette.

“What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he
had pledges there?” cried Razumihin.

Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov.

“Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up
together, and on the paper your name was legibly written
in pencil, together with the date on which you left them
with her... .”

“How observant you are!” Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly,

doing his very utmost to look him straight in the face, but
he failed, and suddenly added:
_ “T say that because I suppose there were a great many
pledges ...so that it must be difficult to remember
them all.... But you remember them all so clearly,
BN! 6s si OM ee,

“Stupid! Feeble!” he thought. “Why did I add that?”

“But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only
one who hasn’t come forward,’ Porfiry answered with
hardly perceptible irony.

“T haven’t been quite well.”

“T heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in
great distress about something. You look pale still.”

“T am not pale at all....No, I am quite well,”
Raskolnikov snapped out rudely and angrily, completely
changing his tone. His anger was mounting, he could not
repress it. “And in my anger I shall betray myself,” flashed
through his mind again. “Why are they torturing me?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 257

“Not quite well!” Razumihin caught him up. “What
next! He was unconscious and delirious till yesterday.
Would you believe, Porfiry, as soon as our backs were
turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave
us the slip and went off on the spree somewhere till mid-
night, delirious all the time! Would you believe it!
Extraordinary !”

“Really delirious? You don’t say so!” Porfiry shook
his head in a womanish way.

“Nonsense! Don’t you believe it! But you don’t believe
it anyway,” Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry
Petrovitch did not seem to catch those strange words.

“But how could you have gone out if you hadn’t been
delirious?” Razumihin got hot suddenly. “What did you
go out for? What was the object of it? And why on the.
sly? Were you in your senses when you did it? Now that
all danger is over I can speak plainly.”

“I was awfully sick of them yesterday.” Raskolnikov
addressed Porfiry suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance,
“T ran away from them to take lodgings where they wouldn’t
find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr. Zametov
there saw it. I say, Mr. Zametov, was I sensible or delirious
yesterday; settle our dispute.”

He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hate-
ful were his expression and his silence to him.

“In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully,
but you were extremely irritable,’ Zametov pronounced
drily.”

“And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to-day,” put in
'Porfiry Petrovitch, “that he met you very late last night
in the lodging of a man who had been run over.”

“And there,” said Razumihin, “weren’t you mad then?
You gave your last penny to the widow for the funeral. If
you wanted to help, give fifteen or twenty even, but keep
three roubles for yourself at least, but he flung away all
the twenty-five at once!”

“Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know
nothing of it? So that’s why I was liberal yesterday. ...
Mr. Zametov knows I’ve found a treasure! Excuse us,
please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such

258 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

trivialities,’ he said turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with
trembling lips. “We are boring you, aren’t we?”

“Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only
you knew how you interest me! It’s interesting to look on
and listen ,.. and I am really glad you have come forward
at last.”

“But you might give us some tea! My throat’s dry,”
cried Razumihin. |

“Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company.
Wouldn’t you like... something more essential before
tea?”

“Get along with you!” .

Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea. ,

Raskolnikov’s thoughts were in a whirl. He was in
terrible exasperation,

“The worst of it is they don’t disguise it; they don’t care
to stand on ceremony! And how if you didn’t know me at
all, did you come to talk to Nikodim Fomitch about me?
So they don’t care to hide that they are tracking me like a
pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face.” He was
shaking with rage. “Come, strike me openly, don’t play
with me like a cat with a mouse. It’s hardly civil, Porfiry
Petrovitch, but perhaps I won’t allow it! I shall get up
and throw the whole truth in your ugly faces, and you'll
see how I despise you.” He could hardly breathe. “And
what if it’s only my fancy? What if i am mistaken, and
through inexperience I get angry and don’t keep up my
nasty part? Perhaps it’s all unintentional. All their phrases
are the usual ones, but there is something about them. ...
It all might be said, but there is something. Why did he
say bluntly, ‘With her’? Why did Zametov add that I
spoke artfully? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes, the
tone. ... Razumihin is sitting here, why does he see
nothing? That innocent blockhead never does see anything!
Feverish again! Did Porfiry wink at me just now? Of
course it’s nonsense! What could he wink for? Are they
trying to upset my nerves or are they teasing me? Either
it’s all fancy or they know! Even Zametov is rude. ... Is
Zametov rude? Zametov has changed his mind. I foresaw
he would change his mind! He is at home here, while it’s

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 259

my first visit. Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits
with his back to him. They’re as thick as thieves, no doubt,
over me! Not a doubt they were talking about me before
we came. Do they know about the flat? If only they’d
make haste! When I said that I ran away to take a flat
he let it pass... . I put that in cleverly about a flat, it may
be of use afterwards. ... Delirious, indeed ... ha-ha-ha!
He knows all about last night! He didn’t know of my
mother’s arrival! The hag had written the date on in
pencil! You are wrong, you won’t catch me! There are
no facts ... it’s all supposition! You produce facts! The
flat even isn’t a fact but delirium. I know what to say to
them. . . . Do they know about the flat? I won’t go with-
out finding out. What did I come for? But my being
angry now, maybe is a fact! Fool, how irritable I am!
Perhaps that’s right; to play the invalid.... He is feeling
me. He will try to catch me. Why did I come?”

All this flashed like lightning through his mind.

Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly
more jovial.

“Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head
rather. .-. . And I am out of sorts altogether,” he began in
quite a different tone, laughing to Razumihin,

“Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most
interesting point. Who got the best of it?”

“Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting ques-
tions, floated off into space.”

“Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday.
Whether there is such a thing as crime. I told you that we
talked our heads off.”

“What is there strange? It’s an everyday social question,”
Raskolnikov answered casually.

: “The question wasn’t put quite like that,” observed Por-
ry.

“Not quite, that’s true,’ Razumihin agreed at once,
getting warm and hurried as usual. “Listen, Rodion, and
tell us your opinion, I want to hear it. I was fighting tooth
and nail with them and wanted you to help me. I told
them you were coming. ...It began with the socialist
doctrine. You know their doctrine; crime is a protest

’

260 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

against the abnormality of the social organisation and
nothing more, and nothing more; no other causes
admitted! .. .”

“You are wrong there,” cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was
noticeably animated and kept laughing as he looked at
Razumihin, which made him more excited than ever.

“Nothing is admitted,” Razumihin interrupted with heat.
“T am not wrong. I'll show you their pamphlets. Every-
thing with them is ‘the influence of environment,’ and
nothing else. Their favourite phrase! From which it
follows that, if society is normally organised, all crime
will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest
against and all men will become righteous in one instant.
Human nature is not taken into account, it is excluded, it’s
not supposed to exist! They don’t recognise that humanity,
developing by a historical living process, will become at last
a normal society, but they believe that a social system that
has come out of some mathematical brain is. going to
organise all humanity at once and make it just and sinless
in an instant, quicker than any living process! That’s why
they instinctively dislike history, ‘nothing but ugliness and
stupidity in it,’ and they explain it all as stupidity! That’s
why they so dislike the living process of life; they don’t
want a living soul! The living soul demands life, the soul
won’t obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of
suspicion, the soul is retrograde! But what they want
though it smells of death and can be made of india-rubber,
at least is not alive, has no will, is servile and won’t revolt!
And it comes in the end to their reducing everything to the
building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages
in a phalanstery! The phalanstery is ready, indeed, but
your human nature is not ready for the phalanstery—it
wants life, it hasn’t completed its vital process, it’s too soon ©
for the graveyard! You can’t skip over nature by logic.
Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions!
Cut away a million, and reduce it all to the question of
comfort! That’s the easiest solution of the problem! It’s
seductively clear and you mustn’t think about it. That’s
the great thing, you mustn’t think! The whole secret of
life in two pages of print!”

b

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 261,

“Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him,
do!” laughed Porfiry. “Can you imagine,” he turned to
Raskolnikov, “six people holding forth like that last night,
in one room, with punch as a preliminary! No, brother,
you are wrong, environment accounts for a great deal in
crime; I can assure you of that.”

“Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty
violates a child of ten; was it environment drove him
to it?”

“Well, strictly speaking, it did,’ Porfiry observed with
noteworthy gravity; “a crime of that nature may be very
well ascribed to the influence of environment.”

Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. “Oh, if you like,” he
roared, “I’ll prove to you that your white eyelashes may very
well be ascribed to the Church of Ivan the Great’s being two
hundred and fifty feet high, and I will prove it clearly,
exactly, progressively, and even with a Liberal tendency!
I undertake to! Will you bet on it?”

“Done! Let’s hear, please, how he will prove it!”

“He is always humbugging, confound him,” cried Razu-
mihin, jumping up and gesticulating. ‘What’s the use of
talking to you! He does all that on purpose; you don’t know
him, Rodion! He took their side yesterday, simply to make
fools of them. And the things he said yesterday! And they
were delighted! He can keep it up for a fortnight together.
Last year he persuaded us that he was going into a monas-
tery: he stuck to it for two months. Not long ago he took
it into his head to declare he was going to get married, that
he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new
clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There
was no bride, nothing, all pure fantasy !”

“Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the
new clothes in fact that made me think of taking you in.”

“Are you such a good dissembler?” Raskolnikov asked
carelessly.

“You wouldn’t have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall
take you in, too. Ha-ha-ha! No, I'll tell you the truth. All
these questions about crime, environment, children, recall to
my mind an article of yours which interested me at the time.
‘On Crime .. . or something of the sort, I forget the title,

262 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

I read it with pleasure two months ago in the Periodical
Review.”

“My article? In the Periodical Review?” Raskolnikov
asked in astonishment. “I certainly did write an article upon
a book six months ago when I left the university, but I sent
it to the Weekly Review.”

“But it came out in the Periodical.”

“And the Weekly Review ceased to exist, so that’s why it
wasn’t printed at the time.”

“That’s true; but when it ceased to exist, the Weekly Re-
view was amalgamated with the Periodical, and so your
article appeared two months ago in the latter. Didn’t you
know ?” y

Raskolnikov had not known.

“Why, you might get some money out of them for the
article! What a strange person you are! You lead such a
solitary life that you know nothing of matters that concern
you directly. It’s a fact, I assure you.”

“Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!” cried
Razumihin. “I'll run to-day to the reading-room and ask
for the number. Two months ago? What was the date?
It doesn’t matter though, I will find it. Think of not telling
us !”

“How did you find out that the article was mine? It’s
only signed with an initial.”

“I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the
editor; I know him. ... 1 was very much interested.”

“T analysed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal
before and after the crime.”

“Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime
is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but
... it was not that part of your article that interested me
so much, but an idea at the end of the article which I regret
to say you merely suggested without working it out clearly.
There is, if you recollect, a suggestion that there are certain
persons who can... that is, not precisely are able to, but
have a perfect right to commit breaches of morality and
crimes, and that the law is not for them.”

Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional dise
tortion of his idea.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 268

“What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not
because of the influence of environment?” Razumihin in-
quired with some alarm even.

“No, not exactly because of it,” answered Porfiry. “In his
article all men are divided into ‘ordinary’ and ‘extraordinary.’
Ordinary men have to live in submission, have no right to
transgress the law, because, don’t you see, they are ordinary.
But extraordinary men have a right to commit any crime
and to transgress the law in any way, just because they are
extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken?”

“What do you mean? That can’t be right?” Razumihin
muttered in bewilderment.

Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and
knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take
up the challenge.

“That wasn’t quite my contention,” he began simply and
modestly. “Yet I admit that you have stated it almost cor-
rectly; perhaps, if you like, perfectly so.” (It almost gave
him pleasure to admit this.) “The only difference is that I
don’t contend that extraordinary people are always bound to
commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt
whether such an argument could be published. I simply
hinted that an ‘extraordinary’ man has the right .. . that is
not an official right, but an inner right to decide in his own
conscience to overstep ... certain obstacles, and only in
case it is essential for the practical fulfilment of his idea
(sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity).
You say that my article isn’t definite; I am ready to make
it as clear as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you
want me to; very well. I maintain that if the discoveries of
Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except
by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more
men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have
been in duty bound ... to eliminate the dozen or the hun-
dred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to
the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that that
Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to
steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I maintain
in my article that all ... well, legislators and leaders of
men, such as Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so

264 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact
that, making a new law they transgressed the ancient one,
handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the
people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that
bloodshed—often of innocent persons fighting bravely in
defence of ancient law—were of use to their cause. It’s
remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these bene-
factors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible
carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men or even
men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of
giving some new word, must from their very nature be
criminals—more or less, of course. Otherwise it’s hard for
them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the
common rut is what they can’t submit to, from their very
nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to sub-
mit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in
all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thou-
sand times before. As for my division of people into
ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it’s some-
what arbitrary, but I don’t insist upon exact numbers. I only
believe in my leading idea that men are in general divided
by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), .
that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its
kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter a new
‘word. ‘There are, of course, innumerable sub-divisions, but
the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well
marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men con-
servative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under
control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their
duty to be controlled, because that’s their vocation, and
there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second
category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or dis-
posed to destruction according to their capacities. The
crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for
the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction
of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one
is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or
wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself,
in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood—that
depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It’s only in

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 265

that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you
remember it began with the legal question). There’s no
need for much anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely
ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more
or less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative
vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a
pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or
less). The first category is always the man of the present,
the second the man of the future. The first preserve the
world and people it, the second move the world and lead it
to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In
fact, all have equal rights with me—and vive la guerre éier-
nelle—till the New Jerusalem, of course!”

“Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?”

“T do,” Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these
words and during the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes
on one spot on the carpet.

“And...and do you believe in God? Excuse my
curiosity.”

“I do,’ repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry.

And ...do you believe in Lazarus’ rising from the
dead ?” |

“IT ...I1 do. Why do you ask all this?”

“You believe it literally?”

“Literally.”

“You don’t say so.... 1 asked from curiosity. Excuse
me. But let us go back to the question; they are not always
executed. Some, on the contrary ...”

“Triumph in their lifetime? Oh yes, some attain their
ends in this life, and then. . .”

“They begin executing other people?”

“Tf it’s necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your
remark is very witty.”

“Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish
those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are
there signs at their birth! I feel there ought to be more
exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural
anxiety of a practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn’t they
adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn’t they wear
something, be branded in some way? For you know if con-

Io—R

266 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

fusion arises and a member of one category imagines that
he belongs to the other, begins to ‘eliminate obstacles’ as you
so happily expressed it, then .. .”

“Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than
the other.”

“Thank you.”

“No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only
arise in the first category, that is among the ordinary people
(as I perhaps unfortunately called them). In spite of their
predisposition to obedience very many of them, through a
playfulness of nature, sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow,
like to imagine themselves advanced people, ‘destroyers,’ and
to push themselves into the ‘new movement,’ and this quite
sincerely. Meanwhile the really new people are very often un-
observed by them, or even despised as reactionaries of grovel-
ling tendencies. But 1 don’t think there is any considerable
danger here, and you really need not be uneasy for they
never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing
sometimes for letting their fancy run away with them and to
teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even this isn’t
necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very
conscientious: some perform this service for one another
and others chastise themselves with their own hands....
They will impose various public acts of penitence upon
themselves with a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact you’ve
nothing to be uneasy about. .. . It’s a law of nature.”

“Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that
score; but there’s another thing worries me. Tell me, please,
are there many people who have the right to kill others, these
extraordinary people? I am ready to bow down to them, of
course, but you must admit it’s alarming if there are a great
many of them, eh?”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that either,” Raskolnikov
went on in the same tone. “People with new ideas, people
with the faintest capacity for saying something new, are
extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. One
thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades
and subdivisions of men must follow with unfailing regu-
larity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown
at present, but I am convinced that it exists, and one day

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 267

may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere
material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by
some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races
and stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man
out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in
ten thousand perhaps—I speak roughly, approximately—is
born with some independence, and with still greater inde-
pendence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is
one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of human-
ity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions.
In fact I have not peeped into the retort in which all this
takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite
law, it cannot be a matter of chance.”

“Why, are you both joking?” Razumihin cried at last.
“There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you serious,
Rodya?”

Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and
made no reply. And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous,
and discourteous sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange to Razu-
mihin beside that quiet and mournful face.

“Well, brother, if you are really serious... You are
right, of course, in saying that it’s not new, that it’s like
what we've read and heard a thousand times already; but
what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your
own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed in the name
of conscience, and, excuse my saying so, with such fanati-
cism. ... That, I take it, is the point of your article. But
that sanction of bloodshed by conscience is to my mind...
more terrible than the official, legal sanction of blood-
Ps aN ee

“You are quite right, it is more terrible,’ Porfiry agreed.

“Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake.
I shall read it. You can’t think that! I shall read it.”

“All that is not in the article, there’s only a hint of it,”
said Raskolnikov.

“Yes, yes.” Porfiry couldn’t sit still. “Your attitude to
crime is pretty clear to me now, but . . . excuse me for my
impertinence (I am really ashamed to be worrying you like
this), you see, you’ve removed my anxiety as to the two
grades’ getting mixed, but ... there are various practical

268 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

possibilities that make me uneasy! What if some man or
youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahomet—a future
one, of course—and suppose he begins to remove all ob-
stacles. ... He has some great enterprise before him and
needs money for it . . . and tries to get it .. . do you see?”

Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov
did not even raise his eyes to him.

“T must admit,” he went on calmly, “that such cases cer-
tainly must arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt
to fall into that snare; young people especially.”

“Yes, you see. Well then?”

“What then?” Raskolnikov smiled in reply; “that’s not my
fault. So it is and so it always will be. He said just now
(he nodded at Razumihin) that I sanction bloodshed. Society
is too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investi-
gators, penal servitude.. There’s no need to be uneasy. You
have but to catch the thief.”

“And what if we do catch him?”

“Then he gets what he deserves.”

“You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?”

“Why do you care about that?”

“Simply from humanity.”

“If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake.
That will be his punishment—as well as the prison.”

“But the real geniuses,” asked Razumihin frowning, “those
who have the right to murder? Oughtn’t they to suffer at
all even for the blood they’ve shed?”

“Why the word ought? It’s not a matter of permission or
prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim.
Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelli-
gence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think,
have great sadness on earth,” he added dreamily, not in the
tone of the conversation.

He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled,
and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison with
his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Every one
got up. |

“Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like,”
Porfiry Petrovitch began again, “but I can’t resist. Allow me
one little question (I know I am troubling you). There is

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 269

just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may
not forget it.”

“Very good, tell me your little notion,” Raskolnikov stood
waiting, pale and grave before him.

“Well, you see .. . I really don’t know how to express it
properly. ... It’s a playful, psychological idea... . When
you were writing your article, surely you couldn’t have
helped, he-he, fancying yourself ... just a little, an ‘ex-
traordinary’ man, uttering a new word in your sense... .
That’s so, isn’t it?”

“Quite possibly,” Raskolnikov answered contemptuously.

Razumihin made a movement.

“And if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly
difficulties and hardship or for some service to human-
ity—to overstep obstacles? ... For instance, to rob and
murder ?”

And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noise-
lessly just as before.

“Tf I did I certainly should not tell you,” Raskolnikov
answered with defiant and haughty contempt.

“No, I was only interested on account of your article, from
a literary point of view... .”

“Foo, how obvious and insolent that is,
thought with repulsion.

“Allow me to observe,” he answered dryly, “that I don’t
consider myself a Mahomet or a Napoleon, nor any person-
age of that kind, and not being one of them I cannot tell
you how I should act.”

“Oh come, don’t we all think ourselves Napoleons now in
Russia?” Porfiry Petrovitch said with alarming familiarity.

Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation
of his voice.

“Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for
Alyona Ivanovna last week?” Zametov blurted out from
the corner.

Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently
at Porfiry. Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed
before this to be noticing something. He looked angrily
around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov
turned to go.

99

Raskolnikov

270 : FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Are you going already?” Porfiry said amiably, holding
out his hand with excessive politeness. “Very, very glad
of your acquaintance. As for your request, have no uneasi-
ness, write just as I told you, or, better still, come to me
there yourself in a day or two... to-morrow, indeed. I
shall be there at eleven o'clock for certain. We'll arrange
it all; we'll have a talk. As one of the last to be there, you
might perhaps be able to tell us something,” he added with a
most good-natured expression.

“You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?”
Raskolnikov asked sharply.

“Oh, why? ‘That’s not necessary for the present. You
misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and...
I’ve talked with all who had pledges. . . . I obtained evidence
from some of them, and you are the last.... Yes, by the
way,” he cried, seeming suddenly delighted, “I just remem-
ber, what was I thinking of?” he turned to Razumihin, “you
were talking my ears off about that Nikolay ... of course,
I know, I know very well,” he turned to Raskolnikov, “that
the fellow is innocent, but what is one to do? We had to
trouble Dmitri too. ... This is the point, this is all: when
you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn’t it ?”

“Yes,” answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensa-
tion at the very moment he spoke that he need not have
said it.

“Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight,
didn’t you see in a flat that stood open on a second storey,
do you remember, two workmen or at least one of them?
They were painting there, didn’t you notice them? It’s very,
very important for them.”

“Painters? No, I didn’t see them,” Raskolnikov answered
slowly, as though ransacking his memory, while at the same
instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning with
anxiety to conjecture as quickly as possible where the trap
lay and not to overlook anything. “No, I didn’t see them,
and I don’t think I noticed a flat like that open... . But
on the fourth storey” (he had mastered the trap now and
was triumphant) “I remember now that some one was mov-
ing out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovna’s. ... I remem-
ber ... I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT Q71

out a sofa and they squeezed me against the wall. But
painters ...no, I don’t remember that there were any
painters, and I don’t think that there was a flat open any-
where, no there wasn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Razumihin shouted suddenly, as
though he had reflected and realised. “Why, it was on the
day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was
there three days before? What are you asking?”

“Foo! I have muddled it!” Porfiry slapped himself on
the forehead. “Deuce take it! This business is turning my
brain!” he addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically.
“Tt would be such a great thing for us to find out whether
any one had seen them between seven and eight at the flat,
so I fancied you could perhaps have told us something. ...
I quite muddled it.”

“Then you should be more careful,” Razumihin observed
grimly.

The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry
Petrovitch saw them to the door with excessive politeness.

They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for
some steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a
deep breath.

CHAPTER VI

= DON’T believe it, I can’t believe it!” repeated Razu-
| mihin, trying in perplexity to refute Kaskolnikov’s
arguments.

They were by now approaching Bakaleyev’s lodgings
where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expect-
ing them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the way
in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very
fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about
it.

“Don’t believe it, then!” answered Raskolnikov, with a
cold, careless smile. “You were noticing nothing as usual,
but I was weighing every word.”

“You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their
words... h’m... certainly, I agree, Porfiry’s tone was
rather strange, and still more that wretch Zametov!...
You are right, there was something about him—but why?
Why?”

“He has changed his mind since last night.”

“Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they
would do their utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so
as to catch you afterwards. ... But it was all impudent
and careless.”

“Tf they had had facts—I mean, real facts—or at least
grounds for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried
to hide their game, in the hope of getting more (they would
have made a search long ago besides). But they have no
facts, not one. It is all mirage—all ambiguous. Simply a
floating idea. So they try to throw me out by impudence.
And perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted
it out in his vexation—or perhaps he has some plan ... he
seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten —
me by pretending to know. They have a psychology of
their own, brother. But it is loathsome explaining it all.
Stop !”

272

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 273

“And it’s insulting, insulting! I understand you. But...
since we have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent
thing that we have at last—I am glad) I will own now
frankly that I noticed it in them long ago, this idea. Of
course the merest hint only—an insinuation—but why an
insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have
they? If only you knew how furious I have been. Think
only! Simply because a poor student, unhinged by poverty
and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness
(note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul
to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without
soles, has to face some wretched policemen and put up with
their insolence; and the unexpected debt thrust under his
nose, the 1.0. U. presented by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty
degrees Reaumur and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of peo-
ple, the talk about the murder of a person: where he had
been just before, and all that on an empty stomach—he might
well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they found
it all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is,
but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at them, or better
still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all
directions. I’d hit out in all directions, neatly too, and so I’d
put an end to it. Damn them! Don’t be downhearted. It’s
a shame!”

“He really has put it well, though,” Raskolnikov thought.

“Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-
morrow?” he said with bitterness. “Must I really enter
into explanations with them? I feel vexed as it is, that I
condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in the restau-
py

“Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry, I will squeeze it out
of him, as one of the family: he must let me know the ins
and outs of it all! And as for Zametov .. .”

“At last he sees through him!” thought Raskolnikov.

“Stay!” cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder
again. “Stay! you were wrong. I have thought it out. You
are wrong! How was that a trap? You say that the ques-
tion about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done
that, could you have said you had seen them painting the
flat... and the workmen? On the contrary, you would

Q74 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would own
it against himself?”

“If I had done that thing, I should certainly have said that
I had seen the workmen and the flat,’ Raskolnikov answered,
with reluctance and obvious disgust.

“But why speak against yourself?”

“Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices
deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so
little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to ad-
mit all the external facts that can’t be avoided, but will seek
other explanations of them, will introduce some special, un-
expected turn, that will give them another significance and,
put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon that
I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to
give an air of truth, and then make some explanation.”

“But he would have told you at once, that the workmen
could not have been there two days before, and that there-
fore you must have been there on the day of the murder at
eight o'clock. And so he would have caught you over a
detail.”

“Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not
have time to reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the
most likely answer, and so would forget that the workmen
could not have been there two days before.”

“But how could you forget it?”

“Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever
people are most easily caught. The more cunning a man is,
the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing.
The more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be
caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you think. .. .”

“He is a knave then, if that is so!”

Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very
moment, he was struck by the strangeness of his own frank-
ness, and the eagerness with which he had made this explana-
tion, though he had kept up all the preceding conversation
with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive, from
necessity.

“T am getting a relish for certain aspects!” he thought to
himself. But almost at the same instant, he became suddenly
uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 275

occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on increasing. They
had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev’s.

“Go in alone!” said Raskolnikov suddenly. “I will be back
directly.”

“Where are you going? Why, we are just here.”

“I can’t help it... . 1 will come in half an hour. Tell
them.”

“Say what you like, I will come with you.”

“You, too, want to torture me!” he screamed, with such
bitter irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin’s
hands dropped. He stood for some time on the steps, look-
ing gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away in the
direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and
clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a
lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure
Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their
long absence.

When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with
sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up
the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fast-
ened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed to the
corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the
things; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully
in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding
nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reach-
ing the steps of Bakaleyev’s, he suddenly fancied that some-
thing, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they
had been wrapped with the old woman’s handwriting on it,
might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some
crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, con-
clusive evidence against him.

He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humili-
ated, half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his
cap at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were
all tangled. He went dreamily through the gateway.

“Here he is himself,” shouted a loud voice.

He raised his head.

The porter was standing at the door of his little room and
was pointing him out to a short man who looked like an
artisan, wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking

276 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

at a distance remarkably like a woman. He stooped, and
his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled
flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in
fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.

“What is it?” Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.

The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he
looked at him attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly
and went out of the gate into the street without saying a
word.

“What is it?” cried Raskolnikov.

“Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here,
mentioned your name and whom you lodged with. I saw
you coming and pointed you out and he went away. It’s
funny.”

The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so,
and after wondering for a moment he turned and went back
to his room.

Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught
sight of him walking along the other side of the street with
the same even, deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the
ground, as though in meditation. He soon overtook him, but
for some time walked behind him, At last, moving on to a
level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him
at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again;
and so they walked for a minute side by side without ut-
tering a word.

“You were inquiring for me ... of the porter?” Raskol-
nikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice.

The man made no answer; he didn’t even look at him.
Again they were both silent.

“Why do you...come and ask for me... and say
nothing. . . . What’s the meaning of it?”

Raskolnikov’s voice broke and he seemed unable to artic-
ulate the words clearly.

The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy
sinister look at Raskolnikov.

“Murderer!” he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and
distinct voice.

Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt
suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 277

heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began
throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for
about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.

The man did not look at him.

“What do you mean... what is.... Who is the
murderer?” muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly.

“You are a murderer,” the man answered still more artic-
ulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred.
and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov’s pale face and
stricken eyes.

They had just reached the cross roads. The man turned
to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov re-
mained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round
fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there.
Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was
again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph.

With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov
made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all
over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for
ten minutes he stood without moving. Then he sank ex-
hausted on the sofa and with a weak’ moan of pain he
stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour.

He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of
thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated
before his mind—faces of people he had seen in his child-
hood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have
recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table ina
restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of
cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room,
a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and
strewn with egg shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from
somewhere. ... The images followed one another, whirl-
ing like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to
clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an
oppression within him, but it was not overwhelming, some-
times it was even pleasant. ... The slight shivering still
persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation.

He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed
his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the
door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesi-

278 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

tating, then he stepped softly into the room and went cau-
tiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya’s whisper:

‘Don’t disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his din-
ner later.”

“Quite so,” answered Razumihin. Both withdrew care-
fully and closed the door. Another half-hour passed. Ras-
kolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping
his hands behind his head.

“Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the
earth? Where was he, what did he see? He has seen it all,
that’s clear. Where was he then? And from where did he
see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And,
how could he see? Is it possible? Hm...” continued
Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, “and the jewel
case Nikolay found behind the door—was that possible? A
clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it
into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it
possible?” He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how
physically weak he had become. “I ought to have known
it,’ he thought with a bitter smile. “And how dared JI,
knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe
and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand. ...
Ah, but I did know!” he whispered in despair. At times he
came to a standstill at some thought.

“No, those men are not made so. The real Master to
whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in
Paris, forgets an army in Egypt, wastes half a million men
in the Moscow expedition and gets off with a jest at Vilna.
And altars are set up to him after his death, and so all is
permitted. No, such people it seems are not of flesh but of
bronze !”

One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napo-
leon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old
woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed—it’s
a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they
digest it! It’s too inartistic. “A Napoleon creep under an
old woman’s bed! Ugh, how loathsome!”

At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state
of feverish excitement. “The old woman is of no conse-
quence,” he thought, hotly and incoherently. “The old

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 279

woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what matters!
The old woman was only an illness... . I was in a hurry
to overstep. ...I1 didn’t kill a human being, but a prin-
ciple! I killed the principle, but I didn’t overstep, I stopped
on this side. ...I was only capable of killing. And it
seems I wasn’t even capable of that... Principle? Why
was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They are
industrious, commercial people; ‘the happiness of all’ is their
case. No, life is only given to me once and I shall never
have it again; I don’t want to wait for ‘the happiness of
all.’ I want to live myself, or else better not live at all.
I simply couldn’t pass by my mother starving, keeping my
rouble in my pocket while I waited for the ‘happiness of
all” I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all
and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let
me slip! I only live once, I too want.... Ech, I am an
zesthetic louse and nothing more,” he added suddenly, laugh-
ing like a madman. “Yes, I am certainly a louse,” he
went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing
with it with vindictive pleasure. “In the first place, because
I can reason that I am one, and secondly, because for a
month past I have been troubling benevolent Providence,
calling it to witness that not for my own fleshly lusts did I
undertake it, but with a grand and noble object—ha-ha!
Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as
possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of ail the
lice I picked out the most useless one and proposed to take
from her only as much as I needed for the first step, no
more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery,
according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am
utterly a louse,” he added, grinding his teeth, “is that I
am perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I
killed, and J felt beforehand that I should tell myself so
after killing her. Can anything be compared with the hor-
ror of that! The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand
the ‘prophet’ with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands
and ‘trembling’ creation must obey! The ‘prophet’ is right,
he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows
up the innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain!
It’s for you to obey, trembling creation, and not to have

280 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

desires, for that’s not for you! ... I shall never forgive
the old woman!”

His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were
parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

“Mother, sister—how I loved them! Why do I hate them
now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I
can’t bear them near me. ... 1 went up to my mother and
kissed her, I remember. . . . To embrace her and think if
she only knew ... shall I tell her then? That’s just what
I might do....H’m. She must be the same as I am,”
he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling
with delirium. ‘Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I
feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor Liza#
veta! Why did she come in... . It’s strange though, why
is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn’t killed
her! Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle
eyes. ... Dear women! Why don’t they weep? Why
don’t they moan? They give up everything ... their eyes
are soft and gentle. ... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!”

He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he
didn’t remember how he got into the street. It was late
evening. The twilight had fallen and the full moon was
shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar
breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people
in the street; workmen and business people were making
their way home; other people had come out for a walk;
there was a smell of mortar, dust-and stagnant water. Ras-
kolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious: he was dis-
tinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having
to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had for-
gotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on
the other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed
over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away
with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to
him. “Stay, did he really beckon!” Raskolnikov wondered,
but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten
paces he recognised him and was frightened; it was the
same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Ras-
kolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating;
they went down a turning; the man still did not look round.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 281

“Does he know I am following him?” thought Raskolnikov.
The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov
hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would
look round and sign to him. :In the courtyard the man did
turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov
at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone.
He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov
rushed after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights
above. The staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached
the window on the first floor; the moon shone through the
panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he
reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the
painters were at work ... how was it he did not recognise
it at once? The steps of the man above had died away.
“So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere.” He
reached the third story, should he go on? ‘There was a
stillness that was dreadful.... But he went on. The
sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How
dark it was! The man must be hiding in some corner here.
Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he hesitated and went
in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though
everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the
parlour which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there
was as before, the chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa
and the pictures in the frames. A huge, round, copper-red
moon looked in at the windows. “It’s the moon that makes
it so still, weaving some mystery,” thought Raskolnikov. He
stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent
the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was
painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a
momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and
all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the
window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he
noticed in the corner between the window and the little cup-
board something like a cloak hanging on the wall. “Why is
that cloak here?” he thought, “it wasn’t there before. .. .”
He went up to it quietly and felt that there was some one
hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw,
sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent double
so that he couldn’t see her face; but it was she. He stood

282 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

over her. “She is afraid,” he thought. He stealthily took
the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then an-
other on the skull. But strange to say she did not stir, as
though she were made of wood. He was frightened, bent
down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too, bent her
head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped
up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with
horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking
with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should
not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door from the
bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and
whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and he
began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force
but at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering
from the bedroom grew louder and the old woman was
simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the
passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open
and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there
were people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled together
in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart, his
legs were rooted to the spot, they would not move. ... He
tried to scream and woke up.

He drew a deep breath—but his dream seemed strangely
to persist: his door was flung open and a man whom he had
never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently.

Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he in-
stantly closed them again. He lay on his back without
stirring.

“Ts it still a dream?” he wondered and again raised his
eyelids hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the
same place, still watching him.

He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the
door after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still
keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated him-
self on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor
beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on
his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait
indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his
stolen glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a
full, fair, almost whitish beard.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 283

Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to
get dusk. There was complete stillness in the room. Nota
sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and
fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable at
last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.

“Come, tell me what you want.”

“I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,” the
stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. “Arkady Ivano-
vitch Svidrigailov, allow me to introduce myself... .”

PART IV

CHAPTER I

_ Or this be still a dream?” Raskolnikov thought once
more. He looked carefully and suspiciously at the,
unexpected visitor. .

“Svidrigailov! What nonsense! It can’t be! ” he said at
last aloud in bewilderment.

His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclama-
tion.

“T’ve come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I
wanted to make your personal acquaintance, as I have already
heard a great deal about you that is interesting and flattering;
secondly, I cherish the hope that you may not refuse to assist
me in a matter directly concerning the welfare of your sister,
Avdotya Romanovna. For without your support she might
not let me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against
me, but with your assistance I reckon on... ”

“You reckon wrongly,” interrupted Raskolnikov.

“They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?”

Raskolnikov made no reply.

“It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day
before. Well, let me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch,
I don’t consider it necessary to justify myself, but kindly tell
me what was there particularly criminal on my part in all this
business, speaking without prejudice, with common sense ?”

Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence.

“That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and
‘insulted her with my infamous proposals’—is that it? (I am
anticipating you.) But you’ve only to assume that I, too, am
a man et nihil humanum ... in a word, that I am capable
of being attracted and falling in love (which does not depend
on our will), then everything can be explained in the most

284

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 285

natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I
myself a victim? And what if lama victim? In proposing
to the object of my passion to elope with me to America or
Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest respect for
her and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual
happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why,
probably, I was doing more harm to myself than any one!”

“But that’s not the point,” Raskolnikov interrupted with
disgust. “It’s simply that whether you are right or wrong,
we dislike you. We don’t want to have anything to do with
you. We show you the door. Go out!”

Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh.

“But you're... but there’s no getting round you,” he
said laughing in the frankest way. “I hoped to get round
you, but you took up the right line at once!”

“But you are trying to get round me still!”

“What of it? What of it?’ cried Svidrigailov, laughing
openly. “But this is what the French call bonne guerre, and
the most innocent form of deception! ... But still you have
interrupted me; one way or another, I repeat again: there
would never have been any unpleasantness except for what
happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna.. .”

“You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?”
Raskolnikov interrupted rudely.

“Oh, you’ve heard that, too, then? You'd be sure to,
though. . .. But as for your question, I really don’t know
what to say, though my own conscience is quite at rest on that
score. Don’t suppose that I am in any apprehension about it.
All was regular and in order; the medical inquiry diagnosed
apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy dinner and
a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing
else. But Ill tell you what I have been thinking to myself
of late, on my way here in the train, especially: didn’t I
contribute to all that ... calamity, morally, in a way, by
irritation or something of the sort. But I came to the con-
clusion that that, too, was quite out of the question.”

Raskolnikov laughed.

“T wonder you trouble yourself about it!”

“But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck
her just twice with a switch—there were no marks even... ©

286 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

don’t regard me as a cynic, please; I am perfectly aware how
atrocious it was of me and all that; but I know for certain,
too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at my, so to
say, warmth. The story of your sister had been wrung out
to the last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna had
been forced to sit at home; she had nothing to show herself
with in the town. Besides, she had bored them so with that
letter (you heard about her reading the letter). And all of
a sudden those two switches fell from heaven! Her first act
was to order the carriage to be got out... . Not to speak of
the fact that there are cases when women are very, very
glad to be insulted in spite of all their show of indignation.
There are instances of it with every one; human beings in”
general, indeed, greatly love to be insulted, have you noticed
that? But it’s particularly so with women. One might even
say it’s their only amusement.”

At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking
out and so finishing the interview. But some curiosity and
even a sort of prudence made him linger for a moment.

“You are fond of fighting?” he asked carelessly.

“No, not very,’ Svidrigailov answered, calmly. “And
Marfa Petrovna and I scarcely ever fought. We lived very
harmoniously, and she was always pleased with me. I only
used the whip twice in all our seven years (not counting a
third occasion of a very ambiguous character). The first
time, two months after our marriage, immediately after we
arrived in the country, and the last time was that of which
we are speaking. Did you suppose I was such a monster,
such a reactionary, such a slave driver? Ha, ha! By the
way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovitch, how a few
years ago, in those days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman,
I’ve forgotten his name, was put to shame everywhere, in
all the papers, for having thrashed a German woman in the
railway train. You remember? It was in those days, that
very year I believe, the ‘disgraceful action of the Age’ took
place (you know, “The Egyptian Nights,’ that public reading,
you remember? The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden
days of our youth, where are they?) Well, as for the gentle-
man who thrashed the German, I feel no sympathy with him,
because after all what need is there for sympathy? But I

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 287

must say that there are sometimes such provoking ‘Germans’
that I don’t believe there is a progressive who could quite
answer for himself. No one looked at the subject from that
point of view then, but that’s the truly humane point of view,
I assure you.”

After saying this, Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh
again. Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a
firm purpose in his mind and able to keep it to himself.

“I expect you’ve not talked to any one for some days?” he
asked.

“Scarcely any one. I suppose you are wondering at my
being such an adaptable man?”

“No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a
man.”

“Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your ques-
tions? Is that it? But why take offense? As you asked, so I
answered,” he replied, with a surprising expression of sim-
plicity. “You know, there’s hardly anything I take interest
in,” he went on, as it were dreamily, “especially now, I’ve
nothing to do. .. . You are quite at liberty to imagine though
that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as
I told you I want to see your sister about something. But
I’ll confess frankly, I am very much bored. The last three
days especially, so am delighted to see you. ... Don’t be
angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you seem to be somehow
awfully strange yourself. Say what you like, there’s some-
thing wrong with you, and now, too ... not this very minute,
I mean, but now, generally.... Well, well, I won't, I
won't, don’t scowl! I am not such a bear, you know, as
you think.”

Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him.

“You are not a bear, perhaps, at all,” he said. “I fancy
indeed that you are a man of very good breeding, or at least
know how on occasion to behave like one.”

“T am not particularly interested in any one’s opinion,”
Svidrigailov answered, dryly and even with a shade of
haughtiness, “and therefore why not be vulgar at times when
vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our climate . .. and
especially if one has a natural propensity that way,” he added,
laughing again.

288 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

But I’ve heard you have many friends here. You are, as
they say, ‘not without connections.’ What can you want with
me, then, unless you’ve some special object ?”

“That’s true that I have friends here,” Svidrigailov ad-
mitted, not replying to the chief point. “I’ve met some al-
ready. I’ve been lounging about for the last three days, and
I’ve seen them, or they’ve seen me. That’s a matter of
course. JI am well-dressed and reckoned not a poor man; the
emancipation of the serfs hasn’t affected me; my property
consists chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue
has not fallen off; but ...I am not going to see them, I
was sick of them long ago. I’ve been here three days and,
have called on no one. .. . What a town it is! How has it
come into existence among us, tell me that? A town of
officials and students of all sorts. Yes, there’s a great deal
I didn’t notice when I was here eight years ago, kicking up
my heels. ... My only hope now is in anatomy, by Jove,
it is!” )

“Anatomy ?”

“But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress,
indeed, may be—well, all that can go on without me,” he went
on, again without noticing the question. “Besides, who wants
to be a card-sharper ?”

“Why, have you been a card-sharper then?”

“How could I help being? There was a regular set of us,
men of the best society, eight years ago; we had a fine time.
And all men of breeding, you know, poets, men of property.
And indeed as a rule in our Russian society the best manners
are found among those who’ve been thrashed, have you
noticed that? I’ve deteriorated in the country. But I did get
into prison for debt, through a low Greek who came from
Nezhin. Then Marfa Petrovna turned up; she bargained
with him and bought me off for thirty thousand silver pieces
(I owed seventy thousand). We were united in lawful wed-
lock and she bore me off into the country like a treasure. You
know she was five years older than I. She was very fond of
me. For seven years I never left the country. And, take
note, that all my life she held a document over me, the I. 0. v.
for thirty thousand roubles, so if I were to elect to be
restive about anything I should be trapped at once! And

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 289

she would have done it! Women find nothing incompatible
in that.”

“If it hadn’t been for that, would you have given her
the slip?”

“I don’t know what to say. It was scarcely the document
restrained me. I didn’t want to go anywhere else. Marfa
Petrovna herself invited me to go abroad, seeing I was bored,
but I’ve been abroad before, and always felt sick there. For
no reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the sea—you
look at them and it makes you sad. What’s most revolting is
that one is really sad! No, it’s better at home. Here at least
one blames others for everything and excuses oneself. I
should have gone perhaps on an expedition to the North Pole,
because j’ai le vin mauvais and hate drinking, and there’s
nothing left but wine. I have tried it. But, I say, I’ve been
told Berg is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from
the Yusupov Garden and will take up passengers at a fee. Is
it true?”

“Why, would you go up?”

“I... No, oh no,” muttered Svidrigailov, really seeming
to be deep in thought.

“What does he mean? Is he in earnest?” Raskolnikov
wondered.

“No, the document didn’t restrain me,” Svidrigailov went
on, meditatively. “It was my own doing, not leaving the
country, and nearly a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back
the document on my name day and made me a present of a
considerable sum of money, too. She had a fortune, you
know. ‘You see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovitch’—that
was actually her expression. You don’t believe she used it?
But do you know I managed the estate quite decently, they
know me in the neighbourhood. I ordered books, too.
Marfa Petrovna at first approved, but afterwards she was
afraid of my over-studying.”

“You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?”

“Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by
the way, do you believe in ghosts?”

“What ghosts?”

“Why, ordinary ghosts.”

“Do you believe in them?”

290 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Perhaps not, pour vous plaire....I1 wouldn’t say no
exactly.”

“Do you see them, then?”

Svidrigailov looked at him rather oddly.

“Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me,” he said, twisting
his mouth into a strange smile.

“How do you mean ‘she is pleased to visit you’ ?”

“She has been three times. I saw her first on the very
day of the funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was
the day before I left to come here. The second time
was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey
at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was.
two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I wa$
alone.”

“Were you awake?”

“Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes,
speaks to me for a minute and goes out at the door—always
at the door. I can almost hear her.”

“What made me think that something of the sort must be
happening to you?” Raskolnikov said suddenly.

At the same moment he was surprised at having said it.
He was much excited.

“What! Did you think so?” Svidrigailov asked in aston-
ishment. “Did you really? Didn’t I say that there was
something in common between us, eh?”

“You never said so!” Raskolnikov cried sharply and with
heat.

“Didn’t I?”

“No y?

“T thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with
your eyes shut, pretending, I said to myself at once ‘here’s the
man,’ ”

“What do you mean by ‘the man’? What are you talking
about?” cried Raskolnikov.

“What do I mean? I really don’t know. . . .” Svidrigailov
muttered ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled.

For a minute they were silent. They stared in each
other’s faces.

“That’s all nonsense!” Raskolnikov shouted with vexation,
“What does she say when she comes to you?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 291,

“She? Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles
and—man is a strange creature—it makes me angry. The
first time she came in (I was tired you know: the funeral
service, the funeral ceremony, the lunch afterwards. At
last I was left alone in my study. I lighted a cigar and began
to think), she came in at the door. ‘You’ve been so busy
to-day, Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the
dining room clock,’ she said. All those seven years I’ve
wound that clock every week, and if I forgot it she would al-
ways remind me. The next day I set off on my way here.
I got out at the station at daybreak; I’d been asleep, tired
out, with my eyes half open, I was drinking some coffee. I
look up and there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting be-
side me with a pack of cards in her hands. ‘Shall I tell
your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovitch?’ She
was a great hand at telling fortunes. I shall never forgive
myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and,
besides, the bell rang. I was sitting to-day, feeling very
heavy after a miserable dinner from a cookshop; I was sit-
ting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna again. She
came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a long
train. ‘Good day, Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like
my dress? Aniska can’t make like this. (Aniska was a
dressmaker in the country, one of our former serf girls who
had been trained in Moscow, a pretty wench.) She stood
turning round before me. I looked at the dress, and then I
looked carefully, very carefully, at her face. ‘I wonder you
trouble to come to me about such trifles, Marfa Petrovna.’
‘Good gracious, you won't let one disturb you about any-
thing!’ To tease her I said, ‘I want to get married, Marfa
Petrovna.’ “That’s just like you, Arkady Ivanovitch; it does
you very little credit to come looking for a bride when you’ve
hardly buried your wife. And if you could make a good
choice, at least, but I know it won’t be for your happiness or
hers, you will only be a laughing-stock to all good people.’
Then she went out and her train seemed to rustle. Isn’t it
nonsense, eh ?”

“But perhaps you are telling lies?’ Raskolnikov put in.

“I rarely lie,’ answered Svidrigailov thoughtfully, appar-
ently not noticing the rudeness of the question.

292 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?”

“Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six
years ago. I had a serf, Filka; just after his burial I called
out forgetting ‘Filka, my pipe!’ He came in and went to
the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat still and thought
‘he is doing it out of revenge’ because we had a violent
quarrel just before his death. “How dare you come in with
a hole in your elbow,’ I said. “Go away, you scamp!’ He
turned and went out, and never came again. I didn’t tell
Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted to have a service
sung for him, but I was ashamed.”

“You should go to a doctor.” y

“T know I am not well, without your telling me, though
I don’t know what’s wrong; I believe I am five times as
strong as you are. I didn’t ask you whether you believe that
ghosts are seen, but whether you believe that they exist.”

“No, I won’t believe it!” Raskolnikov cried, with positive
anger.

“What do people generally say?” muttered Svidrigailov,
as though speaking to himself, looking aside and bowing his
head. “They say, ‘You are ill, so what appears to you is
only unreal fantasy.’ But that’s not strictly logical. I agree
that ghosts only appear to the sick, but that only proves that
they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that they
don’t exist.”

“Nothing of the sort,’ Raskolnikov insisted irritably.

“No? You don’t think so?” Svidrigailov went on, look-
ing at him deliberately. “But what do you say to this argu-
ment (help me with it): ghosts are as it were shreds and
fragments of other worlds, the beginning of them. A man
in health has, of course, no reason to see them, because he
is above all a man of this earth and is bound for the sake
of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as
soon as one is ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of
the organism is broken, one begins to realise the possibility
of another world; and the more seriously ill one is, the closer
becomes one’s contact with that other world, so that as soon
as the man dies he steps straight into that world. I thought
of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you could
believe in that, too.”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 293

“T don’t believe in a future life,” said Raskolnikov.

Svidrigailov sat lost in thought.

“And what if there are only spiders there, or something of
that sort,” he said suddenly.

“He is a madman,” thought Raskolnikov.

“We always imagine eternity as something beyond our
conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast?
Instead of all that, what if it’s one little room, like a bath
house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every
corner, and that’s all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like
that.” !

“Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more
comforting than that?” Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of
anguish.

“Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and
do you know it’s what I would certainly have made it,”
answered Svidrigailov, with a vague smile.

This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov.
Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly
began laughing.

“Only think,” he cried, “half an hour ago we had never
seen each other, we regarded each other as enemies; there is
a matter unsettled between us; we’ve thrown it aside, and
away we've gone into the abstract! Wasn’t I right in saying
that we were birds of a feather ?”

“Kindly allow me,” Raskolnikov went on irritably, “to ask
you to explain why you have honoured me with your
visit... and ...andIam in a hurry, I have no time to
waste. I want to go out.”

“By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Roma-
novna, is going to be married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petro-
vitch ?”

“Can you refrain from any question about my sister and
from mentioning her name? I can’t understand how you
dare utter her name in my presence, if you really are Svid-
rigailov.”

“Why, but I’ve come here to speak about her; how can
I avoid mentioning her ?”

“Very good, speak, but make haste.”

“I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion

294 FYODOR. DOSTOEVSKY

of this Mr. Luzhin, who is a connection of mine through my
wife, if you have only seen him for half an hour, or heard
any facts about him. He is no match for Avdotya Roma-
novna. I believe Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself
generously and imprudently for the sake of . . . for the sake
of her family. I fancied from all I had heard of you that
you would be very glad if the match could be broken off
without the sacrifice of worldly advantages. Now I know
you personally, I am convinced of it.”

“All this is very naive . . . excuse me, I should have said
impudent on your part,” said Raskolnikov.

“You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don’t
be uneasy, Rodion Romanovitch, if I were working for my
own advantage, I would not have spoken out so directly. I
am not quite a fool. I will confess something psychologically
curious about that: just now, defending my love for Avdotya
Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well, let me
tell you that I’ve no feeling of love now, not the slightest,
so that I wonder myself indeed, for I really did feel some-
thing’ o" .

“Through idleness and depravity,” Raskolnikov put in.

“T certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such
qualities that even I could not help being impressed by them.
But that’s all nonsense, as I see myself now.”

“Have you seen that long?”

“T began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly
sure of it the day before yesterday, almost at the moment
I arrived in Petersburg. I still fancied in Moscow, though,
that I was coming to try to get Avdotya Romanovna’s hand
and to cut out Mr. Luzhin.”

“Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and
come to the object of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want
to: vo out: 5B

“With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here and deter-
mining on a certain ... journey, I should like to make some
necessary preliminary arrangements. I left my children with
an aunt; they are well provided for; and they have no need
of me personally. And a nice father I should make, too! I
have taken nothing but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year
ago. That's enough for me. Excuse me, I am just coming

‘

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 295

to the point. Before the journey which may come off, I want
to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It’s not that I detest him so much,
but it was through him I quarrelled with Marfa Petrovna
when I learned that she had dished up this marriage. I want
now to see Avdotya Romanovna through your mediation, and
if you like in your presence, to explain to her that in the
first place she will never gain anything but harm from Mr.
Luzhin. Then begging her pardon for all past unpleasant-
ness, to make her a present of ten thousand roubles and so
assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to which I
believe she is herself not disinclined, if she could see the
way to it.”

“You are certainly mad,” cried Raskolnikov, not so much
angered as astonished. ‘How dare you talk like that!”

“I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place,
though I am not rich, this ten thousand roubles is perfectly
free; I have absolutely no need for it. If Avdotya Roman-
ovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in some more foolish
way. That’s the first thing. Secondly, my conscience is
perfectly easy; I make the offer with no ulterior motive.
You may not believe it, but in the end Avdotya Romanovna
and you will know. The point is, that I did actually cause
your sister, whom I greatly respect, some trouble and un-
pleasantness, and so, sincerely regretting it, I want—not to
compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but
simply to do something to her advantage, to show that I am
not, after all, privileged to do nothing but harm. If there
were a millionth fraction of self interest in my offer, I
should not have made it so openly; and I should not have
offered her ten thousand only, when five weeks ago I offered
her more. Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry a
young lady, and that alone ought to prevent suspicion of
any design on Avdotya Romanovna. In conclusion, let me
say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is taking money just
the same, only from another man. Don’t be angry, Rodion
Romanovitch, think it over coolly and quietly.”

Svidrigailov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he
was saying this.

“I beg you to say no more,” said Raskolnikov. “In any
case this is unpardonable impertinence.”

296 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm
to his neighbour in this world, and is prevented from doing
the tiniest bit of good by trivial conventional formalities.
That’s absurd. If I died, for instance, and leit that sum to
your sister in my will, surely she wouldn’t refuse it?”

“Very likely she would.”

“Oh, no, indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be it,
though ten thousand roubles is a capital thing to have on
occasion. In any case I beg you to repeat what I have said
to Avdotya Romanovna.”

“No, I won't.”

“In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to
try and see her myself and worry her by doing so.”

“And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?”

“T don’t know really what to say. I should like very much
to see her once more.”

“Don’t hope for it.”

“T’m sorry. But you don’t know me. Perhaps we may
become better friends.”

“You think we may become friends.”
“And why not?” Svidrigailov said, smiling. He stood up
and took his hat. “I didn’t quite intend to disturb you
and I came here without reckoning on it ... though I was

very much struck by your face this moraine. 4:
_ “Where did you see me this morning?” Raskolnikov asked
uneasily.

“I saw you by chance. ... I keep fancying there is some-
thing about you like me. ... But don’t be uneasy. I am
not intrusive; I used to get on all right with card-sharpers,
and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great personage who
is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about
Raphael’s Madonna in Madam Prilukov’s album, and I never
left Marfa Petrovna’s side for seven years, and I used to
stay the night at Viazemsky’s house in the Hay Market in
the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg,
perhaps.”

“Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels,
may I ask?”

“What travels?”

“Why, on that ‘journey ;’ you spoke of it yourself.”

ff

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 297

“A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well,
that’s a wide subject... .If only you knew what you are
asking,’ he added, and gave a sudden, loud, short laugh.
“Perhaps I'll get married instead of the journey. They’re
making a match for me.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“How have you had time for that?”

“But I am very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once,
I earnestly beg it. Well, good-bye for the present. Oh, yes,
I have forgotten something. Tell your sister, Rodion Ro-
manovitch, that Marfa Petrovna remembered her in her will
and left her three thousand roubles. That’s absolutely cer-
tain. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week before her death,
and it was done in my presence. Avdotya Romanovna will
be able to receive the money in two or three weeks.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes, tell her. Well, your servant. I am staying very
near you.”

As he went out, Svidrigailov ran up against Razumihin in
the doorway.

11—R

4

CHAPTER II

to Bakaleyev’s, to arrive before Luzhin.
“Why, who was that?” asked Razumihin, as soon as
they were in the street.

“Tt was Svidrigailov, that landowner in whose house my
sister was insulted when she was their governess. Through
his persecuting her with his attentions, she was turned ott
by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. This Marfa Petrovna begged
Dounia’s forgiveness afterwards, and she’s just died sud-
denly. It was of her we were talking this morning. I don’t
know why I’m afraid of that man. He came here at once
after his wife’s funeral. He is very strange, and is deter-
mined on doing something. ... We must guard Dounia
from him... that’s what I wanted to tell you, do you
hear ?”

“Guard her! What can he do to harm Avdotya Roma-
novna? Thank you, Rodya, for speaking to me like that... .
We will, we will guard her. Where does he live?”

“T don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you ask? Whata pity! Ill find out, though.”

“Did you see him?” asked Raskolnikov after a pause.

“Yes, I noticed him, I noticed him well.”

“You did really see him? You saw him clearly?” Raskol-
nikov insisted.

“Yes, I remember him perfectly, I should know him in a
thousand; I have a good memory for faces.”

They were silent again.

“Hm! ... that’s all right,’ muttered Raskolnikov. “Do
you know, I fancied ...1 keep thinking that it may have
been an hallucination.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand you.” |

“Well, you all say,’ Raskolnikov went on, twisting his
mouth into a smile, “that I am mad. I thought just now
that perhaps I really am mad, and have only seen a phantom.”

298

ie was nearly eight o’clock. The two young men hurried

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 299

“What do you mean?”

“Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and per-
haps everything that happened all these days may be only
imagination.”

“Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again! ... But what
did he say, what did he come for?”

Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute.

“Now let me tell you my story,” he began, “I came to you,
you were asleep. Then we had dinner and then I went to
Porfiry’s, Zametov was still with him. I tried to begin, but it
was no use. I couldn’t speak in the right way. They don’t
seem to understand and can’t understand, but are not a bit
ashamed. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking
to him, but it was still no use. He looked away and I looked
away. At last I shook my fist in his ugly face, and told him
as a cousin I’d brain him. He merely looked at me, I cursed
and came away. That was all. It was very stupid. To
' Zametov I didn’t say a word. But, you see, I thought I’d
made a mess of it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea
struck me: why should we trouble? Of course if you were
in any danger or anything, but why need you care? You
needn’t care a hang for them. We shall have a laugh at
them afterwards, and if I were in your place I’d mystify
them more than ever. How ashamed they'll be afterwards!
Hang them! We can thrash them afterwards, but let’s laugh
at them now!”

“To be sure,” answered Raskolnikov. “But what will
you say to-morrow?” he thought to himself. Strange to say,
till that moment it had never occurred to him to wonder what
Razumihin would think when he knew. As he thought it,
Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumihin’s account of his visit
to Porfiry had very little interest for him, so much had come
and gone since then.

In the corridor they came upon Luzhin; he had arrived
punctually at eight, and was looking for the number, so that
all three went in together without greeting or looking at one
another. The young men walked in first, while Pyotr
Petrovitch, for good manners, lingered a little in the
passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna came
forward at once to greet him in the doorway, Dounia was

300 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

welcoming her brother. Pyotr Petrovitch walked in and
quite amiably, though with redoubled dignity, bowed to the
ladies. He looked, however, as though he were a little put
out and could not yet recover himself. Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, who seemed also a little embarrassed,
hastened to make them all sit down at the round table
where a samovar was boiling. Dounia and Luzhin were
facing one another on opposite sides of the table.
Razumihin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria Alex-
androvna, Razumihin was next to Luzhin and Raskolnikov
was beside his sister.

A moment’s silence followed. Pyotr Petrovitch deliber-
ately drew out a cainbric handkerchief reeking of sceft
and blew his nose with an air of a benevolent man who
felt himself slighted, and was firmly resolved to insist on
an explanation. In the passage the idea had occurred to
him to keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so give
the two ladies a sharp and emphatic lesson and make them
feel the gravity of the position. But he could not bring
himself to do this. Besides, he could not endure uncertainty
and he wanted an explanation: if his request had been so
openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that
case it was better to find it out beforehand; it rested with
him to punish them and there would always be time for
that.

“T trust you had a favourable journey,”
officially of Pulcheria Alexandrovna, !

“Oh, very, Pyotr Petrovitch.”

“T am gratified to hear it. And Avdotya Romanovna is
not over fatigued either?”

“T am young and strong, I don’t get tired, but it was a
great strain for mother,” answered Dounia.

“That’s unavoidable; our national railways are of terrible
length. ‘Mother Russia,’ as they say, is a vast country. ...
In spite of all my desire to do so, I was unable to meet you
yesterday. But I trust all passed off without inconvenience ?”

“Oh, no, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was all terribly dis-
heartening.” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare
with peculiar intonation, “and if Dmitri Prokofitch had not
been sent us, I really believe by God Himself, we should

he inquired

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 301

have been utterly lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofitch
Razumihin,”’ she added, introducing him to Luzhin.

“T had the pleasure... yesterday,’ muttered Pyotr
Petrovitch with a hostile glance sidelong at Razumihin;
then he scowled and was silent.

Pyotr Petrovitch belonged to that class of persons, on the
surface very polite in society, who make a great point of
punctiliousness, but who, directly they are crossed in any-
thing, are completely disconcerted, and become more like
sacks of flour than elegant and lively men of society.
Again all was silent; Raskolnikov was obstinately mute,
Avdotya Romanovna was unwilling to open the conversa-
tion too soon. Razumihin had nothing to say, so Pulcheria
Alexandrovna was anxious again.

“Marfa Petrovna is dead, have you heard?” she began
having recourse to her leading item of conversation.

“To be sure, I heard so. I was immediately informed,
and I have come to make you acquainted with the fact that
Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov set off in haste for Peters-
burg immediately after his wife’s funeral. So at least I
have excellent authority for believing.”

“To Petersburg? here?” Dounia asked in alarm and
looked at her mother.

“Yes, indeed, and doubtless not without some design,
having in view the rapidity of his departure, and all the
circumstances preceding it.”

“Good heavens! won’t he leave Dounia in peace even
here?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

“T imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna
have any grounds for uneasiness, unless, of course, you are
yourselves desirous of getting into communication with him.
For my part I am on my guard, and am now discovering
where he is lodging.” .

“Oh, Pyotr Petrovitch, you would not believe what a
fright you have given me,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went
on. “I’ve only seen him twice, but I thought him terrible,
terrible! I am convinced that he was the cause of Marfa
Petrovna’s death.” :

“It’s impossible to be certain about that. I have precise
information. I do not dispute that he may have contributed

302 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

to accelerate the course of events by the moral influence,
so to say, of the affront; but as to the general conduct and
moral characteristics of that personage, I am in agreement
with you. I do not know whether he is well off now, and
precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; this will be known
to me within a very short period; but no doubt here in
Petersburg, if he has any pecuniary resources, he will
relapse at once into his old ways. He is the most depraved,
and abjectly vicious specimen of that class of men. I have
considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna who
was so unfortunate as to fall in love with him and to pay
his debts eight years ago, was of service to him also in
another way. Solely by her exertions and sacrifices, a
criminal charge, involving an element of fantastic and
homicidal brutality for which he might well have been
sentenced to Siberia, was hushed up. That’s the sort of
man he is, if you care to know.”

“Good heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskol-
nikov listened attentively.

“Are you speaking the truth when you say that you
have good evidence of this?’ Dounia asked sternly and
emphatically.

“T only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa
Petrovna. I must observe that from the legal point of view
the case was far from clear. There was, and I believe
still is, living here a woman called Resslich, a foreigner,
who lent small sums of money at interest, and did other
commissions, and with this woman Svidrigailov had for a
long while close and mysterious relations. She had a rela-
tion, a niece I believe, living with her, a deaf and dumb
girl of fifteen, or perhaps not more than fourteen. Resslich
hated this girl, and grudged her every crust; she used to
beat her mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging
in the garret. At the inquest the verdict was suicide.
After the usual proceedings the matter ended, but, later
on, information was given that the child had been...
cruelly outraged by Svidrigailov. It is true, this was not
clearly established, the information was given by another
German woman of loose character whose word could not be
trusted; no statement was actually made to the police,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 303

thanks to Marfa Petrovna’s money and exertions; it did not
get beyond gossip. And yet the story is a very significant
one. You heard, no doubt, Avdotya Romanovna, when you
were with them the story of the servant Philip who died of
ill treatment he received six years ago, before the abolition
of serfdom.”

“T heard on the contrary that this Philip hanged himself.”

“Quite so, but what drove him, or rather perhaps dis-
posed him, to suicide, was the systematic persecution and
severity of Mr. Svidrigailov.”

“T don’t know that,’ answered Dounia, dryly. “I only
heard a queer story that Philip was a sort of hypochondriac,
a sort of domestic philosopher, the servants used to say,
‘he read himself silly,’ and that he hanged himself partly on
account of Mr. Svidrigailov’s mockery of him and not his
blows. When I was there he behaved well to the servants,
and they were actually fond of him, though they certainly
did blame him for Philip’s death.”

“I perceive, Avdotya Romanovna, that you seem disposed
to undertake his defence all of a sudden,” Luzhin observed,
twisting his lips into an ambiguous smile, “there’s no doubt
that he is an astute man, and insinuating where ladies are
concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has died so
strangely, is a terrible instance. My only desire has been
to be of service to you and your mother with my advice, in
view of the renewed efforts which may certainly be antici-
pated from him. For my part it’s my firm conviction, that
he will end in a debtor’s prison again. Marfa Petrovna
had not the slightest intention of settling anything sub-
stantial on him, having regard for ‘his children’s interests,
and, if she left him anything, it would only be the merest
sufficiency, something insignificant and ephemeral, which
would not last a year for a man of his habits.”

“Pyotr Petrovitch, I beg you,” said Dounia, “say no more
of Mr. Svidrigailov. It makes me miserable.”

“He has just been to see me,” said Raskolnikov, breaking
his silence for the first time.

There were exclamations from all, and they all turned to
him. Even Pyotr Petrovitch was roused.

“An hour and half ago, he came in when I was asleep,

304 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

waked me, and introduced himself.” Raskolnikov continued.
“He was fairly cheerful and at ease, and quite hopes that
we shall become friends. He is particularly anxious by the
way, Dounia, for an interview with you, at which he asked
me to assist. He has a proposition to make to you, and he
told me about it. He told me, too, that a week before her
death Marfa Petrovna left you three thousand roubles in
her will, Dounia, and that you can receive the money very
shortly.”

“Thank God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing
herself. “Pray for her soul, Dounia!’

“Tt’s a fact!” broke from Luzhin. ,

“Tell us, what more?” Dounia urged Raskolnikov.

“Then he said that he wasn’t rich and all the estate was
left to his children who are now with an aunt, then that he
was staying somewhere not far from me, but where, I don’t
know, I didn’t ask. . . .”

“But what, what does he want to propose to Dounia?”
cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna in a fright. “Did he tell
you?”

; FV git?

“What was it?”

“T’ll tell you afterwards.”

Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention ta
his tea.

Pyotr Petrovitch looked at his watch.

“T am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so
I shall not be in your way,” he added with an air of some
pique and he began getting up.

“Don’t go, Pyotr Petrovitch,” said Dounia, “you intended
to spend the evening. Besides, you wrote yourself that you
wanted to have an explanation with mother.”

“Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna,”’ Pyotr Petrovitch
answered impressively, sitting down again, but still holding
his hat. “I certainly desired an explanation with you and
your honoured mother upon a very important point indeed.
But as your brother cannot speak openly in my presence of
some proposals of Mr. Svidrigailov, I, too, do not desire
and am not able to speak openly ...in the presence of
others ...of certain matters of the greatest gravity.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 305

Moreover, my most weighty and urgent request has been
disregarded. . . .”

Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin relapsed into dignified
silence.

“Your request that my brother should not be present at
our meeting was disregarded solely at my instance,” said
Dounia. “You wrote that you had been insulted by my
brother; I think that this must be explained at once, and
you must be reconciled. And if Rodya really has insulted
you, then he should and will apologise.”

Pyotr Petrovitch took a stronger line.

“There are insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which no good-
will can make us forget. There is a line in everything
which it is dangerous to overstep; and when it has been
overstepped, there is no return.”

“That wasn’t what I was speaking of exactly, Pyotr
Petrovitch,’ Dounia interrupted with some impatience.
“Please understand that our whole future depends now on
whether all this is explained and set right as soon as possible.
I tell you frankly at the start that I cannot look at it in
any other light, and if you have the least regard for me,
all this business must be ended to-day, however hard that
may be. I repeat that if my brother is to blame he will
ask your forgiveness.”

“T am surprised at your putting the question like that,”
said Luzhin, getting more and more irritated. “Esteeming,
and so to say, adoring you, I may at the same time, very
well indeed, be able to dislike some member of your family.
Though I lay claim to the happiness of your hand, I cannot
accept duties incompatible with .. .”

“Ah, don’t be so ready to take offence, Pyotr Petrovitch,”
Dounia interrupted with feeling, “and be the sensible and
generous man I have always considered, and wish to con-
sider, you to be. I’ve given you a great promise, I am
your betrothed. Trust me in this matter and, believe me,
I shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming the
part of judge is as much a surprise for my brother as for
you. When I insisted on his coming to our interview to-day
after your letter, I told him nothing of what I meant to do.
Understand that, if you are not reconciled, I must choose

306 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

between you—it must be either you or he. That is how
the question rests on your side and on his. I don’t want
to be mistaken in my choice, and I must not be. For your
sake I must break off with my brother, for my brother’s
sake I must break off with you. I can find out for certain
now whether he is a brother to me, and I want to know it;
and of you, whether I am dear to you, whether you esteem
me, whether you are the husband for me.”

“Avdotya Romanovna,” Luzhin declared huffily, “your
words are of too much consequence to me; I will say more,
they are offensive in view of the position I have the honour
to occupy in relation to you. To say nothing of your strange
and offensive setting me on a level with an impertinent boy,
you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to me.
You say ‘you or he,’ showing thereby of how little conse-
quence I am in your eyes... 1 cannot let this pass con-
sidering the relationship and... the obligations existing
between us.”

“What!” cried Dounia, flushing. “I set your interest
beside all that has hitherto been most precious in my life,
what has made up the whole of my life, and here you are
offended at my making too little account of you.”

Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumihin fidgeted, but
Pyotr Petrovitch did not accept the reproof; on the con-
trary, at every word he became more persistent and
‘irritable, as though he relished it.

“Love for the future partner of your life, for your hus-
band, ought to outweigh your love for your brother,” he
pronounced sententiously, ‘and in any case I cannot be put
on the same level. . . . Although I said so emphatically that
I would not speak openly in your brother’s presence, never-
theless, I intend now to ask your honoured mother for a
necessary explanation on a point of great importance closely
affecting my dignity. Your son,” he turned to Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, “yesterday in the presence of Mr. Razsudkin
(or ... I think that’s it? excuse me I have forgotten your
surname,” he bowed politely to Razumihin) insulted me by
misrepresenting the idea I expressed to you in a private
conversation, drinking coffee, that is, that marriage with a
poor girl who has had experience of trouble is more advan-

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 307

tageous from the conjugal point of view than with one who
has lived in luxury, since it is more profitable for the moral
character. Your son intentionally exaggerated the signifi-
cance of my words and made them ridiculous, accusing me
of malicious intentions, and, as far as I could see, relied
upon your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself
happy, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, if it is possible for you to
convince me of an opposite conclusion, and thereby consid-
erately reassure me. Kindly let me know in what terms
precisely you repeated my words in your letter to Rodion
Romanovitch.”

“T don’t remember,” faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I
repeated them as I understood them. I don’t know how
Rodya repeated them to you, perhaps he exaggerated.”

“He could not have exaggerated them, except at your
instigation.”

“Pyotr Petrovitch,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with
dignity, “the proof that Dounia and 1 did not take your
words in a very bad sense is the fact that we are here.”

“Good, mother,” said Dounia approvingly.

“Then this is my fault again,” said Luzhin, aggrieved.

“Well, Pyotr Petrovitch you keep blaming Rodion, but
you yourself have just written what was false about -him.”
Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, gaining courage.

“I don’t remember writing anything false.”

“You wrote,’ Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to
Luzhin, “that I gave money yesterday not to the widow
of the man who was killed, as was the fact, but to his daugh-
ter (whom I had never seen fill yesterday). You wrote this
to make dissension between me and my family, and for that
object added coarse expressions about the conduct of a girl
whom you don’t know. All that is mean slander.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Luzhin, quivering with fury. “I
enlarged upon your qualities and conduct in my letter solely
in response to your sister’s and mother’s inquiries, how I
found you, and what impression you made on me. As for
what you’ve alluded to in my letter, be so good as to point
out one word of falsehood, show, that is, that you didn’t
throw away your money, and that there are not worthless
persons in that family, however unfortunate.”

308 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“To my thinking, you with all your virtues are not worth
the little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you throw
stones.”

“Would you go so far then as to let her associate with
your mother and sister?”

“T have done so already, if you care to know. I made her
sit down to-day with mother and Dounia.”

“Rodya!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dounia crim-
soned, Razumihin knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled with
lofty sarcasm.

“You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,” he said,
“whether it is possible for us to agree. I hope now that this
question is at an end, once and for all. I will withdraw, that
I may not hinder the pleasures of family intimacy, and the
discussion of secrets.” He got up from his chair and took
his hat. “But in withdrawing, I venture to request that for
the future I may be spared similar meetings, and, so to say,
compromises. I appeal particularly to you, honoured Pul-
cheria Alexandrovna, on this subject, the more as my letter
was addressed to you and to no one else.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended.

“You seem to think we are completely under your author-
ity, Pyotr Petrovitch. Dounia has told you the reason your
desire was disregarded, she had the best intentions. And
indeed you write as though you were laying commands upon
me. Are we to consider every desire of yours as a com-
mand? Let me tell you on the contrary that you ought to
show particular delicacy and consideration for us now, be-
cause we have thrown up evetything, and have come here
relying on you, and so we are in any case in a sense in your
hands.”

“That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially
at the present moment, when the news has come of Marfa
Petrovna’s legacy, which seems indeed very apropos, judging
from the new tone you take to me,” he added sarcastically.

“Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that
you were reckoning on our helplessness,” Dounia observed
irritably.

“But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I partic-
ularly desire not to hinder your discussion of the secret

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 309

proposals of Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov, which he has
entrusted to your brother and which have, I perceive, a great
and possibly a very agreeable interest for you.”

“Good heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Razumihin could not sit still on his chair.

“Aren’t you ashamed now, sister?” asked Raskolnikov.

“T am ashamed, Rodya,” said Dounia. “Pyotr Petrovitch,
go away,” she turned to him, white with anger.

Pyotr Petrovitch had apparently not at all expected such
a conclusion. He had too much confidence in himself, in his
power and in the helplessness of his victims. He could not
believe it even now. He turned pale, and his lips quivered.

“Avdotya Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after
such a dismissal, then, you may reckon on it, I will never
come back. Consider what you are doing. My word is not
to be shaken.”

“What insolence!” cried Dounia, springing up from her
seat. “I don’t want you to come back again.”

“What! So that’s how it stands!” cried Luzhin, utterly
unable to the last moment to believe in the rupture and so
completely thrown out of his reckoning now. “So that’s
how it stands! But do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, that
I might protest.”

“What right have you to speak to her like that?” Pulcheria
Alexandrovna intervened hotly. “And what can you protest
about? What rights have you? Am I to give my Dounia
to a man like you? Go away, leave us altogether! We are
to blame for having agreed to a wrong action, and I above
AE Bag

“But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna,” Luzhin
stormed in a frenzy, “by your promise, and now you deny
it and .... besides ...I have been led on account of that
into expenses. .. .”

This last complaint was so characteristic of Pyotr Petro-
vitch, that Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the effort
of restraining it, could not help breaking into laughter. But
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was furious.

“Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of our
trunk? But the conductor brought it for nothing for you.
Mercy on us, we have bound you! What are you thinking

$10 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

about, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was you bound us, hand and foot,
not we!”

“Enough, mother, no more please,’ Avdotya Romanovna
implored. “Pyotr Petrovitch, do be kind and go!”

“T am going, but one last word,” he said, quite unable to
control himself. “Your mamma seems to have entirely for-
gotten that I made up my mind to take you, so to speak, after
the gossip of the town had spread all over the district in
regard to your reputation. Disregarding public opinion for
your sake and reinstating your reputation, I certainly might
very well reckon on a fitting return, and might indeed look
for gratitude on your part. And my eyes have only now
been opened! I see myself that I may have acted very, very
recklessly in disregarding the universal verdict... .”

“Does the fellow want his head smashed?” cried Razu-
mihin, jumping up.

“You are a mean and spiteful man!” said Dounia.

“Not a word! Not a movement!” cried Raskolnikov, hold-
ing Razumihin back; then going close up to Luzhin, “kindly
leave the room!” he said quietly and distinctly, “and not a
word more or... .”

Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a
pale face that worked with anger, then he turned, went out,
and rarely has any man carried away in his heart such vin-
dictive hatred as he felt against Raskolnikov. Him, and him
alone, he blamed for everything. It is noteworthy that as he
went downstairs he still imagined that his case was perhaps
not utterly lost, and that, so far as the ladies were concerned,
all might “very well indeed” be set right again.

CHAPTER III

vex fact was that up to the last moment he had never

expected such an ending; he had been overbearing to

the last degree, never dreaming that two destitute and
defenceless women could escape from his control. This con-
viction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit
to the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, who had made his
way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to self-
admiration, had the highest opinion of his intelligence and
capacities, and sometimes even gloated in solitude over his
image in the glass. But what he loved and valued above all
was the money he had amassed by his labour, and by all
sorts of devices: that money made him the equal of all who
had been his superiors.

When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he had decided
to take her in spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch had
spoken with perfect sincerity and had, indeed, felt genuinely
indignant at such “black ingratitude.” And yet, when he
made Dounia his offer, he was fully aware of the ground-
lessness of all the gossip. The story had been everywhere
contradicted by Marfa Petrovna, and was by then disbelieved
by all the townspeople, who were warm in Dounia’s defence.
And he would not have denied that he knew all that at the
time. Yet he still thought highly of his own resolution in
lifting Dounia to his level and regarded it as something
heroic. In speaking of it to Dounia, he had let out the secret
feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not under-
stand that others should fail to admire it too. He had called
on Raskolnikov with the feelings of a benefactor who is
about to reap the fruits of his good deeds and to hear agree-
able flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he considered
himself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised.

Dounia was simply essential to him; to do without her was
unthinkable. For many years he had voluptuous dreams of
marriage, but he had gone on waiting and amassing money.
He brooded with relish, in profound secret, over the image

Sil

312 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

of a girl—virtuous, poor (she must be poor), very young,
very pretty, of good birth and education, very timid, one who
had suffered much, and was completely humbled before him,
one who would all her life look on him as her saviour, wor-
ship him, admire him and only him. How many scenes, how
many amorous episodes he had imagined on this seductive
and playful theme, when his work was over! And, behold,
the dream of so many years was all but realised; the beauty
and education of Avdotya Romanovna had impressed him;
her helpless position had been a great allurement; in her he
had found even more than he dreamed of. Here was a girl
of pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior
to his own (he felt that), and this creature would be slav-»
ishly grateful all her life for his heroic condescension, and
would humble herself in the dust before him, and he would
have absolute unbounded power over her! ... Not long
before, he had, too, after long reflection and hesitation,
made an important change in his career and was now enter-
ing on a wider circle of business. With this change his
cherished dreams of rising into a higher class of society
seemed likely to be realised. . . . He was, in fact, determined
to try his fortune in Petersburg. He knew that women
could do a very great deal. The fascination of a charming,
virtuous, highly educated woman might make his way easier,
might do wonders in attracting people to him, throwing an
aureole round him, and now everything was in ruins! This
sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder;
it was like a hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been
a tiny bit masterful, had not even time to speak out, had
simply made a joke, been carried away—and it had ended
so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dounia in his
own way; he already possessed her in his dreams—and all
at once! No! The next day, the very next day it must all
be set right, smoothed over, settled. Above all he must crush
that conceited milksop who was the cause of it all. With a
sick feeling he could not help recalling Razumihin too, but,
he soon reassured himself on that score; as though a fellow
like that could be put on a level with him! The man he
really dreaded in earnest was Svidrigailov. ... He had, in
short, a great deal to attend to....

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 313

“No, I, I am more to blame than any one!” said Dounia,
kissing and embracing her mother. “I was tempted by his
money, but on my honour, brother, I had no idea he was
such a base man. If I had seen through him before, nothing
would have tempted me! Don’t blame me, brother!”

“God has delivered us! God has delivered us!” Pulcheria
Alexandrovna muttered, but half consciously, as though
scarcely able to realise what had happened.

They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were
laughing. Only now and then Dounia turned white and
frowned, remembering what had passed. Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad: she
had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terri-
ble misfortune. Razumihin was delighted. He did not yet
dare to express his joy fully, but he was in a fever of excite-
ment as though a ton-weight had fallen off his heart. Now
he had the right to devote his life to them, to serve
them. ... Anything might happen now! But he felt afraid
to think of further possibilities and dared not let his imag-
ination range. But Raskolnikov sat still in the same place,
almost sullen and indifferent. Though he had been the most
insistent on getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least
concerned at what had happened. Dounia could not help
thinking that he was still angry with her, and Pulcheria
Alexandrovna watched him timidly.

“What did Svidrigailov say to you?” said Dounia,
approaching him.

“Yes, yes!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

Raskolnikov raised his head.

“He wants to make you a present of ten thousand roubles
and he desires to see you once in my presence.”

“See her! On no account!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
“And how dare he offer her money!”

Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather dryly) his conversation

with Svidrigailov, omitting his account of the ghostly visita-
tions of Marfa Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary
talk.

“What answer did you give him?” asked Dounia.

“At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then
he said that he would do his utmost to obtain an interview

314 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

with you without my help. He assured me that his passion
for you was a passing infatuation, now he has no feeling
for you. He doesn’t want you to marry Luzhin.... His
talk was altogether rather muddled.”

“How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did
he strike you?”

“T must confess I don’t quite understand him. He offers
you ten thousand, and yet says he is not well off. He says
he is going away, and in ten minutes he forgets he has said it.
Then he says he is going to be married and has already fixed
on the girl... . No doubt he has a motive, and probably a
bad one. But it’s odd that he should be so clumsy about it
if he had any designs against you. . . . Of course, I refused
this money on your account, once for all. Altogether, I
thought him very strange. ... One might almost think he
was mad. But I may be mistaken; that may only be the part
he assumes. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems to have
made a great impression on him.”

“God rest her soul,” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
“T shall always, always pray for her! Where should we be
now, Dounia, without this three thousand! It’s as though
it had fallen from heaven! Why, Rodya, this morning we
had only three roubles in our pocket and Dounia and I were
just planning to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowing
from that man until he offered help.”

Dounia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigailov’s
offer.

She still stood meditating.

“He has got some terrible plan,” she said in a half whisper
to herself, almost shuddering.

Raskolnikov noticed this disproportionate terror.

“TI fancy I shall have to see him more than once again,” he
said to Dounia.

“We will watch him! I will track him out!” cried Razu-
mihin, vigorously. “I won’t lose sight of him. Rodya has
given me leave. He said to me himself just now, “Take
care of my sister.’ Will you give me leave, too, Avdotya
Romanoyna?”

Dounia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of
anxiety did not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 315

gazed at her timidly, but the three thousand roubles had
obviously a soothing effect on her.

A quarter of an hour later, they were all engaged in a
lively conversation. Even Raskolnikov listened attentively
for some time, though he did not talk. Razumihin was the
speaker.

“And why, why should you go away?” he flowed on
Sestatically. “And what are you to do in a little town? The
great thing is, you are all here together and you need one
another—you do need one another, believe me. For a time,
anyway. ... lake me into partnership and I assure you
we'll plan a capital enterprise. Listen! I'll explain it all in
detail to you, the whole project! It all flashed into my head
this morning, before anything had happened... . I tell you
what; I have an uncle, I must introduce him to you (a most
accommodating and respectable old man). This uncle has
got a capital of a thousand roubles, and he lives on his
pension and has no need of that money. For the last two
years he has been bothering me to borrow it from him and
pay him six per cent. interest. I know what that means; he
simply wants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but
this year I resolved to borrow it as soon as he arrived.
Then you lend me another thousand of your three and we
have enough for a start, so we'll go into partnership, and
what are we going to do?”

Then Razumihin began to unfold his project, and he
explained at length that almost all our publishers and book-
sellers know nothing at all of what they are selling, and for
that reason they are usually bad publishers, and that any
decent publications pay as a rule and give a profit, sometimes
a considerable one. Razumihin had, indeed, been dreaming
of setting up as a publisher. For the last two years he had
been working in publishers’ offices, and knew three European
languages well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days
before that he was “schwach” in German with an object of
_ persuading him to take half his translation and half the pay-
ment for it. He had told a lie then, and Raskolnikov knew
he was lying.

“Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have
one of the chief means of success—money of our own!”

316 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

cried Razumihin warmly. “Of course there will be a lot of
work, but we will work, you, Avdotya Romanovna, I, Rodion.

. You get splendid profit on some books nowadays!
And the great point of the business is that we shall know just
what wants translating, and we shall be translating, publish-
ing, learning all at once. I can be of use because I have
experience. For nearly two years I’ve been scuttling about
among the publishers, and now I know every detail of their
business. You need not be a saint to make pots, believe me!
And why, why should we let our chance slip! Why, I know
—and I keep the secret—-two or three books which one might
get a hundred roubles simply for thinking of translating and
publishing. Indeed, and I would not take five hundred for
the very idea of one of them. And what do you think? If
I were to tell a publisher, I dare say he’d hesitate—they
are such blockheads! And as for the business side, print-
ing, paper, selling, you trust to me, I know my way about.
We'll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In
any case it will get us our living and we shall get back our
capital.”

Dounia’s eyes shone.

“T like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!
said.

“T know nothing about it, of course,” put in Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, “it may be a good idea, but again God knows.
It’s new and untried. Of course, we must remain here at
least for a time.” She looked at Rodya.

“What do you think, brother?” said Dounia.

“I think he’s got a very good idea,’ he answered. “Of
course, it’s too soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we
certainly might bring out five or six books and be sure of
success. I know of one book myself which would be sure to
go well. And as for his being able to manage it, there’s no
doubt about that either. He knows the business. . . . But we »
can talk it over later... .”

“Hurrah!” cried Razumihin. “Now, stay, there’s a flat °
here in this house, belonging to the same owner. It’s a
special flat apart, not communicating with these lodgings.
It’s furnished, rent moderate, three rooms. Suppose you take
them to begin with. Ill pawn your watch to-morrow and

17? she

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 317

bring you the money, and everything can be arranged then.
You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you.
But where are you off to, Rodya?”

“What, Rodya, you are going already?” Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna asked in dismay.

“At such a minute?” cried Razumihin.

Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder.
He held his cap in his hand, he was preparing to leave
them.

“One would think you were burying me or saying good-bye
for ever,” he said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile,
but it did not turn out a smile. “But who knows, perhaps
it is the last time we shall see each other .. .” he let slip
accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and it somehow
was uttered aloud.

“What is the matter with you?” cried his mother.

“Where are you going, Rodya?” asked Dounia, rather
strangely.

“Oh, I’m quite obliged to...” he answered vaguely, as
though hesitating what he would say. But there was a look
of sharp determination in his white face.

“T meant to say ...as I was coming here ...I meant
to tell you, mother, and you Dounia, that it would be better
for us to part for a time. I feel ill, I am not at peace....
I will come afterwards, I will come of myself . . . When it’s
possible. I remember you and love you. ... Leave me,
leave me alone. I decided this even before ... I’m abso-
lutely resolved on it. Whatever may come to me, whether I
come to ruin or not, I want to be alone. Forget me alto-
gether, it’s better. Don’t inquire about me. When I can,
I’ll come of myself or ... Vl send for you. Perhaps it will
all come back, but now if you love me, give me up ... else
I shall begin to hate you, I feel it. . . . Good-bye!”

“Good God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his
mother and his sister were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was
also.

“Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be as
before!” cried his poor mother.

He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the
room. Dounia overtook him,

318 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Brother, what are you doing to mother?” she whispered,
her eyes flashing with indignation.

He looked dully at her.

“No matter, I shall come... . I’m coming,” he muttered
in an undertone, as though not fully conscious of what he
was saying, and he went out of the room.

“Wicked, heartless egoist !” cried Dounia.

“He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don’t you
see it? You’re heartless after that!” Razumihin whispered
in her ear, squeezing her hand tightly. “I shall be back
directly,” he shouted to the horror-stricken mother, and he
ran out of the room.

Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage.

“I knew you would run after me,” he said. “Go back to
them—be with them... be with them to-morrow and
always....I.... perhaps I shall come ...if I can.
Good-bye.”

And without holding out his hand he walked away.

“But where are you going? What are you doing? What’s
the matter with you? How can you go on like this?” Razu-
mihin muttered at his wits’ end.

Raskolnikov stopped once more.

“Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing
to tell you. Don’t come to see me. Maybe I’ll come here....
Leave me, but don’t leave them. Do you understand me?”

It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the
lamp. For a minute they were looking at one another in
silence. Razumihin remembered that minute all his life.
Raskolnikov’s burning and intent eyes grew more penetrating
every moment, piercing into his soul, into his consciousness.
Suddenly Razumihin started. Something strange, as it were,
passed between them. . . . Some idea, some hint as it were,
slipped, something awful, hideous, and suddenly understood
on both sides. . . . Razumihin turned pale.

“Do you understand now?” said Raskolnikov, his face
twitching nervously. “Go back, go to them,” he said sud-
denly, and turning quickly, he went out of the house.

I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back
to the ladies, how he soothed them, how he protested that
Rodya needed rest in his illness, protested that Rodya was

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 319

sure to come, that he would come every day, that he was
very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated, that he,
Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor,
the best doctor, a consultation. ...In fact from that eve-
ning Razumihin took his place with them as a son and a
brother.

CHAPTER IV
Pe tet at wn went straight to the house on the

canal bank where Sonia lived. It was an old green

house of three storeys. He found the porter and
obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts
of Kapernaumoy, the tailor. Having found in the corner of
the courtyard the entrance to the dark and narrow staircase,
he mounted to the second floor and came out into a gallery
that ran round the whole second story over the yard. While
he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn
for Kapernaumov’s door, a door opened three paces from
him; he mechanically took hold of it.

“Who is there?” a woman’s voice asked uneasily.

“It’s I... . come to see you,” answered Raskolnikov and
he walked into the tiny entry.

On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper
candlestick. |

“It’s you! Good heavens!” cried Sonia weakly and she
stood rooted to the spot.

“Which is your room? This way?” and Raskolnikov
trying not to look at her, hastened in.

A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set
down the candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood
before him inexpressibly agitated and apparently frightened
by his unexpected visit. The colour rushed suddenly to her
pale face and tears came into her eyes. ... She felt sick
and ashamed and happy, too. ... Raskolnikov turned
away quickly and sat on a chair by the table. He scanned
the room in a rapid glance.

It was a large but exceedingly low-pitched room, the only
one let by the Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door
led in the wall on the left. In the opposite side on the
right hand wall was another door, always kept locked. That
led to the next flat, which formed a separate lodging. Sonia’s
room looked like a barn; it was a very irregular quadrangle

320

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 321

and this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three
windows looking out on to the canal ran aslant so that one
corner formed a very acute angle, and it was difficult to see
in it without very strong light. The other corner was dis-
proportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in
the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead,
beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal table
covered by a blue cloth stood against the same wall, close
to the door into the other flat. Two rush-bottom chairs
stood by the table. On the opposite wall near the acute
angle stood a smaii plain wooden chest of drawers looking
as it were lost in a desert. That was all there was in the
room. The yellow, scratched and shabby wall-paper was
black in the corners. It must have been damp and full of
fumes in the winter. There was every sign of poverty;
even the bedstead had no curtain.

Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so
attentively and unceremoniously scrutinising her room, and
even began at last to tremble with terror, as though
she was standing before her judge and the arbiter of her
destinies.

“T am late. ... It’s eleven, isn’t it?” he asked, still not
lifting his eyes.

“Yes,” muttered Sonia, “oh yes, it is,” she added, hastily,
as though in that lay her means of escape. ‘My landlady’s
clock has just struck. . . . I heard it myself... .”

“I’ve come to you for the last time,’ Raskolnikov went
on gloomily, although this was the first time. “I may per-
haps not see you again . . .”

“Are you... going away?”

“IT don’t know ... to-morrow. .. .”

“Then you. are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna to-
morrow?” Sonia’s voice shook.

“I don’t know. I shall know to-morrow morning... .
Never mind that: ve come to say one word. .. .”

He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed
that he was sitting down while she was all the while stand-
ing before him.

“Why are you standing? Sit down,” he said in a changed
voice, gentle and friendly.

322 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compas-
sionately at her.

“How thin you are! What a hand! Quite transparent,
like a dead hand.”

He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly.

“T have always been like that,” she said.

“Even when you lived at home?”

“Ves.’’

“Of course, you were,” he added abruptly and the expres-
sion of his face and the sound of his voice changed again
suddenly.

He looked round him once more.

“You rent this room from the Kapernaumovs ?”

BB sal oe

“They live there, through that door ?”

“Yes. ... They have another room like this.”

“All in one room?”

“Ves.”’

“T should be afraid in your room at night,” he observed
gloomily.

“They are very good people, very kind,’ answered Sonia,
who still seemed bewildered, “and all the furniture, every-
thing . . . everything is theirs. And they are very kind and
the children, too, often come to see me.”

“They all stammer, don’t they?”

“Yes. ... He stammers and he’s lame. And his wife,
too.... It’s not exactly that she stammers, but she can’t
speak plainly. She is a very kind woman. And he used to
be a house serf. And there are seven children .. . and it’s
only the eldest one that stammers and the others are simply
ill . . . but they don’t stammer. . . . But where did you hear
about them?” she added with some surprise.

“Your father told me, then. He told me all about you.
- » « And how you went out at six o’clock and came back
at nine and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt down by your bed.”

Sonia was confused.

“T fancied I saw him to-day,” she whispered hesitatingly.

“Whom ?”

“Father. I was walking in the street, out there at the
corner, about ten o’clock and he seemed to be walking in

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 323

front. It looked just like him. I wanted to go to Katerina
Ivanovna....”

“You were walking in the streets?”

“Yes,” Sonia whispered abruptly, again overcome with
confusion and looking down.

“Katerina Ivanovna used to beat you, I daresay ?”’

“Oh no, what are you saying? No!” Sonia looked at
him almost with dismay.

“You love her, then?”

“Love her? Of course!” said Sonia with plaintive
emphasis, and she clasped her hands in distress. “Ah, you
don’t.... If you only knew! You see, she is quite like
a child... . Her mind is quite unhinged, you see ... from
sorrow. And how clever she used to be... how generous
.-» how kind! Ah, you don’t understand, you don’t under-
stand !”

Sonia said this as though in despair, wringing her hands
in excitement and distress. Her pale cheeks flushed, there
was a look of anguish in her eyes. It was clear that she
was stirred to the very depths, that she was longing to speak,
to champion, to express something. A sort of insatiable
compassion, if one may so express it, was reflected in every
feature of her face.

“Beat me! how can you? Good heavens, beat me! And
if she did beat me, what then? What of it? You know
nothing, nothing about it.... She is so unhappy... ah,
how unhappy! And ill.... She is seeking righteousness,
she is pure. She has such faith that there must be
righteousness everywhere and she expects it.... And if
you were to torture her, she wouldn’t do wrong. She
doesn’t see that it’s impossible for people to be righteous
and she is angry at it. Like a child, like a child. She is
good !”

“And what will happen to you?”

Sonia looked at him inquiringly.

“They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on
your hands before, though. ... And your father came to
you to beg for drink. Well, how will it be now?”

“I don’t know,” Sonia articulated mournfully.

“Will they stay there?”

324 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“I don’t know. ... They are in debt for the lodging, but
the landlady, I hear, said to-day that she wanted to get rid
of them, and Katerina Ivanovna says that she won't stay
another minute.”

“How is it she is so bold? She relies upon you?”

“Oh, no, don’t talk like that. . . . We are one, we live like
one.” Sonia was agitated again and even angry, as though a
canary or some other little bird were to be angry. “And
what could she do? What, what could she do?” she persisted,
getting hot and excited. “And how she cried to-day! Her
mind is unhinged, haven’t you noticed it? At one minute
she is worrying like a child that everything should be right
to-morrow, the lunch and all that. . . . Then she is wringing
her hands, spitting blood, weeping, and all at once she will
begin knocking her head against the wall, in despair. Then
she will be comforted again. She builds all her hopes on
you; she says that you will help her now and that she will
borrow a little money somewhere and go to her native town
with me and set up a boarding school for the daughters of
gentlemen and take me to superintend it, and we will begin
a new splendid life. And she kisses and hugs me, comforts
me, and you know she has such faith, such faith in her
fancies! One can’t contradict her. And all the day long she
has been washing, cleaning, mending. She dragged the wash
- tub into the room with her feeble hands and sank on the bed,
gasping for breath. We went this morning to the shops to
buy shoes for Polenka and Lida for theirs are quite worn
out. Only the money we'd reckoned wasn’t enough, not
nearly enough. And she picked out such dear little boots,
for she has taste, you don’t know. And there in the shop she
burst out crying before the shopmen because she hadn't
enough. ... Ah, it was sad to see her... .”

“Well, after that I can understand your living like this,”
Raskolnikov said with a bitter smile.

“And aren’t you sorry for them? Aren’t you sorry?”
Sonia flew at him again. “Why, I know, you gave your
last penny yourself, though you’d seen nothing of it, and
if you’d seen everything, oh dear! And how often, how
often I’ve brought her to tears! Only last week! Yes,
I! Only a week before his death, I was cruel! And

SS

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 325

how often I’ve done it! Ah, I’ve been wretched at the
thought of it all day!”

Sonia wrung her hands as she spoke at the pain of remem-
bering it.

“You were cruel?”

“Yes, I—I. I went to see them,” she went on, weeping,
“and father said, ‘read me something, Sonia, my head aches,
read to me, here’s a book.’ He had a book he had got from
Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, he lives there, he
always used to get hold of such funny books. And I said,
‘I can’t stay,’ as I didn’t want to read, and I’d gone in chiefly
to show Katerina Ivanovna some collars. Lizaveta, the
pedlar, sold me some collars and cuffs cheap, pretty, new,
embroidered ones. Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much;
she put them on and looked at herself in the glass and was
delighted with them. ‘Make me a present of them, Sonia,’ she
said, ‘please do.’ ‘Please do, she said, she wanted them so
much. And when could she wear them? They just reminded
her of her old happy days. She looked at herself in the glass,
admired herself, and she has no clothes at all, no things of
her own, hasn’t had all these years! And she never asks
any one for anything; she is proud, she'd sooner give away
everything. And these she asked for, she liked them so much.
And I was sorry to give them. ‘What use are they to you,
Katerina Ivanovna?’ I said. I spoke like that to her, I ought
not to have said that! She gave me such a look. And she
was so grieved, so grieved at my refusing her. And it was
so sad to see. .. . And she was not grieved for the collars,
but for my refusing, I saw that. Ah, if only I could bring it
all back, change it, take back those words! Ah,if I... but
it’s nothing to you!”

“Did you know Lizaveta, the pedlar?”

“Yes. ... Did you know her?” Sonia asked with some
surprise.

“Katerina Ivanovna is in consumption, rapid consumption;
she will soon die,” said Raskolnikov after a pause, without
answering her question.

“Oh, no, no, no!”

And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his hands, as though
imploring that she should not.

326 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“But it will be better if she does die.”

“No, not better, not at all better!” Sonia unconscious!
repeated in dismay.

“And the children? What can you do except take them to
live with you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” cried Sonia, almost in despair, and she
put her hands to her head.

It was evident that that idea had very often occurred to her
before and he had only roused it again.

“And, what, if even now, while Katerina Ivanovna is alive,
you get ill and are taken to the hospital, what will happen
then?” he persisted pitilessly.

“How can you? That cannot be!” <

And Sonia’s face worked with awful terror.

“Cannot be?” Raskolnikov went on with a harsh smile.
“You are not insured against it, are you? What will happen
to them then? They will be in the street, all of them, she
will cough and beg and knock her head against some wall, as
she did to-day, and the children will cry. ... Then she will
fall down, be taken to the police station and to the hospital,
she will die, and the children .. .”

“Oh, no... . God will not let it be!” broke at last from
Sonia’s overburdened bosom.

She listened, looking imploringly at him, clasping her hands
in dumb entreaty, as though it all depended upon him.

Raskolnikov got up and began to walk about the room. A
minute passed. Sonia was standing with her hands and her
head hanging in terrible dejection.

“And can’t you save? Put by for a rainy day?” he asked,
stopping suddenly before her.

“No,” whispered Sonia.

“Of course not. Have you tried?’ he added almost
ironically,

“Ves.,”’

“And it didn’t come off! Of course not! No need to ask.”
And again he paced the room. Another minute passed.

“You don’t get money every day?”

Sonia was more confused than ever and colour rushed into
her face again.

“No,” she whispered with a painful effort.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 327

“It will be the same with Polenka, no doubt,” he said
suddenly.

“No, no! It can’t be, no!” Sonia cried aloud in desperation,
as though she had been stabbed. “God would not allow any-
thing so awful!”

“He lets others come to it.”

“No, no! God will protect her, God!” she repeated beside
herself.

“But, perhaps, there is no God at all,’ Raskolnikov
answered with a sort of malignance, laughed and looked at
her.

Sonia’s face suddenly changed; a tremor passed over it.
She looked at him with unutterable reproach, tried to say
something, but could not speak and broke into bitter, bitter
sobs, hiding her face in her hands.

“You say Katerina Ivanovna’s mind is unhinged; your own
mind is unhinged,” he said after a brief silence.

Five minutes passed. He still paced up and down the room
in silence, not looking at her. At last he went up to her;
his eyes glittered. He put his two hands on her shoulders
and looked straight into her tearful face. His eyes were
hard, feverish and piercing, his lips were twitching. All at
once he bent down quickly and dropping to the ground, kissed
her foot. Sonia drew back from him as from a madman.
And certainly he looked like a madman.

“What are you doing to me?” she muttered, turning pale,
and a sudden anguish clutched at her heart.

He stood up at once.

“I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffer-
ing of humanity,’ he said wildly and walked away to the
window. “Listen,” he added, turning to her a minute later.
“I said just now to an insolent man that he was not worth
your little finger . . . and that I did my sister honour making
her sit beside you.”

“Ach, you said that to them! And in her presence?” cried
Sonia, frightened. “Sit down with me! An honour! Why,
I’m ... dishonourable. ... Ah, why did you say that?”

“It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said
that of you, but because of your great suffering. But you
are a great sinner, that’s true,” he added almost solemnly,

328 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“and your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed
yourself for nothing. Isn’t that fearful? Isn’t it fearful
that you are living in this filth which you loathe so, and at
the same time you know yourself (you've only to open your
eyes) that you are not helping any one by it, not saving any
one from anything! Tell me,’ he went on almost in a frenzy,
“how this shame and degradation can exist in you side by
side with other, opposite, holy feelings? It would be better,
a thousand times better and wiser to leap into the water and
end it all!”

“But what would become of them?” Sonia asked faintly,
gazing at him with eyes of anguish, but not seeming surprised
at his suggestion. ,

Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her
face; so she must have had that thought already, perhaps
many times, and earnestly she had thought out in her despair
how to end it and so earnestly, that now she scarcely won-
dered at his suggestion. She had not even noticed the cruelty
of his words. (The significance of his reproaches and his pe-
culiar attitude to her shame she had, of course, not noticed
either, and that, too, was clear to him.) But he saw how
monstrously the thought of her disgraceful, shameful position
was torturing her and had long tortured her. “What, what,”
he thought, “could hitherto have hindered her from putting
an end to it?” Only then he realized what those poor little
orphan children and that pitiful half-crazy Katerina Ivan-
ovna, knocking her head against the wall in her consumption,
meant for Sonia.

But, nevertheless, it was clear to him again that with her
character and the amount of education she had after all
received, she could not in any case remain so. He was still
confronted by the question how could she have remained so
long in that position without going out of her mind, since
she could not bring herself to jump into the water? Of
course he knew that Sonia’s position was an exceptional case,
though unhappily not unique and not infrequent, indeed; but
that very exceptionalness, her tinge of education, her previ-
ous life might, one would have thought, have killed her at
the first step on that revolting path. What held her up—
surely not depravity? All that infamy had obviously only

Bee?

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 329

touched her mechanically, not one drop of real depravity had
penetrated to her heart; he saw that. He saw through her
as she stood before him....

“There are three ways before her,” he thought, “the canal,
the madhouse, or ... at last to sink into depravity which
obscures the mind and turns the heart to stone.”

The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a sceptic,
he was young, abstract, and therefore cruel, and so he could
not help believing that the last end was the most likely.

“But can that be true?” he cried to himself. “Can that
creature who has still preserved the purity of her spirit be
consciously drawn at last into that sink of filth and iniquity?
Can the process already have begun? Can it be that she has
only been able to bear it till now, because vice has begun to
be less loathsome to her? No, no, that cannot be!” he cried,
as Sonia had just before. ‘No, what has kept her from the
canal till now is the idea of sin and they, the children. ...
And if she has not gone out of her mind . . . but who says
she has not gone out of her mind? Is she in her senses?
Can one talk, can one reason as she does? How can she sit
on the edge of the abyss of loathsomeness into which she is
slipping and refuse to listen when she is told of danger?
Does she expect a miracle? No doubt she does. Doesn't
that all mean madness ?”

He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that ex-
planation indeed better than any other. He began looking
more intently at her.

“So you pray to God a great deal, Sonia?” he asked her.

Sonia did not speak; he stood beside her waiting for an
answer.

“What should I be without God?” she whispered rapidly,
forcibly, glancing at him with suddenly flashing eyes, and
squeezing his hand.

“Ah, so that is it!’ he thought.

“And what does God do for you?” he asked, probing her
further.

Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not an-
swer. Her weak chest kept heaving with emotion.

“Be silent! Don’t ask! You don’t deserve!” she cried
suddenly, looking sternly and wrathfully at him.

12—R

330 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“That’s it, that’s it,” he repeated to himself.

“He does everything,” she whispered quickly, looking down
again,

“That’s the way out! That’s the explanation,” he decided,
scrutinising her with eager curiosity, with a new, strange,
almost morbid feeling. He gazed at that pale, thin, irregular,
angular little face, those soft blue eyes, which could flash
with such fire, such stern energy, that little body still shaking
with indignation and anger—and it all seemed to him more
and more strange, almost impossible. “She is a religious
maniac!” he repeated to himself.

There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had
noticed it every time he paced up and down the room. Now
he took it up and looked at it. It was the New Testament in
the Russian translation. It was bound in leather, old and
worn.

“Where did you get that?” he called to her across the room.

She was still standing in the same place, three steps from
the table.

“It was brought me,” she answered, as it were unwillingly,
not looking at him.

“Who brought it?”

“Lizaveta, I asked her for it.”

“Lizaveta! strange!” he thought.

Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more
wonderful every moment. He carried the book to the candle
and began to turn over the pages.

“Where is the story of Lazarus?” he asked suddenly.

Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not an-
swer. She was standing sideways to the table.

“Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia.”

She stole a glance at him.

“You are not looking in the right place. ... It’s in the
fourth gospel,” she whispered sternly, without looking at him.

“Find it and read it to me,” he said. He sat down with his
elbow on the table, leaned his head on his hand and looked
away sullenly, prepared to listen.

“In three weeks’ time they'll welcome me in the madhouse!
I shall be there if I am not in a worse place,” he muttered to
himself.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 331

Sonia heard Raskolnikov’s request distrustfully and moved
hesitating to the table. She took the book however.

“Haven’t you read it?” she asked, looking up at him across
the table.

Her voice began sterner and sterner.

“Long ago. ... WhenI was at school. Read!”

“And haven’t you heard it in church?”

“I... haven’t been. Do you often go?”

“N-no,” whispered Sonia.

Raskolnikov smiled.

“T understand.... And you won’t go to your father’s
funeral to-morrow ?”

“Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too.... I had
a requiem service.”

“For whom?”

“For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe.”

His nerves were more and more strained. His head began
to go round.

“Were you friends with Lizaveta?”

“Yes. ... She was good... she used to come... not
often ... she couldn’t.... We used to read together and
... talk. She will see God.”

The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was
something new again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta
and both of them—religious maniacs.

“T shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It’s infec-
tious !”

“Read!” he cried irritably and insistently.

Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly
dared to read to him. He looked almost with exasperation at
the “unhappy lunatic.”

“What for? You don’t believe? .. .” she whispered softly
and as it were breathlessly. !

“Read! I want you to,” he persisted. “You used to read
to Lizaveta.”

Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands
were shaking, her voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin
and could not bring out the first syllable.

“Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany
... she forced herself at last to read, but at the third word

332 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

her voice broke like an overstrained string. There was a
catch in her breath.

Raskolnikov saw in part why Sonia could not bring herself
to read to him and the more he saw this, the more roughly
and irritably he insisted on her doing so. He understood only
too well how painful it was for her to betray and unveil all
that was her own. He understood that these feelings really
were her secret treasure, which she had kept perhaps for
years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived with an un-
happy father and distracted stepmother crazed by grief, in the
midst of starving children and unseemly abuse and re-
proaches. But at the same time he knew now and knew for
certain that, although it filled her with dread and sufferifig,
yet she had a tormenting desire to read and to read to him
that he might hear it, and to read now whatever might come
of it! ... He read this in her eyes, he could see it in her
intense emotion. She mastered herself, controlled the spasm
in.her throat and went on reading the eleventh chapter of St.
John. She went on to the nineteenth verse:

“And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to com-
fort them concerning their brother.

Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming
went and met Him: but Mary sat stili in the house.

Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been
here, my brother had not died.

But I know that even now whatsoever Thou wilt ask of
God, God will give it Thee. .. .”

Then she stopped again with a shamefaced feeling that her
voice would quiver and break again.

“Jesus said unto her, Thy brother shall rise again.

Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in
the resurrection, at the last day.

Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he
that believeth in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live.

And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.
Believest thou this?

She saith unto Him,”

(And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and
forcibly as though she were making a public confession of

faith, ) |

DAM Sy etl orm Rrolsace Fe piak
he

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 333

“Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of
God Which should come into the world.”

She stopped and looked up quickly at him, but controlling
herself went on reading. Raskolnikov sat without moving, his
elbows on the table and his eyes turned away. She read to
the thirty-second verse.

“Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw
Him, she fell down at His feet, saying unto Him, Lord if
Thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.

When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also
weeping which came with her, He groaned in the spirit and
was troubled,

And said, Where have you laid him? They said unto Him,
Lord, come and see.

Jesus wept.

Then said the Jews, behold how He loved him!

And some of them said, could not this Man Which opened
the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should
not have died?”

Raskolnikov turned and looked at her with emotion. Yes,
he had known it! She was trembling in a real physical fever.
He had expected it. She was getting near the story of the
greatest miracle and a feeling of immense triumph came over
her. Her voice rang out like a bell; triumph and joy gave it
power. The lines danced before her eyes, but she knew
what she was reading by heart. At the last verse “Could not
this Man Which opened the eyes of the blind . . .” dropping
her voice she passionately reproduced the doubt, the reproach
and censure of the blind disbelieving Jews, who in another
moment would fall at His feet as though struck by thunder,
sobbing and believing. ... “And he, he—too, is blinded and
unbelieving, he, too, will hear, he, too, will believe, yes, yes!
At once, now,” was what she was dreaming, and she was
quivering with happy anticipation.

“Jesus therefore again groaning in Himself cometh to the
grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it.

Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of
him that was dead, saith unto Him, Lord by this time he
stinketh: for he hath been dead four days.”

She laid emphasis on the word four.

334 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee that if thou
wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?

Then they took away the stone from the place where the
dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, Father,
I thank Thee that Thou hast heard Me.

And I knew that Thou hearest Me always; but because of
the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that
Thou hast sent Me.

And when He thus had spoken, He cried with a loud voice,
Lazarus, come forth.

And he that was dead came forth.”

(She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as
though she were seeing it before her eyes.) ,

“Bound hand and foot with gravecloths; and his face was
bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him
and let him go.

Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen
the things which Jesus did believed on Him.”

She could read no more, closed the book and got up from
her chair quickly.

“That is all about the raising of Lazarus,’ she whispered
severely and abruptly, and turning away she stood motionless,
not daring to raise her eyes to him. She still trembled fever-
ishly. The candie-end was flickering out in the battered
candlestick dimly lighting up in the poverty-stricken room
the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely been
reading together the eternal-book. Five minutes or more
passed.

“IT came to speak of something,” Raskolnikov said aloud,
frowning. He got up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes
to him in silence. His face was particularly stern and there
Was a sort of savage determination in it.

“T have abandoned my family to-day,” he said, “my mother
and sister. I am not going to see them. I’ve broken with
them completely.”

“What for?” asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting
with his mother and sister had left a great impression which
she could not analyse. She heard his news almost with
horror.

“IT have only you now,” he added. “Let us go together.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 335

. -. I’ve come to you, we are both accursed, let us go our
way together !”

His eyes glittered “as though he were mad,” Sonia thought
in her turn.

“Go where?” she asked in alarm and she involuntarily
stepped back.

“How do I know? I only know it’s the same road, I know
that and nothing more. It’s the same goal!”

She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only
that he was terribly, infinitely unhappy.

“No one of them will understand, if you tell them, but I
have understood. I need you, that is why I have come to
you.”

“T don’t understand,” whispered Sonia.

“You'll understand later. Haven’t you done the same?
You, too, have transgressed ... have had the strength to
transgress. You have laid hands on yourself, you have
destroyed a life. ... your own (it’s all the same!). You
might have lived in spirit and understanding, but you'll end in
the Hay Market. . . . But you won't be able to stand it, and
if you remain alone you'll go out of your mind like me. You
are like a mad creature already. So we must go together on
the same road! Let us go!”

“What for? What’s all this for?’ said Sonia, strangely
and violently agitated by his words.

“What for? Because you can’t remain like this, that’s
why! You must look things straight in the face at last, and
not weep like a child and cry that God won’t allow it. What
will happen, if you should really be taken to the hospital
to-morrow? She is mad and in consumption, she'll soon die
and the children? Do you mean to tell me Polenka won’t
come to grief? Haven’t you seen children here at the street
corners sent out by their mothers to beg? I’ve found out
where those mothers live and in what surroundings. Children
can’t remain children there! At seven the child is vicious
andathief. Yet children, you know, are the image of Christ:
‘theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.’ He bade us honour and
love them, they are the humanity of the future... .”

“What’s to be done, what’s to be done?” repeated Sonia,
weeping hysterically and wringing her hands.

336 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“What's to be done? Break what must be broken, once for
all, that’s all, and take the suffering on oneself. What, you
don’t understand? You'll understand later. ... Freedom
and power, and above all, power! Over all trembling cre-
ation and all the antheap!... That’s the goal, remember
that! That’s my farewell message. Perhaps it’s the last
time I shall speak to you. If I don’t come to-morrow, you'll
hear of it all, and then remember these words. And some
day later on, in years to come, you'll understand perhaps
what they meant. If I come to-morrow, I’ll tell you who
killed Lizaveta. . . . Good-bye.”

Sonia started with terror. :

“Why, do you know who killed her?” she asked, chilled
with horror, looking wildly at him.

“T know and will tell... you, only you. I have chosen
you out. I’m not coming to you to ask forgiveness, but
simply to tell you. I chose you out long ago to hear this,
when your father talked of you and when Lizaveta was alive,
I thought of it. Good-bye, don’t shake hands. To-morrow!”

He went out. Sonia gazed at him as at a madman. But
she herself was like one insane and felt it. Her head was
going round.

“Good heavens, how does he know who killed Lizaveta?
What did those words mean? It’s awful!” But at the same
time the idea did not enter her head, not fora moment! “Oh,
he must be terribly unhappy! ... He has abandoned his
mother and sister... What for? What has happened?
And what had he in his mind? What did he say to her?
He had kissed her foot and said ... said (yes, he had said
it clearly) that he could not live without her. . . . Oh, merci-
ful heavens!”

Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She
jumped up from time to time, wept and wrung her hands,
then sank again into feverish sleep and dreamt of Polenka,
Katerina Ivanovna and Lizaveta, of reading the gospel and
him . . . him with pale face, with burning eyes . . . kissing
her feet, weeping.

On the other side of the door on the right, which divided
Sonia’s room from Madame Resslich’s flat, was a room which
had long stood empty. A card was fixed on the gate and a

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 337

notice stuck in the windows over the canal advertising it to
let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the room’s being
uninhabited. But ail that time Mr. Svidrigailov had been
standing, listening at the door of the empty room. When
Raskolnikov went out he stood still, thought a moment, went
on tiptoe to his own room which adjoined the empty one,
brought a chair and noiselessly carried it to the door that led
to Sonia’s room. The conversation had struck him as inter-
esting and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed it—so
much so that he brought a chair that he might not in the
future, to-morrow, for instance, have to endure the incon-
yenience of standing a whole hour, but might listen in
comfort.

CHAPTER V

HEN next morning at eleven o’clock punctually Rase-
kolnikov went into the department of the investiga-

tion of criminal causes and sent his name in to
Porfiry Petrovitch, he was surprised at being kept waiting
so long: it was at least ten minutes before he was summoned.
He had expected that they would pounce upon him. But he
stood in the waiting-room, and people, who apparently Had
nothing to do with him, were continually passing to and fro
_ before him. In the next room which looked like an office,
several clerks were sitting writing and obviously they had
no notion who or what Raskolnikov might be. He looked
uneasily and suspiciously about him to see whether there was
not some guard, some mysterious watch being kept on him to
prevent his escape. But there was nothing of the sort, he
saw only the faces of clerks absorbed in petty details, then
other people, no one seemed to have any concern with him.
He might go where he liked for them. The conviction grew
stronger in him that if that enigmatic man of yesterday, that
. phantom sprung out of the earth, had seen everything, they
would not have let him stand and wait like that. And would
they have waited till he.elected to appear at eleven? Either
the man had not yet given information, or . .. or simply he
knew nothing, had seen nothing (and how could he have seen
anything?) and so all that had happened to him the day
before was again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and
overstrained imagination. This conjecture had begun to grow
strong the day before, in the midst of all his alarm and de-
spair.

Thinking it all over now and preparing for a fresh con-
flict, he was suddenly aware that he was trembling—and
he felt a rush of indignation at the thought that he was trem-
bling with fear at facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovitch.
What he dreaded above all was meeting that man again; he
hated him with an intense, unmitigated hatred and was afraid

338

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 839

his hatred might betray him. His indignation was such that
he ceased trembling at once; he made ready to go in with
a cold and arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep
as silent as possible, to watch and listen and for once at least
to control his overstrained nerves. At that moment he was
summoned to Porfiry Petrovitch.

He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study. His study
was a room neither large nor small, furnished with a large
writing-table, that stood before a sofa, upholstered in checked
material, a bureau, a bookcase in the corner and several
chairs—all government furniture, of polished yellow wood.
In the further wall there was a closed door, beyond it there
were no doubt other rooms. On Raskolnikov’s entrance Por-
firy Petrovitch had at once closed the door by which he had
come in and they remained alone. He met his visitor with
an apparently genial and good-tempered air, and it was only
after a few minutes that Raskolnikov saw signs of a certain
awkwardness in him, as though he had been thrown out of
his reckoning or caught in something very secret.

“Ah, my dear fellow! Here you are ... in our domain”
» - « began Porfiry, holding out both hands to him. ‘Come,
sit down, old man... or perhaps you don’t like to be called
‘my dear fellow’ and ‘old man’—tout court? Please don’t
think it too familiar. ... Here, on the sofa.”

Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. “In
our domain,” the apologies for familiarity, the French phrase
tout court, were all characteristic signs.

“He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one
—he drew it back in time,” struck him suspiciously. Both
were watching each other, but when their eyes met, quick as

lightning they looked away.
_ “T brought you this paper... about the watch. Here it
is, Is it all right or shall I copy it again?”

“What? <A paper? Yes, yes, don’t be uneasy, it’s all
right,” Porfiry Petrovitch said as though in haste, and after
he had said it he took the paper and looked at it. “Yes, it’s
all right. Nothing more is needed,” he declared with the same
rapidity and he laid the paper on the table.

A minute later when he was talking of something else he
took it from the table and put it on his bureau.

340 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“I believe you said yesterday you would like to question
me... formally ... about my acquaintance with the mur-
dered woman?” Raskolnikov was beginning again. “Why
did I put in ‘I believe’” passed through his mind in a flash.
“Why am I so uneasy at having put in that ‘J believe’?” came
in a second flash. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at
the mere contact with Porfiry, at the first words, at the first
looks, had grown in an instant to monstrous proportions, and
that this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quiver-
ing, his emotion was increasing. “It’s bad, it’s bad! I shall
say too much again.”

“Yes, yes, yes! There’s no hurry, there’s no hurry,” mut-
tered Porfiry Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the table
without any apparent aim, as it were making dashes towards
the window, the bureau and the table, at one moment avoid-
ing Raskolnikovs’ suspicious glance, then again standing
still and looking him straight in the face.

His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball
rolling from one side to the other and rebounding back.

“We've plenty of time. Do you smoke? have you your
own? Here, a cigarette!’ he went on, offering his visitor a
cigarette. “You know I am receiving you here, but my own
quarters are through there, you know, my government
quarters. But I am living outside for the time, I had to
have some repairs done here. It’s almost finished now... .
Government quarters, you know, are a capital thing. Eh,
what do you think?”

“Yes, a capital thing,” answered Raskolnikov, looking at
him almost ironically.

“A capital thing, a capital thing,” repeated Porfiry Petro-
vitch, as though he had just thought of something quite
different. “Yes, a capital thing,” he almost shouted at last,
suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping short two steps
from him.

This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its inepitude
with the serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned
upon his visitor.

But this stirred Raskolnikov’s spleen more than ever and
he could not resist an ironical and rather incautious
challenge.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 341

“Tell me, please,” he asked suddenly, looking almost inso-
lently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in his own inso-
lence. “I believe it’s a sort of legal rule, a sort of legal
tradition—for all investigating lawyers—to begin their attack
from afar, with a trivial, or at least an irrelevant subject,
so as to encourage, or rather, to divert the man they are
cross-examining, to disarm his caution and then all at once
to give him an unexpected knock-down blow with some fatal
question. Isn’t that so? It’s a sacred tradition, mentioned,
I fancy, in all the manuals of the art?”

“Yes, yes... . Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke
about government quarters ... eh?”

And as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch screwed up his eyes
and winked; a good-humoured, crafty look passed over his
face. The wrinkles on his forehead were smoothed out, his
eyes contracted, his features broadened and he suddenly went
off into a nervous prolonged laugh, shaking all over and look-
ing Raskolnikov straight in the face. The latter forced
_ himself to laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was
laughing, broke into such a guffaw that he turned almost
crimson, Raskolnikov’s repulsion overcame all precaution;
he left off laughing, scowled and stared with hatred at Por-
fry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his intentionally
prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on
both sides, however, for Porfiry Petrovitch seemed to be
laughing in his visitor’s face and to be very little disturbed at
the annoyance with which the visitor received it. The latter
fact was very significant in Raskolnikov’s eyes: he saw that
Porfiry Petrovitch had not been embarrassed just before
either, but that he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a
trap; that there must be something, some motive here un-
known to him; that, perhaps, everything was in readiness and
in another moment would break upon him. ...

He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat
and took his cap.

“Porfiry Petrovitch,’ he began resolutely, though with
considerable irritation, “yesterday you expressed a desire
that I should come to you for some inquiries (he laid special
stress on the word ‘inquiries’). I have come and, if you
have anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow me to

342 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

withdraw. I have no time to spare. ... I have to be at the
funeral of that man who was run over, of whom you...
know also,” he added, feeling angry at once at having made
this addition and more irritated at his anger, “I am sick of
it all, do you hear, and have long been. It’s partly what
made me ill. In short,” he shouted, feeling that the phrase
about his illness was still more out of place, “in short, kindly
examine me or let me go, at once. And if you must examine
me, do so in the proper form! I will not allow you to do
so otherwise, and so meanwhile, good-bye, as we have evi-
dently nothing to keep us now.”

“Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I ques-
tion you about?” cackled Porfiry Petrovitch with a charige
of tone, instantly leaving off laughing. “Please don’t dis-
turb yourself,’ he began fidgeting from place to place and
fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. “There’s no hurry,
there’s no hurry, it’s all nonsense. Oh, no, ’m very glad
you’ve come to see me at last... I look upon you simply
as a visitor. And as for my confounded laughter, please
excuse it, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion Romanovitch?
That is your name? ... It’s my nerves, you tickled me so
with your witty observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake
with laughter like an india-rubber ball for half an hour at
a time. ... I’m often afraid of an attack of paralysis. Do
- sit down. Please do, or I shall think you are angry...”

Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still
frowning angrily. He did sit-down, but still held his cap.

“T must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion
Romanovitch,” Porfiry Petrovitch continued, moving about
the room and again avoiding his visitor’s eyes. “You see,
I’m a bachelor, a man of no consequence and not used to
society; besides, I have nothing before me, I’m set, I’m
running to seed and...and have you noticed, Rodion
Romanovitch, that in our Petersburg circles, if two clever
men meet who are not intimate, but respect each other, like
you and me, it takes them half an hour before they can find
a subject for conversation—they are dumb, they sit opposite
each other and feel awkward. Every one has subjects of
conversation, ladies for instance . . . people in high society
always have their subjects of conversation, c’est de rigueur,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 848

but people of the middle sort like us, thinking people that is,
are always tongue-tied and awkward. What is the reason
of it? Whether it is the lack of public interest, or whether
it is we are so honest we don’t want to deceive one another,
I don’t know. What do you think? Do put down your cap,
it looks as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfort-
able ... I anf so delighted .. .”

Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in
silence with a serious frowning face to the vague and empty
chatter of Porfiry Petrovitch. “Does he really want to dis-
tract my attention with his silly babble?”

“T can’t offer you coffee here: but why not spend five
minutes with a friend,’ Porfiry pattered on, “and you know
all these official duties ... please don’t mind my running
up and down, excuse it, my dear fellow, I am very much
afraid of offending you, but exercise is absolutely indispensa-
ble for me. I’m always sitting and so glad to be moving
about for five minutes ... I suffer from my sedentary life
...I1 always intend to join a gymnasium; they say that
officials of all ranks, even Privy Councillors may be seen
skipping gaily there; there you have it, modern science...
yes, yes.... But as for my duties here, inquiries and all
such formalities ... you mentioned inquiries yourself just
now ...I assure you these interrogations are sometimes
more embarrassing for the interrogator than for the inter-
rogated. ... You made the observation yourself just now
very aptly and wittily. (Raskolnikov had made no observa-
tion of the kind.) One gets into a muddle! A regular
muddle! One keeps harping on the same note, like a drum!
There is to be a reform and we shall be called by a different
name, at least, he-he-he! And as for our legal tradition, as
you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree with you. Every
prisoner on trial, even the rudest peasant knows, that they
begin by disarming him with irrelevant questions (as you so
happily put it) and then deal him a knock-down blow, he-
he-he!—your felicitous comparison, he-he! So you really
imagined that I meant by government quarters . .. he-he!
You are an ironical person. Come, I won’t go on! Ah, by
the way, yes! One word leads to another. You spoke of
formality just now, apropos of the inquiry, you know. But

344 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

what’s the use of formality? In many cases it’s nonsense.
Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets a good deal more
out of it. One can always fall back on formality, allow me
to assure you. And after all, what does it amount to? An
examining lawyer cannot be bounded by formality at every
step. The work of investigation is, so to speak, a free art
in its own way, he-he-he!”

Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He had simply
babbled on uttering empty phrases, letting slip a few enig-
matic words and again reverting to incoherence. He was
almost running about the room, moving his fat little legs
quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his right
hand behind his back, while with his left making gesticula-
tions that were extraordinarily incongruous with his words.
Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that as he ran about the room
he seemed twice to stop for a moment near the door, as
though he were listening.

“Is he expecting anything?”

“You are certainly quite right about it,” Porfiry began
gaily, looking with extraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov
(which startled him and instantly put him on his guard)
“certainly quite right in laughing so wittily at our legal
forms, he-he! Some of these elaborate psychological meth-
ods are exceedingly ridiculous and perhaps useless, if one
adheres too closely to the forms. Yes... I am talking of
forms again. Well, if I recognise, or more strictly speaking,
if I suspect some one or other to be a criminal in any case
entrusted to me... you’re reading for the law, of course,
Rodion Romanovitch ?”

“Yes, Towas isla)

“Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future—
though don’t suppose I should venture to instruct you after
the articles you publish about crime! No, simply I make
bold to state it by way of a fact, if I took this man or that
for a criminal, why, I ask, should I worry him prematurely,
even though I had evidence against him? In one case I may
be bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another
may be in quite a different position, you know, so why
shouldn’t I let him walk about the town a bit, he-he-he! But
it see you don’t quite understand, so I'll give you a clearer

vy

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 345

example. If I put him in prison too soon, I may very
likely give him so to speak, moral support, he-he! You’re
laughing ?”

Raskolnikov had no idea of laughing. He was sitting with
compressed lips, his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry Pet-
rovitch’s,

“Yet that is the case, with some types especially, for men
are so different. You say evidence. Well, there may be
evidence. But evidence, you know, can generally be taken
two ways. I am an examining lawyer and a weak man I
confess it. I should like to make a proof, so to say, mathe-
matically clear, I should like to make a chain of evidence such
as twice two are four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable
proof! And if I shut him up too soon—even though I might
be convinced he was the man, I should very likely be depriv-
ing myself of the means of getting further evidence against
him. And how? By giving him, so to speak, a definite
position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his mind
at rest, so that he will retreat into his shell. They say that
at Sevastopol, soon after Alma, the clever people were in
a terrible fright that the enemy would attack openly and
take Sevastopol at once. But when they saw that the enemy
preferred a regular siege, they were delighted, I am told and
reassured, for the thing would drag on for two months at
least. You’re laughing, you don’t believe me again? Of
course, you're right, too. You're right, you’re right. These
are all special cases, I admit. But you must observe this,
my dear Rodion Romanovitch, the general case, the case for
which all legal forms and rules are intended, for which they
are calculated and laid down in books, does not exist at all,
for the reason that every case, every crime for instance, so
soon as it actually occurs, at once becomes a thoroughly
special case and sometimes a case unlike any that’s gone be-
fore. Very comic cases of that sort sometimes occur. If I
leave one man quite alone, if I don’t touch him and don’t
worry him, but let him know or at least suspect every
moment that I know all about it and am watching him day
and night, and if he is in continual suspicion and terror, he’ll
be bound to lose his head. He’ll come of himself, or maybe
do something which will make it as plain as twice two are

346 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

four—it’s delightful. It may be so with a simple peasant,
but with one of our sort, an intelligent man cultivated on a
certain side, it’s a dead certainty. For, my dear fellow, it’s
a very important matter to know on what side a man is
cultivated. And then there are nerves, there are nerves,
you have overlooked them! Why, they are all sick, nervous
and irritable! . . . And then how they all suffer from spleen!
That I assure you is a regular gold mine for us. And it’s
no anxiety to me, his running about the town free! Let him,
let him walk about for a bit! I know well enough that I’ve
caught him and that he won’t escape me. Where could he
escape to, he-he? Abroad, perhaps? A Pole will escape
abroad, but not he, especially as I am watching and havé
taken measures. Will he escape into the depths of the coun-
try perhaps? But you know, peasants live there, real rude
Russian peasants. A modern cultivated man would prefer
prison to living with such strangers as our peasants. He-he!
But that’s all nonsense, and on the surface. It’s not merely
that he has nowhere to run to, he is psychologically unable
to escape me, he-he! What an expression! Through a law
of nature he can’t escape me if he had anywhere to go. Have
you seen a butterfly round a candle? That’s how he will
keep circling and circling round me. Freedom will lose its
attractions. He’ll begin to brood, he’ll weave a tangle round
himself, he’ll worry himseif to death! What’s more he will
provide me with a mathematical proof—if I only give him
long enough interval. ... And he’ll keep circling round me,
getting nearer and nearer and then—flop! He'll fly straight
into my mouth and I'll swallow him, and that will be very
amusing, he-he-he! You don’t believe me?”

Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless,
still gazing with the same intensity into Porfiry’s face.

“Tt’s a lesson,” he thought, turning cold. “This is beyond
the cat playing with a mouse, like yesterday. He can’t be
showing off his power with no motive ... prompting me;
he is far too clever for that ...he must have another
object. What is it? It’s all nonsense, my friend, you are
pretending, to scare me! You’ve no proofs and the man I
saw had no real existence. You simply want to make me
lose my head, to work me up beforehand and so to crush me.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 347

But you are wrong, you won't do it! But why give me such
a hint? Is he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my
friend, you are wrong, you won't do it even though you have
some trap for me... let us see what you have in store for
me.”

And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown or-
deal. At times he longed to fall on Porfiry and strangle him.
This anger was what he dreaded from the beginning. He
felt that his parched lips were flecked with foam, his heart
was throbbing. But he was still determined not to speak till
the right moment. He realised that this was the best policy
in his position, because instead of saying too much he would
be irritating his enemy by his silence and provoking him into
speaking too freely. Anyhow, this was what he hoped for.

“No, I see you don’t believe me, you think I am playing a
harmless joke on you,” Porfiry began again, getting more
and more lively, chuckling at every instant and again pacing
round the room. “And to be sure you’re right: God has
given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in
other people; a buffoon; but let me tell you and I repeat it,
excuse an old man, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, you are
a man still young, so to say, in your first youth and so you
put intellect above everything, like all young people. Playful
wit and abstract arguments fascinate you and that’s for all
the world like the old Austrian Hof-kriegsrath, as far as I
can judge of military matters that is: on paper they’d beaten
Napoleon and taken him prisoner, and there in their study
they worked it all out in the cleverest fashion, but look you,
General Mack surrendered with all his army, he-he-he! I
see, I see, Rodion Romanovitch, you are laughing at a civil-
ian like me, taking examples out of military history! But
I can’t help it, it’s my weakness. I am fond of military
science. And I’m ever so fond of reading all military his-
tories. I’ve certainly missed my proper career. I ought to
have been in the army, upon my word I ought. I shouldn’t
have been a Napoleon, but I might have’ been a major,
he-he-he! Well, I will tell you the whole truth, my dear
fellow, about this special case, I mean: actual fact and a
man’s temperament, my dear sir, are weighty matters and
it’s astonishing how they sometimes deceive the sharpest cal-

348 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

culation! I—listen to an old man—am speaking seriously,
Rodion Romanovitch (as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch who
was scarcely five and thirty actually seemed to have grown
old; even his voice changed and he seemed to shrink to-
gether) moreover, I’m a candid man... am I a candid man
or not? What do you say? I fancy I really am: I tell you
these things for nothing and don’t even expect a reward for
it, he-he! Well, to proceed, wit in my opinion is a splendid
thing, it is, so to say, an adornment of nature and a consola-
tion of life, and what tricks it can play! So that it sometimes
is hard for a poor examining lawyer to know where he is, es-
pecially when he’s liable to be carried away by his own fancy,
too, for you know he is a man after all! But the poor fellow
is saved by the criminal’s temperament, worse luck for him!
But young people carried away by their own wit don’t think
of that ‘when they overstep all obstacles’ as you wittily and
cleverly expressed it yesterday. He will lie—that is the man
who is a special case, the incognito, and he will lie well,
in the cleverest fashion; you might think he would triumph
and enjoy the fruits of his wit, but at the most interesting,
the most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course there
may be illness and a stuffy room as well, but anyway! Any-
way he’s given us the idea! He lied incomparably, but he
didn’t reckon on his temperament. That’s what betrays
him! Another time he will be carried away by his playful
wit into making fun of the man who suspects him, he will
turn pale as it were on purpose to mislead, but his paleness
will be too natural, too much like the real thing, again he
has given us an idea! Though his questioner may be de-
ceived at first, he will think differently next day if he is not
a fool, and, of course, it is like that at every step! He puts
himself forward where he is not wanted, speaks continually
when he ought to keep silent, brings in all sorts of allegori-
cal allusions, he-he! Comes and asks why didn’t you take me
long ago, he-he-he! And that can happen, you know, with
the cleverest man, the psychologist, the literary man. The
temperament reflects everything like a mirror! Gaze into
it and admire what you see! But why are you so pale,
Rodion Romanovitch? Is the room stuffy? Shall I open the
window ?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 349

“Oh, don’t trouble, please,” cried Raskolnikov and he sud-
denly broke into a laugh. “Please don’t trouble.”

Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly
he too laughed. Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly
checking his hysterical laughter.

“Porfiry Petrovitch,” he began, speaking loudly and dis-
tinctly, though his legs trembled and he could scarcely stand.
“T see clearly at last that you actually suspect me of murder-
ing that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. Let me tell
you for my part that I am sick of this. If you find that you
have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then
prosecute me, arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered
at to my face and worried .. .”

His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could
not restrain his voice.

“IT won't allow it!’ he shouted, bringing his first down on
the table. “Do you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won't
allow it.” |

“Good heavens! What does it mean?” cried Porfiry Petro-
vitch, apparently quite frightened. ‘“Rodion Romanovitch,
my dear fellow, what is the matter with you?”

“T won't allow it,’ Raskolnikov shouted again.

“Hush, my dear man! They'll hear and come in. Just
think, what could we say to them?’ Porfiry Petrovitch
whispered in horror, bringing his face close to Raskolnikov’s.

“T won't allow it, I won't allow it,’ Raskolnikov repeated

mechanically, but he too spoke in a sudden whisper.

* Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window.

“Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my
dear fellow. You're ill!” and he was running to the door
to call for some when he found a decanter of water in
the corner. ‘Come, drink a little,’ he whispered, rushing
up to him with the decanter. “It will be sure to do you
good.”

Porfiry Petrovitch’s alarm and sympathy were so natural
that Raskolnikov was silent and began looking at him with
wild curiosity. He did not take the water however.

“Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you’ll drive your-
self out of your mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some
water, do drink a little.”

350 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it
mechanically to his lips, but set it on the table again with
disgust.

“Yes, you’ve had a little attack! You'll bring back your
illness again, my dear fellow,” Porfiry Petrovitch cackled
with friendly sympathy, though he still looked rather dis-
concerted. “Good heavens, you must take more care of
yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me yes-
terday—I know, I know, I’ve a nasty, ironical temper, but
what they made of it! . . . Good heavens, he came yesterday
after you’d been. We dined and he talked and talked away,
and I could only throw up my hands in despair! Did he
come from you? But do sit down, for mercy’s sake, sit
down !”

“No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and’ why
he went,” Raskolnikov answered sharply.

“You knew?”

“I knew. What of it?”

“Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than
that about you; I know about everything, I know how you
went io take a flat at night when it was dark and how you
rang the bell and asked about the blood, so that the workmen
and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I
understand your state of mind at that time... but you'll
drive yourself mad like that, upon my word! You'll lose
your head! You're full of generous indignation at the
wrongs you've received, first from destiny, and then from
the police officers, and so you rush from one thing to another
to force them to speak out and make an end of it all, because
you are sick of all this suspicion and foolishness. That’s so,
isn’t it? I have guessed how you feel, haven’t I? Only in
that way you'll lose your head and Razumihin’s, too; he’s
too good a man for such a position, you must know that.
You are ill and he is good and your illness is infectious for
him... Pll tell you about it when you are more yourself.
. -. But do sit down, for goodness’ sake. Please rest, you
look shocking, do sit down.”

Raskolnikov sat down; he no longer shivered, he was hot
all over. In amazement he listened with strained attention
to Porfiry Petrovitch who still seemed frightened as he

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT $51

looked after him with friendly solicitude. But he did not
believe a word he said, though he felt a strange inclination
to believe. Porfiry’s unexpected words about the flat had
utterly overwhelmed him. “How can it be, he knows about
the flat then,” he thought suddenly, “and he tells it me
himself !”

“Yes, in our legal practice there was a case almost exactly
similar, a case of morbid psychology,’ Porfiry went on
quickly. “A man confessed to murder and how he kept it
up! It was a regular hallucination; he brought forward
facts, he imposed upon every one and why? He had been
partly, but only partly, unintentionally the cause of a murder
and when he knew that he had given the murderers the
opportunity, he sank into dejection, it got on his mind and
turned his brain, he began imagining things and he persuaded
himself that he was the murderer. But at last the High
Court of Appeal went into it and the poor fellow was ac-
quitted and put under proper care. Thanks to the Court of
Appeal! Tut-tut-tut! Why, my dear fellow, you may drive
yourself into delirium if you have the impulse to work upon >
your nerves, to go ringing bells at night and asking about
blood! I’ve studied all this morbid psychology in my
practice. A man is sometimes tempted to jump out of win-
dow or from a belfry. Just the same with bell-ringing. ...
It’s all illness, Rodion Romanovitch! You have begun
to neglect your illness. You should consult an ex-
perienced doctor, what’s the good of that fat fellow? You
are light-headed! You were delirious when you did all
this !”

For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything going round.

“Is it possible, is it possible,” flashed through his mind,
“that he is still lying? He can’t be, he can’t be.” He re-
jected that idea, feeling to what a degree of fury it might
drive him, feeling that that fury might drive him mad.

“I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing,” he cried,
straining every faculty to penetrate Porfiry’s game, “I was
quite myself, do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday you were
not delirious, you were particularly emphatic about it! I
understand all you can tell me! A-ach!... Listen, Rodion

352 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Romanovitch, my dear fellow. If you were actually a crim-
inal, or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business,
would you insist that you were not delirious but in full
possession of your faculties? And so emphatically and per-
sistently? Would it be possible? Quite impossible, to my
thinking. If you had anything on your conscience, you cer-
tainly ought to insist that you were delirious. ‘That’s so,
isn’t it?”

There was a note of slyness in this inquiry. Raskolnikov
drew back on the sofa as Porfiry bent over him and stared
in silent perplexity at him.

“Another thing about Razumihin—you certainly ought to
have said that he came of his own accord, to have concealed
your part in it! But you don’t conceal it! You lay stress
on his coming at your instigation.”

Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his
back.

“You keep telling lies,” he said slowly and weakly, twist-
ing his lips into a sickly smile, “you are trying again to show
that you know all my game, that you know all I shall say
beforehand,” he said, conscious himself that he was not
weighing his words as he ought. “You want to frighten me

. Or you are simply laughing at me...”

He still stared at him as he said this and again there was
a light of intense hatred in his eyes.

“You keep lying,” he cried. “You know perfectly well that
the best policy for the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly
as possible . . . to conceal as little as possible. I don’t be-
lieve you!”

“What a wily person you are!’’ Porfiry tittered, “there’s
no catching you; you’ve a perfect monomania. So you don’t
believe me? But still you do believe me, you believe a
quarter; I’ll soon make you believe the whole, because I
have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you good. cs

Raskolnikov’s lips trembled.

“Yes, I do,” went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov’s arm
genially, “you must take care of your illness. Besides, your
mother and sister are here now; you must think of them.
You must soothe and comfort them and you do nothing but
frighten them .. .”

aie

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 353

“What has that to do with you? How do you know it?
What concern is it of yours? You are keeping watch on
me and want to let me know it?”

“Good heavens! Why, I learnt it all from you yourself!
You don’t notice that in your excitement you tell me and
others everything. From Razumihin, too, I learnt a number
of interesting details yesterday. No, you interrupted me, but
I must tell you that, for all your wit, your suspiciousness
makes you lose the common-sense view’ of things. To return
to bell-ringing, for instance. I, an examining lawyer, have
betrayed a precious thing like that, a real fact (for it is a
fact worth having), and you see nothing in it! Why, if I
had the slightest suspicion of you, should I have acted like
that? No, I should first have disarmed your suspicions and
not let you see I knew of that fact, should have diverted
your attention and suddenly have dealt you a knock-down
blow (your expression) saying: ‘And what were you doing,
sir, pray, at ten or nearly eleven at the murdered woman’s
flat and why did you ring the bell and why did you ask about
blood? And why did you invite the porters to go with you
to the police-station, to the lieutenant? That’s how I ought
to have acted if I had a grain of suspicion of you. I ought
to have taken your evidence in due form, searched your
lodging and perhaps have arrested you, too... so I have
no suspicion of you, since I have not done that! But
you can’t look at it normally and you see nothing, I say
again.”

Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovitch could not
fail to perceive it.

“You are lying all the while,’ he cried, “I don’t know
your object, but you are lying. You did not speak like that
just now and I cannot be mistaken !”

“T am lying?” Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but
preserving a good-humoured and ironical face, as though he
were not in the least concerned at Raskolnikov’s opinion of
him. “I am lying ... but how did I treat you just now, I,
the examining lawyer? Prompting you and giving.you every
means for your defence; illness, I said, delirium, injury,
melancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it? Ah!
He-he-he! Though, indeed, all those psychological means

354 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

of defence are not very reliable and cut both ways: illness,
delirium, I don’t remember—that’s all right, but why, my
good sir, in your illness and in your delirium were you
haunted by just those delusions and not by any others?
There may have been others, eh? He-he-he!”

Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at him.

“Briefly,” he said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet
and in so doing pushing Porfiry back a little, “briefly, I want
to know, do you acknowledge me perfectly free from suspi-
cion or not? Tell me, Porfiry Petrovitch, tell me once for
all and make haste!”

“What a business I’m having with you!” cried Porfiry with
a perfectly good-humoured, sly and composed face. “And
why do you want to know, why do you want to know so
much, since they haven’t begun to worry you? Why, you
are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so
uneasy? Why do you force yourself upon us, eh? He-
he-he !”

“T repeat,” Raskolnikov cried furiously, “that I can’t put
up with it!”

“With what? Uncertainty?” interrupted Porfiry.

“Don’t jeer at me! I won't have it! I tell you I won't
have it. I can’t and I won’t, do you hear, do you hear?” he
shouted, bringing his fist down on the table again.

“Hush! Hush! They’ll overhear! I warn you seriously,
take care of yourself. I am not joking,’ Porfiry whispered,
but this time there was not the look of old womanish good-
nature and alarm in his face. Now he was peremptory,
stern, frowning and for once laying aside all mystification.

But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered,
suddenly fell into actual frenzy, but, strange to say, he again
obeyed the command to speak quietly, though he was in a
perfect paroxysm of fury.

“T will not allow myself to be tortured,” he whispered, in-
stantly recognising with hatred that he could not help obeying
the command and driven to even greater fury by the thought.
“Arrest me, search me, but kindly act in due form and don’t
play with me! Don’t dare!”

“Don’t worry about the form,” Porfiry interrupted with the
same sly smile, as it were, gloating with enjoyment over

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 355

Raskolnikov. “I invited you to see me quite in a friendly
way.”

“I don’t want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you
hear? And, here, I take my cap and go. What will you say
now if you mean to arrest me?”

He took up his cap and went to the door.

“And won’t you see my little surprise?’ chuckled Porfiry,
again taking him by the arm and stopping him at the door.

He seemed to become more playful and good-humoured
which maddened Raskolnikov.

“What surprise?” he asked, standing still and looking at
Porfiry in alarm.

“My little surprise, it’s sitting there behind the door,
he-he-he! (He pointed to the locked door.) I locked him
in that he should not escape.”

“What is it? Where? What?.. .”

Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened
it, but it was locked.

“Tt’s locked, here is the key!”

And he brought a key out of his pocket.

“You are lying,’ roared Raskolnikov without restraint,
“you lie, you damned punchinello!” and he rushed at Porfiry
who retreated to the other door, not at all alarmed.

“I understand it all! You are lying and mocking so that
I may betray myself to you... .”

“Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear
Rodion Romanovitch. You are in a passion. Don’t shout,
I shall call the clerks.”

“You are lying! Call the clerks! You knew I was ill and
tried to work me into a frenzy to make me betray myself,
that was your object! Produce your facts! I understand
it all. You’ve no evidence, you have only wretched rubbishy
suspicions like Zametov’s! You knew my character, you
wanted to drive me to fury and then to knock me down with
priests and deputies. ... Are you waiting for them? eh!
What are you waiting for? Where are they? Produce
them ?”

“Why deputies, my good man? What things people will
imagine! And to do so would not be acting in form as you
say, you don’t know the business, my dear fellow... And

356 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

there’s no escaping form, as you see.” Porfiry muttered,
listening at the door through which a noise could be heard.

“Ah, they’re coming,” cried Raskolnikov. ‘“You’ve sent
for them! You expected them! Well, produce them all:
your deputies, your witnesses, what you like!...I am
ready !”

But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something
so unexpected that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petro-
vitch could have looked for such a conclusion to their in-
terview.

CHAPTER VI

HEN he remembered the scene afterwards, this is
how Raskolnikov saw it.

The noise behind the door increased, and sud-
denly the door was opened a little.

“What is it?’ cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. “Why,
I gave orders .. .”

For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident
that there were several persons at the door, and that they
were apparently pushing somebody back.

“What is it?” Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily.

“The prisoner Nikolay has been brought,’ some one an-
swered.

“He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait!
What’s he doing here? How irregular!” cried Porfiry, rush-
ing to the door.

“But he...” began the same voice, and suddenly ceased.

Two seconds, not more, were spent in actual struggle, then
some one gave a violent shove, and then a man, very pale,
strode into the room.

This man’s appearance was at first sight very strange. He
stared straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There
was a determined gleam in his eyes; at the same time
there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he were
being led to the scaffold, His white lips were faintly
twitching.

He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height,
very young, slim, his hair cut in a round crop, with thin spare
features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him
into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder;
he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away.

Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway.
Some of them tried to get in. All this took place almost
instantaneously.

“Go away, it’s too soon! Wait till you are sent for! ..

357

358 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Why have you brought him too soon?” Porfiry Petrovitch
muttered, extremely annoyed, and as it were thrown out of
his reckoning.

But Nikolay suddenly knelt down.

“What’s the matter?” cried Porfiry, surprised.

“I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer,”
Nikolay articulated suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking
fairly loudly.

For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been
struck dumb; even the warder stepped back, mechanically
retreated to the door, and stood immovable.

“What is it?” cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his

momentary stupefaction. A
“I... am the murderer,” repeated Nikolay, after a brief
pause.

“What... you... what...whom did you kill?”
Porfiry Petrovitch was obviously bewildered.

Nikolay again was silent for a moment.

“Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna,I ...
killed . . . with an axe. Darkness came over me,” he added
suddenly, and was again silent.

He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood
for some moments as though meditating, but suddenly roused
himself and waved back the uninvited spectators. They
instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he looked
towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring
wildly at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short,
looked from Nikolay to Raskolnikov and then again at
Nikolay, and seeming unable to restrain himself darted at
the latter.

“You’re in too great a hurry,” he shouted at him, almost
angrily. “I didn’t ask you what came over you... Speak,
did you kill them?”

“I am the murderer. . . . I want to give evidence,” Nikolay
pronounced,

“Ach! What did you kill them with?’

“An axe. I had it ready.”

“Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?”

Nikolay did not understand the question.

“Did you do it alone?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 359

“Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share
in it.”

“Don’t be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it
you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met
you both !”

“It was to put them off the scent... . I ran after Mitka,”
Nikolay replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared the
answer.

“IT knew it!” cried Porfiry, with vexation. “It’s not his
own tale he is telling,’ he muttered as though to himself, and
suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again.

He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a
moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little
taken aback,

“My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!” he flew up
to him, “this won’t do; I’m afraid you must go... it’s
no good your staying ...I will... you see, what a sur-
prise! . . . Good-bye!”

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

“I suppose you didn’t expect it?” said Raskolnikov who,
though he had not fully grasped the situation, had regained
his courage.

“You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your
hand is trembling! He-he!”

“You’re trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch !”

“Yes, Iam; I didn’t expect it.”

“They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for
Raskolnikov to be gone.

“And your little surprise, aren’t you going to show it to
me?” Raskolnikov said, sarcastically.

“Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You
are an ironical person! Come, till we meet!’

“I believe we can say good-bye!”

“That’s in God’s hands,’ muttered Porfiry, with an un-
natural smile.

As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that
many people were looking at him. Among them he saw the
two porters from the house, whom he had invited that night
to the police-station. They stood there waiting. But he was

360 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry
Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter
running after him, out of breath.

“One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it’s
in God’s hands, but as a matter of form there are some ques-
tions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again,
shan’t we?”

And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.

“Shan’t we?” he added again.

He seemed to want to say something more, but could not
speak out.

“You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has
just passed ... I lost my temper,” began Raskolnikov, who
had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly in-
clizied to display his coolness.

“Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” Porfiry replied, almost
gleefully. “I myself, too ...I have a wicked temper, I
admit it! But we shall meet again. If it’s God’s will, we
may see a great deal of one another.”

“And will get to know each other through and through?”
added Raskolnikov.

“Yes; know each other through and through,” assented
Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking
earnestly at Raskolnikov. “Now you're going to a birthday
party ?”

“To a funeral.”

“Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get
well.”

“T don’t know what to wish you,” said Raskolnikov, who
had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. “I
should like to wish you success, but your office is such a
comical one.”

“Why comical?’ Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but
he seemed to prick up his ears at this.

“Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing
that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he
confessed! You must have been at him day and night, prov-
ing to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has
confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. ‘You are
lying,’ you'll say. ‘You are not the murderer! You can’t be!

”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 361

It’s not your own tale you are telling!’ You must admit it’s
a comical business !”

“He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just
now that it was not his own tale he was telling?”

“How could I help noticing it!”

“He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything!
You’ve really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the
comic side ... he-he! They say that was the marked char-
acteristic of Gogol, among the writers.”

“Ves, of Gogol.”

“Ves, of Gogol. . . . I shall look forward to meeting you.”

“So shall I.”

Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled
and bewildered that on getting honie he sat for a quarter of
an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did
not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he
felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing
—something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay’s con-
fession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact
were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be
discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till
then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself,
for the danger was imminent.

But how imminent? His position gradually became clear
to him. Remembering, sketchily, the main outlines of his
recent scene with Porfiry, he could not help shuddering again
with horror. Of course, he did not yet know all Porfiry’s
aims, he could not see into all his calculations. But he had
already partly shown his hand, and no one knew better than
Raskolnikov how terribe Porfiry’s “lead” had been for him.
A little more and he might have given himself away com-
. pletely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament
and from the first glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though
playing a bold game, was bound to win. There’s no denying
that Raskolnikov had compromised himself seriously, but no
facts had come to light as yet; there was nothing positive.
But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn’t he
mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had he
really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it?
Had he really been expecting something or not? How

13—R

362 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

would they have parted if it had not been for the unexpected
appearance of Nikolay?

Porfiry had shown almost all his cards—of course, he had
risked something in showing them—and if he had really
had anything up his sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would
have shown that, too. What was that “surprise’? Was it a
joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have concealed
anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His yes-
terday’s visitor? What had become of him? Where was he
to-day? If Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be con-
nected with him. ...,

He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his
face hidden in his hands. He was still shivering nervously.
At last he got up, took his cap, thought a minute, and went to
the door.

He had a sort of presentiment that for to-day, at least, he
might consider himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense
almost of joy; he wanted to make haste to Katerina Iva-
novna’s. He would be too late for the funeral, of course, but
he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there at
once he would see Sonia.

He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile
came for a moment on to his lips,

“To-day! To-day,” he repeated to himself. “Yes, to-day!
- So it must be... .”

But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of
itself. He started and moved back. The door opened gently
and slowly, and there suddenly appeared a figure—yester-
day’s visitor from underground.

The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov with-
out speaking, and took a step forward into the room. He
was exactly the same as yesterday; the same figure, the same
dress, but there was a great change in his face; he looked
dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his hand up
to his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have
looked exactly like a peasant woman.

“What do you want?’ asked Raskolnikov, numb with
terror.

The man was still silent, but suddenly he bowed down
almost to the ground, touching it with his finger.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 363

“What is it?” cried Raskolnikov.

“T have sinned,” the man articulated softly.

“How aa

“By evil thoughts.”

They looked at one another.

“IT was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and
bade the porters go to the police-station and asked about the
blood, I was vexed that they let you go and took you for
drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep. And remem-
bering the address we came here yesterday and asked for
ig. 5 ot

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

“T did, I’ve wronged you.”

“Then you came from that house?”

“I was standing at the gate ‘with them... don’t you
remember? We have carried on our trade in that house for
years past. We cure and prepare hides, we take work home
. ». most of all I was vexed... .”

And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the
gateway came clearly before Raskolnikov’s mind; he recol-
lected that there had been several people there besides the
porters, women among them. He remembered one voice had
suggested taking him straight to the police-station. He could
not recall the face of the speaker, and even now he did not
recognise it, but he remembered that he had turned round
and made him some answer. ...

So this was the solution of yesterday’s horror. The most
awful thought was that he had been actually almost lost, had
almost done for himself on account of such a trivial circum-
stance. So this man could tell nothing except his asking
about the flat and the bloodstains. So Porfiry, too, had noth-
ing but what delirium, no facts but this psychology which cuts
both ways, nothing positive. So if no more facts come to
light (and they must not, they must not!) then... then
what can they do to him? How can they convict him, even
if they arrest him? And Porfiry then had only just heard
about the flat and had not known about it before.

“Was it you who told Porfiry ... that I’d been there?”
he cried, struck by a sudden idea.

364 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“What Porfiry ?”

“The head of the detective department ?”

“Yes. The porters did not go there, but I went.”

“To-day ?”

“T got there two minutes before you. And I heard, I
heard it all, how he worried you.”

“Where? What? When?”

“Why, in the next room. I was sitting there all the time.”

“What? Why then, you were the surprise? But how
could it happen? Upon my word!”

“T saw that the porters did not want to do what I said,”
began the man; “for it’s too late, said they, and maybe he’ll
be angry that we did not come at the time. I was vexed afid
I lost my sleep, and I began making inquiries. And finding
out yesterday where to go, I went to-day. The first time
I went he wasn’t there, when I came an hour later he couldn’t
see me. I went the third time, and they showed me in
I informed him of everything, just as it happened, and he
began skipping about the room and punching himself on the
chest. ‘What do you scoundrels mean by it? If I’d known
about it I should have arrested him!’ Then he ran out, called
somebody and began talking to him in the corner, then he
turned to me, scolding and questioning me. He scolded me
a great deal; and I told him everything, and I told him that
‘you didn’t dare to say a word in answer to me yesterday and
that you didn’t recognise me. And he fell to running about
again and kept hitting “himself on the chest, and getting
angry and running about, and when you were announced he
told me to go into the next room, ‘sit there a bit,’ he said.
‘Don’t move, whatever you may hear.’ And he set a chair
there for me and locked me in. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I may
call you.’ And when Nikolay’d been brought he let me out as
soon as you were gone. ‘I shall send for you again and
question you,’ he said.”

“And did he question Nikolay while you were there?”

“He got rid of me as he did of you, before he spoke to
Nikolay.”

The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed down,
touching the ground with his finger.

“Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander.”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 365

“May God forgive you,” answered Raskolnikov.

And as he said this, the man bowed down again, but not to
the ground, turned slowly and went out of the room.

“Tt all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways,” repeated
Raskolnikov, and he went out more confident than ever.

“Now we'll make a fight for it,’ he said, with a malicious
smile, as he went down the stairs. His malice was aimed
at himself; with shame and contempt he recollected his
“cowardice.”

PART ¥

CHAPTER I

Dounia and her mother brought sobering influences

to bear on Pyotr Petrovitch. Intensely unpleasant as
it was, he was forced little by little to accept as a fact beyond
recall what had seemed to him only the day before fantastic
and incredible. The black snake of wounded vanity had been
gnawing at his heart all night. When he got out of bed,
Pyotr Petrovitch immediately looked in the looking glass.
He was afraid that he had jaundice. However his health
seemed unimpaired so far, and looking at his noble, clear-
skinned countenance which had grown fattish of late, Pyotr
Petrovitch for an instant was positively comforted in the
conviction that he would find another bride and, perhaps,
even a better one. But coming back to the sense of his
_ present position, he turned aside and spat vigorously, which
excited a sarcastic smile in Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatni-
kov, the young friend with whom he was staying. That smile
Pyotr Petrovitch noticed, and at once set it down against his
young friend’s account. He had set down a good many
points against him of late. His anger was redoubled when
he reflected that he ought not to have told Andrey Semyono-
vitch about the result of yesterday’s interview. That was
the second mistake he had made in temper, through im-
pulsiveness and irritability. . . . Moreover, all that morning
one unpleasantness followed another. He even found a hitch
awaiting him in his legal case in the senate. He was particu-
larly irritated by the owner of the flat which had been taken
in view of his approaching marriage and was being re-
decorated at his own expense; the owner, a rich German
tradesman, would not entertain the idea of breaking the

366

f hex morning that followed the fateful interview with

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 367

contract which had just been signed and insisted on the
full forfeit money, though Pyotr Petrovitch would be giving
him back the flat practically redecorated. In the same way
the upholsterers refused to return a single rouble of the in-
stalment paid for the furniture purchased but not yet
removed to the fiat.

“Am I to get married simply for the sake of the furniture?”
Pyotr Petrovitch ground his teeth and at the same time once
more he had a gleam of desperate hope. “Can all that be
really so irrevocably over? Is it no use to make another
effort?’ The thought of Dounia sent a voluptuous pang
through his heart. He endured anguish at that moment, and
if it had been possible to slay Raskolnikov instantly by wish-
ing it, Pyotr Petrovitch would promptly have uttered the
wish.

“It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money,”
he thought, as he returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov’s
room, “and why on earth was I such a Jew? It was false
economy! I meant to keep them without a penny so that
they should turn to me as their providence, and look at them!
foo! If I’d spent some fifteen hundred roubles on them for
the trousseau and presents, on knick-knacks, dressing-cases,
jewellery, materials, and all that sort of trash from Knopp’s
and the English shop, my position would have been better
and... stronger! They could not have refused me so
easily! They are the sort of people that would feel bound
to return money and presents if they broke it off; and they
would find it hard to do it! And their conscience would
prick them: how can we dismiss a man who has hitherto been
so generous and delicate? ...H’m! I’ve made a blunder.”

And grinding his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovitch called him-
self a fool—but not aloud, of course.

He returned home, twice as irritated and angry as before.
The preparations for the funeral dinner at Katerina Iva-
novna’s excited his curiosity as he passed. He had heard
about it the day before; he fancied, indeed, that he had been
invited, but absorbed in his own cares he had paid no atten-
tion. Inquiring of Madame Lippevechsel who was busy lay-
ing the table while Katerina Ivanovna was away at the ceme-
tery, he heard that the entertainment was to be a great affair,

368 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

that all the lodgers had been invited, among them some who
had not known the dead man, that even Andrey Semyono-
vitch Lebeziatnikov was invited in spite of his previous
quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna, that he, Pyotr Petrovitch,
was not only invited, but was eagerly expected as he was the
most important of the lodgers. Amalia Ivanovna herself
had been invited with great ceremony in spite of the recent
unpleasantness, and so she was very busy with preparations
and was taking a positive pleasure in them; she was more-
over dressed up to the nines, all in new black silk, and she
was proud of it. All this suggested an idea to Pyotr Petro-
vitch and he went into his room, or rather Lebeziatnikov’
somewhat thoughtful. He had learnt that Raskolnikov was
to be one of the guests.

Andrey Semyonovitch had been at home all the morning.
The attitude of Pyotr Petrovitch to this gentleman was
strange, though perhaps natural. Pyotr Petrovitch had de-
spised and hated him from the day he came to stay with
him and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him.
He had not come to stay with him on his arrival in Peters-
burg simply from parsimony, though that had been perhaps
his chief object. He had heard of Andrey Semyonovitch,
who had once been his ward, as a leading young progressive
who was taking an important part in certain interesting cir-
cles, the doings of which were a legend in the provinces. It
had impressed Pyotr Petrovitch. These powerful omniscient
circles who despised every one and showed every one up had
long inspired in him a peculiar but quite vague alarm. He
had not, of course, been able to form even an approximate
notion of what they meant. He, like every one, had heard
that there were, especially in Petersburg, progressives of
some sort, nihilists and so on, and, like many people, he
exaggerated and distorted the significance of those words to
an absurd degree. What for many years past he had feared
more than anything was being shown up and this was the
chief ground for his continual uneasiness at the thought of
transferring his business to Petersburg. He was afraid of
this as little children are sometimes panic-stricken. Some
years before, when he was just entering on his own career,
he had come upon two cases in which rather important per-

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 369

«sonages in the province, patrons of his, had been cruelly
shown up. One instance had ended in great scandal for the
person attacked and the other had very nearly ended in
serious trouble. For this reason Pyotr Petrovitch intended
to go into the subject as soon as he reached Petersburg and,
if necessary, to anticipate contingencies by seeking the favour
of “our younger generation.” He relied on Andrey Semyono-
vitch for this and before his visit to Raskolnikov he had
succeeded in picking up some current phrases. He soon
discovered that Andrey Semyonovitch was a commonplace
simpleton, but that by no means reassured Pyotr Petrovitch.
Even if he had been certain that all the progressives were
fools like him, it would not have allayed his uneasiness. All
the doctrines, the ideas, the systems with which Andrey
Semyonovitch pestered him had no interest for him. He had
his own object—he simply wanted to find out at once what
was happening here. Had these people any power or not?
Had he anything to fear from them? Would they expose
any enterprise of his? And what precisely was now the
dbject of their attacks? Could he somehow make up to them
and get round them if they really were powerful? Was
this the thing to-do or not? Couldn’t he gain something
through them? In fact hundreds of questions presented
themselves.

Andrey Semyonovitch was an anemic, scrofulous little
man, with strangely flaxen mutton-chop whiskers of which
he was very proud. He was a clerk and had almost always
something wrong with his eyes. He was rather soft-hearted,
but self-confident and sometimes extremely conceited in
speech, which had an absurd effect, incongruous with his
little figure. He was one of the lodgers most respected by
Amalia Ivanovna, for he did not get drunk and paid regu-
larly for his lodging. Andrey Semyonovitch really was
rather stupid; he attached himself to the cause of progress
and “our younger generation” from enthusiasm. He was
one of the numerous and varied legion of dullards, of half-
animate abortions, conceited, half-educated coxcombs, who
attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to vul-
garise it and who caricature every cause they HERTS how-
ever sincerely.

370 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Though Lebeziatnikov was so good-natured, he, too, was
beginning to dislike Pyotr Petrovitch. This happened on
both sides unconsciously. However simple Andrey Semyono-
vitch might be, he began to see that Pyotr Petrovitch was
duping him and secretly despising him, and that “he was not
the right sort of man.” He had tried expounding to him
the system of Fourier and the Darwinian theory, but of late
Pyotr Petrovitch began to listen too sarcastically and even to
be rude. The fact was he had begun instinctively to guess
that Lebeziatnikov was not merely a commonplace simpleton,
but, perhaps, a liar, too, and that he had no connections of
any consequence even in his own circle, but had simply picked
things up third-hand; and that very likely he did not even
know much about his own work of propaganda, for he was
in too great a muddle. A fine person he would be to show
any one up!- It must be noted, by the way, that Pyotr
Petrovitch had during those ten days eagerly accepted the
strangest praise from Andrey Semyonovitch; he had not
protested, for instance, when Andrey Semyonovitch belauded
him for being ready to contribute to the establishment of
the new “commune,” or to abstain from christening his
future children, or to acquiesce if Dounia were to take a
lover a month after marriage, and so on. Pyotr Petrovitch
so enjoyed hearing his own praises that he did not disdain
even such virtues when they were attributed to him.

Pyotr Petrovitch had had occasion that morning to realise
some five per cent. bonds.and new he sat down to the table
and counted over bundles of notes. Andrey Semyonovitch
who hardly ever had any money walked about the room pre-
tending to himself to look at all those bank notes with indif-
ference and even contempt. Nothing would have convinced
Pyotr Petrovitch that Andrey Semyonovitch could really
look on the money unmoved, and the latter, on his side, kept
thinking bitterly that Pyotr Petrovitch was capable of enter-
taining such an idea about him and was, perhaps, glad of
the opportunity of teasing his young friend by reminding
him of his inferiority and the great difference between them.

He found him incredibly inattentive and irritable, though
he, Andrey Semyonovitch, began enlarging on his favourite
subject, the foundation of a new special “commune.” The

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 371

brief remarks that dropped from Pyotr Petrovitch between
the clicking of the beads on the reckoning frame betrayed
unmistakable and discourteous irony. But the “humane”
Andrey Semyonovitch ascribed Pyotr Petrovitch’s ill-humour
to his recent breach with Dounia and he was burning with
impatience to discourse on that theme. He had something
progressive to say on the subject which might console his
worthy friend and “could not fail” to promote his de-
velopment.

“There is some sort of festivity being prepared at that
> «+ at the widow’s, isn’t there?” Pyotr Petrovitch asked
suddenly, interrupting Andrey Semyonovitch at the most in-
teresting passage.

“Why, don’t you know? Why, I was telling you last night
what I think about all such ceremonies. And she invited
you too, I heard. You were talking to her yesterday .. .”

“T should never have expected that beggarly fool would
have spent on this feast all the money she got from that other
fool, Raskolnikov. I was surprised just now as I came
through at the preparations there, the wines! Several peo-
ple are invited. It’s beyond everything!” continued Pyotr
Petrovitch, who seemed to have some object in pursuing the
conversation. “What? You say I am asked too? When
was that? I don’t remember. But I shan’t go. Why should
I? I only said a word to her in passing yesterday of the
possibility of her obtaining a year’s salary as a destittte
widow of a government clerk. I suppose she has invited me
on that account, hasn’t she? He-he-he!”

“T don’t intend to go either,” said Lebeziatnikov.

“I should think not, after giving her a thrashing! You
might well hesitate, he-he!”

“Who thrashed? Whom?” cried Lebeziatnikov, flustered
and blushing.

“Why, you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna a month ago. I
heard so yesterday ...so that’s what your convictions
amount to... and the woman question, too, wasn’t quite
sound, he-he-he!” and Pyotr Petrovitch, as though com-
forted, went back to clicking his beads.

“It’s all slander and nonsense!” cried Lebeziatnikov, who
was always afraid of allusions to the subject. “It was not

372 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

like that at all, it was quite different. You’ve heard it
wrong; it’s a libel. I was simply defending myself. She
rushed at me first with her nails, she pulled out all my
whiskers . . . It’s permissible for any one I should hope
to defend Rcinikel and I never allow any one to use violence
to me on principle, for it’s an act of despotism. What was
I to do? I simply pushed her back.”

“He-he-he !” Luzhin went on laughing maliciously.

“You keep on like that because you are out of humour
yourself. . . . But that’s nonsense and it has nothing, noth-
ing whatever to do with the woman question! You don’t
understand; I used to think, indeed, that if women are equal
to men in all respects, even in strength (as is maintainéd
now) there ought to be equality in that, too. Of course, I
reflected afterwards that such a question ought not really to
arise, for there ought not to be fighting, and in the future
society fighting is unthinkable ... and that it would be a
queer thing to seek for equality in fighting. I am not so
stupid ... though, of course, there is fighting ... there
won’t be later, but at present there is... confound it!
How muddled one gets with you! It’s not on that account
that I am not going. I am not going on principle, not to
take part in the revolting convention of memorial dinners,
that’s why! Though, of course, one might go to laugh at
‘it. . .. Iam sorry there won ’t be any priests at it. I should
coitainds go if there were.’

“Then you would sit down at another man’s table and
insult it and those who invited you. Eh?”

“Certainly not insult, but protest. I should do it with a
good object. I might indirectly assist the cause of enlighten-
ment and propaganda. It’s a duty of every man to work for
enlightenment and propaganda and the more harshly, perhaps,
the better. I might drop a seed, an idea. ... And some-
thing might grow up from that seed. How should I be
insulting them? They might be offended at first, but after-
wards they’d see I’d done them a service. You know, Tere-
byeva (who is in the community now) was blamed because
when she left her family and . . . devoted . . . herself, she
wrote to her father and mother that she wouldn't go on living
conventionally and was entering on a free marriage and it

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 373

was said that that was too harsh, that she might have spared
them and have written more kindly. I think that’s all non-
sense and there’s no need of softness, on the contrary, what’s
wanted is protest. Varents had been married seven years,
she abandoned her two children, she told her husband straight
out in a letter: ‘I have realised that 1 cannot be happy with
you. I can never forgive you that you have deceived me by
concealing from me that there is another organisation of
society by means of the communities. I have only lately
learned it from a great-hearted man to whom I have given
myself and with whom I am establishing a community. I
speak plainly because I consider it dishonest to deceive you.
Do as you think best. Do not hope to get me back, you are
too late. I hope you will be happy.’ That’s how letters like
that ought to be written!”

“is that Terebyeva the one you said had made a third free
marriage ?”

“No, it’s only the second, really! But what if it were the
fourth, what if it were the fifteenth, that’s all nonsense! And
if ever I regretted the death of my father and mother, it is
now, and I sometimes think if my parents were living what
a protest I would have aimed at them! I would have done
something on purpose ...I would have shown them! I
would have astonished them! I am really sorry there is no
one!”

“To surprise! He-he! Well, be that as you will,’ Pyotr
Petrovitch interrupted, “but tell me this: do you know the
dead man’s daughter, the delicate-looking little thing? It’s
true what they say about her, isn’t it?”

“What of it? I think, that is, it is my own personal con-
viction, that this is the normal condition of women. Why
not? I mean, distinguons. In our present society, it is not
altogether normal, because it is compulsory, but in the future
society, it will be perfectly normal, because it will be volun-
tary. Even as it is, she was quite right: she was suffering
and that was her asset, so to speak, her capital which she
had a perfect right to dispose of. Of course, in the future
society, there will be no need of assets, but her part will
have another significance, rational and in harmony with her
environment. As to Sofya Semyonovna personally, I regard

874 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

her action as a vigorous protest against the organisation of

society, and I respect her deeply for it; I rejoice indeed when |

I look at her!”

“I was told that you got her turned out of these lodg- |

ings.”

Lebeziatnikov was enraged.

“That’s another slander,” he yelled. “It was not so at all!
That was all Katerina Ivanovna’s invention, for she did not
understand! And I never made love to Sofya Semyonovna!

I was simply developing her, entirely disinterestedly, trying.

to rouse her to protest.... All I wanted was her protest
and Sofya Semyonovna could not have remained here any-
way !” /
~ “Have you asked her to join your community ?”

“You keep on laughing and very inappropriately, allow me
to tell you. You don’t understand! There is no such role
in a community. The community is established that there
should be no such roles. In a community, such a role is
essentially transformed and what is stupid here is sensible
there, what, under present conditions, is unnatural becomes
perfectly natural in the community. It all depends on the
environment. It’s all the environment and man himself is
nothing. And I am on good terms with Sofya Semyonovna
to this day, which is a proof that she never regarded me as
having wronged her. I am trying now to attract her to the
community, but on quite, quite a different footing. What are
you laughing at? We are trying to establish a community of
our own, a special one, on a broader basis. We have gone
further in our convictions. We reject more! And mean-
while I’m still developing Sofya Semyonovna. She has a
beautiful, beautiful character !”

“And you take advantage of her fine character, eh? He-
he!”

“No, no! Oh, no! On the contrary.”

“Oh, the contrary! He-he-he! A queer thing to say!”

“Believe me! Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel
it strange myself how timid, chaste and modest she is with
me!”

“And you, of course, are developing her . . . he-he! trying
to prove to her that all that modesty is nonsense?”

}

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 375

“Not at all, not at all! How coarsely, how stupidly—
excuse me saying so—you misunderstand the word develop-
ment! Good heavens, how... crude you still are! We
are striving for the freedom of women and you have only
one idea in your head... . Setting aside the general ques-
tion of chastity and feminine modesty as useless in them-
selves and indeed prejudices, I fully accept her chastity with
me, because that’s for her to decide. Of course if she were
to tell me herself that she wanted me, I should think myself
very lucky, because I like the girl very mttch; but as it is,
no one has ever treated her more courteously than I, with
more respect for her dignity . . . I wait in hopes, that’s all!”

“You had much better make her a present of something.
I bet you never thought of that.”

“You don’t understand, as I’ve told you already! Of
course, she is in such a position, but it’s another question.
Quite another question! You simply despise her. Seeing a
fact which you mistakenly consider deserving of contempt,
you reftse to take a humane view of a fellow creature. You
don’t know what a character she is! I am only sorry that of
late she has quite given up reading and borrowing books. I
used to lend them to her. I am sorry, too, that with all the
energy and resolution in protesting—which she has already
shown once—she has little self-reliance, little, so to say,
independence, so as to break free from certain prejudices
and certain foolish ideas. Yet she thoroughly understands
some questions, for instance about kissing of hands, that is,
that it’s an insult to a woman for a man to kiss her hand,
because it’s a sign of inequality. We had a debate about it
and I described it to her. She listened attentively to an
account of the workmen’s associations in France, too. Now
I am explaining the question of coming into the room in the
future society.”

“And what’s that, pray?”

“We had a debate lately on the question: Has a member of
the community the right to enter another member’s room,
whether man or woman at any time . . . and we decided that
he has!”

“It might be at an inconvenient moment, he-he!”

Lebeziatnikov was really angry.

376 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“You are always thinking of something unpleasant,” he |
cried with aversion. ‘‘Tfoo! How vexed I am that when I |
was expounding our system, I referred prematurely to the |

question of personal privacy! It’s always a stumbling-block

to people like you, they turn it into ridicule before they |

understand it. And how proud they are of it, too! Tfoo!
I’ve often maintained that that question should not be ap-
proached by a novice till he has a firm faith in the system.
And tell me, please, what do you find so shameful even in
cesspools? I should be the first to be ready to clean out any
cesspool you like. And it’s not a question of self-sacrifice,
it’s simply work, honourable, useful work which is as good
as any other and much better than the work of a Raphael’
and a Pushkin, because it is more useful.”

“And more honourable, more honourable, he-he-he !”

“What do you mean by ‘more honourable’? I don’t
understand such expressions to describe human activity.
‘More honourable, ‘nobler’—all those are old-fashioned
prejudices which I reject. Everything which is of use to
mankind is honourable. I only understand one word: useful!
You can snigger as much as you like, but that’s so!”

Pyotr Petrovitch laughed heartily. He had finished count-
ing the money and was putting it away. But some of the
notes he left on the table. The “cesspool question” had
already been a subject of dispute between them. What was
absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov really angry, while
it amused Luzhin and at that moment he particularly wanted
to anger his young friend.

“It’s your ill-luck yesterday that makes you so ill-humoured
and annoying,” blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who in spite of
his “independence” and his “protests” did not venture to
oppose Pyotr Petrovitch and still behaved to him with some
of the respect habitual in earlier years.

“You'd better tell me this,” Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted
with haughty displeasure, “can you... or rather are you
really friendly enough with that young person to ask her to
step in here for a minute? I think they’ve all come back
from the cemetery ...I hear the sound of steps... I
want to see her, that young person.”

“What for?’ Lebeziatnikov asked with surprise.

/

|

|

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 877

“Oh, I want to. I am leaving here to-day or to-morrow
and therefore I wanted to speak to her about . . . However,
you may be present during the interview. It’s better you
should be, indeed. For there’s no knowing what you might
imagine.”

“T shan’t imagine anything. I only asked and, if you’ve
anything to say to her, nothing is easier than to call her in.
I’ll go directly and you may be sure I won't be in your way.”

Five minutes later Lebeziatnikov came in with Sonia. She
came in very much surprised and overcome with shyness as
usual. She was always shy in such circumstances and was
always afraid of new people, she had been as a child and was
even more so now. ... Pyotr Petrovitch met her “politely
and affably,’ but with a certain shade of bantering famili-
arity which in his opinion was suitable for a man of his
respectability and weight in dealing with a creature so young
and so interesting as she. He hastened to “reassure” her and
made her sit down facing him at the table. Sonia sat down,
looked about her—at Lebeziatnikov, at the notes lying on the
table and then again at Pyotr Petrovitch and her eyes re-
mained riveted on him. Lebeziatnikov was moving to the
door. Pyotr Petrovitch signed to Sonia to remain seated
and stopped Lebeziatnikov.

“Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come?” he asked him in
a whisper.

“Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him
just come in... Why?”

“Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and
not to leave me alone with this .. . young woman. I only
want a few words with her, but God knows what they may
make of it. I shouldn’t like Raskolnikov to repeat anything.
... You understand what I mean?”

“T understand!” Lebeziatnikov saw the point. “Yes, you
are right. . . . Of course, I am convinced personally that you
have no reason to be uneasy, but .. . still, you are right.
Certainly I'll stay. Ill stand here at the window and not be
in your way ... I think you are right ...”

Pyotr Petrovitch returned to the sofa, sat down opposite
Sonia, looked attentively at her and assumed an extremely
dignified, even severe expression, as much as to say, “don’t

378 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

you make any mistake, madam.” Sonia was overwhelmed
with embarrassment.

“In the first place, Sofya Semyonovna, will you make my
excuses to your respected mamma. ... That’s right, isn’t
it? Katerina Ivanovna stands in the place of a mother
to your” Pyotr Petrovitch began with great dignity, though
affably.

It was evident that his intentions were friendly.

“Quite so, yes; the place of a mother,” Sonia answered,
timidly and hurriedly.

“Then you will make my apologies to her? Through in-
evitable circumstances I am forced to be absent and shall not
be at the dinner in spite of your mamma’s kind invitation.”

h¥ed os.0 PU tell her. iz ss at once”

And Sonia hastily jumped up from her seat.

“Wait, that’s not all,’ Pyotr Petrovitch detained her, smil-
ing at het simplicity and ignorance of good manners, “and
you know me little, my dear Sofya Semyonovna, if you sup-
pose I would have ventured to trouble a person like you for
a matter of so little consequence affecting myself only. I
have another object.”

Sonia sat down hurriedly. Her eyes rested again for an
instant on the grey and rainbow-coloured notes that re-
mained on the table, but she quickly looked away and fixed
her eyes on Pyotr Petrovitch. She felt it horribly indecorous,
especially for her, to look at another person’s money. She
stared at the gold eyeglass which Pyotr Petrovitch held in
his left hand and at the massive and extremely handsotne
ring with a yellow stone on his middle finger. But suddenly
she looked away and, not knowing where to turn, ended by
staring Pyotr Petrovitch again straight in the face. After a
pause of still greater dignity he continued.

“I chanced yesterday in passing to exchange a couple of
words with Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. That was suffi-
cient to enable me to ascertain that she is in a position—
preternatural, if one may so express it.”

“Yes ... preternatural .. .” Sonia hurriedly assented.

“Or it would be simpler and more comprehensible to say,
ill.”

“Yes, simpler and more comprehensive . . . yes, ill.”

a
7

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 379

“Quite so. So then from a feeling of humanity and so to
speak compassion, I should be glad to be of service to her
in any way, foreseeing her unfortunate position. I believe
the whole of this poverty-stricken family depends now en-
tirely on your”

“Allow me to ask,” Sonia rose to her feet, “did you say
something to her yesterday of the possibility of a pension?
Because she told me you had undertaken to get her one.
Was that true?”

“Not in the slightest, and indeed it’s an absurdity! I
merely hinted at her obtaining temporary assistance as the
widow of an official who had died in the service—if only she
has patronage ... but apparently your late parent had not
served his full term and had not indeed been in the service
at all of late. In fact, if there could be any hope, it would be
very ephemeral, because there would be no claim for assist-
ance in that case, far from it... . And she is dreaming of a
pension already, he-he-he!... A go-ahead lady!”

“Ves, she is. For she is credulous and good-hearted, and
She believes everything from the goodness of her heart and

.. and... and she is like that... You must excuse
her,” said Sonia, and again she got up to go.

“But you haven’t heard what I have to say.”

“No, I haven’t heard,” muttered Sonia.

“Then sit down.” She was terribly confused; she sat down
again a third time.

“Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I
should be glad, as I have said before, so far as lies in my
power, to be of service, that is, so far as is in my power, not
more. One might for instance get up a subscription for her,
or a lottery, something of the sort, such as is always arranged
in such cases by friends or even outsiders desirous of assist-
ing people. It was of that I intended to speak to you; it
might be done.”

“Yes, yes .. . God will repay you for it,” faltered Sonia,
gazing intently at Pyotr Petrovitch.

“It might be, but we will talk of it later. We might begin
it to-day, we will talk it over this evening and lay the founda-
tion so to speak. Come to me at seven o'clock. Mr. Lebe-
ziatnikov, I hope, will assist us. But there is one circum

380 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

stance of which I ought to warn you beforehand and for
which I venture to trouble you, Sofya Semyonovna, to come
here. In my opinion money cannot be, indeed it’s unsafe to
put it into Katerina Ivanovna’s own hands. The dinner to-
day is a proof of that. Though she has not, so to speak, a
crust of bread for to-morrow and ... well, boots or shoes,
or anything; she has bought to-day Jamaica rum, and even, I
believe, Madeira and... and coffee. I saw it as I passed
through. To-morrow it will all fall upon you again, they
won’t have a crust of bread. It’s absurd, really, and so, to
my thinking, a subscription ought to be raised so that the
unhappy widow should not know of the money, but only you,
for instance. Am [I right?” y

“T don’t know ... this is only to-day, once in her life
-.- She was so anxious to do honour, to celebrate the
memory. ... And she is very sensible . . . but just as you
think and I shall be very, very ... they will all be ... and
God will reward ... and the orphans... .”

Sonia burst into tears.

“Very well, then, keep it in mind; and now will you accept

for the benefit of your relation the small sum that I am able
to spare, from me personally. I am very anxious that my
name should not be mentioned in connection with it. Here
. . . having so to speak anxieties of my own, I cannot do
more...”
- And Pyotr Petrovitch held out to Sonia a ten rouble note
carefully unfolded. Sonia took it, flushed crimson, jumped
up, muttered something and began taking leave. Pyotr Petro-
vitch accompanied her ceremoniously to the door. She got
out of the room at last agitated and distressed, and returned
to Katerina Ivanovna, overwhelmed with confusion.

All this time Lebeziatnikov had stood at the window or
walked about the room, anxious not to interrupt the con-
versation; when Sonia had gone he walked up to Pyotr
Petrovitch and solemnly held out his hand.

“T heard and saw everything,” he said, laying stress on the
last verb. “That is honourable, I mean to say, it’s humane!
You wanted to avoid gratitude, I saw! And although I can-
not, I confess, in principle sympathise with private charity,
for it not only fails to eradicate the evil but even promotes

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 381

it, yet I must admit that I saw your action with pleasure—
yes, yes, I like it.”

“That’s all nonsense,’ muttered Pyotr Petrovitch, some-
what disconcerted, looking carefully at Lebeziatnikoy.

“No, it’s not nonsense! A man who has suffered distress
and annoyance as you did yesterday and who yet can sym-
pathise with the misery of others, such a man... even
though he is making a social mistake—is still deserving of
respect! I did not expect it indeed of you, Pyotr Petrovitch,
especially as according to your ideas . . . oh, what a draw-
back your ideas are to you! How distressed you are for
instance by your ill luck yesterday,” cried the simple-hearted
Lebeziatnikov, who felt a return of affection for Pyotr
Petrovitch. “And what do you want with marriage, with
legal marriage, my dear, noble Pyotr Petrovitch? Why do
you cling to this legality of marriage? Well, you may beat
me if you like, but I am glad, positively glad it hasn’t come
off, that you are free, that you are not quite lost for hu-
manity. ... You see, I’ve spoken my mind!”

“Because I don’t want in your free marriage to be made a
fool of and to bring up another man’s children, that’s why I
want legal marriage,” Luzhin replied in order to make some
answer.

He seemed preoccupied by something.

“Children? You referred to children,” Lebeziatnikov
started off like a warhorse at the trumpet call. “Children are
a social question and a question of first importance, I agree;
but the question of children has another solution. Some
refuse to have children altogether, because they suggest the
institution of the family. We'll speak of children later, but
now as to the question of honour, I confess that’s my weak
point. That horrid, military, Pushkin expression is unthink-
able in the dictionary of the future. What does it mean
indeed? It’s nonsense, there will be no deception in a free
marriage! That is only the natural consequence of a legal
marriage, so to say, its corrective, a protest. So that indeed
it’s not humiliating ...and if I ever, to suppose an ab-
surdity, were to be legally married, I should be positively
glad of it. I should say to my wife: ‘My dear, hitherto I
have loved you, now I respect you, for you’ve shown you can

bd

382 . FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

protest!’ You laugh! That’s because you are incapable of
getting away from prejudices. Confound it all! I under-
stand now where the unpleasantness is of being deceived in a
legal marriage, but it’s simply a despicable consequence of a
despieable position in which both are humiliated. When the
deception is open, as in a free marriage, then it does not
exist, it’s unthinkable. Your wife will only prove how she
respects you by consideting you incapable of opposing her
happiness and avenging yourself on her for her new hus-
band. Damn it all! I sometimes dream if I were to be mar-
ried, pfoo! I mean if I were to marry, legally or not, it’s
just the same, J should present my wife with a lover if she
had not found one for herself. ‘My dear,’ I should say, ‘TF
love you, but even more than that I desire you to respect mé.
See!’ Am I not right?”

Pyotr Petrovitch sniggered as he listened, but without
much merriment. He hardly heard it indeed. He was pre-
occtipied with something else and even Lebeziatnikov at last
noticed it. Pyotr Petrovitch seemed excited and rubbed his
hands. Leébeziatnikov remembered all this and reflected upon
it afterwards.

CHAPTER II

originated the idea of that senseless dinner in Katerina
Ivanovna’s disordered brain. Nearly ten of the twenty .
roubles, given by Raskolnikov for Marmeladov’s funeral,
were wasted upon it. Possibly Katerina Ivanovna felt
obliged to honour the memory of the deceased “suitably,”
that all the lodgers, and still more Amalia Ivanovna, might
know “that he was in no way their inferior, and perhaps very
much their superior,” and that no one had the right “to turn
up his nose at him.” Perhaps the chief element was that
peculiar “poor man’s pride,” which compels many poor people
to spend their last savings on some traditional social cere-
mony, simply in order to do “like other people,” and not to
“be looked down upon.” It is very probable, too, that
Katerina Ivanovna longed on this occasion, at the moment
when she seemed to be abandoned by every one, to show
those “wretched contemptible lodgers” that she knew “how to
do things, how to entertain” and that she had been brought
up “in a genteel, she might almost say aristocratic colonel’s
family” and had not been meant for sweeping floors and
washing the children’s rags at night. Even the poorest and
most broken-spirited people are sometimes liable to these
paroxysms of pride and vanity which take the form of an
irresistible nervous craving. And Katerina Ivanovna was
not broken-spirited; she might have been killed by circum-
stance, but her spirit could not have been broken, that is,
she could not have been intimidated, her will could not be
crushed. Moreover, Sonia had said with good reason that
her mind was unhinged. She could not be said to be insane,
but for a year past she had been so harassed that her mind
might well be overstrained. The later stages of consumption
are apt, doctors tell us, to affect the intellect.
There was no great variety of wines, nor was there
Madeira; but wine there was. There was vodka, rum and
383

if would be difficult to explain exactly what could have

384 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Lisbon wine, all of the poorest quality but in sufficient
quantity. Besides the traditional rice and honey, there were
three or four dishes, one of which consisted of pancakes, all
prepared in Amalia Ivanovna’s kitchen. Two samovars were
boiling, that tea and punch might be offered after dinner.
Katerina Ivanovna had herself seen to purchasing the pro-
visions, with the help of one of the lodgers, an unfortunate
little Pole who had somehow been stranded at Madame
Lippevechsel’s. He promptly put himself at Katerina Iva-
noyna’s disposal and had been all that morning and all the
day before running about as fast as his legs could carry him,
and very anxious that every one should be aware of it. For
every trifle he ran to Katerina Ivanovna, even hunting her
out at the bazaar, at every instant calling her “Pani.” She
was heartily sick of him before the end, though she had de-
clared at first that she cotld not have got on without this
“serviceable and magnanimous man.” It was one of Katerina
Ivanovna’s characteristics to paint every one she met in the
most glowing colours. Her praises were so exaggerated as
sometimes to be embarrassing; she would invent various
circumstances to the credit of her new acquaintance and
quite genuinely believe in their reality. Then all of a sudden
she would be disillusioned and would rudely and contemptu-
ously repulse the person she had only a few hours before
been literally adoring. She was naturally of a gay, lively
and peace-loving disposition, but from continual failures and
misfortunes she had come to desire so keenly that all should
live in peace and joy and should not dare to break the peace,
that the slightest jar, the smallest disaster reduced her almost
to frenzy, and she would pass in an instant from the bright-
est hopes and fancies to cursing her fate and raving, and
knocking her head against the wall.

Amalia Ivanovna, too, suddenly acquired extraordinary im-
portance in Katerina Ivanovna’s eyes and was treated by her
with extraordinary respect, probably only because Amalia
Ivanovna had thrown herself heart and soul into the prepara-
tions. She had undertaken to lay the table, to provide the
linen, crockery, &c., and to cook the dishes in her kitchen,
and Katerina Ivanovna had left it all in her hands and gone
herself to the cemetery. Everything had been well done.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 385

Even the tablecloth was nearly clean; the crockery, knives,
forks and glasses were, of course, of all shapes and patterns,
lent by different lodgers, but the table was properly laid at
the time fixed, and Amalia Ivanovna, feeling she had done
her work well, had put on a black silk dress and a cap with
new mourning ribbons and met the returning party with
some pride. This pride, though justifiable displeased Katerina
Ivanovna for some reason: “as though the table could not
have been laid except by Amalia Ivanovna!” She disliked
the cap with new ribbons, too. “Could she be stuck up, the
stupid German, because she was mistress of the house, and
had consented as a favour to help her poor lodgers! Asa
favour! Fancy that! Katerina Ivanovna’s father who had
been a colonel and almost a governor had sometimes had the
table set for forty persons and then any one like Amalia
Ivanovna, or rather Ludwigovna, would not have been
allowed into the kitchen.”

Katerina Ivanovna, however, put off expressing her feel-
ings for the time and contented herself with treating her
coldly, though she decided inwardly that she would certainly
have to put Amalia Ivanovna down and set her in her proper
place, for goodness only knew what she was fancying herself.
Katerina [vanovna was irritated too by the fact that hardly
any of the lodgers invited had come to the funeral, except the
Pole who had just managed to run into the cemetery, while
to the memorial dinner the poorest and most insignificant of
them had turned up, the wretched creatures, many of them
not quite sober. The older and more respectable of them all,
as if by common consent, stayed away. Pyotr Petrovitch
Luzhin, for instance, who might be said to be the most re-
spectable of all the lodgers, did not appear, though Katerina
Ivanovna had the evening before told all the world, that is
Amalia Ivanovna, Polenka, Sonia and the Pole, that he was
the most generous, noble-hearted man with a large property
and vast connections, who had been a friend of her first
husband’s, and a guest in her father’s house, and that he had
promised to use all his influence to secure her a considerable
pension. It must be noted that when Katerina Ivanovna
exalted any one’s connections and fortune, it was without
any ulterior motive, quite disinterestedly, for the mere

386 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

pleasure of adding to the consequence of the person praised.
Probably “taking his cue” from Luzhin, “that contemptible
wretch Lebeziatnikov had not turned up either. What did he
fancy himself? He was only asked out of kindness and be-
cause he was sharing the same room with Pyotr Petrovitch
and was a friend of his, so that it would have been awkward
not to invite him.”

Among those who failed to appear were “the genteel lady
and her old-maidish daughter,” who had only been lodgers in
the house for the last fortnight, but had several times com-
plained of the noise and uproar in Katerina Ivanovna’s room,
especially when Marmeladov had come back drunk. Katerina
Ivanovna heard this from Amalia Ivanovna who, quarreling
with Katerina Ivanovna, and threatening to turn the whole
family out of doors, had shouted at her that they “were not
worth the foot” of the honourable lodgers whom they were
disturbing. Katerina Ivanovna determined now to invite
this lady and her daughter, “whose foot she was not worth,”
and who had turned away haughtily when she casually met
them, so that they might know that “she was more noble in
her thoughts and feelings and did not harbour malice,” and
might see that she was not accustomed to her way of living.
She had proposed to make this clear to them at dinner with
allusions to her late father’s governorship, and also at the
same time to hint that it was exceedingly stupid of them to
turn away on meeting her. The fat colonel-major (he was
really a discharged officer of low rank) was also absent, but
it appeared that he had been “not himself” for the last two
days. The party consisted of the Pole, a wretched looking
clerk with a spotty face and a greasy coat, who had not a
word to say for himself, and smelt abominably, a deaf and
almost blind old man who had once been in the post office and
who had been from immemorial ages maintained by some one
at Amalia Ivanovna’s.

A retired clerk of the commissariat department, came, too;
he was drunk, had a loud and most unseemly laugh and only
fancy—was without a waistcoat! One of the visitors sat
straight down to the table without even greeting Katerina
Ivanovna. Finally one person having no suit appeared in his
dressing gown, but this was too much, and the efforts of

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 387

Amalia Ivanovna and the Pole succeeded in removing him.
The Pole brought with him, however, two other Poles who
did not live at Amalia Ivanovna’s and whom no one had seen
here before. All this irritated Katerina [vanovna intensely.
“For whom had they made all these preparations then?’ To
make room for the visitors the children had not even been
laid for at the table; but the two little ones were sitting on
a bench in the furthest corner with their dinner laid on a
box, while Polenka as a big girl had to look after them, feed
them, and keep their noses wiped like well-bred children’s.

Katerina Ivanovna, in fact, could hardly help meeting her
guests with increased dignity, and even haughtiness. She
stared at some of them with special severity, and loftily in-
vited them to take their seats. Rushing to the conclusion that
Amalia‘ Ivanovna must be responsible for those who were
absent, she began treating her with extreme nonchalance,
which the latter promptly observed and resented. Such a
beginning was no good omen for the end. All were seated
at last.

Raskolnikov came in almost at the moment of their return
from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly delighted
to see him, in the first place, because he was the one “edu-
cated visitor, and, as every one knew, was in two years to
take a professorship in the university,” and secondly because
he immediately and respectfully apologised for having been
unable to be at the funeral, She positively pounced upon
him, and made him sit on her left hand (Amalia Ivanovna
was on her right). In spite of her continual anxiety that the
dishes should be passed round correctly, and that every one
should taste them, in spite of the agonising cough which
interrupted her every minute and seemed to have grown
worse during the last few days, she hastened to pour out in
a half whisper to Raskolnikov all her suppressed feelings and
her just indignation at the failure of the dinner, interspersing
her remarks with lively and uncontrollable laughter at the
expense of her visitors and especially of her landlady.

“Tt’s all that cuckoo’s fault! You know whom I mean?
Her, her!” Katerina Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady.
“Look at her, she’s making round eyes, she feels that we are
talking about her and can’t understand. Pfoo, the owl! Ha-»

388 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) And what does she put on that
cap for? (Cough-cough-cough.) Have you noticed that she
wants every one to consider that she is patronising me and
doing me an honour by being here? I asked her like a sen-
sible woman to invite people, especially those who knew my
late husband, and look at the set of fools she has brought!
The sweeps! Look at that one with the spotty face. And
those wretched Poles, ha-ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough. )
Not one of them has ever poked his nose in here, I’ve never
set eyes on them. What have they come here for, I ask you?
There they sit in a row. Hey, pan!” she cried suddenly to
one of them, “have you tasted the pancakes? Take some
more! Have some beer! Won’t you have some vodka?
Look, he’s jumped up and is making his bows, they must be
quite starved, poor things. Never mind, let them eat! They
don’t make a noise, anyway, though I’m really afraid for our
landlady’s silver spoons... Amalia Ivanovna!” she ad-
dressed her suddenly, almost aloud, “if your spoons should
happen to be stolen, I won’t be responsible, I warn you! Ha-
ha-ha!” She laughed turning to Raskolnikov, and again
nodding towards the landlady, in high glee at her sally.
“She didn’t understand, she didn’t understand again! Look
how she sits with her mouth open! An owl, areal owl! An
owl in new ribbons, ha-ha-ha!”

Here her laugh turned again to an insufferable fit of
coughing that lasted five minutes. Drops of perspiration
stood out on her forehead and her handkerchief was stained
with blood. She showed Raskolnikov the blood in silence,
and as soon as she could get her breath began whispering
to him again with extreme animation and a hectic flush on
her cheeks.

“Do you know, I gave her the most delicate instructions,
so to speak, for inviting that lady and her daughter, you
understand of whom I am speaking? It needed the utmost
delicacy, the greatest nicety, but she has managed things
so that that fool, that conceited baggage, that provincial
nonentity, simply because she is the widow of a major, and
has come to try and get a pension and to fray out her skirts
in the government offices, because at fifty she paints her
face (everybody knows it) ...a creature like that did

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 389

not think fit to come, and has not even answered the in-
vitation, which the most ordinary good manners required!
I can’t understand why Pyotr Petrovitch has not come?
But where’s Sonia? Where has she gone? Ah, there she
is at last! what is it, Sonia, where have you been? It’s odd
that even at your father’s funeral you should be so un-
punctual. Rodion Romanovitch, make room for her beside
you. That’s your place, Sonia... take what you like.
Have some of the cold entrée with jelly, that’s the best.
They'll bring the pancakes directly. Have they given the
children some? Polenka, have you got everything?
(Cough-cough-cough.) That’s all right. Be a good girl,
Lida, and Kolya don’t fidget with your feet; sit like a gentle-
man. What are you saying, Sonia?”

Sonia hastened to give her Pyotr Petrovitch’s apologies,
trying to speak loud: enough for every one to hear and care-
fully choosing the most respectful phrases which she attri-
buted to Pyotr Petrovitch. She added that Pyotr Petro-
vitch had particularly told her to say that, as soon as he
possibly could, he would come immediately to discuss busi-
ness alone with her and to consider what could be done for
her, &c., &c.

Sonia knew that this would comfort Katerina Ivanovna,
would flatter her and gratify her pride. She sat down
beside Raskolnikov; she made him a hurried bow, glancing
curiously at him. But for the rest of the time she seemed
to avoid looking at him or speaking to him. She seemed
absent-minded, though she kept looking at Katerina Iva-
novna, trying to please her. Neither she nor Katerina
Ivanovna had been able to get mourning; Sonia was wear-
ing dark brown, and Katerina Ivanovna had on her only
dress, a dark striped cotton one.

The message from Pyotr Petrovitch was very successful.
Listening to Sonia with dignity, Katerina Ivanovna in-
quired with equal dignity how Pyotr Petrovitch was, then
at once whispered almost aloud to Raskolnikov that it cer-
tainly would have been strange for a man of Pyotr Petro-
vitch’s position and standing to find himself in such “ex-
traordinary company,” in spite of his devotion to her family
and his old friendship with her father.

$90 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“That’s why I am so grateful to you, Rodion Romanovitch,
that you have not disdained my hospitality, even in such
surroundings,” she added almost aloud. “But I am sure
that it was only your special affection for my poor husband
that has made you keep your promise.”

Then once more with pride and dignity she scanned her
visitors, and suddenly inquired aloud across the table of -
the deaf man: “wouldn’t he have some more meat, and had
he been given some wine?” ‘The old man made no answer
and for a long while could not understand what he was
asked, though his neighbours amused themselves by poking
and shaking him. He simply gazed about him with his
mouth open, which only increased the general mirth. d

“What an imbecile! Look, look! Why was he brought?
But as to Pyotr Petrovitch, I always had confidence in him,”
Katerina Ivanovna continued, “and, of course, he is not
like...” with an extremely stern face she addressed
Amalia Ivanovna so sharply and loudly that the latter was
quite disconcerted “not like your dressed-up draggletails
whom my father would not have taken as cooks into his
kitchen, and my late husband would have done them honour
if he had invited them in the goodness of his heart.”

“Yes, he was fond of drink, he was fond of it, he did
drink!” cried the commissariat clerk, gulping down his
twelfth glass of vodka.

“My late husband certainly had that weakness, and every
one knows it,’ Katerina Ivanovna attacked him at once,
“but he was a kind and honourable man, who loved and
respected his family. The worst of it was his good nature
made him trust all sorts of disreputable people, and he
drank with fellows who were not worth the sole of his
shoe. Would you believe it, Rodion Romanovitch, they
found a gingerbread cock in his pocket; he was dead drunk,
but he did not forget the children !”

“A cock? Did you say a cock?” shouted the commis-
sariat clerk.

Katerina Ivanovna did not vouchsafe a reply. She
sighed, lost in thought.

“No doubt you think, like every one, that I was too
severe with him,” she went on, addressing Raskolnikov.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 391

“But that’s not so! He respected me, he respected me very
much! He was a kind-hearted man! And how sorry I
was for him sometimes! He would sit in a corner and look
at me, I used to feel so sorry for him, I used to want to be
kind to him and then would think to myself: ‘be kind to him
and he will drink again,’ it was only by severity that you
could keep him within bounds.”

“Yes, he used to get his hair pulled pretty often,” roared the
commissariat clerk again, swallowing another glass of vodka,

“Some fools would be the better for a good drubbing, as
well as having their hair pulled. JI am not talking of my
late husband now!” Katerina Ivanovna snapped at him.

The flush. on her cheeks grew more and more marked, her
chest heaved. In another minute she would have been ready
to make a scene. Many of the visitors were sniggering,
evidently delighted. They began poking the commissariat
clerk and whispering something to him. They were evi-
dently trying to egg him on.

“Allow me to ask what are you alluding to,’ began the
clerk, “that is to say, whose ... about whom... did you
say just now.... But I don’t care! That’s nonsense!
Widow! I forgive you. ... Pass!”

And he took another drink of vodka.

Raskolnikov sat in silence, listening with disgust. He
only ate from politeness, just tasting the food that Katerina
Ivanovna was continually putting on his plate, to avoid
hurting her feelings. He watched Sonia intently. But Sonia
became more and more anxious and distressed; she, too,
foresaw that the dinner would not end peaceably, and saw
with terror Katerina Ivanovna’s growing irritation. She
knew that she, Sonia, was the chief reason for the ‘genteel’
ladies’ contemptuous treatment of Katerina Ivanovna’s in-
vitation. She had heard from Amalia Ivanovna, that the
mother was positively offended at the invitation and had
asked the question: “how could she let her daughter sit
down beside that young person?” Sonia had a feeling that
Katerina Ivanovna had already heard this and an insult to
Sonia meant more to Katerina Ivanovna than an insult to
herself, her children, or her father. Sonia knew that
Katerina Ivanovna would not be satisfied now, “till she had

392 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

shown those draggletails that they were both...” To
make matters worse some one passed Sonia, from the other
end of the table, a plate with two hearts pierced with an
arrow, cut out of black bread. Katerina Ivanovna flushed
crimson and at once said aloud across the table that the man
who sent it was “a drunken ass!”

Amalia Ivanovna was foreseeing something amiss, and
at the same time deeply wounded by Katerina Ivanovna’s
haughtiness, and to restore the good-humour of the com-
pany and raise herself in their esteem she began, apropos
of nothing, telling a story about an acquaintance of hers
“Karl from the chemist’s,” who was driving one night in a
cab, and that “the cabman wanted him to kill, and Karl
very much begged him not to kill, and wept and clasped
hands, and frightened and from fear pierced his heart.”
Though Katerina Ivanovna smiled, she observed at once that
Amalia Ivanovna ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian;
the latter was still more offended, and she retorted that her
“vater aus Berlin was a very important man, and always
went with his hands in pockets.” Katerina Ivanovna could
not restrain herself and laughed so much that Amalia Iva-
novna lost patience and could scarcely control herself.

“Listen to the owl!” Katerina Ivanovna whispered at
once, her good-humour almost restored, “she meant to say
- he kept his hands in his pockets, but she said he put his
hands in people’s pockets. (Cough-cough.) And have you
noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that all these Petersburg
foreigners, the Germans especially, are all stupider than we!
Can you fancy any one of us telling how ‘Kari from the
chemist’s pierced his heart from fear’ and that the idiot
instead of punishing the cabman, ‘clasped his hands and
wept, and much begged.’ Ah, the fool! And you know
she fancies it’s very touching and does not suspect how
stupid she is! To my thinking that drunken commissariat
clerk is a great deal cleverer, anyway one can see that he
has addled his brains with drink, but you know, these
foreigners are always so well behaved and serious. ...
Look how she sits glaring! She is angry, ha-ha! (Cough-
cough-cough.)”

Regaining her good-humour, Katerina Ivanovna began at

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 393

once telling Raskolnikov that when she had obtained her
pension, she intended to open a school for the daughters of
gentlemen in her native town T . This was the first
time she had spoken to him of the project, and she launched
out into the most alluring details. It suddenly appeared
that Katerina Ivanovna had in her hands the very certificate
of honour of which Marmeladov had spoken to Raskolnikov
in the tavern, when he told him that Katerina Ivanovna, his
wife, had danced the shawl dance before the governor and
other great personages on leaving school. This certificate
of honour was obviously intended now to prove Katerina
Ivanovna’s right to open a boarding-school; but she had
armed herself with it chiefly with the object of overwhelm-
ing “those two stuck-up dragegletails” if they came to the
dinner, and proving incontestably that Katerina Ivanovna
was of the most noble, “she might even say aristocratic
family, a colonel’s daughter and was far superior to certain
adventuresses who have been so much to the fore of late.”
The certificate of honour immediately passed into the hands
of the drunken guests, and Katerina Ivanovna did not try
to retain it, for it actually contained the statement en toutes
lettres, that her father was of the rank of a major, and
also a companion of an order, so that she really was almost
the daughter of a colonel.

Warming up, Katerina Ivanovna proceeded to enlarge on
the peaceful and happy life they would lead in T , on
the gymnasium teachers whom she would engage to give
lessons in her boarding-school, on a most respectable old
Frenchman, one Mangot, who had taught Katerina Iva-
novna herself in old days and was still living in T , and
would no doubt teach in her school on moderate terms.
Next she spoke of Sonia who would go with her to T
and help her in all her plans. At this some one at the
further end of the table gave a sudden guffaw.

Though Katerina Ivanovna tried to appear to be dis-
dainfully unaware of it, she raised her voice and began at
once speaking with conviction of Sonia’s undoubted ability
to assist her, of “her gentleness, patience, devotion, gener-
osity and good education,” tapping Sonia on the cheek and
kissing her warmly twice. Sonia flushed crimson, and

14—R

394 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Katerina Ivanovna suddenly burst into tears, immediately
observing that she was “nervous and silly, that she was too
much upset, that it was time to finish, and as the dinner
was over, it was time to hand round the tea.”

At that moment, Amalia Ivanovna, deeply aggrieved at
taking no part in the conversation, and not being listened to,
made one last effort, and with secret misgivings ventured
on an exceedingly deep and weighty observation, that “in
the future boarding-school she would have to pay particular
attention to die Wdsche, and that there certainly must be a
good dame to look after the linen, and secondly that the
young ladies must not novels at night read.”

Katerina Ivanovna, who certainly was upset and very
tired, as well as heartily sick of the dinner, at once cut
short Amalia Ivanovna, saying “she knew nothing about it
and was talking nonsense, that it was the business of the
laundry maid, and not of the directress of a high-class
boarding-school to look after die Wische, and as for novel
reading, that was simply rudeness, and she begged her to be
silent.’ Amalia Ivanovna fired up and getting angry ob-
served that she only “meant her good,” and that “she had
meant her very good,” and that “it was long since she had
paid her gold for the lodgings.”

Katerina Ivanovna at once, “set her down,” saying, that
it was a lie to say she wished her good, because only yester-
day when her dead husband was lying on the table, she had
worried her about the lodgings. To this Amalia Ivanovna
very appropriately observed that she had invited those
ladies, but “those ladies had not come, because those ladies
are ladies and cannot come to a lady who is not a lady.”
Katerina Ivanovna at once pointed out to her, that as she
was a slut she could not judge what made one really a lady.
Amalia Ivanovna at once declared that her “vater aus
Berlin was a very, very important man, and both hands in
pockets went, and always used to say: poof! poof!” and she
leapt up from the table to represent her father, sticking her
hands in her pockets, puffing her cheeks, and uttering vague
sounds resembling “poof! poof!” amid loud laughter from
all the lodgers, who purposely encouraged Amalia Iva-
novna, hoping for a fight.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 395

But this was too much for Katerina Ivanovna, and she at
once declared, so that all could hear, that Amalia Ivanovna
probably never had a father, but was simply a drunken
Petersburg Finn, and had certainly once been a cook and
probably something worse. Amalia Ivanovna turned as red
as a lobster and squealed that perhaps Katerina Ivanovna
never had a father, “but she had a vater aus Berlin and
that he wore a long coat and always said poof-poof-poof !”

Katerina Ivanovna observed contemptuously that all knew
what her family was and that on that very certificate of
honour it was stated in print that her father was a colonel,
while Amalia Ivanovna’s father—if she really had one—
was probably some Finnish milkman, but that probably she
never had a father at all, since it was still uncertain
whether her name was Amalia Ivanovna or Amalia Lud-
wigovna.

At this Amalia Ivanovna, lashed to fury, struck the table
with her fist, and shrieked that she was Amalia Ivanovna,
and not Ludwigovna, “that her vater was named Johann
and that he was a burgomeister, and that Katerina Iva-
novna’s vater was quite never a burgomeister.” Katerina
Ivanovna rose from her chair, and with a stern and ap-
parently calm voice (though she was pale and her chest was
heaving) observed that “if she dared for one moment to
set her contemptible wretch of a father on a level with her
papa, she, Katerina Ivanovna, would tear her cap off her
head and trample it under foot.” Amalia Ivanovna ran
about the room, shouting at the top of her voice, that she
was mistress of the house and that Katerina Ivanovna
should leave the lodgings that minute; then she rushed for
some reason to collect the \silver spoons from the table.’
There was a great outcry and uproar, the children began
crying. Sonia ran to restrain Katerina Ivanovna, but when
Amalia Ivanovna shouted something about “the yellow
ticket,” Katerina Ivanovna pushed Sonia away, and rushed
at the landlady to carry out her threat.

At that minute the door opened, and Pyotr Petrovitch
Luzhin appeared on the threshold. He stood scanning the
party with severe and vigilant eyes. Katerina Ivanovna
rushed to him.

CHAPTER III

) Saee PETROVITCH,” she cried, “protect me
- .. you at least! Make this foolish woman under-
stand that she can’t behave like this to a lady in mis-
fortune ... that there is a law for such things. ... I'll
go to the governor-general himself... . She shall answer
for it.... Remembering my father’s hospitality protect
these orphans.” Pa

“Allow me, madam.... Allow me.” Pyotr Petrovitch
waved her off. “Your papa as you are well aware I had
not the honour of knowing” (some one laughed aloud)
“and I do not intend to take part in your everlasting
squabbles with Amalia Ivanovna....I have come here
to speak of my own affairs . . . and I want to have a word
with your stepdaughter, Sofya ... Ivanovna, I think it is?
Allow me to pass.”

Pyotr Petrovitch, edging by her, went to the opposite
corner where Sonia was.

Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she was, as
though thunderstruck. She could not understand how
Pyotr Petrovitch could deny having enjoyed her father’s
hospitality. Though she had invented it herself, she be-
lieved in it firmly by this time. She was struck too by the
businesslike, dry and even contemptuously menacing tone
of Pyotr Petrovitch. All the clamour gradually died away
at his entrance. Not only was this “serious business man”
strikingly incongruous with the rest of the party, but it was
evident, too, that he had come upon some matter of conse-
quence, that some exceptional cause must have brought him
and that therefore something was going to happen. Ras-
kolnikov, standing beside Sonia, moved aside to let him
pass; Pyotr Petrovitch did not seem to notice him. A
minute later Lebeziatnikov, too, appeared in the doorway;
he did not come in, but stood still, listening with marked
interest, almost wonder, and seemed for a time perplexed.

396

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 397

“Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it’s a mat-
ter of some importance,” Pyotr Petrovitch observed, ad-
dressing the company generally. “I am glad indeed to find
other persons present. Amalia Ivanovna, I humbly beg
you as mistress of the house to pay careful attention to what
I have to say to Sofya Ivanovna. Sofya Ivanovna,” he
went on addressing Sonia who was very much surprised
and already alarmed, “immediately after your visit I found
that a hundred-rouble note was missing from my table, in
the room of my friend Mr. Lebeziatnikov. If in any way
whatever you know and will tell us where it is now, I
assure you on my word of honour and call all present to
witness that the matter shall end there. In the opposite
case I shall be compelled to have recourse to very serious
measures and then... you must blame yourself.”

Complete silence reigned in the room. ' Even the crying
children were still. Sonia stood deadly pale, staring at
Luzhin and unable to say a word. She seemed not to under-
stand. Some seconds passed.

“Well, how is it to be then?” asked Luzhin, looking in-
tently at her.

“I don't know. ...I know nothing about it,’ Sonia
articulated faintly at last.

“No, you know nothing?” Luzhin repeated and again he
paused for some seconds. “Think a moment, mademoiselle,”
he began severely, but still, as it were, admonishing her.
“Reflect, I am prepared to give you time for consideration.
Kindly observe this: if I were not so entirely convinced I
should not, you may be sure, with my experience venture
to accuse you so directly. Seeing that for such direct
accusation before witnesses, if false or even mistaken, I
should myself in a certain sense be made responsible. I am
aware of that. This morning I changed for my own pur-
poses several five per cent. securities for the sum of ap-
proximately three thousand roubles. The account is noted
down in my pocket-book. On my return home I proceeded
to count the money,—as Mr. Lebeziatnikov will bear wit-
ness—and after counting two thousand three hundred
roubles I put the rest in my pocket-book in my coat pocket.
About five hundred roubles remained on the table and

\

398 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

among them three notes of a hundred roubles each. At
that moment you entered (at my invitation)—and all the
time you were present you were exceedingly embarrassed;
so that three times you jumped up in the middle of the
conversation and tried to make off. Mr. Lebeziatnikov can
bear witness to this. You yourself, mademoiselle, probably
will not refuse to confirm my statement that I invited you
through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, solely in order to discuss with
you the hopeless and destitute position of your relative,
Katerina Ivanovna (whose dinner I was unable to attend),
and the advisability of getting up something of the nature of
a subscription, lottery or the like, for her benefit. You
thanked me and even shed tears. I describe all this as it
took place, primarily to recall it to your mind and secondly
to show you that not the slightest detail has escaped my
recollection. Then I took a ten rouble note from the table
and handed it to you by way of first instalment on my part
for the benefit of your relative. Mr. Lebeziatnikov saw all
this. Then I accompanied you to the door,—you being still
in the same state of embarrassment—after which, being
left alone with Mr. Lebeziatnikov I talked to him for ten
minutes,—then Mr. Lebeziatnikov went out and I returned
to the table with the money lying on it, intending to count
it and put it aside, as I proposed doing before. To my
surprise one hundred-rouble note had disappeared. Kindly
consider the position. Mr. Lebeziatnikov I cannot suspect.
I am ashamed to allude to such a supposition. I cannot have
made a mistake in my reckoning, for the minute before
your entrance I had finished my accounts and found the
total correct. You will admit that recollecting your embar-
rassment, your eagerness to get away and the fact that you
kept your hands for some time on the table, and taking into
consideration your social position and the habits associated
with it, I was, so to say, with horror and positively against
my will, compelled to entertain a suspicion—a cruel, but
justifiable suspicion! I will add further and repeat that in
spite of my positive conviction, I realise that I run a certain
risk in making this accusation, but as you see, I could not
let it pass. I have taken action and I will tell you why:
solely, madam, solely, owing to your black ingratitude!

’ CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 399

Why! I invite you for the benefit of your destitute relative,
I present you with my donation of ten roubles and you, on
the spot, repay me for all that with such an action. It is
too bad! You need a lesson. Reflect! Moreover, like a
true friend I beg you—and you could have no better friend
at this moment—think what you are. doing, otherwise I
shall be immovable! Well, what do you say?”

“T have taken nothing,” Sonia whispered in terror, “you
gave me ten roubles, here it is, take it.”

Sonia pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, untied a
corner of it, took out the ten rouble note and gave it to
Luzhin.

“And the hundred roubles you do not confess to taking?”
he insisted reproachfully, not taking the note.

Sonia looked about her. All were looking at her with
such awful, stern, ironical, hostile eyes. She looked at
Raskolnikov . .. he stood against the wall, with his arms
crossed, looking at her with glowing eyes.

“Good God!” broke from Sonia.

“Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to send word to the
police and therefore } humbly beg you meanwhile to send
for the house porter,” Luzhin said softly and even kindly.

“Gott der barmherzige! I knew she was the thief,” cried
Amalia Ivanovna, throwing up her hands.

“You knew it?” Luzhin caught her up, “then I suppose
you had some reason before this for thinking so. I beg
you, worthy Amalia Ivanovna, to remember your. words
which have been uttered before witnesses.”

There was a buzz of loud conversation on all sides. Ail
were in movement.

“What!” cried Katerina Ivanovna, suddenly realising the
position, and she rushed at Luzhin. “What! You accuse
her of stealing? Sonia? Ah, the wretches, the wretches!’

And running to Sonia she flung her wasted arms round
her and held her as in a vice.

“Sonia! how dared you take ten roubles from him?
_ Foolish girl! Give it to me! Give me the ten roubles at
once—here !”

And snatching the note from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna
crumpled it up and flung it straight into Luzhin’s face. It

400 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

hit him in the eye and fell on the ground. Amalia Iva-
novna hastened to pick it up. Pyotr Petrovitch lost his
temper.

“Hold that mad woman!” he shouted.

At that moment several other persons, besides Lebe-
ziatnikov appeared in the doorway, among them the two
ladies. :

“What! Mad? Am I mad? Idiot!” shrieked Katerina
Ivanovna. “You are an idiot yourself, pettifogging lawyer,
base man! Sonia, Sonia take his money! Sonia a thief!
Why, she’d give away her last penny!” and Katerina Iva-
novna broke into hysterical laughter. “Did you ever see
such an idiot?” she turned from side to side. “And you
too?” she suddenly saw the landlady, “and you too, sausage
eater, you declare that she is a thief, you trashy Prussian
hen’s leg in a crinoline! She hasn’t been out of this room:
she came straight from you, you wretch, and sat down
beside me, every one saw her. She sat here, by Rodion
Romanovitch. Search her! Since she’s not left the room,
the money would have to be on her! Search her, search
her! But if you don’t find it, then, excuse me, my dear
fellow, you'll answer for it! Tl go to our Sovereign, to our
Sovereign, to our gracious Tsar himself, and throw myself
at his feet, to-day, this minute! I’m alone in the world!
They would let me in! Do you think they wouldn’t?
You’re wrong, I will get in! I will get in! You reckoned
on her meekness! Yourelied upon that! But I am not so
submissive, let me tell you! You’re gone too far yourself!
Search her, search her!”

And Katerina Ivanovna in a frenzy shook Luzhin and
dragged him towards Sonia.

“T am ready, I'll be responsible . . . but calm yourself,
madam, calm yourself. I see that you are not so submissive!
... Well, well, but as to that ...” Luzhin muttered, “that
ought to be before the police . . . though indeed there are
witnesses enough as it is.... I am ready. ... But in any
case it’s difficult for a man . . . on account of her sex....
But with the help of Amalia Ivanovna... though, of
course, it’s not the way to do things. . . . How is it to be
done ?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 401

“As you will! Let any one who likes search her!” cried
Katerina Ivanovna, “Sonia, turn out your pockets! See!
Look, monster, the pocket is empty, here was her handker-
chief! Here is the other pocket, look! D’you see, d’you
see ?”

And Katerina Ivanovna turned—or rather snatched—both
pockets inside out. But from the right pocket a piece of
paper flew out describing a parabola in the air fell at
Luzhin’s feet. Every one saw it, several cried out. Pyotr
Petrovitch stooped down, picked up the paper in two fingers,
lifted it where all could see it and opened it. It was a
hundred-rouble not folded in eight. Pyotr Petrovitch held
up the note showing it to every one.

“Thief! Out of my lodging. Police, police!” yelled
Amalia Ivanovna. “They must to Siberia be sent! Away!”

Exclamations arose on all sides. Raskolnikov was silent,
keeping his eyes fixed on Sonia, except for an occasional
rapid glance at Luzhin. Sonia stood still, as though uncon-
scious. She was hardly able to feel surprise. Suddenly the
colour rushed to her cheeks; she uttered a cry and hid her
face in her hands.

“No, it wasn’t I! I didn’t take it! I know nothing about
it,’ she cried with a heartrending wail, and she ran to
Katerina Ivanovna, who clasped her tightly in her arms, as
though she would shelter her from all the world.

“Sonia! Sonia! I don’t believe it! You see, I don’t
believe it!’ she cried in the face of the obvious fact, swaying
her to and fro in her arms like a baby, kissing her face con-
tinually, then snatching at her hands and kissing them, too,
“you took it! How stupid these people are! Ohdear! You
are fools, fools,” she cried, addressing the whole room, “you
don’t know, you don’t know what a heart she has, what a
girl she is! She take it, she? She’d sell her last rag, she’d
go barefoot to help you if you needed it, that’s what she
is! She has the yellow passport because my children were
starving, she sold herself for us! Ah, husband, husband!
Do you see? Do you see? What a memorial dinner for
you! Merciful heavens! Defend her, why are you all stand-
ing still? Rodion Romanovitch, why don’t you stand up for
her? Do you believe it, too? You are not worth her little

402 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY
finger, all of you together! Good God! Defend her now,

at least!”

The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed
to produce a great effect on her audience. The agonised,
wasted, consumptive face, the parched blood-stained lips,
the hoarse voice, the tears unrestrained as a child’s, the
trustful, childish and yet despairing prayer for help were so
piteous that every one seemed to feel for her. Pyotr Petro-
vitch at any rate was at once moved to compassion.

“Madam, madam, this incident does not reflect upon you!”
he cried impressively, “no one would take upon himself to
accuse you of being an instigator or even an accomplice in
it, especially as you have proved her guilt by turning out hér
pockets, showing that you had no previous idea of it. I am
most ready, most ready to show compassion, if poverty, so
to speak drove Sofya Semyonovna to it, but why did you
refuse to confess, mademoiselle? Were you afraid of the
disgrace? The first step? You lost your head, perhaps?
One can quite understand it. ... But how could you have
lowered yourself to such an action? Gentlemen,” he ad-
dressed the whole company, “gentlemen! Compassionating
and so to say commiserating these people, I am ready to over-
look it even now in spite of the personal insult lavished
upon me! And may this disgrace be a lesson to you for the
‘future,’ he said, addressing Sonia, “and I will carry the mat-
ter no further. Enough!’

Pyotr Petrovitch stole a glance at Raskolnikov. Their
eyes met, and the fire in Raskolnikov’s seemed ready to
reduce him to ashes. Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna ap-
parently heard nothing. She was kissing and hugging Sonia
like a madwoman. The children, too, were embracing Sonia
on all sides, and Polenka,—though she did not fully under-
stand what was wrong,—was drowned in tears and shaking
with sobs, as she hid her pretty little face swollen with weep-
ing, on Sonia’s shoulder.

“How vile!” a loud voice cried suddenly in the doorway.

Pyotr Petrovitch looked round quickly.

“What vileness!” Lebziatnikov repeated, staring him
straight in the face. .

Pyotr Petrovitch gave a positive start—all noticed it

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 403

and recalled it afterwards. Lebeziatnikov strode into the
room.

“And you dared to call me as witness?” he said, going up
to Pyotr Petrovitch.

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

“I mean that you... are a slanderer, that’s what my
words mean!” Lebeziatnikov said hotly, looking sternly at
him with his shortsighted eyes.

He was extremely angry. Raskolnikov gazed intently at
him, as though seizing and weighing each word. Again there
was a silence. Pyotr Petrovitch indeed seemed almost dumb-
founded for the first moment.

“If you mean that for me,...” he began, stammering,
“But what’s the matter with you? Are you out of your
mind ?”

“Tm in my mind, but you are a scoundrel! Ah, how vile!
I have heard everything. I kept waiting on purpose to
understand it, for I must own even now it is not quite logical.
. - « What you have done it all for I can’t understand.”

“Why, what have I done then? Give over talking in your
nonsensical riddles! Or maybe you are drunk!”

“You may be a drunkard perhaps, vile man, but I am not!
I never touch vodka, for it’s against my convictions. Would
you believe it, he, he himself, with his own hands gave Sofya
Semyonovna that hundred-rouble note—I saw it, I was a
witness, I'll take my oath! He did it, he!” repeated Lebeziat-
nikov, addressing all.

“Are you crazy, milksop?”’ squealed Luzhin. “She is her-
self before you,—she herself here declared just now before
every one that I gave her only ten roubles. How could I
have given it to her?”

“I saw it, I saw it,’ Lebeziatnikov repeated, “and though
it is against my principles, I am ready this very minute to
take any oath you like before the court, for I saw how you
slipped it in her pocket. Only like a fool I thought you did
it out of kindness! When you were saying good-bye to her
at the door, while you held her hand in one hand, with the
other, the left, you slipped the note into her pocket. I saw
it, I saw it!”

404 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Luzhin turned pale.

“What lies!” he cried impudently, “why, how could you,
standing by the window, see the note! You fancied it with
your shortsighted eyes. You are raving!”

“No, I didn’t fancy it. And though I was standing some
way off, I saw it all. And though it certainly would be hard
to distinguish a note from the window,—that’s true—I knew
for certain that it was a hundred-rouble note, because, when
you were going to give Sofya Semyonovna ten roubles, you
took up from the table a hundred-rouble note (I saw it
because I was standing near then, and an idea struck me at
once, so that I did not forget you had it in your hand). You
folded it and kept it in your hand all the time. I didn’t think
of it again until, when you were getting up, you changed it
from your right hand to your left and nearly dropped it! I
noticed it because the same idea struck me again, that you
meant to do her a kindness without my seeing. You can
fancy how I watched you and I saw how you succeeded in
slipping it into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it, I'll take my
oath.”

Lebeziatnikov was almost breathless. Exclamations arose
on all hands, chiefly expressive of wonder, but some were
menacing in tone. They all crowded round Pyotr Petrovitch.
Katerina Ivanovna flew to Lebeziatnikov.

“I was mistaken in you! Protect her! You are the
only one to take her part! She is an orphan, God has sent
you!” ,

Katerina Ivanovna, hardly knowing what she was doing,
sank on her knees before him.

“A pack of nonsense!” yelled Luzhin, roused to fury, “it’s
all nonsense you’ve been talking! ‘An idea struck you, you
didn’t think, you noticed’—what does it amount to? So lI
gave it to her on the sly on purpose? What for? With
what object? What have I to do with this. .. ?”

“What for? That’s what I can’t understand, but that
what I am telling you is the fact, that’s certain! So far from
my being mistaken, you infamous, criminal man, I remember
how, on account of it, a question occurred to me at once, just
when I was thanking you and pressing your hand. What
made you put it secretly in her pocket? Why you did it

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 405

secretly, I mean? Could it be simply to conceal it from me,
knowing that my convictions are opposed to yours and that
I do not approve of private benevolence, which effects no
radical cure. Well, I decided that you really were ashamed
of giving such a large sum before me. Perhaps, too, I
thought, he wants to give her a surprise, when she finds a
whole hundred-rouble note in her pocket. (For I know, some
benevolent people are very fond of decking out their chari-
table actions in that way.) Then the idea struck me, too,
that you wanted to test her, to see whether, when she found
it, she would come to thank you. Then, too, that you wanted
to avoid thanks and that, as the saying is, your right hand
should not know ... something of that sort, in fact. I
thought of so many possibilities that I put off considering it,
but still thought it indelicate to show you I knew your
secret. But another idea struck me again that Sofya Semyo-
novna might easily lose the money before she noticed it, that
was why I decided to come in here to call her out of the
room and to tell her that you put a hundred roubles in her
pocket. But on my way I went first to Madame Kobilatni-
kov’s to take them the ‘General Treatise on the Positive
Method’ and especially to recommend Piderit’s article (and
also Wagner’s); then I come on here and what a state of
things I find! Now could I, could I, have all these ideas and
reflections, if I had not seen you put the hundred-rouble
note in her pocket?”

When Lebeziatnikov finished his long-winded harangue
with the logical deduction at the end, he was quite tired, and
the perspiration streamed from his face. He could not, alas,
even express himself correctly in Russian, though he knew
no other language, so that he was quite exhausted, almost
emaciated after this heroic exploit. But his speech pro-
duced a powerful effect. He had spoken with such vehe-
mence, with such conviction that every one obviously be-
lieved him. Pyotr Petrovitch felt that things were going
badly with him.

“What is it to do with me if silly ideas did occur to you?’
he shouted, “that’s no evidence. You may have dreamt it,
that’s all! And I tell you, you are lying, sir. You are lying
and slandering from some spite against me, simply from

406 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

pique, because I did not agree with your freethinking, godless,
social propositions !”

But this retort did not benefit Pyotr Petrovitch. Murmurs
of disapproval were heard on all sides.

“Ah, that’s your line now, is it!” cried Lebeziatnikov,
“that’s nonsense! Call the police and I'll take my oath!
There’s only one thing I can’t understand: what made him
risk such a contemptible action. Oh, pitiful, despicable man !”

“T can explain why he risked such an action, and if neces-
sary, I, too, will swear to it,’ Raskolnikov said at last in a
firm voice, and he stepped forward.

He appeared to be firm and composed. Every one felt
clearly from the very look of him that he really knew abofit
it and that the mystery would be solved.

“Now I can explain it all to myself,” said Raskolnikov,
addressing Lebeziatnikov. “From the very beginning of the
business, I suspected that there was some scoundrelly in-
trigue at the bottom of it. I began to suspect it from some
special circumstances known to me only, which I will explain
at once to every one: they account for everything. Your
valuable evidence has finally made everything clear to me. I
beg all, all to listen. This gentleman (he pointed to Luzhin)
was recently engaged to be married to a young lady—my
sister, Avdotya Romanovna Raskolnikov. But coming to
-Petersburg he quarrelled with me, the day before yesterday,
at our first meeting and I drove him out of my room—I
have two witnesses to prove it.- He is a very spiteful man.
. » . The day before yesterday I did not know that he was
staying here, in your room, and that consequently on the
very day we quarrelled—the day before yesterday—he saw
me give Katerina Ivanovna some money for the funeral, as
a friend of the late Mr. Marmeladov. He at once wrote a
note to my mother and informed her that I had given away
all my money, not to Katerina Ivanovna, but to Sofya
Semyonovna, and referred in a most contemptible way to
the .. . character of Sofya Semyonovna, that is, hinted at
the character of my attitude to Sofya Semyonovna. All this
you understand was with the object of dividing me from my
mother and sister, by insinuating that I was squandering on
unworthy objects the money which they had sent me and

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 407

which was all they had. Yesterday evening, before my mother
and sister and in his presence, I declared that I had given the
money to Katerina Ivanovna for the funeral and not to
Sofya Semyonovna and that I had no acquaintance with
Sofya Semyonovna and had never seen her before, indeed.
At the same time I added that he, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin,
with all his virtues was not worth Sofya Semyonovna’s little
finger, though he spoke so ill of her. To his question—would
I let Sofya Semyonovna sit down beside my sister, I
answered that I had already done so that day. Irritated that
my mother and sister were unwilling to quarrel with me at
his insinuations, he gradually began being unpardonably
rude to them. A final rupture took place and he was turned
out of the house. All this happened yesterday evening. Now
I beg your special attention: consider: if he had now sucs
ceeded in proving that Sofya Semyonovna was a thief, he
would have shown to my mother and sister that he was almost
right in his suspicions, that he had reason to be angry at my
putting my sister on a level with Sofya Semyonovna, that,
in attacking me, he was protecting and preserving the honour
of my sister, his betrothed. In fact he might even, through
all this, have been able to estrange me from my family, and
no doubt he hoped to be restored to favour with them; to say
nothing of revenging himself on me personally, for he has
grounds for supposing that the honour and happiness of
Sofya Semyonovna are very precious to me. That was what
he was working for! That’s how I understand it. That’s
the whole reason for it and there can be no other!”

It was like this, or somewhat like this that Raskolnikov
wound up his speech which was followed very attentively,
though often interrupted by exclamations from his audience.
But in spite of interruptions he spoke clearly, calmly, exactly,
firmly. His decisive voice, his tone of conviction and his
stern face made a great impression on every one.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,’ Lebeziatnikov assented gleefully,
“that must be, for he asked me, as soon as Sofya Semyo<
novna came into our room, whether you were here, whether
I had seen you among Katerina Ivanovna’s guests. He called
me aside to the window and asked me in secret. It was es-
sential for him that you should be here! That’s it, that’s it!”

408 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Luzhin smiled contemptuously and did not speak. But he
was very pale. He seemed to be deliberating on some means
of escape. Perhaps he would have been glad to give up
everything and get away, but at the moment this was
scarcely possible. It would have implied admitting the truth
of the accusations brought against him. Moreover the com-
pany, which had already been excited by drink, was now too
much stirred to allow it. The commissariat clerk, though
indeed he had not grasped the whole position, was shouting
louder than any one and was making some suggestions very
unpleasant to Luzhin. But not all those present were
drunk; lodgers came in from all the rooms. The three
Poles were tremendously excited and were continually shout’
ing at him: “The pan is a lajdak!” and muttering threats
in Polish.

Sonia had been listening with strained attention, though

she too seemed unable to grasp it all; she seemed as though
she had just returned to consciousness. She did not take her
eyes off Raskolnikov, feeling that all her safety lay in him.
Katerina Ivanovna breathed hard and painfully and seemed
fearfully exhausted. Amalia Ivanovna stood looking more
stupid than any one, with her mouth wide open, unable to
make out what had happened. She only saw that Pyotr
Petrovitch had somehow come to grief.
. Raskolnikov was attempting to speak again, but they did
not let him. Every one was crowding round Luzhin with
threats and shouts of abuse. But Pyotr Petrovitch was not
intimidated. Seeing that his accusation of Sonia had com-
pletely failed, he had recourse to insolence:

“Allow me, gentlemen, allow me! Don’t squeeze, let me
pass!” he said, making his way through the crowd. “And
no threats if you please! I assure you it will be useless, you
will gain nothing by it. On the contrary, you'll have to
answer, gentlemen, for violently obstructing the course of
justice. The thief has been more than unmasked, and I
shall prosecute. Our judges are not so blind and... not
so drunk, and will not believe the testimony of two notorious
infidels, agitators, and atheists, who accuse me from motives
of personal revenge which they are foolish enough to admit.
- - - Yes, allow me to pass!”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 409

“Don’t let me find a trace of you in my room! Kindly
leave at once, and everything is at an end between us! When
I think of the trouble I’ve been taking, the way I’ve been
expounding ... all this fortnight!”

“T told you myself to-day that I was going, when you tried
to keep me; now I will simply add that you are a fool. I
advise you to see a doctor for your brains and your short
sight. Let me pass, gentlemen!”

He forced his way through. But the commissariat clerk
was unwilling to let him off so easily: he picked up a
glass from the table, brandished it in the air and flung it
at Pyotr Petrovitch; but the glass flew straight at Amalia
Ivanovna.

She screamed, and the clerk, overbalancing, fell heavily
under the table. Pyotr Petrovitch made his way to his
room and half an hour later had left the house. Sonia, timid
by nature, had felt before that day that she could be ill-
treated more easily than any one, and that she could be
wronged with impunity. Yet till that moment she had
fancied that she might escape misfortune by care, gentleness
and submissiveness before every one. Her disappointment
was too great. She could, of course, bear with patience and
almost without murmur anything, even this. But for the
first minute she felt it too bitter. In spite of her triumph
and her justification—when her first terror and stupefaction
had passed and she could understand it all clearly—the feel-
ing of her helplessness and of the wrong done to her made
her heart throb with anguish and she was overcome with
hysterical weeping. At last, unable to bear any more, she
rushed out of the room and ran home, almost immediately
after Luzhin’s departure. When amidst loud laughter the
glass flew at Amalia Ivanovna, it was more than the land-
lady could endure. With a shriek she rushed like a fury at
Katerina Ivanovna, considering her to blame for everything.

“Out of my lodgings! At once! Quick march!”

And with these words she began snatching up everything
she could lay her hands on that belonged to Katerina Iva-
novna, and throwing it on the floor. Katerina Ivanovna,
pale, almost fainting, and gasping for breath, jumped up from
the bed where she had sunk in exhaustion and darted at

410 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Amalia Ivanovna. But the battle was too unequal: the land-
lady waved her away like a feather.

“What! As though that godless calumny was not enough
—this vile creature attacks me! What! On the day of my
husband’s funeral I am turned out of my lodging! After
eating my bread and salt she turns me into the street, with
my orphans! Where am I to go?” wailed the poor woman,
sobbing and gasping. “Good God!” she cried with flashing
eyes, “is there no justice upon earth? Whom should you
protect if not us orphans? We shall see! There is law and
justice on earth, there is, I will find it! Wait a bit, godless
creature! Polenka, stay with the children, I'll come back.
Wait for me, if you have to wait in the street. We will seé
whether there is justice on earth!”

And throwing over her head that green shawl which
Marmeladov had mentioned to Raskolnikov, Katerina Iva-
novna squeezed her way through the disorderly and drunken
crowd of lodgers who still filled the room, and, wailing and
tearful, she ran into the street—with a vague intention of
going at once somewhere to find justice. Polenka with the
two little ones in her arms crouched, terrified, on the trunk
in the corner of the room, where she waited trembling for
her mother to come back. Amalia Ivanovna raged about the
room, shrieking, lamenting and throwing everything she
came across on the floor. The lodgers talked incoherently,
some commented to the best of their ability on what had
happened, others quarrelled and swore at one another, while
others struck up a song. ...

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

And he set off in the direction of Sonia’s lodgings.

CHAPTER IV

pion of Sonia against Luzhin, although he had such a

load of horror and anguish in his own heart. But
having gone through so much in the morning, he found a
sort of relief in a change of sensations, apart from the
strong personal feeling which impelled him to defend Sonia.
He was agitated too, especially at some moments, by the
thought of his approaching interview with Sonia: he had
to tell her who had killed Lizaveta. He knew the terrible
suffering it would be to him and, as it were, brushed away
the thought of it. So when he cried as he left Katerina
Ivanovna’s, “Well, Sofya Semyonovna, we shall see what
you'll say now!” he was still superficially excited, still vigor-
ous and defiant from his triumph over Luzhin. But, strange
to say, by the time he reached Sonia’s lodging, he felt a
sudden impotence and fear. He stood still in hesitation at
che door, asking himself the strange question: “Must he tell
her who killed Lizaveta?” It was a strange question be-
cause he felt at the very time not only that he could not
help telling her, but also that he could not put off the
telling. He did not yet know why it must be so, he only
felt it, and the agonising sense of his impotence before the
inevitable almost crushed him. To cut short his hesitation
and suffering, he quickly opened the door and looked at Sonia
from the doorway. She was sitting with her elbows on the
table and her face in her hands, but seeing Raskolnikov she
got up at once and came to meet him as though she were
expecting him.

“What would have become of me but for you!” she said
quickly, meeting him in the middle of the room.

Evidently she was in haste to say this to him. It was what
she had been waiting for.

Raskolnikov went to the table and sat down on the chair
from which she had only just risen. She stood facing him,
two steps away, just as she had done the day before.

411

Pisin ot Sonia had been a vigorous and active cham-

412 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Well, Sonia?” he said, and felt that his voice was
trembling, “it was all due to ‘your social position and
the habits associated with it.’ Did you understand that just
now ?”

Her face showed her distress.

“Only don’t talk to me as you did yesterday,” she inter-
rupted him. “Please don’t begin it. There is misery enough
without that.”

She made haste to smile, afraid that he might not like the
reproach.

“T was silly to come away from there. What is happening
there now? I wanted to go back directly, but I kept thinking
that ... you would come.”

He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was turning them out
of their lodging and that Katerina Ivanovna had run off
somewhere “to seek justice.”

“My God!” cried Sonia, “let’s go at once...

And she snatched up her cape.

“It’s everlastingly the same thing!” cried Raskolnikov,
irritably. “You’ve no thought except for them! Stay a
little with me.”

“But ... Katerina Ivanovna ?”

“You won’t lose Katerina Ivanovna, you may be sure,
she'll come to you herself since she run out,” he added
peevishly. “If she doesn’t find you here, you'll be blamed
for Het

Sonia sat down in painful suspense. Raskolnikov was
silent, gazing at the floor and deliberating.

“This time Luzhin did not want to prosecute you,” he
began, not looking at Sonia, “but if he had wanted to, if it had
suited his plans, he would have sent you to prison if it had
not been for Lebeziatnikov and me. Ah?”

“Yes,” she assented in a faint voice. ‘Yes,’ she repeated,
preoccupied and distressed.

“But I might easily not have been there. And it was quite
an accident Lebeziatnikov’s turning up.”

Sonia was silent.

“And if you’d gone to prison, what then? Do you re-
member what I said yesterday ?”

Again she did not answer. He waited.

9

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 413

“T thought you would cry out again ‘don’t speak of it, leave
off.’” Raskolnikov gave a laugh, but rather a forced one.
“What, silence again?” he asked a minute later. “We must
talk about something, you know. It would be interesting for
me to know how you would decide a certain ‘problem’ as
Lebeziatnikov wotild say.” (He was beginning to lose the
thread.) “No, really, I am serious. Imagine, Sonia, that
you had known all Luzhin’s intentions beforehand. Known,
that is, for a fact, that they would be the ruin of Katerina
Ivanovna and the children and yourself thrown in—since
you don’t count yourself for anything—Polenka too ... for
she’ll go the same way. Well, if suddenly it all depended on
your decision whether he or they should go on living, that is
whether Luzhin should go on living and doing wicked things,
or Katerina Ivanovno should die? How would you decide
which of them was to die? I ask you?”

Sonia looked uneasily at him. There was something pe-
culiar in this hesitating question, which seemed approaching
something in a roundabout way.

“T felt that you were going to ask some question like that.”
she said, looking inquisitively at him.

“I dare say you did. But how is it to be answered?”

“Why do you ask about what could not happen?” said
Sonia reluctantly.

“Then it would be better for Luzhin to go on living and
doing wicked things? You haven’t dared to decide even
that !”

“But I can’t know the Divine Providence. ... And why
do you ask what can’t be answered? What’s the use of such
foolish questions? How could it happen that it should de-
pend on my decision—who has made me a judge to decide
who is to live and who is not to live?”

“Oh, if the Divine Providence is to be mixed up in it, there
is no doing anything,’ Raskolnikov grumbled morosely.

“You'd better say straight out what you want!” Sonia cried
in distress. “You are leading up to something again. ...
Can you have come simply to torture me?”

She could not control herself and began crying bit-
terly. He looked at her in gloomy misery. Five minutes
passed.

414 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Of course you’re right, Sonia,” he said softly at last: He
was suddenly changed. His tone of assumed arrogance and
helpless defiance was gone. Even his voice was suddenly
weak. “I told you yesterday that I was not coming to
ask forgiveness and almost the first thing I’ve said is
to ask forgiveness....I1 said that about Luzhin and
Providence for my own sake. I was asking forgiveness,
RIM R ese

He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and
incomplete in his pale smile. He bowed his head and hid his
face in his hands.

And suddenly a strange surprising sensation of a sort of
bitter hatred for Sonia passed through his heart. As it were
wondering and frightened of this sensation, he raised his
head and looked intently at her; but he met her uneasy and
painfully anxious eyes fixed on him; there was love in them;
his hatred vanished like a phantom. It was not the real
feeling; he had taken the one feeling for the other. It only
meant that that minute had come.

He hid his face in his hands again and bowed his head.
Suddenly he turned pale, got up from his chair, looked at
Sonia, and without uttering a word sat down mechanically
on her bed. i

His sensations that moment were terribly like the moment
when he had stood over the old woman with the axe in his
hand and felt that “he must not lose another minute.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Sonia, dreadfully frightened.

He could not utter a word. This was not at all, not at all
the way he had intended to “tell” and he did not understand
what was happening to him now. She went up to him softly,
sat down on the bed beside him and waited, not taking her
eyes off him. Her heart throbbed and sank. It was un-
endurable; he turned his deadly pale face to her. His lips
worked, helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang
of terror passed through Sonia’s heart.

. “What’s the matter?” she repeated, drawing a little away
from him.

“Nothing, Sonia, don’t be frightened. . . . It’s nonsense.
It really is nonsense, if you think of it,” he muttered, like a
man in delirium. “Why have I come to torture you?” he

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 415

added suddenly, looking at her. “Why, really? I keep ask-
ing myself that question, Sonia...”

He had perhaps been asking himself that question a quarter
of an hour before, but now he spoke helplessly, hardly
knowing what he said and feeling a continual tremor all
over.

“Oh, how you are suffering!” she uttered in distress, look-
ing intently at him. ;

“It’s all nonsense. ... Listen, Sonia.” He suddenly
smiled, a pale helpless smile for two seconds. “You remem-
ber what I meant to tell you yesterday ?”

Sonia waited uneasily.

“TI said as I went away that perhaps I was saying good-bye
for ever, but that if I came to-day I would tell you who

. who killed Lizaveta.”

She began trembling all over.

“Well here I’ve come to tell you.”

“Then you really meant it yesterday?” she whispered with
difficulty. “How do you know?” she asked quickly, as though
suddenly regaining her reason.

Sonia’s face grew pale and paler, and she breathed pain-
fully.

“I know.”

She paused a minute.

“Have they found him?” she asked timidly.

“No.”’

“Then how do you know about it?” she asked again, hardly
audibly and again after a minute’s pause.

He turned to her and looked very intently at her.

“Guess,” he said, with the same distorted helpless smile.

A shudder passed over her.

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

“I must be a great friend of his . . . since I know,” Ras-
kolnikov went on, still gazing into her face, as though he
could not turn his eyes away. “He... did not mean to
kill that Lizaveta ...he... killed her accidentally. ...
He meant to kill the old woman when she was alone and he
went there... and then Lizaveta came in... he killed
her too.”

416 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Another awful moment passed. Both still gazed at one
another.

“You can’t guess, then?” he asked suddenly, feeling as
though he were flinging himself down from a steeple.

“N-no ...” whispered Sonia.

“Take a good look.”

As soon as he had said this again, the same familiar sen-
Sation froze his heart. He looked at her and all at once
seemed to see in her face the face of Lizaveta. He remem-
bered clearly the expression in Lizaveta’s face, when he
approached her with the axe and she stepped back to the
wall, putting out her hand, with childish terror in her fac
looking as little children do when they begin to be frightenéd
of something, looking intently and uneasily at what frightens
them, shrinking back and holding out their little hands on
the point of crying. Almost the same thing happened now
to Sonia. With the same helplessness and the same terror,
she looked at him for a while and, suddenly putting out her
left hand, pressed her fingers faintly against his breast and
slowly began to get up from the bed, moving further from
him and keeping her eyes fixed even more immovably on |
him. Her terror infected him. The same fear showed itself
on his face. In the same way he stared at her and almost
with the same childish smile.

“Have you guessed?” he whispered at last.

“Good God!” broke in an awful wail from her bosom.

She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in the pillows,
but a moment later she got up, moved quickly to him, seized
both his hands and, gripping them tight in her thin fingers,
began looking into his face again with the same intent stare.
In this last desperate look she tried to look into him and
catch some last hope. But there was no hope; there was no
doubt remaining; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when
she recalled that moment, she thought it strange and won-
dered why she had seen at once that there was no doubt.
She could not have said, for instance, that she had foreseen
something of the sort—and yet now, as soon as he told her, she
suddenly fancied that she had really foreseen this very thing.

“Stop, Sonia, enough! don’t torture me,” he begged her
miserably,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 417

It was not at all, not at all like this he had thought of
telling her, but this is how it happened.

She jumped up, seeming not to know what she was doing,
and, wringing her hands, walked into the middle of the
room; but quickly went back and sat down again beside him,
her shoulder almost touching his. All of a sudden she started
as though she had been stabbed, uttered a cry and fell on
her knees before him, she did not know why.

“What have you done—what have you done te your-
self!’ she said in despair, and, jumping up, she flung her-
self on his neck, threw her arms round him, and held him
tight.

Raskolnikov drew back and iooked at her with a mournful
smile. :

“You are a strange girl, Sonia—you kiss me and hug me
when I tell you about that. ... You don’t think what you
are doing.”

“There is no one—no one in the whole world now so
unhappy as you!” she cried in a frenzy, not hearing what he
said, and she suddenly broke into violent hysterical weeping.

A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his heart and
softened it at once. He did not struggle against it. Two
tears started into his eyes and hung on his eyelashes.

“Then you won’t leave me, Sonia?” he said, looking at
her almost with hope.

“No, no, never, nowhere!’ cried Sonia. “I will follow
you, I will follow you everywhere. Oh, my God! Oh, how
miserable I am! ... Why, why didn’t I know you before!
Why didn’t you come before? Oh, dear!”

“Here I have come.”

“Yes, now! What’s to be done now! ... Together, to-
gether!” she repeated as it were unconsciously, and she
hugged him again. “I'll follow you to Siberia!”

He recoiled at this, and the same hostile, almost haughty
smile came on to his lips.

“Perhaps I don’t want to go to Siberia yet, Sonia,” he said.

Sonia looked at him quickly.

Again after her first passionate, agonising sympathy for
the unhappy man the terrible idea of the murder over-
whelmed her. In his changed tone she seemed to hear the

418 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

murderer speaking. She looked at him bewildered. She
knew nothing as yet, why, how, with what object it had been.
Now all these questions rushed at once into her mind. And
again she could not believe it: “He, he is a murderer!
Could it be true?” |

“What's the meaning of it? Where am I?” she said in
complete bewilderment, as though still unable to recover her-
self. “How could you, you, a man like you. . . . How could
you bring yourself to it? ... What does it mean?”

“Oh, well—to plunder. Leave off, Sonia,’ he answered
wearily, almost with vexation.

Sonia stood as though struck dumb, but suddenly she cried:

“You were hungry! It was... to help your mothef?
Yes?”

“No, Sonia, no,” he muttered, turning away and hanging
his head. “I was not so hungry ... I certainly did want to
help my mother, but . . . that’s not the real thing either. . . .
Don’t torture me, Sonia.”

Sonia clasped her hands.

“Could it, could it all be true? Good God, what a truth!
Who could believe it? And how could you give away your
last farthing and yet rob and murder! Ah,” she cried sud-
denly, “that money you gave Katerina Ivanovna.. . that
money ... Can that money... ”

“No, Sonia,’ he broke in hurriedly, “that money was not
it. Don’t worry yourself! That money my mother sent me
and it came when I was ill, the day I gave it to you....
Razumihin saw it ...he received it for me... That
money was mine—my own.”

Sonia listened to him in bewilderment and did her utmost
to comprehend. . ;

“And that money... . I don’t even know really whether
there was any money,” he added softly, as though reflect-
ing. “I took a purse off her neck, made of chamois leather
...a purse stuffed full of something ... but I didn’t
look in it; I suppose I hadn’t time. ... And the things—
chains and trinkets—I buried under a stone with the purse
next morning in a yard off the V Prospect. They are
all there now. .. .”

Sonia strained every nerve to listen.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 419

“Then why ... why, you said you did it to rob, but you
took nothing?” she asked quickly, catching at a straw.

“T don’t know. ... I haven’t yet decided whether to take
that money or not,” he said, musing again; and, seeming to
wake up with a start, he gave a brief ironical smile. “Ach,
what silly stuff I am talking, eh?”

The thought flashed through Sonia’s mind, wasn’t he mad?
But she dismissed it at once. ‘No, it was something else.”
She could make nothing of it, nothing.

“Do you know, Sonia,” he said suddenly with conviction,
“let me tell you: if I’d simply killed her because I was
hungry,” laying stress on every word and looking enigmati-
cally but sincerely at her, “I should be happy now. You
must believe that! What would it matter to you,” he cried
a moment later with a sort of despair, “what would it matter
to you if I were to confess that I did wrong! What do
you gain by such a stupid triumph over me? Ah, Sonia,
was it for that I’ve come to you to-day?”

Again Sonia tried to say something, but did not speak.

“I asked you to go with me yesterday because you are all
I have left.”

“Go where?’ asked Sonia, timidly.

“Not to steal and not to murder, don’t be anxious,” he
smiled bitterly. “We are so different. ... And you know,
Sonia, it’s only now, only this moment that I understand
where I asked you to go with me yesterday! Yesterday
when I said it I did not know where. I asked you for one
thing, I came to you for one thing—not to leave me. You
won't leave me, Sonia?”

She squeezed his hand.

“And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?”
he cried a minute later in despair, looking with infinite
anguish at her. “Here you expect an explanation from me,
Sonia; you are sitting and waiting for it, I see that. But
what can I tell you? You won’t understand and will only
suffer misery ...on my account! Well, you are crying
and embracing me again. Why do you do it? Because I
couldn’t bear my burden and have come to throw it on an-
other: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can you
love such a mean wretch?”

420 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“But aren’t you suffering, too?” cried Sonia.

Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart,
and again for an instant softened it.

“Sonia, I have a bad heart, take note of that. It may
explain a great deal. I have come because I am bad. There
are men who wouldn’t have come. But I am a coward
and ...a mean wretch. But...never mind! That’s
not the point. I must speak now, but I don’t know how to
begin.”

He paused and sank into thought.

“Ach, we are so different,” he cried again, “we are not
alike. And why, why did I come? I shall never forgive
myself that.” ‘

“No, no, it was a good thing you came,” cried Sonia.
“It’s better I should know, far better !”

He looked at her with anguish.

“What if it were really that?” he said, as though reaching
a conclusion. “Yes, that’s what it was! I wanted to
become a Napoleon, that is why I killed her. ... Do you
understand now?”

“N-no,” Sonia whispered naively and timidly. “Only
speak, speak, I shall understand, I shall understand im
myself !” she kept begging him.

“You'll understand? Very well, we shall see!” He
- paused and was for some time lost in meditation,

“Tt was like this: I asked myself one day this question—
what if Napoleon, for instance, had happened to be in my
place, and if he had not had Toulon nor Egypt nor the
passage of Mont Blanc to begin his career with, but instead
of all those picturesque and monumental things, there had ©
simply been some ridiculous old hag, a pawnbroker, who
had to be murdered too to get money from her trunk (for
his career, you understand). Well, would he have brought
himself to that, if there had been no other means? Wouldn’t
he have felt a pang at its being so far from monumental
and... and sinful, too? Well, I must tell you that I
worried myself fearfully over that ‘question’ so that I was
awfully ashamed when I guessed at last (all of a sudden,
somehow) that it would not have given him the least
pang, that it would not even have struck him that it was

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 421

not monumental ...that he would not have seen that
there was anything in it to pause over, and that, if he had
had no other way, he would have strangled her in a minute
without thinking about it! Well, I too... left off think-
ing about it... murdered her, following his example.
And that’s exactly how it was! Do you think it funny?
Yes, Sonia, the funniest thing of all is that perhaps that’s
just how it was.”

Sonia did not think it at all funny.

“You had better tell me straight out... without
examples,” she begged, still more timidly and scarcely
audibly.

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

“You are right again, Sonia. Of course that’s all non-
sense, it’s almost all talk! You see, you know of course
that my mother has scarcely anything, my sister, happened
to have a good education and was condemned to drudge as
a governess. All their hopes were centred on me. I was
a student, but I couldn’t keep myself at the university and
was forced for a time to leave it. Even if I had lingered
on like that, in ten or twelve years I might (with luck)
hope to be some sort of teacher or clerk with a salary of a
thousand roubles” (he repeated it as though it were a lesson)
“and by that time my mother would be worn out with grief
and anxiety and I could not succeed in keeping her in
comfort, while my sister ... well, my sister might well
have fared worse! And it’s a hard thing to pass every-
thing by all one’s life, to turn one’s back upon everything,
to forget one’s mother and decorously accept the insults
inflicted on one’s sister. Why should one? When one has
buried them, to burden oneself with others—wife and
children—and to leave them again without a farthing? So
I resolved to gain possession of the old woman’s money
and to use it for my first years without worrying my
mother, to keep myself at the university and for a little
while after leaving it—and to do this all on a broad,
thorough scale, so as to build up a completely new career
and enter upon a new life of independence.... Well...
that’s all. ... Well, of course in killing the old woman I
did wrong. .... Well, that’s enough.”

422 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

He struggled to the end of his speech in exhaustion and
let his head sink.

“Oh, that’s not it, that’s not it,” Sonia cried in distress.
“How could one... no, that’s not right, not right.”

“You see yourself that it’s not right. But I’ve spoken
truly, it’s the truth.”

“As though that could be the truth! Good God!”

“I’ve only killed a louse, Sonia, a useless, loathsome,
harmful creature.”

“A human being—a louse!”

“I too know it wasn’t a louse,” he answered, looking
Strangely at her. “But I am talking nonsense, Sonia,” he
added. “I’ve been talking nonsense a long time. . . . That’s
not it, you are right there. There were quite, quite other
causes for it! I haven’t talked to anyone for so long,
Sonia. ,.. My head aches dreadfully now.”

His eyes shone with feverish brilliance. He was almost
delirious; an uneasy smile strayed on his lips. His terrible
exhaustion could be seen through his excitement. Sonia
saw how he was Suffering. She too was growing dizzy.
And he talked so strangely: it seemed somehow compre-
hensible, but yet... “But how, how! Good God!” And
she wrung her hands in despair.

“No, Sonia, that’s not it,’ he began again suddenly,
_ raising his head, as though a new and sudden train of
thought had struck and as it were roused him—‘“that’s not
it! Better... imagine—yes, it’s certainly better—imagine
that I am vain, envious, malicious, base, vindictive and...
well, perhaps with a tendency to insanity. (Let’s have it
all out at once! They’ve talked of madness already, I
noticed.) I told you just now I could not keep myself
at the university. But do you know that perhaps I might
have done? My mother would have sent me what I needed
for the fees and I could have earned enough for clothes,
boots and food, no doubt. Lessons had turned up at half
a rouble. Razumihin works! But I turned sulky and
wouldn’t. (Yes, sulkiness, that’s the right word for it!)
I sat in my room like a spider. You've been in my den,
you've seen it....And do you know, Sonia, that low
ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul and the mind? Ah,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 423

how I hated that garret! And yet I wouldn’t go out of it!
I wouldn’t on purpose! I didn’t go out for days together,
and I wouldn’t work, I wouldn’t even eat, I just lay there
doing nothing. If Nastasya brought me anything, I ate it,
if she didn’t, I went all day without; I wouldn’t ask, on
purpose, from sulkiness! At night I had no light, I lay
in the dark and I wouldn’t earn money for candles. I ought
to have studied, but I sold my books; and the dust lies an
inch thick on the notebooks on my table. I preferred lying
still and thinking. And I kept thinking ...And I had
dreams all the time, strange dreams of all sorts, no need to
describe! Only then I began to fancy that. ... No, that’s
not it! Again I am telling you wrong! You see I kept
asking myself then: why am I so stupid, that if others are
stupid—and I know they are—yet I won’t be wiser? Then
I saw, Sonia, that if one waits for every one to get wiser
it will take too long. . . . Afterwards I understood that that
would never come to pass, that men won’t change and that
nobody can alter it and that it’s not worth wasting effort
over it. Yes, that’s so. That’s the law of their nature,
Sonia, ... that’s so! ...And I know now, Sonia, that
whoever is strong in mind and spirit will have power over
them. Anyone who is greatly daring is right in their eyes.
He who despises most things will be a law-giver among
them and he who dares most of all will be most in the
right! So it has been till now and so it will always be. A
man must be blind not to see it!”

Though Raskolnikov looked at Sonia as he said this, he
no longer cared whether she understood or not. The fever
had complete hold of him; he was in a sort of gloomy
ecstasy (he certainly had been too long without talking to
anyone). Sonia felt that this gloomy creed had become his
faith and code.

“T divined then, Sonia,” he went on eagerly, “that power
is only vouchsafed to the man who dares to stoop and pick
it up. There is only one thing, one thing needful: one has
only to dare! Then for the first time in my life an idea
took shape in my mind which no one had ever thought of
before me, no one! I saw clear as daylight how strange it
is that not a single person living in this mad world has

424, FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

had the daring to go straight for it all and send it flying
to the devil! I ...I wanted to have the daring... and
I killed her. I only wanted to have the daring, Sonia!
That was the whole cause of it!”

“Oh hush, hush,” cried Sonia clasping her hands. “You
turned away from God and God has smitten you, has given
you over to the devil!”

“Then, Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and
all this became clear to me, was it a temptation of the
devil, eh?”

“Hush, don’t laugh, blasphemer! You don’t understand,
you don’t understand! Oh God! He won’t understand!”

“Hush, Sonia! I am not laughing. I know myself that
it was the devil leading me. Hush, Sonia, hush!” he
repeated with gloomy insistence. “I know it ali, I have
thought it all over and over and whispered it all over to
myself, lying there in the dark... . I’ve argued it all over
with myself, every point of it, and I know it all, all! And
how sick, how sick I was then of going over it all! I kept
wanting to forget it and make a new beginning, Sonia, and
leave off thinking. And you don’t suppose that I went into
it headlong like a fool? I went into it like a wise man, and
that was just my destruction. And you mustn’t suppose
that I didn’t know, for instance, that if I began to question
myself whether I had the right to gain power—lI certainly
hadn’t the right—or that if I asked myself whether a
human being is a louse it proved that it wasn’t so for me,
though it might be for a man who would go straight to his
goal without asking questions. ... If I worried myself all
those days, wondering whether Napoleon would have done
it or not, I felt clearly of course that I wasn’t Napoleon. I
had to endure all the agony of that battle of ideas, Sonia,
and I longed to throw it off: I wanted to murder without
casuistry, to murder for my own sake, for myself alone!
I didn’t want to lie about it even to myself. It wasn’t to
help my mother I did the murder—that’s nonsense—I didn’t
do the murder to gain wealth and power and'to become a
benefactor of mankind. Nonsense!, I simply did it; I did
the murder for myself, for myself alone, and whether I
became a benefactor to others, or spent my life like a

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 425

spider, catching men in my web and sucking the life out of
men, I couldn’t have cared at that moment. ... And it was
not the money I wanted, Sonia, when I did it. It was not -
so much the money I wanted, but something else.... I
know it all now. ... Understand me! Perhaps I should
never have committed a murder again. I wanted to find
out something else; it was something else led me on. I
wanted to find out then and quickly whether I was a louse
like everybody else or a man. Whether I can step over
barriers or not, whether I dare stoop to pick up or not,
whether I am a trembling creature or whether I have the
VIGHE 50"

“To kill? Have the right to kill?’ Sonia clasped her
hands.

“Ach, Sonia!” he cried irritably and seemed about to make
some retort, but was contemptuously silent. ‘Don’t interrupt
me, Sonia. I want to prove one thing only, that the devil
led me on then and he has shown me since that I had not
the right to take that path, because I am just such a louse
as all the rest. He was mocking me and here I’ve come to
you now! Welcome your guest! If I were not a louse,
should I have come to you? Listen: when I went then to
the old woman’s I only went to try. ... You may be sure
of that!”

“And you murdered her!”

“But how did I murder her? Is that how men do
murders? Do men go to commit a murder as I went then?
I will tell you some day how I went! Did I murder the old
woman? I murdered myself, not her! I crushed myself
once for all, for ever. .... But it was the devil that killed
that old woman, not I. Enough, enough, Sonia, enough!
Let me be!” he cried in a sudden spasm of agony, “‘let
me be!” .

He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head
in his hands as in a vice.

“What suffering!’ A wail of anguish broke from
Sonia.

“Well, what am I to do now?” he asked, suddenly raising
his head and looking at her with a face hideously distorted
by despair.

I5—R

426 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“What are you to do?” she cried, jumping up, and her
eyes that had been full of tears suddenly began to shine.
“Stand up!” (She seized him by the shoulder, he got up,
looking at her almost bewildered.) “Go at once, this very
minute, stand at the cross-roads, bow down, first kiss the
earth which you have defiled and then bow down to all the
world and say to all men aloud, ‘I am a murderer!’ Then
God will send you life again. Will you go, will you go?”
she asked him, trembling all over, snatching his two hands,
squeezing them tight in hers and gazing at him with eyes
full of fire.

He was amazed at her sudden ecstasy.

“You mean Siberia, Sonia? I must give myself up?’ yhe
asked gloomily.

“Suffer and expiate your sin by it, that’s what you
must do.”

“No! I am not going to them, Sonia!”

“But how will you go on living? What will you live for?”
cried Sonia, “how is it possible now? Why, how can you
talk to your mother? (Oh, what will become of them
now!) But what am I saying? You have abandoned your
mother and your sister already. He has abandoned them
already! Oh God!” she cried, “why, he knows it all him-
self. How, how can he live by himself! What will become
of you now?”

“Don’t be a child, Sonia,” he said softly. “What wrong
have I done them? Why should I go to them? What
should I say to them? That’s only a phantom. ... They
destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a
virtue. They are knaves and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not
going to them. And what should I say to them—that I
murdered her, but did not dare to take the money and hid
it under a stone?” he added with a bitter smile. “Why,
they would laugh at me, and would call me a fool for not
getting it. A coward and a fool! They wouldn’t under-
stand and they don’t deserve to understand. Why should I
go to them? I won’t. Don’t be a child, Sonia... .”

“Tt will be too much for you to bear, too much!’ she
repeated, holding out her hands in despairing supplication.

“Perhaps I’ve been unfair to myself,” he observed

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 427

gloomily, pondering, “perhaps after all I am a man and
not a louse and I’ve been in too great a hurry to condemn
myself. Vil make another fight for it.”

A haughty smile appeared on his lips.

“What a burden to bear! And your whole life, your
whole life!”

“T shall get used to it,” he said grimly and thoughtfully.
“Listen,” he began a minute later, “stop crying, it’s time
to talk of the facts: I’ve come to tell you that the police are
after me, on my track, ). 4)”

“Ach!” Sonia cried in terror.

“Well, why do you cry out? You want me to go to
Siberia and now you are frightened? But let me tell you:
I shall not give myself up. I shall make a struggle for it
and they won’t do anything tome. They’ve no real evidence.
Yesterday I was in great danger and believed I was lost;
but to-day things are going better. All the facts they know
can be explained two ways, that’s to say I can turn their
accusations to my credit, do you understand? And I shall,
for I’ve learnt my lesson. But they will certainly arrest me.
If it had not been for something that happened, they would
have done so to-day for certain; perhaps even now they
will arrest me to-day. ... But that’s no matter, Sonia:
they'll let me out again ... for there isn’t any real proof
against me, and there won’t be, I give you my word for it.
And they can’t convict a man on what they have against
me. Enough. ... I only tell you that you may know... .
I will try to manage somehow to put it to my mother and
sister so that they won’t be frightened. ... My sister’s
future is secure, however, now, I believe ...and my
mother’s must be too. ... Well, that’s all. Be careful,
though. Will you come and see me in prison when I am
there ?”

“Oh, I will, I will.”

They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as
though they had been cast up by the tempest alone on some
deserted shore. He looked at Sonia and felt how great
was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it suddenly
burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a
strange and awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he

428 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

had felt that all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be
rid of at least part of his suffering, and now, when all her
heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he was
immeasurably unhappier than before.

“Sonia,” he said, “you’d better not come and see me
when I am in prison.”

Sonia did not answer, she was crying. Several minutes
passed.

“Have you a cross on you?” she asked, as though
suddenly thinking of it.

He did not at first understand the question.

“No, of course not? Here, take this one, of cypress
wood. I have another, a copper one that belonged ‘to
Lizaveta. I changed with Lizaveta: she gave me her
cross and I gave her my little ikon. I will wear Lizaveta’s
now and give you this. Take it... it’s mine! It’s mine,
you know,” she begged him. “We will go to suffer together,
and together we will bear our cross!”

“Give it me,” said Raskolnikov.

He did not want to hurt her feelings. But immediately
he drew back the hand he held out for the cross.

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

“Yes, yes, better,” she repeated with conviction, “when you
go to meet your suffering, then put it on. You will come
-to me, I'll put it on you, we will pray and go together.”

At that moment some one knocked three times at the door.

“Sofya Semyonoyvna, may I-come in?” they heard in a
very familiar and polite voice.

Sonia rushed to the door in a fright.. The flaxen head of
Mr. Lebeziatnikov appeared at the door.

CHAPTER V

EBEZIATNIKOV looked perturbed.
“I’ve come to you, Sofya Semyonovna,” he began.

“Excuse me...I thought I should find you,” he
said, addressing Raskolnikov suddenly, “that is, I didn’t
mean anything... of that sort... but I just thought.

... Katerina Ivanovna has gone out of her mind.” he
blurted out suddenly, turning from Raskolnikov to Sonia.

Sonia screamed.

“At least it seems so. But “.. we don’t know what to
do, you see! She came back—she seems to have been
turned out somewhere, perhaps beaten. ... So it seems at
least. ... She had run to your father’s former chief, she
didn’t find him at home: he was dining at some other
general’s. ... Only fancy, she rushed off there, to the
other general’s, and, imagine, she was so persistent that she
managed to get the chief to see her, had him fetched out
from dinner, it seems. You can imagine what happened.
She was turned out, of course; but, according to her own
story, she abused him and threw something at him. One
may well believe it. ... How it is she wasn’t taken up,
I can’t understand! Now she is telling every one, includ-
ing Amalia Ivanovna; but it’s difficult to understand her,
she is screaming and flinging herself about. ... Oh yes,
she shouts that since every one has abandoned her, she
will take the children and go into the street with a barrel-
organ, and the children will sing and dance, and she too,
and collect money, and will go every day under the general’s
window ... ‘to let every one see well-born children, whose
father was an official, begging in the street.’ She keeps
beating the children and they are all crying. She is teach-
ing Lida to sing ‘My Village,’ the boy to dance, Polenka
the same. She is tearing up all the clothes, and making
them little caps like actors; she means to carry a tin basin
-and make it tinkle, instead of music ... She won’t listen

429

430 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

to anything. ... Imagine the state of things! It’s beyond
anything !”

Lebeziatnikov would have gone on, but Sonia, who had
heard him almost breathless, snatched up her cloak and
hat, and ran out of the room, putting on her things as
she went. Raskolnikov followed her and Lebeziatnikov
came after him.

“She has certainly gone mad!” he said to Raskolnikov, as
they went out into the street. “I didn’t want to frighten
Sofya Semyonovna, so I said ‘it seemed like it,’ but there
isn’t a doubt of it. They say that in consumption the
tubercles sometimes occur in the brain; it’s a pity I know
nothing of medicine. I did try to persuade her, but she
wouldn’t listen.”

“Did you talk to her about the tubercles?”

“Not precisely of the tubercles. Besides, she wouldn’t
have understood! But what I say is, that if you convince
a person logically that he has nothing to cry about, he'll
stop crying. That’s clear. Is it your conviction that he
won't?”

“Life would be too easy if it were so,” answered
Raskolnikov.

“Excuse me, excuse me; of course it would be rather
difficult for Katerina Ivanovna to understand, but do you
- know that in Paris they have been conducting serious
experiments as to the possibility of curing the insane,
simply by logical argument. One professor there, a
scientific man of standing, lately dead, believed in the
possibility of such treatment. His idea was that there’s
nothing really wrong with the physical organism of the
insane, and that insanity is, so to say, a logical mistake,
an error of judgment, an incorrect view of things. He
gradually showed the madman his error and, would you
believe it, they say he was successful! But as he made
use of douches too, how far success was due to that
treatment remains uncertain. . .. So it seems at least.”

Raskolnikov had long ceased to listen. Reaching the
house where he lived, he nodded to Lebeziatnikov and went
in at the gate. Lebeziatnikov woke up with a start, looked
about him and hurried on.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 431

Raskolnikov went into his little room and stood still in the
middle of it. Why had he come back here? He looked at
the yellow and tattered paper, at the dust, at his sofa...
From the yard came a loud continuous knocking; some
one seemed to be hammering. . . . He went to the window,
rose on tiptoe and looked out into the yard for a long
time with an air of absorbed attention. But the yard was
empty and he could not see who was hammering. In
the house on the left he saw some open windows; on the
window-sills were pots of sickly-looking geraniums. Linen
was hung out of the windows....He knew it all by
heart. He turned away and sat down on the sofa.

Never, never had he felt himself so fearfully alone!

Yes, he felt once more that he would perhaps come to
hate Sonia, now that he had made her more miserable.

“Why had he gone to her to beg for her tears? What
need had he to poison her life? Oh, the meanness of it!”

“T will remain alone,” he said resolutely, “and she shall
not come to the prison!”

Five minutes later he raised his head with a strange smile.
That was a strange thought.

“Perhaps it really would be better in Siberia,” he thought
suddenly.

He could not have said how long he sat there with
vague thoughts surging through his mind. All at once the
door opened and Dounia come in. At first she stood still
and looked at him from the doorway, just as he had done
at Sonia; then she came in and sat down in the same place
as yesterday, on the chair facing him. He looked silently
and almost vacantly at her.

“Don’t be angry, brother; I’ve only come for one minute,”
said Dounia.

Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were
bright and soft. He saw that she too had come to him
with love.

“Brother, now I know all, all. Dmitri Prokofitch has
explained and told me everything. They are worrying and
persecuting you through a stupid and contemptible suspicion.
. .. Dmitri Prokofitch told me that there is no danger, and
that you are wrong in looking upon it with such horror.

432 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

I don’t think so, and I fully understand how indignant
you must be, and that that indignation may have a
permanent effect on you. That’s what I am afraid of. As
for your cutting yourself off from us, I don’t judge you,
I don’t venture to judge you, and forgive me for having
blamed you for it. I feel that I too, if I had so great a
trouble, should keep away from every one. I shall tell
mother nothing of this, but I shall talk about you continually
and shall tell her from you that you will come very soon.
Don’t worry about her; J will set her mind at rest; but
don’t you try her too much—come once at least; remember
that she is your mother. And now I have come simply to
say” (Dounia began to get up) “that if you should neéd
me or should need... all my life or anything... call
me, and I’ll come. Good-bye!”

She turned abruptly and went towards the door.

“Dounia!’’ Raskolnikov stopped her and went towards her.
“That Razumihin, Dmitri Prokofitch, is a very good fellow.”

Dounia flushed slightly.

“Well?” she asked, waiting a moment.

“He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real
love. . . . Good-bye, Dounia.”

Dounia flushed crimson, then suddenly she took alarm.

“But what does it mean, brother? Are we really parting
for ever that you ... give me such a parting message?”

“Never mind. Hoods bye.”

He turned ane ave walked to the window. She stood a
moment, looked at him uneasily, and went out troubled.

No, he was not cold to her. There was an instant (the
very last one) when he had longed to take her in his arms
and say good-bye to her, and even to tell her, but he had not
dared even to touch her hand.

“Afterwards she may shudder when she remembers that
I embraced her, and will feel that I stole her kiss.”

“And would she stand that test?” he went on a few minutes
later to himself. “No, she wouldn't; girls like that can’t stand
things! They never do.”

And he thought of Sonia.

There was a breath of fresh air from the window. The
daylight was fading. He took up his cap and went out.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 433

He could not, of course, and would not consider how ill he
was. But all this continual anxiety and agony of mind could
not but affect him. And if he were not lying in high fever it
was perhaps just because this continual inner strain helped
to keep him on his legs and in possession of his faculties. But
this artificial excitement could not last long.

He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A special
form of misery had begun to oppress him of late. There was
nothing poignant, nothing acute about it; but there was a feel-
ing of permanence, of eternity about it; it brought a foretaste
of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a foretaste of
an eternity “on a square yard of space.” Towards evening
this sensation usually began to weigh on him more heavily.

“With this idiotic, purely physical weakness, depending on
the sunset or something, one can’t help doing something
stupid! You'll go to Dounia, as well as to Sonia,” he mut-
tered bitterly.

He heard his name called. He looked round. Lebeziatnikov
rushed up to him.

“Only fancy, I’ve been to your room looking for you. Only
fancy, she’s carried out her plan, and taken away the children.
Sofya Semyonovna and I have had a job to find them. She
is rapping on a frying-pan and making the children dance.
The children are crying. They keep stopping at the cross
roads and in front of shops; there’s a crowd of fools running
after them. Come along!”

“And Sonia?” Raskolnikov asked anxiously, hurrying after
Lebeziatnikov.

“Simply frantic. That is, it’s not Sofya Semyonovna’s
frantic, but Katerina Ivanovna, though Sofya Semyonovna’s
frantic too. But Katerina Ivanovna is absolutely frantic. I
tell you she is quite mad. They’ll be taken to the police. You
can fancy what an effect that will have. ... They are on
the canal bank, near the bridge now, not far from Sofya Sem-
yonovna’s, quite close.”

On the canal bank near the bridge and not two houses away
from the one where Sonia lodged, there was a crowd of
people, consisting principally of gutter children. The hoarse
broken voice of Katerina Ivanovna could be heard from the
bridge, and it certainly was a strange spectacle likely to at-

434 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

tract a street crowd. Katerina Ivanovna in her old dress with
the green shawl, wearing a torn straw hat, crushed in a
hideous way on one side, was really frantic. She was ex-
hausted and breathless. Her wasted consumptive face looked
more suffering than ever, and indeed out of doors in the
sunshine a consumptive always looks worse than at home.
But her excitement did not flag, and every moment here irrita-
tion grew more intense. She rushed at the children, shouted
at them, coaxed them, told them before the crowd how to
dance and what to sing, began explaining to them why it
was necessary, and driven to desperation by their not under-
standing, beat them. . . . Then she would make a rush at the
crowd; if she noticed any decently dressed person stoppine
to look, she immediately appealed to him to see what these
children “from a genteel, one may say aristocratic, house”
had been brought to. If she heard laughter or jeering in
the crowd, she would rush at once at the scoffers and begin
squabbling with them. Some people laughed, others shook
their heads, but every one felt curious at the sight of the
madwoman with the frightened children. The frying-pan
of which Lebeziatnikov had spoken was not there, at least
Raskolnikov did not see it. But instead of rapping on the
pan, Katerina Ivanovna began clapping her wasted hands,
when she made Lida and Kolya dance and Polenka sing. She
too joined in the singing, but broke down at the second note
with a fearful cough, which made her curse in despair and
even shed tears. What made her most furious was the weep-
ing and terror of Kolya and Lida. Some effort had been ~
made to dress the children up as street singers are dressed.
The boy had on a turban made of something red and white
to look like a Turk. There had been no costume for Lida;
she simply had a red knitted cap, or rather a night cap that
had belonged to Marmeladov, decorated with a broken piece
of white ostrich feather, which had been Katerina Ivanovna’s
grandmother’s and had been preserved as a family possession.
Polenka was in her everyday dress; she looked in timid per-
plexity at her mother, and kept at her side, hiding her tears.
She dimly realised her mother’s condition, and looked un-
easily about her. She was terribly frightened of the street
and the crowd. Sonia followed Katerina Ivanovna, weeping

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 435

and beseeching her to return home, but Katerina Ivanovna
was not to be persuaded.

“Leave off, Sonia, leave off,’ she shouted, speaking fast,
panting and coughing. “You don’t know what you ask; you
are like a child! I’ve told you before that I am not coming
back to that drunken German. Let every one, let all Peters-
burg see the children begging in the street, though their father
was an honourable man who served all his life in truth and
fidelity, and one may say died in the service.” (Katerina
Ivanovna had by now invented this fantastic story and thor-
oughly believed it.) “Let that wretch of a general see it!
And you are silly, Sonia: what have we to eat? Tell me that.
We have worried you enough, I won’t go on so! Ah, Rodion
Romanovitch, is that you?’ she cried, seeing Raskolnikov
and rushing up to him. “Explain to this silly girl, please, that
nothing better could be done! Even organ-grinders earn
their living, and every one will see at once that we are
different, that we are an honourable and bereaved family
reduced to beggary. And that general will lose his post,
you'll see! We shall perform under his windows every day,
and if the Tsar drives by, I'll fall on my knees, put the chil-
dren before me, show them to him, and say ‘Defend us,
father.’ He is the father of the fatherless, he is merciful,
he’ll protect us, you'll see, and that wretch of a general...
Lida, tenez vous droite! Kolya, you'll dance again. Why
are you whimpering? Whimpering again! What are you
afraid of, stupid? Goodness, what am I to do with them,
Rodion Romanovitch? If you only knew how stupid they
are! What’s one to do with such children?”

And she, almost crying herself, which did not stop her unin-
terrupted, rapid flow of talk—pointed to the crying children.
Raskolnikov tried to persuade her to go home, and even said,
hoping to work on her vanity, that it was unseemly for her to
be wandering about the streets like an organ-grinder, as she
was intending to become the principal of a boarding-school.

“A boarding-school, ha-ha-ha! A castle in the air,” cried
Katerina Ivanovna, her laugh ending in a cough. “No,
Rodion Romanovitch, that dream is over! All have forsaken
us! ... And that general ... You know, Rodion Romano-
vitch, I threw an inkpot at him—it happened to be standing

436 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

in the waiting-room by the paper where you sign your name.
I wrote my name, threw it at him and ran away. Oh the
scoundrels, the scoundrels! But enough of them, now I'll
provide for the children myself, I won’t bow down to any-
body! She has had to bear enough for us!” she pointed to
Sonia. “Polenka, how much have you got? Show me!
What, only two farthings! Oh the mean wretches! They
give us nothing, only run after us, putting their tongues out.
There, what is that blockhead laughing at?” (She pointed
to a man in the crowd.) “It’s all because Kolya here is so
stupid; I have such a bother with him. What do you want,
Polenka? Tell mein French, parlez mot francais. Why, I’ve
taught you, you know some phrases. Else how are you 40
show that you are of good family, well brought-up children,
and not at all like other organ-grinders? We aren’t going to
have a Punch and Judy show in the street, but to sing a
genteel song ... Ah, yes... What are we to sing? You
keep putting me out, but we... you see, we are standing
here, Rodion Romanovitch, to find something to sing and
get money, something Kolya can dance to... For, as you
can fancy, our performance is all impromptu ... We must
talk it over and rehearse it all thoroughly, and then we shall
go to Nevsky, where there are far more people of good
society, and we shall be noticed at once. Lida knows ‘My
Village’ only, nothing but ‘My Village,’ and every one sings
that. We must sing something far more genteel . .. Well,
have you thought of anything, Polenka? If only you'd help
your mother! My memory’s quite gone, or I should have
thought of something. We really can’t sing ‘An Hussar.’
Ah, let us sing in French, ‘Cinq sous,’ I have taught it you, I
have taught it you. And as it is in French, people will see
at once that you are children of good family, and that will
be much more touching... You might sing ‘Malborough
s’en va-t-en guerre, for that’s quite a child’s song and is
sung as a lullaby in all the aristocratic houses.

Malborough s’en va-t-en guerre
Ne sait quand reviendra. . .”

she began singing. “But no, better sing ‘Cinq sous.’ Now,
Kolya, your hands on your hips, make haste, and you, Lida,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 437

keep turning the other way, and Polenka and I will sing and
clap our hands!

Cing sous, cing sous
Pour monter notre ménage.

(Cough-cough-cough!) Set your dress straight, Polenka, it’s
slipped down on your shoulders,” she observed, panting from
coughing. ‘Now it’s particularly necessary to behave nicely
and genteelly, that all may see that you are well-born chil-
dren. I said at the time that the bodice should be cut longer,
and made of two widths. It was your fault, Sonia, with your
advice to make it shorter, and now you see the child is quite
deformed by it . .. Why, you're all crying again! What’s
the matter, stupids? Come, Kolya, begin. Make haste, make
haste! Oh, what an unbearable child!

Cing sous, cing sous

A policeman again! What do you want?”

A policeman was indeed forcing his way through the crowd.
But at that moment a gentleman in civilian uniform and an
overcoat—a solid-looking official of about fifty with a decora-
tion on his neck (which delighted Katerina Ivanovna and had
its effect on the policeman)—approached and without a word
handed her a green three-rouble note. His face wore a look
of genuine sympathy. Katerina Ivanovna took it and gave
him a polite, even ceremonious, bow.

“T thank you, honoured sir,” she began loftily. “The causes
that have induced us (take the money, Polenka: you see there
are generous and honourable people who are ready to help a
poor gentlewoman in distress). You see, honoured sir, these
orphans of good family—I might even say of aristocratic
connections—and that wretch of a general sat eating grouse

. and stamped at my disturbing him. ‘Your excellency,’’
I said, ‘protect the orphans, for you knew my late husband,
Semyon Zaharovitch, and on the very day of his death the
basest of scoundrels slandered his only daughter ... That
policeman again! Protect me,’ she cried to the official.
“Why is that policeman edging up to me? We have
only just run away from one of them. What do you want,
fool ?”

438 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“It’s forbidden in the streets. You mustn’t make a dis-
turbance.”

“Tt’s you’re making a disturbance. It’s just the same as if
J were grinding an organ. What business is it of yours?”

“You have to get a licence for an organ, and you haven’t
got one, and in that way you collect a crowd. Where do you
lodge ?”

“What, a licence?” wailed Katerina Ivanovna. “I buried
my husband to-day. What need of a licence?”

“Calm yourself, madam, calm yourself,” began the official.
“Come along; I will escort you . . . This is no place for you
in the crowd. You are ill.”

“Honoured sir, honoured sir, you don’t know,” screamed
Katerina Ivanovna. “We are going to the Nevsky...
Sonia, Sonia! Where is she? She is crying too! What’s
the matter with you all? Kolya, Lida, where are you going?”
she cried suddenly in alarm. “Oh, silly children! Kolya,
Lida, where are they off to! ...”

Kolya and Lida, scared out of their wits by the crowd,
and their mother’s mad pranks, suddenly seized each other by
the hand, and ran off at the sight of the policeman who
wanted to take them away somewhere. Weeping and wailing,
poor Katerina Ivanovna ran after them. She was a piteous
and unseemly spectacle, as she ran, weeping and panting for
breath. Sonia and Polenka rushed after her.

“Bring them back, bring them back, Sonia! Oh stupid,
ungrateful children! ... Polenka! catch them ... It’s for
your sakes. .... !

She stumbled as she ran and fell down.

“She’s cut herself, she’s bleeding! Oh dear!” cried Sonia,
bending over her.

All ran up and crowded round. Raskolnikov and Lebeziat-
‘nikov were the first at her side, the official too hastened up,
and behind him the policeman who muttered, “Bother !” with
a gesture of impatience, feeling that the job was going to be
a troublesome one.

“Pass on! Pass on!” he said to the crowd that pressed
forward.

“She’s dying,” some one shouted.

“She’s gone out of her mind,” said another.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 439

“Lord have mercy upon us,” said a woman, crossing her-
self. “Have they caught the little girl and the boy? They’re
being brought back, the elder one’s got them. . . . Ah, the
naughty imps!”

When they examined Katerina Ivanovna carefully, they
saw that she had not cut herself against a stone, as Sonia
thought, but that the blood that stained the pavement red
was from her chest.

“T’ye seen that before,” muttered the official to Raskol-
nikov and Lebeziatnikov; “that’s consumption; the blood
flows and chokes the patient. I saw the same thing with a
relative of my own not long ago . . . nearly a pint of blood,
all in a minute. ... What's to be done though? She is
dying.”

“This way, this way, to my room!” Sonia implored. “I
live here! . . . See, that house, the second from here... .
Come to me, make haste,” she turned from one to the other.
“Send for the doctor! Oh, dear!”

Thanks to the official’s efforts, this plan was adopted, the
policeman even helping to carry Katerina Ivanovna. She
was carried to Sonia’s room, almost unconscious, and laid on
the bed. The blood was still flowing, but she seemed to be
coming to herself. Raskolnikov, Lebeziatnikov, and the
official accompanied Sonia into the room and were followed
by the policeman, who first drove back the crowd which
followed to the very door. Polenka came in holding Kolya
and Lida, who were trembling and weeping. Several per-
sons came in too from the Kapernaumovs’ room; the
landlord, a lame one-eyed man of strange appearance with
whiskers and hair that stood up like a brush, his wife, a
woman with an everlastingly scared expression, and several
open-mouthed children with wonder-struck faces. Among
these, Svidrigailov suddenly made his appearance. Raskol-
nikov looked at him with surprise, not understanding where
he had come from and not having noticed him in the crowd.
A doctor and priest were spoken of. The official whispered
to Raskolnikov that he thought it was too late now for the
doctor, but he ordered him to be sent for. Kapernaumov
ran himself.

Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna had regained her breath.

440 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

The bleeding ceased for a time. She looked with sick but
intent and penetrating eyes at Sonia, who stood pale and
trembling, wiping the sweat from her brow with a handker-
chief. At last she asked to be raised. They sat her up on
the bed, supporting her on both sides.

“Where are the children?” she said in a faint voice.
“You’ve brought them, Polenka? Oh the sillies!] Why did
you run away... . Och!”

Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She
moved her eyes, looking about her.

“So that’s how you live, Sonia! Never once have I been
in your room.”

She looked at her with a face of suffering. ,

“We have been your ruin, Sonia. Polenka, Lida, Kolya,
come here! Well, here they are, Sonia, take them all! I
hand them over to you, I’ve had enough! The ball is over.
(Cough!) Lay me down, let me die in peace.”

They laid her back on the pillow.

“What, the priest? I don’t want him. You haven’t got a
rouble to spare. I have no sins. God must forgive me with-
out that. He knows how I have suffered. ... And if He
won't forgive me, I don’t care!”

She sank more and more into uneasy delirium. At times
she shuddered, turned her eyes from side to side, recognised
every one for a minute, but at once sank into delirium again.
Her breathing was hoarse and difficult, there was a sort of
rattle in her throat.

“T said to him, your excellency,”’ she ejaculated, gasping
after each word. “That Amalia Ludwigovna, ah! Lida,
Kolya, hands on your hips, make haste! Glissez, glissez!
pas de basque! Tap with your heels, be a graceful child!

Du hast Diamanten und Perlen
What next? That’s the thing to sing.

Du hast die schénsten Augen
Madchen, was willst du mehr?

“What an idea! Was willst du mehr. What things the
fool invents! Ah, yes!

In the heat of midday in the vale of Dagestan.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 441

“Ah, how I loved it! I loved that song to distraction,
Polenka! Your father, you know, used to sing it when we
were engaged. .. . Oh those days! Oh that’s the thing for
us to sing! How does it go? I’ve forgotten. Remind me!
how was it?”

She was violently excited and tried to sit up. At last, ina
horribly hoarse, broken voice, she began, shrieking and
gasping at every word, with a look of growing terror.

“In the heat of midday! ...tm the vale! ...of Dagestan! ...
With lead in my breast! ...

“Your excellency!” she wailed suddenly with a heart-
rending scream and a flood of tears, “protect the orphans!
You have been their father’s guest . . . one may say aris-
tocratic....” She started, regaining consciousness, and
gazed at all with a sort of terror, but at once recognised
Sonia.

“Sonia, Sonia!” she articulated softly and caressingly, as
though surprised to find her there. “Sonia darling, are you
here, too?”

They lifted her up again.

“Enough! It’s over! Farewell, poor thing! I am done
for! I am broken!” she cried with vindictive despair, and
her head fell heavily back on the pillow. .

She sank into unconsciousness again, but this time it did
not last long. Her pale, yellow, wasted face dropped back,
her mouth fell open, her leg moved convulsively, she gave a
deep, deep sigh and died.

Sonia fell upon her, flung her arms about her, and re-
mained motionless with her head pressed to the dead
woman’s wasted bosom. Polenka threw herself at her
mother’s feet, kissing them and weeping violently. Though
Kolya and Lida did not understand what had happened,
they had a feeling that it was something terrible; they put
their hands on each other’s little shoulders, stared straight
at one another and both at once opened their mouths and
began screaming. They were both still in their fancy dress;
one in a turban, the other in the cap with the ostrich
feather.

And how did “the certificate of merit” come to be on the

442 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

bed beside Katerina Ivanovna? It lay there by the pillow;
Raskolnikov saw it.

He walked away to the window. Lebeziatnikov skipped
up to him.

“She is dead,” he said.

“Rodion Romanovitch, I must have two words with you,”
said Svidrigailov, coming up to them.

Lebeziatnikov at once made room for him and deli-
cately withdrew. Svidrigailov drew Raskolnikov further
away.

“T will undertake all the arrangements, the funeral and
that. You know it’s a question of money and, as I told you,
I have plenty to spare. I will put those two little ones fe
Polenka into some good orphan asylum, and I will settle
fifteen hundred roubles to be paid to each on coming of age,
so that Sofya Semyonovna need have no anxiety about them.
And I will pull her out of the mud too, for she is a good
girl, isn’t she? So tell Avdotya Romanovna that that is how
I am spending her ten thousand.”

“What is your motive for such benevolence?” asked
Raskolnikov.

“Ah! you skeptical person!” laughed Svidrigailov. “I
told you I had no need of that money. Won't you admit that
it’s simply done from humanity? She wasn’t ‘a louse,’ you
know” (he pointed to the corner where the dead woman lay),
“was she, like some old pawnbroker woman? Come, you'll
agree, is Luzhin to go on living, and doing wicked things or
is she to die? And if I didn’t help them, Polenka would go
the same way.”

He said this with an air of a sort of gay winking slyness,
keeping his eyes fixed on Raskolnikov, who turned white and
cold, hearing his own phrases, spoken to Sonia. He quickly
stepped back and looked wildly at Svidrigailov.

“How do you know?” he whispered, hardly able to
breathe.

“Why, I lodge here at Madame Resslich’s, the other side
of the wall. Here is Kapernaumov, and there lives Madame
Resslich, an old and devoted friend of mine. I am a
neighbour.”

“Vou aid

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 443

“Yes,” continued Svidrigailov, shaking with laughter. “I
assure you on my honour, dear Rodion Romanovitch, that
you have interested me enormously. I told you we should
become friends, I foretold it. Well, here we have. And you
will see what an accommodating person I am. You'll see
that you can get on with me!”

PART VI

CHAPTER I

though a fog had fallen upon him and wrapped him

in a dreary solitude from which there was no escape.
Recalling that period long after, he believed that his mind
had been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, at
intervals, till the final catastrophe. He was convinced that
he had been mistaken about many things at that time, for
instance as to the date of certain events. Any way, when
he tried later on to piece his recollections together, he learnt
a great deal about himself from what other people told him.
He had mixed up incidents and had explained events as due
to circumstances which existed only in his imagination. At
times he was a prey to agonies of morbid uneasiness, amount-
ing sometimes to panic. But he remembered, too, moments,
hours, perhaps whole days, of complete apathy, which came
upon him as a reaction from his previous terror and might
be compared with the abnormal insensibility, sometimes seen
in the dying. He seemed to be trying in that latter stage
to escape from a full and clear understanding of his position.
Certain essential facts which required immediate considera-
tion were particularly irksome to him. How glad he would
have been to be free from some cares, the neglect of which
would have threatened him with complete, inevitable ruin.
He was particularly worried about Svidrigailov, he might
be said to be permanently thinking of Svidrigailov. From
the time of Svidrigailov’s too menacing and unmistakable
words in Sonia’s room at the moment of Katerina Ivanovna’s
death, the normal working of his mind seemed to break
down. But although this new fact caused him extreme
uneasiness, Raskolnikov was in no hurry for an explanation

444

A STRANGE period began for Raskolnikov: it was as

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 445

of it. At times, finding himself in a solitary and remote part
of the town, in some wretched eating-house, sitting alone
lost in thought, hardly knowing how he had come there, he
suddenly thought of Svidrigailov. He recognised suddenly,
clearly, and with dismay that he ought at once to come to
an understanding with that man and to make what terms
he could. Walking outside the city gates one day, he posi-
tively fancied that they had fixed a meeting there, that he
was waiting for Svidrigailov. Another time he woke up
before daybreak lying on the ground under some bushes and
could not at first understand how he had come there.

But during the two or three days after Katerina Iva-
novna’s death, he had two or three times met Svidrigailov at
Sonia’s lodging, where he had gone aimlessly for a moment.
They exchanged a few words and made no reference to the
vital subject, as though they were tacitly agreed not to speak
of it for a time.

Katerina Ivanovna’s body was still lying in the coffin,
Svidrigailov was busy making arrangements for the funeral.
Sonia too was very busy. At their last meeting Svidrigailov
informed Raskolnikov that he had made an arrangement, and
a very satisfactory one, for Katerina Ivanovna’s children;
that he had, through certain connections, succeeded in getting
hold of certain personages by whose help the three orphans
could be at once placed in very suitable institutions; that the
money he had settled on them had been of great assistance,
as it is much easier to place orphans with some property
than destitute ones. He said something too about Sonia and
promised to come himself in a day or two to see Raskolnikov,
mentioning that “he would like to consult with him, that
there were things they must talk over... .”

This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs.
Svidrigailov looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly,
after a brief pause, dropping his voice, asked: “But how is
it, Rodion Romanovitch; you don’t seem yourself? You look
and you listen, but you don’t seem to understand. Cheer
up! We'll talk things over; I am only sorry, I’ve so much to
do of my own business and other people’s. Ah, Rodion
Romanovitch,” he added suddenly, “what all men need is
fresh air, fresh air .. more than anything!”

446 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

He moved to one side to make way for the priest and
server, who were coming up the stairs. They had come for
the requiem service. By Svidrigailov’s orders it was sung
twice a day punctually. Svidrigailov went his way. Raskol-
nikov stood still a moment, thought, and followed the priest
into Sonia’s room. He stood at the door. They began
quietly, slowly and mournfully singing the service. From
his childhood the thought of death and the presence of
death had something oppressive and mysteriously awful; and
it was long since he had heard the requiem service. And
there was something else here as well, too awful and dis-
turbing. He looked at the children: they were all kneeling
by the coffin; Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia
prayed, softly and, as it were, timidly weeping.

“These last two days she hasn’t said a word to me, she
hasn’t glanced at me,” Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The
sunlight was bright in the room; the incense rose in clouds;
the priest read, “Give rest, oh Lord....” Raskolnikov
stayed all through the service. As he blessed them and took
his leave, the priest looked round strangely. After the
service, Raskolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his
hands and let her head sink on his shoulder. This slight
friendly gesture bewildered Raskolnikov. It seemed strange
to him that there was no trace of repugnance, no trace of
disgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the furthest limit
of self-abnegation, at least so he interpreted it.

Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and
went out. He felt very miserable. If it had been possible
to escape to some solitude, he would have thought himself
lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life there. But al-
though he had almost always been by himself of late, he had
never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out of
the town on to the high road, once he had even reached a
little wood, but the lonelier the place was, the more he
seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near him. It did
not frighten him, but greatly annoyed him, so that he made
haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to
enter restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thoroughfares.
There he felt easier and even more solitary. One day at dusk
he sat for an hour listening to songs in a tavern and he re-

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 447

membered that he positively enjoyed it. But at last he had
suddenly felt the same uneasiness again, as though his con-
science smote him. “Here I sit listening to singing, is that
what I ought to be doing?” he thought. Yet he felt at once
that that was not the only cause of his uneasiness; there was
something requiring immediate decision, but it was something
he could not clearly understand or put into words. It was
a hopeless tangle. “No, better the struggle again! Better
Porfiry again... or Svidrigailov. ... Better some chal-
lenge again ... some attack. Yes, yes!” he thought. He
went out of the tavern and rushed away almost at a run. The
thought of Dounia and his mother suddenly reduced him
almost to a panic. That night he woke up before morning
among some bushes in Krestovsky Island, trembling all over
with fever; he walked home, and it was early morning when
he arrived. After some hours’ sleep the fever left him, but
he woke up late, two o’clock in the afternoon.

He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna’s funeral had been
fixed for that day, and was glad that he was not present at
it. Nastasya brought him some food; he ate and drank with
appetite, almost with greediness. His head was fresher and
he was calmer than he had been for the last three days. He
even felt a passing wonder at his previous attacks of panic.

The door opened and Razumihin came in.

““Ah, he’s eating, then he’s not ill,” said Razumihin. He
took a chair and sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov.

He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He
spoke with evident annoyance, but without hurry or raising
his voice. He looked as though he had some special fixed
determination.

“Listen,” he began resolutely. “As far as I am concerned
you may all go to hell, but from what I see, it’s clear to me
that I can’t make head or tail of it; please don’t think I’ve
come to ask you questions. I don’t want to know, hang it!
If you begin telling me your secrets, I dare say I shouldn’t
stay to listen, I should go away cursing. I have only come
to find out once for all whether it’s a fact that you are mad?
There is a conviction in the air that you are mad or very
nearly so. I admit I’ve been disposed to that opinion myself,
judging from your stupid, repulsive and quite inexplicable

448 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

actions, and from your recent behaviour to your mother and
sister. Only a monster or a madman could treat them as
you have; so you must be mad.”

“When did you see them last?”

“Just now. Haven’t you seen them since then? What
have you been doing with yourself? Tell me, please. I’ve
been to you three times already. Your mother has been
seriously ill since yesterday. She had made up her mind to
come to you; Avdotya Romanovna tried to prevent her;
she wouldn’t hear a word. ‘If he is ill, if his mind is giving
way, who can look after him like his mother?’ she said. We
all came here together, we couldn’t let her come alone all
the way. We kept begging her to be calm. We came im,
you weren't here; she sat down, and stayed ten minutes,
while we stood waiting in silence. She got up and said:
‘Tf he’s gone out, that is, if he is well, and has forgotten his
mother, it’s humiliating and unseemly for his mother to stand
at his door begging for kindness.’ She returned home and
took to her bed; now she is in a fever. ‘I see,’ she said,
‘that he has time for his girl? She means by your girl
Sofya Semyonovna, your betrothed or your mistress, I don’t
know. I went at once to Sofya Semyonovna’s, for I wanted
to know what was going on. I looked round, I saw the
coffin, the children crying, and Sofya Semyonovna trying
them on mourning dresses. No sign of you. I apologised,
came away, and reported to Avdotya Romanovna. So that’s
all nonsense and you haven’t got.a girl; the most likely thing
is that you are mad. But here you sit, guzzling boiled beef
as though you’d not had a bite for three days. Though as
far as that goes, madmen eat too, but though you have not
said a word to me yet... you are not mad! That I’d
swear! Above all, you are not mad. So you may go to
hell, all of you, for there’s some mystery, some secret about
it, and I don’t intend to worry my brains over your secrets.
So I’ve simply come to swear at you,” he finished, getting
up, “to relieve my mind. And I know what to do now.”

“What do you mean to do now?”

“What business is it of yours what I mean to do?”

“You are going in for a drinking bout.”

“How ... how did you know?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 449

“Why, it’s pretty plain.”

Razumihin paused for a minute.

“You always have been a very rational person and you’ve
never been mad, never,” he observed suddenly with warmth.
You’re right: I shall drink. Good-bye!”

And he moved to go out.

“I was talking with my sister—the day before yesterday I
think it was—about you, Razumihin.”

“About me! But... where can you have seen her the
day before yesterday?” Razumihin stopped short and even
turned a little pale.

One could see that his heart was throbbing slowly and
violently.

“She came here by herself, sat there and talked to me.”

“She did!”

wiee:?? 7

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

“T told her you were a very good, honest, and industrious
man. I didn’t tell her you love her, because she knows that
herself.” |

“She knows that herself?”

“Well, it’s pretty plain. Wherever I might go, whatever
happened to me, you would remain to look after them. I,
so to speak, give them into your keeping, Razumihin. I say
this because I know quite well how you love her, and am
convinced of the purity of your heart. I know that she too
may love you and perhaps does love you already. Now
decide for yourself, as you know best, whether you need go
in‘ for a drinking bout or not.”

“Rodya! You see... well.... Ach, damn it! But
where do you mean to go? Of course, if it’s all a secret,
never mind.... But I... JI shall find out the secret...
and I am sure that it must be some ridiculous nonsense and
that you’ve made it all up. Anyway you are a capital fellow,
a capital fellow! ...”

“That was just what I wanted to add, only you interrupted,
that that was a very good decision of yours not to find out
these secrets. Leave it to time, don’t worry about it. You'll
know it all in time when it must be. Yesterday a man said
to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh air, fresh

450 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

air. I mean to go to him directly to find out what he meant
by that.”

Razumihin stood lost in thought and excitement, making
a silent conclusion.

“He’s a political conspirator! He must be. And he’s on
the eve of some desperate step, that’s certain. It can only be
that! And... and Dounia knows,” he thought suddenly.

“So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you,” he said,
weighing each syllable, “and you’re going to see a man who
says we need more air, and so of course that letter . . . that
too must have something to do with it,’ he concluded to
himself.

“What letter?” af

“She got a letter to-day. It upset her very much—very
much indeed. Too much so. I began speaking of you, she
begged me not to. Then... then she said that perhaps we
should very soon have to part... then she began warmly
thanking me for something; then she went to her room and
locked herself in.”

“She got a letter?” Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully.

“Yes, and you didn’t know? h’m... .”

They were both silent.

“Good-bye, Rodion. There was a time, brother, when I
. . » Never mind, good-bye. You see, there was a time. ...
_ Well, good-bye! I must be off too. I am not going to drink.
There’s no need now. ... That’s all stuff!”

He hurried out; but when he had almost closed the door
behind him, he suddenly opened it again, and said, looking
away:

“Oh, by the way, do you remember that murder, you know
Porfiry’s, that old woman? Do you know the murderer has
been found, he has confessed and given the proofs. It’s one
of those very workmen, the painter, only fancy! Do you
remember I defended them here? Would you believe it, all
that scene of fighting and laughing with his companion on
the stairs while the porter and the two witnesses were going _
up, he got up on purpose to disarm suspicion. The cunning,
the presence of mind of the young dog! One can hardly
credit it; but it’s his own explanation, he has confessed it
all, And what a fool I was about it! Well, he’s simply a

-

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 45},

genius of hypocrisy and resourcefulness in disarming the
suspicions of the lawyers—so there’s nothing much to wonder
at, I suppose! Of course people like that are always pos-
sible. And the fact that he couldn’t keep up the character,
but confessed, makes him easier to believe in. But what a
fool I was! I was frantic on their side!”

“Tell me please from whom did you hear that, and why
does it interest you so?” Raskolnikov asked with unmis-
takable agitation.

“What next? You ask me why it interests me! ... Well,
I heard it from Porfiry, among others. ...It was from
him I heard almost all about it.”

“From Porfiry ?”

“From Porfiry.”

“What... what did he say?’ Raskolnikov asked in
dismay.

“He gave me a capital explanation of it. Psychologi-
cally, after his fashion.”

“He explained it? Explained it himself?”

“Yes, yes; good-bye. I'll tell you all about it another
time, but now I’m busy. There was a time when I fancied.
. .. But no matter, another time! ... What need is there
for me to drink now? You have made me drunk without
wine. I am drunk, Rodya! Good-bye, I’m going. I'll come
again very soon.”

He went out.

“He’s a political conspirator, there’s not a doubt about it,”
Razumihin decided, as he slowly descended the stairs. “And
he’s drawn his sister in; that’s quite, quite in keeping with
Avdotya Romanovna’s character. There are interviews
between them! ... She hinted at it too....So many of
her words...and hints... bear that meaning! And
how else can all this tangle be explained? Hm! And I
was almost thinking. ... Good heavens, what I thought!
Yes, I took leave of my senses and I wronged him! It was
his doing, under the lamp in the corridor that day. Pfoo!
What a crude, nasty, vile idea on my part! Nikolay is a
brick, for confessing. .. . And how clear it all isnow! His
illness then, all his strange actions . .. before this, in the
university, how morose he used to be, how gloomy. ... But

452 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

what’s the meaning now of that letter? There’s something in
that, too, perhaps. Whom was it from? I suspect ...! No,
I must find out!”

He thought of Dounia, realising all he had heard and
his heart throbbed, and he suddenly broke into a run.

As soon as Razumihin went out, Raskolnikov got up,
turned to the window, walked into one corner and then into
another, as though forgetting the smallness of his room, and
sat down again on the sofa. He felt, so to speak, renewed;
again the struggle, so a means of escape had come.

“Yes, a means. of escape had come! It had been too
stifling, too cramping, the burden had been too agonising. A
lethargy had come upon him at times. From the momeft
of the scene with Nikolay at Porfiry’s he had been suffocat-
ing, penned in without hope of escape. After Nikolay’s con-
fession, on that very day had come the scene with Sonia;
his behaviour and his last words had been utterly unlike any-
thing he could have imagined beforehand; he had grown
feebler, instantly and fundamentally! And he had agreed
at the time with Sonia, he had agreed in his heart he could
not go on living alone with such a thing on his mind!

“And Svidrigailov was a riddle . . . He worried him, that
was true, but somehow not on the same point. He might
still have a struggle to come with Svidrigailov. Svidrigailov,
-too, might be a means of escape; but Porfiry was a different
matter.

“And so Pofiry himself had explained it to Razumihin,
had explained it psychologically. He had begun bringing
in his damned psychology again! Porfiry? But to think that
Porfiry should for one moment believe that Nikolay was
guilty, after what had passed between them before Nikolay’s
appearance, after that téte-a-téte interview, which could have
only one explanation? (During those days Raskolnikov had
often recalled passages in that scene with Porfiry; he could
not bear to let his mind rest on it.) Such words, such ges-
tures had passed between them, they had exchanged such
glances, things had been said in such a tone and had reached
such a pass, that Nikolay, whom Porfiry had seen through
at the first word, at the first gesture, could not have shaken
his conviction.”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 453

“And to think that even Razumihin had begun to suspect!
The scene in the corridor under the lamp had produced its
effect then. He had rushed to Porfiry. ... But what had
induced the latter to deceive him like that? What had been
his object in putting Razumihin off with Nikolay? He
must have some plan; there was some design, but what was
it? It was true that a long time had passed since that
morning—too long a time—and no sight nor sound of Por-
firy. Well, that was a bad sign... .”

Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the room, still
pondering. It was the first time for a long while that he
had felt clear in his mind, at least. “I must settle Svidri-
gailov,” he thought, “and as soon as possible; he, too,
seems to be waiting for me to come to him of my own
accord.” And at that moment there was such a rush of
hate in his weary heart that he might have killed either of
these two—Porfiry or Svidrigailov. At least he felt that he
would be capable of doing it later, if not now.

“We shall see, we shall see,” he repeated to himself.

But no sooner had he opened the door than he stumbled
upon Porfiry himself in the passage. He was coming in
to see him. Raskolnikov was dumbfounded for a minute,
but only for one minute. Strange to say, he was not very
much astonished at seeing Porfiry and scarcely afraid of
him. He was simply startled, but was quickly, instantly, on
his guard. “Perhaps this will mean the end? But how
could Porfiry have approached so quietly, like a cat, so that
he had heard nothing? Could be have been listening at the
door ?”

“You didn’t expect a visitor, Rodion Romanovitch,” Por-
firy explained, laughing. “I’ve been meaning to look in a
long time; I was passing by and thought why not go in for
five minutes. Are you going out? I won’t keep you long.
Just let me have one cigarette.”

“Sit down, Porfiry Petrovitch, sit down,” Raskolnikov
gave his visitor a seat with so pleased and friendly an
expression that he would have marvelled at himself, if he
could have seen it.

The last moment had come, the last drops had to be
drained! So a man will sometimes go through half an

454 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet when the knife is
at his throat at last he feels no fear.

Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and
looked at him without flinching. Porfiry screwed up his eyes
and began lighting a cigarette.

“Speak, speak,” seemed as though it would burst from
Raskolnikov’s heart. “Come, why don’t you speak?”

CHAPTER II

at last, having lighted one. “They are pernicious,

positively pernicious, and yet I can’t give them
up! I cough, I began to have tickling in my throat and a
difficulty in breathing. You know I am a coward, I went
lately to Dr. B n; he always gives at least half an hour
to each patient. He positively laughed looking at me; he
sounded me: ‘Tobacco’s bad for you,’ he said, ‘your lungs
are affected.’ But how am I to give it up? What is there
to take its place? I don’t drink, that’s the mischief, he-he-
he, that I don’t. Everything is relative, Rodion Romano-
vitch, everything is relative!”

“Why, he’s playing his professional tricks again,” Ras-
kolnikov thought with disgust. All the circumstances of
their last interview suddenly came back to him, and he felt
a rush of the feeling that had come upon him then.

“IT came to see you the day before yesterday, in the eve-
ning; you didn’t know?” Porfiry Petrovitch went on, looking
round the room. “I came into this very room. I was pass-
ing by, just as I did to-day, and I thought I’d return your
call. I walked in as your door was wide open, I looked
round, waited and went out without leaving my name with
your servant. Don’t you lock your door?”

Raskolnikov’s face grew more and more gloomy. Porfiry
seemed to guess his state of mind.

“I’ve come to have it out with you, Rodion Romanovitch,
my dear fellow! I owe you an explanation and must give it
to you,” he continued with a slight smile, just patting Ras-
kolnikov’s knee.

But almost at the same instant a serious and careworn
look came into his face; to his surprise Raskolnikov saw a
touch of sadness in it. He had never seen and never
suspected such an expression in his face.

“A strange scene passed between us last time we met,
Rodion Romanovitch. Our first interview, too, was a

de \" these cigarettes!” Porfiry Petrovitch ejaculated

456 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

strange one; but then ...and one thing after another!
This is the point: I have perhaps acted unfairly to you; I
feel it. Do you remember how we parted? Your nerves
were unhinged and your knees were shaking and so were
mine. And, you know, our behaviour was unseemly, even
ungentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, above all, in
any case, gentlemen; that must be understood. Do you
remember what we came to... it was quite indecorous.”

“What is he up to, what does he take me for?” Raskol-
nikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and
looking with open eyes on Porfiry.

“T’ve decided openness is better between us,” Porfiry
Petrovitch went on, turning his head away and dropping Kis
eyes, as though unwilling to disconcert his former victim
and as though disdaining his former wiles. ‘Yes, such
suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Niko-
lay put a stop to it, or I don’t know what we might not
have come to. That damned workman was sitting at the
time in the next room—can you realise that? You know
that, of course; and I am aware that he came to you after-
wards. But what you supposed then was not true: I had
not sent for any one, I had made no kind of arrangements.
You ask why I hadn’t? What shall I say to you: it had all
come upon me so suddenly. I had scarcely sent for the
' porters (you noticed them as you went out, I dare say).
An idea flashed upon me; I was firmly convinced at the
time, you see, Rodion: Romanovitch. Come, I thought—
even if I let one thing slip for a time, I shall get hold of
something else—I shan’t lose what I want, anyway. You ~
are nervously irritable, Rodion Romanovitch, by tempera-
ment; it’s out of proportion with other qualities of your
heart and character, which I flatter myself I have to some
extent divined. Of course I did reflect even then that it
does not always happen that a man gets up and blurts out
his whole story. It does happen sometimes, if you make
a man lose all patience, though even then it’s rare. I was
capable of realising that. If I only had a fact, I thought,
the least little fact to go upon, something I could lay hold
of, something tangible, not merely psychological. For if a
man is guilty, you must be able to get something substantial

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 45%

out of him; one may reckon upon most surprising results
indeed. I was reckoning on your temperament, Rodion
Romanovitch, on your temperament above all things! I had
great hopes of you at that time.”

“But what are you driving at now?” Raskolnikov mut-
tered at last, asking the question without thinking. .

“What is he talking about?” he wondered distractedly,
“does he really take me to be innocent?”

“What am I driving at? I’ve come to explain myself,
I consider it my duty, so to speak. JI want to make clear to
you how the whole business, the whole misunderstanding
arose. I’ve caused you a great deal of suffering, Rodion
Romanovitch. I am not a monster. I understand what it
must mean for a man who has been unfortunate, but who
is proud, imperious and above all, impatient, to have to bear
such treatment! I regard you in any case as a man of
noble character and not without elements of magnanimity,
though I don’t agree with all your convictions. I wanted to
tell you this first, frankly and quite sincerely, for above all
I don’t want to deceive you. When I made your acquaint-
ance, I felt attracted by you. Perhaps you will laugh at my
saying so. You have a right to. I know you disliked me
from the first and indeed you’ve no reason to like me. You
may think what you like, but I desire now to do all I can to
efface that impression and to show that I am a man of
heart and conscience. I speak sincerely.”

Porfiry Petrovitch made a dignified pause. Raskolnikov
felt a rush of renewed alarm. The thought that Porfiry
believed him to be innocent began to make him uneasy.

“It’s scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail,”
Porfiry Petrovitch went on. “Indeed, I could scarcely
attempt it. To begin with, there were rumours. Through
whom, how, and when those rumours came to me... and
how they affected you, I need not go into. My suspicions
were aroused by a complete accident, which might just as
easily not have happened. What was it? Hm! I believe
there is no need to go into that either. Those rumours and
that accident led to one idea in my mind. I admit it openly
—for one may as well make a clean breast of it—I was the
first to pitch on you. The old woman’s notes on the pledges

16—R

>

458 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

and the rest of it—that all came to nothing.‘ Yours was one
of a hundred. I happened, too, to hear of the scene at the
office, from a man who described it capitally, unconsciously
reproducing the scene with great vividness. It was just
one thing after another, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fel-
low! How could I avoid being brought to certain ideas?
From a hundred rabbits you can’t make a horse, a hundred
suspicions don’t make a proof, as the English proverb says,
but that’s only from the rational point of view—you can’t
help being partial, for after all a lawyer is only human. I
thought, too, of your article in that journal, do you remem-
ber, on your first visit we talked of it? I jeered at you
at the time, but that was only to lead you on. I repeat,
Rodion Romanovitch, you are ill and impatient. That you
were bold, headstrong, in earnest and .. . had felt a great
deal I recognised long before. I, too, have felt the same,
so that your article seemed familiar to me. It was con-
ceived on sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy
and suppressed enthusiasm. And that proud suppressed
enthusiasm in young people is dangerous! I jeered at you
then, but let me tell you that, as a literary amateur, I am
awfully fond of such first essays, full of the heat of youth.
There is mistiness and a chord vibrating in the midst. Your
article is absurd and fantastic, but there’s a transparent
sincerity, a youthful incorruptible pride and the daring of
- despair in it. It’s a gloomy article, but that’s what’s fine in
it. I read your article and put it aside, thinking as I did so
‘that man won’t go the common way.’ Well, I ask you, after
that as a preliminary, how could I help being carried away
by what followed? Oh dear, I am not saying anything, I
am not making any statement now. I simply noted it at the
time. What is there in it? I reflected. There’s nothing
in it, that is really nothing and perhaps absolutely nothing.
And it’s not at all the thing for the prosecutor to let him-
self be carried away by notions: here I have Nikolay on
my hands with actual evidence against him—you may think
what you like of it. but it’s evidence. He brings in his
psychology, too; one has to consider him, too, for it’s a mat-
ter of life and death. Why am I explaining this to you?
That you may understand, and not blame my malicious

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 459

behaviour on that occasion. It was not malicious, I assure
you, he-he! Do you suppose I didn’t come to search your
room at the time? I did, I did, he-he! I was here when
you were lying ill in bed, not officially, not in my own
person, but I was here. Your room was searched to the
last thread at the first suspicion; but wmsonst! I thought to
myself, now that man will come, will come of himself and
quickly, too; if he’s guilty, he’s sure to come. Another man
wouldn’t, but he will. And you remember how Mr. Razu-
mihin began discussing the subject with you? We arranged
that to excite you, so we purposely spread rumours, that
he might discuss the case with you, and Razumihin is not a
man to restrain his indignation. Mr. Zametov was tre-
mendously struck by your anger and your open daring.
Think of blurting out in a restaurant ‘I killed her.’ It was
too daring, too reckless. I thought to myself, if he is guilty
he will be a formidable opponent. That was what I thought
at the time. I was expecting you. But you simply bowled
Zametov over and ... well, you see, it all lies in this—that
this damnable psychology can be taken two ways! Well, I
kept expecting you, and so it was, you came! My heart
was fairly throbbing. Ach!

“Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as
you came in, do you remember? I saw it ail plain as daylight,
but if I hadn’t expected you so specially, I should not have
noticed anything in your laughter. You see what influence
a mood has! Mr. Razumihin then—ah, that stone, that stone
under which the things were hidden! I seem to see it some-
where in a kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden,
you told Zametov and afterwards you repeated that in
my office? And when we began picking your article to
pieces, how you explained it! One could take every word
of yours in two senses, as though there were another mean-
ing hidden.

“So in this way, Rodion Romanovitch, I reached the
furthest limit, and knocking my head against a post, I pulled
myself up, asking myself what I was about. After all I said,
you can take it all in another sense if you like, and it’s more
natural so, indeed, I couldn’t help admitting it was more
natural. I was bothered! ‘No, I’d better get hold of some

460 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

little fact’ I said. So when I heard of the bell-ringing, I held
my breath and was all in a tremor. ‘Here is my little fact,’
thought I, and I didn’t think it over, I simply wouldn’t. I
would have given a thousand roubles at that minute to
have seen you with my own eyes, when you walked a hun-
dred paces beside that workman, after he had called you
murderer to your face, and you did not dare to ask him a
question all the way. And then what about your trembling,
what about your bell-ringing in your illness, in semi-
delirium ?

“And so, Rodion Romanovitch, can you wonder that I
played such pranks on you? And what made you come at
that very minute? Some one seemed to have sent you, By
Jove! And if Nikolay had not parted us...and do you
remember Nikolay at the time? Do you remember him
clearly? It was a thunderbolt, a regular thunderbolt! And
how I met him! I didn’t believe in the thunderbolt, not for
a minute. You could see it for yourself; and how could I?
Even afterwards, when you had gone and he began making
' very, very plausible answers on certain points, so that I was
surprised at him myself, even then I didn’t believe his
story! You see what it is to be as firm as a rock! No,
thought I, morgen friih. What has Nikolay got to do with
it !”

“Razumihin told me just now that you think Nikolay
guilty and had yourself assured him of it... .”

His voice failed him, and he broke off. He had been listen-
ing in indescribable agitation, as this man who had seen
through and through him, went back upon himself. He was
afraid of believing it and did not believe it. In those still
ambiguous words he kept eagerly looking for something more
definite and conclusive.

“Mr. Razumihin!” cried Porfiry Petrovitch, seeming glad
of a question from Raskolnikov, who had till then, been
silent. “He-he-he! But I had to put Mr. Razumihin off:
two is company, three is none. Mr. Razumihin is not the
right man, besides he is an outsider. He came running to
me with a pale face.... But never mind him, why bring
him in! To return to Nikolay, would you like to know what
sort of a type he is, how I understand him, that is? Te

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 461

begin with, he is still a child and not exactly a coward, but
something by way of an artist. Really, don’t laugh at my
describing him so. He is innocent and responsive to influ-
ence. He has a heart, and is a fantastic fellow. He sings
and dances, he tells stories, they say, so that people come
from other villages to hear him. He attends school too,
and laughs till he cries if you hold up a finger to him; he
will drink himself senseless—not as a regular vice, but at
times, when people treat him like a child., And he stole, too,
then, without knowing it himself, for ‘How can it be steal-
ing, if one picks it up?’ And do you know he is an Old
Believer, or rather a dissenter? There have been Wan-
derers* in his family, and he was for two years in his village
under the spiritual guidance of a certain elder.’ I learnt all
this from Nikolay and from his fellow villagers. And what’s
more, he wanted to run into the wilderness! He was full of
fervour, prayed at nights, read the old books, ‘the true’ onies,
and read himself crazy.

“Petersburg had a great effect upon him, especially the
women and the wine. He responds to everything and he for-
got the elder and all that. I learnt that an artist here took
a fancy to him, and used to go and see him, and now this
business came upon him.

“Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He
ran away! How can one get over the idea the people have
of Russian legal proceedings! The very word ‘trial’ frightens
some of them. Whose fauit is it? We shall see what the
new juries will do. God grant they do good! Well, in
prison, it seems, he remembered the venerable elder, the
Bible, too, made its appearance again. Do you know,
Rodion Romanovitch, the force of the word ‘suffering’ among
some of these people? It’s not a question of suffering for
some one’s benefit, but simply ‘one must suffer.” If they
suffer at the hands of the authorities, so much the better.
In my time there was a very meek and mild prisoner who
spent a whole year in prison always reading his Bible on
the stove at night and he read himself crazy, and so crazy,
do you know, that one day, apropos of nothing, he seized a
brick and flung it at the governor, though he had done him

1A religious sect.—TRANSLATOR’s NorTs,

462 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

no harm. And the way he threw it too: aimed it a yard on
one side on purpose, for fear of hurting him. Well, we
know what happens to a prisoner who assaults an officer with
a weapon. So ‘he took his suffering.’

“So I suspect now that Nikolay wants to take his suffering
or something of the sort. I know it for certain from facts,
indeed. Only he doesn’t know that I know. What, you
don’t admit that there are such fantastic people among the
peasants? Lots of them. The elder now has begun influenc-
ing him, especially since he tried to hang himself. But he'll
come and tell me all himself. You think he'll hold out?
Wait a bit, he’ll take his words back. I am waiting from
hour to hour for him to come and abjure his evidence. I
have come to like that Nikolay and am studying him in detail.
And what do you think? He-he! He answered me very
plausibly on some points, he obviously had collected some
_evidence and prepared himself cleverly. But on other points
he is simply at sea, knows nothing and doesn’t even suspect
that he doesn’t know!

“No, Rodion Romanovitch, Nikolay doesn’t come in! This
is a fantastic, gloomy business, a modern case, an incident
of to-day when the heart of man is troubled, when the
phrase is quoted that blood ‘renews,’ when comfort is
preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish dreams
a heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in
the first stage, but resolution of a special kind; he resolved
to do it like jumping over a precipice or from a bell tower
and his legs shook as he went to the crime. He forgot to
shut the door after him, and murdered two people for a
theory. He committed the murder and couldn’t take the
money, and what he did manage to snatch up he hid under
a stone. It wasn’t enough for him to suffer agony behind
the door while they battered at the door and rung the bell,
no, he had to go to the empty lodging, half delirious, to recall
the bell-ringing, he wanted to feel the cold shiver over
again. ... Well, that we grant, was through illness, but
consider this: he is a murderer, but looks upon himself as an
honest man, despises others, poses as injured innocence.
No, that’s not the work of a Nikolay, my dear Rodion
Romanovitch !”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 463

All that had been said before had sounded so like a recan-
tation that these words were too great a shock. Raskolnikov
shuddered as though he had been stabbed.

“Then ... who then... is the murderer?” he asked in
a breathless voice, unable to restrain himself.

Porfiry Petrovitch sank back in his chair, as though he
were amazed at the question.

“Who is the murderer?” he repeated, as though unable to
believe his ears. ‘Why, you, Rodion Romanovitch! You
are the murderer,’ he added almost in a whisper, in a voice
of genuine conviction.

Raskolnikov leapt from the the sofa, stood up for a few
seconds and sat down again without uttering a word. His
face twitched convulsively.

“Your lip is twitching just as it did before,’ Porfiry
Petrovitch observed almost sympathetically. “You’ve been
misunderstanding me, I think, Rodion Romanovitch,” he
added after a brief pause, “that’s why you are so surprised.
I came on purpose to tell you everything and deal openly
with you.”

“Tt was not I murdered her,’ Raskolnikov whispered like
a frightened child caught in the act.

“No it was you, you, Rodion Romanovitch, and no one
else,” Porfiry whispered sternly, with conviction.

They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely
long, about ten minutes. Raskolnikov put his elbow on the
table and passed his fingers through his hair. Porfiry Petro-
vitch sat quietly waiting. Suddenly Raskolnikov looked
scornfully at Porfiry.

“You are at. your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovitch!
Your old method again. I wonder you don’t get sick of it!”

“Oh, stop that, what does that matter now? It would be
a different matter if there were witnesses present, but we
are whispering alone. You see yourself that I have not
come to chase and capture you like a hare. Whether you
confess it or not is nothing to me now; for myself, I am
convinced without it.”

“If so, what did you come for?” Raskolnikov asked irri-
tably. “I ask you the same question again: if you consider
me guilty, why don’t you take me to prison?”

9)

464 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Oh, that’s your question! I will answer you, point for
point. In the first place, to arrest you so directly is not to
my interest.”

“How so? If you are convinced you ought... .

“Ach, what if I am convinced? That’s only my dream for
the time. Why should I put you in safety? You know that’s
it, since you ask me to do it. If I confront you with that
workman for instance and you say to him ‘were you drunk
or not? Who saw me with you? I simply took you to be
drunk, and you were drunk, too.’ Well, what could I answer,
especially as your story is a more likely one than his, for
there’s nothing but psychology to support his evidence—
that’s almost unseemly with his ugly mug, while you hit the
mark exactly, for the rascal is an inveterate drunkard and
notoriously so. And I have myself admitted candidly sev-
eral times already that that psychology can be taken in twe
ways and that the second way is stronger and looks far more
probable, and that apart from that I have as yet nothing
against you. And though I shall put you in prison and
indeed have come—quite contrary to etiquette—to inform
you of it beforehand, yet I tell you frankly, also contrary to
etiquette, that it won’t be to my advantage. Well, secondly,
I’ve come to you because . . .”

“Yes, yes, secondly?” Raskolnikov was listening breath-
less.

“Because, as I told you just now, I consider I owe you an
explanation. I don’t want you to look upon me as a monster,
as I have a genuine liking for you, you may believe me or
not. And in the third place I’ve come to you with a direct
and open proposition—that you should surrender and con-
fess. It will be infinitely more to your advantage and to
my advantage too, for my task will be done. Well, is this
open on my part or not?”

Raskolnikov thought a minute.

“Listen, Porfiry Petrovitch. You said just now you have
nothing but psychology to go on, yet now you’ve gone on to
mathematics. Well, what if you are mistaken yourself,
now?”

“No, Rodion Romanovitch, I am not mistaken. I have a
little fact even then, providence sent it me.”

bP]

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT AGS

“What little fact?”

“T won't tell you what, Rodion Romanovitch. And in any
case, I haven’t the right to put it off any longer, I must
arrest you. So think it over: it makes no difference to me
now and so I speak only for your sake. Believe me, it will
be better, Rodion Romanovitch.”

Raskolnikov smiled malignantly. |

“That’s not simply ridiculous, it’s positively shameless.
Why, even if I were guilty, which I don’t admit, what reason
should I have to confess, when you tell me yourself that I
shall be in greater safety in prison?”

“Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, don’t put too much faith in
words, perhaps prison will not be altogether a restful place.
That’s only theory and my theory, and what authority am I
for you? Perhaps, too, even now I am hiding something
from you? I can’t lay bare everything, he-he! And how
can you ask what advantage? Don’t you know how it would
lessen your sentence? You would be confessing at a moment
when another man has taken the crime on himself and so
has muddled the whole case. Consider that! I swear before
God that I will so arrange that your confession shall come
as a complete surprise. We will make a clean sweep of all
these psychological points, of all suspicion against you, so
that your crime will appear to have been something like an
aberration, for in truth it was an aberration. I am an
honest man, Rodion Romanovitch, and will keep my word.”

Raskolnikov maintained a mournful silence and let his
head sink dejectedly. He pondered a long while and at
last smiled again, but his smile was sad and gentle.

“No!” he said, apparently abandoning all attempt to keep
up appearances with Porfiry, “it’s not worth it, I don’t care
about lessening the sentence!’

“That’s just what I was afraid of!” Porfiry cried warmly
and, as it seemed, involuntarily, “that’s just what I feared,
that you wouldn’t care about the mitigation of sentence.”

Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him.

“Ah, don’t disdain life!” Porfiry went on. “You have
a great deal of it still before you. How can you say you
don’t want a mitigation of sentence? You are an impatient
fellow !”

466 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“A great deal of what lies before me?”

“Of life. What sort of prophet are you, do you know
much about it? Seek and ye shall find. This may be God’s
means for bringing you to Him. And it’s not for ever, the
bondage. .. .”

“The time will be shortened,” laughed Raskolnikov.

“Why, is it the bourgeois disgrace you are afraid of? It
may be that you are afraid of it without knowing it, because
you are young! But anyway you shouldn’t be afraid of
giving yourself up and confessing.”

“Ach, hang it!” Raskolnikov whispered with loathing and
contempt, as though he did not want to speak aloud. /

He got up again as though he meant to go away, but sat
down again in evident despair.

“Hang it, if you like! You’ve lost faith and you think that
I am grossly flattering you; but how long has your life been?
How much do you understand? You made up a theory and
then were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be
not at afl original! It turned out something base, that’s
true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base!
At least you didn’t deceive yourself for long, you went
straight to the furthest point at one bound. How do I
regard you? I regard you as one of those men who would
stand and smile at their torturer while he cuts their entrails
out, if only they have found faith or God. Find it and
you will live. You have long needed a change of air. Suf-
fering, too, is a good thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolay is
right in wanting to suffer. I know you don’t believe in it—
but don’t be overwise; fling yourself straight into life, with-
out deliberation; don’t be afraid—the flood will bear you to
the bank and set you safe on your feet again. What bank?
How can I tell? I only believe that you have long life before
you. I know that you take all my words now for a set
speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember
them after. They may be of use some time. That’s why I
speak. It’s as well that you only killed the old woman.
If you’d invented another theory you might perhaps have
done something a thousand times more hideous. You ought
to thank God, perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God
is saving you for something. But keep a good heart and

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT AGT

have less fear! Are you afraid of the great expiation before
you? No, it would be shameful to be afraid of it. Since you
have taken such a step, you must harden your heart. There
is justice in it. You must fulfil the demands of justice. I
know that you don’t believe it, but indeed, life will bring you
through. You will live it down in time. What you need
now is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air!”

Raskolnikov positively started.

“But who are you? what prophet are you? From the
height of what majestic calm do you proclaim these words
of wisdom?”

“Who am I? I ama man with nothing to hope for, that’s
all. A man perhaps of feeling and sympathy, maybe of
some knowledge, too, but my day is over. But you are a
different matter, there is life waiting for you. Though who
knows, maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke and
come to nothing. Come, what does it matter, that you will
pass into another class of men? It’s not comfort you regret,
with your heart! What of it that perhaps no one will see
you for so long? It’s not time, but yourself that will decide
that. Be the sun and all will see you. The sun has before
all to be the sun. Why are you smiling again? At my being
such a Schiller? I bet you’re imagining that I am trying to
get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am, he-he-he!
Perhaps you’d better not believe my word, perhaps you'd bet-
ter never believe it altogether,—I’m made that way, I confess
it. But let me add, you can judge for yourself, I think, how
far I am a base sort of man and how far I am honest.”

“When do you mean to arrest me?”

“Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think
it over, my dear fellow and pray to God. It’s more in your
interest, believe me.’

“And what if I run away?” asked Raskolnikov with a
strange smile.

“No, you won’t run away. A peasant would run away, a
fashionable dissenter would run away, the flunkey of an-
other man’s thought, for you’ve only to show him the end
of your little finger and he’ll be ready to believe in anything
for the rest of his life. But you’ve ceased to believe in your
theory already, what will you run away with? And what

468 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult
for you, and what you need more than anything in life is a
definite position, an atmosphere to suit you. And what sort
of atmosphere would you have. If you ran away, you’d
come back of yourself. You can’t get on without us. And
if I put you in prison,—say you’ve been there a month, or
two, or three—remember my word, you'll confess of your-
self and perhaps to your own surprise. You won’t know
an hour beforehand that you are coming with a confession.
I am convinced that you will decide, ‘to take your suffering.’
You don’t believe my words now, but you'll come to it of
yourself. For suffering, Rodion Romanovitch, is a gre
thing. Never mind my having grown fat, I know all the
same. Don’t laugh at it, there’s an idea in suffering, Nikolay
is right. No, you won’t run away, Rodion Romanovitch.”

Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovitch
also rose.

“Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine, if
only we don’t have a storm. Though it would be a good
thing to freshen the air.”

He took his cap.

“Porfiry Petrovitch, please don’t take up the notion that I
have confessed to you to-day,’ Raskolnikov pronounced with
sullen insistence. “You’re a strange man and I have listened
‘to you from simple curiosity. But I have admitted nothing,
remember that!”

“Oh, I know that, I’ll remember. Look at him, he’s
trembling! Don’t be uneasy, my dear fellow, have it your
own way. Walk about a bit, you won’t be able to walk too
far. If anything happens, I have one request to make of
you,” he added, dropping his voice. “It’s an awkward one,
but important. If anything were to happen (though indeed
I don’t believe in it and think you quite incapable of it), yet
in case you were taken during these forty or fifty hours
with the notion of putting an end to the business in some
other way, in some fantastic fashion—laying hands on your-
selfi—(it’s an absurd proposition, but you must forgive me
for it) do leave a brief but precise note, only two lines and
mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come, till we
meet! Good thoughts and sound decisions to you!”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 469

Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Ras-
kolnikov. The latter went to the window and waited with
irritable impatience till he calculated that Porfiry had reached
the street and moved away. Then he too went hurriedly out
of the room.

CHAPTER ITI
E hurried to Svidrigailov’s. What he had to hope

from that man he did not know. But that man had
some hidden power over him. Having once recog-
nised this, he could not rest, and now the time had come.

On the way, one question particularly worried him: had
Svidrigailov been to Porfiry’s? .

As far as he could judge, he would swear to it, that he
had not. He pondered again and again, went over Porfiry’s
visit; no, he hadn’t been, of course he hadn’t.

But if he had not been yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for
the present he fancied he wouldn’t. Why? He could not
have explained, but if he could, he would not have wasted
much thought over it at the moment. It all worried him
and at the same time he could not attend to it. Strange to
say, none would have believed it perhaps, but he only felt a
faint vague anxiety about his immediate future. Another,
much more important anxiety tormented him—it concerned
himself, but in a different, more vital way. Moreover,
he was conscious of immense moral fatigue, though his
mind was working better that morning than it had done of
late.

And was it worth while, after all that had happened, te
contend with these new trivial difficulties? Was it worth
while for instance to manceuvre that Svidrigailov should not
go to Porfiry’s? Was it worth while to investigate, to
ascertain the facts, to waste time over any one like
Svidrigailov ?

Oh how sick he was of it all!

And yet he was hastening to Svidrigailov; could he be
expecting something new from him, information, or means
of escape? Men will catch at straws! Was it destiny or
some instinct bringing them together? Perhaps it was only
fatigue, despair; perhaps it was not Svidrigailov but some
other whom he needed, and Svidrigailov had simply

470

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 471.

presented himself by chance. Sonia? But what. should
he go to Sonia for now? To beg her tears again? He was
afraid of Sonia, too. Sonia stood before him as an
irrevocable sentence. He must go his own way or hers.
At that moment especially he did not feel equal to seeing
her. No, would it not be better to try Svidrigailov? And
he could not help inwardly owning that he had long felt
that he must see him for some reason.

But what could they have in common? Their very evil-
doing could not be of the same kind. The man, moreover,
was very unpleasant, evidently depraved, undoubtedly
cunning and deceitful, possibly malignant. Such stories were |
told about him. It is true he was befriending Katerina
Ivanovna’s children, but who could tell with what motive
and what it meant? The man always had some design,
some project.

There was another thought which had been continually
hovering of late about Raskolnikov’s mind, and causing him
great uneasiness. It was so painful that he made distinct
efforts to get rid of it. He sometimes thought that
Svidrigailov was dogging his footsteps. Svidrigailov had
found out his secret and had had designs on Dounia. What
if he had them still? Wasn’t it practically certain that he
had? And what if, having learnt his secret and so having
gained power over him, he were to use it as a weapon
against Dounia? °

This idea sometimes even tormented his dreams, but it
had never presented itself so vividly to him as on his way
to Svidrigailov. The very thought moved him to gloomy
rage.

To begin with, this would transform everything, even
his own position; he would have at once to confess his
secret to Dounia. Would he have to give himself up per-
haps to prevent Dounia from taking some rash step. The
letter? This morning Dounia had received a letter. From
whom could she get letters in Petersburg? Luzhin, per-
haps? It’s true Razumihin was there to protect her; but
Razumihin knew nothing of the position. Perhaps it was
his duty to tell Razumihin? He thought of it with
repugnance.

A72 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

In any case he must see Svidrigailov as soon as possible,
he decided finally. Thank God, the details of the inter-
view were of little consequence, if only he could get at the
root of the matter; but if Svidrigailov were capable...
if he were intriguing against Dounia,—then . .

Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had passed
through that month that he could only decide such ques-
tions in one way; “then I shall kill him,’ he thought in cold
despair.

A sudden anguish oppressed his heart, he stood still in
the middie of the street and began looking about to see
where he was and which way he was going. He found
himself in X. Prospect, thirty or forty paces from the Hay
Market, through which he had come. The whole second
storey of the house on the left was used as a tavern. All
the windows were wide open. Judging from the figures
moving at the windows, the rooms were. full to over-
flowing. There were sounds of singing, of clarionet and
violin, and the boom of a Turkish drum. He could hear
women shrieking. He was about to turn back wondering
why. he had come to the X. Prospect, when suddenly at
one of the end windows he saw Svidrigailov, sitting at a
tea-table right in the open window with a pipe in his
mouth.

Raskolnikov was dreadfully taken aback, almost terri-
fied. Svidrigailov was silently watching and scrutinising |
him and, what struck Raskolnikov at once, seemed to be
meaning to get up and slip away unobserved. Raskolnikov
at once pretended not to have seen him, but to be look-
ing absent-mindedly away, while he watched him out of
the corner of his eye. His heart was beating violently.
Yes, it was evident that Svidrigailov did not want to
be seen. He took the pipe out of his mouth and was
on the point of concealing himself, but as he got up
and moved back his chair, he seemed to have become
suddenly aware that Raskolnikov had seen him, and was
watching him. What had passed between them was much
the same as what happened at their first meeting in
Raskolnikov’s room. <A sly smile came into Svidrigailov’s
face and grew broader and broader. Each knew that he

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 473

was seen and watched by the other. At last Svidrigailov
broke into a loud laugh.

“Well, well, come in if you want me; I am here!” he
shouted from the window.

Raskolnikov went up into the tavern. He found
Svidrigailov in a tiny back room. adjoining the saloon
in which merchants, clerks and numbers of people of all
sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables to the
desperate bawling of a chorus of singers. The click of
billiard balls could be heard in the distance. On the table
before Svidrigailov stood an open bottle, and a glass half
full of champagne. In the room he found also a boy with
a little hand organ,\a healthy-looking red-cheeked girl of
eighteen, wearing a tucked-up striped skirt,,and a Tyrolese
hat with ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other
room, she was singing some servants’ hall song in a rather
husky contralto, to the accompaniment of the organ.

“Come, that’s enough,’ Svidrigailov stopped her at
Raskolnikov’s entrance. The girl at once broke off and
stood waiting respectfully. She had sung her gutter
rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful expression in
her face.

“Hey, Philip, a glass!’ shouted Svidrigailov.

“I won’t drink anything,” said Raskolnikov.

“As you like, I didn’t mean it for you. Drink, Katia! I
‘don’t want anything more to-day, you can go.” He poured
her out a full giass, and laid down a yellow note.

Katia drank off her glass of wine, as women do, without
putting it down, in twenty gulps, took the note and kissed
Svidrigailov’s hand, which he allowed quite seriously.
_ She went out of the room and the boy trailed after her

with the organ. Both had been brought in from the street.
Svidrigailov had not been a week in Petersburg. but
everything about him was already, so to speak, on a
patriarchal footing; the waiter, Philip, was by now an old
friend and very obsequious.

The door leading to the saloon had a lock on it.
Svidrigailov was at home in this room and perhaps spent
whole days in it. The tavern was dirty and wretched, not
even second rate.

ATA FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“I was going to see you and looking for you,”
Raskolnikov began, “but I don’t know what made me turn
from the Hay Market into the X. Prospect just now. I
never take this turning. I turn to the right from the Hay
Market. And this isn’t the way to you. I simply turned
and here you are. It is strange!”

“Why don’t you say at once ‘it’s a miracle’ ?”

“Because it may be only chance.”

“Oh, that’s the way with all you folk,” laughed
Svidrigailov. “You won’t admit it, even if you do inwardly
believe it a miracle! Here you say that it may be only
chance. And what cowards they all are here, about having
an opinion of their own, you can’t fancy, Rodion Romano-
vitch. I don’t mean you, you have an opinion of your own
and are not afraid to have it. That's how it was you
attracted my curiosity.”

“Nothing else?”

“Well, that’s enough, you know.” Svidrigailov was
obviously exhilarated, but only slightly so, he had not had
more than half a glass of wine.

“I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was
capable of having what you call an opinion of my own,”
observed Raskolnikov.

“Oh, well, it was a different matter. Every one has his
‘own plans. And apropos of the miracle let me tell you
that I think you have been asleep for the last two or
three days. I told you of this tavern myself, there is no
miracle in your coming straight here. I explained the
way myself, told you where it was, and the hours you
could find me here. Do you remember?”

“T don’t remember,” answered Raskolnikov with surprise.

“T believe you. I told you twice. The address has been
stamped mechanically on your memory. You turned this
way mechanically and yet precisely according to the direc-
tion, though you are not aware of it. When [I told it you
then, I hardly hoped you understood me. You give your-
self away too much, Rodion Romanovitch. And another
thing, I’m convinced there are lots of people in Petersburg
who talk to themselves as they walk. This is a town of
crazy people. If only we had scientific men, doctors,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT ATS

lawyers and philosophers might make most valuable investi-
gations in Petersburg each in his own line. There are
few places where there are so many gloomy, strong and
queer influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The
mere influences of climate mean so much. And it’s the
administrative centre of all Russia and its character must
be reflected on the whole country. But that is neither here
nor there now. The point is that I have several times
watched you. You walk out of your house—holding your
head high—twenty paces from home you let it sink, and
fold your hands behind your back. You look and evidently
see nothing before nor beside you. At last you begin
moving your lips and talking to yourself, and sometimes
you wave one hand and declaim, and at last stand still in
the middie of the road. That’s not at all the thing. Some
one may be watching you besides me, and it won’t do you
any good. It’s nothing really to do with me and I can’t
cure you, but, of course, you understand me.”

“Do you know that I am being followed?” asked
Raskolnikov, looking inquisitively at him.

“No, I know nothing about it,” said Svidrigailov, seem-
ing surprised.

“Well, then, let us leave me alone,’ Raskolnikov mut-
tered, frowning.

“Very good, let us leave you alone.”

“You had better tell me, if you come here to drink, and
directed me twice to come here to you, why did you hide,
and try to get away just now when I looked at the window
from the street? I saw it.”

“He-he! And why was it you lay on your sofa with
closed eyes and pretended to be asleep, though you were
wide awake while I stood in your doorway? I saw it.”

“I may have had...reasons. You know that
yourself,”

“And I may have had my reasons, though you don’t
know them.”

Raskolnikov dropped his right elbow on the table, leaned
his chin in the fingers of his right hand, and stared intently
at Svidrigailov. For a full minute he scrutinised his face,
which had impressed him before. It was a strange face,

NIG FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

like a mask; white and red, with bright red lips, with a
flaxen beard, and still thick flaxen hair. His eyes were
somehow too blue and their expression somehow too heavy
and fixed. There was something awfully unpleasant in
that handsome face, which looked so wonderfully young
for his age. Svidrigailov was smartly dressed in light
summer clothes and was particularly dainty in his linen.
He wore a huge ring with a precious stone in it.

“Have I got to bother myself about you too now?” said
Raskolnikov suddenly, coming with nervous impatience
straight to the point. “Even though perhaps you are the
most dangerous man if you care to injure me, I don’t
want to put myself out any more. I will show you at
once that I don’t prize myseif as you probably think I do.
I’ve come to tell you at once that if you keep to your former
intentions with regard to my sister and if you think to
derive any benefit in that direction from what has been
discovered of late, I will kill you before you get me locked
up. You can reckon on my word. You know that I can
keep it. And in the second place if you want to tell me
anything—for I keep fancying all this time that you have
something to tell me—make haste and tell it, for time is
precious and very likely it will soon be too late.”

“Why in such haste?” asked Svidrigailov, looking at him
curiously. :

“Every one has his plans,” Raskolnikov answered
gloomily and impatiently.

“You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at
the first question you refuse to answer,’ Svidrigailov
observed with a smile. “You keep fancying that I have
aims of my own and so you look at me with suspicion.
Of course it’s perfectly natural in your position. But
though I should like to be friends with you, I shan’t
trouble myself to convince you of the contrary. The game
isn’t worth the candle and I wasn’t intending to talk to
you about anything special.”

“What did you want me for, then? It was you who
came hanging about me.”

“Why, simply as an interesting subject for observation.
1 liked the fantastic nature of your position—that’s what

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 477

it was! Besides you are the brother of a person who
greatly interested me, and from that person I had in the
past heard a very great deal about you, from which I
gathered that you had a great influence over her; isn’t
that enough? Ha-ha-ha! Still I must admit that your
question is rather complex, and is difficult for me to answer.
Here, you, for instance, have come to me not only for a
definite object, but for the sake of hearing something new.
Isn’t that so? Isn’t that so?” persisted Svidrigailov with
a sly smile. “Well, can’t you fancy then that I, too, on
my way here in the train was reckoning on you, on your
telling me something new, and on my making some profit
out of you! You see what rich men we are!”

“What profit could you make?”

“How can I.tell you? How do I know? You see in
what a tavern I spend all my time and it’s my enjoyment,
that’s to say it’s no great enjoyment, but one must sit
somewhere; that poor Katia now—you saw her?... li
only I had been a glutton now, a club gourmand, but you
see I can eat this.”

He pointed to a little table in the corner where the
remnants of a terrible looking beef-steak and potatoes lay
on a tin dish.

“Have you dined, by the way? I’ve had something and
want nothing more. I don’t drink, for instance, at all.
Except champagne I never touch anything, and not more
than a glass of that all the evening, and even that is enough
to make my head ache. I ordered it just now to wind
myself up, for I am just going off somewhere and you
see me in a peculiar state of mind. That was why I hid
myself just now like a schoolboy, for I was afraid you
would hinder me. But I believe,” he pulled out his watch,
“I can spend an hour with you. It’s half-past four
now. lf only I’d been something, a landowner, a father, a
cavalry officer, a photographer, a journalist ...I am
nothing, no speciality, and sometimes I am _ positively
bored. I really thought you would tell me something new.”

“But what are you, and why have you come here?”

“What am I? You know, a gentleman, I served for two
years in the cavalry, then I knocked about here in Peters-

478 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

burg, then I married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the
country. There you have my biography !”

“You are a gambler, I believe?”

“No, a poor sort of gambler. A card-sharper—not a
gambler.”

“You have been a card-sharper then?”

“Yes, ve been a card-sharper too.”

“Didn’t you get thrashed sometimes?”

“It did happen. Why?”

“Why, you might have challenged them... altogether
it must have been lively.”

“I won’t contradict you and besides I am no hand at
philosophy. I confess that I hastened here for the sake
of the women.”

“As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna?”

“Quite so,’ Svidrigailov smiled with engaging candour.
“What of it? You seem to find something wrong in my
speaking like that about women?”

“You ask whether I find anything wrong in vice?”

“Vice! Oh, that’s what you are after! But I’ll answer
you in order, first about women in general; you know
I am fond of talking. Tell me, what should I restrain
myself for? Why should I give up women, since I have
a passion for them? It’s an occupation, anyway?’

“So you hope for nothing here but vice?”

“Oh, very well, for vice then. You insist on its being
vice. But anyway I like a direct question. In this vice
at least there is something permanent, founded indeed
upon nature and not dependent on fantasy, something
present in the blood like an ever-burning ember, for ever
setting one on fire and maybe, not to be quickly
extinguished, even with years. You'll agree it’s an
occupation of a sort.”

“That’s nothing to rejoice at, it’s a disease and a
dangerous one.”

“Oh, that’s what you think, is it! I agree, that it is a
disease like everything that exceeds moderation. And, of
course, in this one must exceed moderation. But in the
first place, everybody does so in one way or another, and
in the second place, of course, one ought to be moderate

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 479

and prudent, however mean it may be, but what am I
to do? If I hadn’t this, I might have to shoot myself. I
am ready to admit that a decent man ought to put up with
being bored, but yet. . .”

“And could you shoot yourself?”

“Oh, come!” Svidrigailov parried with disgust. “Please
don’t speak of it,” he added hurriedly and with none of the
bragging tone he had shown in all the previous conversa-
tion. His face quite changed. “I admit it’s an unpardonable
weakness, but I can’t help it: I am afraid of death and I
dislike its being talked of. Do you know that I am to a
certain extent a mystic?”

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

“Oh, don’t talk of them; there have been no more in
Petersburg, confound them!” he cried with an air of irrita-
tion. “Let’s rather talk of that ...though...H’m! I
have not much time, and can’t stay long with you, it’s a
pity! I should have found plenty. to tell you.”

“What’s your engagement, a woman?”

“Yes, a woman, a casual incident.... No, that’s not
what I want to talk of.”

“And the hideousness, the filthiness of all your surround-
ings, doesn’t that affect you? Have you lost the strength to
stop yourself ?”

“And do you pretend to strength, too? He-he-he! You
surprised me just now, Rodion Romanovitch, though I knew
beforehand it would be so. You preach to me about vice
and esthetics! You—a Schiller, you—an idealist! Of
course that’s all as it should be and it would be surprising
if it were not so, yet it is strange in reality... . Ah, what
a pity I have no time, for you’re a most interesting type!
And by-the-way, are you fond of Schiller? I am awfully.
fond of him.”

“But what a braggart you are,” Raskolnikov said with
some disgust.

“Upon my word, I am not,” answered Svidrigailov laugh-
ing. “However, I won’t dispute it, let me be a braggart,
why not brag, if it hurts no one? I spent seven years in
the country with Marfa Petrovna, so now when I come

480 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

across an intelligent person like you—intelligent and highly
interesting—I am simply glad to talk and, besides, I’ve drunk
that half-glass of champagne and it’s gone to my head a
little. And besides, there’s a certain fact that has wound
me up tremendously, but about that I... will keep quiet.
Where are you off to?” he asked in alarm.

Raskolnikov had begun getting up. He felt oppressed and
stifled and, as it were, ill at ease at having come here. He
felt convinced that Svidrigailov was the most worthless
scoundrel on the face of the earth.

“A-ach! Sit down, stay a little!” Svidrigailov begged.
“Let them bring you some tea, anyway. Stay a little, I
won't talk nonsense, about myself, I mean. [I'll tell you
something. If you like I'll tell you how a woman tried ‘to
save’ me, as you would call it? It will be an answer to your
first question indeed, for the woman was your sister. May
I tell you? It will help to spend the time.”

“Tell me, but I trust that you. . .”

“Oh, don’t be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low
fellow like me, Avdotya Romanovna can only excite the
deepest respect.”

ORT LAAT ee POR ee eM Dee I Be a Ve
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CHAPTER IV

sd OU know perhaps—yes, I told you myself,” began
Svidrigailov, “that I was in the debtors’ prison

here, for an immense sum, and had not any ex-
pectation of being able to pay it. There’s no need to go into
particulars of how Marfa Petrovna bought me out; do you
know to what a point of insanity a woman can sometimes
love? She was an honest woman, and very sensible, although
completely uneducated. Would you believe that this honest
and jealous woman, after many scenes of hysterics and re-
proaches, condescended to enter into a kind of contract with
me which she kept throughout our married life? She was
considerably older than I, and besides, she always kept a
clove or something in her mouth. There was so much
Swinishness in my soul and honesty too, of a sort, as to tell
her straight out that I couldn’t be absolutely faithful to her.
This confession drove her to frenzy, but yet she seems in a
way to have liked my brutal frankness. She thought it
showed I was unwilling to deceive her if I warned her like
this beforehand and for a jealous woman, you know, that’s
the first consideration. After many tears an unwritten con-
tract was drawn up between us: first, that I would never
leave Marfa Petrovna and would always be her husband;
secondly, that I would never absent myself without her per-
mission; thirdly, that I would never set up a permanent mis-
tress; fourthly, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna gave me
a free hand with the maid servants, but only with her secret
knowledge; fifthly, God forbid my falling in love with a
woman of our class; sixthly, in case I—which God forbid—
should be visited by a great serious passion I was bound to
reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. On this last score, however,
Marfa Petrovna was fairly at ease. She was a sensible
woman and so she could not help looking upon me as a
dissolute profligate incapable of real love. But a sensible
woman and a jealous woman are two very different things,

and that’s where the trouble came in. But to judge some
481

482 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

people impartially we must renounce certain preconceived
opinions and our habitual attitude to the ordinary people
about us. I have reason to have faith in your judgment
rather than in any one’s. Perhaps you have already heard
a great deal that was ridiculous and absurd about Marfa
Petrovna. She certainly had some very ridiculous ways, but
I tell you frankly that I feel really sorry for the innumerable
woes of which I was the cause. Weil, and that’s enough,
I think, by way of a decorous oraison funébre for the most
tender wife of a most tender husband. When we quarrelled,
I usually held my tongue and did not irritate her and that
gentlemanly conduct rarely failed to attain its object,,it
influenced her, it pleased her, indeed. There were times
when she was positively proud of me. But your sister she
couldn’t put up with, anyway. And however she came to
risk taking such a beautiful creature into her house as a
governess. My explanation is that Marfa Petrovna was an
ardent and impressionable woman and simply fell in love
herself—literally fell in love—with your sister. Well, little
wonder—look at Avdotya Romanovna! I saw the danger
at the first glance and what do you think, I resolved not to
look at her even. But Avdotya Romanovna herself made
the first step, would you believe it? Would you believe it
too that Marfa Petrovna was positively angry with me at
first for my persistent silence about your sister, for my
careless reception of her continual adoring praises of
Avdotya Romanovna. I don’t know what it was she wanted!
Well, of course, Marfa Petrovna toid Avdotya Romanovna
every detail about me. She had the unfortunate habit of
telling literally every one all our family secrets and con-
tinually complaining of me; how could she fail to confide
in such a delightful new friend? I expect they talked of
nothing else but me and no doubt Avdotya Romanovna
heard all those dark mysterious rumours that were current
about me. ... I don’t mind betting that you too have heard
something of the sort already?”

“T have. Luzhin charged you with having caused the
death of a child. Is that true?”

“Don’t refer to those vulgar tales, | beg,” said Svidrigailov
with disgust and annoyance. “If you insist on wanting to

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 483

know about all that idiocy, I will tell you one day, but
now .) 9/77

“I was told too about some footman of yours in the
country whom you treated badly.”

“T beg you to drop the subject,’ Svidrigailov interrupted
again with obvious impatience.

“Was that the footman who came to you after death to fill
your pipe? ... you told me about it yourself,” Raskolnikov
felt more and more irritated.

Svidrigailov looked at him attentively and Raskolnikov
fancied he caught a flash of spiteful mockery in that look.
But Svidrigailov restrained himself and answered very
civilly. :

“Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested
and shal! feel it my duty to satisfy your curiosity at the first
opportunity. Upon my soul! I see that I really might pass
for a romantic figure with some people. Judge how grateful
I must be to Marfa Petrovna for having repeated to Avdotya
Romanovna such mysterious and interesting gossip about me.
I dare not guess what impression it made on her, but in any
case it worked in my interests. With all Avdotya Roma-
novna’s natural aversion and in spite of my invariably gloomy
and repellent aspect—she did at last feel pity for me, pity
for a lost soul. And if once a girl’s heart is moved to pity,
it’s more dangerous than anything. She is bound to want
to ‘save him,’ to bring him to his senses, and lift him up and
draw him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and
usefulness,—well, we all know how far such dreams can go.
I saw at once that the bird was flying into the cage of her-
self. And I too made ready. I think you are frowning,
Rodion Romanovitch? There’s no need. As you know, it
all ended in smoke. (Hang it all, what a lot I am drinking!)
Do you know, I always, from the very beginning, regretted
that it wasn’t your sister’s fate to be born in the second or
third century a.D., as the daughter of a reigning prince or
some governor or pro-consul in Asia Minor. She would
undoubtedly have been one of those who would endure mar-
tyrdom and would have smiled when they branded her bosom
with hot pincers. And she would have gone to it of herself.
And in the fourth or fifth century she would have walked

ABA | FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

away into the Egyptian desert and would have stayed there
thirty years living on roots and ecstasies and visions. She
is simply thirsting to face some torture for some one, and
if she can’t get her torture, she'll throw herself out of
window. I’ve heard something of a Mr. Razumihin—he’s
said to be a sensible fellow; his surname suggests it, indeed.
He’s probably a divinity student. Well, he’d better look
after your sister! I believe I understand her, and I am
proud of it. But at the beginning of an acquaintance, as
you know, one is apt to be more heedless and stupid. One
doesn’t see clearly. Hang it all, why is she so handsome?
It’s not my fault. In fact, it began on my side with a most
irresistible physical desire. Avdotya Romanovna is awfully
chaste, incredibly and phenomenally so. Take note, I tell you
this about your sister as a fact. She is almost morbidly
chaste, in spite of her broad intelligence, and it will stand
in her way. There happened to be a girl in the house then,
Parasha, a black-eyed wench, whom I had never séen before
—she had just come from another village—very pretty, but
incredibly stupid: she burst into tears, wailed so that she
could be heard all over the place and caused scandal. One
day after dinner Avdotya Romanovna followed me into an
avenue in the garden and with flashing eyes insisted on my
leaving poor Parasha alone. It was almost our first con- _
- versation by ourselves. I, of course, was only too pleased
to obey her wishes, tried to appear disconcerted, embarrassed, _
in fact played my part not badly. Then came interviews,
mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties, supplica-
tions, even tears—would you believe it, even tears? Think
what the passion for propaganda will bring some girls to!
I, of course, threw it all on my destiny, posed as hungering
and thirsting for light, and finally resorted to the most
powerful weapon in the subjection of the female heart, a
weapon which never fails one. It’s the well-known resource
—flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than speaking
the truth and nothing easier than flattery. If there’s the
hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads
to a discord, and that leads to trouble. But if all, to the last
note, is false in flattery, it is just as agreeable, and is heard
not without satisfaction. It may be a coarse satisfaction,

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 485

but still a satisfaction. And however coarse the flattery, at
least half will be sure to seem true. That’s so for all stages
of development and classes of society. A vestal virgin might
be seduced by flattery. I can never remember without laugh-
ter how I once seduced a lady who was devoted to her hus-

band, her children, and her principles. What fun it was
and how little trouble! And the lady really had principles of
her own, anyway. All my tactics lay in simply being utterly
annihilated and prostrate before her purity. I flattered her
shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in getting a pressure
of the hand, even a glance from her, I would reproach my-
self for having snatched it by force, and would declare that
she had resisted, so that I could never have gained anything *
but for my being so unprincipled. 1 maintained that she was
so innocent that she could not foresee my treachery, and
yielded to me unconsciously, unawares, and so on. In fact,
I triumphed, while my lady remained firmly convinced that
she was innocent, chaste, and faithful to all her duties and
obligations and had succumbed quite by accident. And how
angry she was with me when I explained to her at last that
it was my sincere conviction that she was just as eager as I.
Poor Marfa Petrovna was awfully weak on the side of flat-
tery, and if I had only cared to, I might have had all her
property settled on me during her lifetime. (I am drinking
an awful lot of wine and talking too much.) I hope you
won't be angry if I mention now that I was beginning to
produce the same effect on Avdotya Romanovna. But I was
stupid and impatient and spoiled it all. Avdotya Romanovna
had several times—and one time in particular—been greatly
displeased by the expression of my eyes, would you believe
it? There was sometimes a light in them which frightened
her and grew stronger and stronger and more unguarded
till it was hateful to her. No need to go into details, but
we parted. There I acted stupidly again. I fell to jeering
in the coarsest way at all such propaganda and efforts to
convert me; Parasha came on to the scene again, and not
she alone; in fact there was a tremendous to-do. Ah, Rodion
Romanovitch, if you could only see how your sister’s eyes
can flash sometimes! Never mind my being drunk at this
moment and having had a whole glass of wine. I am speak- |

486 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

ing the truth. I assure you that this glance has haunted my
dreams; the very rustle of her dress was more than I could
stand at last. I really began to think that I might become
epileptic. I could never have believed that I could be moved
to such a frenzy. It was essential, indeed, to be reconciled,
but by then it was impossible. And imagine what I did then!
‘To what a pitch of stupidity a man can be brought by frenzy!
Never undertake anything in a frenzy, Rodion Romanovitch.
I reflected that Avdotya Romanovna was after all a beggar
(ach, excuse me, that’s not the word . . . but does it matter
if it expresses the meaning?), that she lived by her work,
that she had her mother and you to keep (ach, hang it, you
‘are frowning again), and I resolved to offer her all my
money—thirty thousand roubles I could have realised then—
if she would run away with me here, to Petersburg. Of
course I should have vowed eternal love, rapture, and so on.
Do you know, I was so wild about her at that time that if she
had told me to poison Marfa Petrovna or to cut her throat
and to marry herself, it would have been done at once! But
it ended in the catastrophe of which you know already.
You can fancy how frantic I was when I heard that
Marfa Petrovna had got hold of that scoundrelly attorney,
Luzhin, and had almost made a match between them—which
would really have been just the same thing as I was pro-
posing. Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it? I notice that you've
begun to be very attentive ... you interesting young
MAR ue \

Svidrigailov struck the table with his fist impatiently. He
was flushed. Raskolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass
and a half of champagne that he had sipped almost uncon-
sciously was affecting him—and he resolved to take advan-
tage of the opportunity. He felt very suspicious of Svidri-
gailov.

“Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that
_ you have come to Petersburg with designs on my sister,” he
said directly to Svidrigailov in order to irritate him further. .

“Oh, nonsense,” said Svidrigailov, seeming to rouse him-
self. “Why, I told you... besides your sister can’t endure
me.”

“Ves, I am certain that she can’t, but that’s not the point.”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT A487

“Are you so sure that she can’t?” Svidrigailov screwed up
his eyes and smiled mockingly. “You are right, she doesn’t
love me, but you can never be sure of what has passed
between husband and wife or lover and mistress, There’s
always a little corner which remains a secret to the world
and is only known to those two. Will you answer for it
that Avdotya Romanovna regarded me with aversion?”

“From some words you’ve dropped, I notice that you still
have designs—and of course evil ones—on Dounia and mean
to carry them out promptly.”

“What, have I dropped words like that?” Svidrigailov
asked in naive dismay, taking not the slightest notice of the
epithet bestowed on his designs.

“Why, you are dropping them even now. Why are you
so frightened? What are you so afraid of now?”

“Me—afraid? Afraid of you? You have rather to be
afraid of me, cher ami. But what nonsense... . I’ve drunk
too much though, I see that. I was almost saying too much
again. Damn the wine! Hi! there, water!”

He snatched up the champagne bottle and flung it without
ceremony out of the window. Philip brought the water.

“That’s all nonsense!” said Svidrigailov wetting a towel
and putting it to his head. “But I can answer you in one
word and annihilate all your suspicions. Do you know that
I am going to get married?”

“You told me so before.”

“Did I? I’ve forgotten. But I couldn’t have told you so
for certain, for I had not even seen my betrothed; I only
meant to. But now I really have a betrothed and it’s a
settled thing, and if it weren’t that I have business that can’t
be put off, I would have taken you to see them at once, for
I should like to ask your advice. Ach, hang it, only ten
minutes left! See, look at the watch. But I must tell you,
for it’s an interesting story, my marriage, in its own way.
Where are you off to? Going again?”

“No, I’m not going away now.”

“Not at all? We shall see. I’ll take you there, I’ll show
you my betrothed, only not now. For you'll soon have to be
off. You have to go to the right and I to the left. Do you
know that Madame Resslich, the woman I am lodging with

488 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

now, eh? I know what you're thinking, that she’s the woman
whose girl they say drowned herself in the winter. Come,
are you listening? She arranged it all for me. You're bored,
she said, you want something to fill up your time. For, you
know, I am a gloomy, depressed person. Do you think I’m
light-hearted? No, I’m gloomy. I do no harm, but sit in a
corner without speaking a word for three days at a time.
And that Resslich is a sly hussy, I tell you. I know what she
has got in her mind; she thinks I shall get sick of it, abandon
my wife and depart, and she'll get hold of her and make a
profit out of her—in our class, of course, or higher. She
told me the father was a broken-down retired official, who
had been sitting in a chair for the last threc years with his
legs paralysed. The mamma, she said, was a sensible woman.
There is a son serving in the provinces, but he doesn’t help;
there is a daughter, who is married, but she doesn’t visit them.
And they’ve two little nephews on their hands, as though their
own children were not enough, and they’ve taken from school
their youngest daughter, a girl who'll be sixteen in another
month, so that then she can be married. She was for me.
We went there. How funny it was! I presented myself—a
land-owner, a widower, of a well-known name, with con-
nections, with a fortune. What if I am fifty and she is not
sixteen? Who thinks of that? But it’s fascinating, isn’t it?
- It is fascinating, ha-ha! You should have seen how I talked
to the papa and mamma. It was worth paying to have seen
me at that moment. She comes in, curtseys, you can fancy,
still in a short frock—an unopened bud? Flushing like a
sunset—she had been told, no doubt. I don’t know how you
feel about female faces, but to my mind these sixteen years,
these childish eyes, shyness and tears of bashfulness are better
than beauty; and she is a perfect little picture, too. Fair hair
in little curls, like a lamb’s, full little rosy lips, tiny feet, a
charmer! ... Well, we made friends. I told them I was in
a hurry owing to domestic circumstances, and the next day,
that is the day before yesterday, we were betrothed. When
I go now I take her on my knee at once and keep her there.
... Well, she flushes like a sunset and I kiss her every
minute. Her mamma of course impresses on her that this is
her husband and that this must be so. It’s simply delicious!

rag

s
Pee ee

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 489

The present betrothed condition is perhaps better than mar-
riage. Here you have what is ‘called la nature et la vérité,
ha-ha! I’ve talked to her twice, she is far from a fool.
Sometimes she steals a look at me that positively scorches
me. Her face is like Raphael’s Madonna. You know, the
Sistine Madonna’s face has something fantastic in it, the
face of mournful religious ecstasy. Haven’t you noticed it?
Well, she’s something in that line. The day after we’d been
betrothed, I bought her presents to the value of fifteen hun-
dred roubles—a set of diamonds and another of pearls and
a silver dressing-case as large as this, with all sorts of things
in it, so that even my Madonna’s face glowed. I sat her on
my knee yesterday, and I suppose rather too unceremoniously
—she flushed crimson and the tears started, but she didn’t
want to show it. We were left alone, she suddenly flung
herself on my neck (for the first time of her own accord),
put her little arms round me, kissed me, and vowed that she
would be an obedient, faithful, and good wife, would make
me happy, would devote all her life, every minute of her life,
would sacrifice everything, everything, and that all she asks
in return is my respect, and that she wants ‘nothing, nothing
more from me, no presents.’ You'll admit that to hear such
a confession, alone, from an angel of sixteen in a muslin
frock, with little curls, with a flush of maiden shyness in her
cheeks and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes is rather fascinat-
ing! Isn’t it fascinating? It’s worth paying for, isn’t it?
Well . . . listen, we’ll go to see my betrothed, only not just
now !”

“The fact is this monstrous difference in age and develop-
ment excites your sensuality! Will you really make such a
matriage ?”

“Why, of course. Every one thinks of himself, and he lives
most gaily who knows best how to deceive himself. Ha-ha!
But why are you so keen about virtue? Have mercy on me,
my good friend, I am a sinful man. Ha-ha-ha!”

“But you have provided for the children of Katerina
Ivanovna. Though ... though you had your own reasons.
... I] understand it all now.”

“TI am always fond of children, very fond of them,” laughed
Svidrigailov. “TI can tell you one curious instance of it. The

17—R

490 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

first day I came here I visited various haunts, after seven
years I simply rushed at them. You probably notice that I
am not ina hurry to renew acquaintance with my old friends.
I shall do without them as long as I can. Do you know, when
I was with Marfa Petrovna in the country, I was haunted by
the thought of these places where any one who knows his
way about can find a great deal. Yes, upon my soul! The
peasants have vodka, the educated young people, shut out
from activity, waste themselves in impossible dreams and
visions and are crippled by theories; Jews have sprung up and
are amassing money, and all the rest give themselves up to
debauchery. From the first hour the town reeked of its
familiar odours. I chanced to be in a frightful den—fP like
my dens dirty—it was a dance, so called, and there was a
cancan such as I never saw in my day. Yes, there you have
progress. All of a sudden I saw a little girl of thirteen,
nicely dressed, dancing with a specialist in that line, with
another one wis-a-vis. Her mother was sitting on a chair
by the wall. You can’t fancy what a cancan that was! The
girl was ashamed, blushed, at last felt insulted, and began
to cry. Her partner seized her and began whirling her round
and performing before her; every one laughed and—TI like
your public, even the cancan public—they laughed and
shouted. ‘Serve her right—serve her right! Shouldn’t bring
children!’ Well, it’s not my business whether that consoling
reflection was logical or not. I at once fixed on my plan, sat
down by the mother, and began by saying that I too was a
stranger and that people here were ill-bred and that they
couldn’t distinguish decent folks and treat them with respect;
gave her to understand that I had plenty of money, offered
to take them home in my carriage. I took them home and
got to know them. They were lodging in a miserable little
hole and had only just arrived from the country. She told
me that she and her daughter could only regard my acquaint-
ance as an honour. I found out that they had nothing of their
own and had come to town upon some legal business. I
proffered my services and money. I learnt that they had gone
to the dancing saloon by mistake, believing that it was a
genuine dancing class. I offered to assist in the young girl’s
education in French and dancing. My offer was accepted

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 49}

with enthusiasm as an honour—and we are still friendly.
.. - If you like, we'll go and see them, only not just now.”

“Stop! Enough of your vile, nasty anecdotes, depraved,
vile, sensual man!”

“Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! O la vertu va-t-elle
se nicher? But you know I shall tell you these things on
purpose, for the pleasure of hearing your outcries!”

“T dare say. I can see I am ridiculous myself,” muttered
Raskolnikov angrily.

Svidrigailov laughed heartily; finally he called Philip ; paid
his bill, and began getting up.

“TI say, but I am drunk, assez causé,”’ he said. “It’s been a
pleasure!”

“T should rather think it must be a pleasure!” cried Raskol-
nikov, getting up. “No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn-out
profligate to describe such adventure with a monstrous proj-
ect of the same sort in his mind—especially under such cir-
cumstances and to such a man as me... . It’s stimulating!”

“Well, if you come to that,” Svidrigailov answered, scru-
tinising Raskolnikov with some surprise, “if you come to that,
you are a thorough cynic yourself. You’ve plenty to make
you so, anyway. You can understand a great deal ... and
you can do a great deal too. But enough. I sincerely regret
not having had more talk with you, but I shan’t lose sight of
you. ... Only wait a bit.”

Svidrigailov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov
walked out after him. Svidrigailov was not however very
drunk, the wine had affected him for a moment, but it was
passing off every minute. He was pre-occupied with some-
thing of importance and was frowning. He was apparently
excited and uneasy in anticipation of something. His manner
to Raskolnikov had changed during the last few minutes,
and he was ruder and more sneering every moment. Raskol-
nikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He became
very suspicious of Svidrigailov and resolved to follow him.

They came out on to the pavement.

“You go to the right, and I to the left, or if you like, the
other way. Only adieu, mon plaisir, may we meet again.”

And he walked to the right towards the Hay Market.

CHAPTER V

Reet: tier walked after him.
“What’s this?” cried Svidrigailov turning round. “I
thought I said... .”

“It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now.”

“What: ???

Both stood still and gazed at one another, as though meas-
uring their strength. /

“From all your half tipsy stories,” Raskolnikov observed
harshly, “I am positive that you have not given up your
designs on my sister, but are pursuing them more actively
than ever. I have learnt that my sister received a letter this
morning. You have hardly been able to sit still all this time.

. You may have unearthed a wife on the way, but that
means nothing. I should like to make certain myself.”

Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted
and of what he wished to make certain.

“Upon my word! I'll call the police!”

“Call away!”

Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last
Svidrigailov’s face changed. Having satisfied himself that
Raskolnikov was not frightened at this threat, he assumed a
mirthful and friendly air.

“What a fellow! I purposely refrained from referring
to your affair, though I am devoured by curiosity. It’s a
fantastic affair. I’ve put it off till another time, but you’re
enough to rouse the dead. . . . Well, let us go, only I warn
you beforehand I am only going home for a moment, to get
some money; then I shall lock up the flat, take a cab and go
to spend the evening at the Islands. Now, now are you
going to follow me?”

“I’m coming to your lodgings, not to see you but Sofya
Semyonovna, to say I’m sorry not to have been at the funeral.”

“That’s as you like, but Sofya Semyonovna is not at home.
She has taken the three children to an old lady of high rank,

492

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 493

the patroness of some orphan asylums, whom I used to know
years ago. I charmed the old lady by depositing a sum of
money with her to provide for the three children of Katerina
Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution as well. I told
her too the story of Sofya Semyonovna in full detail, sup-
pressing nothing. It produced an indescribable effect on her.
That’s why Sofya Semyonovna has been invited to call to-day
at the X. Hotel where the lady is staying for the time.”

“No matter, I’ll come all the same.”

“As you like, it’s nothing to me, but I won’t come with you;
here we are at home. By the way, I am convinced that you
regard me with suspicion just because I have shown such
delicacy and have not so far troubled you with questions
... you understand? It struck you as extraordinary; I
don’t mind betting it’s that. Well, it teaches one to show
delicacy !”

“And to listen at doors!” |

“Ah, that’s it, is it?” laughed Svidrigailov. “Yes, I should
have been surprised if you had let that pass after all that
has happened. Ha-ha! Though I did understand something
of the pranks you had been up to and were telling Sofya
Semyonovna about, what was the meaning of it? Perhaps I
am quite behind the times and can’t understand. For good-
ness’ sake, explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest
theories!”

“You couldn’t have heard anything. You’re making it all
up he

“But I’m not talking about that (though I did hear some-
thing). No, I’m talking of the way you keep sighing and
groaning now. The Schiller in you is in revolt every moment,
- and now you tell me not to listen at doors. If that’s how you
feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance:
you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you are
convinced that one mustn’t listen at doors, but one may
murder old women at one’s pleasure, you’d better be off to
America and make haste. Run, young man! There may
still be time. I’m speaking sincerely. Haven’t you the
money? I'll give you the fare.”

“T’m not thinking of that at all,” Raskolnikov interrupted
with disgust.

494 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“T understand (but don’t put yourself out, don’t discuss it if
you don’t want to). I understand the questions you are
worrying over—moral ones, aren’t they? Duties of citizen
and man? Lay them all aside. They are nothing to you
now, ha-ha! You’ll say you are still a man and a citizen.
If so you ought not to have got into this coil. It’s no use
taking up a job you are not fit for. Well, you’d better shoot
yourself, or don’t you want to?”

“You seem trying to enrage me, to make me leave you.”

“What a queer fellow! But here we are. Welcome to the
Staircase. You see, that’s the way to Sofya Semyonoyna.
Look, there is no one at home. Don’t you believe me? Ask
Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with him. Here “is
Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is
rather deaf. Has she gone out? Where? Did you hear?
She is not in and won’t be till late in the evening. Well,
come to my room; you wanted to come and see me, didn’t
you? Here we are. Madame Resslich’s not at home. She
is a woman who is always busy, an excellent woman I assure
you. .. . She might have been of use to you if you had been
a little more sensible. Now, see! I take this five per cent.
bond out of the bureau—see what a lot I’ve got of them still
—this one will be turned into cash to-day. I mustn’t waste
any more time. The bureau is locked, the flat is locked, and
here we are again on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I’m
going to the Islands. Would you like a lift? Ill take this
carriage. Ah, you refuse? You are tired of it? Come for
a drive! I believe it will come on to rain. Never mind,
we'll put down the hood... .”

Svidrigailov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov
decided that his suspicions were at least for that moment un-
just. Without answering a word he turned and walked back
towards the Hay Market. If he had only turned round on his
way he might have seen Svidrigailov get out not a hundred
paces off, dismiss the cab and walk along the pavement. But
he had turned the corner and could see nothing. Intense
disgust drew him away from Svidrigailov.

“To think that I could for one instant have looked for help
from that coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and black-
guard!” he cried.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 495

Raskolnikov’s judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily:
there was something about Svidrigailov which gave him a
certain original, even a mysterious character. As concerned
his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced that Svidrigailov
would not leave her in peace. But it was too tiresome and
unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this.

When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before
he sank, as usual, into deep thought. On the bridge he
stood by the railing and began gazing at the water. And
his sister was standing close by him.

He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by
without seeing her. Dounia had never met him like this in
the street before and was struck with dismay. She stood
still and did not know whether to call to him or not. Sud-
denly she saw Svidrigailov coming quickly from the direc-
tion of the Hay Market.

He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go
on to the bridge, but stood aside on the pavement, doing all
he could to avoid Raskolnikov’s seeing him. He had ob-
served Dounia for some time and had been making signs to
her. She fancied he was signalling to beg her not to speak
to her brother, but to come to him.

That was what Dounia did. She stole by her brother and
went up to Svidrigailov.

“Let us make haste away,” Svidrigailov whispered to her,
“T don’t want Rodion Romanovitch to know of our meeting.
I must tell you I’ve been sitting with him in the restaurant
close by, where he looked me up and I had great difficulty
in getting rid of him. He has somehow heard of my letter
to you and suspects something. It wasn’t you who told him,
of course, but if not you, who then?”

“Well, we’ve turned the corner now,” Dounia interrupted,
“and my brother won’t see us. I have to tell you that I am
going no further with you. Speak to me here. You can
tell it all in the street.”

“In the first place, I can’t say it in the street; secondly,
you must hear Sofya Semyonovna too; and, thirdly, I will
show you some papers. . . . Oh well, if you won't agree to
come with me, I shall refuse to give any explanation and
go away at once. But I beg you not to forget that a very

496 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

curious secret of your beloved brother’s is entirely in my
keeping.”

Dounia stood still, hesitating and looked at Svidrigailov
with searching eyes.

“What are you afraid of?” he observed quietly. “The
town is not the country. And even in the country you did me
more harm than I did you.”

“Have you prepared Sofya Semyonovna ?”

“No, I have not said a word to her and am not quite cer-
tain whether she is at home now. But most likely she is.
She has buried her stepmother to-day: she is not likely to go
visiting on such a day. For the time I don’t want to speak
to any one about it and I half regret having spoken to yéu.
The slightest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal in a thing
like this. I live there in that house, we are coming to it.
That’s the porter of our house—he knows me very well; you
see, he’s bowing; he sees I’m coming with a lady and no
doubt he has noticed your face already and you will be glad
of that if you are afraid of me and suspicious. Excuse my
putting things so coarsely. I haven’t a flat to myself; Sofya
Semyonovna’s room is next to mine—she lodges in the next
flat. The whole floor is let out in lodgings. Why are you
frightened like a child? Am I really so terrible?”

Svidrigailov’s lips were twisted in a condescending smile;
but he was in no smiling mood. His heart was throbbing
and he could scarcely breathe. He spoke rather loud to cover

his growing excitement. But Dounia did not notice this —

peculiar excitement, she was so irritated by his remark that
she was frightened of him like a child and that he was so ter-
rible to her.

“Though I know that you are not a man... of hon-
our, I am not in the least afraid of you. Lead the way,”
she said with apparent composure, but her face was very
pale.

Svidrigailov stopped at Sonia’s room.

“Allow me to inquire whether she is at home. . . . She is
not. How unfortunate! But I know she may come quite
soon. If she’s gone out, it can only be to see a lady about
the orphans. Their mother is dead. ... I’ve been meddling
and making arrangements for them. If Sofya Semyonovna

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 497

does not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to you,
to-day if you like. This is my flat. These are my two
rooms. Madame Resslich, my landlady, has the next room.
Now, look this way. I will show you my chief piece of
evidence: this door from my bedroom leads into two perfectly
empty rooms, which are to let. Here they are . . . you must
look into them with some attention.”

Svidrigailov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms,
Dounia was looking about her mistrustfully, but saw nothing
special in the furniture or position of the rooms. Yet there
was something to observe, for instance, that Svidrigailov’s
flat was exactly between two sets of almost uninhabited
apartments. His rooms were not entered directly from
the passage, but through the landlady’s two almost empty
rooms. Unlocking a door leading out of his bedroom,
Svidrigailov showed Dounia the two empty rooms that were
to let. Dounia stopped in the doorway, not knowing what
she was called to look upon, but Svidrigailov hastened to
explain.

“Look here, at this second large room. Notice that door,
it’s locked. By the door stands a chair, the only one in the
two rooms. I brought it from my rooms so as to listen more
conveniently. Just the other side of the door is Sofya Sem-
yonovna’s table; she sat there talking to Rodion Romanovitch,
And I sat here listening on two successive evenings, for twa
hours each time—and of course I was able to learn some-
thing, what do you think?”

“You listened ?”

“Yes, I did. Now come back to my room; we can’t sit
down here.”

He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sitting-
room and offered her a chair. He sat down at the opposite
side of the table, at least seven feet from her, but probably
there was the same glow in his eyes which had once fright-
ened Dounia so much. She shuddered and once more looked
about her distrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture; she
evidently did not wish to betray her uneasiness. But the
secluded position of Svidrigailov’s lodging had suddenly
struck her. She wanted to ask whether his landlady at least
were at home, but pride kept her from asking. Moreover,

498 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

she had another trouble in her heart incomparably greater
than fear for herself. She was in great distress.

“Here’s your letter,” she said, laying it on the table. “Can
it be true what you write? You hint at a crime committed,
you say, by my brother. You hint at it too clearly; you
daren’t deny it now. I must tell you that I’d heard of this
stupid story before you wrote and don’t believe a word of
it. It’s a disgusting and ridiculous suspicion. I know the
story and why and how it was invented. You can have no
proofs. You promised to prove it. Speak! But let me warn
you that I don’t believe you! I don’t believe you!”

Dounia said this, speaking hurriedly and for an instant the
colour rushed to her face. 4

“If you didn’t believe it, how could you risk coming alone
to my rooms? Why have you come? Simply from curi-
Osity ?”

“Don’t torment me, Speak, speak

“There’s no denying that you are a brave girl. Upon my
word, I thought you would have asked Mr. Razumihin to
escort you here. But he was not with you nor anywhere
near. I was on the look-out. It’s spirited of you, it proves
you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovitch. But everything
is divine in you. ... About your brother, what am I to say
to you? You've just seen him yourself, What did you
- think of him?”

“Surely that’s not the only thing you are building on?” |

“No, not on that, but on his own words. He came here on
two successive evenings to see Sofya Semyonovna. I’ve
shown you where they sat. He made a full confession to
her. He is a murderer. He killed an old woman, a pawn-
broker, with whom he had pawned things himself. He
killed her sister too, a pedlar woman called Lizaveta, who
happened to come in while he was murdering her sister.
He killed them with an axe he brought with him. He mur-
dered them to rob them and he did rob them. He took money
and various things.... He told all this, word for word,
to Sofya Semyonovna, the only person who knows his secret.
But she has had no share by word or deed in the murder;
she was as horrified at it as you are now. Don’t be anxious,
she won’t betray him,”

1?

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 499

_ “Tt cannot be,” muttered Dounia, with white lips. She
gasped for breath. “It cannot be. There was not the slight-
est cause, no sort of ground. ... It’s a lie, a lie!”

“He robbed her, that was the cause, he took money and
things. It’s true that by his own admission he made no use
of the money or things, but hid them under a stone, where
they are now. But that was because he dared not make use
of them.”

“But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it ?”
cried Dounia, and she jumped up from the chair. “Why,
you know him, and you’ve seen him, can he be a thief?”

She seemed to be imploring Svidrigailov; she had entirely
forgotten her fear.

“There are thousands and millions of combinations and
possibilities, Avdotya Romanovna, A thief steals and knows
he is a scoundrel, but I’ve heard of a gentleman who broke
open the mail. Who knows, very likely he thought he was
doing a gentlemanly thing! Of course I should not have
believed it myself if I’d been told of it as you have, but I
believe my own ears. He explained all the causes of it to
Sofya Semyonovna too, but she did not believe her ears at
first, yet she believed her own eyes at last.”

“What ... were the causes?”

“Tt’s a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. Here’s... how
shall I tell you?—A theory of a sort, the same one by which
I for instance consider that a single misdeed is permissible
if the principal aim is right, a solitary wrongdoing and hun-
dreds of good deeds! It’s galling too, of course, for a young
man of gifts and overweening pride to know that if he had,
for instance, a paltry three thousand, his whole career, his
whole future would be differently shaped and yet not to
have that three thousand. Add to that, nervous irritability
from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a
vivid sense of the charm of his social position and his sister’s
and mother’s position too. Above all, vanity, pride and
vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities
too....1 am not blaming him, please don’t think it; be-
sides, it’s not my business. A special little theory came
in too—a theory of a sort—dividing mankind, you see, into
material and superior persons, that is persons to whom the

500 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

law does not apply owing to their superiority, who make
laws for the rest of mankind, the material, that is. It’s all
right as a theory, une théorie comme une autre. Napoleon
attracted him tremendously, that is, what affected him was
that a great many men of genius have not hesitated at
wrongdoing, but have overstepped the law without thinking
about it. He seems to have fancied that he was a genius
too—that is, he was convinced of it for a time. He has
suffered a great deal and is still suffering from the idea that
he could make a theory, but was incapable of boldly over-
stepping the law, and so is not a man of genius. And that’s
humiliating for a young man of any pride, in our day
especially. .. .” /

“But remorse? You deny him any moral feeling then?
Is he like that?”

“Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, everything is in a muddle now;
not that it was ever in very good order. Russians in
general are broad in their ideas, Avdotya Romanovna, broad
like their land and exceedingly disposed to the fantastic, the
chaotic. But it’s a misfortune to be broad without a special
genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk we had
together on this subject, sitting in the evenings on the
terrace after supper? Why, you used to reproach me with
breadth! Who knows, perhaps we were talking at the very
time when he was lying here thinking over his plan. There
are no sacred traditions amongst us, especially in the
educated class, Avdotya Romanovna. At the best some
one will make them up somehow for himself out of books
or from some old chronicle. But those are for the most
part the learned and all old fogeys, so that it would be
almost ill-bred in a man of society. You know my opinions
in general, though. I never blame any one. I do nothing at
all, I persevere in that. But we’ve talked of this more than
once before. I was so happy indeed as to interest you in my
Opinions. ... You are very pale, Avdotya Romanovna.”

“I know his theory. I read that article of his about men
to whom all is permitted. Razumihin brought it to me.”

“Mr. Razumihin? Your brother’s article? In a magazine?
Is there such an article? I didn’t know. It must be intere
esting. But where are you going, Avdotya Romanovna?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 501,

“T want to see Sofya Semyonovna,”’ Dounia articulated
faintly. “How do I goto her? She has come in, perhaps.
I must see her at once. Perhaps she... ”

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

“Sofya Semyonovna will not be back till night, at least I
believe not. She was to have been back at once, but if not,
then she will not be in till quite late.”

“Ah, then you are lying! I see... you were lying...
lying all the time. . .. I don’t believe you! I don’t believe
you!” cried Dounia, completely losing her head.

Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair which Svidrigailov
made haste to give her.

“Avdotya Romanoyna, what is it? Control yourself!
Here is some water. Drink a little. . . .” He sprinkled some
water over her. Dounia shuddered and came to herself.

“Tt has acted violently,’ Svidrigailov muttered to him-
self, frowning. ‘“Avdotya Romanovna, calm yourself!
Believe me, he has friends. We will save him. Would you
like me to take him abroad? I have money, I can get a ticket
in three days. And as for the murder, he will do all sorts
of good deeds yet, to atone for it. Calm yourself. He may
become a great man yet. Well, how are you? How do
you feel?”

“Cruel man! To be able to jeer at it! Let me go....

“Where are you going?”

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

“We couldn’t be shouting all over the flat on such a
subject. I am far from jeering; it’s simply that I’m sick
of talking like this. But how can you go in such a state?
Do you want to betray him? You will drive him to fury,
and he will give himself up. Let me tell you, he is already
being watched; they are already on his track. You will
simply be giving him away. Wait a little: I saw him and
was talking to him just now. He can still be saved. Wait
a bit, sit down; let us think it over together. I asked
you to come in order to discuss it alone with you and to
consider it thoroughly. But do sit down!”

29

502 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

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

Dounia sat down. Svidrigailov sat down beside her.

“Tt all depends on you, on you, on you alone,” he began
with glowing eyes, almost in a whisper and hardly able to
utter the words for emotion.

Dounia drew back from him in alarm. He too was
trembling all over.

“You... one word from you, and he is saved. I...
Y'll save him. I have money and friends. Ill send him away
at once. I'll get a passport, two passports, one for him and
one for me. I have friends... capable people... . If
you like, I'll take a passport for you... for your mother.
. « . What do you want with Razumihin? I love you téo
...tI1 love you beyond everything. ... Let me kiss the
hem of your dress, let me, let me... . The very rustle of
it is too much for me. Tell me, ‘do that,’ and I'll do it.
Till do everything. I will do the impossible. What you
believe, I will believe. ITll do anything—anything! Don’t,
don’t look at me like that. Do you know that you are
killing me?...”

He was almost beginning to rave. ... Something seemed
suddenly to go to his head. Dounia jumped up and rushed to
the door.

“Open it! Open it!” she called, shaking the door. “Open
‘it! Is there no one there?”

Svidrigailov got up and came to himself. His stili
trembling lips slowly broke into-an angry mocking smile.

“There is no one at home,” he said quietly and emphatically.
“The landlady has gone out, and it’s waste of time to shout
like that. You are only exciting yourself uselessly.”

“Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once,
base man!”

“T have lost the key and cannot find it.”

“This is an outrage,” cried Dounia, turning pale as death.
She rushed to the furthest corner, where she made haste to
barricade herself with a little table.

She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on her tor-
mentor and watched every movement he made.

Svidrigailov remained standing at the other end of the
room, facing her. He was positively composed, at least

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 503

in appearance, but his face was pale as before. The mocking
smile did not leave his face.

“You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna.
In that case you may be sure I’ve taken measures. Sofya
Semyonovna is not at home. The Kapernaumovs are far
away—there are five locked rooms between. I am at least
twice as strong as you are and I have nothing to fear,
besides. For you could not complain afterwards. You
surely would not be willing actually to betray your brother?
Besides, no one would believe you. How should a girl have
come alone to visit a solitary man in his lodgings? So
that even if you do sacrifice your brother, you could prove
nothing. It is very difficult to prove an assault, Avdotya
Romanovna.”

“Scoundrel!” whispered Dounia indignantly.

“As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a
general proposition. It’s my personal conviction that you
are perfectly right—violence is hateful. I only spoke to
show you that you need have no remorse even if... you
were willing to save your brother of your accord, as I
suggest to you. You would be simply submitting to circum-
stances, to violence, in fact, if we must use that word.
Think about it. Your brother’s and your mother’s fate are
in your hands. I will be your slave... all my life....I1
will wait here.”

Svidrigailov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from
Dounia. She had not the slightest doubt now of his unbend-
ing determination. Besides, she knew him. Suddenly she
pulled out of her pocket a revolver, cocked it and laid
it in her hand on the table. Svidrigailov jumped up.

“Aha! So that’s it, is it?” he cried, surprised but smiling
maliciously. “Well, that completely alters the aspect of
affairs. You’ve made things wonderfully easier for me,
Avdotya Romanovna. But where did you get the revolver?
Was it Mr. Razumihin? Why, it’s my revolver, an old
friend! And how I’ve hunted for it! The shooting lessons
I’ve given you in the country have not been thrown away.”

“It’s not your revolver, it belonged to Marfa Petrovna,
whom you killed, wretch! There was nothing of yours in
her house. I took it when I began to suspect what you

504 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

were capable of. If you dare to advance one step, I swear
Til kill you.” She was frantic.

“But your brother? I ask from _ curiosity,’ said
Svidrigailov, still standing where he was.

“Inform, if you want to! Don’t stir! Don’t come nearer!
I’ll shoot! You poisoned your wife, I know; you are a
murderer yourself!” She held the revolver ready.

“Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?”

“You did! You hinted it yourself; you talked to me of
poison. ...I know you went to get it... you had it in
readiness. ... It was your doing. ... It must have been
your doing. . . . Scoundrel !”

“Even if that were true, it would have been for your
sake. . . you would have been the cause.”

“You are lying! I hated you always, always....

“Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten
how you softened to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it
in your eyes. Do you remember that moonlight night, when
the nightingale was singing?”

“That’s a lie,” there was a flash of fury in Dounia’s eyes,
“that’s a lie and a libel!”

“A lie? Well, if you like, it’s a lie. I made it up.
Women ought not to be reminded of such things,” he smiled.
“I know you will shoot, you pretty wild creature. Well,
-shoot away !”

Dounia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him,
measuring the distance and awaiting the first movement on
his part. Her lower lip was white and quivering and her
big black eyes flashed like fire. He had never seen her so
handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment
she raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and there was
a pang of anguish in his heart. He took a step forward and
a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and flew into
the wall behind. He stood still and laughed softly.

“The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head.
What’s this? Blood?” he pulled out his handkerchief to
wipe the blood, which flowed in a thin stream down his right
_temple. The bullet seemed to have just grazed the skin.

Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov
not so much in terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She

99

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 505

seemed not to understand what she was doing and what
was going on.

“Well, you missed! Fire again, I’ll wait,” said Svidri-
gailov softly, still smiling, but gloomily. “If you go on like
that, I shall have time to seize you before you cock again.”

Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again
raised it.

“Let me be,” she cried in despair. “I swear I’ll shoot
aening t.. . UT kill you.”

“Well... at three paces you can hardly help it. But if
you don’t... then.” His eyes flashed and he took two
steps forward. Dounia shot again: it missed fire.

“You haven’t loaded it properly. Never mind, you have
another charge there. Get it ready. I'll wait.”

He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing
at her with wild determination, with feverishly passionate,
stubborn, set eyes. Dounia saw that he would sooner die
than let her go, “And... now, of course she would kill
him, at two paces!” Suddenly she flung away the revolver.

“She’s dropped it!” said Svidrigailov with surprise, and
he drew a deep breath. A weight seemed to have rolled
from his heart—perhaps not only the fear of death; indeed
he may scarcely have felt it at that moment. It was the
deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter,
which he could not himself have defined.

He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her
waist. She did not resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked
at him with suppliant eyes. He tried to say something, but
his lips moved without being able to utter a sound.

“Let me go,” Dounia implored. Svidrigailov shuddered.
Her voice now was quite different.

“Then you don’t love me?” he asked softly. Dounia shook
her head.

“And... and you can’t? Never?” he whispered in
despair.

“Never !”

There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the
heart of Svidrigailov. He looked at her with an inde-
scribable gaze. Suddenly he withdrew his arm, turned quickly
to the window and stood facing it. Another moment passed.

506 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Here’s the key.”

He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on
the table behind him, without turning or looking at Dounia.

“Take it! Make haste!”

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

“Make haste! Make haste!” repeated Svidrigailov, still
without turning or moving. But there seemed a terrible
significance in the tone of that “make haste.”

Dounia understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the.
door, unlocked it quickly and rushed out of the room. A
minute later, beside herself, she ran out on to the canal bank
in the direction of X, Bridge a

Svidrigailov remained three minutes standing at the
window. At last he slowly turned, looked about him and
passed his hand over his forehead. A strange smile con-
torted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of despair.
The blood, which was already getting dry, smeared his
hand. He looked angrily at it, then wetted a towel and
washed his temple. The revolver which Dounia had flung
away lay near the door and suddenly caught his eye. He
picked it up and examined it. It was a little pocket three-
barrel revolver of old fashioned construction. There were
still two charges and one capsule left in it. It could be
. fired again. He thought a little, put the revolver in his
pocket, took his hat and went out.

CHAPTER VI

E spent that evening till ten o’clock, going from

one low haunt to another. Katia too turned up and
sang another gutter song, how a certain “villain

and tryant”
“began kissing Katia.”

Svidrigailoy treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some
singers and the waiters and two little clerks. He was par-
ticularly drawn to these clerks by.the fact that they both
had crooked noses, one bent to the left and the other to the
right. They took him finally to a pleasure garden, where
he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky three-
year-old pine tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a
“Vauxhall,” which was in reality a drinking-bar where tea
too was served, and there were a few green tables and
chairs standing round it. A chorus of wretched singers
and a drunken, but exceedingly depressed German clown
from Munich with a red nose entertained the public. The
clerks quarrelled with some other clerks and a fight seemed
imminent. Svidrigailov was chosen to decide the dispute.
He listened to them for a quarter of an hour, but they
shouted so loud that there was no possibility of understand-
ing them. The only fact that seemed certain was that one
of them had stolen something and had even succeeded in
selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the
spoil with his companion. Finally it appeared that the
stolen object was a teaspoon belonging to the Vauxhall. It
was missed and the affair began to seem troublesome. Svi-
drigailov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of the
garden. It was about six o’clock. He had not drunk a drop
of wine all this time and had ordered tea more for the sake
of appearances than anything.

It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-
clouds came over the sky about ten o'clock. There was a

507

508 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

clap of thunder, and the rain came down like a waterfall.
The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in
streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and
each flash lasted while one could count five.

Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in,
opened the bureau, took out all his money and tore up two
or three papers. Then, putting the money in his pocket, he
was about to change his clothes, but, looking out of window
and listening to the thunder and the rain, he gave up the
idea, took up his hat and went out of the room without
locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at
home.

She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were
with her. She was giving them tea. She received Svi-
drigailov in respectful silence, looking wonderingly at his
soaking clothes. The children all ran away at once in inde-
scribable terror.

Svidrigailov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit
beside him. She timidly prepared to listen.

“I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna,” said
Svidrigailov, “and as I am probably seeing you for the last
time, I have come to make some arrangements. Well, did
you see the lady to-day? I know what she said to you, you
need not tell me.” (Sonia made a movement and blushed.)
_ “Those people have their own way of doing things. As to
your sisters and your brother, they are really provided for
and the money assigned to them I’ve put into safe keeping
and have received acknowledgments. You had better take
charge of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here,
take them! Well, now that’s settled. Here are three 5
per cent. bonds to the value of three thousand roubles. Take
those for yourself, entirely for yourself, and let that be
strictly between ourselves, so that no one knows of it, what-
ever you hear. You will need the money, for to go on living
in the old way, Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and besides
there is no need for it now.”

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

“That’s enough! that’s enough!”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 509

“But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am very
grateful to you, but I don’t need it now. I can always earn
my own living. Don’t think me ungrateful. If you are so
charitable, that money...”

“It’s for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please
don’t waste words over it. I haven’t time for it. You will
want it. Rodion Romanovitch has two alternatives: a bullet
in the brain or Siberia.” (Sonia looked wildly at him, and
started.) “Don’t be uneasy. I know all about it from
himself and I am not a gossip; I won’t tell any one. It was
good advice when you told him to give himself up and
confess. It would be much better for him. Well, if it turns
out to be Siberia, he will go and you will follow him. That’s
so, isn’t it? And if so, you'll need money. You'll need it
for him, do you understand? Giving it to you is the same
as my giving it to him. Besides, you promised Amalia
Ivanovna to pay what’s owing. I heard you. How can you
undertake such obligations so heedlessly, Sofya Semyo-
novna? It was Katerina Ivanovna’s debt and not yours, so
you ought not to have taken any notice of the German
woman. You can’t get through the world like that. If you
are ever questioned about me—to-morrow or the day after
you will be asked—don’t say anything about my coming to
see you now and don’t show the money to any one or say
a word about it. Well, now good-bye.” (He got up.) “My
greetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way, you'd
better put the money for the present in Mr. Razumihin’s
keeping. You know Mr. Razumihin? Of course you do.
He’s not a bad fellow, Take it to him to-morrow or...
when the time comes. And till then, hide it carefully.”

Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay
at Svidrigailov. She longed to speak, to ask a question, but
for the first moments she did not dare and did not know how
to begin.

“How can you... how can you be going now, in such
rain?”

“Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain!
Ha, ha! Good-bye, Sofya Semyonovna, my dear! Live and
live long, you will be of use to others. By the way... tell
Mr. Razumihin I send my greetings to him. Tell him

510 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov sends his greetings. Be
sure to.”

He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety
and vague apprehension.

It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty
past eleven, he made another very eccentric and unexpected
visit. The rain still persisted. Drenched to the skin, he
walked into the little flat where the parents of his betrothed
lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky Island. He knocked
some time before he was admitted, and his visit at first
caused great perturbation; but Svidrigailov could be very
fascinating when he liked, so that the first, and indeed very
intelligent surmise of the sensible parents that Svidrigail6v
had probably had so much to drink that he did not know
what he was doing vanished immediately. The decrepit
father was wheeled in to see Svidrigailov by the tender and
sensible mother, who as usual began the conversation with
various irrelevant questions. She never asked a direct ques-
tion, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands and then,
if she were obliged to ascertain something—for instance,
when Svidrigailov would like to have the wedding—she
would begin by interested and almost eager questions about
Paris and the court life there, and only by degrees brought
the conversation round to Third Street. On other occasions
. this had of course been very impressive, but this time Arkady
Ivanovitch seemed particularly impatient, and insisted on
seeing his betrothed at once, though he had been informed
to begin with that she had already gone to bed. The girl of
course appeared.

Svidrigailov informed her once that he was obliged by
very important affairs to leave Petersburg for a time, and
therefore brought her fifteen thousand roubles and begged
her to accept them as a present from him, as he had long
been intending to make her this trifling present before their
wedding. The logical connection of the present with his
immediate departure and the absolute necessity of visiting
them for that purpose in pouring rain at midnight was not
made clear. But it all went off very well; even the inevitable
ejaculations of wonder and regret, the inevitable questions
were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 511

hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and was
reinforced by tears from the most sensible of mothers.
Svidrigailov got up, laughed, kissed his betrothed, patted
her cheek, declared he would soon come back, and noticing
in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, a sort of earnest
dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, though he felt
sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his present would
be immediately locked up in the keeping of the most sensible
of mothers. He went away, leaving them all in a state of
extraordinary excitement, but the tender mamma, speaking
quietly in a half whisper, settled some of the most important
of their doubts, concluding that Svidrigailov was a great
man, a man of great affairs and connections and of great
wealth—there was no knowing what he had in his mind.
He would start off on a journey and give away money just
as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing surprising
about it. Of course it was strange that he was wet through,
but Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric, and
ali these people of high society didn’t think of what was
said of them and didn’t stand on ceremony. Possibly, indeed,
he came like that on purpose to show that he was not afraid
of any one. Above all, not a word should be said about it,
for God knows what might come of it, and the money must
be locked up, and it was most fortunate that Fedosya, the
cook, had not left the kitchen. And above all not a word
must be said to that old cat, Madame Resslich, and so
on and so on, They sat up whispering till two o’clock,
but the girl went to bed much earlier, amazed and rather
sorrowful,

Svidrigailov meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed the
bridge on the way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased
and there was a roaring wind. He began shivering, and for
one moment he gazed at the black waters of the Little Neva
with a look of special interest, even inquiry. But he soon
felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and went
towards Y. Prospect. He walked along that endless street
for a long time, almost half an hour, more than once tumbling
in the dark on the wooden pavement, but continually looking
for something on the right side of the street. He had
noticed passing through this street lately that there was a

512 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, Lut fairly
large, and its name he remembered was something like
Adrianople. He was not mistaken: the hotel was so con-
spicuous in that God-forsaken place that he could not fail to
see it even in the dark. It was a long, blackened wooden
building, and in spite of the late hour there were lights in
the windows and signs of life within. He went in and
asked a ragged fellow who met him in the corridor for a
room. The latter, scanning Svidrigailov, pulled himself to-
gether and led him at once to a close and tiny room in the
distance, at the end of the corridor, under the stairs. There
was no other, all were occupied. The ragged fellow looked
inquiringly.

“Ts there tea?” asked Svidrigailov.

“Yes, sir.”

“What else is there?”

“Veal, vodka, savouries.”

“Bring me tea and veal.”

“And you want nothing else?” he asked with apparent
surprise.

“Nothing, nothing.”

The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.

“It must be a nice place,” thought Svidrigailov. “How
was it I didn’t know it? I expect I look as if I came from
a café chantant and have had some adventure on the way.
It would be interesting to know who stay here?”

He lighted the candle and looked at the room more care-
fully. It was a room so low-pitched that Svidrigailov could
only just stand up in it; it had one window; the bed, which
was very dirty, and the plain stained chair and table almost
filled it up. The walls looked as though they were made of
planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty that
the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general colour
—yellow—could still be made out. One of the walls was cut
short by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an
attic, but just under the stairs.

Svidrigailov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and
sank into thought. But a strange persistent murmur which
sometimes rose to a shout in the next room attracted his
attention. —The murmur had not ceased from the moment he

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 513

entered the room. He listened: some one was upbraid-
ing and almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one
voice.

Svidrigailov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at
’ once he saw light through a crack in the wall; he went up
and peeped through. The room, which was somewhat larger
than this, had two occupants. One of them, a very curly-
headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing in the
pose of an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart
to preserve his balance, and smiting himself on the breast.
He reproached the other with being a beggar, with having
no standing whatever. He declared that he had taken the
other out of the gutter and he could turn him out when he
liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees it all. The
object of his reproaches, and sitting in a chair, had the
air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze, but can’t. He
sometimes turned sheepish and befogged eyes on the speaker,
but obviously had not the slightest idea what he was talking
about and scarcely heard it. A candle was burning down on
the table; there were wine glasses, a nearly empty bottle
of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs
of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Svidrigailov
turned away indifferently and sat down on the bed.

The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not
resist asking him again whether he didn’t want anything
more, and again receiving a negative reply, finally withdrew.
Svidrigailov made haste to drink a glass of tea to warm him.
self, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish,
He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the blanket,
lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. “It would have been
better to be well for the occasion,” he thought with a smile.
The room was close, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was
roaring outside, he heard a mouse scratching in the corner
and the room smelt of mice and of leather. He lay in a
sort of reverie: one thought followed another. He felt a
longing to fix his imagination on something. “It must be a
garden under the window,” he thought. “There’s a sound
of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees on a stormy night,
in the dark! They give one a horrid feeling.” He remem-
bered how he had disliked it when he passed Petrovsky

514 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge over the
Little Neva and he felt cold again as he had when standing
there. “I never have liked water,” he thought, “even in a
landscape,” and he suddenly smiled again at a strange idea:
“Surely now all these questions of taste and comfort ought
not to matter, but I’ve become more particular, like an ani-
mal that picks out a special place ... for such an occasion.
I ought to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it
seemed dark, cold, ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleas-
ant sensations! ... By the way, why haven’t I put out the
candle?” he blew it out. “They’ve gone to bed next door,”
he thought, not seeing the light at the crack. “Well, now,
Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it’s
dark, and the very time and place for you. But now you
won't come!”

He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out
his design on Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to
trust her to Razumihin’s keeping. “I suppose I really did
say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to tease myself. But what a
rogue that Raskolnikov is! He’s gone through a good deal.
He may be a successful rogue in time when he’s got over
his nonsense. But now he’s too eager for life. These young
men are contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow!
Let him please himself, it’s nothing to do with me.”

He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia’s image
rose before him, and a shudder ran over him. “No, I must
give up all that now,” he thought, rousing himself. “I must
think of something else. It’s queer and funny. I never had
a great hatred for any one, I never particularly desired to
revenge myself even, and that’s a bad sign, a bad sign. I
never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper—
that’s a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now
too! Damnation! But—who knows?—perhaps she would
have made a new man of me somehow... .”

He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again
Dounia’s image rose before him, just as she was when, after
shooting the first time, she had lowered the revolver in terror
and gazed blankly at him, so that he might have seized her
twice over and she would not have lifted a hand to defend
herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 515

instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang
at his heart...

“Aie! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it
away !”

He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when
suddenly something seemed to run over his arm and leg
under the bedclothes. He started. “Ugh! hang it! I believe
it’s a mouse,” he thought, “that’s the veal I left on the table.”
He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the blanket, get up, get
cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over his leg
again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle.
Shaking with feverish chill he bent down to examine the bed:
there was nothing. He shook the blanket and suddenly a
mouse jumped out on the sheet. He tried to catch it, but
the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without leaving the bed,
slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and suddenly
darted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in
one instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over
his body and down his back under his shirt. He trembled
nervously and woke up.

The room was dark. He was lying on the bed wrapped
up in the blanket as before. The wind was howling under
the window. “How disgusting,” he thought with annoyance.

He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back
to the window. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided.
There was a cold damp draught from the window however;
without getting up he drew the blanket over him and
wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything
and did not want to think. But one image rose after another,
incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed
through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the
cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled
under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of per-
sistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on
images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a
bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday—Trinity day. A
fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste over-
grown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round
the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded
with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with

516 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He
noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender,
white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright,
green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away
from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large
high drawing-room and again everywhere—at the windows,
the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itseli—
were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut frag-
rant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air
came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the
window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered
with a white satin shroud stood a coffin. The coffin was coy-
ered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill;
wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the
flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms
crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of
marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath
of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of
her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the
smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish
misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigailov knew that girl;
there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin;
no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was
only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had
- destroyed herself crushed by an insult that had appalled and
amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity
with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream
of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark
night in the cold and wet while the wind howled.....
Svidrigailov came to himself, got up from the bed and
went to the window. He felt for the latch and opened it.
The wind lashed furiously into the little room and stung
his face and his chest, only covered with his shirt, as though
with frost. Under the window there must have been some-
thing like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There,
too, probably were tea tables and singing in the day-
time. Now drops of rain flew in at the window from the
trees and bushes; it was dark as in a cellar, so that he could
only just make out some dark blurs of objects. Svidrigailov,
bending down with elbows on the window-sill, gazed for five

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 517

minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed
by a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night.
“Ah, the signal! The river is overflowing,’ he thought.
“By morning it will be swirling down the street in the lower
parts, flooding the basements and cellars. The cellar rats
will swim out, and men will curse in the rain and wind as
they drag their rubbish to their upper storeys. What time
is it now?” and he had hardly thought it when, somewhere
near, a clock on the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck
three.

“Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? [I'll go
out at once straight to the park. I’ll choose a great bush
there drenched with rain, so that as soon as one’s shoulder
touches it, millions of drops drip on one’s head.”

He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the
candle, put on his waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and
went out, carrying the candle, into the passage to look for
the ragged attendant who would be asleep somewhere in the
midst of candle ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay him for
the room and leave the hotel. “It’s the best minute; I
couldn’t choose a better.”

He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor
without finding any one and was just going to call out, when
suddenly in a dark corner between an old cupboard and the
door he caught sight of a strange object which seemed to
be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little
girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with
her clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not
seem afraid of Svidrigailov, but looked at him with blank
amazement out of her big black eyes. Now and then she
sobbed as children do when they have been crying a long
time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child’s face
was pale and tired, she was numb with cold. “How can she
have come here? She must have hidden here and not slept
all night.” He began questioning her. The child, suddenly
becoming animated, chattered away in her baby language,
something about “mammy” and that “mammy would beat
her,” and about some cup that she had “bwoken.” The child
chattered on without stopping. He could only guess trom
what she said that she was a neglected child, whose mother,

518 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

probably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped
and frightened her; that the child had broken a cup of her
mother’s and was so frightened that she had run away the
evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere out-
side in the rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden
behind the cupboard and spent the night there, crying and
trembling from the damp, the darkness and the fear that she
would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his arms, went
back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began undressing
her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet
were as wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all
night. When he had undressed her, he put her on the bed,
covered her up and wrapped her in the blanket from hér
head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he sank
into dreary musing again.

“What folly to trouble myself,” he decided suddenly with
an oppressive feeling of annoyance. “What idiocy!” In
vexation he took up the candle to go and look for the ragged
attendant again and make haste to go away. “Damn the
child!” he thought as he opened the door, but he turned
again to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the
blanket carefully. The child was sleeping soundly, she had
got warm under the blanket, and her pale cheeks were
flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed brighter and
_coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. “It’s a flush of
fever,” thought Svidrigailov. It was like the flush from
drinking, as though she had been given a full glass to drink.
Her crimson lips were hot and glowing; but what was this?
He suddenly fancied that her long black eyelashes were quiv-
ering, as though the lids were opening and a sly crafty eye
peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little girl
were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips
parted in a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as
though she were trying to control them. But now she quite
gave up all effort, now it was a grin, a broad grin; there was
something shameless, provocative in that quite unchildish
face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the shame-
less face of a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide;
they turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they
laughed, invited him.... There was something infinitely

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 519

hideous and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in such
nastiness in the face of a child. ‘What, at five years old?”
Svidrigailov muttered in genuine horror. ‘What does it
mean?” And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow,
holding out her arms. ... “Accursed child!” Svidrigailov
cried, raising his hand to strike her, but at that moment he
woke up.

He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket.
The candle had not been lighted, and daylight was streaming
in at the windows.

“T’ve had nightmare all night!” He got up angrily, feeling
utterly shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist
outside and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He
had overslept himself! He got up, put on his still damp
jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he
took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of
his pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title
page wrote a few lines in large letters. Reading them over,
he sank into thought with his elbows on the table. The
revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some flies woke
up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on the
table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand
began trying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but
could not catch it. At last, realising that he was engaged
in this interesting pursuit, he started, got up and walked
resolutely out of the room. A minute later he was in the
street.

A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigailov
walked along the slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the
Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the Little Neva
swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet
grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the bush... .
He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to
think of something else. There was not a cabman or a
passer-by in the street. The bright yellow, wooden, little
houses looked dirty and dejected with their closed shutters.
The cold and damp perietrated his whole body and he began
to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and
read each carefully. At last he reached the end of the
wooden pavement and came to a big stone house. A dirty

520 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its legs.
A man in a great coat lay face downwards, dead drunk,
across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A
high tower stood up on the left. “Bah!” he thought, “here
is a place. Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the
presence of an official witness anyway... .”

He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the
street where there was the big house with the tower. At the
great closed gates of the house, a little man stood with his
shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a grey soldier’s
coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a
drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigailov. His face
wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is “So
sourly printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception.
They both, Svidrigailov and Achilles, stared at each other
for a few minutes without speaking. At last it struck
Achilles as irregular for a man not drunk to be standing
three steps from him, staring and not saying a word.

“What do you want here?” he said, without moving or
changing his position.

“Nothing, brother, good morning,” answered Svidrigailov.

“This isn’t the place.”

“T am going to foreign parts, brother.”

“To foreign parts?”

“To America.”

“America ?”

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

“T say, this is not the place for such jokes!”

“Why shouldn’t it be the place?”

“Because it isn’t.”

“Well, brother, I don’t mind that. It’s a good place. When
you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to
America,”

He put the revolver to his right temple.

“You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,” cried Achilles,
rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.

Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER VII

Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother’s and

sister’s lodging—the lodging in Bakaleyev’s house
which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up
from the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as
though still hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing
would have turned him back: his decision was taken.

“Besides, it doesn’t matter, they still know nothing,” he
thought, “and they are used to thinking of me as eccentric.”

He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty,
soaked with a night’s rain. His face was almost distorted
from fatigue, exposure, the inward conflict that had lasted
for twenty-four hours. He had spent all the previous night
alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a
decision.

He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother.
Dounia was not at home. Even the servant happened to be
out. At first Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless with
joy and surprise; then she took him by the hand and drew
him into the room.

“Here you are!” she began, faltering with joy. “Don’t be
angry with me, Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with
tears: I am laughing, not crying. Did you think I was cry-
ing? No, I am delighted, but I’ve got into such a stupid
habit of shedding tears. I’ve been like that ever since your
father’s death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy,
you must be tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are.”

“T was in the rain yesterday, mother. . . .” Raskolnikov
began.

“No, no,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted,
“you thought I was going to cross-question you in the
womanish way I used to; don’t be anxious, I understand, I
understand it all: now I’ve learned the ways here and truly
I see for myself that they are better. I’ve made up my

521 ' 18—R

Ake: same day, about seven o’clock in the evening,

522 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

mind once for all: how could I understand your plans and
expect you to give an account of them? God knows what
concerns and plans you may have, or what ideas you are
hatching; so it’s not for me to keep nudging your elbow,
asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness!
why am I running to and fro as though I were crazy... ?
I am reading your article in the magazine for the third time,
Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch brought it to me. Directly I
saw it I cried out to myself, there, foolish one, I thought,
that’s what he is busy about; that’s the solution of the mys-
tery! Learned people are always like that. He may have
some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them
over and I worry him and upset him. I read it, my dear,
and of course there was a great deal I did not understand;
but that’s only natural—how should I?”

“Show me, mother.”

Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article.
Incongruous as it was with his mood and his circumstances,
he felt that strange and bitter sweet sensation that every
author experiences the first time he sees himself in print;
besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a moment.
After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed
with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the pre-
ceding months. He flung the article on the table with disgust
and anger.

“But however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for
myself that you will very soon be one of the leading—if not
the leading man—in the world of Russian thought. And
they dared to think you were mad! You don’t know, but
they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how
could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was
all but believing it—what do you say to that! Your father
sent twice to magazines—the first time poems (I’ve got the
manuscript and will show you) and the second time a whole
novel (I begged him to let me copy it out) and how we
prayed that they should be taken—they weren’t! I was
breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your
food and your clothes and the way you are living. But now
I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any posi-
tion you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 523

don’t care about that for the present and you are occupied
- with much more important matters. .. .”

“Dounia’s not at home, mother ?”

“No, Rodya. I often don’t see her; she leaves me alone.
Dmitri Prokofitch comes to see me, it’s so good of him, and
he always talks about you. He loves and respects you, my
dear. I don’t say that Dounia is very wanting in considera-
tion. I am not complaining. She has her ways and I have
mine, she seems to have got some secrets of late and I never
have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that
Dounia has far too much sense, and besides she loves you
and me... but I don’t know what it will all lead to.
You’ve made me so happy by coming now, Rodya, but she
has missed you by going out; when she comes in I'll tell
her: your brother came in while you were out. Where have
you been all this time? You mustn’t spoil me, Rodya, you
know; come when you can, but if you can’t, it doesn’t
matter, I can wait. I shall know, any way, that you are
fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what
you write, I shall hear about you from every one, and
sometimes you'll come yourself to see me. What could be
better? Here you’ve come now to comfort your mother, ~
I see that.”

Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.

“Here I am again! Don’t mind my foolishness. My
goodness, why am I sitting here?” she cried, jumping up.
“There is coffee and I don’t offer you any. Ah, that’s the
selfishness of old age. I'll get it at once!”

“Mother, don’t trouble, I am going at once. I haven’t come
for that. Please listen to me.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.

“Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me,
whatever you are told about me, will you always love me
as you do now?” he asked suddenly from the fulness of his
heart, as though not thinking of his words and not weighing
them.

“Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask
me such a question? Why, who will tell me anything about
you? Besides, I shouldn’t believe any one, I should refuse
to listen.”

524 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“I’ve come to assure you that I’ve always loved you and
I am glad that we are alone, even glad Dounia is out,” he
went on with the same impulse. “I have come to tell you
that though you will be unhappy, you must believe that your
son loves you now more than himself, and that all you
thought about me, that I was cruel and didn’t care about you,
was all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you....
Well, that’s enough: I thought I must do this and begin
with this... .”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, press-
ing him to her bosom and weeping gently.

“T don’t know what is wrong with you, Rodya,” she said
at last. “I’ve been thinking all this time that we were
simply boring you and now I see that there is a great sorrow
in store for you, and that’s why you are miserable. I’ve
foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking
about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights.
Your sister lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of
nothing but you. I caught something, but I couldn’t make it
out. I felt all the morning as though I were going to be
hanged, waiting for something, expecting something, and
now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going?
You are going away somewhere?”

“Ves,”

“That’s what I thought! I can come with you, you know,
- if you need me. And Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves
you dearly—and Sofya Semyonovna may come with us if
you like. You see, I am glad to look upon her as a daughter
even. .. . Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together.
But... where... are you going?”

“Good-bye, mother.”

“What, to-day?” she cried, as though losing him for ever.

“I can’t stay, I must go now... .”

“And can’t I come with you?”

“No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your
prayer perhaps will reach Him.”

“Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That’s
right, that’s right. Oh God, what are we doing?”

Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one
there, that he was alone with his mother. For the first time

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 525

after all those awful months his heart was softened. He fell
down before her, he kissed her feet and both wept, embrac-
ing. And she was not surprised and did not question him
this time. For some days she had realised that something
awful was happening to her son and that now some terrible
minute had come for him.

“Rodya, my darling, my first born,” she said sobbing,
“now you are just as when you were little. You would run
like this to me and hug me and kiss me. When your father
was living and we were poor, you comforted us simply by
being with us and when I buried your father, how often we
wept together at his grave and embraced, as now. And if
I’ve been crying lately, it’s that my mother’s heart had a
foreboding of trouble. The first time I saw you, that eve-
ning you remember, as soon as we arrived here, I guessed
simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and to-day
when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the
fatal hour had come, Rodya, Rodya, you are not going
away to-day?”

“No ky

“You'll come again?”

Ves. g4V come,”

“Rodya, don’t be angry, I don’t dare to question you. I
know I mustn’t. Only say two words to me—is it far where
you are going?”

“Very far.”

“What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for

ou?”

“What God sends ..: only pray for me.” Raskolnikov
went to the door, but she clutched him and gazed despair-
ingly into his eyes. Her face worked with terror.

“Enough, mother,” said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting
that he had come. ri

“Not for ever, it’s not yet for ever? You'll come, you'll
come to-morrow?”

“T will, I will, good-bye.” He tore himself away at last.

It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in
the morning. Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he made
haste. He wanted to finish aii before sunset. He did not
want to meet any one till then. Going up the stairs he

526 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

noticed that Nastasya rushed from the samovar to watch
him intently. “Can any one have come to see me?” he
wondered. He had a disgusted vision of Porfiry. But
opening his door he saw Dounia. She was sitting alone,
plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had been
waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway.
She rose from the sofa in dismay and stood up facing him.
Her eyes, fixed upon him, betrayed horror and infinite grief.
And from those eyes alone he saw at once that she knew.

“Am I to come in or go away?” he asked uncertainly.

“T’ve been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were
both waiting for you. We thought that you would be sure
to come there.” ,

Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a
chair.

“T feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have
liked at this moment to be able to control myself,”

He glanced at her mistrustfully.

“Where were you all night?”

“TI don’t remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to
make up my mind once for all, and several times I walked
by the Neva, I remember that I wanted to end it all there,
but ... I couldn’t make up my mind,” he whispered, look-
ing at her mistrustfully again.

“Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of,
Sofya Semyonovna and I. Then you still have faith in life?
Thank God, thank God!”

Raskolnikov smiled bitterly.

“TI haven’t faith, but I have just been weeping in mother’s
arms; I haven’t faith, but I have just asked her to pray for
me. I don’t know how it is, Dounia, I don’t understand it.”

“Have you been at mother’s? Have you told her?” cried
Dounia, horror-stricken. “Surely’ you haven’t done that?”

“No, I didn’t tell her . . . in words; but she understood
a great deal. She heard you talking in your sleep. I am
sure she half understands it already. Perhaps I did wrong
in going to see her. I don’t know why I did go. I ama
contemptible person, Dounia.”

“A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering! You
are, aren’t you?”

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 527

“Yes, Iam going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace
I thought of drowning myself, Dounia, but as I looked into
the water, I thought that if I had considered myself strong
till now I’d better not be afraid of disgrace,” he said, hurry-
ing on. “It’s pride, Dounia.”

“Pride, Rodya.”

There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes; he
seemed to be glad to think that he was still proud.

“You don’t think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the
water?” he asked, looking into her face with a sinister
smile.

“Oh, Rodya, hush!” cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted
for two minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor;
Dounia stood at the other end of the table and looked at
him with anguish. Suddenly he got up.

“It’s late, it’s time to go! I am going at once to give my-
self up. But I don’t know why I am going to give myself up.”

Big tears fell down her checks.

“You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand
to me?”

“You doubted it?”

She threw her arms round him.

“Aren’t you half expiating your crime by facing the suf-
fering?” she cried, holding him close and kissing him.

“Crime? What crime?” he cried in sudden fury. “That
I killed a vile noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman,
of use to no one! ... Killing her was atonement for forty
sins. She was sucking the life out of poor people. Was
that a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not think-
ing of expiating it, and why are you all rubbing it in on all
sides? ‘A crime! a crime!’ Only now I see clearly the
imbecility of my cowardice, now that I have decided to
face this superfluous disgrace. It’s simply because I am
contemptible and have nothing in me that I have decided to,
perhaps too for my advantage, as that... Porfiry...
suggested !”

“Brother, brother, what are you saying! Why, you have
shed blood!” cried Dounia in despair.

“Which all men shed,” he put in almost frantically,
“which flows and has always flowed in streams, which is

528 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

spilt like champagne, and for which men are crowned in
the Capitol and are called afterwards benefactors of man-
kind. Look into it more carefully and understand it! I
too wanted to do good to: men and would have done hun-
dreds, thousands of good deeds to make up for that one
piece of stupidity, not stupidity even, simply clumsiness, for
the idea was by no means so stupid as it seems now that it
has failed. ... (Everything seems stupid when it fails.)
By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an inde-
pendent position, to take the first step, to obtain means, and
then everything would have been smoothed over by benefits
immeasurable in comparison.... But I...I1 couldn't
carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible,
that’s what’s the matter! And yet I won’t look at it as you
do. If I had succeeded I should have been crowned with
glory, but now I’m trapped.”

“But that’s not so, not so! Brother, what are you say-
ing ?”

“Ah, it’s not picturesque, not zsthetically attractive! I fail
to understand why bombarding people by regular siege is
more honourable. The fear of appearances is the first
symptom of impotence. I’ve never, never recognised this
more clearly than now, and I am further than ever from
seeing that what I did was a crime. I’ve never, never been
_ Stronger and more convinced than now.”

The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as
he uttered his last explanation, he happened to meet Dou-
nia’s eyes and he saw such anguish in them that he could
not help being checked. He felt that he had any way made
these two poor women miserable, that he was any way the
CAUSE, «i5/+

“Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I
cannot be forgiven if I am guilty). Good-bye! We won't
dispute. It’s time, high time to go. Don’t follow me, I
beseech you, I have somewhere else to go.... But you
go at once and sit with mother. I entreat you to! It’s my
last request of you. Don’t leave her at all; I left her in a
state of anxiety, that she is not fit to bear; she will die or go
out of her mind. Be with her! Razumihin will be with you.
I’ve been talking to him. ... Don’t cry about me: I'll try

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 529

to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a murderer.
Perhaps I shall some day make a name. I won’t disgrace
you, you will see; I’ll still show. . . . Now good-bye for the
present,” he concluded hurriedly, noticing again a strange
expression in Dounia’s eyes at his last words and promises.
“Why are you crying? Don’t cry, don’t cry: we are not
parting for ever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I’d forgotten!”
He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it
and took from between the pages a little water-colour por-
trait on ivory. It was the portrait of his landlady’s daugh-
ter, who had died of fever, that strange girl who had wanted
to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate expres-
sive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait and gave it to
Dounia.

“IT used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her,”
he said thoughtfully. ‘““To her heart I confided much of what
has since been so hideously realised. Don’t be uneasy,” he
turned to Dounia, “she was as much opposed to it as you,
and I am glad that she is gone. The great point is that
everything now is going to be different, is going to be
broken in two,” he cried, suddenly returning to his dejec-
tion. “Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it?
Do I want it myself? They say it is necessary for me to
suffer! What’s the object of these senseless sufferings?
Shall I know any better what they are for, when I am
crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man
after twenty years’ penal servitude? And what shall I have
to live for then? Why am I consenting to that life now?
Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood looking at the
Neva at day-break to-day !”

At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but
she loved him. She walked away, but after going fifty
paces she turned round to look at him again. He was still
in sight. At the corner he too turned and for the last time
their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him, he
motioned her away with impatience and even vexation, and
turned the corner abruptly.

“T am wicked, I see that,” he thought to himself, feeling
ashamed a moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia.
“But why are they so fond of me if I don’t deserve it? Oh,

530 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

if only I were alone and no one loved me and I too had never
loved any one! Nothing of all this would have happened.
But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so
meek that I shall humble myself before people and whimper
at every word that I am acriminal. Yes, that’s it, that’s it,
that’s what they are sending me there for, that’s what they
want. Look at them running to and fro about the streets,
every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart and,
worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they'd be
wild with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!”

He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass,
that he could be humbled before all of them, indiscriminately
—humbled by conviction. And yet why not? It must be so.
Would not twenty years of continual bondage crush him
utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should
he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew
that it would be so? It was the hundredth time perhaps that
he had asked himself that question since the previous evening,
but still he went.

CHAPTER VIII

HEN he went into Sonia’s room, it was already
getting dark. All day Sonia had been waiting for
him in terrible anxiety. Dounia had been waiting

with her. She had come to her that morning, remembering
Svidrigailov’s words that Sonia knew. We will not describe
the conversation and tears of the two girls, and how friendly
they became. Dounia gained one comfort at least from that
interview, that her brother would not be alone. He had
gone to her, Sonia, first with his confession; he had
gone to her for human fellowship when he needed it; she
would go with him wherever fate might send him. Dounia
did not ask, but she knew it was so. She looked at Sonia
almost with reverence and at first almost embarrassed her by
it. Sonia was almost on the point of tears. She felt herself,
on the contrary, hardly worthy to look at Dounia. Dounia’s
gracious image when she had bowed to her so attentively and
respectfully at their first meeting in Raskolnikov’s room had
remained in her mind as one of the fairest visions of her life.

Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went
to her brother’s room to await him there; she kept thinking
that he would come there first. When she had gone, Sonia
began to be tortured by the dread of his committing suicide,
and Dounia too feared it. But they had spent the day trying
to persuade each other that that could not be, and both were
less anxious while they were together. As soon as they
parted, each thought of nothing else. Sonia remembered how
Svidrigailov had said to her the day before that Raskolnikov
had two alternatives—Siberia or . . . Besides she knew his
vanity, his pride and his lack of faith.

“Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and
fear of death to make him live?” she thought at last in
despair.

Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in
dejection, looking intently out of the window, but from it she

531 .

532 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

could see nothing but the unwhitewashed blank wall of the
next house. At last when she began to feel sure of his death
~—he walked into the room.

She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face
she turned pale.

“Yes,” said Raskolnikov, smiling. “I have come for your
cross, Sonia. It was you told me to go to the cross roads;
why is it you are frightened now it’s come to that?”

Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange
to her; a cold shiver ran over her, but in a moment she
guessed that the tone and the words were a mask. He spoke
to her looking away, as though to avoid meeting her eyes.

“You see, Sonia, I’ve decided that it will be better so.
There is one fact. ... But it’s a long story and there’s no
need to discuss it. But do you know what angers me? It
annoys me that all those stupid brutish faces will be gaping
at me directly, pestering me with their stupid questions, which
I shall have to answer—they’ll point their fingers at me....
Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of
him. I’d rather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant;
how I shall surprise him, what a sensation I shall make! But
I must be cooler; I’ve become too irritable of late. You know
I was nearly shaking my fist at my sister just now, because
she turned to take a last look at me. It’s a brutal state to be
in! Ah! what am I coming to! Well, where are the
crosses ?” '

He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He would
not stay still or concentrate his attention on anything; his
ideas seemed to gallop after one another, he talked incoher-
ently, his hands trembled slightly.

Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses,
one of cypress wood and one of copper. She made the sign
of the cross over herself and over him, and put the wooden
cross on his neck.

“Tt’s the symbol of my taking up the cross,” he laughed.
“As though I had not suffered much till now! The wooden
cross, that is the peasant one; the copper one, that is Liza-
veta’s—you will wear yourself, show me! So she had it on
... at that moment? I remember two things like these too,
a silver one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the old

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 533

woman’s neck. Those would be appropriate now, really,
those are what I ought to put on now... . But I am talking
nonsense and forgetting what matters; I’m somehow for-
getful. . . . You see I have come to warn you, Sonia, so that
you might know .. . that’s all—that’s all I came for. But
I thought I had more to say. You wanted me to go yourself.
Well, now I am going to prison and you'll have your wish.
Weil, what are you crying for? You too? Don’t. Leave
off! Oh, how I hate it all!”

But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked
at her. “Why is she grieving too?” he thought to himself.
“What am I to her? Why does she weep? Why is she look-
ing after me like my mother or Dounia? She’ll be my nurse.”

“Cross yourself, say at least one prayer,’ Sonia begged ina
timid broken voice.

“Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia,
sincerely. ...”

But he wanted to say something quite different.

He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her shawl
and put it over her head. It was the green drap de dames
shawl of which Marmeladov had spoken, “the family shawl.”
Raskolnikov thought of that looking at it, but he did not ask.
He began to feel himself that he was certainly forgetting
things and was disgustingly agitated. He was frightened at
this. He was suddenly struck too by the thought that Sonia
meant to go with him.

“What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here,
stay! Ill go alone,” he cried in cowardly vexation, and
almost resentful, he moved towards the door. “What’s the
use of going in procession!” he muttered going out.

Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He
had not even said good-bye to her; he had forgotten her. A
poignant and rebellious doubt surged in his heart.

“Was it right, was it right, all this?’ he thought again as
he went down the stairs. “Couldn’t he stop and retract it
all... and not go?”

But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he
mustn’t ask himself questions. As he turned into the street
he remembered that he had not said good-bye to Sonia, that
he had left her in the middle of the room in her green shawl,

534 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

not daring to stir after he had shouted at her, and he stopped
short for a moment. At the same instant, another thought
dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait tg
strike him then.

“Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told
her—on business; on what business? I had no sort of busi-
ness! To tell her I was going; but where was the need?
Dol love her? No, no, I drove her away just now like a dog.
Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I’ve sunk! No, I
wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her
heart ached! I had to have something to cling to, somethin
to delay me, some friendly face to see! And I dared to be-
lieve in myself, to dream of what I would do! I ama
beggarly contemptible wretch, contemptible!”

He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much
further to go. But on reaching the bridge he stopped and
turning out of his way along it went to the Hay Market.

He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every
object and could not fix his attention on anything; every-
thing slipped away. “In another week, another month I shall
be driven in a prison van over this bridge, how shall I look at
the canal then? I should like to remember this!” slipped into
his mind. ‘Look at this sign! How shall I read those letters
then? It’s written here ‘Company,’ that’s a thing to remem-
ber, that letter a, and to look at it again in a month—how
shall I look at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking
then? . . . How trivial it all must be, what 1 am fretting
about now! Of course it must all be interesting ... in its
way ... (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) Iam
becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I
ashamed? Foo, how people shove! that fat man—a Ger-
man he must be—who pushed against me, does he know
whom he pushed? There’s a peasant woman with a baby,
begging. It’s curious that she thinks me happier than she is.
I might give her something, for the incongruity of it. Here’s
a five copeck piece left in my pocket, where did I get it?
Here, here .. . take it, my good woman!”

“God bless you,” the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice.
He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very dis-
tasteful to be in a crowd, but he walked just where he saw

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 535

most people. He would have given anything in the world to
be alone; but he knew himself that he would not have
remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and
disorderly in the crowd; he kept trying.to dance and falling
down. There was a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed
his way through the crowd, stared for some minutes at the
drunken man and suddenly gave a short jerky laugh. A
minute later he had forgotten him and did not see him, though
he still stared. He moved away at last, not remembering
where he was; but when he got into the middle of the square
an emotion suddenly came over him, overwhelming him body
and mind.

He suddenly recalled Sonia’s words, “Go to the cross roads,
bow down to the people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned
against it too, and say aloud to the whole world, ‘I am a
murderer.’” He trembled, remembering that. And the hope-
less misery and anxiety of all that time, especially of the last
hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that he positively
clutched at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensa-
tion. It came over him like a fit; it was like a single spark
kindled in his soul and spreading fire through him. Every-
thing in him softened at once and the tears started into his
eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot....

He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to
the earth, and kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture.
He got up and bowed down a second time.

“He’s boozed,” a youth near him observed.

There was a roar of laughter.

“He’s going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good-bye to
his children and his country. He’s bowing down to all the
world and kissing the great city of St. Petersburg and its
pavements,” added a workman who was a little drunk.

“Quite a young man, too!” observed a third.

“And a gentleman,” some one observed soberly. ©

“There’s no knowing who’s a gentleman and who isn’t,
nowadays.”

These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and
the words, “I am a murderer,” which were perhaps on the
point of dropping from his lips, died away. He bore these
remarks quietly, however, and, without looking round, he

536 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

turned down a street leading to the police office. He hada.
glimpse of something on the way which did not surprise him; /
he had felt that it must be so. The second time he bowed
down in the Hay Market, he saw standing fifty paces from
him on the left Sonia. She was hiding from him behind
one of the wooden shanties in the market-place. She had
followed him then on his painful way! Raskolnikov at that
moment felt and knew once for all that Sonia was with him
for ever and would follow him to the ends of the earth,
wherever fate might take him. It wrung his heart ... but
he was just reaching the fatal place.

He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to mount
to the third storey. “I shall be some time going up,” he
thought. He felt as though the fateful moment was still far
off, as though he had plenty of time left for consideration.

Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on
the spiral stairs, again the open doors of the flats, again the
same kitchens and the same fumes and stench coming from
them. Raskolnikov had not been here since that day. His
legs were numb and gave way under him, but still they
moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take breath,
to collect himself, so as to enter like a man. “But why? what
for?” he wondered, reflecting. “If I must drink the cup what
difference does it make? The more revolting the better.”
He imagined for an instant the figure of the “explosive lieu-
tenant,” Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actually going to him?
Couldn’t he go to some one else? To Nikodim Fomitch?
Couldn’t he turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch’s
lodgings? At least then it would be done privately. ... No,
no! To the “explosive lieutenant!’ If he must drink it;
drink it off at once.

Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of
the office. There were very few people in it this time—only
a house porter and a peasant. The doorkeeper did not even
peep out from behind his screen. Raskolnikov walked into
the next room. “Perhaps I still need not speak,” passed
through his mind. Some sort of clerk not wearing a uni-
form was settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner
another clerk was seating himself. Zametov was not there,
nor, of course, Nikodim Fomitch.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 537

“No one in?” Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at
the bureau.

“Whom do you want?”

“A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen,
but I scent the Russian ... how does it go in the fairy
tale ... I’ve forgotten! At your service!” a familiar voice
cried suddenly.

Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood
before him. He had just come in from the third room,
“Tt is the hand of fate,” thought Raskolnikov. “Why is he
here ?” :

“You’ve come to see us? What about?” cried Ilya Petro-
vitch. He was obviously in an exceedingly good humour and
perhaps a trifle exhilarated. “If it’s on business you are
rather early.* It’s only a chance that Iam here .. . however
T’ll do what I can. I must admit, I... what is it, what is
it? Excuse me... .”

“Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn’t imagine Id for-
gotten? Don’t think I am like that ... Rodion Ro——Ro
Redionovitch, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Rodion Romanovitch.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovitch! I was just
getting at it. I made many inquiries about you. I assure
you I’ve been genuinely grieved since that ... since I be-
haved like that . . . it was explained to me afterwards that
you were a literary man... and a learned one too... and
so to say the first steps ... Mercy onus! What literary or
scientific man does not begin by some originality of conduct!
My wife and I have the greatest respect for literature, in
my wife it’s a genuine passion! Literature and art! If only
a man is a gentleman, all the rest can be gained by talents,
learning, good sense, genius. As for a hat—well what does
a hat matter? I can buy a hat as easily as I can a bun;
but what’s under the hat, what the hat covers, I can’t buy
that! I was even meaning to come and apologise to you,
but thought maybe you’d.... But I am forgetting to ask
you, is there anything you want really? I hear your family
have come?”

* Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that _it is after sunset, and that
the last time Raskolnikov visited the police office at two in the afternoon
he was reproached for coming too late,

538 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

“Yes, my mother and sister.”

“I’ve even had the honour and happiness of meeting
your sister—a highly cultivated and charming person. I
confess I was sorry I got so hot with you. There it is!
But as for my looking suspiciously at your fainting fit,—
that affair has been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and
fanaticism! I understand your indignation. Perhaps you
are changing your lodging on account of your family’s
arriving?”

“No, I only looked in... I came to ask... I thought
that I should find Zametov here.”

“Oh, yes! Of course, you’ve made friends, I heard. Well,
no, Zametov is not here. Yes, we've lost Zametov. He’s
not been here since yesterday ... he quarrelled with every
one on leaving ... in the rudest way. He is a feather-
headed youngster, that’s all; one might have expected some-
thing from him, but there, you know what they are, our bril-
liant young men. He wanted to go in for some examination,
but it’s only to talk and boast about it, it will go no further
than that. Of course it’s a very different matter with you
or Mr. Razumihin there, your friend. Your career is an
intellectual one and you won't be deterred by failure. For
you, one may say, all the attractions of life nihil est—you
are an ascetic, a monk, a hermit! . . . A book, a pen behind
your ear, a learned research—that’s where your spirit soars!
I am the same way myself. .. . Have you read Livingstone’s
Travels?”

“No,”

“Oh, I have. There are a great many Nihilists about
nowadays, you know, and indeed it is not to be wondered at.
What sort of days are they? I ask you. But we thought
... you are not a Nihilist of course? Answer me openly,
openly !”

NINGNO.. 56

“Believe me, you can speak openly to me as you would to
yourself! Official duty is one thing but . . . you are thinking
I meant to say friendship is quite another? No, you’re
wrong! It’s not friendship, but the feeling of a man and a
citizen, the feeling of humanity and of love for the Almighty.
I may be an official, but I am always bound to feel myself a

>?

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 539

man and a citizen. ... You were asking about Zametov.
Zametov will make a scandal in the French style in a house
of bad reputation, over a glass of champagne .. . that’s all
your Zametov is good for! While I’m perhaps, so to speak,
burning with devotion and lofty feelings, and besides I have
rank, consequence, a post! I am married and have children,
I fulfil the duties of a man and a citizen, but who is he, may
I ask? I appeal to you as a man ennobled by education.
.- + Lhen these midwives, too, have become extraordinarily
numerous.”

Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The words
of Ilya Petrovitch, who had obviously been dining, were
for the most part a stream of empty sounds for him. But
some of them he understood. He looked at him inquiringly,
not knowing how it would end.

“I mean those crop-headed wenches,” the talkative Ilya
Petrovitch continued. “Midwives is my name for them. I
think it a very satisfactory one, ha-ha! They go to the
Academy, study anatomy. If I fall ill, am I to send for a
young lady to treat me? What do you say? Ha-ha!” Ilya
Petrovitch laughed, quite pleased with his own wit. “It’s
an immoderate zeal for education, but once you’re educated,
that’s enough. Why abuse it? Why insult honourable
people, as that scoundrel Zametov does? Why did he insult
me, I ask you? Look at these suicides, too, how common
they are, you can’t fancy! People spend their last half-
penny and kill themselves, boys and girls and old people.
Only this morning we heard about a gentleman who had just
come to town. Nil Pavlitch, I say, what was the name of
the gentleman who shot himself?”

“Svidrigailov,” some one answered from the other room
with drowsy listlessness.

Raskolnikov started.

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

“What, do you know Svidrigailov?”

“Yes ...I1 know him... . He hadn’t been here long.”

“Yes, that’s so. He had lost his wife, was a man of
reckless habits and all of a sudden shot himself, and in such
a shocking way... . He left in his notebook a few words:
that he died in full possession of his faculties and that no one

540 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

is to blame for his death. He had money, they say. How did
you come to know him?”

“IT... was acquainted ...my sister was governess in
his family.”

“Bah-bah-bah! Then no doubt you can tell us something
about him. You had no suspicion?”

“T saw him yesterday ... he... was drinking wine; J
knew nothing.”

Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him
and was stifling him.

“You've turned pale again. It’s so stuffy here. .. .”

“Yes, I must go,” muttered Raskolnikov. “Excuse” my
troubling you... .”

“Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It’s a pleasure to see
you and I am glad to say so.”

Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand.

“T only wanted . ..I came to see Zametov.”

“T understand, I understand, and it’s a pleasure to see
you.”

“T ... am very glad... good-bye,” Raskolnikov smiled.

He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness
and did not know what he was doing. He began going
down the stairs, supporting himself with his right hand
against the wall. He fancied that a porter pushed past him
on his way upstairs to the police office, that a dog in the
lower storey kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung
a rolling-pin at it and shouted. He went down and out into
the yard. There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia,
pale and horror-stricken. She looked wildly at him. He
stood still before her. There was a look of poignant agony,
of despair, in her face. She clasped her hands. His lips
worked in an ugly, meaningless smile. He stood still a
minute, grinned and went back to the police office.

Ilya Petrovitch had sat down and was rummaging among
some papers. Before him stood the same peasant who had
pushed by on the stairs.

“Hulloa! Back again! have you left something behind?
What’s the matter ?”

Raskolnikov, with white lips and staring eyes, came slowly
nearer. He walked right to the table, leaned his hand on

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 541

it, tried to say something, but could not; only incoherent
sounds were audible.

“You are feeling ill, a chair! Here, sit down! Some
water !”

Raskolnikov dropped on to a chair, but he kept his eyes
fixed on the face of Ilya Petrovitch which expressed un-
pleasant surprise. Both looked at one another for a minute
and waited. Water was brought.

“Tt was I...” began Raskolnikov.

“Drink some water.”

Raskolnikov refused the water with his hand, and softly
and brokenly, but distinctly said:

“Tt was I killed the old pawnbroker woman and her sister
Lizaveta with an axe and robbed them.”

Ilya Petrovitch opened his mouth. People ran up on all
sides.

Raskolnikov repeated his statement.

EPILOGUE

I
Recon On the banks of a broad solitary river stands

a town, one of the administrative centres of Russia; in

the town there is a fortress, in the fortress there is a
prison. In the prison the second-class convict Rodion Ras-
kolnikov has been confined for nine months. Almost a year
and a half has passed since his crime.

There had been little difficulty about his trial. The criminal
adhered exactly, firmly, and clearly to his statement. He did
not confuse nor misrepresent the facts, nor soften them in
his own interest, nor omit the smallest detail. He explained
every incident of the murder, the secret of the pledge (the
piece of wood with a strip of metal) which was found in
the murdered woman’s hand. He described minutely how he
had taken her keys, what they were like, as well as the chest
and its contents; he explained the mystery of Lizaveta’s
murder; described how Koch and, after him, the student
knocked, and repeated all they had said to one another; how
he afterwards had run downstairs and heard Nikolay and
Dmitri shouting; how he had hidden in the empty flat and
afterwards gone home. He ended by indicating the stone
in the yard off the Voznesensky Prospect under which the
purse and the trinkets were found. The whole thing, in
fact, was perfectly clear. The lawyers and the judges were
very much struck, among other things, by the fact that he
had hidden the trinkets and the purse under a stone, with-
out making use of them, and that, what was more, he did not
now remember what the trinkets were like, or even how many
there were. The fact that he had never opened the purse
and did not even know how much was in it seemed incredi-
ble. There turned out to be in the purse three hundred and

§43

544 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

seventeen roubles and sixty copecks. From being so long
under the stone, some of the most valuable notes lying upper-
most had suffered from the damp. They were a long while
trying to discover why the accused man should tell-a lie
about this, when about everything else he had made a truth-
ful and straightforward confession. Finally some of the
lawyers more versed in psychology admitted that it was
possible he had really not looked into the purse, and so didn’t
know what was in it when he hid it under the stone. But
they immediately drew the deduction that the crime could
only have been committed through temporary mental derange-
ment, through homicidal mania, without object or the pur-
suit of gain. This fell in with the most recent fashionable
theory of temporary insanity, so often applied in our days
in criminal cases. Moreover Raskolnikov’s hypochondriacal
condition was proved by many witnesses, by Dr. Zossimov,
his former fellow students, his landlady and her servant. All
this pointed strongly to the conclusion that Raskolnikov was
not quite like an ordinary murderer and robber, but that
there was another element in the case.

To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this
opinion, the criminal scarcely attempted to defend himself.
To the decisive question as to what motive impelled him to
the murder and the robbery, he answered very clearly with
the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miserable posi-
tion, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to provide
for his first steps in life by the help of the three thousand
roubles he had reckoned on finding. He had been led to the
murder through his shallow and cowardly nature, exasper-
ated moreover by privation and failure. To the question
what led him to confess, he answered that it was his heart-
felt repentance. All this was almost coarse... .

The sentence however was more merciful than could have
been expected, perhaps partly because the criminal had not
tried to justify himself, but had rather shown a desire to exag-
gerate his guilt. All the strange and peculiar circumstances
of the crime were taken into consideration. There could be
no doubt of the abnormal and poverty-stricken condition of
the criminal at the time. The fact that he had made no use
of what he had stolen was put down partly to the effect of

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 545

remorse, partly to his abnormal mental condition at the time
of the crime. Incidentally the murder of Lizaveta served
indeed to confirm the last hypothesis: a man commits two
murders and forgets that the door is open! Finally, the con-
fession, at the very moment when the case was hopelessly
muddled by the false evidence given by Nikolay through
melancholy and fanaticism, and when, moreover, there were
no proofs against the real criminal, no suspicions even (Por-
firy Petrovitch fully kept his word)—all this did much to
soften the sentence. Other circumstances, too, in the pris-
oner’s favour came out quite unexpectedly. Razumihin some-
how discovered and proved that while Raskolnikov was at
the university he had helped a poor consumptive fellow stu-
dent and had spent his last penny on supporting him for six
months, and when this student died, leaving a decrepit old
father whom he had maintained almost from his thirteenth
year, Raskolnikov had got the old man into a hospital and
paid for his funeral when he died. Raskolnikov’s landlady
bore witness, too, that when they had lived in another house
at Five Corners, Raskolnikov had rescued two little children
from a house on fire and was burnt in doing so. This was
investigated and fairly well confirmed by many witnesses.
These facts made an impression in his favour.

And in the end the criminal was in consideration of exten-
uating circumstances condemned to penal servitude in the
second class for a term of eight years only.

At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov’s mother
fell ill. Dounia and Razumihin found it possible to get her
out of Petersburg during the trial. Razumihin chose a town
on the railway not far from Petersburg, so as to be able to
_ follow every step of the trial and at the same time to see
Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria Alex-
androvna’s illness was a strange nervous one and was accom-
panied by a partial derangement of her intellect.

When Dounia returned from her last interview with her
Pe she had found her mother already ill, in feverish
delirium. That evening Razumihin and she agreed what
answers they must make to her mother’s questions about Ras-
kolnikov and made up a complete story for her mother’s
benefit of his having to go away to a distant part of Russia

546 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

on a business commission, which would bring him in the end
money and reputation.

But they were struck by the fact that Pulcheria Alex-
androvna never asked them anything on the subject, neither
then nor thereafter. On the contrary, she had her own
version of her son’s sudden departure; she told them with
tears how he had come to say good-bye to her, hinting
that she alone knew many mysterious and important facts,
and that Rodya had many very powerful enemies, so that
it was necessary for him to be in hiding. As for his future
career, she had no doubt that it would be brilliant when cer-
tain sinister influences could be removed. She assured
Razumihin that her son would be one day a great statesman,
that his article and brilliant literary talent proved it. This
article she was continually reading, she even read it aloud,
almost took it to bed with her, but scarcely asked where
Rodya was, though the subject was obviously avoided by
the others, which might have been enough to awaken her
suspicions.

They began to be frightened at last at Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna’s strange silence on certain subjects. She did not, for
instance, complain of getting no letters from him, though in
previous years she had only lived on the hope of letters from
her beloved Rodya. This was the cause of great uneasiness
-to Dounia; the idea occurred to her that her mother sus-
pected that there was something terrible in her son’s fate
and was afraid to ask, for fear of hearing something still
more awful. In any case, Dounia saw clearly that her
mother was not in full possession of her faculties.

It happened once or twice, however, that Pulcheria Alex-
androvna gave such a turn to the conversation that it was
impossible to answer her without mentioning where Rodya
was, and on receiving unsatisfactory and suspicious answers
she became at once gloomy and silent, and this mood lasted
for a long time. Dounia saw at last that it was hard to
deceive her and came to the conclusion that it was better to
be absolutely silent on certain points; but it became more
and more evident that the poor mother suspected something
terrible. Dounia remembered her brother’s telling her that
her mother had overheard her talking in her sleep on the

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 547

night after her interview with Svidrigailov and before the
fatal day of the confession: had not she made out something
from that? Sometimes days and even weeks of gloomy
silence and tears would be succeeded by a period of hysterical
animation, and the invalid would begin to talk almost inces-
santly of her son, of her hopes of his future. ... Her
fancies were sometimes very strange. They humoured her,
pretended to agree with her (she saw perhaps that they
were pretending), but she still went on talking.

Five months after Raskolnikov’s confession, he was sen-
tenced. Razumihin and Sonia saw him in prison as often
as it was possible. At last the moment of separation came.
Dounia swore to her brother that the separation should not
be for ever, Razumihin did the same. Razumihin, in his
youthful ardour, had firmly resolved to lay the foundations
at least of a secure livelihood during the next three or four
years, and saving up a certain sum, to emigrate to Siberia, a
country rich in every natural resource and in need of work-
ers, active men and capital. There they would settle in the
town where Rodya was and all together would begin a new
life. They all wept at parting.

Raskolnikov had been very dreamy for a few days before.
He asked a great deal about his mother and was constantly
anxious about her. He worried so much about her that it
alarmed Dounia. When he heard about his mother’s illness
he became very gloomy. With Sonia he was particularly
reserved all the time. With the help of the mouey left
her by Svidrigailov, Sonia had long ago made her
preparations to follow the party of convicts in which he
was despatched to Siberia. Not a word passed hetween
- Raskolnikov and her on the subject, but both knew it
would be so, At the final leave-taking he smiled strangely
at his sister’s and Razumihin’s fervent anticipations of
their happy future together when he should come out of
prison. He predicted that their mother’s illness would
soon have a fatal ending. Sonia and he at last set off.

Two months later Dounia was married to Razumihin.
It was a quiet and sorrowful wedding; Porfiry Petrovitch
and Zossimov were invited however. During all this
period Razumihin wore an air of resolute determination.

548 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Dounia put implicit faith in his carrying out his plans
and indeed she could not but believe in him. He dis-
played a rare strength of will. Among other things he
began attending university lectures again in order to take
his degree. They were continually making plans for the
future; both counted on settling in Siberia within five
years at least. Till then they rested their hopes on Sonia.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was delighted to give her
blessing to Dounia’s marriage with Razumihin; but after
the marriage she became even more melancholy and
anxious. To give her pleasure Razumihin told her how
Raskolnikov had looked after the poor student and his
decrepit father and how a year ago he had been burnt and
injured in rescuing two little children from a fire. These
two pieces of news excited Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s dis-
ordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She was con-
tinually talking about them, even entering into conversa-
tion with strangers in the street, though Dounia always
accompanied her. In public conveyances and_ shops,
wherever she could capture a listener, she would begin
to discourse about her son, his article, how he had helped
the student, how he had been burnt at the fire, and so on!
Dounia did not know how to restrain her. Apart from the
danger of her morbid excitement, there was the risk of
some one’s recalling Raskolnikov’s name and speaking of
the recent trial. Pulcheria Alexandrovna found out the
address of the mother of the two children her son had
saved and insisted on going to. see her.

At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She
would sometimes begin to cry suddenly and was often ill
and feverishly delirious. One morning she declared that
by her reckoning Rodya ought soon to be home, that she
remembered when he said good-bye to her he said that
they must expect him back in nine months. She began to
prepare for his coming, began to do up her room for him,
to clean the furniture, to wash and put up new hangings
and so on. Dounia was anxious, but said nothing and
helped her to arrange the room. After a fatiguing day
spent in continual fancies, in joyful day dreams and tears,
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken ill in the night and by

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 549

morning she was feverish and delirious. It was brain
fever. She died within a fortnight. In her delirium she
dropped words which showed that she knew a great deal
more about her son’s terrible fate than they had supposed.

For a long time Raskolnikov did not know of his
mother’s death, though a regular correspondence had been
maintained from the time he reached Siberia. It was
carried on by means of Sonia, who wrote every month to
the Razumihins and received an answer with unfailing
regularity. At first they found Sonia’s letters dry and
unsatisfactory, but later on they came to the conclusion
that the letters could not be better, for from these letters
they received a complete picture of their unfortunate
brother’s life. Sonia’s letters were full of the most matter
of fact detail, the simplest and clearest description of all
Raskolnikov’s: surroundings as a convict. There was no
word of her own hopes, no conjecture as to the future, no
description of her feelings. Instead of any attempt to
interpret his state of mind and inner life, she gave the
simple facts—that is, his own words, an exact account of
his health, what he asked for at their interviews, what
commission he gave her and so on. All these facts she
gave with extraordinary minuteness. The picture of their
unhappy brother stood out at last with great clearness and
precision. There could be no mistake, because nothing was
given but facts.

But Dounia and her husband could get little comfort out
of the news, especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was con-
stantly sullen and not ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed
interested in the news she gave him from their letters, that
he sometimes asked after his mother and that when, seeing
that he had guessed the truth, she told him at last of her
death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly
affected by it, not externally at any rate. She told them
that, although he seemed so wrapped up in himself and, as
it were, shut himself off from every one—he took a very
direct and simple view of his new life; that he understood
his position, expected nothing better for the time, had no
ill-founded hopes (as is so common in his position) and
scarcely seémed surprised at anything in his surroundings,

550 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

so unlike anything he had known before. She wrote that
his health was satisfactory; he did his work without shirk-
ing or seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent about
food, but except on Sundays and holidays the food was
so bad that at last he had been glad to accept some money
from her, Sonia, to have his own tea every day. He begged
her not to trouble about anything else, declaring that all
this fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote further
that in prison he shared the same room with the rest, that
she had not seen the inside of their barracks, but concluded
that they were crowded, miserable and unhealthy; that he
slept on a plank bed with a rug under him and was un-
willing to make any other arrangement. But that he lived
so poorly and roughly, not from any plan or design, but
simply from inattention and indifference.

Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest
in her visits, had almost been vexed with her indeed for
coming, unwilling to talk and rude to her. But that in the
end these visits had become a habit and almost a necessity
for him, so that he was positively distressed when she was
ill-for some days and could not visit him. She used to
see him on holidays at the prison gates or in the guard-
room, to which he was brought for a few minutes to see
her. On working days she would go to see him at work
either at the workshops or at the brick kilns, or at the
sheds on the banks of the Irtish.

About herself, Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in
making some acquaintances_in the town, that she did
sewing, and, as there was scarcely a dressmaker in the
town, she was looked upon as an indispensable person in
many houses. But she did not mention that the authori-
ties were, through her, interested in Raskolnikov; that his
task was lightened and so on.

At last the news came (Dounia had indeed noticed signs
of alarm and uneasiness in the preceding letters) that he
held aloof from every one, that his fellow prisoners did
not like him, that he kept silent for days at a time and
was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia wrote
that he had been taken very seriously ill and was in the
convict ward of the hospital.

It

E was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors
of prison life, not the hard labour, the bad food,

the shaven head, or the patched clothes that
crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and
hardships! He was even glad of the hard work. Physi-
cally exhausted, he could at least reckon on a few hours of
quiet sleep. And what was the food to him—the thin
cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a
student he had often not had even that. His clothes were
warm and suited to his manner of life. He did not even
feel the fetters. Was he ashamed of his shaven head and
parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia?
Sonia was afraid of him, how could he be ashamed before
her? And yet he was ashamed even before Sonia, whom
he tortured because of it with his contemptuous rough
manner. But it was not his shaven head and his fetters
he was ashamed of: his pride had been stung to the quick.
It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy
he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He
could have borne anything then, even shame and disgrace,
But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated
conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past,
except a simple blunder which might happen to any one.
He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so
hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of
blind fate, and must humble himself and submit to “the
idiocy” of a sentence, if he were anyhow to be at peace.
Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the
future a continual sacrifice leading to nothing—that was
all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to
him that at the end of eight years he would only be
thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he
to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why

should he strive? To live in order to exist? Why, he
551

552 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

had been ready a thousand times before to give up
existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a
fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him;
he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because
of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself
a man to whom more was permissible than to others.

And if only fate would have sent him repentance—burn-
ing repentance that would have torn his heart and robbed >
him of sleep, that repentance, the awful agony of which
brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would have
been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have
been life. But he did not repent of his crime.

At least he might have found relief in raging at his
stupidity, as he had raged at the grotesque blunders that
had brought him to prison. But now in prison, im freedom,
he thought over and criticised all his actions again and
by no means found them so blundering and so grotesque
as they had seemed at the fatal time.

“In what way,’ he asked himself, “was my theory
stupider than others that have swarmed and clashed from
the beginning of the world? One has only to look at the
thing quite independently, broadly, and uninfluenced by com-
monplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem so...
strange. Oh, sceptics and half-penny philosophers, why do
you halt half-way!”

“Why does my action strike them as so horrible?” he
said to himself. “Is it because it was a crime? What is
meant by crime? My conscience is at rest. Of course, it was
a legal crime, of course, the letter of the law was broken and
blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the law

. and that’s enough. Of course, in that case many of the
benefactors of mankind who snatched power for themselves
instead of inheriting it ought to have been punished at their
first steps. But those men succeeded and so they were right,
and I didn’t, and so I had no right to have taken that step.”

It was only in that that he recognised his criminality, only
in the fact that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed
it.

He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed
himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and pre-

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 553

ferred to confess? Was the desire to live so strong and was
it so hard to overcome it? Had not Svidrigailov overcome it,
although he was afraid of death?

In misery he asked himself this question, and could not
understand that, at the very time he had been standing look-
ing into the river, he had perhaps been dimly conscious of
the fundamental falsity in himself and his convictions. He
didn’t understand that that consciousness might be the
promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of his
future resurrection.

He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct
which he could not step over, again through weakness and
meanness. He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed
to see how they all loved life and prized it. It seemed to him
that they loved and valued life more in prison than in free-
dom. What terrible agonies and privations some of them,
the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so
much for a ray of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold
spring hidden away in some unseen spot, which the tramp
had marked three years before, and longed to see again, as
he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green grass
round it and the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he
saw still more inexplicable examples.

In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see
and did not want to see; he lived as it were with downcast
eyes. It was loathsome and unbearable for him to look. But
in the end there was much that surprised him and he began,
as it were involuntarily, to notice much that he had not
suspected before. What surprised him most of all was the
terrible impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest.
They seemed to be a different species, and he looked at them
and they at him with distrust and hostility. He felt and
knew the reasons of his isolation, but he would never have
admitted till then that those reasons were so deep and
strong. There were some Polish exiles, political prisoners,
among them. They simply looked down upon all the rest
as ignorant churls; but Raskolnikov could not look upon them
like that. He saw that these ignorant men were in many
respects far wiser than the Poles. There were some Russians
who were just as contemptuous, a former officer and two

I9—R

554 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

seminarists. Raskolnikov saw their mistake as clearly. He
was disliked and avoided by every one; they even began to
hate him at last,—why, he could not tell. Men who had been
far more guilty despised and laughed at his crime.

“You’re a gentleman,” they used to say. “You shouldn’t
hack about with an axe; that’s not a gentleman’s work.”

The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacra-
ment with his gang. He went to church and prayed with
the others. A quarrel broke out one day, he did not know
how. All fell on him at once in a fury.

“You’re an infidel! You don’t believe in God,” they
shouted. “You ought to be killed.” :

He had never talked to them about God nor his belief, but
they wanted to kill him as an infidel. He said nothing. One
of the prisoners rushed at him in a perfect frenzy. Raskol-
nikov awaited him calmly and silently; his eyebrows did not
quiver, his face did not flinch. The guard succeeded in
intervening between him and his assailant, or there would
have been bloodshed.

There was another question he could not decide: why were
they all so fond of Sonia? She did not try to win’ their
favour; she rarely met them, sometimes only she came to see
him at work for a moment. And yet everybody knew her,
they knew that she had come out to follow him, knew how
' and where she lived. She never gave them money, did them
no particular services. Only once at Christmas she sent them
all presents of pies and rolls. But by degrees closer relations
sprang up between them and Sonia. She would write and
post letters for them to their relations. Relations of the
prisoners who visited the town, at their instructions, left with
Sonia presents and money for them. Their wives and sweet-
hearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited
Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the prisoners on the
road, they all took off their hats to her. “Little mother Sofya
Semyonovna, you are our dear, good little mother,” coarse
branded criminals said to that frail little creature. She
would smile and bow to them and every one was delighted
when she smiled. They even admired her gait and turned
round to watch her walking; they admired her too for
being so little, and, in fact, did not know what to admire

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 555

her most for. They even came to her for help in their
illnesses.

He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after
Easter. When he was better, he remembered the dreams he
had had while he was feverish and delirious. He dreamt that
the whole world was condemned to a terrible new strange
plague that had come to Europe from the depths of Asia.
All were to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some
new sorts of microbes were attacking the bodies of men, but
these microbes were endowed with intelligence and will. Men
attacked by them became at once mad and furious. But
never had men considered themselves so intellectual and so
completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never
had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclu-
sions, their moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages,
whole towns and peoples went mad from the infection. All
‘were excited and did not understand one another. Each
thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched looking
at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung
his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not
agree what to consider evil and what good; they did not
know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed each other
in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies
against one another, but even on the march the armies would
begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and
the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting,
biting and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing
all day long in the towns; men rushed together, but why they
were summoned and who was summoning them no one knew.
The most ordinary trades were abandoned, because every one
proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they
could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in
groups, agreed on something, swore to keep together, but
at once began on something quite different from what they
had proposed. They accused one another, fought and killed
each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All men
and all things were involved in destruction. The plague
spread and moved further and further. Only a few men
could be saved in the whole world. They were a pure chosen
people, destined to found a new race and a new life, to

556 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

renew and purify the earth, but no one had seen these men,
no one had heard their words and their voices.

Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted
his memory so miserably, the impression of this feverish
delirium persisted so long. The second week after Easter
had come. There were warm bright spring days; in the
prison ward the grating windows under which the sentinel
paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him
twice during his illness; each time she had to obtain per-
mission, and it was difficult. But she often used to come
to the hospital yard, especially in the evening, sometimes
only to stand a minute and look up at the windows of the
ward. ’

One evening when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov
fell asleep. On waking up he chanced to go to the window,
and at once saw Sonia in the distance at the: hospital gate.
She seemed to be waiting for some one. Something stabbed
him to the heart at that minute. He shuddered and moved
away from the window. Next day Sonia did not come, nor
the day after; he noticed that he was expecting her uneasily.
At last he was discharged. On reaching the prison he learnt
from the convicts that Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at
home and was unable to go out.

He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon
learnt that her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he
was anxious about her, Sonia sent him a penciled note,
telling him that she was much better, that she had a slight
cold and that she would soon, very soon come and see him
at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.

Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning,
at six o’clock, he went off to work on the river bank, where
they used to pound alabaster and where there was a kiln for
baking it in a shed. There were only three of them sent.
One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to
fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and
laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on
to the river bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and
began gazing at the wide deserted river. From the high
bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of
singing floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 557

vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black
specks, the nomads’ tents. There there was freedom, there
other men were living, utterly unlike those here; there time
itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and
his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his
thoughts passed into day-dreams, into contemplation; he
thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited and
troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him; she had
come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still
quite early; the morning chill was still keen. She wore her
poor old burnous and the green shawl; her face still showed
signs of illness, it was thinner and paler. She gave him a
joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand with her
usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her
hand to him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though
afraid he would repel it. He always took her hand as though
with repugnance, always seemed vexed to meet her and was
sometimes obstinately silent throughout her visit. Sometimes
she trembled before him and went away deeply grieved, But
now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance at
her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking.
They were alone, no one had seen them. The guard had
turned away for the time.

How it happened he did not know. But all at once some-
thing seemed to seize him and fling him at her feet. He
wept and threw his arms round her knees. For the first
instant she was terribly frightened and she turned pale. She
jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same
moment she understood, and a light of infinite happiness came
into her eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her
beyond everything and that at last the moment had come. ...

They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their
eyes. They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale
faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full
resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love;
the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of
the other.

They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another
seven years to wait, and what terrible suffering and what in-
finite happiness before them! But he had risen again and he

558 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

knew it and felt it in all his being, while she—she only lived
in his life.

On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were
locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her.
He had even fancied that day that all the convicts who had
been his enemies looked at him differently; he had even en-
tered into talk with them and they answered him in a friendly
way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound
to be so. Wasn’t everything now bound to be changed?

He thought of her. He remembered how continually he
had tormented her and wounded her heart. He remembered
her pale and thin little face. But these recollections scarcely
troubled him now; he knew with what infinite love he wotld
now repay all her sufferings. And what were all, all the
agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentence
and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of
feeling an external, strange fact with which he had no con-
cern. But he could not think for long together of anything
that evening, and he could not have analysed anything con-
sciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the
place of theory and something quite different would work
itself out in his mind.

Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up
mechanically. The book belonged to Sonia; it was the one
from which she had read the raising of Lazarus to him, At
first he was afraid that she would worry him about religion,
would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But
to his great surprise she had not once approached the subject
and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked
her for it himself not long before his illness and she brought
him the book without a word. Till now he had not opened it.

He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his
mind: “Can her convictions not be mine? Her feelings, her
inspirations at least. . . .”

She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night
she was taken ill again. But she was so happy—and so unex-
pectedly happy—that she was almost frightened of her happi-
ness. Seven years, only seven years! At the beginning of
their happiness at some moments they were both ready to
look on those seven years as though they were seven days.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 559

He did not know that the new life would not be given him for
nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, that it would
cost him great striving, great suffering.

But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the
gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regenera-
tion, of his passing from one world into another, of his initia-
tion into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of
a new story, but our present story is ended.

PG 3326 .P7 1917 SMC
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor,
poe and punishment

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